Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1) (7 page)

              “No, no, no! None of this. Why would she tell me?”

              “Okay,” Nick stood back and let the man creak to his feet. Nick picked up the man’s glasses and handed them to him. “Thanks. Let’s keep this between us.” He peeled off a note and handed it to the man. The old man looked at it sorrowfully and shook his head.

              “I knew she was trouble.”

              “She was. If I were you I’d leave town for a bit.”

              “What?” The old man’s face furrowed in concern.

              “I’m not the only one looking for answers. I’d take a holiday, from all this.” Nick motioned to the pictures.

The old man looked around and sat down heavily in his chair with his head in his hands. Nick felt a pang of sympathy and turned to go. As he did so a photo caught his eye. It was a long-range slot, blurry. Brigadier Johnson and Ramona, hand-in-hand, entering a hotel. Nick looked at the next shot: the two of them holding hands at a bar, kissing. He looked down the line: more and more of them, different times, different places, all intimate moments. His blood froze. The last three in the row were different. Ramona and Carruthers talking at a café, Carruthers handing Ramona a dossier, Ramona and Carruthers in a passionate embrace. Carruthers looked flushed, Ramona had her back to the camera, his eyes were open over her shoulder, seemingly looking straight towards where the photographer would be.

              “Where did you get these?” barked Nick.

The old man had been rocking and moaning to himself, his head shot up and he squinted to see the photos Nick meant. He paled and a look of abject terror came over his face. Nick crossed the room in one stride and pinned the old man to the sofa by his neck. Nick’s knuckles cracked as he tightened his grip. The old man’s spindly legs scrabbled ineffectually, his hands clawed at Nick’s arms and his face turned purple.

“I asked you if there was anything else!” Nick yelled.

              “I don’t want to get involved, please!” spluttered the man.

Nick relaxed his grip slightly.

              “Where did you get these?”

              “A man, German, he dropped them off. I thought it was a private eye or a husband monitoring an affair.”

              “Even though the woman that brought you these other pictures is in these ones? The woman I asked you about?”

              “It’s better for me to say nothing,” the man replied miserably.

              “The man who dropped these off, is he blonde, smart suit, moustache?”

The old man nodded without meeting Nick’s eyes.

“When is he coming to pick them up?”

              “I don’t know. He dropped them here maybe five or six days ago. He said he would be back in a week.”

              “Do you know his name?”

              “I know the name he gave me – Platt.”

              Nick nodded grimly. “How many sets of prints?” He began pulling them down.

              “Just one. What are you doing?” The old man stood up and pawed at Nick.

              “Taking them. Where are the negatives?”

              “No! I cannot! My reputation–”

Nick backhanded the old man hard; he went down in a crumpled heap, blood streaming from his nose, his glasses smashed across the floor. He looked up at Nick in terror, his legs trembling as he tried to push himself away into the corner.

              “The negatives!” Nick shoved the last of the prints into his pocket.

              “There.” The old man pointed to a shelf stacked with small, brown envelopes. “It has his name on it.”

              Nick flicked through until he found the one he wanted, shoved it in his pocket and strode out the room. He paused in the doorway. “Mr Aviv, I really would leave town. Permanently.”

              The old man lay on the floor sobbing and watched him go.

Nick was angry and he needed time to think. He was no closer to Ramona’s negatives, but he’d uncovered something else, something altogether more unsavoury. Carruthers was still holding back. Holding back a lot. Nick had also underestimated him; he must be a cold fish to be showing so little reaction to Ramona’s death. The photos didn’t leave much room for doubt about their relationship. Was he using Nick to pursue some private vendetta? To find the killer without revealing his own relationship to the authorities? Whatever Carruthers’ reasons, Nick decided he didn’t like them very much at all. He hated being in the dark. Experience taught him that being in the dark was generally very dangerous.

