Authors: JOHN YORVIK
PRETTY GIRLS MAKE GRAVES: a gripping crime thriller (Camden Noir Crime Thrillers Trilogy Book 1) (13 page)
There was recognition in his eyes, but he turned to me and said, “Look son, let’s take a walk to another bar.” And he signalled that it wasn’t safe to talk.
I got up and followed Sim Fratelli out of the bar and onto the street. It was early afternoon and the streets were full of shoppers. Through the noise of the market stalls, Sim told his story.
“The Chessington looked after us boys. Really looked after us. Once you were in, you’d never go hungry again and they’d teach you how to fight and how to be a man. Set you up for life. But as I said sometimes you had to square your account.”
“Square your account with whom exactly,” I said, dodging a stallholder pushing a metal rail full of cheap summer dresses.
“Jim Scott was one of the fixers,” Sim continued. “If he asked you to do something, you did it for the good of the club. That was understood. Anyway, one night after training Jim came along and spoke to Jack. He needed him to deliver some money to the police. In the range of five grand, which was a lot in those days. Of course, Jack didn’t ask why the Chessington needed to pay off the police. He saw no danger in it either, because everyone knew the police were in our pocket. So that’s how Jack became a runner for Scott. But then one night Jack was given the parcel to do the usual police run and when he got there, half the money was missing from the parcel. The police were furious.”
“But Jack wouldn’t have been that stupid, so what really happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know what really happened, whether Jack took the money himself or it wasn’t there in the first place. The long and the short is that Jim Scott accused Jack of ripping him off and gave him five days to repay the two and a half grand or else. And the ‘or else’ was understood to mean that an unfortunate accident would happen.”
We turned the corner away from the market stalls into a street of old pubs, kebab shops and 7/11s. Sim paused the story, while we crossed the busy road.
“So, because he didn’t get the money, he had an accident?” I asked, reminding Sim where he was in the story.
“As you say, Jack had no way of getting hold of that kind of money because the only people he could borrow that from would be Jim Scott himself. And that weren’t going to happen. So, on the eve of the fifth day, Lillian went to see Jim Scott. You see, behind all this is the story that Jim Scott was mad for Lillian before she started seeing Jack but Lillian wouldn’t have anything to do with him. So when Jack showed up at the club one night with Lillian on his arm, Scott was miffed. Not a man to get on the wrong side of. So, as I was saying, Lillian went to see Scott without Jack knowing and persuaded him to let Jack off with the money. She was a beautiful woman and she knew she had some sway over Jim Scott. I know this because I was working for Scott that night at his club. It was the Christmas party. They disappeared for a few hours to Scott’s office at the back of the club.”
“Lillian slept with Scott.”
Sim nodded at my clarification.
“So then what happened?”
“It worked. Jim Scott called in Jack and told him all was forgiven. There’d been an accounting error. The next week Jim Scott gave Jack another parcel to deliver. The day after that, Jack was found dead. He’d been shot through the back of the head and dumped in a skip.”
“The coroner recorded accidental shooting. What happened to Lillian and Scott?”
“Lillian left town. Scott went underground. I never saw him again. You couldn’t get near him for guards; otherwise I might have settled Jack’s account myself.”
“Went underground? But didn’t disappear altogether?”
“No, his presence was felt everywhere. He built up his forces. Started running a numbers game on the local pubs. Provided protection with his own security firm’s doormen. He even had a harem of high-class call girls, known as the Scott Girls.”
“Forces? All trained at the Chessington Club, I suppose? Then what?”
“He graduated. Went legit. I couldn’t tell you where he is now. Costa del Crime. Somewhere like that. There was a rumour he’d died in the King’s Cross fire, but not many round here believed it. Put it this way, people are still scared to talk about him in the open.”
“Well, that’s a great story, Sim,” I said, slipping 60 pounds into his hand.
“Not when you’ve lived it,” he said, putting the money in his inside pocket.
Sim guided me to another pub.
“This is my local,” said Sim. “Run by a friend of mine. It’s safe to talk in here.”
We walked into the pub and ordered another round. This time Sim insisted on paying.
“So tell me,” I said as we sat down with the drinks. “Was Sam McCormick Jim Scott’s man?”
“I think Mr Fratelli has said enough for one day,” said a voice behind me in a cockney accent straight out of EastEnders. I was about to get up when Sim put his hand on my shoulder and said, “I’ll deal with this”.
