Kiss Me Quick (23 page)

The blood-red sun was dying in the sky, fading, falling and bleeding into the sea. Vince reached into the glove compartment and took out his sunglasses. He also took his hat off the back seat and put it on, snapping down the brim to obscure as much of his face as possible. If he’d had a false beard, he would have stuck that on too. He really didn’t want to bump into Eddie Tobin in the lobby. He got out of the car, crossed the busy road,
weaving
through the traffic towards the hotel.

The Grand Hotel sat on the seafront, between the Palace and West piers, and it was as grand as it got in Brighton. Its white facade shimmering in the sun, looking out across the English Channel and maybe wishing it was on the other side, it wouldn’t have looked out of place in any grand Mediterranean resort. As he approached the hotel, he thought this would have been a perfect gig for Terence, with his trusting face and nondescript demeanour, if only he hadn’t now blown his cover. After the debacle on the dock, Vince had dropped Terence off at a bus stop without saying another word. Terence wisely kept his mouth shut, but Vince thought he detected a tear as Terence stepped out of the car.

Luckily, there was enough human traffic going in and out of the hotel for him to easily meld in. The lobby was busy: a wedding party, a bar-mitzvah and bank-holiday punters with enough money to stay at the best and enjoy caviar with their chips.

‘Yes, sir?’ said the girl behind the desk, wearing a fixed smile and too much make-up.

Vince talked fast. ‘Hello to you. I’m here to meet a Mr Edward Tobin and I believe he’s staying in the hotel.’

She looked at the register. ‘He’s not booked in yet, sir.’

‘Has he not? Mmm.’ Vince checked his watch with a troubled expression. ‘He’s late. I do hope he won’t miss our appointment. He’d be so disappointed. Tell me, I forget, what room is he booked in to?’

‘Penthouse suite.’

Penthouse suite? Not at all Tobin’s style. And, at their prices, not within his pension plan either. ‘He should have been here an hour ago,’ said Vince looking flustered, while giving further examination to his watch.

‘When he arrives, shall I tell him you called, Mr …?’ asked the receptionist.

‘That would be fine. The penthouse suite, you say?’

‘Yes, sir. What’s your name again, sir?’ she asked, picking up a pen to write it down.

‘Shamus Shallanfalander.’

‘Shal …? Sorry sir, I didn’t get that.’ She looked up again to find Vince was gone.

‘Swordfish.’

‘Swordfish?’ responded the voice. Even with only two syllables, four floors, and the intercom static between them, Vince could tell it was the Long Fellow, as he was buzzed into the Brunswick Sporting Club. Long George was waiting for him at the top of the stairs. He wanted a word in private and looked concerned.

‘Boobalah!’

‘Long George, I need a favour.’

Long George threw an avuncular arm around the young detective. ‘What’s all the tumult? I hear you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself. Treble Dutch Vogel?’

‘That’s the least of it. You heard about Vaughn?’

A mixture of sadness and disgust assembled itself on the tall
fellow’s
face. ‘It’s a bad, bad business. That filth, that kaka-da-hoysen! I’ve always kept my mouth shut about your brother, out of respect for your mother. But he’s got two character traits that go hand in hand: he’s weak and he’s foolish. If he’s mixed up with that game, he deserves what he gets. There, I’ve said my piece!’

‘And I agree. But there’s big money in that game, Long George, so a lot of people get involved. A
lot
.’

Long George looked away. ‘Much I know of such things!’

‘I know you don’t, but you know people who are involved. The gear that killed those three in Kemp Town and the others, it’s still out there, Long George. My feeling is there’s going to be a lot more of it still out there, too.’ Long George shook his head in
disgust
. His conscience pricked, nevertheless. Vince knew how to play him. ‘And who’s dying but kids? You’ve got daughters, grandchildren.’

‘They’d never touch that filth!’ Long George was full of indignant rage at such a thought. ‘And if they did, I’d cut their hands off!’

‘There’s big money in it, Long George. Bigger than in any other racket you care to mention. You think Jack Regent would pass that up?’

