A Commonplace Killing (20 page)

M
anny Cohen was a dapper little Jew in a pork-pie hat and a bow-tie and a spotlessly clean snowy-white barber’s jacket. He was also one of the best fences in London, about whom it was commonly averred that he could fence anything from a cigarette to an elephant. He was that good.

Cooper told the fellow who was having his chin shaved to get out and shoved the coupon book under Manny’s nose.

“A little bird told me,” he said, “that you sold him this on Sunday morning.”

Manny barely glanced at the coupon book before shooting Cooper a wide smile, all crooked brown teeth at odds with his spotless jacket and immaculately trimmed little ’tache.

“I don’t know anything about coupon books, Mr Cooper,” he said. “You ought to know that.”

Cooper sighed heavily and removed his hat and swept his hair back from his forehead.

“You want a little dab of Brylcream, Mr Cooper?” asked the barber.

Cooper shrugged and took a dollop from the proffered jar.

“I’m tired of people lying to me, Manny,” he said. “Really, really tired.”

The barber nodded sympathetically.

“You know me, Mr Cooper – I don’t know anything about coupons. Why do you take the word of some thief over mine? I always thought we got along pretty well.”

Cooper wiped the remnants of the Brylcream on to a towel, fighting an irrational impulse to pick up Manny’s razor and hold it against the fellow’s throat.

“The coupons are implicated in a murder case,” he said. He watched Manny pale. “I just need to know where you got them.” He waited for a beat or two, before drawing himself up to his full height and bearing down on the little barber. “It’s murder, Manny.”

The barber stroked his chin nervously. He wasn’t smiling now.

“Murder, eh?” he repeated in a quiet voice. “I swear to God, Mr Cooper, I don’t know nothing about no murder.”

“Where did you get the bloody coupons?”

“I don’t want any trouble…”

“Listen to me,” said Cooper, “I’m not interested in your shabby dealings. I’m trying to solve a murder, and right now your coupon book is my best chance.”

Manny pondered his options for a moment or two.

“So there won’t be any trouble?” he asked.

“I’m turning a blind eye, Manny, but you’re testing my patience.”

“The murder – is it – does it have anything to do with Johnny Bristow?”

“I don’t know,” said Cooper, “but if you’re worried it’s a matter of some razor battle between two thugs, then I can assure you, it isn’t.”

The barber swallowed hard. He seemed relieved.

“A woman comes in here from time to time,” he said.

“What woman?”

“Her name is Nesta. That’s all I know about her, I swear to God. She was in here on Saturday night, about seven o’clock, with a kid. He had a pair of cufflinks he wanted to sell. I still have them out back. You want I should fetch them?”

“That will do for a start.”

Manny went away and came back a few moments later with the cufflinks and an expensive-looking travel clock.

“She was back here on Sunday morning, about half past ten, eleven, with the clothing coupons and this.” Cooper took the travel clock and the cufflinks. “She said she was leaving London and wanted a quick sale, but she knew how much she wanted for them, alright.” Manny sighed. “I swear to God, I don’t know anything about a murder,” he said.

Cooper waved him aside. The juxtaposition of cufflinks and a travel clock had brought to mind the pinched suitcase – the one that had also contained the green tweed swingback jacket and the mackintosh. He turned to where Tring was standing in the doorway and showed her the two items. She was frowning, the corners of her mouth turned down, as she took them from him.

“I’ll contact the owner of the suitcase,” she said, “as soon as I’m back at my desk.”

Cooper turned back to Manny.

“Where are the other books?” he demanded. “You said there were four of them…”

“I don’t like dealing in coupons, Mr Cooper. It’s not in my line of business. I got rid of them quick the next morning. Took them up to Johnny Bristow’s. I sold them to one of his boys for the same as I’d bought them, I swear to God. That’s the whole truth. I don’t know anything about a murder.”

“Can you remember the names on any of the coupon books?”

Manny shook his head.

“I don’t want any trouble,” he said again.

Cooper reached into his mackintosh pocket and withdrew the artist’s impression of Dennis.

“Recognise him?”

Manny smoothed out the creases and stroked his chin as he scrutinised the image.

“It could be,” he said. Then nodding, with more certainty: “It looks like the kid with the cufflinks.”

Cooper folded up the artist’s impression and stuck it back into his pocket.

“Do you know where I can find Nesta?” he asked.

Manny shook his head. “No idea,” he said.

Cooper sighed.

“If she comes in again,” he said, “you know where to find me.”

Tring was waiting outside in the car. He threw his hat on to the back seat and sat for a moment in grim contemplation. She had her hands on the steering wheel, waiting for his instruction.

“It seems odd to my mind,” she said, “that everybody knows her, but nobody knows where to find her.”

“She probably moves around a lot from one lodging to another. It’s the post-war world…”

He was thinking that Nesta would doubtless turn up, given enough time, but time was the one thing he didn’t have; or rather time was one of a long list of things he didn’t have.

