Gone Tomorrow (17 page)

‘Get you a drink?’ Slider asked, mindful of the proprieties.

‘Yeah, I’ll have a pint, please,’ One-Eyed Billy said quickly, happy as if it were a social occasion.

Everet Boston seemed to hesitate a breath, and then said, ‘Captain Morgan. Straight up.’

Slider got them, and a tonic water for himself, and when he brought them back to the table, Boston shifted along the banquette to the next table, giving Slider his seat and keeping the clear getaway for himself. He tossed back half the rum without speaking, and then said, ‘You wanna know ’bout Lenny Baxter.’

‘Anything you can tell me. I’m very grateful to you for coming forward.’

Boston waved the kindness away with a short sweep of the hand. ‘I ain’t done it for you. Billy ast me an’ I owe ’im one. An’
there’s another reason.’ He waved that away too. ‘But I shoon’t be here. Make it quick, right? An’ no
names,’
he added, with a fierce look at Billy. ‘You can’t say it’s me, right?’

‘Who are you afraid of?’ Slider asked.

Boston shrugged. ‘If they find out, I’m brown bread. I ain’t tellin’
you.’

They all watched too much television these days. ‘Okay,’ Slider said. ‘Any way you like it.’

One-Eyed Billy was evidently deeply impressed with his friend. The rum, the dreadlocks, the cryptic utterances, the hint of violence in the air: it all added up to one supercool dude. He beamed with proprietorial pride, so that with Everet’s flickering caution and Slider’s professional reserve they made a thoroughly mismatched trio.

‘I won’t quote you,’ Slider said. ‘Tell me about Lenny Baxter. What was he up to?’ To prime the pump he added, ‘I know he was in financial trouble. He used to play the ponies up to a year ago, and lost heavily. And he lost his job at Golden Loans because he was fiddling the takings.’

‘Yeah, old Lenny was in trouble,’ Everet Boston said. ‘He was a rotten gambler, man! Never ’ad no common when it come to ’orses. You fink he stopped playing the ponies? But ’e never. He just stopped going to the bettin’ shop, right? That’s when I got ’im the job, yeah?’

‘What job?’

‘He wasn’t just runnin’ for ol’ Herbie Weedon,’ Boston said, with a scorn in his voice that suggested if Slider didn’t know that, he didn’t know
nuffin’,
man. ‘He was a bookie’s runner.’

‘Illegal bookmaking,’ Slider said, enlightened.

Boston shrugged. ‘’At’s right, man. On the street. No tax, no pain, right?’

It was big business these days, Slider knew. If you bet at a betting shop, you paid tax either on your stake or on your winnings. Bet with an illegal bookie and it was all tax-free, as were the bookie’s profits. And he would give you credit, which William Hill would not. Of course, it was on his terms, and the exaction of dues and interest on such loans could sometimes be a stressful process, which was why runners had to be big, fit men – like the late lamented Lenny. Like Everet Boston, perhaps?

‘Is that what you’re into, son?’ Slider asked, trying to catch the flitting eyes.

‘I ain’t no son of
yours,’
Boston said scornfully. Slider was pretty sure he was right.

‘But you work for the same boss?’

‘What I do is my biz, okay? I’m tellin’ you about Lenny.’

‘Fair enough,’ Slider said. ‘How did you know him?’

‘I met ’im down the snooker hall down Harlesden High Street. Must be two-three years ago. I fought he was all right, sort of. Guess I didn’t know ’im that well,’ he added broodingly.

‘So who is this boss Lenny was running for?’

Everet shook his head. ‘I ain’t tellin’ you
that,’
he said, as if amazed at the stupidity of the question. ‘What ju fink, I’m nuts? You find out for y’self if you wanna know. Look, Lenny was in bovver. He was runnin’ for Herbie an’ he was runnin’ for this other boss. He was suppose’ to fix the bets and take the money, that was all, but ’e couldn’t keep off the ponies ’imself, right? An’ ’e was unlucky. He started owin’
more’n he could pay. So he started crossin’ the money, usin’ Herbie’s money to make up what he was short on the bettin’ money.’

‘And Herbie found out and sacked him?’

‘Yeah. Then he was really in the clarts. So he went round some of Herbie’s customers, try to get ’em to pay him like before, told ’em he was still workin’ for Herbie.’

And one of them was Eddie Cranston’s bird and he objected,
sought Lenny out, and got into a fight, Slider thought. But Lenny could look after himself, and the fight was over before it began. So who killed him? Did Eddie go back for a second crack?

He tried a wide shot. ‘What was Lenny doing in the park that night?’

‘He used to do some business there,’ Boston said. ‘He used to sell shit an’ poppers – maybe white, I dunno – and that was where ’is customers met ’im, right?’

