The Thing Itself

Tingley half-expected him to wave.

Before, Tingley had never felt fear. But now, this thing in his belly. .

He tried to take a deep breath. Half made it. Radislav is not a monster, he said to himself; he is just a man.

He looked down. He was nearing the part of the descent where the cages were only about twenty feet above a rocky scree. He was approaching another pylon. Tingley noted the small platform at the top and the steel ladder going up its spine. He looked across at Radislav’s grey face.

The two cages drew closer.

Radislav was almost level and staring directly at him, still smiling his skull’s-head smile. Tingley heard bird song, the girl’s shrieks, the dislocated voice of the radio commentator coming from above and below him. Radislav was near enough for Tingley to see the grey at his temples, the gold screw in the hinge of his sunglasses, his right hand moving inside his jacket.

Radislav was reaching for a gun.

Tingley reached behind him to take his own gun from its holster. He gauged the distance between the two cages and kept his eyes on Radislav’s jacket.

His cage was swaying. Radislav was fumbling, getting a grip on something. Then the hand withdrew. First, the cuff of his cream shirt with the glitter of its cufflink in the sunshine. The thin, pale wrist. The hand.

Tingley couldn’t seem to release his gun from its holster. He was totally off balance, the cage swaying alarmingly. His eyes saw a drunken kaleidoscope of rock, trees, shingle roof and blue sky. He fell to the floor of his cage.

He lay curled there for what seemed an age but was only a few moments. He couldn’t quite believe he’d been shot but the massive punch in his chest, the blood he could feel soaking him. .

No second shot came. Tingley straightened and looked over his shoulder. Radislav’s cage was about five yards above him and moving away. Radislav had his back to Tingley, facing up the mountain. His left elbow was raised. Tingley saw a plume of smoke and smelled the acrid smell of freshly burning tobacco.

Then a siren sounded and the long necklace of cages jerked to a halt.

FORTY-SEVEN

Kate Simpson immediately went on line to look up the Soho gangster Tony Mancini. In The Times archive she found some background on him in the reports of his trial and ultimate execution.

On 1st May 1941 he had killed Harry ‘Little Hubby’ Distleman at a Wardour Street club and wounded Edward Fletcher. There had been a disturbance, then the police had found Distleman dead in the club’s doorway with a wound five inches deep in his left shoulder. Fletcher had a stab wound to his wrist.

There were two clubs on the premises. Mancini was manager of one members’ club and a member of the other, on the floor above. After a fight on 20th April in the members’ club, Distleman had been barred. He had threatened Mancini and the owner. Mancini claimed he had bought a double-edged seven-inch blade for self- protection.

At three a.m. on 1st May there was a disturbance in the first-floor club. When it was over, Mancini went up to survey the damage. On the stairs he heard a voice behind him saying: ‘Here’s Baby, let’s knife him.’

Mancini ran upstairs. Distleman followed and there was a ‘general fight’ using chairs, billiard balls and cues. Mancini claimed Distleman attacked him from behind with a chair and a penknife and he responded by striking out wildly with the knife in his pocket, not knowing who he’d hit. He didn’t recall wounding Fletcher.

Distleman was a thug too, Kate had no doubt. He had been convicted of assault six times. He had a billiard ball in his pocket and attacked Mancini from behind.

She went to Wikipedia for the other Tony Mancini, the Trunk Murderer who’d got off murdering his mistress. According to his entry, he’d moved down to Brighton after being brutally attacked whilst in a Soho gang. He had a reputation for brutality — once forcing someone’s hand into a meat grinder — and had been attacked by razor- wielding rival gangsters on Brighton prom.

She sat back. That didn’t square with anything she’d come across about the Brighton Tony Mancini. But the meat grinder thing sounded like just the thing a real Soho gangster like Baby Mancini might do.

In the National Archives she found Baby Mancini born in Holborn in 1902. He had a sister, Maria. Kate yawned.

The siren and the stalled cages could mean only one thing: Kadire’s body had been discovered. Tingley didn’t hesitate. He shot Radislav in the back of the head. Radislav slumped forward and Tingley spread four more shots across his back. He didn’t remember the make of the bullets he was using but he knew they expanded on impact. If the first bullet didn’t kill Radislav — and Tingley couldn’t see how it could fail to do so — then the body shots would destroy pretty much all his internal organs.

Hugging his own wound, he climbed out of his cage, dangled below it for a moment, then dropped down on to the scree. He let out a cry when he landed and tumbled down head over heels. He fetched up, scratched and bleeding, at the base of a tree.

He hobbled off at a diagonal, sliding down the scree, keeping an eye on the buildings at the base of the funivia. He assumed the police had been called and only once they had arrived would the cages move again.

Within five minutes he was round the side of the mountain and out of sight of the funivia buildings. He had glanced back only once to see Radislav’s corpse, half-hanging over the front of his cage.

He buried his gun behind some bushes and continued down towards a dirt road. He started to shake some twenty yards from the bottom. He gulped down air.

He jumped down on to the dirt road, rubbery-legged. His knees caved in. He straightened and hurried along the road, trailing blood, ignoring someone from a house opposite who called something after him.

As he hurried into town, face burning, he was sure all eyes were on him. He could hear the police sirens as he located his car and drove out of Gubbio.

Reg Williamson gazed blankly at the files scattered over Sarah Gilchrist’s desk. His thoughts were on Angela, his wife. Married thirty years. He’d never so much as looked at another woman. As it should be, but in the police that was quite something.

She’d been in decline ever since their son had killed himself. Williamson still loved her to bits but got precious little back.

He sighed and picked up a file at random. He wanted to nail Charlie Laker. He hoped Bernie Grimes would provide the testimony that would make it possible. But whilst Sarah and Bob Watts were going after Grimes, Williamson intended to trawl through the files relating to the Milldean Massacre to see if anything popped up that they’d missed before.

This file had his report about the murder of Finch, the policeman involved in the raid who had been thrown off Beachy Head in a roll of carpet by ‘Persons Unknown’. Next in the file was Gilchrist’s report of the interview with Lesley White, the posh woman who lived in the converted lighthouse on the clifftop where Finch had been heaved over into the sea.

She’d known nothing about the killing of Finch but she’d banged on about her cat going missing. Bizarrely, this had turned out to be significant when its remains were found in a burned-out car on Ditchling Beacon. Typical of police work: most of the time you had no bloody idea what was important and what wasn’t.

Williamson mouthed her name. Lesley White. White in name, white in nature. He remembered her looking at him with distaste as he sweated on her white sofa. She checked her white carpet for his footmarks.

He hadn’t taken to her either. Snooty. One of the ‘I’m Better Than You But I Want Your Protection’ brigade.

That wasn’t pricking at him. He rubbed his chin. But something was.

He rolled his chair a yard or so to his computer and pecked the keys.

Why did her name sound odd, despite her white carpeting and furniture?