Past Reason Hated

running this place to see me to my grave. A bit more won’t do any harm.’

Tuffy was hamming it up, as usual. He didn’t have to be here to run the Hole-in-the-Wall; he had underlings who could do that for him. Nor was he so poor he had to sit in such a poky office night after night. The club was just a minor outpost of Tuffy’s empire, and nobody, not even vice, knew where all its colonies were. He had a house in Belgravia and owned property all over the city. He also mixed with the rich and famous. But every Friday and Saturday night he chose to come and sit here, just like in the old days, to run his club. It was part of his image, part of the sentimentality of organized crime.

‘Making ends meet?’ Banks asked.

‘Just. Times is hard, very hard.’ One of the musclemen put Banks’s drink – a generous helping – on the desk in front of him. ‘But what can I say?’ Tuffy went on. ‘I get by. What you been up to?’

‘Moved up north. Yorkshire.’

Tuffy raised his eyebrows. ‘Bit drastic, in’it?’

‘I like it fine.’

‘Whatever suits.’

‘Not having a glass yourself?’

Tuffy sniffed. ‘Doctor’s orders. I’m a sick man, Mr Banks. Old Tuffy’s not long for this world, and there’ll not be many to mourn his passing, I can tell you that. Except for the nearest and dearest, bless her heart.’

‘How is Mirabelle?’

‘She’s hale and hearty. Thank you for asking, Mr Banks. Remembers you fondly, does my Mirabelle. Wish I could say the same myself.’ There was humour in his voice, but hardness in his hooded eyes. Banks heard one of the bruisers shift from foot to foot behind him and a shiver went up his spine. ‘What can I do you for?’ Tuffy asked.

‘Information.’

Tuffy said nothing, just sat staring. Banks sipped some Scotch and cast around for an ashtray. Suddenly, one appeared from behind his shoulder, as if by magic. He set it in front of him.

‘A few years ago you had a dancer working the club, name of Caroline Hartley. Remember her?’

‘What if I do?’ Telfer’s expression betrayed no emotion.

‘She’s dead. Murdered.’

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘You tell me, Tuffy.’

Telfer stared at Banks for a moment, then laughed. ‘Know how many girls we get passing through here?’ he said.

‘A fair number, I’ll bet.’

‘A fair number indeed. These punters are constantly demanding fresh meat. See the same dancer twice they think they’ve been had. And you’re talking how many years ago?’

‘Six or seven.’

Telfer rested his pale, pudgy hands on the blotter. Well, you can see my point then, can’t you?’

‘What about your records?’

‘Records? What you talking about?’

Banks nodded towards the filing cabinets. ‘You must keep clear and accurate records, Tuffy – cash flow, wages, rent, bar take. For the taxman, remember?’

Telfer cleared his throat. ‘Yeah, well, what if I do?’

‘You could look her up. Come on, Tuffy, we’ve been through all this before, years ago. I know you keep a few notes on every girl who passes through here in case you might want to use her again, maybe for a video, a stag party, some special-’

Telfer held up a hand. ‘All right, all right, I get your drift. It’s all above-board. You know that. Cedric, see if you can find the file, will you?’

One of the bruisers opened a filing cabinet. ‘Cedric?’ Banks whispered, eyebrows raised.

Telfer shrugged. His chins wobbled. They sat silently, Telfer tapping his short fat fingers on the desk while Cedric rummaged through the files, muttering the alphabet to himself as he did so.

‘Ain’t here,’ Cedric announced finally.

‘You sure?’ Telfer asked. ‘It begins with a ‘aitch – Hartley. That comes after “gee” and before “eye”.’

Cedric grunted. ‘Ain’t here. Got a Carrie ‘Eart, but no Caroline ‘Artley.’

‘Let’s have a look,’ Banks said. ‘She might have used a stage name.’

Telfer nodded and Cedric handed over the file. Pinned to the top-left corner was a four by five black and white picture of a younger Caroline Hartley, topless and smiling, her small breasts pushed together by her arms. She could easily have passed for a fourteen-year-old, even a mature twelve-year-old. Below the photo, in Telfer’s surprisingly neat and elegant hand, were the meagre details that had interested him about Caroline Hartley. ‘Vital statistics 34-22-34. Colour of hair: jet-black. Eyes: blue. Skin: olive and satiny’ (Banks hadn’t suspected Tuffy had such a poetic streak). And so it went on. Telfer obviously gave his applicants quite an interview.

The one piece of information that Banks hoped he might find was at the end, an address under her real name: ‘Caroline Hartley, c/o Colm Grey.’ It was old now, of course, and might no longer be of any use. But if it was Colm Grey’s address, and he was poor, he might well have hung on to his flat, unless he’d left the city altogether. Also, now Banks had his last name, Colm Grey would be easier to track down. He recognized the street name. It was somewhere between Notting Hill and Westbourne Park. He had lived not far from there himself twenty years ago.

‘Got what you want?’ asked Telfer.

‘Maybe.’ Banks handed the file back to Cedric, who replaced it, then finished his Scotch.

‘Well, then,’ said Tuffy with a smile. ‘Nice of you to drop in. But you mustn’t let me keep you.’ He stood up and shook hands. His grip was firm but his palm was sweaty. ‘Not staying long, are you? Around here, I mean.’

Banks smiled. ‘No.’

‘Not thinking of coming back to stay?’

‘No.’

‘Good. Good. Just wanted to be sure. Well, do pop in again the next time you’re down, won’t you, and we’ll have another good old natter.’

‘Sure, Tuffy. And give my love to Mirabelle.’

‘I will. I will, Mr Banks.’

The bruisers stood aside and Banks walked out of the office and down the corridor unscathed. When he got back to the noisy smoky club, he breathed a sigh of relief. Tuffy obviously remembered what a pain in the arse he’d been, but working on the edge of the law, as he did, he had to play it careful. True, plenty of his operations were above-board. It was a game – give and take, live and let live – and both sides knew it. Banks had come close to breaking the rules once or twice, and Tuffy wanted to be sure he wouldn’t be around to do that again. Questions that sounded like friendly curiosity were often, in fact, thinly veiled threats.

‘Another drink, dear?’ the mammarially magnificent barmaid said as Banks passed by.

‘No, love. Sorry, have to be off now. Maybe another time.’

‘Story of my life,’ she said, and her breasts swung as she turned away.

Outside, Banks fastened his overcoat, shoved his hands deep in his pockets and walked along Greek Street towards Tottenham Court Road Tube station. He had thought of taking a taxi, but it was only midnight, and Barney lived a stone’s throw from the Central line. At Soho Square he saw a drunk in a tweed overcoat and trilby vomiting in the gutter. A tart, inadequately dressed for the cold, stood behind him and leaned against the wall, arms folded across her chest, looking disgusted.

How did that poem end? Banks wondered. The one Veronica had quoted earlier that evening. Then he remembered. After its haunting summary of the horrors of lust, it finished, ‘All this world well knows; yet none knows well / To shun the heaven that leads men to this hell.’ Certainly knew his stuff, did old Willie. They didn’t call him ‘the Bard’ for nothing, Banks reflected, as he turned up Sutton Row towards the bright lights of Charing Cross Road.

THREE

The next morning, after a chat with Barney over bacon and eggs, Banks set out to find Colm Grey. He had arranged to have lunch with Veronica, and had asked Barney to check Ruth Dunne’s alibi and to see what he could find on the stabbing of Caroline’s pimp, Reggie, just to cover all the angles.

The rush-hour crowd had dwindled by the time he got a train, and he was even able to grab a seat and read the Guardian, the way he used to.

He got off at Westbourne Park and walked towards Notting Hill until he found the address on St Luke’s Road Five names matched the bells beside the front door, and he was in luck: C. Grey was one of them, flat four.

Banks pushed the bell and stood by the intercom. No response. He tried again and waited a couple of minutes. It looked like Grey was out. The way things stood at the moment, Grey was hardly a prime suspect, but he was a loose end that had to be tied up. He was the only one who knew the full story about Caroline Hartley’s child. Just as Banks started to walk away, he thought he heard a movement behind the door. Sure enough, it opened and a young man stood there, hair standing on end, eyes bleary, stuffing a white shirt in the waist of his jeans.

He frowned when he saw Banks. ‘Wharrisit? What time is it?’

‘Half past nine. Sorry to disturb you.’ Banks introduced himself and showed his identification. ‘It’s about Caroline Hartley.’

The name didn’t register at first, then Grey suddenly gaped and said, ‘Bloody hell! You’d better come in.’

Banks followed him upstairs to a two-room flat best described as cosy. The furniture needed re-upholstering and the place needed dusting and a damn good tidying