The Cold North Sea

by The Cold North Sea (retail) (epub)

  It was the Indian porter, Pandit, standing there.

  ‘They’re gone. But leave now,’ he urged. ‘They may be back.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Finch.

  He stuffed some of Annie’s money into his hand. Too much, probably, but worth it.

  Having checked up and down the pavement, Finch staggered off…

  * * *

  Half an hour later, after winding his way across the Strand and up through the backstreets round Covent Garden and Cambridge Circus, Finch found himself, once again, in the York Minster pub in Soho. He bought himself a much-needed pint of ale, a whisky chaser and a packet of Navy Cut from behind the bar.

  ‘Someone’s been in the wars,’ said the barman, nodding at the bandage.

  He caught his reflection in the engraved mirror behind the shelves of spirits.

  With his hat having eased back, the bandage was barely disguised and now a touch bloody. Finch said nothing, took his drink, and placed himself on the same stool by the window, looking out at the alleyway across Dean Street and the tatty green door at the top of the iron staircase.

  The pub was full of the usual lowlifes. But he didn’t care. He was now one of them. He lit himself a cigarette, sipped his beer, willed the ‘bliss’… and this time it came.

  Over half an hour and two more drinks he waited, watching a door that never opened. He pondered all that had happened since he was last in here… of what might happen next… and, again, of Annie.

  Annie…

  ‘Hey, Hero.’

  While he was lost in his thoughts, Lulu had sidled up to him.

  ‘Oh, hello,’ he said.

  She wore a green dress this time, her auburn wig replaced with a blond one with abundant Bo-Peep ringlets. For a black man… black woman… it seemed an unusual choice.

  ‘You like my hair?’

  ‘It’s most becoming.’

  ‘Sugar, you’re a terrible liar,’ said Lulu, and gave him her most devastating grin. It was hard for Finch not to smile back.

  She eyed the bandage round the crown of his head, the one on his right wrist and the swollen mess of his face.

  ‘Something tells me you’re in trouble.’

  ‘You could say that.’

  She laughed politely and touched his arm.

  ‘Buy me a drink, you can tell me all about it.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a drink, Lulu,’ he sighed. ‘But as for this…’

  He pointed to his head.

  ‘…I’d rather not.’

  He nodded to the barman to fetch Lulu whatever she wanted.

  ‘Actually there is something,’ he pointed out. ‘That good old door up there. You know what goes on behind it?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘I don’t… and neither does anyone else…’

  She leaned in close.

  ‘…I was looking out for you, see,’ she whispered. ‘Figured I’d ask around. There’s the occasional person going in and out… but beyond that…?’

  She shrugged and helped herself to a cigarette. The barman came over and deposited a port and lemon.

  ‘You behave yourself, Lulu,’ he warned. ‘You understand?’

  ‘What? L’il ole me?’ she said and batted, exaggeratedly, her false eyelashes.

  Now it was Finch’s turn to whisper.

  ‘Lulu, this may sound like a strange question…’

  He thought about how to phrase it.

  ‘…But if I wanted to hire… some muscle…’

  She gave a knowing grin.

  ‘So that’s the way you like it, huh? You really are full of surprises… Hero.’

  ‘No… I mean, if I wanted a strongman or two, someone to help…’

  He picked over his words again.

  ‘…extract some information.’

  ‘You mean, work somebody over?’

  ‘In a fashion.’

  Lulu looked serious for once.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I mean… in here, for example…’

  He looked around the room.

  ‘Can I… you know… make the necessary connections?’

  Lulu frowned, sipped her drink, sucked hard on her cigarette and exhaled.

  ‘You know, as my mama used to say, “Be careful what you wish for.”’

  ‘It’s just…’

  She let out a disapproving sigh.

  ‘Sugar? You in trouble, that’s one thing. You hurtin’, that’s another. But this…?’

  She waved her arm around the room.

  ‘…This ain’t your world.’

  Finch laughed to himself.

  ‘What’s so funny?’

