Murder on the Short List (14 page)

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.

B
ack 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.

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.

With a sense of doom he pieced together the clues that made sense of this. The people in the Black Bess had looked at him in his suit and made comments like “uncanny” and “you could have fooled me”. They'd stared at him in a way he'd never experienced before, and the explanation could only be that he resembled the real Jimmy Calhoun. Everyone is supposed to have a double somewhere in the world. His unfortunately happened to be the most vicious man in London.

His thoughts moved on to Chloe. It was hard to credit that such a stunningly attractive woman should have got into bad company – the worst, in fact. Clearly she felt some loyalty to Calhoun or she wouldn't be working for him. Herbie could only suppose money had been the turn-on. Money and power are said to be irresistible to women. She'd gone to all the trouble of seeking out a double, someone to take the risk of sitting in that pub with the rest of Calhoun's henchmen, symbolically reclaiming his manor, an act of provocation that could have resulted in death.

Herbie shuddered. Good thing he hadn't been aware how dangerous it was.

Still, he'd carried it off, and carried off five grand and the Armani suit. Pity he hadn't carried off Chloe as well, but that would have been pushing it, as she had pointed out.

T
hree weeks passed and he heard no more from Chloe. He supposed he'd served his purpose and been taken off the payroll. The trouble was that he couldn't get Chloe out of his mind. She was a lovely, misguided woman seduced by money and power, he'd convinced himself. How could she respect Calhoun after he'd behaved in such a cowardly fashion, letting someone else double for him and risk being killed?

He'd thrown away the aftershave she'd called cheap. What a fool he'd been to use it. He ought to have expected such a classy woman to know it was third-rate.

Thinking about her constantly, he went to Harrods and purchased an aftershave that cost sixty pounds. It was called
Je t'adore.
He also bought a new tie, pure silk, by Galliano.

T
hat evening, in what he now thought of as his slob clothes, the jeans and the Chelsea shirt, he was in his local with Paddy and the others watching football on the big screen TV and trying to forget Chloe. At half-time there was a short news bulletin. None of them paid much attention. Herbie only caught the item when it was almost through:

“. . . are treating it as a gangland killing. Mercer, known as the Weasel, had become increasingly powerful in recent years and taken over much of the so-called empire formerly run by Jimmy the Suit Calhoun, who was released from prison last month after serving three years for grievous bodily harm. Calhoun's present whereabouts are unknown.”

Herbie didn't stay for the second half. He told the others he was meeting a friend.

At home he turned on the 10.30 news and got the full story. Someone had pumped two bullets into Mercer's head in a barber's shop in Fulham. The killer had made his escape in a silver Porsche.

Herbie's first reaction was immense relief. He'd not felt safe since his picture had been in the paper. It had been no fun walking the streets of West London wondering if one of the Weasel's mob would mistake him for Calhoun. The killing of the Weasel had to be good news.

But it wasn't.

The more Herbie pondered the changed situation, the more alarming it became. The Weasel was dead, but his people weren't going to disband. Gang warfare had broken out. Anyone with a resemblance to Calhoun was in mortal danger.

Moreover, as the TV news had strongly hinted, Calhoun was the obvious suspect for the murder of the Weasel. Every copper in London would be on the lookout.

His situation was perilous.

He decided he needed protection. He was entitled to it. After all, he hadn't asked to become involved with Calhoun's mob. They'd pressganged him. To put it better, he'd been snared in a honey trap.

OK, they'd paid him good money, but they hadn't told him his life was on the line. They had to understand the consequences of their actions. He didn't have much confidence in approaching them, but he reckoned if he could appeal to Chloe's conscience she might have some influence. After all, she'd hinted at more than just monetary rewards. He still believed she fancied him.

H
e waited till after dark the next evening, when he felt safer out on the streets. He would have taken a taxi, but he didn't know Chloe's address except that it had been somewhere on Richmond Hill. He'd decided to walk, wearing the suit and the new tie and the
Je t'adore
.

