Death Trap (22 page)

Barnard set off back towards his car and for once did not see trouble coming. He had parked in a quiet side street off Westbourne Grove which was deserted as he turned into it. But before he reached the car a smashing blow from behind brought him to his knees and as one assailant – white, he noticed – jumped him with an arm around his neck another punched and kicked until he collapsed completely onto the pavement with his arms up to protect his head. The assault finished almost as quickly as it had begun, leaving him dazed and panting with one man still pinning him firmly to the ground with an elbow on his neck and a knee in the small of his back.

‘Listen and listen good,' a voice said. ‘The King, he wants his picture taken. See to it, will you. He getting impatient.' And with that the man grabbed Barnard's hair and smashed his head against the pavement leaving him stunned and for a moment quite unable to move. When he finally managed to roll over and sit up the street was empty.

Painfully, he staggered to his feet and stumbled back to the car and almost fell into the driver's seat, cursing the carelessness which had allowing him to be assaulted twice in two days.

‘Bloody hell and damnation,' he muttered to himself as he lay back with his eyes shut, feeling himself all over to assess the damage. He would be black and blue for days, he thought, from his head to the kidneys which had taken a particularly vicious kick, but as far as he could tell nothing was broken. He had not taken such poundings since his boxing days as a teenager when a particular bout with a stocky, angry-eyed young Scot had persuaded him that maybe the sport was not for him, a conclusion Ray Robertson reluctantly agreed with. But what worried him more than his own injuries, was the threat to Kate. King Devine might well want his photograph taken. He was vain enough. But Barnard was sure that was not all he wanted.

For a long time he sat in his car, fingering the swelling bump on his head, and feeling for once in his life completely out of his depth. He was too far from his home turf in Soho, he thought. He was interfering in another nick's case, giving evidence to the defense because he was certain that the local CID officers would suppress it if they possibly could. He had reached the point where he should report what was going on to his bosses or even directly to the Yard, but some lingering sense of loyalty to his friend Eddie Lamb, if no one else in West London, held him back. But worst of all he had put Kate in danger through his overconfident venture into Notting Hill night life which he realised now was far more threatening than he had imagined. He had been telling Kate to get out of the area for weeks, and now it was desperately urgent but he was even unsure of his ability to persuade her of that. He had made a mess of this, he thought, and had very little time to retrieve the situation before King Devine made another and probably even more devastating move against Kate. He needed to find her quickly, he decided, and get her out.

Kate had spent a happy hour taking a series of shots in and around the market, and as the stallholders began to pack up she set off home feeling well satisfied with her afternoon's work. The streets were busy now as the schoolchildren from Holland Park drifted home, chattering on street corners and buying sweets and drinks from the corner shops, and visitors to the market headed in the direction of the tube station, clutching their purchases. Tess might be home already, Kate thought as she turned into Argyll Gardens, on the last lap to home.

She was not aware of anyone walking behind her until someone grabbed her shoulder and pulled her round and she found herself surrounded by half a dozen white youths, skinny and pale and smartly dressed in buttoned up suits but whom she knew instantly, in spite of their apparent respectability, meant her no good.

‘What you doing taking pictures all the time?' the tallest of the gang asked, holding her arm tight. ‘What's that all about?'

‘It's for a magazine,' Kate said, her mouth dry.

‘You're putting niggers in a magazine? Don't make me larf. We've seen you hanging around that black bastard's cafe. You their tart, are you?'

‘No, of course not. I'm just taking pictures of the neighbourhood.' She glanced up and down the road but could see no one who might help her.

‘Yeah, well, this is our neighbourhood, not theirs, or yours. And we don't want it in no magazine. There was too many pictures taken back in fifty-eight. Let's have your camera then.' The gang crowded round even tighter and Kate realised that if they tried to take her precious camera out of her bag there was no way she was going to be able to stop them.

‘If you take my camera I won't be able to work, I'll lose my job,' she said desperately, clutching her bag to her chest as hands reached out to pull it away from her and someone put an arm round her throat to hold her still.

But suddenly the pressure eased and the group disintegrated as a car roared up from behind them, pulled to a stop almost on the pavement, causing the gang to scatter, and a familiar figure leapt out shouting: ‘Police!'

Harry Barnard did not pursue them as they ran in different directions. He grabbed Kate's arm and half pulled, half pushed her into the passenger seat.

‘We're going to my place,' he said, as Kate gazed in horror at his bruised face. ‘You're not safe round here. In fact I don't think either of us are. If you want to know the truth, I think I've messed up big time. You need to go to ground.'

Kate stood in a borrowed pyjama top several sizes too big for her at the front window of Harry Barnard's second-floor flat watching the grey early-morning light filter through the trees lining the avenue outside. It was too early for there to be much traffic and she wondered if she would be able to find a taxi if she walked as far as the main road.

She had slipped out of the bed she had shared with Barnard the previous night, just able to see that it was coming up to seven o'clock on her watch. Her companion had slept on undisturbed, his bruised face dark against the white pillow. And now she wondered, her emotions in turmoil, whether she could slip away unheard. She desperately needed some time on her own just to think. It was not that she felt much guilt. She had lost her virginity to Dave Donovan years ago and had found Barnard a gentler and more skilful lover. But she did not want Barnard to jump to any conclusions about what that had meant long-term.

She should not have come with him to Highgate, she thought, but undeniably scared, she had allowed him to drive her here the previous afternoon and let him phone Tess to say that she would not be home that night. Gently he had sat her on his Habitat sofa and explained exactly why he feared for her safety and why he blamed himself.

‘But those lads weren't King Devine's,' she had objected. ‘They were white and they sounded as if they hated the West Indians.'