  ‘Believe me, Lulu. I inhabit a circle of hell well below this one.’

  No sooner had he said it than there, walking down Dean Street with a casual, carefree stride, came a man in a grey suit, a cravat, an astrakhan-collared coat and a Homburg. He had a pencil moustache and a sprig of lavender in his buttonhole. He turned into the alley, skipped up the steps, took out some keys and let himself in. The green door closed behind him.

  Lulu had seen it too.

  ‘Actually, I have a better idea,’ said Finch, discreetly flashing her the pound notes Annie had given him. ‘I need some rope… and a gun.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Finch walked across the street and into the alley. Despite his intended soft footfall on the metal staircase, his shoes – Edward’s shoes – clanged all the way up it, the structure wobbling with each step.

  There being no element of surprise to his advent, his right hand moved to the Colt snub-nose revolver in his side jacket pocket, the one with the serial number filed off. His left hand patted the twelve-foot length of thin rope – a washing line by any other name – that had also been rustled up the minute cash had been flashed.

  Finch stood outside the door and its worn, chipped, pale-green paint. He paused for a moment then gave a short hard rap.

  ‘Come in.’

  The voice was cheerful, welcoming. Finch tried the knob. The door was unlocked. Gun drawn, he pushed it open with an extended forearm and leaned back against the wall, taking cover, letting it swing far enough to afford him a view inside.

  But there was no trick, no ambush… Sitting behind a desk, poring over some notes, was the lavender man. He hadn’t even looked up.

  Colt raised, Finch threw a glance back over his shoulder, stepped in and closed the door. Caught mid-flow, without lifting his head, the man raised a palm in apology, finished scrawling, then, with a touch of self-satisfaction, set down his fountain pen. His tone carried the air of someone greeting a new customer.

  ‘Now what can I do for…?’

  His smile fell immediately.

  ‘…You?… What are you doing here?’ he spluttered.

  It was the first time Finch had been able to get a proper look at him. He seemed less refined under close scrutiny – the black hair suspiciously dyed, the pencil moustache and eyebrows possibly touched up with mascara.

  ‘Put your hands up!’ Finch yelled.

  The man’s palms shot north and quivered. Finch turned the key in the lock.

  The office was cheap and smelled of damp beyond the man’s buttonhole posy – possibly the reason he wore it – and was cluttered with papers and files, some of them stacked or just scattered on the cheap linoleum. The grubby lone window, with its wire-meshed opaque glass, was flecked with pigeon muck. Overhead swung a bare light bulb.

  Finch moved behind the man. He raised his gun, as if to clout him about the head, and the man flinched and gave a little whimper. He ordered him to stay sitting and lower his hands again, keeping them at his side. Finch kept himself at arm’s length, prepared for any false move.

  The man saw Finch pull the cord out. He had already fastened the rope into a loop with a slipknot, working it like a lasso.

  ‘Listen, there’s no need—’

  ‘Shut it!’ Finch barked as he looped it over the man’s shoulders and yanked it taut, using his foot aga
inst the armrest for leverage.

  The man winced.

  ‘Please,’ he panicked. ‘What are you going to—?’

  Finch went for the fake pistol-whip again and the man cowered.

  ‘I said, “Shut up!”’

  Finch wound the cord round him several times, tying it off with a reef knot. The man’s arms and torso were now bound tightly to the back of the chair. Finch moved round to the front of the desk again. He waggled the gun, showing he meant business.

  ‘Okay, Chilcot,’ he said. ‘Start talking!’

  The second he had uttered it, he was reminded again of his failure to think things through. The man’s face was a picture – a mix of incredulity, humour and what seemed like… pity.

  ‘Chilcot?… I’m not Chilcot,’ he scoffed.

  Finch’s head hurt, his face hurt, his ribs hurt.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said. ‘I’m in no mood for games.’

  The man sighed, as if it were all just an honest mix-up.

  ‘I’m not. I swear.’

  The expression of doe-eyed innocence suddenly seemed compelling.

