The Darkest Hour (35 page)

Chapter 56

R
O
SSETT MADE CHIVERS
walk down the stairs in front of him, the gun in his waistband but eyes still on his back. Gloria leaned over the banister of the landing when they reached the bottom of the stairs. “Don’t you hurt ’im! You make sure ’e gets back here all right, else you’ll have me to answer to!”

Rossett carried on down the stairs, the words bouncing off him.

Chivers opened the front door and looked left and right.

“Which way?”

“The Volkswagen, parked in front. Get in.”

Chivers stepped down onto the pavement and then half turned to Rossett.

“You’re goin’ to kill me, aren’t you?”

“Maybe.”

“Why should I ’elp you?”

“To stay alive a little longer, George, buy yourself some time, and maybe redeem yourself.”

Chivers looked up at Rossett, who remained on the doorstep behind him.

“I’m sorry for tellin’ Koehler.”

Rossett motioned in the direction of the car.

“I ain’t no different from you. I take the German pay packet same as you do. We’re just the same, you know that?” Chivers continued. “I’m just tryin’ to survive same as you, doin’ what I ’ave to do. Lookin’ after those that love me, same as you.”

“Get in the car, George, now,” Rossett said.

“I just want you to remember, we’re the same. If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t have ’ad to sell out the kid. ’E’d still be in ’is bleedin’ ’ouse with ’is family if it wasn’t for you.”

Rossett stared into the gray sky that was shaded light and dark with heavy rain clouds, then at Chivers.

“Get in the fucking car, or die here, right now. Your choice.”

Chivers walked toward the car wearily, Rossett following him, almost as weary.

Chivers opened the passenger door and pulled the front seat forward, noticing Kate as he did so.

“Mr. Chivers!” Jacob cried and held out his hands to the old man, who smiled weakly.

“ ’Ello, boy! ’Ow you doin’?”

“We found the diamonds!” Jacob burst out, as he shuffled across to make room for Chivers to squeeze into the backseat.

Rossett dropped the front seat down on Chivers’s legs, sat down in front, and closed the door.

“So you got ’em then?” Chivers asked. Rossett ignored him.

Kate started the car and pulled away from the curb, heading for the end of the road.

“Where are they? Can I see them?” Chivers tried again.

“Where is Flanagan?” Rossett asked.

“Let me see them, can I have a look-see?”

Rossett reached up and adjusted the mirror so that his eyes met Chivers’s without having to turn his head.

“Flanagan,” Rossett repeated, a statement of fact that demanded an answer.

“The Prospect of Whitby pub, near the Wapping docks. ’E’ll be there, or someone who knows ’im will be.”

Rossett glanced at Kate, who nodded silently, affirming that she knew the route. Jacob sensed all wasn’t well and looked at each of the adults in the car before reaching his little hand toward Chivers and tapping his leg. Chivers looked down at the hand and then at the boy, who smiled. Chivers took the boy’s hand in his own before returning to his thoughts.

They’d driven some fifteen minutes before Chivers spoke again.

“You keep some interestin’ company, Mr. Rossett.”

Rossett looked at Chivers in the mirror, but didn’t answer.

“Drivin’ round London with Sir James Sterling’s favorite niece wouldn’t be so bad, assumin’ ’e hadn’t been interrogatin’ you in a cell a few nights ago, of course.”

Rossett looked at Chivers, then at Kate, then back at Chivers.

“What?”

“Oh, ’adn’t you told ’im, love? Didn’t you know ’oo she was? You should watch ’er, she’s a rum sort if there ever was. She pumps Koehler for information all the while ’e’s pumping ’er.”

“Shut up,” said Kate.

“And all the while she’s passin’ information one way, there’s plenty going the other way, as well, so as I ’eard. You play all those blokes a pretty game, don’t you, my darlin’?”

“It’s bad enough having you in the car with the windows closed. I’d rather not put up with listening to you as well,” Kate said, adding to Rossett, “Pay no attention.”

