Prime Suspect 3: Silent Victims Page 18

  “Anybody in I should know about? Film producers? Casting agents? I need exposure.” Brian shook his head. “Back room busy?” asked Red, but Brian’s attention had switched to some new arrivals emerging from the elevator.

  Haskons and Lillie stood just inside the red velvet curtain. The club was dark and smoky, and Haskons was having trouble with his false eyelashes. He had to keep looking down, about three feet in front of him, to see where he was treading as Red led them past the crowded tables and up a short flight of steps to a small balcony on the left-hand side of the stage, which at the moment was empty. The cabaret was due to start in a few minutes.

  Haskons was half blind, but Lillie was taking it all in. The clientele was certainly an exotic mixture. The bar area, to the rear of the club, was favored by groups of elderly, distinguished men, most in lounge suits, but a few in evening dress. Ostensibly chatting with their cronies, Lillie could see them casting glances to the tables in front of the stage. This was the unofficial “stage show,” where the young boys sat with their companions and the transvestites congregated, drinking champagne and shrieking with laughter. The butch boys wore white T-shirts and leathers, one or two in Marlon Brando leather caps. The more overtly gay were elegantly dressed in velvet jackets and frilly shirts, long shiny hair draping their shoulders in the style of Lord Alfred Douglas, Oscar Wilde’s bosom chum.

  The transvestites and transexuals were fabulous creatures. Lillie felt dowdy by comparison. All, without exception, were tall and willowy, with masses of either blond or red hair tumbling down. They wore glittery evening gowns slashed low to reveal shaved chests and the sensuous slant of their backs, curving to tiny waists and slender, nonwomanly hips. The makeup of each one was in itself a work of art. Lillie, contrary to what he had expected, was fascinated rather than repulsed. It wasn’t in the least a threatening experience, just endlessly engrossing.

  Having got them seated, Red went off on a circular tour, flitting like a vivacious gadfly from one group to another. Vera Reynolds had seen Red come in with the others. Furiously, she tried to attract Red’s attention. What the hell was the stupid bitch playing at? The management weren’t thick. They’d have a blue fit when they found out—as they soon would—that the fuzz was around. And not only would the management find out; that was the least of it. Vera’s blood ran cold when she thought of the consequences of what the crazy queen had done, bringing them in here.

  It was Vera’s spot any moment now, and she only had time for a quick, explosive word in Red’s startled ear as she headed backstage to prepare for her act.

  Hebdon brought drinks to the table. Luridly colored cocktails in long-stemmed glasses. Haskons had all but given up trying to peer into the gloomy depths of the club. “I can hardly see myself, never mind clock any faces,” he complained morosely. The blue shadow on his square jaw was even more evident now. He had the horrible feeling that the straps in his corset had gone. Would this fucking living nightmare never end?

  Finger extended, Lillie took a dainty sip of his drink. “How much did these set you back?”

  “A lot—buy a bottle for the price of one,” Hebdon replied. “Knock ’em back, you both look like you need something …” He turned his head. “Here’s Red now.”

  Red leaned over the table, his eyes hot and agitated. Vera’s word in his ear had got him seriously rattled. “I’ve not much time before I’m on, so let’s make it snappy.” Haskons and Lillie started to rise.

  “One at a time,” Red hissed. He cast a nervous glance to the private members’ bar behind the curtained door. “I don’t know if I can get you in the back bar, it’s jammed in there. Maybe you can work it yourself.”

  Haskons and Lillie stared miserably after him as he went off. Left to their own devices, their chances of getting in there were zilch.

  Two spotlights stabbed through the smoke, and there was a spattering of applause as the compere came on, a comically stocky figure in a leather bomber jacket and leather pants cut off to reveal fat, hairy calves. He grabbed the mike off its stand.

  “It’s cabaret time! And we have a great favorite, a truly beautiful, talented act. Please welcome—Vera Reynolds!”

  Taped music started up. A twenties-style dance orchestra with muted cornets and plunkety percussion. Vera’s tall, lithe figure glided on, clad in a high-necked flesh-colored costume speckled with sequins, the spotlight making a dazzling halo of her platinum-blond wig. Her red-tipped fingers caressed the microphone suggestively.

  “I wanna be loved by you, just you, and nobody else but you …”

  The breathy voice was uncanny, the luscious pouting lips a perfect replica. It was Marilyn to the life.