Long George knew the answer. His big, magnified eyes looked sad and tired. He sat down on the stairs with a wearisome sigh, as if dizzy from a world that was moving a little too fast for him. Vince sat down next to him, whereupon Long George’s big eyes narrowed, instantly suspicious. Suddenly remembering that he was talking to a copper, and not to the kid who used to run bets for him at the races. ‘Where’s this leading? What do you want off me?’

‘Murray the Head.’

Long George turned and put both of his big hands on Vince’s shoulders, as if he was going to shake some sense into him. ‘Murray? You fucking mashigina! He’d have nothing to do with this! He’s a good, honest, respectable thief!’ It was all said without an inch of irony.

‘I know, I know,’ said Vince reassuringly, while recoiling from the tall man’s grip and wriggling himself free of those huge hands. ‘I want to ask the Head a favour. It’s on the up and up. I don’t know him, but if
you
introduced us, he’ll listen. Trust me, Long George.’

Ten minutes later, at the very top of the building, Vince sat at a card table in the private room reserved for the big games
involving
the high rollers. Murray the Head was seated opposite him. He was immaculate in an electric-blue, double-breasted suit, creases pressed razor sharp, an inch of perfectly folded white silk handkerchief poking out of the breast pocket, which matched his shirt; and a blue silk tie with hand-painted red dice detail. Always with the good-quality schmutter. Vince would lay odds that
everything
was monogrammed, too, from his socks to his handkerchief.

The Head lit a Pall Mall cigarette with a fluted gold Ronson lighter, then started the conversation. ‘Any friend of Long George, whilst not automatically a friend of mine, I certainly consider worth some of my time.’

His voice was a product of careful adaptation: he was able to shift it around depending on the company he was keeping, between the penthouse and the pavement, and all of the social and class levels in between. Murray the Head swam with the tide of money and usually washed up in Bond Street auction houses, Belgravia town houses and Mayfair jewellers. The voice was as necessary a tool of his trade as a plunger was to a plumber. He used it to blend in with his environment, case it, then plunder it. He was as adroit at the sleight-of-hand and swift-of-tongue con as he was at scaling the rooftops and cracking safes.

Vince eyed the bald head, tanned and glimmering, then said, ‘I was hoping you could do me a favour.’

Murray, matter-of-factly: ‘What is it?’

The room was warm; the radiators must have been turned right up, because Vince was sweating. He felt it beading on his top lip. He shifted uncomfortably in his chair as he said, ‘It’s a job.’

‘Can you be more specific?’

‘It’s a painting.’

‘Does it belong to you?’

‘If it did, I wouldn’t be sitting here with you.’

The Head cogitated for the fat end of thirty seconds. He was never one to lead a conversation, especially an incriminating one, especially with a copper. He pulled back his chair and instructed Vince to stand up.

Vince did as he was told, whereupon the Head bent down on one knee and his well-manicured hands frisked him from sock to collar. It was a professional job.

‘Now empty your pockets.’

Vince emptied his pocket paraphernalia on to the card table: wallet, cash, separate wallet for the police badge and car keys. The Head inspected the contents.

Vince, with his arms outspread, couldn’t help but smile at the novel reversal of roles. ‘Shouldn’t I be doing this to you?’

‘Carry on asking people to take property that doesn’t belong to you, and you might have to get used to it, Detective.’

‘What are you looking for, a tape?’

‘You’d be surprised. These are dangerous times. They just popped a US President on his home turf. Then you got your H-bombs, Fidel Castro, cold wars … and some very good friends of mine have just been sent down for thirty years apiece. So excuse me if I seem a little paranoid when talking to a policeman about performing a robbery.’

Vince knew the friends he was referring to were the train robbers, but he didn’t want to start getting into names.

‘Did I ever tell you about the time I was approached by a Russian fellow in the Pillars of Hercules public house, and he asked me to obtain some very sensitive information on national security?’

It wasn’t a question because they both knew the answer, and besides they’d never met each other before. But Vince played along in the spirit of cordiality, since he’d never met a seasoned villain who didn’t have a good yarn to tell. ‘No, Murray, you never did.’

‘A certain Tory politician got caught with his trousers down in the company of some brass. Nothing unusual there, but what was unusual is that he’d filmed it. For posterity, I can only imagine. But the brass was also having it off with this Russian fellow, a diplomat who was sidelining for the KGB. He knew about the film and wanted it. And he was prepared to pay top rouble for it. The Russki taped our whole conversation with a device secreted in a Swan Vesta matchbox. Unbelievable what they can get up to these days. Whatever next, you have to ask yourself.’

