London Noir - [Anthology] Read online

  They both asked for coffee and I went out back and put the kettle on. Whilst it was boiling I spooned coffee powder into three mugs and took the sugar bowl and put it on the edge of my desk. ‘Milk?’ I asked. They both nodded, and I went out back again, splashed milk into the mugs and when the kettle boiled, filled them.

  I passed round the drinks and sat back in my own seat and said, ‘Tell me about it.’

  Douglas Himes started the story.

  ‘Jimmy, that’s our son’s name, left school last year. He was sixteen, and he’d been wasting his time there for years. He was never very academic. Not that I cared. Neither was I, and I did all right. I offered him a job in my business. I own a firm that wholesales motor spares around Manchester. Business isn’t bad. It wasn’t what it was a couple of years ago, but what business is? But at least we’re keeping our heads above water. There aren’t many other jobs to be had up there right now. None in fact. This damned recession. But Jimmy didn’t want to know.’

  ‘He just lay around the house all day. He couldn’t get the dole because he wouldn’t take a training scheme. So we gave him money,’ interrupted Mona Himes.

  ‘Then one day just after last Christmas, he told us he was going to London,’ Douglas Himes went on. ‘Just like that. We tried to stop him, but what could we do? You know what kids are like these days.’

  I do as it happens, if only from a distance, and I nodded and took out my cigarettes. ‘Do you mind?’ I said to Mona. She shook her head and I offered the packet to the pair of them, and Douglas Himes took one. I pushed the ashtray in his direction and flicked my ash into the waste paper basket next to my chair.

  When Himes’ cigarette was fired up to his satisfaction with a gold lighter he took from the pocket of his jacket, he continued his story.

  ‘We begged and pleaded with him not to go. He knew no one down here, but he wouldn’t listen. Eventually I gave him a couple of hundred pounds so that at least he could get somewhere decent to stay, and he left. I told him if he was short to let me know. I couldn’t see him down here with no funds. You read such terrible things.’

  I nodded. ‘And you haven’t seen him since?’ I asked. You weren’t exactly in a rush to find him, I thought.

  ‘Oh yes,’ said Mona Himes. ‘He kept in touch. Regularly. He’d phone at least once a week. He even came home in the summer for a couple of weeks. He had money to burn then. But. . .’

  ‘But what.’ I asked.

  ‘He’d changed. He was always a very private boy, but when he came home he was worse. He wouldn’t let me into his room, and even though it was hot, he always wore a long-sleeved shirt. Then one day I walked in on him whilst he was having a wash in the bathroom. I was looking for dirty towels. He went mad. And his arms . . .’

  She hesitated. ‘What about them?’ I asked, although I thought I could guess.

  ‘They were bruised. Badly. And worse than that they were covered in little bloody holes. It was horrible.’

  Track marks. Just as I had thought.

  ‘Did he take drugs before he left home?’ I asked.

  ‘Not that we knew of,’ said Himes. ‘Though he might have.’

  ‘And you said he had a lot of money?’ I asked.

  They both nodded. ‘Hundreds,’ said Himes. ‘He even tried to give us back the money we’d lent him, although we wouldn’t take it.’

  ‘He said he had a job in a restaurant as a waiter and got lots of tips,’ said his wife.

  ‘Any idea which restaurant?’ I asked.

  ‘No. He didn’t say.’

  ‘And why are you worried about him now?’

  ‘He said he’d come home for Christmas. He told us he’d come up last weekend. When we hadn’t heard from him by Monday we started to get worried. We’d never had a phone number for him. He always called us. We kept asking, but he told us he didn’t want us phoning him. He rang us last, last Thursday. Said he’d be up on Sunday at the very latest. That the restaurant was very busy.’

  But not so busy that they’d let one of their staff have a protracted Christmas holiday. I thought not.

  ‘Did you have an address for him down here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Himes. ‘He said he had a room at a house in King’s Cross. At least he gave us his address. We went round there today but it was awful. Full of the strangest people having a party.’

  ‘A rave they called it,’ said Mona.

  ‘And he wasn’t there?’

  ‘We couldn’t get any sense out of any of them,’ said Himes. ‘They were all drugged up.’

  ‘It was a horrible place,’ said Mona. ‘Filthy. No curtains. No carpets. Nothing. Just a lot of children running wild.’

  I nodded again.

  ‘Will you try and find him?’ said Mona. ‘We’ve read about you in the papers. They say you always do your best.’

  My fame had obviously spread far and wide. ‘What about the police?’ I asked. ‘Have you been to them?’

  ‘They took down his name and that was about all. They suggested we tried the Salvation Army. No. I’m sorry. The police were no use at all.’

  ‘They’re busy people,’ I said. ‘Especially at this time of the year.’

  ‘But he’s our son,’ said Mona. ‘Please say you’ll help.’