‘How did he get in?’

Boston shrugged. ‘Froo the gate, man, how should I know? But everyone know that’s where ’e is certain times.’

‘Was he selling drugs for this same boss?’

‘Nah. I don’t fink so. He never done the serious stuff, just bhang an’ amyl, y’know? I fink it was just like a sideline. I dunno where he got the gear. Lenny, ’e was mixed up in a lot of stuff. He liked to freelance. Maybe that’s why he got in trouble.’

Slider felt a certain weariness coming over him. If Lenny Baxter was selling cannabis and amyl nitrate poppers it opened up a whole new cast of potential murderers. Eddie Cranston had a lump of cannabis in his flat. Maybe he had been one of Lenny’s customers and knew him, therefore, a little better than he had let on. And if he was a customer, he’d have known where to find Lenny to kill him. The trouble was, so would everyone else.

He struck out again, hoping for shallower water.

‘How was Sonny Collins mixed up in it?’

Everet Boston looked surprised, and suddenly frightened. ‘How d’you know about Sonny?’ Slider got his own back and merely shrugged. ‘I don’t know what Sonny’s into,’ Boston said. ‘He does some biz for the—’ He stopped himself, and went on, ‘for the Man. I dunno what, though. Lenny run messages sometimes. We all do. Sonny passed ’em on.’ He stopped again. His eyes flickered nervously. ‘I don’t know nuffink about what Sonny does. The Man keep everything very private. We don’t ask an’ he don’ tell. That way he stay ahead an’ we stay alive. You don’t wanna get on the wrong side of ’im, I tell you.’ He slugged back the rest of the rum and said, ‘Look, man, I gotta go. It’s dangerous talkin’ to you.’

‘You think the Man might be watching you?’

‘He watches everybody,’ Boston said.

‘Tell me who he is.’

‘You fink I’m mad? I shoon’t be here.’

‘Yes, why are you here?’ Slider asked. ‘I’m very grateful, but what made you do it?’

The supercool pose altered subtly as a different Everet peeped through the tightly drawn curtains of street attitude. ‘There’s this bird Lenny lived with.’

‘Tina,’ Slider supplied. ‘You know her?’

‘I knew her before.’ Everet looked suddenly ferocious. ‘Lenny was a bastard! He was a total ratfuck bastard an’ he got what was comin’ to ’im. I’d a killed ’im myself if I could a got away wiv it.’

‘I suppose you didn’t kill him, did you?’

‘I jus’ told you. Wojer fink, I’m comin’ here givin’ myself away? You fink I got shit for brains? I come here to help you, and no way you goin’ to stick this on me, you bastard copper! I’m gettin’ out of here.’ He half stood, and glared at Billy. ‘Last time I do anyfink for you.’

Slider spread his hands. ‘Calm down. Of course I don’t think you did it. But it would help if you could tell me where you were that evening, just so we can cross you off the list. Between eleven Monday night and eight Tuesday morning.’

‘I was down the Snookerama all night, from about ten till they shut, about one o’clock,’ Everet said, head back in a defiant pose. ‘Then I went home. If I’d’ve knew what was goin’ down I’d’ve been there in the park givin’ ’em the Mexican Wave while they done it, all right? But I never.’

‘I believe you,’ Slider said. ‘Do you know who did kill him?’

Boston hesitated. ‘Lenny, he trouble. He don’ play by the rules, right? I reckon he had it comin’. And nobody won’t shed no tears for him. Not Tina, that’s for sure.’

‘Do you know where Tina is now?’

The innocent question seemed to shock Everet. He stared at Slider, his eyes widening. ‘I fought she was at ’ome.’

‘She’s not, and her clothes are gone. Where is she?’

Everet’s lips parted, and for a moment Slider thought he was going to get something, but he only licked them and then, as if coming to a sudden decision, got up with a violent movement and said, ‘I gotta go.’

‘If you want to tell me any more,’ Slider said desperately,
‘you know where to get me. If you give me names, I can protect you.’

‘No-one coon’t protec’ me against the Man,’ he said bleakly, and with a sidling speed, like a threatened snake, he headed for the door. At the last minute, he turned to say, ‘That night Lenny got done – it wasn’t ’is night for dealin’ shit.’ And then he was gone.

Slider would have liked a moment’s silence with his thoughts, but One-Eyed Billy wanted notice and recognition.

‘He’s brill, innee? Ol’ Ev was always a right one. He was always in trouble at school. I got you the goods, didn’t I, Mr Slider?
You’ll tell Dad I helped you like he said I had to?’

‘What puzzles me,’ Slider said, to Billy since he had to, ‘is if he’s so scared of his boss finding out he’s been talking to me, why meet here in broad daylight?’