Vince knew he was talking about the Profumo case, but again didn’t want to start getting into names.

Satisfied Vince wasn’t a cut-price James Bond, the Head sat down again as if nothing had happened. He then reached into his breast pocket and pulled out the white silk handkerchief with a flourish. ‘You’re schvitzing like a kipper,’ he said, offering it to Vince.

Vince eyed the handkerchief as though it was too good to mop sweat with. The Head gave him a slight smile, and nod of
encouragement
. Vince took it and did the necessary. ‘It’s certainly warm in here.’

‘I like the heat.’

‘I imagined it would be monogrammed,’ said Vince, inspecting the silk handkerchief before handing it back to the Head.

‘Why would I want to put my name over everything?’ he said, putting it back in his breast pocket. ‘Like I said, any friend of Long George’s. So tell me about it.’

Vince then laid out the caper. He described the painting and where he thought it was stashed. But he left out certain specifics like names, and why a policeman would be stealing a painting, and what he was going to do with it. And, to the Head’s
professional
credit, he never asked. The Head just listened, weighing up the proposition.

‘Mmm. It doesn’t seem like that tough a job. Lock might pose a problem, but nothing you yourself couldn’t handle. Why don’t you do it yourself?’

Vince, appealing to his professional vanity, replied, ‘I’m not a pro and I don’t want to take any chances. If the painting’s in the room, I want it here in my hand. And I know you’re the best
person
to put it there.’

‘That’s about as true as a true thing gets,’ said the Head, with a solid smile on his face. ‘Shouldn’t be a problem. The security, the locks, a piece of cake. And I’m already well acquainted with the layout of penthouse suites at the Grand.’

‘I bet you are.’

The Head placed one tanned hand on the green-baize card table. He inspected his nails, obviously admiring them. They looked as if they meant more to him than the two rocks he was wearing, one on each pinkie finger, and they gleamed almost as much.

‘So, my young detective friend, I know what I’m gonna steal. I know how I’m gonna steal it. All I gotta know now is why I’m gonna steal it.’

‘I need the painting because—’

‘Dat dat dat.’ The Head held up a halting palm. ‘Why you need the painting is none of my concern. My concern is, why should I get it for
you
of all people?’

Vince nodded in appreciation of the thief’s concerns. ‘Zsa Zsa Gabor ring any bells?’

‘She’s an actress – and not a very good one, at that. But nice to look at, all the same.’

‘Yeah, and now she’s light of a suite of diamonds, lifted from a hotel on the Riviera. Nice tan you’ve got there, Murray.’

The Head smiled, cat and mouse. ‘Maybe some diamonds did come my way when I was on the Riviera, I really couldn’t say. And, more importantly, neither can you.’

‘I have a pal works for Interpol, name’s Dryden. Ray Dryden. I can remove your name from the Zsa Zsa Gabor caper.’

‘My name’s not on the Zsa Zsa Gabor caper.’

Vince smiled, didn’t say a word. Didn’t have to. They both knew the Head’s name was only a phone call away. ‘But it’s not all bad news, Murray. If your name comes up again, I’ll make sure, as long as no one gets hurt and it’s all covered by the insurance, you’ll get another pass.
And
, furthermore, any money from the painting, you can have.’

‘How much?’

‘The man who wants to buy it is ready to go all the way.
You
negotiate it.’

The Head weighed this up. ‘So, essentially you’re giving me a tip about a painting that I can keep after you’ve done what you need to do with it?’

‘Correct.’

‘And you don’t want it?’

‘Correct.’

‘Or any of the profit I make from it?’

‘Correct.’

‘And, more importantly, I’ll have a man in Interpol watching my back should such an occasion arise?’

‘Correct.’

‘So, should such an occasion arise and I was to get pinched over a piece of work, hypothetically, of course, because we both know that such an occasion would not arise, I’d get a pass?’

‘Correct.’

‘Mmm, money in the bank,’ he crooned contentedly. He then narrowed his eyes and refocused on Vince. ‘What exactly do
you
get out of it?’