‘I reckon one of the men that played cards with Alfie was a copper. It stands to reason. Alfie never got nicked for nothin’. He found out stuff that could only have come from the nick. And they ain’t really pushing to find your Fifi, are they?’
Harry had dismissed Milkins’ claim as utter rubbish, to him all policemen were above reproach. Dan knew that wasn’t so, he was only too well aware that many of them took bribes from villains to look the other way, or at least give advance warning of raids. But he didn’t believe any policemen, bent or not, would mix socially with Alfie.
Yet if this man Trueman owned nightclubs, it was quite likely he’d have a copper or two in his pocket.
So if there was a bent copper at the nick, and he got to hear what Dan had to say, would he tip Trueman off?
One side of his brain said he was being paranoid, but the other said he couldn’t take any chances. A nervous villain with police on his tail might do anything. He’d certainly get rid of any evidence.
Dan got up from the bed and reached for his jacket. The first thing to do was to find out more about Jack Trueman.
Fifi woke to the sound of rain. She was warmer than usual and was about to close her eyes again when she realized the blanket over her felt thicker. She touched it, and found it was doubled over her, Yvette’s coat on top.
She moved her head to look round, but couldn’t see Yvette, and it was alarm that made her wake properly.
It was dusk. Another twenty minutes or so and it would be really dark, and she realized she must have been asleep for several hours. Yvette had been acting very strangely in the morning, sitting well away from Fifi, rocking herself and muttering in French, while running the belt from her skirt through her hands as if it were a rosary.
Fifi had gone to her and put her arms around her, and told her to stop talking and to come and lie down to conserve her strength.
Yvette had looked at her strangely. ‘I thought I was with Mama,’ she said.
They had lain down together, and the last thing Fifi remembered before she drifted off was Yvette taking hold of her hand. ‘Sleep, ma petite,’ she had said softly as a mother might to a child. ‘May the angels take care of you.’
Remembering those last words, it was all Fifi could do to make herself look round and up, for she instinctively knew what she was going to see and didn’t want to.
Yet she still screamed when she saw her.
Yvette was dangling in space from the top rail of the cage, her brown belt tight around her neck. Her eyes were bulging horribly and her mouth gaping open as if in a silent scream. The slight breeze was making her body sway.
Fifi knew that if she was to get up, she’d faint, so she lay down again, shut her eyes tightly and pulled the blanket over her head.
It seemed incredible that Yvette had found the strength to climb up there, and the steely nerve not only to do what she intended but control herself enough to be quiet and not wake her friend. Even the place she’d picked was out of Fifi’s line of vision from the mattress.
Yet even though Fifi wished she could be big-hearted enough to be glad Yvette’s troubles were over, her whole being wanted to shriek at her selfishness for leaving her alone to die. But she was too weak to rage and shriek; she had got to resign herself to lying here while a dead body swung overhead.
Last night Yvette had whispered many things in the darkness, about how when the war was over, she and the other girls in the brothel were dragged out into the street where their heads were shaved because it was thought they collaborated with the Germans.
She spoke of walking by night towards Calais, sleeping in fields and barns by day so she wouldn’t be seen, and rooting for something edible in fields and orchards which had been laid to waste by troops during the war. She was eventually rescued by a group of old nuns living in a ruined church. They nursed her back to health, sharing the meagre rations they had, and it was they who put her in touch with the refugee organization which helped her to get to England.
Fifi had thought she was telling her this to prove how long you could survive without food if you had the will to live, as she did then. But now it looked to Fifi as if she’d been trying to say she wished she’d just given up then and allowed herself to die.
Fifi felt compelled to look up again. The light was fading, ten more minutes and it would be pitch dark, and she felt she couldn’t leave her friend dangling in space. She would have to force herself to climb up and bring her body down.
Just a week before she’d climbed up there as nimbly as a monkey, but when she tried to do it now, she found all her strength was gone. There was no power in her grip on the bars, her legs and arms had lost their coordination. This was evidence that the wasting process of thirst and starvation was well underway.
