Gone Tomorrow (27 page)

‘But he does turn up at gala openings?’

‘Oh, yes. You’ll find pictures in the newspaper morgues,’ Tarrant said intelligently. ‘How else he takes his pleasure I
don’t know, but what with his business, the gym and the electronics, I don’t suppose he’s short of something to do with his time.’

‘And what is his business?’

‘Oh, I dare say he’s got fingers in a lot of pies. When you get to his level, the divisions between one branch of business and another are extremely permeable. But his home branch, from what I understand, is property. Buying and selling. Developing. There’s money to be made there if you get the right start. He buys run-down houses and does them up, and he’s got a knack for spotting where the next yuppification is going to happen, getting in while the prices are still low and selling when they soar.

‘Is Aubrey Walk his permanent home?’

‘I think it’s his main place, but he’s got houses all over the show, here and abroad, and in the US – though he may only be holding them until the price is right to sell. He seems to have a fondness for this area, though. He’s got a house in Loftus Road he’s just done up. He’s a big QPR fan, apparently.’

‘I think I know it,’ Slider said. ‘I’ve passed a house that’s been done up to the nines.’

‘Yes, he doesn’t cut corners. I think he’s got a genuine feel for houses.’

‘You seem to admire him,’ Slider suggested.

Tarrant shrugged. ‘Oh, I don’t know the man at all, but I admire anyone who can make a fortune from his own efforts, and of course property’s my field so it’s close to my heart.’

‘So you’ve never heard anything to his detriment?’

‘No, I can’t say I have. Why, do you want him to be a villain?’

‘Not at all. I was just wondering.’

‘Well, he’s a businessman, and I suppose there must be areas of all big businesses that are less than snowy white. But I haven’t heard anything, that’s all I can say.’

‘Are you sure it’s all right for you to take time out to drive me to the airport?’ Joanna asked. ‘I don’t want to get you into trouble.’

‘Oh, I’ve got minions toiling away at the factory, covering my back,’ Slider said.

‘Mixed metaphor. It’s a tricky one, this one, isn’t it?’

‘We’ll be all right once we get on the M4,’ Slider said, threading his way round Hammersmith Broadway.

Joanna smiled. ‘I meant the case.’

‘Oh. Well, it’s not obvious, that’s for sure. No blunt instrument covered in fingerprints matching those of the nearest and dearest. The thing that puzzles me most,’ he added, ‘is that there’s no word on the network about it. We’ve got a lot of good informants between us, but no-one seems to know anything about this particular gang.’

‘I suppose they’re very well organised,’ Joanna suggested.

‘Well, we know that. But even if they’re well kitted and sophisticated, someone ought at least to have
heard
of them.’

‘You’d have thought so.’

‘And it’s not as if Lenny Baxter was doing anything very high-powered,’ Slider added in frustration. ‘An illegal bookie’s runner doesn’t amount to much. If his boss was only a tax-evader, was it worth murdering two people to cover that up?’

‘Tip of the iceberg,’ Joanna said. ‘Maybe the boss had other businesses too, that were worth protecting.’

‘I suppose he must have. He certainly put the fear of God up Everet.
And
Sonny Collins, who doesn’t look as if he usually had trouble sleeping at night. But that brings us back to the question, why doesn’t anyone know who he is?’

‘Oh well,’ Joanna said, ‘you’ll crack it. I have every faith in you.’

‘It’s not faith in me that’s needed, it’s a few witnesses. But we’ve still got doors to knock on and reports to filter from the TV appeal. Maybe something’ll come up.’ He stopped talking while he threaded the needle through the traffic emerging from the Fulham Palace Road and accelerated hard round the corner onto the Great West Road. Then, ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘that we haven’t had much time together.’

‘Luck of the draw,’ she said. ‘Couldn’t be helped.’

‘It was good seeing you, though. It was worth it from my point of view, even for those few hours.’

‘Mine too,’ she said. She seemed on the verge of saying something else, but did not.

He felt it was time to face trouble. About that serious talk you wanted to have.’

She laid a hand on his leg. ‘It’s all right.’

‘We’ve got half an hour now.’ She didn’t say anything, and he pushed on bravely, ‘Was it the usual? I mean, about us – your job and mine?’

‘In a way,’ she said. ‘But don’t worry now. It’s not the time and place. It can wait.’

He felt a craven relief, but also a nervous doubt. If it could wait, did that mean she was becoming indifferent, giving up on him? The man in him wanted to put off that sort of ‘talk’ as long as possible, preferably for ever, while the detective in him wanted to know what was going on. ‘I love you, you know,’ he said, which was not what he meant to say, but worth a mention anyway.

‘I know,’ she said. ‘I love you too.’