“It doesn’t matter, just drive.” Rossett stared at Chivers as he spoke, and the old man smiled back before looking out the window again, still smiling.

THE PROSPECT OF
Whitby pub sat among warehouses on a narrow road along the bank of the Thames. It was still early, and as they drove past the first time, it appeared to Rossett that the pub was closed. He instructed Kate to stop and turn the car around before they headed back, slower this time.

“It’ll be open, I’m telling you. They never really shut,” Chivers said from the back.

“Pull over,” Rossett instructed.

Kate pulled into the curb, keeping the engine running as she looked at Rossett.

“Maybe there is another way? Someone else who can help us?”

“Flanagan is your best chance,” Chivers said from the backseat. “He knows everyone and everything that moves on this river, plus, you can trust him.”

“Like we can trust you?” Kate said, turning in her seat.

“You’re one to talk,” Chivers replied, sticking out his chin to her.

Rossett said nothing. He opened his door and stepped out of the car onto the pavement. Resting his elbows on the roof, he looked up and down the street. A few old-fashioned carters led their flea-bitten, half-knackered horses along the cobbles, and the odd pedestrian crossed here and there. It was a normal dockland street.

Rossett tapped his hand on the roof of the car nervously and lit a cigarette while watching the pub, some one hundred feet away, for signs of life. After a couple of minutes he saw two dockers cross the road and approach the front door. One of the dockers cupped his hands to the glass and looked in before banging on the frame with the palm of his hand. After a moment the door opened and the dockers slipped inside. The door immediately closed behind them.

“See,” Chivers said, “I told you, you can get a drink twenty-four hours a day in there.”

Rossett bent down to look into the car and said to Kate, “Lock the doors. If anything looks strange, or if I don’t come out, just go. Don’t wait, don’t come looking, just go, do you understand?”

Kate nodded. She was about to say something, but didn’t. She just started the engine and looked at Rossett.

Rossett pulled the seat forward and helped Chivers out, pulling him through the door and positioning him on the curb next to him, close enough to grab if the old man attempted to run.

Rossett looked back at Kate. “Will you be all right?”

Kate nodded.

“Stay with Kate, Jacob. I’ll not be long.”

“Do you promise?”

“I promise.”

The boy smiled and looked out the window at Chivers, who gave a little wave and a watery smile.

“Be careful,” Kate said softly.

“I will. We’re nearly there, it’ll be fine. If anything happens, if you have to leave, I’ll call you at the flat tonight. I’ve got the number.”

“I’ll wait for you.”

“I want you to have these. Look after them.” Rossett passed Kate the urn with the diamonds. “If I don’t call, you’ll need them.”

Kate slipped it into her handbag on the floor.

“I’ll give them back to you when you come out,” she said.

Rossett nodded, stepped back from the car, and closed the door. He looked at Chivers, who shrugged apologetically and then shoved his hands in his coat pockets.

“If you fuck this up, George, I will shoot you in the face and then kill your wife. If you do as you are told, arrange for Jacob to get to Ireland and then on to Canada, the slate is clean between us. You’ll live and that will be that.”

“I’m riskin’ a lot takin’ you in there, Mr. Rossett. If these fellas don’t like it, I could end up in some serious trouble. I think it’s only fair I get something for that trouble.”

“You get your life, George. Now get walking.”

Chivers shook his head and rocked on his heels a moment before finally setting off with Rossett toward the pub.

Chapter 57

A
S THE DOCKERS
had done, Chivers approached the doors and cupped his hands to the glass. He waited a moment, then stepped back and banged the palm of his hand on the door.

“Could you try to not look so much like a policeman?” he said to Rossett.

Rossett took an involuntary half step back when he heard a heavy bolt sliding, and the door opened two inches. A woman looked at him and then at Chivers, only half her face showing.

“What do you want?” she said to Chivers.

“A pint and a word with Pat.”

The woman looked at Rossett, then back at Chivers.

“Who’s he?”

“A friend. We’ve got some business. Open the door.”

Rossett thought about just shoving the door open and walking in but decided to let Chivers continue the negotiations.

