Past Reason Hated

On the stage, gyrating and chewing gum at the same time to a song that seemed to be called ‘I Want Your Sex’, was a young black woman dressed only in a white G-string. She looked in good shape: strong thighs, flat, taut stomach and firm breasts. Perhaps she really wanted to be a dancer. Some girls on the circuit did. When she wasn’t dancing like this to earn a living, Banks thought, she was probably working out on a Nautilus machine or doing ballet exercises in a pink tutu in a studio in Bloomsbury.

Watching the action and thinking his thoughts in the hot and smoky club, Banks felt a surge of the old excitement, the adrenaline. It was good to be back, to be here, where anything could happen. Most of the time his job was routine, but he had to admit to himself that part of its appeal lay in those rare moments out on the edge, never far from trouble or danger, where you could smell evil getting closer and closer.

The lager tasted like piss. Cat’s piss, at that. Banks shoved it aside and lit a cigarette. That helped.

‘Can I get you anything more, sir?’ the barmaid asked. He was sitting and she was standing, which somehow put her exquisitely manufactured breasts at Banks’s eye level. He shifted his gaze from the goosebumps around her chocolate-coloured nipples to her eyes. He felt his cheek burn and, if he cared to admit it, more than just that.

‘No,’ he said, his mouth dry. ‘I haven’t finished this one yet.’

She smiled. Her teeth were good. ‘I know. But people often don’t. They tell me it tastes like cat’s piss and ask for a real drink.’

‘How much does a real drink cost?’

She told him.

‘Forget it. I’m here on business. Tuffy in?’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Who are you? You ain’t law, are you?’

Banks shook his head. ‘Not down here, no. Just tell him Mr Banks wants to see him, will you, love?’

Banks watched her pick up a phone at the back of the bar. It took no more than a few seconds.

‘He said to go through.’ She seemed surprised by the instruction and looked at Banks in a new light. Clearly, anyone who got in to see the boss that easily had to be a somebody. ‘It’s down past the-’

‘I know where it is, love.’ Banks slid off the bar stool and threaded his way past tables of drooling punters to the fire door at the back of the club. Beyond the door was a brightly lit corridor, and at the end was an office door. In front stood two giants. Banks didn’t recognize either of them. Turnover in hired muscle was about as fast as that in young female flesh. Both looked in their late twenties, and both had clearly boxed. Judging by the state of their noses, neither had won many bouts; still, they could make mincemeat of Banks with their hands tied behind their backs, unless his speed and slipperiness gave him an edge. He felt a tremor of fear as he neared them, but nothing happened. They stood back like hotel doormen and opened the door for him. One smiled and showed the empty spaces of his failed vocation.

In the office, with its scratched desk, threadbare carpet, telephone, pin-ups on the wall and institutional green filing cabinets, sat Tuffy Telfer himself. About sixty now, he was fat, bald and rubicund, with a birthmark the shape of a teardrop at one side of his fleshy red nose. His eyes were hooded and wary, lizard-like, and they were the one feature that didn’t seem to fit the rest of him. They looked more as if they belonged to some sexy Hollywood star of the forties or fifties – Victor Mature, perhaps, or Leslie Howard – rather than an ugly, ageing gangster.

Tuffy was one of the few remaining old-fashioned British gangsters. He had worked his way up from vandalism and burglary as a juvenile, through fencing, refitting stolen cars and pimping to get to the dizzy heights he occupied today. The only good things Banks knew about him were that he loved his wife, a peroxide ex-stripper called Mirabelle, and that he never had anything to do with drugs. As a pimp, he had been one of the few not to get his girls hooked. Still, it was no reason to get sentimental over the bastard. He’d had one of his girls splashed with acid for trying to turn him in, though nobody could prove it, and there were plenty of women old before their time thanks to Tuffy Telfer. Banks had been the bane of his existence for about three months many years ago. The evil old sod hadn’t been able to make a move without Banks getting there first. The police had never got enough evidence to arrest Tuffy himself, though Banks had managed to put one or two of his minions away for long stretches.

‘Well, well, well,’ said Tuffy in the East-End accent he usually put on for the punters. He had actually been raised by a meek middle-class family in Wood Green, but few people other than the police knew that. ‘If it ain’t Inspector Banks.’

‘Chief Inspector now, Tuffy.’

‘I always thought you’d go far, son. Sit down, sit down. A drink?’ The only classy piece of furniture in the entire room was a well-stocked cocktail cabinet.

‘A real drink?’

‘Wha’? Oh, I get it.’ Telfer laughed. ‘Been sampling the lager downstairs, eh? Yeah, a real drink.’

‘I’ll have a Scotch then. Mind if I smoke?’

Telfer laughed again. ‘Go ahead. Can’t indulge no more myself.’ He tapped his chest. ‘Quack says it’s bad for the ticker. But I’ll get enough second-hand smoke ru

Tuffy was hamming it up, as usual. He didn’t have to be here to run the Hole-in-the-Wall; he had underlings who could do that for him. Nor was he so poor he had to sit in such a poky office night after night. The club was just a minor outpost of Tuffy’s empire, and nobody, not even vice, knew where all its colonies were. He had a house in Belgravia and owned property all over the city. He also mixed with the rich and famous. But every Friday and Saturday night he chose to come and sit here, just like in the old days, to run his club. It was part of his image, part of the sentimentality of organized crime.

‘Making ends meet?’ Banks asked.

‘Just. Times is hard, very hard.’ One of the musclemen put Banks’s drink – a generous helping – on the desk in front of him. ‘But what can I say?’ Tuffy went on. ‘I get by. What you been up to?’

‘Moved up north. Yorkshire.’

Tuffy raised his eyebrows. ‘Bit drastic, in’it?’

‘I like it fine.’

‘Whatever suits.’

‘Not having a glass yourself?’

Tuffy sniffed. ‘Doctor’s orders. I’m a sick man, Mr Banks. Old Tuffy’s not long for this world, and there’ll not be many to mourn his passing, I can tell you that. Except for the nearest and dearest, bless her heart.’

‘How is Mirabelle?’

‘She’s hale and hearty. Thank you for asking, Mr Banks. Remembers you fondly, does my Mirabelle. Wish I could say the same myself.’ There was humour in his voice, but hardness in his hooded eyes. Banks heard one of the bruisers shift from foot to foot behind him and a shiver went up his spine. ‘What can I do you for?’ Tuffy asked.

‘Information.’

Tuffy said nothing, just sat staring. Banks sipped some Scotch and cast around for an ashtray. Suddenly, one appeared from behind his shoulder, as if by magic. He set it in front of him.

‘A few years ago you had a dancer working the club, name of Caroline Hartley. Remember her?’

‘What if I do?’ Telfer’s expression betrayed no emotion.

‘She’s dead. Murdered.’

‘What’s it got to do with me?’

‘You tell me, Tuffy.’

Telfer stared at Banks for a moment, then laughed. ‘Know how many girls we get passing through here?’ he said.

‘A fair number, I’ll bet.’

‘A fair number indeed. These punters are constantly demanding fresh meat. See the same dancer twice they think they’ve been had. And you’re talking how many years ago?’

‘Six or seven.’

Telfer rested his pale, pudgy hands on the blotter. Well, you can see my point then, can’t you?’