Trouble Brewing (25 page)

Jack pulled him back down. ‘Stay, George. Please. I'll explain why afterwards.'

Lassiter shot him an inquiring look. ‘All right. But I warn you, if any of this crowd fools around with Anne, we're off.' He paused while the waiter filled up their glasses. ‘Hello! Tyrell's decided to warn off Lahone at last.'

Larry Tyrell, glass in hand, put an affectionate arm round Lahone. ‘Come and have some bubbly, old man.' He pulled him round and Lahone's arm, entwined about Pat's waist, knocked her glass, making her spill her drink on the floor.

‘Awfully sorry,' said Lahone thickly. ‘Has it gone on your dress? I really am awfully sorry.'

‘Never mind,' said Tyrell, heartily. ‘Pat doesn't mind, do you, Pat?' He tipped a wink to his wife. ‘Just come and sit down with me for a few minutes, old bean, and then we'll go on to a club somewhere, yes? Pat isn't cross with you, are you, Pat?' He put another glass into her hand. ‘Here, have this. Come on, Lahone.'

‘Nicely done,' said Lassiter with grudging approval. ‘Better than causing a row.'

With a feeling of sudden apprehension, Jack sprang to his feet. He wanted to stop Pat drinking the glass Tyrell had given her, but Pat, glad to be out of Tim Lahone's clutches, exchanged a laughing remark with Anne Lassiter and drained her glass with enjoyment. Jack sat down again, his eyes fixed on Pat.

‘I've just found out who you are,' said a voice from behind. It was Binky. She sat down beside Jack, obscuring his view of Pat. ‘Darling, it's just
too
thrill making. I couldn't
believe
it when that nice little girl, Anne, told me you write all those clever stories and catch murderers and things.' She fitted a cigarette into a long holder and put a hand on his knee. ‘Light this, darling.'

Jack, glancing past her, caught a glimpse of Pat. She was talking animatedly to Anne Lassiter and looked, if anything, rather more cheerful than before. Jack relaxed. He'd been looking for an accident. This didn't fit the bill.

The hand on his knee increased its pressure. ‘I'm waiting,' said Binky.

‘Sorry.' Jack struck a match and forced himself to smile at the girl who was looking at him with what she believed was roguish playfulness.

‘Skittles!' called Binky to a girl across the table. ‘Guess
who
this is. He's just the cleverest man you'll
ever
meet and shatteringly well known. Oh, you are, darling.'

Skittles loudly demanded to be told the nature of Jack's celebrity and for the next ten minutes or so he was at the centre of an admiring group of girls. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Pat Tyrell whirling past, dancing with Tim Lahone once more. She was fine. He'd been brooding about her like an old mother hen, but she was fine. Her laugh rang across the floor. If Tyrell's master plan was to poison his wife, he'd hardly invite half of London to testify that was exactly what he'd done. He breathed out in relief. The girls were pressing him for information and, with an ironic twist to his lips, he settled back to enjoy the pleasures of fame.

He was interrupted by a tap on his shoulder from Lassiter. ‘Come on, Jack. We're going, apparently.'

‘Where to?' asked Skittles. ‘Oh,
not
the Bitter End. It's been raided twice this month. Daddy said he'd cut off my allowance if I was caught there again.'

A shouted discussion followed on the comparative merits of the Seventh Heaven, the Utopia, the Medusa, the Caprice and Hell's Bells.

‘How about you, Pat?' called Tyrell.

Pat, her arm firmly wrapped round Tim Lahone, only giggled.

‘Let's go to the Fortune,' suggested Lahone. ‘It's quite drearily respectable. We'll liven 'em up a bit.' He tightened his grip round Pat. ‘D'you fancy that?'

‘The Fortune it is,' announced Tyrell.

The night air didn't have any sobering effect on the group. In addition to the balloons, Tim Lahone had a toy trumpet which he blew between shouts of, ‘Steady the Buffs!' and ‘Gone Away!' The girls found it screamingly funny.

Walking across Lancaster Place to the Embankment, George and Anne Lassiter dropped behind with Jack. ‘Would you mind telling me,' said Lassiter, in a voice rigid with disapproval, ‘why on earth we shouldn't bunk off? This must be the worst evening I've had for a long time. I can't stand Lahone. He's a vicious little sweep and that sister of his is as hard as nails.'

