Fitzrovia Twilight (Nick Valentine Book 1) Page 3

  “I’ve had a long night, darling, and so have you, but I can’t sleep while your place is like this. You go to bed, I’m tidying then I’m going home to my place.”

  Nick gently placed an exploratory hand on her bare shoulder, but she smiled at him disarmingly then lifted his hand off, shaking her head.

  “Come on, darling, we’ve both had a long night. Afterwards we can tidy and talk. Figure out this Ramona thing…”

  “You’re unbelievable!” she exclaimed angrily. “Please let it go, Nick.”

  “Darling, I just want to–”

  “Nick, I love you, honey, but please. I have had a long night, I have another one tonight and I’m tired already of your questions, not to mention a friend of mine has been killed and now you try to get me in bed? Nick, please!” she exclaimed as he tried to hold her again. She spun and poked an accusing finger into his chest. She looked even more beautiful when angry, if that was possible. She threw down the things she had been holding and stalked to the chair where her dress lay. She wriggled it on and threw her coat over the top without doing the dress up. “I’m going. Tidy this place yourself.”

  “Clara…” Nick began, already regretting pushing too hard and igniting her short fuse. He should have known better, when she was tired, well.

  “I need some rest. I’ll call you later or see you tomorrow.”

  “Maybe I’ll come by the club tonight?” Nick said hopefully, but he saw her stiffen again.

  “No, Nick. That’s not a good idea.”

  “Why?”

  “Why? Because I know you and you’ll be watching me, and getting jealous and asking your stupid questions and putting everyone on edge. God, you are paranoid. Get some sleep and lay off the drink!” she spat crossing to the door.

  “I’ll see you later,” Nick said to the slamming door. He drained the remains of his tea then crossed to the bathroom and splashed some cold water on his face. Changing his shirt, he opened the airing cupboard and slipped his hand under the rim on the inside of the hot water tank, fishing out a small, weighted blackjack.

  “Time to go see Teddy Adamson,” Nick murmured to himself.

  Teddy Adamson turned out not to be a hard man to find. Nick had swung by the Coach and Horses in Soho and made enquiries that had led him to the Nellie Dean. Adamson was in the upstairs snug. A bloated slug of a man squeezed into an outdated pinstripe suit, Nick took an instant dislike to the man. Apart from the bored-looking barman there were a couple of old fellows talking quietly in the corner and a rangy looking youth playing snooker on table with a heavier set, older man, with a face as worn and battered as the table. The place smelt of stale beer and old smoke, which was hanging in wreaths in the sunlight filtering in through the grimy windows. Teddy was reading the paper, but for all his fat he looked less than cuddly. The two playing snooker eyeballed Nick as he walked to the bar but he ignored them and ordered a pint. The day had warmed up and he was thirsty. He sat at the small table opposite Teddy and set his pint down. The two guys playing snooker stopped and stared at him. Teddy slowly lowered his paper and looked at Nick with rheumy eyes above a red bulbous nose. His mouth seemed too small, embedded in the folds of fat that rolled over his collar and merged straight into his face without the need for a neck. Teddy glanced at the snooker players then back at Nick.

  “Can I help you?” his voice was surprisingly effeminate; he spoke with a slight lisp.

  “I’m hoping so. I hear you’re a man that can help out with monetary matters?”

  Teddy smiled and seemed to relax, flicking a fat paw at the men by the snooker table who then resumed their game.

  “Indeed, you were after some money, Mr…?”

  “Valentine. Perhaps. I’d like to know your terms of course?”

  “Of course,” Teddy folded his paper and leaned across the table. “I can lend you up to five hundred. You pay me back twenty percent within the first month then the full amount again plus ten percent over however long it takes to pay me back.”

  Nick let out a low whistle. “That’s pretty steep,” he observed.

  Teddy spread his hands. “I’m a business man. People come to me when they need me. I help them out. Everyone’s happy.”

  “What if I can’t make the payments?”

  “I’m a reasonable man. We can come to some arrangement as long as I am paid something. How much did you want, Mr Valentine?”

  “Did you come to an arrangement with Romana Cortez?”