“Turn right on to Seven Sisters Road,” he said.

She did as she was told, and a couple of minutes later they pulled up outside a half-bombed shop a short distance from Finsbury Park Station. Cooper told her to stay in the car while he went inside. He banged with the flat of his hand on the
bomb-splintered
door that was patched up with sections of corrugated iron.

“It’s DDI Cooper,” he called out, and after a moment or two a small weasel-like fellow appeared in the doorway, looking cautiously up and down the street.

“It’s alright, Codger, I’m on my own. Is Johnny at home?”

“He won’t want to see you, Mr Cooper,” said the weasel, but he let him in all the same. Cooper passed down a narrow passageway to a surprisingly large room at the back where a few thugs were hanging about playing pool, or rather they were standing around the table watching Johnny Bristow taking his time to pot a couple of balls. Cooper joined them and waited patiently. When the third failed to roll into the pocket, Bristow knocked his expensive hat on to the back of his head and squinted at Cooper through the smoke of his cigarette.

“What do you want, copper?”

The spiv was dressed in a nylon shirt and well-cut
fawn-coloured
trousers. Whenever his hand moved, the large gold signet ring on his little finger glinted.

“A pal of yours was taken last night with some clothing coupons on him.”

Johnny shrugged.

“I don’t know anything about clothing coupons,” he said. “Not worth my while.”

“A woman was strangled on Saturday night and the coupons were taken from her handbag, probably by the murderer.”

Johnny rubbed chalk on the end of his cue and blew the dust towards Cooper.

“I was tucked up in bed all weekend with a Windmill girl,” he said.

A couple of the men began to laugh but stopped when it was clear that Johnny wasn’t joking.

“Your pal brought the coupons in here on Sunday. There were four books, but so far only one has turned up.” Cooper looked around the room, fixing each of the thugs with a cold stare. “Any ideas where the others are?”

Nobody stepped forward. He hadn’t expected them to.

Johnny was leaning on his cue, smoking. He removed the cigarette from his mouth and inspected the glowing tip.

“A strangled dame,” he said, “is not my type of thing. A little outside of my area of expertise, you might say.”

Cooper smiled.

“I’m appealing to your better nature, Johnny,” he said. “You do have a better nature, don’t you? You can’t possibly be bad all the way through. And even if you are, it isn’t your fault, is it? Not really. Something happened to you, I dare say, a long time ago.”

Johnny drew hard on his cigarette until it was spent; then he threw the butt to the floor, grinding it with his expensive boot heel.

“Why don’t you fuck off, bogey,” he said.

One of the thugs, a burly fellow with a shock of red hair, stepped forward. He had one hand wrapped menacingly around the knuckles of the other.

“Want me to get rid of him, boss?” he asked.

Cooper wasn’t bothered. He had already reckoned, long ago, that he had nothing left to lose.

“Nah,” said Johnny. “He ain’t worth it.”

Cooper nodded slightly, as if in agreement.

“I remember you when you had to stand on tip-toe to pinch an apple from a barrow,” he said.

Johnny shrugged. “So what?”

Cooper contemplated his next move. For a brief moment he toyed with giving Johnny the blasted eggs in exchange for Nesta Jones, but instead he pointed at the kid’s twisted foot.

“Helped to win the war, didn’t you?”

“Nobody won the fucking war,” Johnny snarled. “Look around you.”

“Still, you were out there, weren’t you, fighting the Nazis, when others were at home feathering their nests? A few of them in this room, I dare say.”

The red-haired thug stepped forward again.

“Let me deal with the bastard,” he said.

“I said leave him,” said Johnny. “Don’t give him what he wants.”

“That’s not what I want, Johnny,” said Cooper mildly. “I don’t give a damn about you or your pathetic little capers. The days of easy money will soon be coming to an end and you and all your sort will find yourselves on Carey Street – that’s if you don’t end up in prison or dangling from the end of a rope before then. I’m looking for a wicked sod who goes around strangling women for no good reason. A murder, a stolen handbag, it might all be the same to you, but it isn’t to me. So, if you come across a woman called Nesta Jones I’d like to think you’re going to let me know about it.”

A few of the crooks laughed nervously.

“You’ve gone crazy, Cooper.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps.”

“H
ave you gone stark raving mad,” asked the DI,
incredulous
, “sir?”

Cooper held up his palms in mock surrender. “It was the act of a desperate man,” he said.

“Now he’ll think we’re in the market for information.” Lucas lit a cigarette and smoked it furiously.

Cooper shrugged. “I thought of that,” he said, feeling tired. “We pay crooks for information all the while; we pay them to tell us who’s up to what, when the next consignment is coming in, who the buyers are… It’s really no different.”

“But this is Johnny Bristow, not some ten-bob nark. We don’t want him thinking we owe him something.”