Jack walked a few more steps before replying. ‘I want you to keep an eye on Pat Tyrell,' he said eventually. ‘I don't know how, or I'd say, but I honestly think she's in some sort of danger.'

Lassiter snorted. ‘She's in danger of a blistering hangover. I always liked Pat, but she's as kettled as the rest of them. She's only standing up because Lahone's holding her. She's making as much noise as the rest put together. What the hell are they doing now?'

They had reached Waterloo Bridge and Lahone, trumpet in hand, scrambled on top of the stone balustrade. ‘Hello, fishes,' he called over the side.

‘Do come down, Tim,' said Eve Lahone. ‘You'll get quite shockingly wet if you go over.'

Lahone danced a couple of steps and nearly missed his footing. ‘Whoops! Dare you, Tyrell. Dare you to climb up here and get to the lamp.'

The beautiful wrought-iron lamp standard stood about thirty feet along the bridge. Tyrell laughed as Lahone stepped out along the balustrade. ‘You're on!' he shouted. ‘Five pounds says you don't make it.' He put his hands on the coping stone and swung himself up on to the top of the balustrade beside Lahone. He held his hand out to Binky who, with a roar of encouragement from the group, kicked off her shoes and climbed up beside Tyrell.

Lahone's face fell. ‘Hey! You've got a racing partner. That's not fair.' He reached down to Pat. ‘Come on. The two of us'll show them.'

‘No, Pat!' called Jack. He tried to push his way through, but he was blocked by the jostling group. ‘Get down!' he shouted, but his voice was lost in the cheers of the others.

Pat, very flushed, stood balanced on the balustrade beside Lahone, waiting for Tyrell and Binky. Lahone gave another blast on his trumpet. ‘And they're off!'

The crowd surged alongside, yelling. Jack managed to get round to the front, and despairing of getting his message across in any other way, climbed up onto the balustrade himself, blocking Lahone's way.

‘Push off, old boy,' said Lahone pleasantly enough. ‘There's a bet on, you know.' His breath, sodden with drink, struck rank in Jack's face. ‘Plenty of room at the back.'

‘Get down,' said Jack as urgently as he could. ‘Pat, for God's sake get down.' At the end of the bridge he could see the two plain-clothed policemen.

Lahone turned to look over Pat's shoulder as Tyrell came up behind them. ‘There's a blinking hazard here that won't go away.'

The crowd on the bridge started a slow, jeering, handclap.

‘Move, Haldean,' called Tyrell impatiently and walked forward. Then, as he got near to Pat, he seemed to stumble and lose his footing. He grabbed at Pat, and the two of them swayed together. For a moment it looked as if they would fall onto the pavement and then, with an agonized cry, they hurtled to the black water below.

The blast of a police whistle mingled with Pat Tyrell's terrified scream. Jack heard the splash, caught a brief glimpse of where they were, tore off his coat and dived.

There was a brief rush of air and light, then the icy water hit him like a solid blow. Coming up from his dive, he shook the water out of his eyes, feeling the giant's pull of the current tugging his legs. With his lungs crunching inside his chest from the cold, he struck out to where he could see a flash of white and an upraised arm. Tyrell was struggling with Pat and as Jack reached them, she went under. Jack plunged down, managed to grab her dress, then a calm voice sounded above them.

‘Steady now, steady. Get into the boat. Steady . . . I've got you. Bloody hell! How many are there?'

It was the river police.

Jack bodily brought Pat Tyrell round in front of him, supporting her while the policeman dragged her onto the boat. He'd seen the police boat many times. It was an odd-looking craft, with a roller in the stern to help people get aboard. Bill had pointed it out to him one evening last summer when they'd walked along the Embankment. Suicide Station was the police name for Waterloo Bridge and the suicide boat was moored, day and night, under the shadow of the bridge. A policeman put a blanket round him – he was numbed with cold – and watched as they stoically brought Laurence Tyrell aboard.

‘What on earth was behind it all?' asked Bill as they tramped home along the Embankment. Jack, who the river police obviously suspected either of being drunk and disorderly or suicidal, had cut through their protests by insisting they ring Rackham.

He'd refused the offer of a car, preferring to walk to get his circulation going. Despite the hot bath and a change of clothes he'd been given at the police station, he could still feel the Thames water gripping at his chest. Pat and Laurence Tyrell had been taken to hospital.