“Pat won’t be happy with you bringing coppers calling.” The woman stepped back from the door and it swung open just wide enough for Chivers and Rossett to step in.

The pub was dark, very dark. The curtains were drawn on the windows that opened out onto the street.

Rossett squinted into the gloom and saw that behind the door sat a heavyset middle-aged man who had forearms like hams and a neck that would have graced a prize bull. The man stared blankly at Rossett with the confidence of someone who had a simple purpose in life. Rossett hoped he never found out what that purpose was.

The woman slid the bolt back into place and hurried past them toward the bar. She lifted the flap and took up her station behind the pumps. Chivers ambled over and Rossett noticed that the old man had regained some of his swagger. Whether it was for show or because the old man knew something that Rossett didn’t worried him slightly, but the weight of the Webley against his back reassured him.

He joined Chivers at the bar and watched as the woman poured two pints of bitter, setting them down with heavy thumps.

“I ain’t got no money,” Chivers said, lifting the pint to his lips and gulping a third of it in one voluminous swallow.

Rossett tossed some coins on the bar, picked up his own pint, and turned to look around the pub. His eyes had adjusted partway, but dark corners still hid the identity of the shadows that sat in them. The pub smelled of stale beer, and the sawdust on the floor was dotted with cigarette butts.

There was a time when Rossett would have strutted through this sort of pub roistering undesirables and those outside the law, and it struck him that he was now hiding in the shadows with the members of the underworld he’d once terrorized.

Chivers nudged his elbow and flicked his head toward an empty table in a dark alcove.

“Come and sit down. They don’t want folk at the bar when it’s closed.”

Rossett followed him to the table and sat with his back to the wall so he could see the pub and anyone who might choose to approach them. Chivers took the seat next to him, and Rossett placed his nearly full glass down and took out his cigarettes. He took one out and offered the packet to Chivers, who took one and nodded thanks.

“Does Flanagan even know we’re here?” Rossett said quietly.

“Someone will have told ’im.”

“What if he’s at sea?”

“ ’E won’t be. That bastard ’asn’t set foot on a boat in years. ’E just organizes things, cargo, people. ’Ee’s a fixer.”

“You said he was IRA?”

“ ’E is, or ’e was. Most of them headed into southern Ireland after the occupation. It’s a different proposition fightin’ the Brits than it is fightin’ the Germans.”

“Will he be able to get the boy out of Ireland?”

“ ’E’ll be able to get ’im a passport, probably American. ’E ’as contacts. It’ll take a few days, but with a passport ’e’ll get the kid out.”

Rossett took another drink and tapped his lit cigarette against the side of his glass. Chivers watched him and then leaned in close.

“Listen, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to drop you in it. I like the kid. I like you. I just ’ad to do what I ’ad to do. You understand? I’m tryin’ to get by, tryin’ to survive. This ain’t easy, the way I live.” Chivers shook his head sadly before continuing. “I’m up to my eyes in shit, shit from the Germans, shit from the resistance, shit from me missus. I’m just tryin’ to survive, do you know what I mean?”

“We’re square for now, but do it again and you’ll be sorry. Understand?” Rossett looked at Chivers, who nodded back.

“Yeah, I understand.”

They sat in silence for a few minutes before a shadow appeared at the door and the flat knock-knock of a fist echoed round the pub, which fell silent as the barmaid crossed the floor and pulled back the bolt.

Rossett watched the big man behind the door drop his hands out of sight as he waited to see who came in. The barmaid stepped back and a tiny figure followed by two hulking dockers entered the bar. Chivers nudged Rossett’s leg under the table.

“That’s him, the little fella.”

The tiny figure patted the barmaid on the behind as she passed him and the three men followed her to the bar. The murmur of voices resumed and Rossett watched as the men took their drinks and looked around the pub. Rossett wasn’t fooled by the seemingly relaxed nature of the group. He knew he was being sized up, so he attempted to affect an air of relaxed disinterest, taking another sip from his pint and occasionally flicking his cigarette with his thumb.