“We’re running out of time looking for a killer, Frank.”

“You could have been done in,” said the DI. He attacked the ashtray with the end of his cigarette.

Cooper shrugged. He was feeling strangely disconnected from the whole matter; as if a great weight had been taken from him and he was floating above it all, careless instead of helpless. It was not a bad feeling, he decided; certainly a chap could grow accustomed to it.

He went and fetched himself a slice of Victoria sponge from the canteen and made his way to the incident room. She was sitting at her desk, on the edge of which was perched Quennell. The boy detective was leaning over in the act of whispering something to her, perilously close to her neck, and seeing this Cooper felt a lurch of disappointment, of sourness, dyspepsia. A large box of chocolates was spread out on the desk in front of her, incongruous amid the tidy piles of paperwork and stationery items, and he watched her reach for one as she chatted gaily to Quennell all the while. He took another bite of cake. His plan was to make his way across the room to a desk over on the other side, as far away as possible, before she noticed him, but the mention of his name made him stop where he was, frozen in anticipation.

“DDI Cooper?” she was saying. His heart beat hard against his ribs. “Oh, I don’t think so.” She laughed and he thought how her laugh was so warm and melodic. “As a matter of fact,” she said, “I had thought he might be queer…”

His heart plummeted faster than a falling lift, and the mouthful of sponge he had just taken tasted like sand in his mouth; or maybe it
was
sand: these days food was rarely what it purported to be. In a cold sweat, he tried to scurry away into a dark corner, but Quennell had seen him and was jumping off the edge of the desk and to attention.

“Morning, sir,” the boy detective said. Cooper caught him casting a quick look askance at Tring.

“What the blazes is going on here?” Cooper bellowed; he was surprised by the power of his own voice, somehow finding its way from the depth of his misery.

She had snapped to it now, and was smiling. If she was shocked or anxious about having been overheard she didn’t show it.

“Where did you get those blasted chocolates?” Cooper
thundered
. “No, don’t answer that. Chances are, I don’t want to know. Great Scott, we’re running a murder investigation here…” She was hastily putting the lid on the box, trying to tidy it away out of sight. “If this is what happens when we let women…” He didn’t finish the sentence He didn’t have to. He was gratified to see her flush red all the way up from her neck. She was biting her lip and he wondered if she might be on the brink of tears; he was ashamed at the horrible pleasure he derived from the thought. “Quennell,” he barked, “get over to St Ann’s Road right away; there’s been a break-in at a grocer’s.” Sod off, you little bastard, was what he wanted to say, but he rarely expressed anger: he was a master of suppressed rage, of suppression in general. Then he turned on her. “And I want that paperwork on my desk in fifteen minutes.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, “right away, sir.”

He was feeling such a cad, but he had to keep up the pretence or else all would be lost. He stalked across the office and sat down heavily, fumbling with his pipe, with a match that wouldn’t strike. The crumpled men had lifted their heads to glance at him with mild concern as he passed by their desks, but now they were yawning, stretching, returning their attention to their telephones, their cigarettes, the vast piles of papers in front of them. Oh Christ, he thought, whatever am I going to do? He was descending into despair and for a moment was gripped with a panic that he would not be able to stop falling, not ever. Shut up, you stupid bastard. Get a grip, man. People have been dying in their millions all over the world and you’re fretting over some blasted girl. The sheer ludicrousness of the situation made him laugh, abruptly and entirely without any humour. He had finally succeeded in lighting his pipe, and sucking on it, was drawing in the comforting smoke in long, deep breaths.

When he opened his eyes, she was standing in front of him, clutching a sheaf of papers to her shapely bosom.

“Here’s all the paperwork, sir,” she was saying. He noticed that there was a deep crease of concern between her eyebrows. Of course, he should have known that she was far too efficient to let an idiot like Quennell with his blasted BM toffees hold her back in the pursuit of duty. “I do hope everything’s alright.” She deposited the forms into his in-tray, but lingered for a moment longer than was necessary. “Would you like me to fetch you a cup of tea and another slice of cake?” The crushed remains of the Victoria sponge were on the desk in front of him.

“That would be very nice,” he said. “Thank you.”

He felt like a child who had just thrown a tantrum, and instead of punishing him, his parents had reacted with shocked concern. When he met her eyes they were filled with pity.

“I should have thought of it earlier. I suppose that cake’s all you’ve had to eat this morning.”

“Please.” He couldn’t keep the groan from his voice. “Just…” He puffed on his pipe, letting the smoke conceal him in his shame. “A sandwich would be simply marvellous,” he said.

She smiled kindly at him.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

She turned to leave, but he called her back.

“I didn’t mean it,” he said, “about women, I mean. I think you’re doing a splendid job.”

“Thank you, sir.” She was looking very serious. “It matters to me what you think. In fact” – she took a deep breath – “it matters more than anything.”