‘No, I guess that was just a coincidence,' Barnard had agreed. ‘The tension's running high between the black and white youths after this murder. The whole place is on edge. They were probably telling the truth when they said they didn't like you taking pictures. But it gives you some idea of how easy it would be for Devine to pick you up if he feels like it. And believe me he feels like it. The bastards who had a go at me made that very clear. They were white too, but they were King Devine's messenger boys.'

‘What are you going to do?' she asked as she sipped a gin and tonic and watched him cook a couple of steaks and some chips in his shiny modern kitchen. ‘Shouldn't you tell your bosses what's going on? Won't someone want to know how you got yourself beaten up?'

Barnard had shrugged and reached for the plates which were warming over the cooker. Kate was not used to seeing men cook and felt uncomfortable as she let herself be served at the teak dining table. Where she came from women put the tea on the table and were lucky if their men ever washed a dish. But she was not very hungry and did not do Barnard's efforts justice. But he cleared away without comment and handed her coffee and led her to the sofa again and put his arm around her, looking slightly surprised when she did not pull away immediately.

‘I've got problems reporting all this,' he said at last. ‘I shouldn't be digging around in someone else's manor without so much as a by-your-leave, especially when there's a murder case involved. I've got to have something really concrete to give the top brass if I'm to get away with it. I could be booted out on my ear if CID in Notting Hill really cut up rough.'

‘Aren't the witnesses concrete enough?' Kate had asked.

‘I've handed them to Nelson's solicitor. He's the best person to handle that. Then no one will know that you're involved, or me. What I want to do is pin down Devine, but I've got nothing to go on that would stand up in court.'

Standing now at the window, shivering slightly, she was still not sure how she had ended up in bed with Barnard. She had insisted that she should go home, that she couldn't leave the flat or her friends to fend for themselves but in the end he had persuaded her to stay at least for the night. She had looked at him quizzically when he had insisted so fiercely but he had shrugged.

‘You know I'm crazy about you,' he said lightly. ‘But it's up to you. I'll sleep on the sofa if you insist. I just want to know that at least for tonight you're out of harm's way.'

And in the end, she thought now in the cold light of day, she had weakened. She liked Barnard but she did not trust him and was annoyed with herself now for falling so completely for his charm. And she was surprised to hear him come up behind her now and put his arms around her again.

‘It's OK,' he said, nibbling her ear. ‘You haven't made any commitments and nor have I. And there won't be any unexpected consequences your mother wouldn't like, I promise. But it was nice, wasn't it?'

She nodded warily, unwilling to admit just how exciting she had found his bed.

‘So we'll maybe do it again some time?'

‘Maybe,' she said.

‘Right, let's have some breakfast and I'll tell you how it's going to be. I'm going to pick you up every morning and run you into work, and then pick you up again when you leave work and take you home. And you are not to wander round Notting Hill any more taking photographs. Understood? All that until you find a new place and get out of the neighbourhood.'

Kate opened her mouth to argue but thought better of it. She knew he was right and for now she would have to be as careful as he was suggesting. But that did not mean that she was not furious at the restrictions being placed on her freedom.

‘It's not fair,' she said quietly.

‘No, it's not,' Barnard agreed. ‘But it's the only way to stay safe. I think you'll just have to accept it for now. And I'll do whatever I can to get that bastard off your back. I think I have a way to do it, but it will take a few days. Trust me. Will you, Kate?'

‘I'll do my best,' she said.

D
S Harry Barnard had been feeling pretty pleased with himself when he left the nick that morning to take his usual stroll around the narrow, crowded streets of Soho. He wove at the leisurely pace of a beat copper through curious tourists and nervous first time punters who looked as if they had spent the night on the street but were already peering at the lists of names alongside narrow doors where the paint was peeling, or at window displays of barely legal magazines. He glanced into pubs just opening their doors onto frowsty lounge bars where the tables were still wet from a cursory wipe-over with a smelly cloth, not wanting to appear open before the official time although they were not averse to selling an illicit pint if the chance offered. Only the cafes and coffee bars looked remotely welcoming, but to Barnard it all looked as it normally did, all seemed to him to be well in London's square mile of sin.

He had delivered Kate O'Donnell home that morning and then ferried her back to the Ken Fellows Picture Agency in time for work with a feeling of a good night well spent. At last he felt that he was getting somewhere with Kate, sure in his own mind that he could make the relationship more permanent if he chose in spite of her obvious reservations. The Barnard charm, he told himself, seldom failed to work in the end.

But as he had crossed Regent Street, after strolling past the Windmill Theatre boasting its continuous raunchy performances, his sunny mood had been severely shaken by the sight of a substantial American car gliding past and stopping outside the front door of the Delilah Club. This was odd in itself. The place seldom opened its doors until lunchtime and it was now only just gone eleven. Even more disconcerting was the sight of a black man he recognised only too well as King Devine getting out of the car when the door was opened by the burly henchman who had been driving, and gliding confidently through the doors of the club, leaving the car and its attendant waiting outside and blocking half the narrow side street with no apparent recognition that anything as inconvenient as a traffic cop might exist.

What the hell's all that about? Barnard asked himself, crossing between a couple of stationary buses to examine the car more closely: a gleaming black Cadillac with its distinctive rear fins. How the hell did Devine get that into the country, he wondered enviously. But as he walked curiously past, he became aware that it was being joined by another car, which he recognised instantly. Ray Robertson's Jag rolled up, parked behind the Caddy, and Ray himself eased himself out of the back seat, not looking particularly pleased when he saw he was being watched.

‘What the hell are you doing here, Flash?' he asked, his expression aggressive. ‘Not on official business, I hope.'

‘Just taking a stroll when I happened to notice our friend from Notting Hill arrive, Ray,' Barnard said. ‘Nice car.'

Robertson glanced at the American automotive intruder with contempt.

‘Business meeting, is it?' Barnard persisted.