I guess it worked as I’ve come back a couple of times since. Mary runs a clean house and it’s only for a wee while, till I can face up to the rejections on the dance floor.
Besides, I’d also dropped in on Mary on business, my business. I’m new to London, and it’s important in my line to know who the bad guys are and what they’re up to. You don’t want to be crossing anyone important when you’re on the scent. I learned that the hard way when I got mixed up in the affairs of a certain Annie MacGuire whose old man turned out to be making hay with the lady wife of a rival mob leader in the East End.
Annie was a brazen-haired, big-breasted girl who laughed a lot and wore more jewellery than Hatton Garden. She stormed into my office, bangles clashing like cymbals, demanding that I tail Mr Stanley MacGuire. Stanley seemed to be spending too many nights at the office. Which was tricky; Stanley’s line of work – putting the arm on late payers of the loan shark he worked for – placed his office in the back seat of a big Humber Hawk.
So I spent a couple of weeks and a lot of shoe leather finding out that Stanley was not so much putting the arm on people as putting it round a certain Laura Dayton, who had the edge on Annie by about ten years and twenty pounds. I didn’t know Miss Dayton was a Mrs and also fooling around. Or that Mr Dayton was well known for his trademark habit of breaking people’s shins with the iron bar he kept up his very big sleeve. It was an effective deterrent to folk who thought they might like a cut of his fag and booze racket.
I made my report, Annie threw a fit, but instead of – or maybe as well as; I never heard – taking it out on Stanley, she tracked down Laura Dayton to the Brickie’s Arms in the Old Kent Road and took a slice out of her rival’s younger face with Stanley’s clasp razor. Poetic justice, she must have thought. Gang war broke out, two pubs got wrecked, five people ended up in hospital, some with bits missing that would never grow again. And I began vetting my clients a little more carefully.
Mary’s ears were tuned to the jungle drums and she was happy to gossip except when it came to clients, for whom she would undergo torture to avoid naming or shaming. I followed her through to her tiny living room, and remembered to duck as we came in through the door to avoid the huge wind chimes that dangled from the ceiling. As ever, I was mildly shocked at the amount of junk on every flat surface and every wall. And, apart from the enormous pile of old newspapers in one corner, the overwhelming preference for red junk. I think the colour of my hair was the other factor in her being helpful to me.
I pushed aside an avalanche of red satin cushions and perched on the edge of her couch. Tea appeared to lubricate the conversation. “You sure you no wanna girl?
Can get one up, lazy cows sleep all day and night too if can.”
I grinned and shook my head. “What’s the story on the streets, Mary, about these killings?”
She turned her mouth down. “Very bad, very bad. Bad for girls bad for business.
Men stay away ’cos they scared of bobbies.”
I bet. “Does anyone know anything though? Anyone see anything?”
“Dead girls all work for one man. Big time pimp. No like my place. You safe here. I kill anyone who hurt my girls!” She raised her little arm and dropped it in a swift chopping motion. It was a threat not to be dismissed lightly. I doubted if Mary herself had the strength to squash a bug but she had good connections in China Town where the Tongs held sway. I also knew that Mary’s concern for the half dozen girls who worked here was more than just business or posturing; the girls themselves talked of her kindness to them. Mama Mary they called her.
“Do you know the name of the man? This pimp?”
“I know, I know all right. He Jonny Crane. Hard man. Don’t you cross him, Danny.
He chop you into chow mein. Eat you up for dinner!”
I stored the name away. “What else? Any sightings? Any disturbance?”
She shook her head. “Only bobbies. Big chief, big fat bastard. He come round, throw everything up in air. Make questions. Scare customers. Scare girls.”
A thought struck me. “What’s his name?”
“Wislen. Somet’ing like that.”
“Wilson? You mean, Inspector Wilson?”
“That him.” She nodded hard. “Stinky bad man. Always round here. He like girls, but no pay for them.”