  The fat man froze, his face turned into a snarl. “What is this?” His voice was raised; his men at the snooker table looked up and started towards the pair.

  “Romana got her brains blown out last night. I aim to find out why,” stated Nick coolly. He rocked back in his seat, hands in his pockets.

  “I don’t like questions, Mr Valentine. Show this man out, boys.”

  As the broken-nosed man moved in, Nick leapt up. His hand moved in a blur from his pocket and the man dropped, out stone-cold from the blackjack blow to the temple. The skinny boy hesitated. Nick slipped inside his raised arms in an instant, his knee driving into the boy’s solar plexus, doubling him over, the cosh to the back of the head sending him to the ground. Behind him the two old men scurried away downstairs.

  “Get out!” Nick commanded the barman. He stood over the fat man, who wiped a bead of perspiration from his forehead. The barman slipped away down the stairs.

  “I reckon I’ve got a couple of minutes before the police get here. I hope that’s long enough.”

  Teddy swallowed then yelped in pain as a hefty kick from Nick rammed into his chest, sending him sprawling to the floor atop his shattered chair.

  Nick smashed his pint glass and was on top of the man in an instant, the jagged edge of the glass held against the man’s face. Teddy squirmed on the floor, unable to move his bulk. He blinked as beer dripped from the shattered glass into his eye.

  “Now, are you going to tell me what I want or am I going to take your eye out?”

  Teddy whimpered and Nick noted the dark stain spreading on the front of his suit pants. He had him.

  “It wasn’t me! I didn’t kill her!”

  “I already figured that. What else?”

  “I…” He faltered.

  Nick nicked his face just below the eye with the glass and the man bellowed as a trickle of blood ran from the wound.

  “Someone paid her debt, with interest; said they would buy it off me,” he whimpered.

  “Who?”

  “A German man, blonde, forties. I only met him the once and he gave me the money.”

  “Why would he want control of Ramona’s loan?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe he wanted something from her.”

  With an effort, Nick pulled Teddy upright.

  “Any idea what?”

  Teddy shook his head, fear in his eyes. There was something the man wasn’t telling. Nick nodded and smiled then backhanded the man across the face with as much force as he could muster. Teddy howled and spat a tooth from his mouth.

  “Ramona, she’d got in with a government man, the army; promised her he was going to make her his wife, all that nonsense. It had got serious fast, that’s why she needed the money, to look the part at those high society balls. She told me about it herself.”

  “And?” Nick snarled, pushing his face into Teddy’s to intimidate him.

  “The German, maybe he wanted the loan to pressure her into getting information from the Brigadier?”

  “Brigadier? Brigadier who?”

  “I don’t know,” sobbed the man. “She never told me. I never asked.”

  “And you think the German was a spy?”

  “I don’t know, but he was fishy, cold, efficient. I’m only guessing.”

  Nick’s mind raced as he held the sobbing man upright.

  “Where can I find the German or the Brigadier?”

  “I don’t know about the German, but the Brigadier, Ramona told me she met him at The Blue Rose.” He smiled feebly, eag
er to please, nodding emphatically. Nick felt sick.

  “Thank you, you’ve been most helpful. One more thing.” Teddy nodded at him, wide-eyed. “You come after me, I even see you again, I’ll kill you.”

  His eyes widened further still and tears began to well in his eyes. Nick let him go and he fell back to the floor with a thump. As Nick walked down the stairs he could hear the fat man panting behind him as he lay on the floor. It looked like he would be going to The Blue Rose tonight after all.

  Nick had got some late lunch from an Italian sandwich bar on Greek Street and whiled away a good part of the afternoon tidying his apartment. The sun was already casting long shadows as he made his way across Tottenham Court Road and into Bloomsbury, where Clara had her flat in one of the red bricks that were mainly home to nurses and medical students. The rush hour was underway and people scurried home, their heads bowed from another day trying to cling onto whatever jobs they had. So much for the land fit for heroes. Nick sometimes thought it had been better before the war. He guessed a lot of widows felt that way, too.

