The Unquiet heart

SEVEN

Tommy almost wept when he found what had happened – whether in gratitude to us or anger at being betrayed by his foreman was hard to tell. We only just managed to stop him from kicking the lot of them into the river, still tied. And Tommy would have added a couple of bricks to help them on their way to hell.

It took half a pack of Craven A to calm him down. I asked him to get some of his boys up to mind the prisoners, and pointed to the remaining one down on the barge. I wanted my men well away from the scene when the rozzers got here. Same with Eve. I especially didn’t want her having to explain what she was doing with a gun and why she was so handy with it.

Tommy was so grateful he would have agreed to lying to the police on a warehouse full of bibles. There was no love lost between the East End and the law at the best of times. So an hour later, when the squad cars squealed up outside, Tommy and I were alone, ready with a slightly tailored version of the facts.

“You say you were the night watchman, Mr McRae?” the inspector was asking. We were in Tommy’s office and Inspector Austen was tugging at his thick bottom lip.

A sure sign that he was weaned too early. I imagined him in private having a really good suck of that thumb.

“Temporary watchman, inspector. Mr Chandler asked me to help him stop the thieving. I’m a private detective – Finders Keepers.”

He didn’t like that. They don’t. Private dicks are seen by the boys in blue as only one shade lighter than the crooks themselves. I think it’s professional jealousy.

“And the gun? This is your gun?” Now he was mauling his mouth, trying to rub out his lips. No wonder his hair was thin and his skin so pale; this man needed a holiday, or a new job.

I looked at Eve’s Beretta lying between us. “That’s mine all right. I have a licence.” That was a risk; I was guessing they wouldn’t check it out. Why would they? “You don’t have a licence to go round shooting people.”

“Self-defence. Look at what he had.” I pointed at the other weapon lying on the table. It was a.45, and looked like a Bazooka alongside mine.

“Where do you think you are? The Wild West? Beat him to the draw, did you?”

Just then I saw some commotion outside through the glass panels of Tommy’s office. The sound carried through. Inspector Austen looked pissed off, as though his brilliant interrogation had been on the point of forcing an unwitting confession out of me. He got up and went to the door. He opened it and shouted out.

“What’s going on? I’m in the middle of taking a statement here.”

Then I saw her. Eve was standing in the middle of the warehouse in her normal clothes – beret, belted coat and shoulder bag – arguing with a policeman and scribbling in her little black notepad. The constable was clearly past the point of being civil. His face was red and his collar looked two sizes too small as he ran his finger round it, trying to let blood through to his small brain. Eve saw the inspector and her face lit up as she strode towards him.

I heard a soft “Oh Christ” from him.

From her: “Inspector Austen! I should have known you would be the one to nab these crooks! I’d like a few words for my readers.”

Apart from a hectic flush on both cheeks which accentuated the dark pools below her eyes, Eve was the innocent but far from retiring professional reporter. She saw Tommy and me, but there was no recognition for either of us. Tommy reached for his fags, then realised he had one hanging from his lip.

“One of you two must be the owner. Mr Chandler?”

Tommy stuck his hand up like a school kid. Eve thrust hers out and shook his roughly.

“And you are…?” She stood in front of me, her eyes bright and challenging.

“Who’s asking?” Two could play her game.

“Eve Copeland, reporter from the Daily Trumpet, Mr…?”

I took a risk that Inspector Austen would play along with a wind-up of the press.

“Hamish MacTavish, night watchman.”

She squeezed her lips together to curb the grin. She shook my hand, and dug the nail of her pinkie into the palm of my hand. I don’t know if it was tiredness, or after-effects of the fight, or too long without a woman, but I had a sudden and overwhelming wish that we were alone and I was biting those compressed lips.

The rest of the scene became an all-round farce: Austen trying to get rid of Eve and Eve trying to get the story she already knew from the inside. Tommy and I played along as best we could. Behind us, the sorry-looking gang were marched off, glowering at me with a message in their eyes that I had just bought myself a heap of trouble. The wounded foreman was carted off moaning on a stretcher, chest bound and face blanched.

