I Was Dora Suarez (16 page)

The doorman said: ‘All I can tell you is, Suarez was in the club, she was out, she was either in or out, she was in and out, sometimes she sang here, sometimes she didn’t, sometimes she was with some feller, sometimes she wasn’t, and that’s all I can say.’

‘Well, then, I’m grieved for you, Johnny,’ I said, ‘Because not enough in your case simply isn’t sufficient, and it is beginning to look to me as if you were deliberately preparing yourself to spend a long, wearisome time in our company. The food in the Factory’s appalling at the moment and the heating’s off again, but you’ll get used to it, they all do. Mark you, once we’ve got you across to Brixton on remand you’ll find things are worse still, but in the meantime I expect you know all about what a second-class single to the Factory means – and I mean a fucking single.’

‘But why are you grilling me?’ shouted the doorman. ‘Why me? I’m just the doorman!’

‘But that’s just it,’ I said. ‘It’s because you are the doorman, love-song. You see everyone that comes in and goes out through these club doors, so you’re the liar that conceals more truth than the others on the scene and you must be well paid not to spill it, which also intrigues me, otherwise you’d have done it by now.’

Stevenson said: ‘What goes on upstairs here?’

‘Upstairs?’ said the doorman. ‘What upstairs?’

‘You realise we’ve got a W to take these whole premises apart,’ said Stevenson. ‘Now, the bother you’re already in, you perjure yourself in front of two police officers and you’d best make your will, I’m telling you flat, Johnny.’

‘Now let’s play it again,’ I said. ‘The upstairs.’

The doorman’s face was both white and grey now; it looked ridiculous against the cherry-coloured coat. ‘I know there’s an
upstairs,’ he said, ‘but what goes on up there I don’t know, I swear to God.’

‘Make us a list of everyone you saw going up and down those stairs and turn evidence,’ Stevenson urged him, ‘and we’ll make life easier for you, Johnny; otherwise it’s going to be hard oh so hard.’

I said: ‘Did you see Suarez go up and down?’ I added: ‘You’d better tell me if you did – you lie to me now, and it’s a lie that’ll cost you five years inside to the day.’

‘Yes, I saw her.’

‘Often?’

‘Fairly often.’

‘With a man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Always with a man?’

‘Yes.’

‘Always the same man?’

‘No.’

I said, taking the photograph from Stevenson and showing the doorman the blurred figure running out of the emergency door: ‘Ever with this man?’

‘Can’t see his face, can I?’

‘I hope you’re beginning to tell us everything you know,’ said Stevenson. ‘The games upstairs again?’

‘I’ve never been up there,’ said the doorman. ‘I don’t know what they do in the top members’ place.’

‘But you know who went up and came down,’ I said. ‘Now the point is, have we bought you or not? I know you’re well paid to belt up, but you can’t spend your dollars in jail, there’s no Harrods at Maidstone.’

‘Anyway,’ said Stevenson, ‘your chief’s inside with us down the street, Johnny – you’ve no baseline now, you’re lost.’

‘I want to know about that sporty-looking man running out of the door there,’ I said, ‘there in the photograph. He’s a man I feel I want to get to know.’

‘I can’t help,’ the doorman said.

‘Not even against your liberty?’

‘I can’t tell you anything,’ said the doorman. ‘I can’t tell you what I don’t know.’

‘All right,’ said Stevenson, turning to me, ‘I see we’re wasting our time here, so let’s get what’s left of this lying git motored over to the Factory so he can play his luck down there with Robacci.’ He said to the fat exhausted figure lying back in his chair under his top hat with the gold cockade in it: ‘Now you know what it’s like in the Factory, don’t you, Johnny? You know how it works, people must have told you. Folk that’ve been through the grill with us, three teams of three under the lights, no time limit, sky’s the limit, forty-eight hours is too long – Bowman, Rupt, Fox, that’s team one; then Drucker and ourselves; then Goldman, Draper and Steele, the same questions over and over – even the few folk that come out the other side never seem to quite get their health back, they’re just not the same as when they went in; what you’re getting from us is just openers to see if your story stands up, and I think it doesn’t, sweetheart, which makes it a soaking wet day where you’re standing. You won’t play with us, so you’re in for the long haul, Johnny – ask your poor weakling solicitor when he does finally get permission to come in and talk to what’s left of you, and he’ll tell you that even if the judge is in a good mood and got his rocks off with his secretary last night, you’re still looking at between seven and twenty years deadly nightshade, and that’s why it’s called the Factory.’