  I didn’t want the job. The last thing I wanted to do was schlepp around London during Christmas week looking for some seventeen-year-old junkie. Not with all the once-a-year drinkers out. The half pint and small sherry merchants in their dodgy suits pretending to be full of good cheer. Taking a break from the missus and trying to get some half-pissed secretary to give them a blow job in a back alley. Oh l’amour.

  ‘Please,’ she said again, and reached into her handbag for a tissue. I looked into her tear-filled eyes and relented. ‘I’ll try,’ I said. ‘Do you have a photograph of him?’

  She reached into her handbag again and brought out one of those Kodak paper folders that bulged with photographs. She handled it as if it was a religious object. Maybe it was to her. I know that if my daughter went missing, photos of her would be to me. She opened it and passed me the top photograph.

  ‘That was taken on holiday in Ibiza two years ago when Jimmy was fifteen,’ she said. ‘It’s a very good likeness.’

  I put the photo on the desk in front of me and looked at it closely.

  It was a study of a boy from the waist upwards dressed in a green vest holding a can of Lucozade. He was handsome, tanned, had shaggy blonde hair and looked no more than twelve years old. The flash had reflected in his eyes and gave them a reddish tint.

  ‘Fifteen,’ I said. ‘He looks younger.’

  ‘He always has,’ said his father.

  ‘Can I look at the rest?’ I asked.

  Mona Himes passed over the packet, somewhat reluctantly I thought.

  I flipped through them. It was a microcosm of Jimmy Himes’ life from day one. It was one of the saddest things I’d ever seen, and I’ve seen some.

  I pulled out another couple of more recent pictures and carefully returned the rest to the folder and passed it back.

  ‘I’d like to keep these,’ I said. ‘For now. I’ll make sure you get them back.’

  Her sense of relief was almost palpable.

  ‘How much do you charge?’ asked Douglas Himes.

  ‘Two hundred a day plus expenses.’

  It didn’t seem to worry him. The motor spares business must have been better than he’d let on. He pulled a cheque book and pen from inside his leather jacket. ‘I’ll give you a cheque for five hundred to be going on with,’ he said. ‘Is that OK?’

  I nodded. ‘Are you staying in London?’ I asked as he wrote.

  Mona Himes nodded. ‘At Selfridge’s Hotel.’

  ‘Have you got a car with you?’ It was just something to break the silence really.

  She nodded again. ‘But we left it parked. We don’t know our way round London. We’ve been taking buses and cabs. ‘We walked around for hours looking for you. That’
s why we got so wet.’

  ‘There’s a minicab firm next door,’ I told her. ‘They’re all right. They’ll get you back up West. How long do you plan on staying?’

  ‘Until you find Jimmy,’ said Douglas Himes as he tore the cheque out of the book.

  ‘I’ll do my best,’ I said. ‘Will you write down the address in King’s Cross?’ and I pushed a notepad in front of him. He scribbled down the information and pushed the notepad back.

  That seemed to be about it for then. I helped Mona Himes back into her expensive coat and the pair of them went to get a taxi.

  I passed on the pub and took a bottle of white plonk home to drink with my fish and chips. I watched TV for a bit then went to bed. I intended to be up early the next morning to begin my search for Jimmy Himes.

  * * * *

  I reached King’s Cross at ten. If this place was a squat like I guessed, any earlier would have been a waste of time. Squatters aren’t exactly noted for early rising. I was dressed in my battered old leather jacket, jeans, artfully worn at the knees, and a pair of DMs with steel toe caps. Before I’d left home I’d stripped, cleaned and loaded my illegal .38 special Colt Cobra revolver and dropped it into one of my jacket pockets. You never know who you’re going to meet in that part of town. Especially if you’re asking questions that people don’t want to answer. And besides, not everyone in the rave culture was all loved up. Just the opposite as I’d discovered before.

  In the other pocket I put the photos of Jimmy Himes in a white envelope. I didn’t want to crease them before I gave them back to his mother. And finally in the back pocket of my jeans I put two hundred and fifty quid in ten pound notes from a secret stash that I keep at home in case of emergencies. I figured that before the day was out I might have to grease some palms.

  The previous night’s rain had stopped, but the clouds were still dark and angry and hung over London like they’d never let go.

  I parked my E-type on a meter just round the corner from the address that Douglas Himes had given me and finished the journey on foot.

  The house I was looking for was a tall, mid-terraced monstrosity round the back of the station. It had seen far better days, but then who hadn’t?

  The bay window on the ground floor front was half boarded up, and the door that stood at the top of three filthy stone steps was no stranger to blunt instruments. I listened carefully and there was no sound from inside. Obviously yesterday’s rave had reached its logical conclusion. There was no bell push by the splintered frame, just two old bare wires that did nothing when I touched them together. I gave the door a hammer with my fist and felt it give almost an inch in the jamb. There was no answer, and I hammered again. Once again no one paid the slightest bit of attention, and I pulled my credit card case from my pocket and chose one of the cards that was out of date and loaded the door. It took less than ten seconds. I slowly eased the door open and peered into the dark and deserted hall. Inside all was serene and I slipped in and pulled the door closed behind me. The hall was freezing and smelt of cat’s piss. There was a door on the right. I tried it. The room with the bay window was empty except for about three hundred beer and soft drink cans, cigarette ends, roaches, and two big, battered hi-fi speakers in one corner.