Over a dark pint in The Fitzroy, Nick smiled to himself as he idly toyed with the idea of sending the print to Carruthers’ wife; the man wore a wedding band. He didn’t like the man, but it would get him nowhere. The more pertinent question was what did Carruthers know about Ramona that he wasn’t sharing? It had looked like the two of them shared a lot. Perhaps Carruthers knew or suspected about the photos? Maybe he was already being blackmailed? That would make sense, would explain why he was using Nick to try to get to the bottom of the mess. Was that all that he was after? Did he even know about the stolen plans? Nick’s head was spinning. He knew Carruthers would be able to find him easily enough, and so would Platt and Lucia. Even if they didn’t want to see him after last night, they would once they found their photos missing. He had to get shot of this stuff somewhere safe.

              Leaving the pub, Nick made for the nearest telephone box. Stephen hadn’t answered his phone so Nick trudged the short distance to Euston station. It was nearing rush hour and already men were rushing by in their haste to get home on the departing steam trains. Nick could smell and hear the station long before he got to it; great clouds of smoke hung heavy overhead, the air thick with soot and commotion.

              Unnoticed in the crowd, he found the locker area and slipped in the photos and film. He slipped the key into his trouser pocket and ambled out the side entrance of the station, up Exmouth Street. He paused momentarily at the pub then doubled round the block to satisfy himself he didn’t have a tail. A wry grin passed his face; it was becoming second nature again. Crossing the Hampstead Road, he carried on straight until he hit Albany Street at the Queen’s Head. Drinkers stood outside in the warm evening air and he was tempted to join them, but pressed on. He cut through the terraces into Regent’s Park and stopped a while beneath a tree on small rise. Certain that he wasn’t being followed, he dropped out of the bottom of the park, cut down Cleveland Street and was back in The Fitzroy within an hour of leaving, more than ready for a drink. He wasn’t hungry yet, but it could be a long night. He scrutinised the menu, deciding finally on a steak pie, and asked for it to be brought to one of the empty corner booths where he settled himself down with a discarde
d
Standar
d
. The evening news was all gloomy. He couldn’t see any mention of Ramona’s murder.

              He was into his second mouthful of pie, savouring the rich chunks of meat, when he became aware of a presence looming over his table. Carruthers. This time he wasn’t alone; a burly man stood behind him looking at Nick with indifference.

              “We need to have a talk, old man.”

              Nick motioned to the empty seats around him. “Take a seat.”

              Carruthers’ jaw twitched. “Not here.”

              Nick chewed on a piece of steak. “I’m eating.”

Carruthers’ knuckles flexed, his fist clenched tight. Nick took another mouthful and Carruthers sat down with a look of exasperation.

              “I’m beginning to think you’re bad luck, Mr Valentine.”

              “Why’s that? You really should try this pie.”

              “Damn the pie!” Carruthers yelled drawing startled glances from the pub’s other customers. He took a deep breath. “You and I need to go and have a chat, Nick, somewhere more private.”

              “Sure, let me finish up,” Nick began.

Carruthers angrily pushed the pie away and the burly man moved closer, looming over Nick.

              “You went to see one Mr Aviv did you not, Nick?” Carruthers leaned close, whispering.

              “Maybe.” Nick looked longingly at his pie. He had a feeling he really wouldn’t get to finish it.

              “Maybe,” mimicked Carruthers sarcastically. He motioned to the other man to grab Nick, but Nick held his hand up.

              “It’s okay, I’ll come. What’s this about?” Nick asked as they edged their way around the booth. A group of men in a far corner looked at Nick with frowns; one of them, a huge fellow with a flat cap, stood up. Nick caught his eye and shook his head.

              “I’ll tell you what this is about, Nick. This is about you now being on the scene of two murders.”

              “What?” Nick stopped.

Carruthers span to face him. “Mr Aviv? He’s dead. We found him this afternoon, drowned in his own developing chemicals.”

CHAPTER 7

“You see, Nick, I’ve got a problem. You keep winding up at the scene of murders – murders I’m interested in. You want to enlighten me?” Carruthers leaned back in his chair. They were once again back in the sterile embrace of Tottenham Court Road Police Station.

