They turned into Old Compton Street, to the corner where he’d started his long Soho odyssey so many hours, or was it days, ago. The scene was much the same as earlier, except that the shops and bars were closed and most of their doorways were occupied by the blanket-shrouded homeless. From the kitchens of the closed-down restaurants, ruffianly looking commis chefs and washers-up were emerging blinking into the half-dawn, like rats ascending from the sewers, before hurrying off, so James said, to lose their night’s earnings in the Chinese gambling clubs around Gerrard Street. A beggar asked for change. Following James’s lead, Alex ignored him. Giving handouts was not cool.
As they passed the narrow entry to Compton’s Yard, the home of Kemble’s Club, they heard a familiar sing-song voice: “… And in this humble little alley, ladies and gentlemen, was situated, until he was embraced by fame, the engraving shop of William Hogarth, renowned for his portrayals of London life such as The Rake’s Progress. This very yard, it has been suggested, may have been the inspiration for his Gin Alley …”
“His late late show,” explained James. “They come in on the long-haul red-eye, sleep all the way over then can’t sleep when they get here. He rounds them up in the hotel lobbies.”
Alex abruptly interrupted this dissertation: “Can you smell burning?”
“Chip-pan fire,” said James Flood, sniffing the air.
“Bollox. Nobody’s cooking chips at this timer night, not even in So-oh.”
Led by a tired-looking Len Gates, who was now delivering an on-the-hoof droning monologue about how Soho had once been the main centre for tapestry manufacture in the capital, and how Hogarth had taken one Joshua Morris, a craftsman, to the Court of Common Pleas for failing to pay for a tapestry he had commissioned, a crocodile of bleary-eyed Californians was shuffling out into Old Compton Street. In contra-flow to them, Alex and James drifted down into Compton’s Yard and yes, there was definitely a smell of burning.
There was Kemble’s Club, closed by now, and next to it a derelict building, possibly Hogarth’s old workshop, boarded up, half gutted, awaiting work to be done on it to transform it into what? Restaurant? Club? Bar? Coffee shop? Any or all of these things. And next to that was, oh, fook, he hadn’t noticed it the first time round — Eve’s Erotica. Adult video’s — book’s — mag’s. Sale or rent. Poppers. And if the shop wasn’t on fire, what was that flickering glow, visible through a half-open door, in the back basement?
“Sod me, hadn’t we better ring 999?”
“I shouldn’t think that’s necessary,” said James Flood uneasily.
“But it’s a fire brigade job is this, Jas! The whole blurry place’ll be going up in a minute!”
“You heard what your friend said, son. It won’t be necessary. Put your mobile away.”
Stephan Dance, a light camelhair overcoat draped over his shoulders and clutching a set of car keys, stood behind them. To both Alex’s and James’s surprise, he was accompanied by Detective Inspector Wills of the Clubs and Vice Squad.
“Told you there was a smell of burning, Stephan,” said the detective. “Good thing I bumped into you — a minute later and you’d have been vrooming off to Monk Wood St Mary’s in that white Roller of yours, and come back tomorrow to a smouldering ruin.”
“It’s only some rags and stuff in the back room, Benny. I’ll soon have it out. My own fault for smoking down there.”
“Doing your VAT returns, were you?”
“Something like that. Paperwork.”
“So, if it’s only rags and stuff, you won’t need to bother the insurance company, will you?”
“Shouldn’t think so, Benny, no.”
“Wouldn’t want you to lose your no-claims bonus, would we? Well, you’d better get that fire extinguisher out, Stephan, before it takes hold. You’ll be doing that, will you, Stephan?”
“On the case now, Benny, no probs. Seeya, Benny.”
“Seeya, Stephan.”
A petulant Stephan Dance let himself into the shop, where in a few moments he could be observed reluctantly sprinkling the blaze. Smiling inscrutably to himself, Detective Inspector Wills nodded to Alex and James and went on his way.
“If that wasn’t blurry arson, I don’t know what is,” muttered Alex as they too meandered out into Old Compton Street. “Why didn’t he nick the bugger?”
“Probably because the bugger’s more use to the Old Bill out of Wormwood Scrubs than in it,” said James Flood with a sagacity beyond his years.
Cleansed by a brief flurry of rain, Old Compton Street was quieter now, so that the sight of six waiters wearing ankle-length, Aubrey Beardsley-type white aprons, and each carrying a tin tray laden with a bottle of champagne and two glasses as they hurried — ran, almost — along the middle of the street, was even more surreal than it might otherwise have been.
“Rehearsal for the annual Waiters’ Race,” said James helpfully. “They have to go up Greek Street, round Soho Square, down Frith Street, along Romilly Street and finish up outside Kettner’s without spilling a drop.”
The rear of the peculiar procession was brought up by a plump, panting waiter who rattled metallically as he waddled along. A further explanation from the knowledgeable James: “Soup spoons. That’s the guy from Baldini’s who starts at Pizza Heaven in the morning. If you remember, the spoons are his dowry.”
“So I’m not seeing things after all,” said Alex in mock-relief. “What with all the booze I’ve taken on board today and being on the go for Christ knows how many hours, I thought for a minute it were a fookin mirage.”
And so to the flickering candlelight of the Blue Note, where pianist, drummer and bass were now joining the saxophonist and clarinettist on the little stage as Barry Chilton threaded his way through the tables with a bottle of wine.
“So where yow from, kid?” asked the friendly poet as he sat down. “Lydes? I’ve plyed a few gigs in Lydes.” Brummie, he was. Big bearded Brummie. Alex regarded him with some respect now that James had told him that, for a poet, Barry was quite famous. One of the Soho Poets, whoever they were. Been on The Brendan Barton Show, when Brendan Barton had a show to go on. Late-night BBC2 stuff. Did Sunday night gigs in pubs. But what he was best known for, it seemed, was a kind of English rap, which he did to a saxophone accompaniment. Alex wondered if he could persuade him to play the Metro studio theatre. Could be a feather in his cap, getting him up there. Best wait and see if he was any cop first, though.
A drumroll as the pianist, who doubled as MC, rose holding a stick microphone. “Lydies and gentlemen.” He too had a strong Black Country twang. “Welcome to the Blue Note, the club that put the zeds in jazz. The club that charges more to let you out than to let you in. Allow me to introduce our little group. You’ve heard of the Birmingham Six, this is the Birmingham Five. We’re on trial here tonight. If they find us guilty we have to go back to Brum …”
The banter continued, each quip punctuated by a drumbeat. Barry Chilton murmured that the man had filched most of his material from Ronnie Scott’s. Then after a few minutes the quintet began to play. It was stuff that was not familiar to Alex, bit modern it sounded, but they were good — not as good as the shit-hot pianist in the spade hat down in Gerry’s Club but worth a listen.