Bill, roused from his bed, had obviously expected Jack to be pleased that his forebodings had been justified, but Jack felt oddly flat. He only listened to his friend with half an ear. ‘I didn't really believe you when you talked about an accident, you know. Are you sure that isn't what it was? High spirits gone astray and all that sort of thing? The sergeant on the boat told me your crowd were making so much of a racket on the bridge that they were standing by to fish someone out of the water.'

‘I'm damn sure that's not what it was,' said Jack. ‘I'll tell you something else, too. When I reached Pat Tyrell, I was sure that Larry Tyrell was trying to drown her. I hope she's all right. My God, that water was cold!' He made an effort to shed his apathy. ‘What happened to Tim Lahone? He was mixed up in it all.'

‘He's cooling his heels in the lock-up at the moment. He'll be had up in the morning for being drunk and disorderly. He'll probably get off with a fine.'

Jack smiled grimly. ‘Good. I think I'll have a word with Mr Lahone tomorrow. He's either a complete fool or he knows more than's good for him.' He felt in his pocket for his pipe. ‘Let me have some tobacco, Bill. My pouch was soaked.'

‘Well, don't go adding assault and battery to your record.' He gave his pouch to Jack and they stood together, watching the moon and the soft lamplight play on the water below.

From down the river came the distant chimes of Big Ben. Curled up against the wall lay the usual line of sleepers, too poor to afford a bed.

Jack shivered. He usually loved London at night, when her silent streets gave off a sense of contented waiting, like a drowsy cat in front of a fire, but the city had lost her homely charm. It seemed alien and indifferent to his futile concerns.

‘Is it worth it, Bill?' he asked quietly. ‘I mean, all this rushing around we do, trying to work things out and make them hang together. Pat Tyrell could have died tonight. All three of us could. I'm meant to think that's important.' He nodded towards the line of tramps. ‘It wouldn't matter to these poor devils, and yet their lives are as much in the balance as hers.' He shivered once more and was suddenly bone-achingly tired. He could have dropped down against the wall himself.

Bill clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. ‘It matters. Come on, let's get you home. It's not far. You need a hot toddy and a good night's sleep. You're simply feeling the reaction.'

‘I suppose I am,' said Jack, and let himself be led away. There was a dull nag at the back of his mind as if he had overlooked something very important, but he couldn't rouse the energy to try and pin it down. It was connected to this remote, moonlit, unfriendly city, and his sensation of being on the edge of other people's lives. As they crossed the empty road, he looked back at the sleepers and wondered. They must feel the same.

Tim Lahone, his debt to society having been fixed and rendered at the sum of five pounds, got out of the taxi and stood blinking in the spring sunshine of St James's. A hand tapped him on the shoulder and he turned, recognition slowly dawning. ‘Hello, Haldean, old man. I see you got out of the jolly old river, then.'

‘I did, thank God. Damn cold, these midnight swimming larks. D'you fancy a drink? My club's just down the road.'

‘Don't mind if I do,' said Lahone agreeably. ‘Funny thing, running into you two days on the trot.' It wasn't funny at all, as Jack had trailed Lahone from Bow Street Magistrates' Court, but he didn't see fit to enlighten his companion.

‘D'you know I was jugged last night?' continued Lahone. ‘Damn cheek, I call it. There was an absolute swine on the bench. He fired off what he thought were some perfectly priceless remarks at my expense and lifted a fiver off me. Can you credit it? I mean, if you can't have a bit of fun, what's the point? There was no harm in it.'

‘None whatsoever, apart from having to be fished out of the Thames,' agreed Jack as they turned into the Young Services. ‘What's yours? Gin?' He nodded at Symington behind the bar. ‘Two gins, please. Double for you, Lahone? I thought so. We'll take them into the back smoking room, old man. It tends to get rather cheerful in here at lunchtime and you look as if you've got a bit of a head.'

Once in the smoking room, Lahone subsided into a big leather armchair and raised his glass to his mouth. ‘That's better,' he said, wiping his moustache. He took a cigarette from Jack's proffered case and rubbed his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘Thanks. Bloody police. That first lot weren't even wearing uniform. How was I to know they were rozzers? And the bed they expect you to sleep on! It's planks, you know, just planks. Have you ever been jugged? Don't do it, old boy. It leaves you fit for nothing.'