Nick took a drag on his cigarette; he was hoping it might kill the hunger.

              “I went to see Aviv, but he was alive when I left him.”

              “Why did you go to see him?”

              “I was following a lead.”

              “Following what lead? Dammit, Nick, we’re dealing with national security here!” Carruthers banged a fist on the bare table.

              “Are we? Or are we dealing with something else?” Nick looked at him through a fine mist of smoke, weighing up how far he should go.

              “Of course! What else? What are you talking about?”

              Nick shrugged. “I haven’t found out yet. But I will.” He stared at Carruthers. The other man sneered and leant back.

              “I’d suggest you stick to what I asked you to find out.”

              “You gave me a pretty wide brief, what with the lack of information you had and all.”

              “Don’t get clever. Why did you go and see Aviv?”

              “I told you, I was following a lead. I heard Ramona went to see him, so I went to ask him why.” Nick studied Carruthers carefully and noticed that he paled slightly.

              “Ramona? Why would she see Aviv?”

              “Maybe she had some pictures?” Nick stubbed his cigarette out on the table. He was enjoying this. Carruthers shifted in his seat.

              “Well, did she? What did Aviv say?” The man sounded desperate.

              “Yeah, she had some pictures, but she’d already picked them up. He didn’t remember what they were of specifically – some nudey shots; looks like she was trying a side-line,” Nick lied.

              Carruthers nodded and Nick thought he detected relief in the man’s face.

“So why was Aviv killed?”

              “Who knows? You’ve seen inside his place? All those pictures? Take your pick: a husband, a jealous boyfriend, a queer, some pics that didn’t come out right.” He shrugged. “I’m sure Mr Aviv knew a lot that a lot of people would want him to keep quiet.”

              “And it just so happened to coincide with your visit?”

              “I don’t like coincidence any more than you do. No one in this business does, but yes, it just so happened that way.”

Carruthers seemed lost in thought and was silent for some time. Nick cleared his throat. “We done?”

              “Yes, yes, we’re done,” Carruthers said, absentmindedly waving a hand.

              “One more thing, Carruthers.”

              “What?” the man replied irritably.

              “Next time you want to see me, wait until our meet. Don’t break protocol. The way you’re marching around, detaining when and where you want, you’re going to blow this thing wide open. No one’s going to talk to me if I keep getting picked up by spooks.”

              “Don’t presume to order me what to do, Mr Valentine. However, you have a fair point. Mr Aviv’s death was another unexpected development. We’ll keep to our rendezvous tomorrow evening in The Fitzroy. Let’s hope for both our sakes you can come up with some more information. I have to say, I’m disappointed with the lack of progress so far.”

              “Not as disappointed as I am with the pay.”

              “You’re being paid what you’re worth.”

              “I wonder. I was thinking I might drop by headquarters, for old time’s sake, maybe say hello to Jessop. He’s still there isn’t he? Let him know I’m back on the payroll.”

              Carruthers’ sudden pallor told Nick all he needed to know, making the burst of rage that followed redundant. “You’ll do no such thing! I’m running you, Nick. I’m running you! Jessop won’t see you, not after the way you were drummed out. You’re not to go in!”

              “Just a suggestion,” Nick said softly.

              “No. You’re my asset. This is my operation.”

              “That because you’re running it without headquarters knowing?”

              Carruthers flushed. “They know what they need to know.”

              Nick nodded. “Why don’t we go in and brief Jessop together or whoever it is you report to?”

              Carruthers leaned forward menacingly. “Now you look here, Valentine. You know how this works; the field man gets to pay agents, gets to play them, gets to keep their names off the books for security reasons. It’s all above board.”

              “Even keeping the operation off the books?”

              Carruthers narrowed his eyes. “You sure you told me everything you found out?”

              Nick smiled and spread his arms. “I’m just fishing.”

              “You can fish all you want. I’ve told you how it is.”

              “I know how you say it is. I also know you can find me some more money if you want to.”

