I was drunk anyway. It was beginning to rain. Fabian of the fucking Yard: he used to be in the papers. I thought that he’d died or retired, but he hadn’t. Just my luck. So I got in the car.
Chapter Four
Teamsters are Very Nice Men
There was just a small bar at Green’s. The night manager, Ozzie Harrison, who’d once parachuted out of a blazing Halifax over Rouen, unlocked it for me and gave me the key.
‘Settle up when you go, Charlie, OK?’
‘OK, Oz. Thanks.’
He gave Fabian the up-and-down look, and asked me, ‘You OK?’
‘Yes, I’m fine. Just catching up with an old friend.’
‘Didn’t know you knew the London coppers. Just ring the bell if you need me.’
After he left us Fabian observed, ‘They can always tell a copper, can’t they?
‘I think it’s the way you watch people . . . as if you’re never going to forget.’
‘You’d be surprised, Mr Bassett. Sometimes I forget to tie my shoelaces these days. Thanks for not making a fuss, by the way.’
‘I do hope I don’t live to regret it. Do you want a drink?’
We both settled for bottled beers. Ind Coope – light and yeasty. He said, ‘Cheers,’ and raised his glass.
‘Cheers. I thought you’d retired years ago.’
‘I did. I write a few articles for the papers. Murders. You’d think people had had enough of sudden deaths, wouldn’t you? I have.’
‘Is that what you want to see me about?’ I yawned. I wasn’t kidding – I was ready for my pit.
‘No. I freelance for a couple of the ministries from time to time. Delicate stuff . . . the princesses and gigolos, you know the sort of thing. Now somebody’s interested in the woman you had supper with tonight, and the man who calls himself her husband.’
‘Why?’
‘Because Mr and Mrs George Frederick Handel is one thing they’re not, Mr Bassett.’
‘Who are they then? A couple of con artists?’
‘Maybe, but I don’t think so. Mind if I smoke?’ He produced a pipe not unlike my own.
‘No, I’ll join you.’ I asked him again, ‘Who are they then?’
‘I haven’t got a clue. I was hoping you’d tell me.’
‘I know as much as you then.’
‘Where did you meet them?’
‘Berlin. An old business contact introduced them to a current business contact, who passed them on to me.’
‘What do they want?’
‘To invest in an airfreight company. I’m supposed to introduce them to my employer.’ I lied without even thinking about it – I’ve been doing that to coppers all my life.
‘Halton? Are you going to?’
‘I haven’t decided yet. Your tobacco smells good – what is it?’
‘Parson’s Pleasure. Do they want anything else?’
I’d seen tins of Parson’s Pleasure before, but had always shied away from it because its name reminded me of all those bishop-and-actress jokes.
‘They didn’t say. Why ask me? And why are you watching them anyway?’
He blinked before he answered. I once knew a rattlesnake. She always blinked before she struck.
‘The hotel had a little word. With silly names like that, and a suitcase full of dollars they needed changing into pounds, they appeared to be a little unusual. There were exchange-control implications, don’t you know . . . so we kept an eye.’
‘How did you know my name?’
‘You gave it at reception when you met madam this evening. Is she as clever as she is beautiful, by the way?’
‘Probably more so. Way out of my class.’
Fabian blew out a thin stream of smoke, like a Blue Riband liner getting ready to sail.
‘You’ll stay in touch if you learn anything?’ He pushed a card across the table to me. It had a Chelsea telephone number on it. ‘My old nick,’ he explained. ‘They always know how to get hold of me.’
I didn’t say yes and I didn’t say no. I asked, ‘What do you think’s going on then?’
‘Haven’t got a clue.’ It was the second time he’d used the phrase. Quite amusing, coming from a detective. ‘But the next time you dine with them I’d take a very long spoon if I was you.’
‘Official warning?’
‘If you like, son.’ At last. I had just had a brief glimpse of the steel in the man.
After he’d left I sat and smoked over a contemplative whisky. Then Ozzie came back and joined me.
‘You in trouble, Charlie?’
‘No, I don’t think so, Oz. A little reveille, that’s all.’
‘What d’ye mean?’
‘Wake-up call.’
I lay on my back and stared at the darkened ceiling before I slept. Halfway through that interview I had started to lie through my teeth. I asked myself why, and what I murmured out loud was Fabian’s own catchphrase, ‘I haven’t a clue.’ Then I rolled over and went to sleep.
I left Doris to stew for a day and then called her without giving my name at the switchboard. I just said, ‘It’s me,’ and trusted that she had a reasonable memory for voices.
‘Oh. What time is it?’
‘Past ten. Why?’
‘Still finishing my breakfast. They make the best scrambled eggs in the world.’
‘You mean you’re not up yet.’
‘Something like that—’
I broke in before she could speak my name: I’d sensed it coming.
‘Meet me down on the Embankment in half an hour. I have some news.’
‘But it’s raining, honey.’
‘Then put a fucking raincoat on, honey.’ And I hung up on her – always a good way to end a conversation.
She wore a raincoat and a man’s flat tweed cap, and stared moodily out over the Thames, which was the colour of sewage. The clothes concealed her glamour. I took five minutes to check if someone was watching her before joining up. She didn’t look round as I stood beside her; just said, ‘I told a nice man that I was being followed by a creep, and he took me out through the kitchen. I guessed something was up.’
‘Is George back?’
‘No. Saturday lunchtime. He’s on the BOAC flight from Idlewild.’ She said Boewack, as if it was a word, not an acronym.
‘That’s cutting it fine