The house was higher up the steep hill than he remembered. He'd been on cloud nine when he'd come here before. Tonight the place seemed to be in darkness. He hoped she was home. As he opened the gate and walked up the small path towards the porch a pair of coachlamps came on and a security light dazzled him.

A voice at his side said, “What do you want?”

He turned to find himself almost nose to nose with the scary Brady.

Should have realised Chloe's house would be under guard, he thought. “I, em –”

Brady cut in, his tone and manner transformed. “It's you, boss. Sorry. Didn't expect you so early.”

The new tie, the artificial light or the unscheduled appearance. Whatever it was, Brady himself had fallen for it.

Herbie shrugged and smoothly got into character. “Make yourself useful and let me in. Is she home?”

“Yes, boss.” Brady produced a key and opened the door.

Herbie stepped inside. “See we're not disturbed.”

“You bet.” The door closed.

Chloe's voice called out, “Who's there?”

“It's OK,” Herbie called back. “It's me.”

“Hey, what a wonderful surprise!” She came into the hall and hugged him. Then she stood back and smoothed her hand under his tie. “This is new. Cool. And you smell so nice. Someone knows how to turn a girl on.”

He'd been rehearsing a little speech about the dangers he was in now that the Weasel had been murdered, but it would have to wait. Chloe was still holding his tie, loosening it. She said, “Shall we go upstairs?”

Herbie said, “Why not?”

And that was how he finally got his benefit night. Deceitful? Yes. Unforgivable? No. Not in the light of what happened. Two or three times she said, “You're amazing. They should lock you up more often. I swear you're bigger than ever.”

He said, “It's because of you. So amazing. I've waited so long for this.” He was coming to his third climax when there was a bang like a car backfiring.

Chloe said, “Was that in my head, or did you hear it too?”

“It was out in the street.”

“Yes. Hold me closer, Jimmy. Don't stop.”

He didn't, but he felt compelled to say, “Actually, I'm Herbie.”

She was crying out in ecstasy.

Finally the moment passed and she said, “You were kidding, of course.”

“No.” He paused. “I did say I'd like to see you again.”

He was prepared for the backlash and he deserved it. But she said nothing to him. Instead she reached for the phone at her bedside and pressed one of the buttons. “Brady, was that a gun going off just now?”

Herbie was so close that he heard every word of Brady's answer.

“It's OK, Chloe. I dealt with it.”

“What was it?”

“Only that little runt we used as a double. He tried to get past me, making out he was the boss, so I totalled him.”

“Oh my God! Killed him?”

“Put one through his head. No problem. He was a nobody. I'll take care of the body.”

She put down the phone. She had her hand to her mouth. “The dumbfuck shot Jimmy. We're all finished.”

“I'm not finished,” Herbie said. “But I could have been. Seems to me I've had a lucky escape.”

“We were all on his payroll.”

“Do you know where he kept the money?”

“Various accounts under other names.”

“You have the details?”

“I know where to look for them. But Jimmy always collected the cash in person.”

Herbie folded his arms and grinned. “Then it looks as if you're going to need my help.”

There was a long pause. Chloe's eyes widened. “Would you?”

“No one else needs to know he's gone,” Herbie said. “Not even Brady. Let him carry on thinking he murdered me. I'll feel safer that way.”

“You'll have to practise the signatures he used.”

“I can do that.”

“And if you're going to carry this off, you'll have to take over his life.”

“And all that goes with it,” Herbie said, stretching his limbs.

T
he police never succeeded in solving the murder of The Weasel, or the disappearance of Herbie Collins. But they earned some praise when the crime rate in West London dipped dramatically. The Calhoun gang seemed to have lost interest in armed robberies and protection rackets. The probation service said it spoke volumes for prison as a instrument of reform.

H
erbie moved in with Chloe and found no difficulty adapting to the lifestyle of a millionaire ex-crook. On a Saturday he was often seen in the directors' box at Chelsea and he'd pass the evenings in the Black Bess with his friends. The nights were always spent with Chloe and the last thing she would whisper to him before falling asleep was always, “You're the best Suit.”