  ‘Then if you’re not Chilcot…?’

  ‘There,’ said the man, nodding towards the front of his desk.

  The brass nameplate had been obscured by papers. Finch brushed them off. It was a cheap item screwed to a wooden block, the kind of knick-knack they’d knock up in any local ironmonger’s.

  ‘Vax… Clive Vax?’ read off Finch.

  ‘Private investigator,’ said the man, cheerily. ‘How can I be of service?’

  Finch tossed the nameplate down. It landed with a thud. He pawed at some letters in the overflowing in-tray. ‘Mr C. Vax’ or ‘C. Vax Esq.’ appeared on all of them.

  ‘My God, I’m so pleased to see you…’ the man added.

  His weasel response to Finch’s invasion had now shifted to one of smarm.

  ‘…Seriously. We thought you were dead!’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I mean I… I thought you were dead.’

  Finch was thrown and he couldn’t deny it.

  ‘What a relief… I can’t begin to tell you…’ the man continued, his high-pitched voice betraying working-class London beneath the studied elocution of the aspirational professional.

  ‘You’re bluffing!’ snapped Finch, waggling his gun again.

  ‘Bluffing? Not in the slightest. I’m on your side,’ the man trilled, relishing the confusion. ‘Always have been. Just wish you’d taken my advice.’

  ‘Your advice?’

  ‘The men’s room… the Cathay… You know, to stay away… keep out of this whole thing… It was done for your benefit, believe me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Given your history… your inquisitive nature… you were bound to be heading for trouble. Pretty much borne out, too, if I may be so bold. Plus, I hate to remind you, you had signed papers with the War Office, made a promise to king and country. A case of keeping you on the straight and narrow, as one might put it.’

  Finch tilted back his hat. He felt the blood on the bandage.

  ‘Why the hell should I believe anything you say?’

  The man shrugged as best he could under his restraints. He nodded at Finch’s gun.

  ‘Colt? Those things are two a penny in Soho. A handy piece, no question about it. I hope you didn’t get fleeced.’

  Finch thrust the gun closer to his face.

  ‘You can cut the lip, mister. I’m warning you!’

  Finch cocked back the hammer.

  ‘Look, don’t shoot the messenger,’ the man bleated. ‘I was just doing what I was told.’

  ‘By whom?’ barked Finch.

  ‘Sorry, can’t say… That’s the one thing I can’t help you with… Just be assured you’re being looked out for… I promise!’

  The gun was now just six inches from the man’s left eye. He strained his head away, sweat beading on his forehead, a rivulet of black dye heading south.

  ‘Please,’ he gibbered. ‘Don’t shoot!’

  Finch kept him squirming for a second then lowered his weapon. He watched the man’s tension subside once again. He didn’t know why he did it – catharsis as much as anything else – but this time, catching him unawares, he swung the pistol, connecting the stock and trigger guard hard with the man’s left cheek. It was pretty effective, he had to admit. It made a nasty clunk. The man groaned and snivelled. His head slumped.

  There was a wicker chair opposite. It was covered with papers. Finch swept them off and took a seat. He lit himself a Navy Cut. He trod the match out on the floor then exhaled a lungful of smoke for maximum theatrical impact. He took a good look at his quarry. Blood dripped from the cut on the man’s cheek. Slowly, he lifted his eyes.

  ‘My goodness, you look a bit, how shall I say it… discombobulated,’ groaned the man, somewhat groggy, but still seeking a tactical advantage, employing mateyness now. ‘Say, you want a drink? I keep a bottle of Scotch in the filing cabinet over there. You know, “for medicinal purposes”…’

  For a brief, flickering moment, Finch thought about it.

  ‘…That’s right… could use one myself…’

  He could feel the man worming his way in. He was a sly operator.

  ‘…Good stuff, Dr Finch… single malt… twenty years old… Your poison, right?’

  Finch willed himself to get a grip.

  ‘What do you mean,’ Finch growled, ‘that I’m “being looked out for”?’

