by Jim Eldridge
‘You sure?’ asked Rosa.
‘Definitely,’ Donna assured her. ‘I have enough men who think they’re important at work. I don’t need to play at being the audience for one of them in my free time.’ Donna worked as a typist at one of the ministries in Whitehall, and often moaned about her bosses, who were either braggarts, or touchy-feely gropers, or a combination of both.
Rosa walked across the now almost empty bar to Harris at his table.
‘Your friend not joining us?’ he asked.
‘She’s got things to do before we head home,’ said Rosa, making sure he was aware that when she left, she would be going with her friend.
Harris gestured at the bottle on the table. ‘I ordered wine, but if there’s something else you’d prefer …’
‘Wine will be fine, thanks,’ said Rosa. As Harris poured her a glass, she said: ‘I have to ask, Mr Harris—’
‘Call me Ray, please,’ said Harris.
‘Ray. Why is an American record company interested in British acts? I’d have thought American audiences had enough musical acts of their own.’
‘We have, but Swan Records have put me in charge of developing talent from Europe, initially for a European audience. And right now, with Germany, France, Italy and most of mainland Europe off limits, that means dear old Britain. Yes, we’ve got Crosby and Sinatra, and Glen Miller, but audiences are always keen for something new. The plan is to maybe do a compilation, samples of the best of British for the American market and see who the audience take to, but – like I say – for the moment Swan want to expand into the European market, so we’re giving people their own singers and musicians.’ He grinned. ‘The Brits are especially patriotic at the moment.’ Then he looked serious as he said: ‘So, are you available to make some test pressings? Something to let the big bosses back home hear. I’ve got time at a studio here in London.’
‘I’m here for the rest of this week and next.’
‘OK, I’ll see what I can arrange, if that’s OK with you. But there are no promises. It all depends on the boys back home. They trust me, but it’s their money.’
‘I understand,’ said Rosa.
‘So, moving away from the music business, does your detective boyfriend have any ideas about the dead guy? Who he is? Who killed him?’
Rosa shrugged. ‘If he has, he hasn’t shared them with me. Why? Are you worried?’
‘Well, you’ve got to admit it’s not the sort of thing you expect to happen. Especially at the Ritz. I mean, if there’s some kind of killer on the loose here, I’d like to know about it.’
Rosa smiled. ‘I don’t get the idea there’s a maniac killer on the loose.’
‘Is that what your pal says?’ asked Harris. ‘This police inspector?’
‘I haven’t really discussed it with him,’ lied Rosa. She shot a look at the clock. ‘Oh, look at the time. I have to go.’
‘It’s not that late,’ said Harris.
‘It is for me,’ said Rosa apologetically. ‘My friend said she wanted to talk to me tonight after I finished, which is why we’re heading off together. I don’t know what it’s about, but I’m guessing man trouble, and she’s been a good friend so I don’t want to let her down.’
‘I understand,’ said Harris. He stood up. ‘Thanks for spending the time, and I look forward to setting up a recording date.’ Harris held out his hand. ‘I look forward to talking again.’
Rosa collected her coat from her dressing room, and then joined Donna in reception.
‘You got rid of him, then,’ said Donna.
‘Trust me, all the talk turned out to be about business, nothing else,’ said Rosa. ‘I’ll get the doorman to get us a taxi and we’ll head for Edgar’s flat.’
‘You sure this is all right, me staying with you at your boyfriend’s place?’ asked Donna.
‘It’s just for one night.’
‘What happens after that?’
‘We’ll be fine. He’s going to fix it so we can go home.’
‘You sure? How can he do that?’
‘Trust me, if Edgar makes a promise, it happens,’ said Rosa.