  He wasn’t looking forward to this, but he didn’t want to bowl in cold tonight and he hoped Clara could give him at least some information if she wasn’t still too prickly. He hesitated for a moment and almost turned round before ringing the bell. The time it took her to come down and let him in gave him the space to wonder again why she had keys to his flat but he didn’t have any to hers. That was definitely a conversation for another time, though.

  She beamed at him as she opened the door, breath-taking in a long, black housecoat, her hair set in curls.

  “What a lovely surprise, Nick!” She kissed him passionately. “I’m so sorry about this morning, darling. The shock, I was tired, the news about Ramona. I’m sorry.” She led him upstairs to her immaculate flat. It smelt of violets and rose water. Nick wondered what his place smelt like. He’d never noticed. Probably not too good.

  “Forget it. I was badgering you.”

  She started to mix up a martini as he stood with his hands in his pockets.

  “So I thought maybe we could go for some dinner?”

  “Darling, that would be delightful.” Clara shook the cocktail shaker. “Where shall we go?”

  “I thought perhaps Elena’s?” Nick suggested.

  “That would be lovely.” She poured the drink and held out a glass to Nick. “Are we celebrating?”

  “No, just making up.”

  She planted a kiss on his cheek and he remembered why he loved her, for moments like this.

  “Perhaps we should squabble more often.”

  “Don’t get any ideas,” Nick warned mockingly.

  Clara wound the gramophone and slipped on a jazz number. Nick sat as it crackled away and Clara gently swayed to the crooning.

  “Perhaps I should skip work and we can make a night of it.”

  “I was thinking we could make a night of it at work.” As soon as the words were out, Nick could see he’d made a mistake. Her visage was as frosty as he’d seen it.

  “Do you think I’m stupid?” she hissed. “This is still about Ramona and those stupid questions from this morning isn’t it?”

  “No, I just thought–”

  “Please, spare me.” Clara held up her palm.

  “Clara, I–”

  She crossed the room and pushed her face close. He could smell her scent. She looked at him with pleading eyes. “Nick, please, no good will come of this, no good at all. Please just let it go.”

  “I will. I just need to set my own mind at rest on this.”

  “People die, Nick. People die all the time, especially in times like this, in backstreets and dirty little alleys, sheltering sordid little secrets, selling themselves out.”

  Nick was surprised by the sudden vehemence in her voice.

  “I’ve seen it, I want no part of it and no part of it for you.”

  “I can handle myself. I think you’re being a tad overdramatic.”

  Clara snorted and moved away. “You know who else told me she can handle herself? Everyone I ever met in the small hours of the night in every country I’ve ever been to. You know who told me it last before you? Ramona.” She stalked off towards the bedroom.

  “Okay, look, I’ll just come down tonight, look around, that’s it, I promise. The next time I come is purely for pleasure. Just tonight, baby?” he called out.

  “Do what you want,” came the muffled reply.

  “You need some help in there?”

  “No.”

  Nick shrugged and mixed up some more martinis, his feet tapping to the jazz.

  “One more thing: you ever heard of or seen an army guy in the joint? A Brigadier?”

  Clara stormed out of the bedroom, her bob now in glorious waves, a red and black silk dress streaming behind her, her pale eyes like icicles.

  “Get out!”

  “Clara–”

  “I don’t want you poking about in my workplace. I don’t want to get a call about you being found beaten in a gutter. Can’t you get that into your thick head?” She angrily swiped at the gramophone and the needle emitted a nerve-jangling screech as it skittered across the acetate. “Now go. I will see you tomorrow – perhaps.” She stared at him and he wilted in the onslaught.

  “What about dinner?” he asked feebly.

  “Dinner is off,” she replied coldly.

  He retrieved his greatcoat from the armchair and moved to kiss her but she turned her head.

  “Go home. Sleep. Let’s put this behind us and have a nice day tomorrow.” She gave a forced smile.

  “Sure,” he said resignedly.

  Nick walked slowly down the darkening street, shivering in the light drizzle that had started to fall. Carruthers had a lot to answer for. He sat in a pub watching the rain. He looked at his watch; The Blue Rose would be open. It was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 3

  A veil of watery fog clung to the London streets as Nick walked the short distance into Soho. He pulled his hat low and turned up his greatcoat collar in a vain attempt to keep out the gnawing damp that already had a chill edge, foretelling the oncoming winter. Times were hard and there were few people about as Nick traced his way through the backstreets, avoiding the bustle of Tottenham Court Road with its buses and sporadic traffic.