I could see Sim was giving someone the evil eye. I turned round to discover the cockney voice belonged to none other than Suedehead, from the Old Street attack. Bomberjacket, his Polish henchman, was standing alongside him and they looked like they meant business. I looked around, half expecting Marty to come to my rescue, but there was just me and an old alcoholic.
Sim stood up and took in a deep breath, inflating his chest and holding out his arms to make himself look twice the size he’d looked drinking in the corner. His face was so rough and beaten that I thought it might just be enough to put doubt in the minds of our assailants. Sim seemed to gain confidence as the two men shrank back. He approached them brandishing his fists. He had a good long reach and Suedehead and Bomberjacket were, for the time being, keeping out of harm’s way.
“Come on, you pricks, twenty years of bare knuckle. What you got for me?” but Sim was drunk and not as fast as he used to be. When he swung at Suedehead, Suedehead ducked easily out of the way and used the force of Sim’s punch to slam his face down on a table.
Suedehead and Bomberjacket turned their attention to me, but Sim was already back up and ready for a second go at Suedehead. This time I wasn’t going to wait till we were one man down before I got stuck in. I would attack in the only way I knew I could do damage. I jumped over the table, ran four steps and landed a thigh-level two-footed professional foul on Bomberjacket. It was the last thing he expected and he fell to the floor screaming. I was tangled up in his legs and as I tried to get back on my feet, he pulled me to the ground and dragged me by the collar towards him. As he twisted my collar with his left hand, pinning me to the floor, he was pulling something from his sock with his right hand. I saw the flash of a blade in the air and rolled to meet his right wrist with my left hand. He was pushing the knife down, aiming for my throat. We were stalemated, but I wasn’t as strong as he was and time was running out.
The knife got closer and closer. Go primitive, I heard Marty’s voice. Go primitive, it repeated. The voice was inside me now. I used Bomberjacket’s strength against him and let him roll me onto my back. Then as he bore down on top of me. I hooked my arm around his neck and took his nose between my teeth and began tearing at it like a dog. I heard Bomberjacket scream out in horror as I spat the tip of his nose across the room. His hands went instinctively to the wound, dropping the knife on the floor, and I wriggled free. I got hold of the table and dragged myself to my feet.
Meanwhile, I saw Sim had taken a few hits from Suedehead but was managing to stay up. The barman who’d armed himself with a baseball bat as we fought, handed it over to me. I took it off him and weighed it in my hand before smashing it down on Bomberjacket’s crotch. Then I danced forward and smashed it into the back of Suedehead’s knees causing him to buckle. Sim used the opportunity to knock Suedehead out with a powerful uppercut.
“Out the back,” Sim shouted. And with the barman’s assistance we were let out into an alley.
“Just like the old days,” said Sim, “listen you better make yourself scarce. That was only a welcoming party.”
I grabbed the remaining 60 quid I had in my pocket and gave it to Sim.
“Use this money to rent a room for the night. Let this thing blow over.”
“No point hiding. But I can use the money for something,” he said, with a wry smile, slipping it into his jacket pocket.
With that we shook hands and I watched him limp away along the back alley. Then I spat on my hand and wiped the blood off my face the best I could. If there was ever a line, I thought, I’d just stepped over it.
I focused on a poster in the shop window: Matthew Rilke would be signing his latest book
Those Underground
at two o’clock. It was now three o’clock and there was still a queue coming out through the door. His fans, mostly males aged 16–30, were holding a copy of Rilke’s
Those Underground.
I hadn’t read it. There was a double helix in gold blazing on the front cover, no doubt it had some occult significance, but I hadn’t come to talk to him about his latest book.
I looked around and couldn’t find a suitably placed cafe from which to observe the queue. There was a health food bar opposite called Heaven’s Shake but I was reluctant to go in, because there was little chance they would allow me to smoke in there.
The interior of Heaven’s Shake was painted mostly in greens and browns. There was a breakfast bar that ran the length of the window and several stools. From there I would be able to observe the Owl Bookshop. I waited patiently while behind the counter a bright-eyed young woman finished her conversation with the chef about the effects of global warming on her root crops. Finally, she turned to face me, but instead of speaking, she just smiled. She was one of those people who avoided stress by doing everything in their own time, even if it meant her customers suffered heart attacks trying to get served, eat and back to work before their lunch hour was up.
“An
Americano
,” I said
“We don’t do coffee.”
“Tea?”
“Herbal tea, no caffeine.”
I scanned the menu board behind her for the least healthy smoothie on offer.
“Can I get a smoothie with extra cocoa?”
“We have no cocoa at the moment. We have vanilla beans?”