‘You’ve always got the other choice, of course,’ I said.

‘What’s that?’ the doorman muttered.

‘You could top yourself,’ said Stevenson, ‘and I think I would if I were you. We’ll leave you one shoe lace, it’s probably your best way out.’

‘Your bosses can’t help you,’ I said, ‘they’re dead or nicked.’

‘I’m just the doorman,’ he said again.

‘I know,’ I said, ‘and you were buried under it because you hadn’t the brains to go upstairs.’

The doorman said: ‘I can’t tell you what I think goes on up there.’

‘Why not?’ I said. ‘Are you struck dumb?’

‘That’s it,’ said Stevenson. ‘He hasn’t the brains to tell us.’

‘Let him speak instead then,’ I said, ‘if he wants to.’ I said to the doorman: ‘We are investigating a filthy matter with which you are to some extent involved as an employee of this club; for humane reasons you ought to help us to catch the man that did it, forget the rest.’

‘Humane?’ said the doorman. ‘What does that word mean?’

I said: ‘Have you ever seen the body of a woman axed to death?’

He reflected a bit and said: ‘No, just two shot, but that was down to cards and then a bit of the other, so what then?’

‘Nothing.’ I turned to Stevenson and said: ‘You remember the old song? “
Said one old dear. You
’
ll get nothing here.
” ’

‘Right then,’ said Stevenson, getting up, ‘let’s weigh him off. There’s nothing more to be got out of this dreary, battered-looking individual. He either won’t talk or he can’t, and the pips we’ve squeezed out of him are beginning to make my bleeding ears squeak.’

Stevenson and I decided to leave the upstairs of the club for the time being: we opted to go back to the Factory and get some more sense out of the pair we had in the cells; we posted a uniformed officer at the door of the club; we left him looking rather sad, framed against soaking old posters either side of the dark door of the Parallel Club and its dank steps:
MIGHTY NIGHT IS OUR NIGHT, SAT FEB 2, ALL TO BRENT CROSS, MUSIC FOR LIBERATORS!

Etcetera.

When we had got our pair brought up from the cells, Robacci came in saying: ‘You didn’t even give me a chance to sleep!’

I said: ‘That’s not standard practice at the Factory. We need you, we need you, could be day or night. Detainees work the same hours as the police here, we none of us need to know what time it is.’

Robacci said: ‘Look, what about my Rolls? She’s wired to a yellow line, could we act about that?’

I said: ‘When you collect the heap in twenty years’ time, it’ll be in a museum and there’ll be a big fine to pay, won’t there, now belt up.’

When we were all four settled down, Stevenson said: ‘All right now.’ He split open a packet of Westminster light filters and lit one with a match which landed on the doorman’s trousers, burning a small hole in them. He inhaled, then blew the smoke out absently into Robacci’s face.

Robacci said: ‘That’s disgusting,’ and Stevenson said: ‘Sorry, this is a smoking compartment, darling, can’t you read?’

Robacci said: ‘What is the purpose of this meeting?’

‘Nothing in particular,’ said Stevenson. ‘The club’s locked and sealed, and this officer and myself will be searching it during what’s left of the night.’

I said: ‘What’s interesting to us, of course, is the difference between what you two tell us now and what we find when we pick through the shit-heap.’

Stevenson said: ‘For your sakes, there had better not be much fucking difference, or neither of you are worth a light, I tell you for nothing.’ He blew more smoke around the already fogged room. Robacci started to cough, but I knew how Stevenson chain smoked the minute he was working and interested. He said: ‘Now come on, we can’t go on pretending forever; the four of us in this room can solve three deaths, and as far as I’m concerned we’re going to sit here till we do. The reason for this officer’s presence is on account of this photograph, which you’ve already seen, showing that his victim, Miss Suarez, was singing in the presence of Felix Roatta and yourself at your club – that makes it a joint enquiry for us. Now both Suarez, Roatta and the old widow, Mrs Carstairs, with whom Suarez was living the night they died, were all killed in a terrifying, inhuman and brutal manner, while I myself am concerned with the shooting of your ex-employer, Felix Roatta. Now, because of this photograph, we both of us feel we have really good reason to believe that these three deaths are connected – and not simply because they occurred on the same
night, Roatta’s death only an hour or so after the deaths of the two women, but because of the photograph.’

