Troy sighed silently, began to work it out. He could not think that he owed Kitty anything, and her mum was not a viable instrument of emotional blackmail; she was simply a pleasant old woman in Stepney who’d invited the two of them to tea a couple of times last year, eyed him up and down as a potential husband and pronounced him ‘too posh’ as in ‘too posh, stick to your own kind Kitty’, but-he could backtrack, get Kolankiewicz to sign him off sick, make his apologies to Stan, take ten days while the wound healed, talk to this American, and if-what an if-he had a lead, follow it. He and the American might run circles round Nailer. It had that hint of satisfaction to it.
Kitty appeared over him, put a hand to his forehead.
‘You’re hot,’ she said.
‘I feel cold.’
She went upstairs, came back with a blanket and spread it over him.
‘Tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I can send him round tomorrow.’
‘You do that,’ he said. ‘Tonight’s not a good idea. Tomorrow. Not too early. Not before noon. Not before four. I’ll listen to his story. See what I can do.’
Kitty kissed him on the forehead, thought better of it and kissed him on the lips.
‘Oh, and not a word about you-know-what.’
And she did not even ask what had happened to him.
When she’d gone Kolankiewicz emerged from the kitchen, clutching a vodka bottle and a glass.
‘Good,’ said Troy. ‘I could do with a shot.’
‘Tough titty. Is for me. The idea that alcohol is good for the sick is a myth. It opens the blood vessels and hence lowers the body temperature, and with the blood you just lost that would not be good idea.’
‘But I feel hot.’
‘And two minutes ago you felt cold. QED. Now, you want to know what I think?’
‘Does it matter? You’re going to tell me anyway.’
‘I tell you what I tried to tell you this afternoon. If you going to stick nose into old Stinker’s death you should hear me out.’
‘I think I’m what you’d call a captive audience.’
‘You going to help the luscious Kitty, am I right?’
‘I don’t seem to have a choice.’
‘To find her father’s killer?’ ‘
Troy tried to shrug. It hurt too much so he said nothing.
‘Okey dokey. You will appreciate, death is my business. I see death every day.’
‘I’m not unfamiliar with the grim reaper myself. So could we get past the egg-sucking stage?’
‘When do you think I last saw two such deaths as these?’
‘Such deaths as what?’
‘The Dutchman, and then old Stinker.’
Troy craned his neck to get a better look at Kolankiewicz. It hurt too, but this was getting complicated. The look on Kolankiewicz’s face might just help.
‘Go on.’
‘Never in my years in the death business have I had two deaths quite so close together which you, in the force, are keen to ascribe to professional murder-let us say assassination.’
‘I’m really not following you. It may be blood loss, but you’ve lost me.’
‘Do you really think there are two such men on the loose? Two such assassins, even in wartime?’
‘I haven’t thought about it at all yet. But since you ask-what makes you think Walter was the victim of a professional hit?’
‘You heard Bob Churchill-a professional’s weapon, he said.’
‘A professional’s weapon but not necessarily a professional. As I recall, he made no comment on that possibility.’
‘I say again, Troy, do you really think there are two killers?’
‘I don’t know. But someone got the drop on the Dutchman. Sneaked up behind him and snapped his neck like a twig. Do you agree?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘No one got the drop on Walter. He was shot from the side. I’d even say he was turning to look at his attacker when the gun was fired. As though he was expecting someone. Whoever it was came up the alley was not the man he was expecting, but by the time he knew that it was too late. The man was within range and fired.’
‘You sure? That’s an awful lot of deduction.’
‘I had five minutes to look at the body before Nailer stormed in. I could draw you a picture.’
‘I never got to see old Stinker’s body. But if you going to chase this wild dog, I think you should consider the possibilities.’
Troy did not need to hear any more. It had been explicit in everything he’d heard while the American was under arrest, in everything Peter Dixon had told him, that the American and Stilton had been pursuing a man Cormack could not or would not name. Was he still in pursuit, had he abandoned his mysterious man-a German?-to find Walter’s killer? Or was he looking for two people now-whoever it was he was chasing and a murderer? Had it dawned on him that they might conceivably be one and the same person? Good God, what had Kitty let him in for? What had he let himself in for?
‘Did you see the report?’
‘No.’
‘Totally different MOs, of course. A world of difference between a hands-on killing and a shooting. Neither are for the squeamish, but I’ve always thought the former required nerves of steel and emotions scraped back to the bone. I could do with a look at Spilsbury’s report. Just to be certain I’m not wrong and that the shooting wasn’t to finish off a botched attempt. Can you nick me a copy?’
Kolankiewicz shrugged. ‘Easy peasy,’ he said. ‘Now, can I give you a hand up the stairs?’
§ 73
‘I’ve nothing to wear.’
‘You sound just like my sisters every time we get ready for a dance up West.’
‘No-I mean. My suit’s a write-off.’
Cal held up the sad sack that had once been his fifty-shilling suit.
‘Should have called laundry the minute you got in.’
‘The minute I got in all I wanted was a bath. And then you got in.’
‘Awright. Don’t get shirty.’
‘My shirt’s ruined too!’
‘Couldn’t you go out in your uniform?’
‘No, Kitty, that’s the last thing I can do.’
Kitty picked up the phone and asked for Stepney 315.
‘Vera. It’s me. I need you to do something, (pause) No-I’m at Claridge’s. (pause) No, I don’t see that that matters a toss. I’m not calling for an argy-bargy. I need something and I need it now. (pause) Of course I know you’re up to your… (pause) Yes, I’ll be back, (pause) Vera-for Christ’s sake, will you just bloody listen! Calvin has to see the police about Dad. He’s nothing to wear, (pause) No-don’t ask, it’d take too long. Just do it. Get that plain blue suit of Kev’s out of his wardrobe and bring it over, (pause) Well he’s not going to need it now is he? (pause) A clean white shirt an’ all. (pause) Then send Tel! I don’t care as long as somebody does it!’
‘I’ll swing for that silly tart one of these days. I swear I will.’
She turned to him.
‘Tel’ll be over in about half an hour.’
Tel arrived, a cigarette stuck to his bottom lip, a new swagger in his walk. The assumed posture of instant adulthood. The man of the family. He handed the suit to Cal, leant against the tallboy and flicked ash vaguely in the direction of an ashtray.
‘Wotcher sis.’
‘Wot do you think you’re playing at?’
Cal left them to it. Ducked into the bathroom and slipped on the suit. It was a far, far better cut than his old one. It could have been made for him. It had been made for Kevin Stilton. The label over the inside pocket was that of a Savile Row bespoke tailor. Kev and Trev had, literally, spent like sailors. He sat on the edge of the bath, slipped on his shoes and surveyed himself in the looking glass. The suit was perfection. The shoes were clean and buffed-Kitty had had the foresight to stick them outside the door before they turned in for the night. They’d come back gleaming. Gleaming but regulation US Army brown, and about as fitting for this suit as his last. Blue and brown, it would have to do.