“Just give me the smoothie of the day, without the vanilla beans.”
“Ok.”
“Can I smoke?”
“No,” she snapped.
I paid her and took my smoothie. The chef had stuck a huge mint leaf on the top. I had the feeling that it was just to wind me up. I took my seat at the window and placed the smoothie as far to the right of me as possible without actually encroaching on the next allotted space. All I could think about was leaving the smoothie and going outside to smoke. I was still shaken by what had taken place in Bethnal Green two days before. Yesterday morning I’d scoured the newspapers, yet there’d been no reports of any incidents in the East End. However, I was sure it would have repercussions. They’d have their own way of dealing with things at the Chessington. Their own methods of getting justice. In Bomberjacket I’d acquired a mortal enemy. I’d have to be ready for him when he came for me.
This morning I’d woken from my now regular nightmare with Dani shaking me as I tried to dodge Marty’s blade. Then, over breakfast, with what I’d done to Bomberjacket in the forefront of my mind, I’d done my best to convince Dani it was safer for me to go it alone. But she wouldn’t have it. Instead she’d beckoned me upstairs to Pippa and Erika’s flat. She took out her spare set of keys, opened the door and led me into an empty bedroom. There, she’d pulled up a section of floorboards and pulled out a sack containing a heavy object, inside was a shot gun. Dani picked up the gun like a seasoned veteran and cracked it open to make sure it was empty. Then she pulled out a box full of red and gold bullets from under a different floorboard and handed them to me.
“Two years ago,” explained Dani. “We drove up to Northumberland and stayed in a cottage for a week. There was a woman from a nearby barracks who trained us how to use a shotgun.”
“What? Were you forming a terrorist cell?”
“Protection from ex-boyfriends, ex-husbands that come looking to do harm. The police won’t do anything. Not until it’s too late.”
Shotgun training in Northumberland? I didn’t know which version of Dani was the real one. The tortured artist, at times scared of her own shadow. Or the fearless vigilante, capable of killing a man. But I had other sides to my personality too. Darker than I’d ever imagined. My nightmares were starting to bridge the divide between dream and reality. I thought about the one I’d had that morning, going through it frame by frame to see if it could tell me something. It started with Bomberjacket threatening to pursue me through the nine levels of hell and ended with Marty, dressed as a barber, attempting to slit my throat as I transformed into a beast. It didn’t tell me anything, but by visualising the nightmare, I hoped at least that I’d taken away some of its power. I tried to put it out of my mind altogether by reaching into my bag for Rilke’s book,
London
Underworld Uncovered.
The cover was red and blue and the design was somewhat reminiscent of a London Underground station.
Yesterday, as I lay on the sofa recovering from the fight, Dani had gone out and managed to locate a number of books that featured the criminal activity of Jim Scott in detail. The author Matthew Rilke showed up several times in her research and it became apparent that he was an authority on 60s and 70s London mob culture, with special emphasis on the career of Jim Scott. It was when Dani was buying a copy of
London
Underworld Uncovered
in a bookstore in Kentish Town that one of the staff there, a fan himself, told her that Rilke would be signing books today at the Owl.
London Underworld Uncovered
was themed like the movie
Performance
, with photos showing rock stars, the aristocracy, royalty and London mobsters at parties together in the late 60s, early 70s. I’d checked the back pages and found that Jim Scott was indexed, so I’d read those sections before anything else. Because Jim Scott was reported dead in the King’s Cross fire, Rilke wasn’t restricted by libel laws. In the book, Rilke, interviewing one of Jim Scott’s bodyguards, who chose to remain nameless, uncovered numerous stories of torture in dungeons with blowtorches and pliers. ‘Scott was an animal’, his former employee confessed.
According to Rilke’s book, Jim Scott had been London’s most powerful gang leader in the 1970s. One with a hands-on approach to murder and torture. Rilke claimed Scott had contacts both in the entertainment world and the aristocracy. It seemed that arranging the murder of Jack Lewis would have been very small beer for him. Although, Scott did begin his rise to the top of the heap just after Jack Lewis’s death in 1971. So maybe he started small. Everybody’s got to start somewhere.
After an hour, I left Heaven’s Shake and joined the end of the queue. I would be the last one to meet Rilke. From just inside the shop doorway I could hear his Eton-educated tones drowning out the whispered sycophancy of his fans. Rilke was in his early fifties, which meant that he would have been in his late teens, early twenties when Jack Lewis was killed. How does a young man become a biographer of mob activity? As I got closer, I could see he was dressed in a tweed jacket and bow tie. The kind of man that perhaps the working class boxing trainer, Sam McCormick, was trying to emulate. A million miles from the rough-hewn appearance of the alcoholic Sim Fratelli.
