Peter Lovesey - Murder on the Short List

He heard nothing else for ten days. The suit waited in his wardrobe in its zipped cover. He’d unpacked the shirt and it was on a hanger next to the suit. He was beginning to arrive at an understanding of that strange evening at the night club — how a classy lady like Chloe must have been attracted by his chunky physique and rhythmic movement in the strobe lighting and then a touch disappointed by his Chelsea FC shirt and blue jeans when she got him home. Clearly she liked formality in her men.

He’d pushed to the back of his mind the sinister Brady who’d looked him over and said he would do. In Herbie’s eyes the night club episode had been all about Chloe and her taste in men.

The call came early on a Thursday morning when Herbie was walking back from collecting his paper and milk at the corner shop. Chloe’s sexy voice was unmistakable. “Hi, Herbie. Are you up for it today?”

“Try me.”

“Do you know the Black Bess in Hounslow?”

“I’ve heard of it.” But not in a good connection, a little voice said inside his head.

“Be there at nine-thirty sharp tonight.”

“In the gear?”

“Of course. Take a taxi. I’ll be inside with some friends. Walk in and kiss me on the lips and take a seat beside me. Someone will bring you a Diet Coke. That’s what you drink, right?”

“Actually I drink bitter.”

“Tonight you’re on Diet Coke. Everyone will treat you with respect, but you have to conduct yourself with dignity. At the end of the evening you get your reward.”

“I’m not much good in company.”

“Stay quiet then. Let the others do the talking.”

The suit made him feel like a movie star. He looked in the mirror and winked. Benefit night. He dabbed on some of his favourite aftershave.

He took the taxi as instructed. The Black Bess was a large pub in Hounslow High Street with an ornate Victorian exterior and a sign with a masked Dick Turpin galloping his famous horse. Maybe the idea of highway robbery had been the reason Herbie had been troubled when the pub was mentioned. He paid the driver, checked his watch, took a deep breath and went in. There was loud music and the yeasty smell of beer. He looked for Chloe and spotted her with some people at a table to his right. She had her back to him. He strolled over, rested a hand on her shoulder, leaned down and kissed her on the lips.

She said just for his ears, “What are you wearing?”

He said, “The things we bought.”

“The aftershave. It’s cheap. Wash it off at the first opportunity.”

The group had suspended whatever had been under discussion. They eyed Herbie with what seemed to be respect, even awe. One of them, he was disturbed to see, was Brady. Those cold eyes locked briefly with Herbie’s. Chloe said, “We left a chair for you.”

Herbie noticed it was a better chair than anyone else’s. He sat and drummed his fingers on the arms. One of the men (there were four altogether, all in good suits, and two women in black spaghetti-strap dresses) said, “What’s your poison?”

Herbie twitched. His nerves were getting to him.

“What are you drinking?”

“A pint of—” Herbie had to correct himself. “No, a Diet Coke.”

Brady snapped his fingers. The barmaid was watching, poised for the summons, and came over to the group. A fresh round of drinks was ordered. The others were drinking beer and vodka martinis. Herbie was envious but said nothing.

Chloe said to the others, “Well — what do you think of my discovery?”

Herbie came under full scrutiny again.

One of the men said, “You could have fooled me.”

The second woman said, “It’s uncanny.”

The man nearest to him said, “He’d good. He’s very good. But something isn’t right.”

Thinking of the aftershave, Herbie said, “Which way is the gents?”

The woman said, “Even the voice is spot on.”

Brady said, “I’ll show you.”

Two of them accompanied him. He felt as if he had minders, especially when neither of them used the facilities. He rinsed his face and used the dryer. On the way back to the table, Brady said, “Relax. We know who you are.”

But relaxing was difficult. The next two hours went slowly. The others talked among themselves about football and television, told a few jokes, ordered more drinks and did a lot of laughing. Brady took a few pictures with a digital camera. Herbie followed instructions and stayed quiet and sipped his Diet Coke, but it was a strain. He knew some better jokes than they did. He glanced a few times at Chloe to see if she’d forgiven him for the aftershave. He couldn’t be certain.

Finally Chloe said, “It’s eleven thirty, everyone.”

They got up to leave.

Then a camera flashed. Someone who had been drinking at the bar had moved in and sneaked a picture. Immediately Brady grabbed the man and pinned him to the wall. Chloe said to Herbie, “Keep walking. He’ll deal with it.”

The group reassembled outside the pub. Herbie wondered if he was going home with Chloe, but that didn’t seem to be in the plan. She said, “I’ve arranged for you to be driven home in the Porsche. You’ll find your pay on the back seat. If we need you again I’ll be in touch.”

“Is that it?”

“For tonight, yes. You did a good job.”

“I’d like to see you again.”

She said in a low voice, “Don’t push it, Herbie.”

The Porsche drew up and Herbie got in. As promised, an envelope stuffed with fifty pound notes was on the back seat. He tried to be philosophical and let the money cushion his frustration.

Back in his comfortable jeans and Chelsea shirt next day, he could hardly believe his strange experience. But the four grand in his top drawer was real and so was the suit hanging in his wardrobe. He decided to treat himself to an early beer at his local. The barman held the fifty pound note to the light to look for the watermark, just as Herbie had done when he took it from the packet. It was kosher.

The pub was quiet. Just a couple of pensioners playing crib and one of the regulars picking horses from a paper. He’d discarded the inside pages, so Herbie picked them up to see what was happening in the world.

Not much. Another drug scandal involving a pop star. A feature on violence in the classroom.

Then he turned a page and saw a large picture of himself wearing his Armani suit. The caption, in large letters, was OUT. With heart pounding, he read the story underneath.

Spotted last night in his favourite haunt, the Black Bess in Hounslow, Jimmy “The Suit” Calhoun. The feared king of West London’s underworld was released this week after a three year stretch in Pentonville for the injuries inflicted on “Weasel” Mercer, leader of a rival gang in Chelsea. One of Mercer’s ears was slashed off with a cut-throat razor said to have been wielded by Calhoun himself in the fracas behind Stamford Bridge in 2005. Our crime correspondent, Phil Kingston, writes that Calhoun’s reappearance will be viewed in some quarters as a declaration of intent considering that Mercer has taken over much of his territory in the three years since. Nicknamed The Suit for his taste in expensive clothes, Calhoun was alleged to be making millions in protection, “putting the arm” on pubs, betting shops and restaurants south of the river, but his funds were never traced. A police source said Scotland Yard will deal vigorously with any revival of the out and out gang warfare of the recent past.

Herbie dropped the paper. No question: the picture was of him. It hadn’t been Jimmy Calhoun in the Black Bess last night. It had been Herbie Collins. How could they get it so wrong?

He was shaking. He turned the paper over so that no one else would see the picture, thinking as he did so that he couldn’t stop a million other readers from seeing it. He picked up his glass and had to grip it with both hands. People were going to think he was an underworld king, a vicious hoodlum who’d slashed off another man’s ear and been locked away for three years. He could ask the paper to print a correction, he supposed, but really the damage to his reputation was done.