Dressed To Kill (A Kate O'Donnell Mystery) (4 page)

‘Morning, Flash,’ he said. ‘Long time no see. How’s it going?’

‘Not bad,’ Barnard said. ‘Just wanted to pick your brains about the club scene, if I can, you being the king of the circuit, as it were.’

‘Might have been once,’ Robertson said gloomily. ‘Doesn’t look like it any more, judging by this little lot.’

Barnard raised an eyebrow. He knew better than to question Robertson in this mood but guessed he would tell him anyway in his own good time.

‘It must be down to Georgie,’ Robertson snarled. ‘His shenanigans are frightening the best people away. I sent out invitations to a boxing gala and I’ve had more rejections than acceptances so far. What the hell is all that about, Flash? People who’ve been coming for years have turned me down this time. Have I got a black mark against my name because I’m his brother?’

‘I expect it’ll all calm down once the trial is over,’ Barnard said soothingly. ‘Once he’s safely inside people will forget. Why don’t you leave your next gala until the spring? He’s due at the Bailey in March, isn’t he? Keep a low profile until the verdict’s in.’

‘Pity they won’t hang him. That would fix him once and for all. Though my mam would go bananas, poor old biddy. He was never anything but trouble, that boy.
You
remember.’

‘I certainly do,’ Barnard said, his mind flashing back to the younger Robertson brother’s delinquent habits when the three East End boys had been evacuated together to a farm during the war. He wondered whether, this time, Georgie Robertson might not end up in Broadmoor rather than jail. But that was not a thought he chose to share with Ray just now.

‘So what’s to know about the club scene?’ Robertson asked. ‘The Delilah’s doing OK, that’s all I’m interested in.’

‘What about the Jazz Cellar?’ Barnard asked. ‘What’s the word on the street about that place? We’re making inquiries about a little tart they found dead in the back alley behind the place. Is it being used as a knocking shop?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Robertson said. ‘He’s on my books for protection. The Maltese shouldn’t go near him. But the owner’s a law unto himself. Does as he pleases, which isn’t the way it’s supposed to happen. Could have gone in for a bit of private enterprise I suppose. D’you want me to check it out?’

‘Discreetly,’ Barnard agreed cautiously. ‘Don’t wreck the joint when it’s at the centre of a murder investigation or my guv’nor will go crazy. I’ll talk to the owner myself. Stan Weston, isn’t it? Trumpet player.’

‘That’s right. I’ve never had any trouble with him. But everything seems to be going down pear-shaped just now. I seem to be someone no one wants to know, either side of the law. Notting Hill turned out to be a no-no. They ganged up on me, those beggars. No place for a born-and-bred Londoner down there, apparently. Wrong bloody colour, ain’t I? Looks like I need a spectacular like Biggs and his mates last summer. What do you think?’

‘Not if you get nicked as fast as they did,’ Barnard said, not entirely sure that Robertson was kidding. ‘They’ll go down for as long as Georgie will, if not longer.’

‘Yeah, you’re probably right,’ Robertson said. ‘Well, thanks for your thoughts, Flash. You’ll come to the gala, won’t you? And bring that pretty little photographer with you if you’re still seeing her.’

‘I’ll be there, Ray,’ Barnard said. ‘‘But I’m not sure about the delicious little Kate. Bit problematical, she is, most of the time. We’ll have to see.’

W
hen Kate arrived at Andrei Lubin’s studio the next morning she found the place strangely deserted, although the door was unlocked. She knew she was late because she had been delayed by not one but two phone calls which she had taken on her and Tess’s proudest new possession, a smart cream telephone installed only a couple of weeks’ earlier in their shared flat and barely used yet because hardly anyone had their number. The first call had come from Tatiana Broughton-Clarke.

‘Did you talk to your boss?’ she had demanded peremptorily. ‘Will he let you do it?’

‘He will, but he wants the rights to the pictures,’ Kate said.

‘What does that mean exactly?’ Tatiana asked.

‘It means they belong to him and he has the right to sell them on to newspapers or magazines. I would have thought you’d be happy with that. He’s got a lot of contacts in Fleet Street and on some of the magazines.’

‘Do I get to have some for my own publicity?’ Tatiana asked suspiciously.

‘You probably need to discuss all this with Ken himself,’ Kate said. ‘I’m just the hack who clicks the shutter. I don’t know much about the contract arrangements the agency makes. But let’s get some pics together first. Then you should talk to Ken Fellows.’

