Adrian Magson - No Peace For The Wicked

In the afternoon she drove out to the British Library at Colindale and waved her press card for admission to the reading rooms. She quickly found that between the strands of often lurid speculation, there was little hard detail about the activities of McKee and Cage, most of it from too many years ago to be of practical help. Whether through lack of criminal convictions or a greater press interest in the Krays and the Richardsons, the two men appeared to have enjoyed a remarkably low-profile existence. What few references there were seemed to have come from a reporter’s desire to pad out another story with speculation and name-dropping in the absence of solid facts. It relegated the two men to being little more than satellites in the outer atmosphere surrounding the bigger names. Maybe, she reflected, that’s how they had preferred it to remain.

She kept at it, slotting a few names into her memory for later use. Most had been connected with McKee and Cage at one time or another and were either beyond the grave or beyond reach in other ways. But someone somewhere must have a story to tell. All she had to do was to find them.

From the grainy pictures and the text cataloguing the times, Riley wondered why they had bothered. Most would-be gangsters of the time seemed to have been blessed with little skill or luck in their chosen profession, and had disappeared off the radar with no explanation or farewell. The smarter ones, she guessed, must have salted something away for their old age, and were probably now living quiet, respectable lives.

Cage and McKee seemed to be in this group, and the latest information had them living in comfortable seclusion on the south coast near Brighton. John McKee had been a member of an exclusive golf club, with his home described by one newspaper as an expensive block of flats near the beachfront, where he entertained friends and lived quietly. There was no mention of a family.

Bertrand Cage had not been so fortunate. Dogged by ill health, he had gradually withdrawn into a hermit-like existence. His sole companion was his chauffeur/handyman, Peter Willis, a stocky, neat man staring solidly into the camera. Riley checked her notes and found Brask had included a phone number but nothing else. She wondered what other skills Willis had apart from driving. From their latest reports, the police seemed satisfied that he had taken no part in the murder.

She went back to the reports of the killings. Both men had been shot with.38 calibre handguns. Cage died sitting on the beach with a single shot to the back of the head; McKee died in his flat — also with a single shot, but to the heart. Time of death for both men had been estimated at between 08.00 and 09.00 hours. There were no recorded witnesses.

Riley closed the files. Both shot about the same time. Close enough proximity for the same killer or two separate ones? She went back to the old reports and made a note of two names that appeared often enough in the files to be interesting. After cross-checking for addresses, she left the library. On the way back she tried the number for Peter Willis. No reply. It was already getting dark.

The rumble of traffic south of the river built up relentlessly as the last of the afternoon light faded, and cooler air began to float outwards through the streets of Newington as a tall figure arrived beneath a block of flats and waited in a doorway. A door slammed and angry voices bit into the gloom, and a thin drizzle of dirt fell to the ground, kicked out from beneath the railings by a scrape of feet on the balcony overhead. In the distance a dog barked and a dustbin lid clattered to the ground. Above the newcomer’s head the name of the block had been removed, leaving a grubby outline and a few twisted, rusted screws for those who needed reminding what this place was called.

The man had spent most of his life in places like this, and had learned the hard way to ignore whatever did not concern him. Everyone had their own problems, never mind listening to those of the people inhabiting cesspits like this.

A youthful figure appeared out of the darkness, cocky and strutting. As he passed under a lamp near a passageway, the watcher saw a familiar gaunt face topped by a harsh crew cut, with the dark patch of a tattoo on the side of his neck.

He waited until the figure drew level with the doorway, then reached out a powerful hand and grasped him by the collar, effortlessly cutting off any sound the other might have uttered. The youth struggled instinctively, but was spun round with his face pressed hard against the cold brickwork, a knee in the small of his back pinning him like a butterfly.

“You were told to stay put, Leech,” the watcher whispered in his ear. “Where have you been, you little runt?”

Leech wriggled ineffectively, straining against the powerful grip. “I only went for a bevvy, honest!” he choked. “You never said about not taking any breaks — it’s cold out here!”

The watcher released the pressure a little, and leaned in close to breathe against the youth’s face. “I never said you could leave your post, neither,” he whispered. “Has anyone been near Cook’s place?”

“No — honest!”

“You better hope so. The moment anyone does, find out who they are and ring me. Right?” With that he let the youth go and walked away.

Behind him he knew Leech would be congratulating himself that his ugly little face wasn’t going to take any more punishment. He might even be feeling a little full of himself. He heard the youth running off into the dark. So far he hadn’t allowed Leech to see him face to face, giving him his instructions by mobile phone, which suited them both fine. Undoubtedly Leech would think himself well off: being paid to watch some old git who smelled of piss and booze and never went out would be a doddle. Even with the occasional bruising, it was probably a break for Leech from pushing pills and any knocked-off goods he could trade in the area.

The big man walked back to his car and drove away.

Next morning Riley tried the phone number for Peter Willis again. There was still no reply, so she double-checked with Directory Enquiries and trawled the Internet. No number was listed. Maybe he’d gone to ground to escape the press. She had a feeling that as a driver/handyman — for which read minder — he would be a more reliable source of information than most. If she could find him.

She left the flat, pointing her Golf towards the Thames. The first address she had noted was Trinity Court, south of the river near Elephant and Castle. It turned out to be a block of flats set back from the road, and she cruised by to check the layout first before slotting into a parking space fifty yards away.

The block had been given a trial makeover, although there were still a number of gloomy walkways and alcoves typical of the design, with trees and flower tubs struggling to complement a garish fascia and buffed-steel handrails along the balconies. But what would probably once have been a breeding ground for scraggy dogs, doubling as a car-breaker’s yard into the bargain, was now gone. At least, on the surface.

Riley climbed a spiral stairway, following the numbers to the first floor balcony. Her progress was watched by a group of children, for the most part hooded and silent, and she wondered if anything had truly changed under the surface. Her suspicions were confirmed when she arrived at the door to number thirty-two. It was a carbon copy of those on either side, all three reinforced with sheets of aluminium or steel, daubed with paint and etched deeply with initials or symbols. Dynamite would not have dented them, and Riley wondered if neighbourhood watch schemes elsewhere couldn’t learn a thing or two around here.

She hammered on the door until it flew back without warning, revealing a tall, emaciated man in a string vest. He looked about eighty but could have been twenty years younger. Strands of grey hair hung limply from his forehead and rheumy eyes stared out in a dazed fashion, like an animal emerging into the daylight after a lengthy hibernation. Around his body hung the acid aroma of beer and stale sweat.