Eve caught the late edition with enough tantalising hooks to ensure that the main morning run would sell out in minutes. It painted a picture of a plucky night watchman – one Hamish MacTavish – and a few doughty storemen besting an armed gang intent on plundering a treasure house piled high with exotic silks.

She even hinted at having witnessed the shoot-out herself after a tip-off by underground contacts. This fearless reporter scaled the warehouse river-wall just in time to see the tail-end of the tussle. She referred to Hamish as the ‘humble hero of the waterfront’.

The boys and me laughed about the first article that evening over a few drinks in the George. I’d come with their wages from Big Tommy. He’d been so pleased he’d added a bonus tenner to each of us, and the way Midge and Stan were putting it away, they’d have nothing left in the morning except the mother and father of all hangovers.

“I thought you was a fucking magician, Hamish, the way you drew that gun,” Stan was slurring. “A fucking magician. Didn’t even see you move.”

Cyril butted in, slopping his pint over the already sodden table. His beard glistened with beer. “Then we saw it was the bint! Could hardly believe it. I know it was a pop gun. But what’s she doing carrying it? And where did she learn to shoot like that? Have her in my unit any day, so I would.”

We were in a little corner of the lounge bar, a bit away from other customers but the lads’ voices were getting louder with every round.

“Keep it down, will you?”

“What’s it matter, Danny?” asked Stan, who’d chosen the tallest seat at the table and managed to look like an elf on a kiddie’s high chair. He could have done with a bib as well, the state of his shirt.

“I just don’t want the world and his wife to know. You get names and photos splashed around and next thing the rozzers’ eyes are on you, or some prat decides to take you on to prove he’s a big guy. Low profile, that’s best, then we can get more work. If you’re sober enough!”

“What? Us? Don’ you worry your pretty head, Danny boy,” said Midge through his thickening tongue.

I was suddenly aware of someone standing nearby. I turned. His shoulders were as thin as a rail and his spine humped under his shiny jacket. Sparse black hair was slicked down with too much Brylcreem, and he kept passing a fag from one hand to the other taking a short suck in between. It was Fast Larry, a bookie’s runner of my acquaintance. When he saw I’d noticed him, he smiled and edged a couple of feet closer. They can smell the money, these boys.

“No nags tonight, Larry. We’re just having a quiet drink.” Quiet? I glanced round at the ever-louder trio. Fast Larry was shaking his head and was now within three feet. He signalled with a finger to his lip and pointed at me. I let him come right up. He bent over. I could smell his sour breath. I turned my head.

“The word’s out, Danny.”

“What word is that, Larry?”

“You and the boys, here. You done over the gang in the paper there.” He pointed at the evening version of the Trumpet soaking up the spillage.

“Not us, mate.”

Larry rubbed his oily nose. “Gamba put the word out.”

My blood started running faster. “Gamba?”

“Gambatti. Pauli Gambatti. He’s looking for you. Those were his boys you got nicked this morning. He’s not ’appy.”

The underworld grapevine never ceased to impress me. I looked at Fast Larry and wondered why he was telling me this. Loyalty to his regulars? Larry was only as loyal as the last bet. Ordered to by Gambatti? A strange instrument. Or just malicious? His eyes were flicking all round the room. He was one of life’s parasites. Always on the edge of a crowd looking in. Seen as a go-between, not a person in his own right. Breaking the news to me got him into my life stream, gave him existence. But I couldn’t, wouldn’t acknowledge it.

“You’ve got it all wrong, Larry. If you bump into your mate Pauli, tell him we had nothing to do with it.” I was conscious the others were listening now.

“Yeah, piss off Larry,” called out Stan, who felt he could lord it over at least one bloke who was in worse shape than him.

Fast Larry winced like he’d been struck. He turned and shuffled off. But he’d left behind a small cloud. I didn’t have to explain to anyone at the table who Gambatti was.