Robacci said: ‘Where did you get that picture?’

Stevenson said: ‘You might have been one of them who set her alight. Do you remember a girl who was set on fire by three men in your own club?’

‘Well, come on,’ I said, ‘answer the question, you either know about it or you don’t.’

But Robacci said nothing. I turned to Stevenson and said: ‘Draw your own conclusions.’

Stevenson said: ‘I am.’

‘You understand,’ I said, ‘that we are here for no other reason but to get justice for Miss Suarez, Mrs Carstairs and Felix Roatta, and that we will get it.’

Robacci said: ‘I’ve never had to do with you before.’

Stevenson said: ‘The girl who took this picture brought it to me and showed me her legs where they had burned, and that’s why you’ve become interesting to A14.’

I said: ‘It was this girl’s legs, but it was Suarez’s life.’

I said: ‘Unexplained Deaths is objective; even if we’re middle-aged men, we’re junior officers by our own choice and can’t be bought by any side.’

‘I’ve had enough of this,’ said Stevenson. He went out into the passage, caught sight of the duty constable and said: ‘Hey, Officer! Buckle these two up again and take them back down where they belong.’

The officer said: ‘Right, come on then, you two, on your feet, tickle yourselves, now move.’

Robacci shouted: ‘I can tell you there are going to be comebacks over this!’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘it’ll come back from the DPP’s office, meantime you’re both in front of the magistrate at nine in the morning and go over to Brixton on remand till the killer’s put to you and you go on trial.’ I said to the officer: ‘Take them down, we’re busy.’

We did have trouble with the search warrant; there was like a delay over it. It got so bad that finally I rang an internal number and said: ‘I want that warrant for the Parallel Club now, not in ten days’ time.’

‘That’s impossible. Do you know what time it is?’

‘No, I don’t,’ I told the clerk, ‘all I know is that it’s dark, and who cares? You’re on duty, aren’t you, same as me.’

‘Why should you want to search the Parallel Club anyway?’ the voice complained. ‘What’s the Parallel Club got to do with you? That’s the Roatta case, that’s down to Sergeant Stevenson, it says here.’

‘Listen, sport,’ I said, ‘are you a clerk or a fucking copper, make up your mind.’

‘I’m administration, you know that.’

‘Then stop trying to do my work for me,’ I said. ‘You’re not up to it and I don’t need it, though of course what a sweet kind thought. Now fuck off and get me that warrant because you’re going to wear your few brains right away to nothing if you let go of your calculator like this. Now get that W biked round to 205 now – otherwise you’re going to need blood-proof pyjamas.

‘What are you and Stevenson doing?’

‘Something that would make you shit in your galoshes if I told you,’ I said, ‘so just stick to your work and get that warrant made out before I come down in person for it, love.’

‘It’ll take an hour at least.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘the killer doesn’t care. As far as the killer’s concerned, with your attitude you suit him fine, sweetheart, and Christmas Day would suit him better still.’

I got off the phone, put my elbows on the desk and my face in my hands; I suddenly felt appalled, helpless. What few sweet things, such few people as I had ever known and trusted, this handful of promising elements that I had learned unconsciously to depend on, were now like something poisoned that I had just eaten, sickening me – now such love as I knew reversed itself into an agony that spread to my fingertips, to my gut, my brain. Like Dora herself, and Betty, I, too, was battering my face against the blocked-out
concrete collective face of what administrators describe as society, behind whose lethargic unhurried paperwork lay the horrors of Empire Gate, and then I knew again what I was always in danger of forgetting – what it was to look at yourself as a structure in itself, totally isolated, coming from nowhere, going nowhere; then I experienced once again what it was to reel and fall. Someone had left the day’s newspaper lying nearby; the copy had been well read and thumbed in a pub and the headline hung over the edge of the table like a greasy tongue drooping over a lip, printing in block capitals what paper could not speak
KENSINGTON AXE HORROR
.

‘Oh Dora,’ I said aloud, ‘you feel so far away now.’ Yet it was absurd that Dora should be so far off. ‘It’s our fault, Dora,’ I said upwards into the stale air of the empty office. For she had scribbled in the little time left to her: