Dead Beat (24 page)

‘I'm sorry,' she said. ‘I'll talk to some of the others.' She glanced at Hamilton ruefully. ‘I'm not sure I'm up to this job,' she said quietly.

‘If it will help some of these kids, you should carry on,' he said with robust enthusiasm. ‘They need all the help they can get. I actually caught a chap trying to get in here last night as I was locking up. I'm sure he was trying to get hold of someone we had staying here. They don't like to be thwarted, you know, the pimps and pornographers. They regard children they've picked up as their personal property. They want to recoup the cost of housing and feeding them, and then make a profit. It's a business for them. Sometimes good people ask me why I'm bothering with these youngsters. They seem to think they're too degraded to be rescued, that I'm wasting my time. But I know that's not true.'

Kate had cut herself off from her religion as soon as she went to college and realized that much of the rest of the world seemed to manage quite well without the embarrassing torture of confession and weekly sermons by men in long dresses for whom she had long ago lost any respect. Her mother had railed and threatened when she refused to get out of bed on Sunday mornings for Mass, but she had been stubborn, especially after Tom disappeared, and the parish priest, who had turned up to add his remonstrations to her mother's, had implied that the family might be better off without him. Kate knew now what Father Reilly had evidently known back then, that Tom was an unrepentant sinner in a way that even as a student she had not understood. But she had loved him then and missed him, and she still did, and that would never change. David Hamilton, she thought, in his cord trousers, jacket and a thick sweater which almost covered his clerical collar, was a different kind of priest and one which she thought she might be persuaded to get along with.

‘Have you told the police about this intruder?' she asked. ‘Sergeant Barnard would be interested in him, I think.'

Hamilton looked at her curiously. ‘You know Harry Barnard, do you?'

‘I've met him, yes,' Kate said. She didn't want to go into the details of how and why she had come to the Metropolitan Police's attention.

Hamilton gave her a faint smile. ‘A man to watch, I think, if you're female and even remotely attractive,' he said. ‘But you're right. I will tell him about the intruder. It was odd, I thought I half-recognized him. Harry might know who he was.'

‘So, can I see if any of these youngsters will agree to be photographed?' she said. ‘I haven't got a lot of time, but I could come back later if necessary. I don't think Mrs Lucas has any deadline to meet.'

‘Carry on,' Hamilton said. ‘Come back whenever you like, my dear. We're all on the same side here.'

Kate did not go back home to Notting Hill that evening. She shared a sandwich with Marie in the Blue Lagoon, packed with young people taking a break on their way from work before plunging on to crowded buses or underground trains to the suburbs. As Marie toiled behind the bar handing out cappuccinos in glass cups and saucers from the hissing machine, Kate filled her in on her unexpected commission from Veronica Lucas as best she could over the sound of the jukebox.

‘You're going to do what?' Marie shouted over the sound of the Beatles' ‘Please Please Me' which had hit the big time just months before. ‘Take photographs of prostitutes?' A young man standing beside Kate in Mod parka gave the two of them a funny look and moved further away to wait for his order to be taken.

‘I'm going to see what I can get tonight when the girls come out on to the streets. I can't waste any time because I'm not sure how good my camera will be in the artificial light. It's dark by six and I don't suppose there's much going on so early. Later I'll have to rely on my flash and that'll be a bit obvious.'

‘Are you sure this is safe?' Marie asked, leaning close to Kate's ear. ‘Maybe people won't want their picture taken.'

‘Well, I may have to take long distance shots and blow them up later,' Kate said with more confidence than she really felt. ‘I'll tell anyone who asks I'm just taking general shots of Soho at night. It'll be fine.'

‘I hope so, la,' Marie said doubtfully.

‘What time do you finish? I'll come back later and we can go home together if you're worried.'

‘I won't finish till midnight,' Marie said. ‘If I were you I'd get home well before that. It's really not a place to be making yourself conspicuous when the pubs turn out.'

‘I'll be careful,' Kate said cheerfully. And as far as she could be, she was. But although her camera was small, it was noticed and, as darkness fell and the street lights came on, making it essential to screw in her flashbulbs every four shots, it was noticed more and more. A group of women in skirts above the knee and high boots, standing outside a busy pub, turned as one to look her over when she aimed in their direction.

‘What the hell do you think you're doing?' a busty blonde asked, her heavily made-up face twisted aggressively.

‘Just taking some pictures of Soho for a magazine,' Kate said, suddenly realizing how impossible her commission actually was. She could hardly ask these women if they were prostitutes without risking a serious reaction, whether they were or not. She was saved that time by the arrival of four young men in suits and stringy ties, their hair slicked back Elvis-style, who distracted the women's attention long enough for her to slip away down a side street and make herself scarce.

When she had got her breath back she noticed that the doors close by were those which frequently had a number of bells one above another, each with a woman's name on it. Suzie nestled beneath Zsa Zsa, Marilyn above Sabrina. Perhaps, she thought, if she hung about here for long enough, one or two of the women, perhaps as pneumatic as the names they had adopted implied, would come out of the tall, thin house and she could snatch a shot. Just for luck she snapped a couple of the front doors. That at least gave some indication of the trade that went on inside. She hung around for a while, stamping her feet to keep warm, and eventually saw men begin to go in and out of the houses, seldom staying longer than half an hour. She stood well back, and took a couple of shots of the visitors, taking care not to catch their faces, only their anonymous back views. But in the end even that attracted attention and one man leaving the house noticed the flash of her camera and came over to her.

‘What the hell you doing, girl?' he asked in a heavy accent. He was tall and dark, with his hat brim pulled well down, and obviously angry.

‘I'm just taking some shots of Soho for a magazine,' Kate said, feeling slightly breathless.

‘Well, go and take them in some other bloody street, not here,' the man snapped. ‘Bloody cameras are no good for trade. These are my girls and they don't need no publicity in magazines, so fuck off.' He looked her up and down in the dim light. ‘Unless you want a job?' he said, and leered. Kate flinched and backed away, before turning on her heel and hurrying into the brighter lights of Dean Street with panic threatening to overwhelm her. She had, she thought, underestimated the risk of what she had agreed to do for Veronica Lucas and she wondered if the woman was as naive as she was, or whether she had known the danger Kate might run into and had chosen not to tell her.

As she turned into the main road she was suddenly aware of steps close behind her and turned round, her heart thumping, imagining the man who had warned her off had followed her. She was surprised to find Sergeant Harry Barnard with a hand outstretched to grasp her arm.

‘What the hell do you think you're doing?' Barnard said angrily. ‘I just caught sight of you with Jackie Zahra. Have you the faintest idea how dangerous that man is?'

Kate shook her head, feeling numb. ‘I was just taking pictures,' she said faintly. ‘I wasn't doing any harm.'

‘Pictures?' Barnard said incredulously. ‘You tried to take a picture of a Maltese pimp? Do you even know what a pimp is?'

‘I think so,' Kate said.

‘Jesus wept,' Barnard said. ‘Come on, I'll buy you a drink and you can tell me what this is all in aid of, and I'll tell you how stupid it is. If you carry on like this you're going to get yourself killed.'

FIFTEEN

H
arry Barnard sat across the table from Kate O'Donnell and sipped his double Scotch thoughtfully. She was flushed but the look on her face was defiant rather than contrite as she took a sip of Babycham. She looked about sixteen years old, he thought, and he did not know how to start telling her the extent of the risks he had seen her taking. He put his glass down and sighed. The only way forward, he thought, was to come at the girl obliquely, through her brother, and then perhaps take her out for a meal later.

‘I can look after myself, you know, la,' she said, breaking the silence and glancing at him over the top of her glass, her Liverpool twang very strong. ‘Liverpool's not exactly a garden of roses or anything. There's some bad things going on. I learned to look after myself when I was a kid.'