He knew he was a bad actor, but realized Chivers was worse as soon as the old man pretended to take a drink from his empty glass and then gave a hearty “aah” of satisfaction.

Eventually, the three men broke from the bar and headed toward Rossett and Chivers.

Flanagan sat down opposite Rossett at the small round table while the two other men pulled up seats behind their boss. Flanagan took a drink from his pint and then gestured to the empty glass on the table in front of him.

“Could I get you fellas a pint?” he said with a hard Northern Irish accent. Although the question was friendly, the tone wasn’t.

“No,” said Rossett.

“Yes,” said Chivers.

“I should have known better than to ask you, George. Here, get these fellas a pint now,” Flanagan said without looking around, and the younger of his two lads stood up and went to the bar. Rossett looked at the remaining heavy, who stared back, dead-eyed like a shark, sipping at his beer and licking the thick mustache that was asleep on his top lip.

“How’ve you been keeping then, George?” Flanagan asked.

“Not too bad, Pat. Duckin’ and divin’, you know ’ow it is.”

“Ducking and diving, you say? I heard the only thing you’ve been ducking is Sterling’s boys.”

“We ’ad a misunderstandin’, that’s all.”

“I heard there was a misunderstanding down the timber yard, as well.” Flanagan looked at Rossett as he said this and Rossett stared back, giving nothing away, although he felt sure that there were no secrets left around the table, and that Flanagan knew all there was to know.

“Was there? I’ve not been around, Pat.” Chivers bluffed it and failed badly, his quavering voice giving the game away.

Flanagan chuckled and took a sip of his drink, and the three of them sat in silence until the younger heavy returned with two pints and three glasses of whiskey on a tray. He placed each of the drinks down without speaking and then resumed his seat behind his boss, putting the tray on the floor.

Rossett looked at the whiskey and made a silent vow not to drink it. The vow lasted for less than three seconds. Flanagan picked up his drink and held the glass up.

“To old friends and new friends,” he said. Chivers picked up his glass and chinked it against Flanagan’s, then looked at Rossett, waiting for him to join the toast. Rossett frowned, picked up the whiskey, and chinked his glass against the others, and all three men took a drink.

The whiskey was harsh, and Rossett grimaced and twisted his head on his burning throat before putting down the glass and reaffirming his oath to not drink anymore. This time, he meant it.

“So, what is it you’re after, George?” Flanagan sat back and clasped his tiny hands on the table in front of him, adopting the pose of a bank manager chatting to a customer.

“My friend John here needs something taken out of the country.”

“Would that be the Jew?” Flanagan turned to look at Rossett, who suddenly felt less assured than he had a few moments earlier. The little Irishman smiled at Rossett, baring pearly white teeth that looked slightly too large for the face they sat in. “Oh, sure now, there’s no secrets round here, Detective Sergeant Rossett. We’re old friends, you and me, from before the war. Do you not remember?”

Rossett dropped his hands into his lap and regretted putting the Webley in the small of his back. The closeness of his chair to the wall would make drawing the pistol difficult; he’d have to push the table over with one hand while reaching for the gun with the other. He eyed the two men behind Flanagan and saw they too had dropped their hands out of sight.

The odds weren’t good.

“I don’t recall us meeting,” he said.

“Sure now, and why would you? It was a long time ago, water under the bridge,” Flanagan replied, waving his hand to assure Rossett.

It didn’t work.

Chivers looked from Flanagan to Rossett and back again. Rossett stared at the little Irishman and a dim flicker of recognition stirred in his memory of an arrest a long time ago, back in his beat days at Wapping.

“I think I remember, was it theft?”

“Money with menaces. There were no charges, and you played a fair hand, Detective Sergeant. I’m sure we’re among friends now.”

Rossett remembered there had been rumors of a crew of Irishmen demanding protection money from local businesses. Rossett had stumbled across a beating being handed down one evening at a shop near the docks, cracked a few skulls with his truncheon, and dragged a few lads to the cells, but the shopkeeper hadn’t pressed charges against his assailants and they’d walked the next day.