‘All right,’ Tatiana agreed reluctantly.

‘I need to go now. I have to get to work,’ Kate had said, anxious about being late for her unpredictable Russian boss.

‘Can we meet when you finish at Andrei’s?’ Tatiana persisted. ‘Just for a coffee, maybe. To make some plans?’

‘Call me about five at the studio,’ Kate had said and hung up slightly irritably. She wondered if linking up with this bossy cow with far too high an opinion of herself was really going to turn out well. Two Russians, or pseudo-Russians, in her life might be at least one too many.

She had been just about to leave the flat when, to her surprise, the gleaming new phone rang again. She had run quickly through the list of people she had passed the number to since the phone had been connected only to find that the call had been disconnected before she picked up. If it was anyone from work they would have been more persistent, she thought. It certainly could not be either Andrei Lubin or Ken Fellows, her ill-matched duo of bosses. Either of them would be far more determined to persuade her to answer.

By the time she got to Lubin’s studio she had almost forgotten about the aborted phone call, but when she found the place deserted she wondered if perhaps he had wanted to redirect her to some other location. The man was more impulsive than anyone she had ever met. She stood in the doorway indecisively for a moment before taking off her coat with a shrug and putting the kettle on in the tiny kitchen and making herself a cup of coffee. With the mug in her hand, she wandered around the small space looking at equipment and the many folders of glossy pictures that Lubin stored in carelessly stacked piles on almost every flat surface. Tatiana was right, she decided. The photographer seemed more at home with society beauties and debutantes that he did with the cutting edge of the new fashions that were beginning to dominate the women’s magazines. In his world skirts were still decorously below the knee, necklines concealing rather than revealing and silk stockings no doubt held up with suspender belts. He might imagine that he could launch himself on to the streets with his young skinny models with skirts up to their knickers but Kate had her doubts. He was, she thought, too old and too set in his ways.

A slight noise behind her made her jump and she spun round to find herself being watched by one of those models, a girl she knew only as Sylvia, who was standing on the threshold clutching an over-large coat around her.

‘Hello,’ Kate said. ‘Do you know where they’ve all gone? I was a bit late and there was no one here when I arrived.’

Sylvia came right into the room, but shook her head. ‘I had to go to the doctor,’ she said. ‘No one said anything to me last night about going anywhere this morning.’

‘Nor me,’ Kate said. ‘Do you want a coffee?’ The girl nodded, took off her coat and perched herself on a tall stool with a sigh. She looked pale, Kate thought, and barely fit for work. ‘Are you not well, la?’ she asked, and was surprised when the girl burst into tears.

‘You could call it that,’ she muttered through her sobs. ‘I’m only up the duff, aren’t I? Having a bloody baby. And how am I going to work when I’m pregnant, I’d like to know? Andrei will be furious. And I’ve been trying so hard with him. This was my chance, wasn’t it? My chance to get somewhere. Now he’ll just bloody sack me.’

Kate knew how hard some of the girls worked to produce the look and the moves Lubin wanted and how quickly they were likely to be ditched if they failed. Pregnant, which would soon become obvious in revealing clothes, Sylvia would not stand a chance. Even the fact that she had come in late this morning would be a black mark against her. The girl blew her nose viciously and dried her eyes, glancing in one of the mirrors to push her bottle-blonde hair back into place and mopping up the mascara that had run down her cheeks.

‘Look at the state of me,’ she said. ‘I told the doctor I didn’t want it but he just went all high and mighty on me. “Don’t even think of that, my dear. I can put you in touch with people who will give you all the help you need if you can’t go home to your mother.” Fat chance of that, I said. There’s no way that’s going to happen. My mam didn’t want me to come up west in the first place and she won’t want me back now.’

‘What about the baby’s father?’ Kate asked. ‘Can’t you get married?’ She knew that might not be a long-term solution but at least it would make the child respectable and she knew how important that was in many people’s eyes

‘I don’t even know who the father is for sure,’ Sylvia said, her eyes full of desperation and her cerise lips trembling. ‘I wasn’t surprised when Andrei took me to bed. I half expected that. You know what they say about these artistic people. The other girls had said it was more or less part of the deal. But then Ricky too . . .’

‘Ricky as well? And neither of them’s the marrying kind,’ Kate said angrily.

