Not Dead Yet

26

The predictability of some villains was one of the few things that made his job a little easier, Roy Grace thought. The old-school ones tended to be territorial, creatures of habit, sticking to their manors for their criminal activities, and their drinking.

But like everything in life, nothing stayed still, he mused, and the old style of rogue, with whom canny police officers could develop some form of a trusting relationship over drinks in a pub, and glean invaluable intelligence, was fast becoming a relic, a dinosaur. They were being replaced with a nastier, meaner and altogether less sociable breed of crook.

Grace found the particular relic he was looking for in the fourth pub he entered, shortly before midday. Terry Biglow was hunched alone at a table, studying a racing form, in the gloomy, empty establishment. An empty half-pint glass stood in front of him, and a walking stick was propped against the wall beside him. The only other occupant was a tattooed, shaven-headed man behind the bar, wiping glasses.

Like Amis Smallbone, Biglow had been a scion of one of the city’s biggest crime families. During the first three decades after the war, the Biglows carved up much of Brighton with the Smallbones. They ran one of the major protection rackets, controlled a large slice of Brighton and Hove’s drugs scene, as well as laundering money through a string of antique furniture and jewellery shops. Biglow wasn’t a man you messed with back in those days, if you wanted to avoid a razor scar on your cheek or having acid thrown in your face. He used to be a sharp dresser, with expensive tastes, but not any more – not for a long time.

Roy Grace had last seen him some months ago, and Biglow had told him then he was terminally ill. He was shocked to see how much the old villain had deteriorated since. His face was almost skeletal, his hair, once so immaculate, was now wispy and unkempt, and his shabby brown suit and cream, tieless shirt buttoned to the top, looked like they belonged on someone three sizes bigger.

He peered up with eyes like a frightened rodent as Grace loomed over him, then his moist, thin lips broke into an uneasy smile. ‘Mr Grace, Inspector Grace, nice to see yer again!’ His voice was weak and reedy, and he wheezed, as if the very effort of speaking had drained him. Grace noticed his tiny hands were so emaciated they looked more like birds’ feet, and the bracelet of his gold watch dangled loosely around his wrist.

‘It’s Detective Superintendent actually, Terry,’ Grace corrected him, and sat down in the chair opposite him. The man smelled musty, as if he had been sleeping rough.

‘Yes, you was promoted. Yeah, I remember now, you told me, yeah. Congratulations.’ He frowned. ‘I did congratulate yer, right?’

Grace nodded. ‘Last time.’ Then he pointed at the beer mug. ‘Can I get you another?’

‘I shouldn’t be drinking. I’m sick, you see, Inspector – sorry – Detective Superintendent. Got the cancer. I’m on all this medication and stuff, not supposed to drink with it. But it ain’t going to make much difference, is it?’ He peered into Grace’s eyes as if hoping for some reassurance from his old adversary.

Grace was not sure how to react. If he had to put money on it, Biglow had just weeks, or a month or two at best, to go. ‘They always say medicine’s a very inexact science, Terry. You never know.’ He gave him a wan smile. Biglow just stared back. He’s afraid, Grace thought. The man’s actually afraid.

You weren’t afraid of much when you ruled the roost in this city, were you, Terry Biglow? he thought. What will you be thinking in those last moments as your life ebbs away? Will you be thinking about all those people whose lives you ruined by selling them drugs? The innocent shopkeepers whose premises you torched because they wouldn’t pay your protection money? The elderly, vulnerable people that your teams of knocker boys stole treasured heirlooms from? Are you going to feel happy heading off to meet your Maker with only that to show for your life?

‘So how can I help you, Mr Grace?’ Biglow wheezed. ‘You ain’t come in here for the quality of the beer or the congenial company.’

As he spoke Grace watched the man’s eyes carefully for any telltale flicker. ‘I hear Amis Smallbone’s out.’

There was no reaction from Biglow at all, for some moments. Then he said, ‘Released, is he? He’s been away a long time. Good riddance, I say.’

Grace knew there’d never been any love lost between the two rivals. ‘I need to find him.’ Watching his eyes closely again he asked, ‘Don’t suppose you have any idea where he might be?’

His eyes didn’t move, they stared rigidly ahead, the fear in them still palpable. ‘Did yer know Tommy Fincher?’

Grace nodded. Fincher had plenty of past form in the Brighton underworld as a fence. ‘Haven’t heard of him in years.’

‘Yeah, good old Tommy. He just died. Had a stroke. His funeral’s next Tuesday, up at Woodvale. He and Smallbone was thick together.’

‘They were?’

‘Smallbone was married to his sister. She died of the cancer, years ago. He’ll be going to the funeral for sure. You’ll find him there.’

‘You’ve earned your half!’ Grace said.

‘Make it a whisky, will yer, Detective Insp- Superintendent. Not that Bell’s stuff, they got a nice Chivas, sixteen year, I’ll have one of them if yer buying.’

For the information he had just been given, Roy Grace considered it a bargain. He made it a double.