He slipped a sideways glance at her, and she appeared calm and untroubled. Oddly, this did not reassure him. She might look like that if she had got another man and wasn’t coming back, just as much as if everything really was all right.

She caught him looking, and turned her face to him. ‘Look, you’ve got this case to think about and I don’t want to compete with that. It’s something we need to talk through together, but I’d like to have your undivided attention when we do. But really, it can wait.’

One more thing to add to the seething pot, he thought.

Atherton waylaid him when he got back. ‘Yon Thomas Mark came in, and guess what?’

‘He said his boss had given him the jacket.’

‘And?’

‘He didn’t know Lenny Baxter.’

‘You’re getting good at this. So that’s another dead end.’

‘Is it? We’re looking for a big boss.’

‘And you think Trevor Bates is it?’

‘I haven’t got as far as that yet. But the jacket bothers me.’ They reached his office and he sat down behind his desk while Atherton propped himself as usual on the radiator, folding his long, long legs at the ankle. ‘It’s just such a coincidence.’

‘Is it? I thought he had a good point, about Marks and
Spencer. Yes, I know this jacket isn’t mass produced in this country, but we’ve only got James Mason’s opinion that it isn’t made for export. And you might just as well say it’s a coincidence Bates and I both go to the same tailor, therefore I must be in it with him.’

‘All right, fair point. But why did he buy the jacket at all? If, as he says, he never dresses casually—’

‘Weak moment. Every man has his off day.’ Atherton cocked an eye at his boss. ‘What’s your idea, then?’

‘If – and it
is
a big if at the moment – Trevor Bates is our Moriarty, he wouldn’t want it known that several of his employees were connected through these jackets. So maybe said he had given it to Mark to stop the investigation dead in its tracks. To turn it into the dead end you greeted me with.’

‘That’s a very long shot.’

‘I know.’

‘He’d have done better to deny all knowledge, surely? And why “several”? Mark and Lenny make two.’

‘Everet Boston had a new suede jacket when I interviewed him. I noticed the smell.’

‘You didn’t mention that before.’

‘It didn’t connect, being suede and not leather; but it had the same lining, and Tom Garfield said one of the ones he sold Lenny was suede.’ He pondered a moment, drumming his fingers softly on the desk top. ‘You didn’t get any joy from the Americans on Lenny Baxter?’

‘The Cultural Legation? No, nobody recognised the mugshot or the tattoo.’

‘How are you with them? Are you in?’

‘I’m getting on very well with a nice young woman called Karen Phillips. Archivist. We talk books – she collects crime fiction first editions. Why?’

‘I didn’t want you to be stepping on toes, but if you’ve got a reasonable in, you might try them again with Trevor Bates, see if he’s got any connections there.’

‘Why should you think he has?’

‘Oh, it’s just a hunch, nothing more. We know he goes to the States a lot, and he lives in Holland Park, not far from the Legation building.’

‘Pure propinquity, then?’

‘Than which nothing propinks better. You could try them with the jacket as well.’

Atherton shrugged. ‘You’re the boss.’

‘Yes, I am, aren’t I?’ Slider said pleasantly. ‘In that case, you might get someone to fetch me a cup of tea – and tell Norma I’ve got a job for her.’

McLaren stuck his head round the door. ‘Guv,’ he said urgently. ‘It’s Everet Boston on the blower.’

‘Right. Put him through. You know what to do.’

McLaren nodded and disappeared. Slider’s phone rang and he picked it up. ‘Slider,’ he said.

There was a long, static-creating sigh of breath. ‘Wha’s happenin’, man? Billy said to phone you. You gotter make it quick. It ain’t safe.’

‘I know,’ Slider said. ‘They’re after you. That’s why you’ve got to help me get them before they get you.’

Everet moaned. ‘Oh man, I can’t do this, awright? If I talk to you I’m dead, like ol’ Herbie Weedon.’

‘If they’re half as good as you think they are, you haven’t got a prayer. I’m your only hope, Ev. You’ve got to tell me who the boss is.’

‘But I don’ know. Straight! I’m tellin’ you. That was the way he ran it. Hardly nobody never met him. It was all done froo contacts. All I knew, we called him the Needle.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I dunno. That was what we called him. I dunno what his real name is, and that’s the honestroof.’

‘So who was your contact?’

‘Sonny Collins, o’ course. Me an’ Lenny boy.’

‘Does Sonny know who the boss really is?’

‘I dunno. He might. But if he does, he’ll never tell you.’ He sounded quite sure about that at least. ‘It don’t matter what you do, he won’t talk.’

‘Why did they kill Lenny?’