Coburg drove home. On the passenger seat was his briefcase with a pile of lists of kitchen staff, each marked with crosses against some of the names. Once he’d got Schiller to agree, the others had followed suit. The head chef may be in charge, but the sous-chef was the workers’ unofficial leader. How much use the information would be was debatable. Certainly, it was a time for some of them to settle personal vendettas, deliberately not putting a cross against the names of their sworn personal enemies, but a careful check of the lists would soon sort that out. There was a chance it might lead to a short list of possible suspects, but, Coburg had to admit, it wasn’t much of a chance. And he still hadn’t got a clue if Ollen had associates outside work; no one seemed to have known him. He’d get Lampson to try again with the vanished girlfriend, Anna.
Rosa had obviously been waiting for him because as he opened the door to his flat, she was there. He dumped his briefcase down and hugged her.
‘Where’s Donna?’ he asked.
‘Gone to bed,’ said Rosa. ‘She said she was tired, but I think she might have been giving us some privacy.’
Coburg grinned. ‘In that case, what do you say we take advantage of such generosity?’
Once in bed, they asked each other how their evenings had been. Coburg told her his meetings with the kitchen staff had been less useful than he’d hoped.
‘In short, we’re no nearer to finding out who Alex Ollen really was, and why he was killed, though I suspect his death is connected with the killing of Joe Williams. How about you? Good reception?’
‘Indeed,’ said Rosa. ‘Very flattering. Especially when I got chatted up by an American record executive who said he wants me to do some recording.’
‘He wants to get you into bed,’ said Coburg.
‘That was my first reaction. But no, I think there’s something else going on. I got the impression his purpose in talking to me was to pump me for what you knew about the murder in the suite.’
‘Interesting. Did you tell him we’d discovered Joe’s name?’
Rosa shook her head. ‘No. And I didn’t tell him about Julie, either. He seemed very keen to find out what you’d discovered, so I told him I knew nothing.’
‘Maybe I’ll check him out.’
‘Jealous?’ asked Rosa with a smile.
‘Of course.’ Coburg smiled back. ‘But I’m also curious as to why he’d be so interested. What’s his name?’
‘Raymond Harris. His card said he works for Swan Records of New York. But I may be completely wrong about him. It may have been just chat on his part.’
‘No, my love, you’re rarely wrong when it comes to people. You are one of the best judges of character I know.’
‘Which is why I’m with you,’ she said, and pulled him to her.
One o’clock in the morning and Albert Gibbs shuffled along the pavement, feeling his way with his boots. When it was pitch-black like this, he had to be careful; you never knew when there might be a hole in the pavement. He was proud of being an air raid protection warden, out every night in his uniform and his tin helmet with ARP on it, making sure the rules of the blackout were tightly observed. No lights to be showing at any time during the hours of darkness so that when the Germans came to bomb the city, they wouldn’t be able to identify areas of habitation. So far, they had only come on bombing raids during the day, but the authorities assured him that this was bound to change.
‘And when they do come at night, Albert, it’ll be people like you and me that save this country,’ his commanding officer had told him. ‘Not one chink of light must be allowed to escape. Any that does, arrest ’em and have ’em up in court. Fining people is the only way to make ’em stick to the rules.’
So, during the first few months of the war, Albert Gibbs had done just that, serving summonses on anyone who hadn’t pulled their thick, black curtains completely clos
ed across their windows and allowed even the merest glimmer of light to escape. He’d earned harsh words from many, but gradually it had sunk in, and he was proud that his patch was virtually guaranteed to be completely light-free during the hours of darkness. The Luftwaffe wouldn’t be able to target his area.
And then he saw it. A light! Coming from the Four Feathers pub on the corner.
Filled with a sense of outrage, he ran towards it, shouting as he did so: ‘Put that light out!’ But as he got closer, he saw that it wasn’t just the usual light, this was orange and red and flickering, and he realised that the door to the pub was on fire. He stared aghast as the fire took hold, flames surging up the frame and spreading to the pub window. Frantically, he took out his whistle and blew it as hard as he could, its shriek cutting through the night.
‘Fire!’ he shouted. ‘Help! Fire! Someone call 999!’