But she continued, her breath rasping with the effort. When she did finally reach Yvette and put one arm out to test her weight, she realized she was just too weak to lift her enough to unbuckle the belt around her neck, and she’d got nothing to cut it with.
Just touching her friend, feeling the stiffness of the body which had kept her warm all these nights made her cry and shake so much she nearly fell down. Every bone in her body ached, her vision was blurred and she knew it was the beginning of the end.
Somehow she managed to get back down and crawl back to the mattress, but the effort it took was so great that she could hardly manage to pull the blanket over herself again.
She would never be able to get up again; this was it, the last part of the slow slither into death. She recalled telling Yvette how she’d read somewhere that yogis in India could last for weeks without food or water by slowing down their breathing and lying quite still. Yvette had only smiled, so perhaps she had already made up her mind what she was going to do.
Fifi’s mouth and throat were so dry she couldn’t think of anything else. She knew too that even if she did hear someone outside, she couldn’t shout. But it was the prospect of another night in here which terrified her most. She was sure that rats would descend on her, sensing she couldn’t fight them off.
Chapter nineteen
Dan hesitated at the gate to Johnny Milkins’ scaffolding yard. The rain had turned the ground into a mud bath, and a half-loaded flat-bed truck stood in the centre of it.
It wasn’t the mud that deterred Dan, just the fear that if Johnny could give him the information he needed, he would feel compelled to act on it, alone and without police backup. Was he doing the right thing?
Johnny appeared in the doorway of his office at the back of the yard, his big face breaking into a welcoming grin as he saw Dan.
‘Come on in, the water’s lovely,’ he yelled out. ‘Or are you afraid of mucking up yer shiny shoes?’
Dan smiled despite his anxiety. The big man’s humour was always a tonic. He sidestepped the worst of the mud and made it to the office.
‘Just in time for a brew,’ Johnny said, slapping Dan on the back. ‘This pissing rain is buggering up my schedule. I had to send the men home. To tell the truth I was just thinking of going meself. Can’t do a sodding thing in weather like this.’
Dan took off his mackintosh and hung it on a hook on the wall. The office was really only a shed, with as much mud on the floor as outside, and piled high with papers and boxes of assorted scaffolding joints. The walls were covered in pin-up pictures, many of which had moustaches and beards added, and on the floor was what appeared to be a large quantity of ladies’ knitwear in a large open carton. Clearly something that had fallen off a lorry.
‘Been trying on women’s clothes?’ Dan joked as Johnny plugged in an electric kettle balanced on an old beer crate.
‘You caught me out,’ Johnny said. ‘Another few minutes I’d ’ave been dressed in a pink twinset. But don’t tell no one. It don’t fit me image.’
‘I won’t tell anyone if you promise you won’t tell anyone about what I’m going to ask you,’ Dan said.
‘You want me to bung you a few bob fer the rent?’ Johnny retort
ed. ‘Or are you trying to tell me I’m a bloody loud-mouth?’
‘Neither,’ Dan said. He sat down on a chair with a broken back. ‘It’s just I know you’ve got a mate down the nick, and I don’t want him to know about this.’
‘Something about Fifi?’ Johnny was suddenly serious. He liked Fifi, and Dan was pretty certain he’d do anything for her.
Dan nodded. ‘Well, in as much as I may have got a lead on who’s got her. But I’m scared to go to see Plod for the very reasons you brought up on Saturday.’
‘’Er dad didn’t believe me, did ’e?’ Johnny said and laughed, his huge stomach quivering.
‘No, but I do. I want to know the SP on Jack Trueman. Do you know him?’
Johnny sucked in his cheeks and looked anxious. ‘Only by his rep. He’s an evil bastard,’ he said. ‘Not the sort of geezer I’d shake ’ands wiv. Whatcha wanna know for? Someone told you ’e might ’ave Fifi?’
‘That’s about the size of it.’
Johnny shook his head slowly. It wasn’t an indication he didn’t believe it, more that he thought it unwise to take it any further. ‘Who told you that?’
‘I can’t tell you, but believe me it’s someone with their head stuck on straight and no reason to make it up.’