              “You’re pushing your luck.”

              “It’s the only way I know.”

              “Okay. Full pay. Let’s hope we can clear this up quickly, before it gets too expensive for all of us. All I’ve got at this point is another dead body and more questions than answers.”

              That makes two of us, thought Nick, but he just nodded and left.

Twilight was fading into darkness by the time Nick got out of the station. He lit a cigarette and pondered his next move as he paced slowly towards home. He should try to patch things up with Clara, but he felt drained already. He couldn’t face another scene. The inevitable tears, the soft words of making up, all of it required effort he didn’t have right now. Nick suddenly realised that he wanted this over. He wanted his life back to normal, to lie in Clara’s arms relaxed. He’d been enjoying it, but he wasn’t anymore; the memories were coming back, pressing on him more closely. Not just those of the last years of the war, of silent murder administered in strange city streets, but further back, of the trenches, of the time… Nick shook his head. It did no good to remember. If only he could forget. He was tense. He didn’t want go through it all again: the uncertainty, the lies, the looking over your shoulder. That was his past. He had to finish this. He had to look to his future, and his future was with Clara, that much he knew. He didn’t care where, or how, as long as he was with her.

              It was a dead cert that Jurgen had killed Aviv, which probably meant he knew that Nick had taken the photos; the old man would have talked. Nick felt a twinge of regret; Aviv had just been a frail old man trying to get by, now he was dead and it was probably Nick’s fault, or at least partly his fault. Nothing had felt good about this job from the start, now it was starting to feel a whole lot worse.

              Nick steered towards the vinegar- and oil-scented odour of a fish and chip shop and picked up a portion. He munched them in the flickering streetlight outside, savouring the salty tang of the fish. He hadn’t realised how hungry he was. The thought of the uneaten pie nagged at him as he walked parallel to Charlotte Street and considered his next move.

              Lucia had Nick’s name; a few questions anywhere around the West End would mean that Jurgen certainly would know where Nick lived. Hell, Lucia might even ask Clara and that would be a disaster. They might have already been to his flat. Nick had been hoping to avoid the German; he’d have woken up with a hell of a headache and a bad temper. Lucia, though, Nick kind of wanted to see her again. He stuffed the empty chip papers in a bin and wiped his hands on his coat. His flat would be under surveillance by now. If he went home he’d draw them out, but he still wasn’t sure what they wanted and he’d rather meet them on his own terms, when he was ready, if it came to that. He should warn Clara. He looked at his watch and had an idea. A florist stall still stood open by Goodge Street Station. He wandered over.

              “Could you do me a favour?” he asked.

              The man eyed him suspiciously. “I sell flowers, guv, nothing else.”

              “It’s flowers I want. I just wonder if you could get someone to deliver them to an address round the corner. I’ll make it worth your while.”

              The man shrugged and nodded at the lad he had helping him. “Suppose so. He can take ’em for you.”

              “Good.” Nick picked out some flowers and as the man wrapped them, he composed a quick note.

              Dearest Clara,

I am so sorry about last night and this morning. I know I have behaved badly. I’m sorry for any trouble I may have caused at the club, but I can explain. For now, all I can tell you is that I am in some trouble and that it would be best if you didn’t come to my flat. Should anyone trouble you, say that you don’t know where I have gone. I want you to meet me at The Savoy. A break will do us good, darling, and keep you safe. Don’t say anything to Lucia, and don’t trust her. Please, trust me. I love you always and I don’t want any harm to befall you. I will be in touch.

Be safe.

All my love,

Nick

              He handed over some coins and with a heavy heart and even heavier sense of foreboding, watched the boy walk off. Clara wouldn’t take this well, but he couldn’t risk her getting involved. She had to be protected from this. Apart from Stephen, she was the only constant in his world, the only person he could almost open up to. He shook his head. He had to get himself out of this mess. He couldn’t even risk going home. This way he could try to repair some of the damage with Clara, plan their future and buy some time to think.