Chapter 62
Petal, if that really was her name, walked quickly through the crowds on Piccadilly, not looking back. Cook kept his distance, but she was easy to follow, a bright pink scarf covering her hair.
The conversation with the manager had been going nowhere. They were clearly paranoid that some other crime syndicate was trying to get in on their turf. None of it interested Cook.
As he was leaving the hotel, he’d spotted the prostitute – slipping quietly out the side door, pausing to light a fag then fastening the scarf over her hair. The air of someone coming off a long shift.
As she approached the bus stop, Cook turned to look in a shop window.
It would be only natural for her to look back along the road, checking to see if a bus was coming.
But she didn’t turn, and she didn’t slow down.
She hurried past the bus stop, giving Cook hope that she was going somewhere within walking distance.
At Piccadilly Circus, she crossed over to the central island, past the boxed-up statue, then crossed again to Shaftesbury Avenue – even busier with foot traffic than Piccadilly, with queues of theatre-goers stretched out along the pavement.
Theatres had been shut when war had been declared, but there’d been complaints.
Presumably enough people high up in government enjoyed a night out to persuade the powers that be of the error of their ways.
So while Londoners were being advised to avoid gathering in crowds of more than ten, sitting in a packed two-thousand-seat auditorium was given the official blessing.
Cook passed under a hoarding for a Noel Coward comedy.
He could think of many things in life that merited risking death in a bombing raid.
Watching a Noel Coward play wasn’t one of them.
Cook pushed his way through a thick knot of sightseers and realised he couldn’t see Petal’s scarf.
If she had any sense she’d have taken it off.
An effective way of losing a pursuer, Cook mused.
If he was going to run a mob of criminals he’d bring it in as policy.
But as he reached a side road to the left, he saw her.
She was heading into the narrow streets and passages of Soho.
The crowds didn’t thin out – Soho was evidently as much a draw as the theatre district, but the people changed in character.
Where Shaftesbury Avenue had been respectable couples, smart officewear and light summer coats, laughing and sharing stories about the day in the office, Soho was different – crowds of servicemen, many who looked too young to be out of school, let alone wandering the streets of one of London’s seediest districts, single men, furtively looking in windows, women dressed like Petal – loud fabrics and expensively curled hair.
Cook passed a doorway and locked eyes with a bouncer.
Cook had spent enough time in places like this to be able to recognise the difference between men who were hired merely for their physical size, and men who were actually capable of violence.
The bouncer stared back, insolently, not a man Cook would choose to tangle with unless absolutely necessary.
Petal disappeared again – this time down a narrow footpath, open doorways on each side guarded by more bouncers.
She stopped at one of these doorways, and the bouncer stepped aside, giving her a nod.
Cook slowed, jazz music was coming from inside.
He kept walking and turned the corner at the end, finding himself in Soho Square.
Cook felt in his pockets, taking inventory.
He’d spent more than a year in Hong Kong, where it seemed like the whole island consisted of streets like the ones he’d just walked through.
He’d developed the habit of carrying a flick knife in one pocket, and a small revolver in the other.
Neither was enough if you ran out of luck, but you tended to run out of luck even quicker if you weren’t armed.
Those days were long behind him, but he still found himself patting his pockets out of instinct.
No weapons. But what he did have, of course, was the next best thing.
Money.
The doorman stood in front of Cook, arms hanging loosely by his sides.
His suit coat was a size too big, providing ease of movement if needed, and cover for a gun.
He had a bandage over his left eye, and the rest of his face was pockmarked with scabs from a recent injury.
He looked familiar, like a relative of the men who’d been sent to warn him off from the Empire.
Another brother, perhaps. How many were there?
Cook stood a respectful distance away, and tried to look like a tourist who wanted to listen to some jazz. Since he’d never wanted to listen to jazz, he didn’t quite know how to look, so he smiled.
‘How much to get in?’ Cook asked.
The doorman turned his head, like a bird, focusing his one good eye on Cook. He looked insulted by the question.
‘Entry’s free,’ the doorman said, ‘for the right kind of person.’ He looked Cook up and down, taking his time. ‘You’re not the right kind of person.’
‘Funny way to run a business,’ Cook said. ‘How do you make money if you don’t let people in?’
‘We get by,’ the doorman said. ‘But I’ll pass on your concern to management.’
‘How much to make me the right kind of person?’