  Thinking of Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis, alias Karen and Jackie, Haskons kicked Lillie under the table. “Well, we got the whole cast now!”

  “I wanna be loved by you alone … boo-boo-bee-doo …”

  Down by Waterloo Bridge, Otley was on his own private one-man patrol. He’d had no luck in the Bullring, drawn a blank at St. Margaret’s Crypt. At the hamburger stall, in the shadow of the iron trelliswork, he caught up with Alan Thorpe. The boy was sullen and uncooperative. Otley didn’t blame him. These kids lived on a knife edge. As young as fourteen and fifteen, they had to fend for themselves, keep body and soul together, survive in a hostile, uncaring environment.

  “I just want to buy you somethin’ to eat. Have a talk, Alan.”

  Otley put his hand on the boy’s shoulder, as much to reassure him as restrain him.

  “Leave me alone!” Alan squirmed away. He pointed to his right eye, puffy and shiny purple. “I got this ’cos I talked to you before!”

  “Nasty,” Otley said. “So who did that to you, then?”

  “It’s always questions wiv you, innit?”

  “You want a hamburger or not?”

  Alan jerked his thumb to the group around the smoldering fire.

  “What about me mates?”

  “You hungry?” Otley called to them. He put a tenner on the counter.

  Alan Thorpe stared down at the cindery ground. He said bitterly, “Jackson done me, Sarge. Okay?”

  Vera came storming into the dressing room. She tore off her wig and flung it down among the pots of cream, tubes of glue, foams and sprays. “Are you crazy? Why?” She thumped Red in the chest, hard. “Why did you do it?”

  “Because they asked me to!”

  “Well, I’m out of here—and if you’d got any sense you’d leave too.”

  “But you’ve got another spot—”

  “You do it!” Vera was throwing her makeup into her vanity case.

  “But I haven’t done my own yet!” Red protested.

  “They stick out like a sore thumb,” Vera snorted, grabbing her wigs off their stands and ramming them into plastic bags.

  “They don’t …” Red said uncertainly.

  “Yes they do!” Vera turned on him in fury, arm outstretched, pointing. “They’re asking everybody bloody questions! That’s why I clocked them.” Her lips thinned. Her eyes were large and fearful. “You don’t know, you just don’t know …”

  Red lowered his voice to a husky whisper. “About Connie—yes, I know, that’s why they’re here. I wanted to help. I thought you cared. Somebody killed him, you know it, I know it.” He was on the verge of tears. “Well, you might be able to stomach what goes on …”

  “Me?!” Vera shrieked. “You live with that slime-bag, Mark Lewis, not me! I have never been involved in it all, I’ve never wanted to know.” She wrenched her outdoor coat off the hanger and dragged it on over her dress.

  Red gripped her arm. “But you are involved, aren’t you?” His tone was low and venomous. “You lied to me. I covered up for you. But this other stuff with the kids and Jackson …” He shook his head in disgust.

  Vera pulled her arm free, struggling into her coat. “I am shacking up at his place because I got nowhere else.” The mask slipped, and behind it was a trembling, abject creature terrified half out of her wits. �
�He won’t leave me alone until this all blows over, and now you’ve gone and got the cops in here.” Vera said hoarsely, “He’ll think I done it—not you—me!”

  The door was pushed open and Brian, the receptionist, came in. Vera slammed her vanity case shut, picked up her wig box, and barged past him into the corridor. Brian yelled after her.

  “You’ve got another spot, Vera!”

  “I’ll do it.” Red was sitting at the dressing table, shoulders slumped, toying with a hairbrush.

  Brian leaned on the back of the chair, looking at Red in the mirror. “Those two queens—I’ve just had a complaint. They’ll have to go.”

  Red sighed heavily and started powdering his face. “Oh, all right, I’ll come clean. I don’t know them. They latched onto me at Lola’s club, gave me a few quid to get them in.” He met Brian’s accusing stare in the mirror. “It’s the truth, I swear before God! Now can I have some privacy—my tits need readjusting!”

  A chill wind with a flurry of drizzle hit Vera in the face as she stepped into the street. She blinked, looked quickly up and down, and set off at a trot. The blue Mercedes ghosted around the corner behind her, with just its sidelights on. Vera started to run, hampered by the small cases she was carrying. The Mercedes speeded up, Jackson’s head sticking out of the window.