‘Lenny, he wasn’t a team player. He done fings on the side – stuff for himself. But the Needle like everfing tight, everfing done exactly the way he said, right, and no argument. Control freak, right? That way he reckoned we was all safe. But Lenny
don’t like to be told. I reckon he was a mistake, and that’s why they rubbed him out.’

‘Did Lenny know who the Needle is?’

‘Maybe. I got him the job ’cos he was short of money, but he was a lot furver in than me. Maybe that’s anuvver reason they done him. ’Cos he knew.’

‘And Herbie? Why was he killed?’

Everet moaned. ‘Oh, man, it was me put the bug in ol’ Herbie’s office. I was just doin’ what I was tol’, but I wish I never. He was all right, ol’ Herbie.’

‘Why did they want him bugged?’

‘I reckon he must’ve knew somefing. Guessed it maybe. He’s been around a long time, he knows a fing or two. Or maybe it was ’cos Lenny worked for him, and they knew Lenny was trouble. Like they was gettin’ rid of anyone ’at might lead the fuzz to the Needle, you know?’ This seemed to remind him of a deeper concern. ‘You found Teena yet?’

‘Not yet, but we’re doing all we can. She’s your cousin Mary, isn’t she?’

There was a breathy pause, then he said on a failing note, ‘Yeah. How d’you find out, man?’

‘We’re not as dumb as you think.’

‘She was a good kid. Lenny ruined her. I fought he really loved her, you know? The bastard.’

‘Ev, you’ve got to help us,’ Slider said. ‘It’s not just you that’s in danger, it’s Teena as well.’

‘Shit, man, I know that. D’you fink I don’t know that? I seen what happens to girls wiv ’im. But I dunno where she is. I’ve been lookin’ for her. That’s why they’re lookin’ for me. Listen, I gotta go.’

‘Wait a sec,’ Slider said quickly. ‘Where did you get that suede jacket you had when I saw you?’

‘Oh, man! You wanna talk about
cloves
now?’

‘It’s important. Where did you get it?’

‘I bought it off Lenny. He had ’em in the Phoenix one day, four of ’em, going cheap. Shit, man!’ His voice changed, and there was an indeterminate scuffling sound from the background. ‘I gotta go. For Chrissake find Teena, okay? If they get her – oh, shit!’ Another scuffling noise, and the connection was broken.

Slider put down his receiver. He hadn’t had a chance to ask about Susan. ‘Shit, man,’ he said in sincere imitation.

After a bit, McLaren came to the door. ‘There’s good news and bad news.’

‘Isn’t there always?’

‘The good news is they’ve pinpointed the origin. The bad news is it’s in Soho, and they can’t get it down closer than three or four buildings.’

‘Soho, eh? If I was running from the Needle I think I’d go a bit further afield,’ Slider said.

‘Bashy boys like Everet Boston wouldn’t go out in the fields,’ McLaren said. ‘He’d be lost out of London.’

‘He wanted to be lost. Well, let’s get on with it.’

McLaren followed him out. ‘Who’s the Needle?’ he asked belatedly.

‘Your head’s running about two minutes slow,’ Slider told him.

The most likely candidate out of the possible buildings was one of those narrow brick houses turned into bedsits where toms plied their trade. Slider ruled out the Chinese restaurant. Of the other two buildings one was a hardware shop, with storerooms on the upper floors and a single flat at the top which was occupied, according to the proprietor, by a very nice man who worked as a waiter in Claridges. Slider couldn’t see him harbouring Everet Boston; and besides, he was at work and there was no reply at the door. The other building had one of those weird shops on the ground floor that sell candles and tarot packs, joss-sticks and cushion covers decorated with sun and moon motifs, and a selection of daffy books on the occult, obscure eastern religions and feng shui. The upper floors were flats, but of a more decorous and permanent sort. Two elicited no reply and the occupants of the other two seemed respectable and genuinely puzzled.

So with the help of the local lads, they went through the tom house and waded through the ocean of lies, insults, righteous indignation and sheer bullshit, looking for even a square foot of firm ground. Prostitutes were a different breed nowadays from when he had worked Central in the balmy days of his youth, and with the hiving off of vice into a discrete unit
the local boys had much less of a relationship with the toms than had been possible in his day. Many of the girls were shockingly young (had they been that young in the past? Maybe his memory was at fault) and many of them were not Londoners, while two at least were drug users. It was hard to tell if they were lying or not, as they would probably lie whatever you asked them. Slider’s suspicions coalesced eventually on a tall and spectacularly ugly woman with dyed black hair who was somewhat older than the rest – nearer Everet’s age – and had a West London accent you could have sliced and bottled. She also said she didn’t know what they were talking about and she’d never heard of no Everet Boston, but when Slider caught her eye as she said it there was a flicker of consciousness there.