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Friday 23rd August
Mel McGuinness and Charley Barnes stood looking at the wreckage of the Four Feathers. Even though he’d been phoned at two in the morning with the news, McGuinness had left it until dawn before coming. With the blackout in force he wouldn’t have been able to use a torch to check on the damage. Now, in the early light of day, he saw that it was even worse than he’d feared: his pub was a twisted tangle of burnt wood. Even the roof had fallen in. All those spirits stored in the upstairs rooms, he guessed, setting light to the rafters. It was lucky the publican didn’t sleep on the premises and no lives had been lost. But whoever did this didn’t necessarily know there’d be no one there. And McGuinness knew it had been done deliberately; the smell of petrol still hung around the ruin. Someone had poured petrol through the letterbox, then put a lighted rag through.
‘Who’d want to do this?’ he asked, doing his best to control the rage he felt welling up inside him. He wanted to get hold of the person and cut their hands off before killing them as a warning to anyone else considering attacking one of his premises. And he had a few, not just his pubs: there were three nightclubs and a couple of gyms where his boxers trained.
‘It’s got to be the Bell brothers,’ said Barnes.
‘Why?’
‘I don’t know, but they’re the only ones I can think of who’d want to do it.’
‘But we’ve always had an arrangement. A good arrangement. Them operating north of the river, us in the south.’
‘Yeh, but maybe they’re getting greedy and want to move in and take over the south as well as the north. Look at what happened to Billy Thackeray. Beaten to a pulp and dumped in the river. And Joe Williams with his throat cut. Someone’s after us, Mel, and the only people who’d really stand to profit from us going under are the Bell brothers. Maybe Danny and Den were doing something about these millions this king’s got stashed at the Ritz and they were using Williams. He was a locksmith. And when Joe got killed there, maybe they thought it was you done it to make an example of him. You know, working for the opposition like that.’
‘What happened to Joe was nothing to do with me.’
‘Yeh, but they don’t know that.’
McGuinness nodded thoughtfully. ‘All right, set up a meet, Charley. Me with Danny and Den.’
‘Neutral ground?’
‘Too right. If they are behind all this I’d be a mug to walk into a place on their patch.’
Over breakfast, Coburg outlined his plan for the day to Rosa and Donna.
‘As I said to Rosa, I think I’ve got a good idea who was behind abducting Julie, and first thing this morning I’m going to pay him a visit and warn him off trying a repeat performance on you two.’
‘Think he’ll listen?’ asked Donna.
Coburg nodded, his face grim. ‘He’ll listen. Until then, you’ve got a key to this flat, so if you want to use this place rather than your house during the day, feel free.’
‘But you’re confident he’ll leave us alone?’
‘I am, once I’ve had a word with him,’ said Coburg. ‘So, if you feel happier, I’d leave going back home until early afternoon. Right now, I’m heading to Scotland Yard, so if you’d like me to drop you off anywhere in town …’
Donna shook her head. ‘No, here’s fine for me. I don’t often get the chance to explore Hampstead.’ She looked at Rosa. ‘How about you?’
‘Sounds good to me,’ her friend replied. ‘We can have a girls’ day here. Or, at least, a morning.’
‘In that case, I’ll love you and leave you and head for work,’ said Coburg.
A kiss and a hug for Rosa, a wink for Donna, and then he was gone.
As he drove to the Yard, his mind was full of Rosa, how good it was between them and how fortunate he was that she’d come back into his life. She gave him what had been missing, ever since she’d disappeared from it two years before. It wasn’t just the sex, there’d been plenty of other women since, although sex with Rosa was very, very special. Different from with any other woman. No, it was their feeling of companionship. A genuine affection and caring. It had been there before, and now it was rekindled immediately, as if they’d never been apart.
I don’t want to let her go again, and lose her this time, he thought. It’s too good. Too rare. Too special. We ought to make it permanent. The realisation of what he was saying to himself gave him a shock. Marriage? He was in his forties. Most men were hitched by now, but not him.