  “Hey! YOU! Vera!”

  Vera kept running. The Mercedes came alongside and mounted the pavement. Its brakes squealed, and Jackson was out, pinning her against the wall, his hand gripping her by the throat.

  “I’ve bloody protected you, slag, and you …” He gave her a stinging slap with the flat of his hand. “You bring the filth to the house!” He slapped her again, back of the hand. She felt his ring snag her cheek. “Why did you do that, Vera?” Jackson snarled, fingers digging into her throat, forcing her head up.

  “It wasn’t me. I swear before God, Jimmy, it wasn’t me.” Vera was gasping and choking, spittle running down her chin. “I wouldn’t, would I, I wouldn’t …”

  Jackson eased back, releasing his grip. “What?”

  Vera massaged her throat, trying to calm him, talk him down.

  “I need you, why would I tip off the law about you?”

  “Who is it to do with, then, Vera?” He gathered the front of her coat in his bunched fist and drew her closer. “Is it Red? How much does he know?” He shook her. “Where’s Red? Eh? Eh?”

  It came out in a gabble. “I dunno, she’s not on tonight, she had a cold. She’s stayin’ at Mark Lewis’s.” Vera let out a long quivering moan. “It’s the truth, Jimmy, honestly … that’s how she knows everything.”

  Jackson looked back along the street. A taxi was standing outside the wrought iron, glass-domed entrance to the club. Two figures came out, tripping across the pavement in their high heels, hurrying to avoid the thickening rain. One of them wore a red wig. They climbed in.

  Jackson let go of Vera. She dodged past him, staggering in a blind panic, banging into the wall.

  Half-stunned, she heard the car door slam. Jackson drove off the pavement and did a U-turn, blue exhaust fumes billowing up. Vera leaned her head against the wall, watching his taillights disappear, feeling the trickle of blood on her cheek.

  Otley had gone the whole hog and taken the lot of them to a greasy spoon diner two blocks along from Waterloo Station. Leading the ragged-arsed, snot-nosed, filthy, stinking tribe in, he felt like Fagin, devious mastermind of London’s poor dispossessed youngsters, the forgotten underclass.

  Alan Thorpe he knew well, most of the others he knew by sight. He made it his business to put names to faces. Tennison might have muscled in on his graft in uncovering the kids in Manchester and Cardiff, but Otley was confident that there was more than one way of skinning a cat. This sorry, scurvy bunch held the key. Otley was about to turn it.

  He bought burgers and fries all around, with plenty of Cokes, milk shakes, and tea to wash them down. They occupied two tables, set at right angles, in a corner next to the steamy window. He told them to keep the noise down, but with food inside them, fags lit, they were a rowdy, foul-mouthed lot. More than once, Otley saw the manageress casting a disapproving look to their corner. But with their bellies full, he’d got them relaxed, got them talking, and the last thing he wanted was to start throwing his weight around by showing his I.D. So he held tight, hoping there wouldn’t be trouble.

  Otley reared back, hands raised defensively, as another kid sidled in and sat down.

  “Hey, what is this! Think I’m made of money, do you?” The kid’s two grimy fists rested on the scratched Formica table. “S’okay—here!” Otley tossed a fiver. “Get what you want, and a cuppa for me.”

  The kid, whose name was Frankie, scurried off to the counter like a starving rat.

  Alan Thorpe went on with his tale. “So how it works—he, Jackson, picks yer up from the station, right?” He squinted up at Otley with his one good eye. “Wiv me? An’ that ’ouse—one you was at—he takes us there, like, an’ he—”

  “He never done me!” Disco Driscoll boasted, tapping his chest. He looked about twelve but was possibly fourteen, a half-caste kid in a torn green baseball jacket. Filthy matted hair hanging over his eyes, mouth smeared with ketchup. “I got me own gaff!”

  “No, you ’aven’t, yer fuckin’ liar!” Thorpe shot back.

  Otley half-covered his face, looking over his hand at the other customers. It was after one in the morning, but it was still pretty busy, with overspill trade from the station.

  “I’m not,” Driscoll said, pulling a face. He turned to Otley, and said fiercely, as if it was a matter of real pride, “He done ’em all, but he ain’t done me, he done ’em all.” He gave a defiant nod.

  A pug-nosed boy named Gary Rutter said, “He keeps yer there, like, gives yer stuff. He gives yer gear, so, like, yer don’t mind stayin’—know what I mean?”