Rossett recalled that the Irish had moved on to new pastures. He guessed they had spread back into the area once the invasion was complete. There was a lot of money to be made smuggling to and from a neutral Ireland, and the IRA was looking for new income streams after things had tightened up in the north.

“So what can I do for you, Sergeant? Is it the Jew boy?”

Rossett nodded.

“I hear you normally use other methods to get them out of the country.” Flanagan smiled at his own joke, and Rossett saw one of the men behind him chuckle and glance to his partner before returning his gaze to Rossett.

Flanagan took a drink and then shifted his gaze to Chivers, slowly, taking his time.

“What’s your end in this, George?”

“I just want the kid sorted, that’s all.”

“Forgive me, George, but I’ve known you a long time, and you don’t do anything for nothing, so what’s in it for you?”

“His life,” Rossett said, and all eyes turned to him.

Flanagan nodded and took another sip of whiskey.

“So you’ve found out about George’s little line in selling information, Detective Sergeant? I would have thought that would have made you two bosom pals?”

“How he earns his money isn’t my concern. My only concern is the boy. Can you get him out of the country?”

Flanagan smiled warmly and then took another sip of his whiskey.

“I can get anything out of the country, and, for that matter, anything in. You don’t need to worry about whether it can be done. You just need to worry about if you can afford it.”

Rossett nodded and reached into his coat pocket. Both men behind Flanagan seemed to flinch as Rossett moved, but Flanagan merely smiled that smug smile, waiting for the bargaining to commence.

“How far will this get him?” Rossett placed his handkerchief on the table and nodded his head toward it.

Flanagan broadened his smile.

“I do like a good surprise. Now, I wonder what we have here then.” He reached forward and unfolded the handkerchief on the table carefully, one fold at a time, until he exposed a solitary diamond in the center of the white cloth.

Flanagan’s hand hovered over the stone. His fingers reached out to it but seemed unable to pick it up, as if the stone was pushing him away. The Irishman looked up at Rossett and then back down at the diamond before finally picking it up off the table.

“Would you look at that now?” he said softly to himself, leaning back so as to hold the gem up in front of his eyes.

The two heavies behind him strained to see what Flanagan held. Rossett took the distraction as an opportunity to shift in his chair and reach around his back to pull the Webley free of his waistband and slip it into his pocket. Once the gun was secure he took a sip of his beer and leaned back in the seat again.

“I take it that will get the boy to Dublin?” Rossett broke the spell.

“That it will,” Flanagan replied.

“And any papers he needs to get onward out of Ireland?”

“Aye.”

“Will two of them get someone else out?”

Flanagan lowered the stone. Gradually regaining some composure, he focused again on Rossett.

“Two of them?”

“The boy and his female guardian.”

“Getting two people out is much more difficult than one.” Flanagan gave the smile again, and Rossett noticed that he had folded his fist around the diamond and was clutching it to his chest.

“ ’Ow much to get three people out?” Chivers spoke this time, waving his hand at Rossett, who looked at him, concerned.

“Three? At this rate we’ll be evacuating half of London.” Flanagan was now leaning forward, his glee barely contained.

“It’s just two,” Rossett said.

“It’s three,” Chivers looked at Rossett. “You’re goin’ too, man. There’s nothin’ left ’ere for you.”

“What’ll it be, gentlemen? Any more for anymore?” Flanagan smiled, took a drink of whiskey, and swilled the glass under his nose, raising his eyebrows with the slightest of winks at Rossett.

Rossett looked at Chivers and shook his head.

“We need a minute,” Chivers said to Flanagan and stood up from the table, grabbing Rossett’s sleeve as he went. Rossett rose and followed the old man to the bar.

“Whatever you think of me, whatever I’ve done to you and the boy, all of it doesn’t matter right now. None of it was personal. I just did what I had to do, understand?” Chivers leaned in close to Rossett. “So what I’m sayin’ to you now, I’m saying as someone who’s lived a bit . . . both sides of the law. Someone who’s survived, yeah?”