The kettle boiled and Johnny hurled the contents of a battered teapot out of the door, put a couple more spoons of fresh tea in it and filled it up, stirring it vigorously before answering.
‘Okay, I reckon it’s possible. John Bolton did work fer ’im some time back an’ all,’ he said, scratching his head thoughtfully. ‘But then every face on the manor ’as done summat fer ’im at some time, even me. That’s cos ’e gets is fingers in every pie. But I can’t get the connection wiv Fifi.’
‘Trueman was at the Muckles’,’ Dan said.
‘Well, that bastard Alfie would arse-lick Old Nick ’imself if ’e thought there was something to be gained by it,’ Johnny said, his genial face darkening. ‘But it’s fuckin’ ’ard trying to imagine Trueman getting cosy wiv a maggot like ’im.’
‘He has been there, several times, that’s definite. Fifi told the Plod she’d seen him there with Bolton, only she didn’t know the man’s name.’
‘Yeah?’ Johnny looked worried now. ‘When did she do that?’
‘The day before Bolton was chucked in the river.’
‘Shit,’ Johnny exclaimed.
‘So I want to know where Trueman hangs out,’ Dan said. ‘I can’t wait till the Plod get their finger out. Fifi might be dead by then.’
Johnny looked hard at Dan, as if weighing up whether he should help him or not.
‘Tell me, Johnny,’ Dan said simply. ‘I’m not asking you to get involved. If he captures me I won’t tell him where I got the info from, all I want is his address.’
Johnny poured tea into two mud-splattered cups, spooned some condensed milk and a couple of sugars into each and handed one to Dan.
‘’E’s probably the ’eaviest, deadliest bloke in London,’ he said, his voice subdued now, all humour gone. ‘’E’s got an army around ’im ’an all. Everyone is shit scared of ’im. You can’t take ’im on. It just ain’t possible.’
‘How old is he?’
Johnny shrugged. ‘About sixty I’d say.’E had the WestEnd sewn up when I was still a nipper. Keeps ’imself fit ’an all.’
Dan was not going to be put off. To him a man of sixty, whether fit or not, could be induced to talk. All he needed to know was where to look for him, and he’d work out the rest of his plan when he’d checked that out.
‘He can’t be surrounded by his men all the time,’ he said. ‘I’ve just got to pick a moment when he’s alone.’
Johnny nodded, then reluctantly said that the man had a big house near Brentwood in Essex. He listed the names of some of the clubs he owned and told Dan that he ran his empire from an office in St Anne’s Court in Soho.
‘That’s all I need.’ Dan drank down the last of his tea and got up, grinning wolfishly at Johnny. ‘I’ll get up there right now.’
‘Don’t, mate.’ Johnny grabbed his arm. ‘You can’t, ’e’s too big for you. Far too big fer me an ’all. I can’t let you do this. I don’t want you found in the river.’
‘He won’t be expecting one man to come after him,’ Dan said, brushing down the jacket of his suit with his hand. It was the one he’d bought to marry Fifi and he’d worn it ever since Clara and Harry arrived in London so he’d look outwardly respectable. ‘He might be tough-mob-handed, but I doubt he’ll be as quick on his feet as me when he’s on his own, and I’ll be fighting for my wife’s life, so it won’t be easy to put me down.’
‘You don’t know what you’re doing,’ Johnny said with a sigh, but there was admiration in his blue eyes. ‘Hang on a bit while I round up some of the lads to ’elp?’
‘No, I’m not going to involve anyone else,’ Dan said resolutely.
Johnny turned and opened an old filing cabinet, rummaged around under papers and drew out a cloth bag. ‘If you must go at least take this’un,’ he said, as he undid the tie. He removed some oiled rag and there was a small pistol. He put it in Dan’s hand. ‘It’s in good working order, I’ve looked after it. Do you know anything about guns?’
Dan nodded, looking down at it. ‘Yeah, I did my National Service. But I don’t want it. I’d rather tear him apart with my own hands.’
‘Don’t be a prat, it’ll be your life or ’is and this’ll give you a fighting chance,’ Johnny said as he reached back into the cabinet and brought out a box of cartridges.