‘I can’t get married, can I? I’m only fifteen. I’m not bloody old enough.’ Kate felt an emptiness in the pit of her stomach and she put an arm around the girl, feeling the bones of her shoulders sharp under her sweater. There was nothing of her, she thought, she was all skin and bone, and she found it hard to imagine how she could carry a baby to full term in even the best of circumstances.

‘You’ll have to tell Andrei,’ she said. ‘He’s going to notice and he’s responsible for this anyway, one way or another. It’s down to him.’

‘That’s the theory,’ Sylvia said dully. ‘Anyway, don’t say anything to anyone just now. I need time to think.’

‘Talk to Andrei,’ Kate insisted. ‘You must do that. Promise?’

Sylvia nodded glumly and as they both became aware of people approaching from the street the girl scuttled away into the rudimentary bathroom at the back of the studio and Kate rinsed their coffee cups at the corner sink. Andrei Lubin came in first, black coat draped around his shoulders like a cloak, closely followed by Ricky Smart, in a blue three-piece suit, and three of the young models.

‘Ah, there you are,’ he flung at Kate. ‘You missed us. We’ve been down by the river, by Blackfriars, where the trains go over the top, fantastic gritty backdrop for the girls. I think the next time we have some really up-to-the minute dresses we’ll go down there, snap a train going over the bridge, a couple of tramps – some of them sleep down there – put them in the background, fantastic stuff.’

Kate nodded without enthusiasm just as Sylvia emerged from the bathroom looking pale but relatively normal.

‘Sorry I was late,’ she said to Lubin. ‘I overslept.’

‘Silly cow,’ Lubin said. ‘You could have phoned.’

‘I did,’ Sylvia said. ‘I went out to the phone box with my coat over my nightie. There was no answer.’

Lubin shrugged and handed Ricky his camera. ‘Get them developed, Rick,’ he said. ‘Then we can see what we’ve got. We’ll give Bailey a run for his money yet, you’ll see. Now girls, let’s have you all in that new consignment of dresses I see’s arrived at last. This shoot’s needed like yesterday so don’t be surprised if you’re still here at midnight. Kate, can you help me unpack? See what we’ve got? You can do some shots today. Take them back to show your boss. Show him he’s getting value for his money, so they’d better be good.’

Harry Barnard had parked his red Ford Capri coupe half on, half off the pavement and sat staring thoughtfully at the entrance to the Jazz Cellar in the narrow alley leading off Frith Street, watching a straggle of early arrivals make their way inside. It was nine o’clock and the street lighting did not penetrate far into the alley, making it difficult to see just who was going in. Earlier, when he arrived to put in what he regarded as some necessary overtime, he had ventured round the back of the building to the area where dustbins were stored and a separate door served staff of all kinds, from the musicians to the cooks and bar staff, and seemed to be left unlocked long before the paying public were admitted at the front. It was here that the body of the girl they knew only as Jenny had been found by a cleaner arriving almost before it was light. The police guard had gone now that the area had been thoroughly surveyed for clues and there was nothing there except some bags of rubbish spilling out of the dustbins and beginning to rot.

His main objective now was to talk to the club’s owner and star trumpeter Stan Weston, a legend, he was told, amongst traditional jazz musicians who had so far been mysteriously absent from the club since the girl’s body had been found. No one, it seemed, amongst the original investigating officers, had seen fit to attempt to track him down. But he was advertised as top of the bill with Muddy Abraham tonight and Barnard was determined to talk to him before the show began. He did not see Weston arrive but when the tall, dark, easily recognizable figure of Muddy Abraham turned into the alley and then in the direction of the back entrance Barnard reckoned it was time to move.

Inside the dimly lit club early arrivals had already taken the tables nearest the small stage, drinks set up, and recorded music was playing over the speakers. Barnard made his way to the door at the side of the stage and pushed it open. He could see no one in the cluttered space beyond but he could hear raised voices and when he pushed open the next door he found Abraham and a tall white man in a tweed three-piece suit, bow tie and a luxuriant beard and head of hair in a heated discussion. Both stopped dead when they saw him.

‘Who the hell are you?’ the bearded man demanded.

‘DS Harry Barnard,’ Barnard said, flashing his warrant card in his direction. ‘Looking for Stan Weston. Been looking for him for several days as it goes.’