The girl in front of me was a Goth with tattoos and pink hair shaven off one side of her head so you could partially see the crown. Seeing her fawn over Rilke was a bit disconcerting. Wasn’t Rilke her antithesis? When she departed clumsily on built-up platforms, Rilke looked at me wearily. But when I placed the copy of
London Underworld Uncovered
on the desk, he smiled.
“My God, I thought that was out of print. Who should I dedicate it to?”
“The Pentonville Strangler, son of Jack Lewis the boxer, murdered by Jim Scott.”
I’d got Rilke’s attention. He checked his watch and then made as if to look through my tinted glasses to see who I really was.
“Well, I take it you’re not a fan,” said Rilke, putting his pen down. “Which begs the question, who are you?”
“I’m writing a book about the Pentonville Strangler. The plan is to publish the week after the trial. It could mean a revival of interest in your earlier books about London gangs. I need 30 minutes of your time...”
“Look,” said Rilke. “I don’t mind helping a young writer starting out, but you have to find your own niche. You can’t go grabbing mine. And you can’t connect everything to everything just because it makes a good story, old chap. And linking the Pentonville murders to Jim Scott and to Jack Lewis? You need evidence.”
“You must know that Jim Scott was part of the Chessington Club,” I said, realising that I was sounding excitable. “Where he recruited his gang under the guise of helping troubled youths into boxing. He had the boxer Jack Lewis killed because he wanted Jack’s girlfriend, Lillian Stewart. In June, 1971, Lillian had a son, Marty Stewart, now public enemy number one.”
“If you can substantiate any of this, you may have yourself an angle.”
“What became of Jim Scott?”
“It’s a matter of public record. Jim Scott died in the King’s Cross fire.”
“And you believe that?”
“Yes. And I’ve moved on from the mafia.”
“What happened to Scott’s gang?”
“Prison and early graves I expect, apart from the few that went on to make a living as after-dinner speakers like CrackerJack McManners and Blowtorch Billy Ryder.”
“What about Tommy Burns from the Chessington? He was a contemporary of Scott and Lewis. He now runs the private gallery and music studio at AmizFire.”
“Aha! Haven’t you read my chapter on Twilight Language? King’s Cross
Fire,
Amiz
Fire,
Tommy
Burns
,” said Rilke, stressing the thematic link with an annoying, sneering laugh.
“Are you saying Tommy Burns is really Jim Scott?”
“Read my book. I can’t do all the work for you,” said Rilke.
“Yes, it’s very interesting that you went from writing books about the mob to books about occult groups and their symbolism,” I said, pointing to the poster for
Those Underground
. “Now why is that?”
“Synergy,” and then Rilke sneered and said it again, “Synergy.”
“How...”
“That’s all you’re getting. Interview over,” said Rilke, closing his briefcase.
As I left the shop, I heard Rilke making comments to the staff about how you always get one ‘crazy’ at these events. I looked at my watch. It was three-thirty, but instead of leaving the area, I decided I would wait for Rilke.
* * *
“We’re closed,” said the mopping brother. “Open tomorrow at 6.30. Goodnight.” He continued mopping with his head down throughout his speech.
“I’m not here for food,” I said.
“Then what do you want?” said the other brother, busy with the till.
“Translation. Polish to English. Just a few words.”
I had bought a good bottle of vodka to give them. But I was wondering if that was such a good idea what with the religious garb.
“You ever heard of a dictionary?” said the mopper.
“Not all of the words are written down. And I can’t spell in Polish.”
“What do you do?”
“I’m a journalist. North London Free Press.”
Then the two brothers started speaking in Polish. I imagined one of them was saying send him away and the other was saying help him. I heard them mention Free Press a few times.
“What happened to your eye?” said the mopper, suddenly breaking off from his argument.
“I was mugged,” I said. I wondered how he had seen it. Had I accidentally rubbed the foundation off, or had the bruising spread down my face?
“Mugged? Ah, terrible business,” said the mopper.
“Next month, you write a review of this cafe? Or give us an advert?” interjected the other brother.
“I can do that. But you hardly need the extra custom. It’s always full.”
“We want to go upmarket. More profit. We’re going to convert. You’ll see,” said the mopper.
“Okay, take a seat,” said the other, closing the till.
It was a greasy spoon. No doubt going upmarket would mean becoming a fashionable brunch bar. It was happening all over North West London.