  Frankie returned from the counter with a cheeseburger and fries, a raspberry milk shake for himself and tea for Otley, slopped over into the thick saucer. He plonked the change down onto the greasy table, strewn with mashed chips and ketchup.

  “The woman behind the counter said you can’t take the cup out, and that you’re a pervert!” he chortled, giving Otley a gap-toothed grin.

  “Know what that means, do you?” Otley asked Frankie.

  “Him? He don’t know nuffink,” Alan Thorpe said derisively.

  A middle-aged man and woman got up from a nearby table and went out, muttering darkly and shaking their heads. Otley huddled over the table, keeping his voice low.

  “Did you all know Connie?”

  “Nah, we don’t know him—pervert!” Alan Thorpe jeered.

  Otley cuffed him lightly on the back of the head. “You know what pervert is—I’ve seen you in a film with Connie …”

  Alan Thorpe went a mottled pink as the table erupted with raucous laughter. Hooting loudly, the lads started throwing chips at him.

  “He’s a pervert, he’s a pervert!” Frankie chanted.

  Incensed, Alan Thorpe reached over and belted Frankie on the side of the head. It was getting out of hand. Otley waved his arms.

  “Come-on-now! Cut it out, or we’ll be thrown out.”

  Alan Thorpe wasn’t through. He swung another punch at Frankie, then grabbed a fork and tried to stab him with it.

  Otley pushed him down, fingers splayed against the bony chest, and slumped back into his own seat. “What am I?” he asked wearily. “The pied piper?”

  Lillie turned the key in the front door and let himself into the gloomy passageway leading up to Mark Lewis’s flat. He passed the key back to Haskons, who slid it into its hiding place under the outdoor rubber mat.

  Across the street, Jackson drew up, and killed the lights. He saw the shadowy figure in the dress and red wig stooping to replace the key. So Red was sick, was he? Too ill to do his act. That bitch Vera had lied again. It was all fucking lies.

  In the dim streetlight he watched the figure straighten up and totter inside, lifting
the hem of his dress. The door closed. Jackson patted the pocket of his leather coat, just to reassure himself. A light went on in the flat above. Jackson lifted the handle and the door clicked open.

  The manageress had the phone in her hand. She peered around from the kitchen doorway, keeping a beady disapproving eye on the gang in the corner. Ten of them now, not including the bloke, flocking in like wasps around a honey pot. She set her jaw and started to dial.

  Fag in his mouth, Alan Thorpe was on a boasting streak. Not yet fifteen, he was a forty-a-day lad, when he had the money.

  “I done arson, robbery, indecent assault and …” He frowned into space. “Can’t remember the other, I got four though,” he bragged.

  Otley needled him. “Not as many as Connie.”

  “Connie? Huh! All he ever done was dirty old men.”

  “That wasn’t what I heard.”

  “When he lived at Jackson’s he went out more’n any of us,” Alan Thorpe confided, looking up through his fair lashes. “He liked it.”

  “That’s true, that’s true,” Disco Driscoll said. Probably high on lighter fuel or something, Otley suspected, which accounted for his slurred, rapid speech. “That’s true—he went for whole weekends, didn’t he?”

  “Yeah! That film I did was nuffink!” Alan Thorpe stubbed out his cigarette on a paper plate and stuck it upright in the sugar bowl. “I just got me arse tanned—me dad gimme worse. Connie was doin’ the nobs.”

  The heads around the table nodded. Connie had been chosen for better things, moved in higher circles. Several of them—Thorpe, Disco Driscoll, Kenny Lloyd, Gary Rutter, Frankie Smith—at one time or another had served time at Jackson’s place, observed Connie’s comings and goings. None of them liked him, stuck-up little poofter.

  Disco Driscoll fixed blurred eyes on Otley. “He wasn’t like us, different you know, always sniffin’ around, lookin’ for fresh meat, I reckon he got a back hander… .” He tilted his matted head, seeking Otley’s ear. “You know Billy OK Matthews? Well, when he first came up, he was, what … ?” He looked to Alan Thorpe. “Ten? Yeah, he’d be about ten. His mother’s bloke raped him, so he’s a bit—you know.” Driscoll screwed his finger into his head. “Connie nabbed Billy fast, didn’t he?” he said, gazing blearily at the others.