Gordon Ferris - Truth Dare kill

“Pig sick, Mary, with any luck.”

“Then, shoo thing, Danny!”

Colette grumbled about losing her siesta but I promised her ten bob if she could get hold of my savings book – assuming the coppers hadn’t cleared out my whole flat and office. I told her to look out for a skinny girl with long hair, and if she saw a cat and it looked hungry, there was a can of Carnation in a cupboard.

She returned triumphant three hours later, waving my pass book and Kate’s file with the photo in it. There was no sign of Valerie. Or a note. Or anything untoward. Colette said if the place had been ransacked, they’d put it all back together very neatly. She’d seen nothing except a very peeved cat, who’d gone daft at the sound of the can of milk being punctured.

Valerie, Valerie, where are you? If only you’d given me an address.

I sneaked out – wearing the glasses again – to my Westminster branch at Elephant and Castle. I didn’t breathe much during the transaction in case a stop had been placed on my account or a note left to call the police if I showed. I tried not to grab the fifty pounds in fives and ones as the girl counted it out twice in front of me.

I hopped on a bus going back up to Piccadilly with a light heart and an even lighter bank book. But I swear the weather had turned while I was inside the bank. There was a lightness in the air, a sense of change, a feeling of hope. Or maybe it just felt good to have money in my pocket and a game plan unfolding.

When I’m stuck or trapped and can’t see my way forward, I fret and droop. When I’m on the move with an objective and a plan, cares fall away. Even if I’m heading in the wrong direction, it’s better than standing still waiting for life to turn out right for you. It doesn’t.

I was almost whistling when I got back to Mary’s but I wasn’t so carefree that I didn’t zigzag my way to Rupert Street taking sharp turns and crossing roads whenever I saw a blue uniform. I carefully recce’d the street before approaching her door. I couldn’t spot anyone hanging around looking as if they weren’t looking. In I went. I paid Colette and she hinted I might get one for free if I asked nicely and Mary wasn’t counting. That would have been stupid; Mary was being kindness herself, and she was always counting. Besides, I was feeling part of the family now, not a customer.

I showed Mary the photo.

She whistled. “She pretty girl. Any time she want work, I get her plenty customer.”

I enjoyed the thought. “I don’t think that’s her style.”

“All women the same. Only price different,” she said, as if it were a universal truth.

“What happens now, Mary?”

“I take photo big timers round here. You go any bar and ask who top men are.

They tell you Maggie Tait, Jonny Crane…”

Crane? That rang a bell. “Who did you just say?”

“Jonny Crane?”

“You’ve mentioned him before?”

“He got lot of businesses here.” She tapped the bridge of her flat nose. “Drugs, money, contacts, girls.”

Girls. Now I had it. “It was his girls got murdered, wasn’t it?”

Mary nodded, her eyes searching my face.

“This is getting interesting, Mary. Very interesting.”

Threads spinning and twisting together. Gather enough threads together and you have a tapestry.

It may be some men’s idea of heaven to live in a whorehouse, but if you’re a non-participant and all you can do is listen to the radio or do some handiwork around the place, it gets wearying. The perfume clings, making it difficult to venture out in case you got mistaken for a nancy boy. The hunt for me was still on but the initial frenzy had gone out of it. It was only once mentioned on the news; I just hoped my mother wasn’t listening. Occasionally I’d hear the clamour of the cars of the Flying Squad and wonder if they were heading this way. Police patrols had doubled according to Mary, and certainly there were more uniforms on the streets than I could recall. All bad for business said Mary.

So when the call – summons more like – came through to meet Jonny Crane I was on my way like a greyhound out his trap. But Mary’s advice rang in my ears.

“Jonny nasty piece. You keep back to wall and hand here.” She grabbed her crotch. “And no mention you was bobby!”

I mulled over the image of a girlie gangster as I started down the steep flight of stairs to one of Jonny’s hangouts in Wardour Street. I gave my name through the hatch and it was clear they were expecting me. The door was opened by a gorilla in a midget’s suit. He had mean eyes, maybe from having his nose broken so often. He pushed my face against the wall and smoothed his great mitts over me and grunted – with disappointment I think – at finding no weapons on me.

It had been getting dark outside, but it was darker down here until we came to another door. The gorilla pushed me ahead of him and I stumbled into a wide, well-lit drinking den. It was too early for customers but a barman ground away at a glass with a dish towel, clearly not worried if I had a drink or a coronary.

At a table on the left sat two men: one young and chewing gum and sitting back on two legs of a chair which could go over any minute; the other small, with glasses, his chin resting on clasped hands. He could be the young guy’s accountant. On the table in front of them – breaking the barman’s heart – were tea cups and a pot. A photo and an ashtray with a cigarette-holder lay between them. I walked over. The gorilla stuck to my tail. What did he think I’d do?

Chuck tea over them?

The young guy wore kohl round his eyes and his lips were red and wet. He shifted his gum to one side of his mouth and spoke. His voice was high and piping. I didn’t laugh.

“Mr Crane wants to know who you are and why you’re asking about this doll.”

Doll? Where did this jessie think he was, Chicago? “Can’t Mr Crane ask me himself?”

The accountant eased back and sat upright. Now I could see the heavy rings on both hands. He was much older than I first thought; his lined face was filled in with powder and rouge. His eyes bulged behind his glasses as he sized me up, maybe wondering how much concrete it would take round my feet to sink me.

“I’m asking. Who are you and why are you sending the word out on this bint?” His voice had all the depth and weight that his pretty friend lacked. He sounded like a sixty-a-day Capstan Full Strength man.

I’d thought about how to answer this if the time came. Suddenly I didn’t feel so confident about my story. But it was too late now. “I’m David Campbell. I’m a private detective. Hired by her husband. He’s been getting curious about how she spends her time.”

“You’re a Jock,” said Crane.

“That a crime?”

“Not necessarily.” The implication was that it depended which side of the bed he’d got out of that day. And who with. I hoped today was a love-your-fellow-man day regardless of predilection.

“Have you seen the lady?” I asked.

“Lady, is it? Sit down,” said Crane sucking on his cigarette then stubbing it out. He handed the holder to the boy, who refilled it, lit it and handed it back to him.

I sat. The boy rocked forward on to four legs and the gorilla scraped a chair up behind me. Now we were all cosy. Would they offer me tea?

I asked my question again.

“Depends,” he said.

I raised my eyebrows.

“On what you’re going to do with the information.”

“Do you care?” I asked.

His lengthened lashes blinked behind the glasses. “Let’s say, if I knew this bint, and if I’d done something for her, that would make her a customer of mine.

I look after my customers. If they look after me.” He sounded less like an accountant and more like a priest: one of the hard-boiled variety who taught the boys Latin and buggery.