  The lamps still burned along Oxford Street, gaslights throwing a dull glow through the mist, but most of the shops stood in darkness. He stepped out after a tram rattled past, grinding its way towards the suburbs with an almost empty cargo. The workers and shoppers had gone and the pub roll-out was still to happen, so it was almost eerily quiet as he headed down Dean Street towards a black painted doorway nestled near the streets top end. Pools of warm lights spilt out from pubs along the street into the darkness ahead of him and outside the doorway he could see a familiar thickset figure lounging against the wall. The man nodded at Nick and opened the door, allowing Nick to step into the almost choking embrace of warmth and cigarette smoke. The door clicked softly shut behind him.

  “Hi, Nick,” beamed the coat check girl from behind the small counter.

  “Hi. Busy tonight?”

  The girl shrugged. “The usual.”

  Nick nodded and checked in his coat and hat, already loosening his tie as the heat rose up the narrow stairs in moist waves, heavy with tobacco and perfume. Even up here Nick could hear the shouted chatter above the swing band. He paused. Clara was going to give him hell. He just hoped it would be worth it.

  His knee creaked as his negotiated the steep stairs, protesting about the change from cold to hot, or maybe the walking, or the late nights, or all of it. Another heavyset man in a dickie bow and monkey suit gave Nick the nod as he came past the foot of the stairs and into the minute space that served as the bar. He had to squint, his eyes already stinging as they adjusted to the gloomy light and the layers of smoke hanging in the air. He stood and surveyed the room, sparking up his own cigarette. A couple of bored-looking broads sat at the bar and there wa
s a group of men talking animatedly around a small table near the entrance. Nick crossed to the bar and peered down the length of the club. The red and black décor only made it darker than it already was. At small tables round the edge of an open space, small table lamps threw the only red glow into the room, save the lights on the tiny stage the five-piece were currently hanging off. The Blue Rose was little more than a basement running underneath Dean Street – dark, gloomy and above all, small. Everything in The Blue Rose was small, except the drinks and the opening hours. The place only started to swing after the pubs had closed and it didn’t stop until the rest of the city awoke. Since the crash it hadn’t been as busy as the wild post-war days, but it was still wild; you just had to catch it at the right time. People still wanted to have fun, or maybe they were just trying to forget their troubles; maybe that’s what it had always been about. No one ever talked about the war. Even as Nick thought about it, he pushed it away and rubbed a hand through his hair. He could feel the fatigue creeping up on him again.

  He couldn’t see Clara, but she was probably out back in the dressing room. He felt a surge of relief and ordered Scotch on the rocks. Nick leaned against the bar and surveyed the room. He noticed a few of the same old faces. He hadn’t been here in weeks, but it was like some of these people had never moved. It was as if life stood still in here, cocooned from outside. The same thumping jazz, inane conversations, cloying mineshaft air and uncomfortable sticky skin. It sickened him, yet at the same time he knew he would miss it if it wasn’t there. Soho was like a disease; once you caught it you could never shake it off, no matter how much you hated it, it would always be part of you. He ordered another and focussed on a couple of men in the far corner near the stage. Their suits had a continental cut. The older man had blonde, centre-parted hair, looked tall and slim. If Nick had had to guess, he’d say German. He looked serious and was in animated but hushed conversation with a shorter, swarthy man who Nick could tell was Italian, more from the wild hand gestures as he talked than the overly showy suit and tie combo he sported. His black hair was balding, swept back and he had a small, black moustache. Nick noted that he kept throwing sly glances at a table opposite and a few rows back. A man sat ramrod straight in his chair, looking familiar with, but not relaxed with the surroundings. He was older, short brown hair, a moustache and a Saville Row suit. His bearing told Nick that he was an army man; he had that same rigid confidence of entitlement etched into his posture that Nick had known to recognise and to hate. Surely, this was the Brigadier?