‘I'm sure you did,' Barnard agreed solemnly. ‘But just at the moment, right here, it looks like we've got two major gangs at each other's throats and two deaths which may or may not be connected. Believe me, they won't be too fussy about getting rid of anyone who gets in their way. We don't know whether your brother's friend was involved with one or other of the gangs, or whether his death was something entirely separate. Either way, it makes no sense for you to be out on the streets drawing attention to yourself with a bloody flashbulb. If the do-gooders want pictures of the dark side of Soho at night they should ask someone to go out with you and tell you what's safe and what isn't. But if I were you, I'd give up on the whole idea.'

‘I'll think about it,' Kate said. ‘I was a bit amazed to find all these people actually trying to help the prostitutes. I don't think anyone bothers much up north. They still call them fallen women where I come from.' She gave Barnard a cheeky smile. ‘At least, some do, if they've got a pulpit to stand in,' she said. ‘Father Hamilton doesn't seem to be like that.'

‘He's OK, is the Rev Dave,' Barnard said. ‘He tries hard. But with a lot of those kids he's wasting his time. They're jail bait.'

‘He wants to talk to you,' Kate said. ‘I was down there earlier and he was complaining that someone's been mooching round trying to get at the kids.'

‘I'll have a word,' Barnard said. ‘What were you doing at St Peter's anyway?'

‘I went up there to get some shots of the place for this Mrs Lucas person but the kids were very wary. I couldn't understand why some of them hated the idea of having pictures taken till Father Hamilton explained.'

‘Does he know who it was, this intruder?' Barnard asked, very much the copper suddenly.

‘No, I don't think so.'

‘There's at least one young lad there who seems genuinely to be trying to get away from that sort of thing. I'll make sure I look in on them in the morning to find out what's going on. In the meantime, I think I should run you home to Notting Hill, don't you? Get you out of harm's way – though I'm not sure that's an area I would like my sister living in. It's a bit rough as well.'

Kate laughed. ‘You've obviously not seen Scottie Road, la,' she said. ‘That's where I lived when I was a little kid, before we got a corporation house, and believe me, that's rough.'

‘Have it your own way,' Barnard conceded. ‘You want to go then? Or will you let me buy you a meal? If you don't like Italian there's a good little Greek place round the corner.'

Kate finished her drink, shook her head and got to her feet. ‘I'm not hungry,' she said. ‘And I'll take the Central Line home, ta very much. It's only ten o'clock. I'll be fine.' She turned away, her face still slightly flushed, leaving Barnard to ask himself what had happened to his normal lady-killing skills. He watched her go as he finished his drink and wondered not for the first time if Kate O'Donnell had ever slept with anybody. It was obvious she had been brought up a Catholic and he knew about their unbending priests and strict moral rules, and yet she seemed like an independent girl, independent enough to come south and make her own decisions about her own life in the sinful city – and not always wise ones, at that. He was sure that she could not be nearly as innocent as she looked. In his book, nobody was.

But she had left him frustrated. The night was young, he was not tired, and he wanted to get away from the sleazy streets where he spent so much time. Suzie, or one of her colleagues, he thought, all of them willing enough to accommodate a copper, would not, on this occasion, fit the bill. He smiled faintly to himself, wondering if the stars were his way inclined tonight, went over to the bar to use the phone and dialled a north London number. The voice which answered sounded husky, although he did not think that it was likely to be sleepiness which caused it.

‘Harry, you're taking a risk calling here,' Shirley Bettany said.

‘Is he at home?' Harry asked.

‘You're out of luck, sweetie, he went to Rome for three days on business and he's just back. He's in the shower right now.'

Barnard groaned. In his head, he had already taken the journey through Camden Town towards the Finchley Road, up Fitzjohns Avenue, through Hampstead village and on to the Heath, to the wide, tree-lined avenue where the Bettanys lived. It was a place where the large houses smelled of money and Barnard liked it very much, and liked even more the woman who occasionally came to his place and even more occasionally invited him there. The whole enterprise, he knew, was fraught with risk but he liked that too.