It wasn’t as if he’d deliberately avoided it. There had been plenty of women in his life, and many of them had seemed interested in making it permanent, but there’d always been something that had stopped it. The war, first. It had taken him a long time to recover from the injuries he’d suffered at Sambre–Oise. And then there was the job. Too many late nights. Too many encounters with violent death, which meant there wasn’t much in the way of cheerful things to talk about. The job had also given him a slightly jaundiced view of humanity, which made him wary, suspicious; another trait that didn’t go down well with prospective brides. Until Rosa had entered his life three years ago.
This is the woman for me, he’d thought soon after they’d spent time together. She’s beautiful, talented, intelligent, she laughs, she doesn’t take herself seriously, and she doesn’t seem to care too much if I miss a date because someone’s been knifed in an alley. But she had her own career, involving lots of touring. Although she still had her career now, still toured, this was mainly in Britain. Yet now it seemed that America might beckon in the form of Raymond Harris. If that worked and meant she had the opportunity to go Stateside, he had no right to prevent her going. But there was no way any relationship could survive that big a separation. He couldn’t ask her to give it up. And he couldn’t give up the job.
Damn, he thought. We go nowhere.
As often seemed to be the case lately, there was a scarcity of traffic on the streets. People nervous in case the bombing suddenly switched from Kent to London, along with the tight rationing of petrol, he guessed. Lampson was already in the office when he arrived.
‘Morning, Ted,’ he said. ‘Anything new?’
‘There certainly is,’ replied Lampson. ‘Someone torched the Four Feathers last night.’
‘One of Big Mel’s pubs?’
‘That’s right.’
Coburg frowned thoughtfully. ‘First Joe Williams and Billy Thackeray killed, now Big Mel’s pub attacked.’
‘Think the pub torching is connected to the murders?’
‘Only in as much as Williams and Thackeray worked for McGuinness, but I can’t see how it’s linked to King Zog’s money, nor the murder of the Ritz’s kitchen hand.’ He shook his head. ‘No, there’s something else going on as well as money.’
‘So, where do we start today?’
‘We start by calling on Big Mel McGuinness.’
On their journey to the pub, Coburg had filled Lampson in on his intention to warn McGuinness off from threatening Rosa and Donna the way his men had done to Julie Stafford. Lampson grinned. ‘Just to add to Big Mel’s troubles after losing his p
ub.’
McGuinness was in his usual seat at the Iron Horse when Coburg and Lampson arrived. In spite of the air of casual indifference he tried to give his visitors, Coburg could see the anger surging within the big gangster.
‘Mr Coburg, I didn’t expect to see you again so soon,’ grunted McGuinness.
‘I was planning on calling anyway,’ said Coburg. ‘But when I heard about the Four Feathers going up in flames, it just brought it forward.’
They sat down at McGuinness’s table.
‘First Joe Williams, then Billy Thackeray, now your pub.’ said Coburg. ‘Why is someone targeting you and your people, Mel?’
‘I’ve told you before, Joe and Billy weren’t my people. They were just blokes I helped out now and then by giving them odd jobs.’
‘What sort of odd jobs?’ asked Coburg.
‘Occasional bar work,’ said McGuinness. ‘There’s always times when we could do with another pair of hands here. Barrels to tap. Pints to pull.’
‘Joe Williams had a set of lockpicks in his rooms,’ said Coburg.
‘Nothing to do with me,’ said McGuinness. ‘What a bloke gets up to in his own time is his affair.’
‘And the Four Feathers? Who’d want to torch that?’
McGuinness shook his head. ‘Who knows?’ He looked inquisitively at Coburg. ‘You said you were planning to call in anyway. Why?’
‘Because yesterday an innocent woman was snatched from her house and terrorised by a couple of your thugs.’
McGuinness glared angrily at Coburg, and for a moment, as the big man pushed himself out of his chair, the chief inspector tensed in readiness for an attack. Instead, McGuinness gave a scowl and sat back down.
‘You’re on dangerous ground with that accusation, Inspector,’ he growled.
‘Chief Inspector,’ snapped back Coburg. ‘And so are you. Two of your men picked up a Miss Julie Stafford from her home, abducted her, blindfolded her—’