The bouncer repeated his long examination of Cook.
‘A guinea.’
‘Crikey,’ Cook said, leaning into his country-mouse tourist persona. ‘I only want to have a drink. Don’t want to buy the place.’
The bouncer shrugged.
‘You want to come in, it’s a guinea. You don’t want to pay, don’t come in. All the same to me.’
Cook produced two guineas from his pocket. A week’s work for a labourer on his farm.
‘For your trouble,’ he said, handing over his coins. His generosity earnt him a silent nod from the bouncer, who stepped backwards to let Cook past.
‘No touching the girls,’ the bouncer said. ‘Don’t matter how much you tip, you touch the girls you’re in trouble.’
‘I’m just here for the music,’ Cook said.
‘Course you are.’
Cook climbed a steep, narrow staircase. Soft, sticky stair treads sloped to the left, as if the whole building had settled on one side. Jazz music got louder as Cook neared the top.
The jazz club was gloomy. Walls and ceiling painted black.
Blacked-out windows. Tables with flickering candles providing the only light.
A trio of musicians played something that featured a lot of drumming and trumpeting, as far as Cook could discern.
It wasn’t bad, he thought, not that he was an expert.
Most of the tables were taken, and most of the patrons were facing the stage.
Rather than watching the musicians, they were watching two women dancing in a state of considerable undress.
Cook stood at the bar and ordered a pint.
‘I’m looking for Ruby,’ Cook said to the barmaid. She looked confused.
‘Usually works the Empire,’ Cook explained.
But all this got him was a blank look.
A door opened at the far end of the space.
Petal looked out. She caught his eye and narrowed the door.
Cook left his beer on the bar and threaded his way around the tables, his eye on the door.
As he approached, it closed. Not an insurmountable obstacle, all things considered, but a clear message, made even clearer by a brass plate on the door:
no admittance
staff only
Cook turned the handle and opened the door. No Petal. Just a dark passage leading to more doors, the first of which showed light.
It was a dressing room for the dancing girls. Two young women sat at a make-up table.
‘I’m looking for Ruby,’ he said. The girls turned around.
‘Staff only back here,’ one of them said. She had a posh accent, like she’d gone to the right schools.
‘Tell me where she’s gone and I’ll be on my way,’ he said.
The woman sighed.
‘Mister Jones!’ she shouted.
She waited a second, until she heard heavy footsteps.
‘Sorry,’ she said to Cook.
‘Her mum wants to know she’s all right,’ Cook said. ‘Pass the message on.’
The dancer shook her head.
‘If Ruby was here, she wouldn’t be all right, by definition,’ she said. ‘But she’s not here. None of the girls go by that name.’
Heavy footsteps told Cook they were about to have company.
The dancer looked nervous. ‘Tell him you were looking for the toilets. Whatever you do, don’t make him angry.’
‘What happens to people who make him angry?’ Cook asked.
‘They end up in the river,’ a voice said, from behind Cook. A low voice, thick with gravel.
Mr Jones was a genteel-looking man. Expensive suit, well tailored but well worn. Elderly, in his seventies if he was a day. He looked familiar. An older version of the brothers at the hotel.
‘You’re the father,’ Cook said.
Mr Jones nodded. He seemed an agreeable sort. Someone Cook could reason with.
‘I’ve come from the Empire. Got a complaint about the service.’
Mr Jones raised his eyebrows.
‘And you are?’
‘I’m nobody,’ Cook said. ‘Looking for a girl. Seems like you’ve got the trade at the hotel sewn up, so you’ve probably seen her.’
Cook unfolded the picture, held it up to Mr Jones, who remained impassive. Cook passed it to the girls at the make-up station.’
‘I’ve seen her,’ the dancer said. ‘She’s a waitress at the Lyons.’
‘She’s been hanging around at the Empire,’ Cook said. ‘Maybe you saw her there.’
‘That’s right,’ the girl said. ‘She was having a barney with this spiv. New suit. Ginger hair. I reckon he was running some kind of scam and she sussed him out. He didn’t look too happy.’
Mr Jones smiled.
‘Happy to help,’ he said, holding out his hand to shake. ‘I hope you find your friend.’
They shook hands. The old man had a surprisingly firm grip. He put his other hand on top of Cook’s like some kind of blessing.
‘I think it’s best if you steer clear of the hotel from now on,’ he said. ‘Best for everyone.’