Dan thought for a second and decided the man might be right, so he took them, loaded the gun and put it into his pocket, then gave the rest of the cartridges back to Johnny. ‘Thanks, mate. I won’t use it unless I have to. I owe you one.’
‘All you owe me is to come back here in one piece,’ Johnny said gruffly. ‘Good luck, mate.’
It was still raining when Dan came out of Leicester Square tube station, and checking on a tourist map he found out where St Anne’s Court was. Ten minutes later he’d been up and down it twice, and now he was perched on a stool in a coffee bar, drinking a coffee, smoking a cigarette and eyeing up the building opposite.
Trueman’s office appeared to be above the dirty-book shop, and surprisingly the door that led to it was open, revealing a narrow, uncarpeted staircase which looked as if it hadn’t been swept for years. He could see a fluorescent light on the ceiling of the office above, but not who was in there.
He could feel the hardness of the gun in his pocket, and he thought he ought to feel safer with it. But he didn’t, he didn’t like the feeling it gave him at all. What he wanted to do was punch the lights out of the man who was holding Fifi. Punch him and kick him until he told him where she was, then beat him some more, and only then, when he felt he’d maimed him for life, was he going to feel better.
There was a mirror on the wall beside him, and it seemed odd that the rage he felt inside didn’t show on his face. He looked normal – clean-shaven, wearing a sparkling white shirt, a blue striped tie and his wedding suit. He didn’t even look like a workman, more like a bank clerk.
But that was just as well, because he was going up into that office now, and he’d got to play at being an office worker who’d lost his way, while he checked the place out. He stubbed out his cigarette, smiled at the girl behind the counter, and walked out of the door and across the Court.
The tapping of the typewriter grew louder as he climbed the stairs. At the top was a half-glazed door. That was a further surprise as he’d expected the place would be like Fort Knox. He knocked, but opened it immediately and went in.
There was a woman of about thirty behind the desk wearing a red blouse. She was plain with glasses and straight, lank brown hair. She stopped typing and smiled. An open door beside her desk clearly led to Trueman’s office, judging by the big leather swivel chair in there. It wasn’t much of an office for a man with a sizable empire, and it was almost as chaotic as Johnny’s.
>
‘Can I help you?’ the woman said.
‘I’m the temp you booked,’ Dan said. ‘From Alfred Marks.’
She looked puzzled. ‘We haven’t booked a temp,’ she said. ‘Are you sure you’ve got the right address?’
‘I hope so,’ Dan said, giving her one of what Fifi had always called his winning smiles. He made a great show of feeling in his pockets, and finally pulled out the piece of paper he’d scribbled on earlier. ‘Number six, St Anne’s Court,’ he read. ‘That’s right, isn’t it?’
‘Well, yes,’ she said, frowning. ‘But Mr Trueman didn’t tell me to expect anyone from an agency.’
‘Is he here to ask?’ Dan asked, slipping off his wet raincoat and holding it over his arm.
‘No, he’s not I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘He doesn’t normally come in until one. I can’t phone him either because he’s out at one of his businesses.’
‘Oh dear,’ Dan said, looking downcast. ‘This isn’t a very good start. I’ve only just come up to London and I was really pleased when I got offered this job straight away.’
Dan’s Wiltshire accent had grown a lot less pronounced since he’d been working in London, but he laid it on thick for the woman. ‘It would have been nice to work with you too.’
She blushed and dropped her eyes. ‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
Dan told her he came from Trowbridge, and played the country boy up in the big city for all he was worth, telling her how confusing he found London, and how expensive everything was. It seemed to do the trick as he could see her getting more relaxed and interested in him by the minute. He found out her name was Janice, and told her he’d got a room in Kentish Town and that he really wanted to work in a bank but he’d decided to do some temporary agency work until he’d found his way about.
‘I was knocked out when they sent me to Soho,’ he said, grinning at her like a Cheshire cat. ‘It must be really exciting working here.’
She laughed. ‘The Soho you mean doesn’t get going till after the shops and offices close,’ she said. ‘I never see it.’