Billy looked pleased. ‘He told me that. He said anyone can go in a pub, and in daylight you can see people coming. He said if you meet down an alley after dark they know you’re up to something.’

‘That’s very interesting,’ Slider said. Stupid, possibly, but interesting. No, to be fair, it was probably true. Maybe Everet Boston really was as cool as he tried to appear. ‘What was this Tina to him?’ he asked. An old girlfriend?’

‘I dunno,’ Billy said. ‘He never mentioned her to me.’

But he obviously cared strongly about her, Slider thought, and he was obviously alarmed that she was missing. He thought of the two heavies outside Lenny’s house. Had she been abducted? Or was she fleeing this tiresome Mr Big Everet wouldn’t name?
At all events, Boston’s moment of humanity warmed Slider to him just a degree, while poor old Unlucky Lenny, the victim, was becoming less lovable the more was discovered about him.

As Slider approached his room his nostrils began to twitch, but he was so deep in thought and speculation that he didn’t realise what it was he was smelling until he turned in at his open doorway and saw Joanna sitting on his desk swinging her legs. It was her scent, of course. Her face lit up like a pinball machine awarding two thousand bonus points and an extra game, and he was across the room in a Cartlandesque single bound.

When they paused for breath, Atherton said, Ahem. Cough
cough.’ He was standing by the door into the office, and on the Everet Boston principle had been masked from Slider’s view by the open door onto the corridor.

With large portions of Joanna still pressed against him, Slider could afford to be lenient. ‘What are you doing here? Come to ask about that career move to the stolen cars unit?’

‘I was keeping her entertained until you got back.’

‘Well, you can go away now.’ He turned back to Joanna. ‘It’s so good to see you. You look well.’

‘She looks more than well,’ Atherton said. ‘She looks glowing.’

‘Are you still there?’

‘Apparently,’ Atherton said blandly. ‘How did your interview with One-Eyed Billy go?’

Slider moaned. ‘At a time like this, he wants me to think of work.’

‘Shall I go?’ Joanna offered helpfully.

‘No, no, stay. I don’t have any secrets from you.’

‘We could go and get some lunch while we talk,’ Atherton suggested. ‘Joanna’s hungry.’

‘Of course, you must be. It’ll have to be the canteen, though.’

‘Okay by me,’ Joanna said.

‘Has Porson come in?’

‘No, he’s not coming,’ Atherton said as they headed out of the office. ‘He phoned in to say he’ll be out for a couple of days. I hope it’s nothing serious.’

‘So do I. He’s a funny old duck, but I like him.’

As it was Monday, the canteen had bubble and squeak on.

‘They like to keep up these little traditions,’ Atherton said, handing Joanna a tray.

‘It’s quite good,’ Slider said. ‘It goes with the cold roast pork.’

‘And wiz zat, madame,’ Atherton hammed, ‘Ah recommend ze rock ’ard carrots and ze soggy cauliflowair.’

‘Oh brave new world, that has such menus in it,’ Joanna said. ‘I’ll have the cottage pie, please. What?’ she protested, catching Atherton’s expression. ‘I’ve been living on horse and chips and Wiener schnitzel for weeks.’

‘Same for me,’ Slider said to the server.

‘Chips an’ gravy, love?’ she offered Joanna. And to Slider, ‘No gravy for you, isn’t it, sir? Would you like some of the bubble on yours?’

Atherton took a salad. ‘I don’t know how he does it,’ he said as they sought a table. ‘One look from his sad-puppy eyes and he has ’em eating out of his hand.’

Joanna batted her eyelashes at Slider. ‘I’d eat anything out of your hand. Even cottage pie. Do you know,’ she added in a normal voice, ‘the worst thing in the world to watch someone eat?’

‘McLaren’s fried egg sandwiches?’

‘Worse than that.’

‘
With
tomato ketchup?’

‘Worse than that. It’s what Brian Harrop – second trumpet in the Phil – used to have at the Clarendon Arms after concerts. A cottage pie sandwich. It’s true. A great big wodge of cottage pie, with gravy, between two slices of white Wonderbread. It’s something you never forget. Like doing the nose job with porridge.’

‘Thank you for sharing that with us,’ Atherton said, sliding into a corner seat. ‘So, dear old guv o’ mine, what about this new lead from One-Eyed Billy? Tell us, Entellus.’

‘One-eyed—?’ Joanna began, but Atherton stopped her with a quick gesture.

‘Not important. Who’s the informant?’

‘It was a dude called Everet Boston,’ Slider said, unloading his tray.

‘A
dude?’
they chorused in protest.

‘No other word for it,’ Slider said. A slick, smart, streetwise, slinky-shouldered black with a Willesden accent you could slice and bottle. He was as painfully hip as a hospital waiting list.’