  ‘I mean that you are, Dr Finch. People have got your back.’

  ‘It doesn’t feel like it.’

  ‘I know… Best laid plans of mice and men and all that…’

  Robert Burns. Again.

  The man gave a faint smile.

  ‘…Christ… you don’t have to tell me about that.’

  Finch stopped short of an apology for hitting him, but he lit a second cigarette from the embers of the first. He leaned over and placed it between the man’s lips. He dragged on it. Finch took it away.

  ‘Thank you.’

  Finch continued to keep his gun trained on him.

  ‘Answer me this, Vax… if that’s who you really are…’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘…Care to explain what were you doing at the house in Bayswater?… I mean, I saw you coming out of it, down the front steps… with my own eyes. And that freak? The man mountain you were with…?’

  Vax’s eyes conveyed comradeship now… patronage even.

  ‘You did well, Dr Finch. You’ve been amassing the pieces of the puzzle, just not assembling them in the right order. Yes, that’s Chilcot’s house, as you correctly deduced… Or the house used by him at any rate.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘You know, you really need to get this rope off.’

  He wriggled.

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘We don’t really know… not yet. Will be an alias, of course. Wields some kind of political clout, that’s for sure. Has contacts in the Foreign Office, pretty high up… the dark arts… you know how it is?’

  If this was bait, thought Finch, he wasn’t taking it. He said nothing.

  ‘And Freeland? Who are they?’

  ‘Seriously, this is very uncomfortable. I wish—’

  ‘Freeland!’

  ‘That’s how I came to be involved in this thing. A client of mine—’

  ‘A client?’

  ‘…Can’t say… confidential… but yes, a client had some suspicions about the company, wanted something checked out. Comparatively minor matter, considering where this whole thing has led us. Freeland is a legitimate marine scientific company… with some wealthy benefactors, too… academic patronage and everything… Oxford… But there seemed some shady business going on… this thing in East Anglia…’

  He nodded for another puff on the cigarette. Finch obliged.

  ‘…And as for our friend… that fat-necked beast? You really shouldn’t mess with him… He’s done some things… believe me…�
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  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Is this one of those games where you’re just pumping me for information to confirm something you already know? You know, like a courtroom lawyer?’

  ‘Who is he?’

  ‘Name’s Smert…’

  He pronounced it Schmert.

  ‘…was some kind of hit-man… an assassin, served in the Tsar’s Imperial Guard…’

  ‘The Tsar?’

  ‘Your friend Pickersgill was right, there are Russian hands all over this… Comes from some one-horse town on the Volga… part Tatar… A killing machine, strength like you wouldn’t believe… A sadist, I mean a clinically diagnosed one… the more unpleasant the death, the greater the pleasure… Mute, you know… I say the Tsar, but that was a while ago. Is now what you might call a “private contractor”…’

  He gave an ironic chuckle.

  ‘…though I doubt he’s big on paperwork.’

  Finch stood. He thrust his gun again.

  ‘Hang on. It’s pretty convenient you suddenly distancing yourself from these people, burning all your bridges. You looked pretty cosy with them all a few days ago. You… this Smert…’

  ‘Schmert… you pronounce it Schmert.’

  ‘…You hopped in a car with him and came right here.’

  Vax breathed out a sigh, conciliatory.

  ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he said, nodding as sincerely as he could. ‘Absolutely right. Hadn’t realised you were following. In which case, if I were in your shoes, I’d be pretty suspicious of me too. I concede that point entirely. But what if I told you he… Smert… was marching me down those steps at close quarters with a gun in his pocket, right in the small of my back, and then, when we got out of the car, he marched me up these steps here the same way?… You saw him. He was right up close behind me.’

  ‘Why would he be doing that?’

  ‘They’d held me captive there for a while. He was then bringing me back here to search the office on the strength of something I’d said… Ended up ransacking it… just like your house… Fellow’s not noted for his patience.’

  ‘How do you know about that?’