here. Until then we can watch how the other half plays. Are you hungry, by the way?’
It was a reminder to Rocco that he had not eaten since this morning. Nothing on the train or boat had been of interest, and he’d been too busy thinking of this meeting to bother.
‘Not yet. Are you recommending this place?’
Nialls grunted. ‘A bit rich for my wallet, I’m afraid. But I know a good place near Piccadilly where we can get a decent steak.’ He took another small sip. ‘We’ll wait to see if Ketch turns up and then go eat.’
It was soon very clear to Rocco that the main room, bar and restaurant were not the prime attractions to the Allendale Club, as pleasant as they no doubt were. A door at the rear, which Rocco had missed at first because it was covered by the same wallpaper as the walls on either side, opened discreetly every now and then, and clients would slip through accompanied by a member of the security staff. Most were men of apparent substance above the age of forty, he noted, although there were one or two female companions, notable for their youth, the willingness of their laughter and the casual displays of jewellery. Nialls did not seem particularly interested, but was watching the front entrance, taking occasional sips from his glass.
‘It is a casino?’ Rocco asked.
‘Of course.’ Nialls didn’t turn to reply. He was intent on watching a group of men who had just entered from the street and were handing over their coats to a young woman attendant.
It was a good place to clean money and make a nice profit in the process, Rocco figured. Mayfair was a wealthy area and the club well placed to draw in those with money to burn. And special clients were allowed access by appointment only, which no doubt gave a measure of their net worth. He’d seen it before in other cities.
He turned to follow Nialls’ line of sight. Two of the newcomers were in their fifties, dressed in smart suits and smoking fat cigars. They were accompanied by a slim man in an ordinary business suit and carrying a hat with a brim. He looked relaxed, and it was clear that he was the focus of attention of the two men, who were already hustling him to the bar and calling for drinks. The bartender responded with speed, nodding smartly as he took the order.
‘Is one of them Ketch?’ said Rocco. He could almost feel Nialls quivering with interest.
‘I’m afraid not.’ Nialls sat back in his seat and buried his nose in his glass as the three men walked by under the guidance of the maitre d’, who was hustling ahead of them like a mother hen, clicking his fingers to gain the attention of a waiter. ‘The one on the right,’ he continued, ‘is Godfrey Harding. He runs a chain of betting shops. The one on the left is known as Turkish John. He has a number of massage parlours and so-called beauty salons across the South East, all centres for prostitution. Both men are about as trustworthy and honest as a two-pound note.’ He watched the three men with an air of disgust, adding sadly, ‘The man in the plain suit is a detective inspector based at West End Central Station in Savile Row.’
A table was ready and waiting, and a waiter in attendance to take their orders as the men sat down. It was clear that the police detective was being given special treatment.
‘Is that normal?’ Rocco wasn’t sure of the norm here, but in France, policemen and criminals mixed strictly at their own risk, and rarely for any good.
Nialls pulled a face. ‘Not normal, no. There’s a belief among some older coppers that mixing with the main players keeps them in line… allows us to gain intelligence on their activities.’
‘You don’t believe that.’
‘No, and I never did. The only guarantee is that we learn only what they want us to learn, and we end up looking bad in the eyes of the public when a case falls apart because of a conflict of interests. But some habits die hard.’
Rocco could only agree with him. Either the man was working, or he was here for some other reason. It seemed Nialls wasn’t sure which. ‘Are these two men friends of Ketch?’
Nialls nodded. ‘Friends, associates — as thick as thieves, to coin an appropriate phrase. Harding has friends in high places, including the Government and the City, and Turkish John has lots of cash money from his businesses. The two go hand in hand. Whatever they’re talking about, you can be sure that Ketch has a hand in there somewhere.’ He drained his glass and stood up. ‘But I don’t think we’ll see him here this evening; he’ll probably steer clear while those three are in. They like to give each other breathing room when they’re cooking up a new relationship.’ He picked up his coat. ‘No doubt the DI will call it working, but cosying up to men like that is never a good thing. Shall we eat?’
As they walked out, a burst of raucous laughter sounded from the restaurant, and Rocco turned to look. A fourth person had joined the three men at their table, and was shaking hands all round. It was clear they were all acquainted. As the waiter stepped away to give them room, the newcomer looked up, giving Rocco a clear view of his profile. He was tall, slim and tanned, with immaculate grey hair and wearing an expensive grey suit, every bit a successful corporate lawyer or businessman.
But Rocco knew better, and felt a cold stab of recognition. He had known the man for years; had even arrested him once in connection with a bank robbery near Clignancourt, in northern Paris, during which a cashier had died. That time he had walked free, thanks to a clever legal counsel.
His name was Patrice Delarue, and he was one of the French capital’s most dangerous criminals.
As they left the club, they passed a mirror set into the wall above the bar. It was a two-way observation point, where an eye could be kept open for important visitors so that they could be assigned a waiter or a girl, depending on their status, or potential troublemakers could be pinpointed and watched before any problems occurred. What neither of the men could see, behind the glass watching with disbelief as the tall Frenchman made his way through the crowd, was George Tasker.
Seconds later, he was reaching for the phone.
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘Well, George, it looks like we’ve got ourselves a problem.’
‘Ruby’ Ketch was sitting behind the desk of the GoGo Club in Gerard Street, Soho. It was a strictly members- only strip joint, with a few gambling tables for those whose preferred excitement came from naked cards and dice rather than girls. Dressed in a new chalk-stripe suit and pink shirt, he almost glowed with the appearance of good humour and health. But his eyes betrayed his real mood.
George Tasker was on a visitor’s chair across from him, while Brayne, the business advisor, was lounging on a couch against one wall, beneath a lurid oil painting of a naked woman wearing a carnation in her hair and a hollow smile.
‘Nothing I can’t deal with, boss,’ Tasker grated. ‘Just give me the nod.’ He rubbed his knuckles reflectively and smiled. He’d phoned Ketch from the Allendale less than thirty minutes ago, and had been told to get round to the GoGo immediately. The club downstairs was busy, with the thump of music hitting you in the face the moment you walked through the front door. But up here, the atmosphere was dulled to a faint rumble by extensive soundproofing and heavy flock wallpaper. ‘He’s just a nosey cop, that’s all.’
Ketch stared across the desk at him. ‘I know. But he’s not just any old cop, is he? He’s foreign. And that puts a different light on it. We’ve got to be careful. We don’t want this coming back to bite us.’ He glanced at Brayne. ‘What d’you reckon?’
‘I agree.’ The advisor pursed his lips and stared at the ceiling. ‘The last thing we need is any kind of diplomatic incident. That would ruin everything we’ve built up.’ He dropped his gaze and looked at Ketch, adding, ‘Are still building up, in fact. We could, of course, pay him to go away, forget what he saw.’
Tasker snorted. ‘No chance.’ The words came out before he could stop them.
‘Say again?’ Ketch lifted his heavy eyebrows. ‘You know something about this Inspector Clouseau that we don’t?’
Tasker prevented a scowl just in time. It was rumoured that Ketch had somehow obtained a pre-release copy of a new film starring Peter Sellers, called The Pink Panther. It was about a French detective named Clouseau, and Ketch had invited a few select cronies to a private viewing, including the Twins. That it painted the French police in a bumbling light made no difference; any police pratfalls were good for a laugh among the criminal elite, no matter what their nationality.