  I went further down the hall and came to another door. I tried that one too and it opened into a bedroom. Not the honeymoon suite at the Savoy, but a bedroom nevertheless.

  The walls and window were hung with old tapestry curtains, in one corner was a battered chest of drawers that held an ancient black and white TV and a tray covered with loose cigarette papers, shreds of tobacco, stripped cigarettes, small lumps of dope, and minicab firms’ advertising cards, some whole, some torn. Beside the tray was a packet of clean hypodermic needles amongst a litter of used spikes, burnt spoons, night light candles, silver foil, and an empty glassine packet with just a trace of golden brown powder sticking to the sides. Against one wall was an old radiogram that looked as if it had come from a skip, next to a pile of records. Clothes were scattered everywhere. On a double mattress with no box springs, under a pile of dirty blankets and a stained duvet two people were asleep.

  I went over and looked down at them. On the bare pillows I could just make out that one was male, the other female, although their hair was of equal length. I went to the window and pulled the curtain that covered it across the piece of string that held it up, then went back to the bed and kicked the edge of the mattress hard.

  The female opened her eyes and looked up into mine. ‘Morning,’ I said. ‘Full English or continental?’

  Her eyes were glazed and I might as well have not bothered. She focused on my face and looked around as if she wasn’t sure where she was.

  ‘Who are you?’ she said.

  I ignored the question. What was the point? She was probably on re-entry from orbit and my name would mean nothing to her. Often it meant nothing to me.

  ‘I’m looking for Jimmy Himes,’ I said.

  ‘Who? What the fuck are you doing here?’

  I told her again, and she shook the still form next to her until he grunted into life. ‘Matt,’ she said, ‘there’s someone here.’

  I just knew this day was going to end in tears.

  The man sat up, pulling the blankets off his girlfriend’s bare breasts. They were thin and long with puckered brown nipples and she didn’t try to cover them. I wished that she would. He was about twenty-five, skinny, with tracks on both arms.

  ‘I don’t want any trouble,’ I said. ‘I’m sorry to burst in, but the front door was open.’

  A white lie. But forgivable under the circumstances, I thought. Although I might as well have saved my breath.

  ‘Are you the filth?’ demanded Matt, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

  People are always asking me that. ‘No.’ I said.

  ‘Then what the fuck do you want?’ He said.

  I repeated myself for the second time.

  ‘Never heard of him,’ he said. ‘Fuck off.’

  I ignored him. He was probably used to it. ‘I’ve got some photos,’ I said, and took out the envelope, opened it and pulled out one. I hunkered down on my heels, and showed it to them.

  ‘Don’t know him,’ said Matt. ‘Now fuck off or . . .’

  ‘Don’t Matt,’ I said tiredly. ‘You’re out of your class.’ Which was probably the wrong thing to say in front of his inamorata.

  ‘I’ll . . .’ he said, beginning to push back the covers and get at me.

  I didn’t want to see any more of his skinny body and shoved him back flat on the mattress. ‘I said don’t,’ I said.

  He lay there and I could smell his breath. I’ve smelled more pleasant things, believe me. I held up the photo again and said. ‘Are you sure you haven’t seen this boy? His name’s Jimmy. Think about it.’

  ‘Maybe,’ said the woman.

  ‘That’s better,’ I said, and eased the pressure off Matt’s narrow chest. ‘Where? Here?’

  ‘He used to score sometimes.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Where we do.’

  ‘Jill,’ said Matt, and I increased the pressure on his chest again, until he shut up.

  ‘What does he supply?’

  ‘Everything. Dope. Smack. Coke. Uppers. Downers. Es. Speed. The lot.’

  ‘Where is he?’ I asked.

  ‘How much is it worth?’

  Now we were getting there.

  ‘Jill,’ said Matt again. ‘You don’t know who this geezer is.’

  ‘What does it matter?’ said Jill. ‘That cunt’s always shorting us. Serves him right if this bloke does him. How much?’ to me again.

  ‘A tenner.’

  ‘Bollocks. Fifty.’

  I wasn’t going to argue. If she was lying I could always come back. And do what? Shit. It wasn’t my money. If she was lying I’d just tell Himes and let him put a bit extra on the price of his spark plugs.

  I stood up and took out my money. I wasn’t worried about letting them s
ee it. I peeled off five tens and held them up. ‘Give.’ I said.

  ‘He lives upstairs. Handy like,’ said Jill. ‘First floor at the front. His name’s Derek. White bloke with dreads. He’s probably there now.’

  ‘Thanks Jill,’ I said, and dropped the money onto the bed where she grabbed it and stuffed it under her pillow.

  ‘Don’t tell him it was us told you,’ said Matt. ‘We’ve got to live here.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ I said, and turned to leave.