“Wait, wait, Mary. Are you saying that Wilson comes round here and uses the girls? And that he doesn’t pay for it?”
“That right. He pig! But not here. Other houses. He know not come China Town house. Chop, chop!” She stabbed the air. “They say he hit girls and make ’em do bad stuff.” She shrugged. “That OK if girls say OK and he pay. But not for no money.”
A businesswoman to the roots of her dyed-black hair. I thought of Wilson and shuddered at what he might demand of a girl. Fat bastard indeed. I remember the first time I met Detective Inspector Herbert Wilson of the Yard. I’d been going for about six weeks and was starting to make some headway; a few clients, enough to pay the rent anyway.
Did I mention the cat? There’s a thin moggy with half a tail that comes by most days. It creeps up the stairs, pauses at the second top step and checks out the lie of the land. If it sees me at my desk and I don’t make shooing noises it comes up on to the landing and rubs itself against my door. It meows as it rubs.
I’ve taken to leaving a saucer of Carnation milk for it. That seems to work. It doesn’t come near me, doesn’t demand stroking or – god forbid – a lap, just recognition and milk, then it goes on its way, its stumpy tail the last thing I see as it glides off down the stairs.
Wilson scared the cat the day he paid me a visit. Its thin head shot up, its ears twitched, and it was away before I’d even heard the first steps. I heard his big feet clumping up the stairs. They even sounded like copper’s feet, relentless, heavy, full of their own importance. A hat sailed into view, then the shoulders of a big coat. The man wearing them was sucking for air. He held the top rail for a second or two till he got his breath. Then he came in through my open door. No knock. He just stood there wheezing, eyeing me and my place. I waited.
“McRae?” His chest still heaved.
“That’s me. Sorry, the lift’s out.”
He ignored my humour. “You a so-called private dick, then?” He made it sound sinful.
I still didn’t know he was police, but he had that look. In his first five seconds he’d itemised my office, memorised my face, and noticed the door to my bedroom.
“At your service. Can I help? Need a debt collected? Lost a wife?”
I watched his mouth twist. “I’m Inspector Wilson. Detective Inspector, CID.
You’re on my patch. Wanted to see you, what you were up to. I don’t like what you do.”
What the hell was a DI doing making house calls? “I’m honoured, Inspector, and it’s really nice to be made welcome. But I’m a bit puzzled; we haven’t met, and yet already you’re pissed off with me. Isn’t that a wee bit unfair? And before we continue this nice chat, can I see your warrant card, please? Can’t be too careful these days.”
I could see his jaw muscles tighten. We were getting on famously. He hated me and I loathed him. I’d seen too many of his kind; they’d been in the force too long, got too used to throwing their weight around. Wilson let his fell gaze roast me for the obligatory five seconds, then he reached into his great overcoat and pulled out a card. He strode over to my desk and rammed it under my nose. DI Herbert Wilson. I wondered if he’d let me call him Bertie? “Satisfied?”
“Thank you, Inspector. Now, shall we start again? What can I do for you?”
“You can tell me who you are, where you come from, and what you’re doing here.”
“I thought we’d established who I was and what I’m doing? And my accent’s a bit of a clue, is it no? I needed a job after getting demobbed. This – palace – is it.”
“You could have got your old job back. What was it?” He settled his great bulk into my chair. He seemed to take up the whole view from my desk. I sighed. He wasn’t going to let this go until he found out.
“I was in the force. In Glasgow. Thought I’d try the private sector. More money.” Potentially, I thought, potentially. I thought it smart not to tell him I’d been a detective sergeant.
He didn’t look surprised, which was surprising. He chewed on the end of his moustache for a bit, then wiped it dry with a big paw.
“Ok, McRae. Here’s my warning. I don’t like private investigators. Especially don’t like former coppers doing private investigations. Only one who investigates around these parts is me. I can’t stop you. Not until you do something illegal or get in my way.” He leaned over my desk, and his bloodshot eyes held mine. “Just – don’t – get
