Jack Carter's Law (11 page)

As I’m crossing the endless carpet a figure detaches itself from one of the tables and swishes up to me.

“Mr. Carter,” says the figure.

“Hello, Minton,” I say. “Gerald and Les still here?”

“As far as I know, yes. I’ve been upstairs for half an hour. Their party’s in the last booth on the left.”

“Thanks.”

“Nice to see you, anyway. It’s been quite some time.”

“Yes. Since I was last down here you’ve taken on some staff that doesn’t know who I am.”

Minton goes rigid.

“Oh no,” he says. “Oh no,” and turns and scuttles away to see what’s happened beyond the curtains. I carry on to see if Gerald and Les are still in the third booth on the left-hand side of the corridor. I draw back the heavy velvet curtain. Gerald and Les aren’t there. Instead I’m looking into the face of a man called Hume.

On the narrow table in front of Hume is a bottle of champagne on ice and sitting next to him is a girl I’ve never met before but she’s just like the thousand others that do walk-ons in TV programs and the occasional commercial without being trained to do either. What they’re really trained to do is hang out where the bread is and where the names are and when they’re around it they believe that proximity breeds class. It’s not really that they want the money. It’s rather like the syndrome of the bird who’s always pulling married men—they just want to prove they can do it. And Hume, even if he is only a Detective Inspector, has plenty of bread and he’s certainly a name.

“They left ten minutes ago,” says Hume. “If it’s Gerald and Les you’re looking for.”

“Not surprising,” I say.

Hume smiles and indicates the champagne.

“They insisted,” he says. “They made me feel I’d really upset them if I didn’t accept a drink.”

The girl grins and thinks she looks knowing but all it proves is she’s watched a lot of people in the same line of business.

“That’s why they stayed and finished the bottle with you, is it?”

“The Americans were ready to go. Even Gerald and Les move when the Americans move.” He pours some of the champagne into a spare glass. “So have a fringe benefit. I know you earn your perks.”

“Don’t we all?” I say as I sit down.

Hume pushes the glass towards me and I pick it up and take a sip.

“You see?” he says to his girlfriend. “Even the heavies are used to champagne these days.”

“But do they appreciate it?” says the girl.

I take another sip.

“The good stuff, yes,” I say, pushing the glass away.

“I don’t think you’ve met,” Hume says. “Lesley, this is Mr. Jack Carter.”

“Pleased to meet you, dearie,” she says, doing what she thinks is a knockout impersonation of a tart.

“I already know somebody called Lesley,” I say. “Only he’s going thin on top.”

“Which can hardly be said for the present company,” Hume says, slipping his hand in the front of Lesley’s dress and easing out one of her titties and giving it a squeeze. The girl looks at me all the time, a clear cool gaze to impress on me how together she is about everything.

“Lesley’s in television,” Hume says. “Ever get time to watch much television, Jack?”

“Not really,” I say. “Only
Thunderbirds
. You’re not in
Thunderbirds
, are you?”

This time the cool slips off. “Cunt,” she says.

I smile at her. Then I say to Hume, “This your night off, then? Caught your quota of thieves and robbers for today?”

“That’s right, Jack,” he says, still giving the thumb to Lesley’s nipple. “Just hanging round here to see if I can boost the numbers.”

Of all the coppers on Old Bill’s wages sheet I hate, Hume’s the worst. It’s not just the image, the way he styles himself with his Cecil Gee suits and his Italian barbering, his TV policeman’s pose. All that would be painful enough without taking his record into account. In terms of arrests and convictions he’s London’s most successful copper. Always in the papers, always on the box, striking dread into the hearts of villains, as the media puts it. Which is quite right, because of the way he does his work. The way he works is this: a firm pulls a job and he’s got a good idea of which firm’s pulled it. But he’s got nothing to take to court because everybody’s alibi’s up and after two or three fiascos of trying to get impossible convictions he’d lose any credibility he ever had. So what he does is pull in some operator who wasn’t even on the job, but because of his past record he could have been. The surprise element precludes the operator setting up an alibi, even though being innocent he doesn’t feel he needs one. Then Hume, in a very honest way, puts all his cards on the table. He tells the operator that he knows he had nothing to do with the job, but that is beside the point; he is going to be charged anyway. So what it boils down to is that in return for Hume saying in court that the operator was not carrying a shooter, which will make all the difference to his sentence, the operator gives Hume a few names that will break the alibis of the people who were really involved. Hume’s very careful only to drop on people who’ll wear shopping their mates. He’d never touch anybody at my level, with my kind of involvement. He chooses the chancers, the ones who are more frightened by the thought of an extra three years than by a visit from friends of the people they’ve turned in. Hume’s made a great name for himself in the papers and he’s always being talked about as London’s Number One thief-taker, the iron man and all that crap. Luckily for both him and us his pitch is different; his reputation wouldn’t wear so well on our patch or even on the Colemans’. And what really boils up in my chest is Gerald and Les wheeling the champagne out for him, whatever the reasons, making him even more convinced of his big reputation. I only hope to Christ they weren’t oiling him with the champagne to try and get something on Jimmy Swann. If it’s straight law that’s pulled Jimmy then Hume would be the last person to be in the picture. Any questions Gerald and Les put to Hume could only do Hume some good, like Hume finding out who’s in charge and playing his own game to his own advantage, complicating things for us.

I lean over to the corner and pull the silk rope and wait for the service. Hume pours himself some more champagne and the girl tucks her titty back in her dress.

“Gerald and Les appeared to be in very good spirits,” Hume says. “Business picking up? Christmas rush and that sort of thing?”

“I wouldn’t know,” I say. “I only work for them.”

Hume takes a sip of his champagne and instead of taking the glass from his lips he goes rigid and his face becomes chalky and drops of sweat begin to squeeze out of his forehead. I shift a little bit to one side so that I don’t get caught if the signs are what I think they are. The girl lights a cigarette, unaware that Hume’s about to honk his lot.

Then the curtain is drawn back and the service appears and I say, “I’d like a large vodka and tomato juice and Mr. Hume would like a small tin bowl.”

The service gets well out of it and Hume sets his face and tightens up his muscles and manages to hold it down. When he’s settled himself down he takes the cigarette from the girl’s mouth and grinds it out in the ashtray.

“What was it you said on the box the other night?” I ask him. “Villains made you feel sick?” Hume leans across the table and frames his mouth to say something and then decides to say something else.

“One day you’ll shoot your bolt where I am,” he says. “That day I’ll be the happiest man in England. You and the Fletchers are like all the rest; you’ve only got so much luck.”

“So long as we don’t have you making our luck, we’ll survive. We’ll see you out, anyway.”

The girl puts her cigarettes in her bag and stands up.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Hume says, looking up at her.

“Nobody treats me like that,” she says.

“Oh don’t be so fucking stupid,” Hume says, pouring the dregs of his champagne into the bucket. The girl stands there for a minute.

“Are you going to let me out?” she says.

Hume ignores her. The service returns and slides my vodka and tomato juice across the table and nips off sharpish.

“Move,” the girl says.

Hume twists round on the seat and takes hold of her dress where it supports her titties and yanks her down onto the seat.

“Listen, you bitch,” he says, still gripping the front of her dress, “you cock-sucking whore. Just fucking shut it or I’ll shut it for you. You’re here on my ticket.”

The girl spits at him and tries to scratch the side of Hume’s face but Hume grabs hold of her wrist and fetches her a hard one across her mouth then pulls downwards and rips the front of her dress down to the waist, causing her titties to fall out all over the place. The girl throws herself face down on the table and bursts into tears but Hume doesn’t leave it. Instead he takes hold of the remains of the dress at the back and rips that off her too so she is completely naked from the waist up.

“Now then,” Hume says. “Now then. Try leaving like that.”

The girl stays where she is, face down on the table, sobbing.

Hume leans back in his seat and relaxes, looking like a runner after winning a sprint, chest heaving, nostrils dilated, glassy-eyed.

“Get your kicks that way, too, do you?” I say. “As well as at the verbaling sessions?”

Hume is still looking as though there’s nothing between him and the wallpaper behind me.

“I used to know a bloke like that,” I said. “A boxer he was. Big name. Got to be a personality on TV, just like you. Great sense of fun he had. Always laughing and joking. But offstage he used to get his thrills sorting out the weaker sex. Only one time he went too far and so as to keep out of it he cut her up and left her in various deposit boxes around London. Only one of your mob got a bit smart and put it on him. But seeing as the charmer was who he was and his club was favourite with your lot, rather than splash it all over the papers he was given the tip-off that your lads would be collecting him around eight o’clock the next morning. So instead of waiting for that he takes his shotgun out to the shed in his garden and splashes himself over the plant pots instead. Which is exactly what your mob expected would happen.”

As I’m speaking Hume has gradually come back from wherever he’s been.

“Yeah,” I tell him. “I remember that little sequence
particularly well. Used to know a little bird who fell into his scene once. Said he used to like cutting up her knickers with scissors while she was still wearing them. According to her he couldn’t make a proper job of doing what comes naturally, either.”

By now Hume’s fully aware of what I’m saying. A smile begins to spread over his face.

“Noble,” he says. “Noble Jack. Defender of the weak. Only why don’t you back your mouth?” He touches his chin with his forefingers. “Why don’t you put your opinions there?”

“No,” I tell him. “You’ve just got to keep on sweating, for me. Eat your fucking heart out, Hume.”

I finish my drink and stand up.

“Are you coming, darling?” I say to the bird.

The bird lifts her face from the tabletop and stares up at me.

“It’s all right,” I tell her. “He’s come once already tonight. He won’t want you for anything else.”

I take my overcoat off and pass it over to her. She doesn’t touch it but instead she looks at Hume.

Hume shrugs and says, “Yes, piss off with Jack. Go home with the rest of the rubbish. Only better make sure you’re not around him when I pick him one morning at eight o’clock. Because then we’d really have some fun.”

The girl stands up and wraps my coat round her and climbs over Hume. I part the curtains and go into the corridor and walk along to the Stable Room and cross the carpet.

--

Lesley

B
Y THE TIME
I get to the foyer the girl has almost caught me up but before she can get to me Minton materialises and takes my arm and assists my passage across to the exit.

“I’m very grateful,” he says. “I really am. I should never delegate when I hire, it’s always a mistake. Anyway, those two won’t be making the same mistakes in here. I hope you’ll accept my apologies.”

The girl gets to where we are and Minton has another blue fit when he sees the state of her and uses it as an excuse to melt away again.