kids. Say cheese. ‘There’s my ball and chain over there.’
Vince glanced over at the photograph. ‘Nice,’ was all he could come up with for the fat smiling faces in the frame.
‘Jack had a bird he was keen on. A right eyeful, as it happens – not bad at all. A real looker, if you like that type of thing.’
Vince glanced around at Machin. ‘What type of thing?’
‘Slim ones, not a lot of meat on ’em, like a Jean Shrimpton or a Cathy McGowan.’ Machin shook his head in mild disgust at the prospect of having his way with either the international model or the Zeitgeist pop-show presenter and self-styled Queen of Carnaby Street. ‘No, son, give me a Mansfield, a Russell or even a Dors any day of the week.’ Machin cupped and jiggled both his hands in front of him, as if weighing up some imaginary breasts he’d just sprouted. ‘Real birds, I mean. Something you can hang your hat on.’
Vince smiled, knowing that Shirley the barmaid, with her tits spilling out of her blouse, was more the ideal ticket than Jayne Mansfield, Jane Russell or even Diana Dors.
‘What’s her story, then?’ asked Vince.
‘She runs one of Jack’s clubs in Oriental Place,’ Machin said. ‘Place called the Blue Orchid. We had her followed for a couple of weeks, but nothing came of it.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Bobbie LaVita.’
‘Bobbie … LaVita ?’
Machin gave a bemused shrug. ‘You know this town. Here everyone’s a character.’
Vince repeated the name under his breath, pondering it. ‘LaVita. La … vita. The … life.’
‘The what?’
‘LaVita is Italian for “The Life”.’
Just then, the door swung open, and Ginge swung in along with it.
‘Don’t you ever bleedin’ knock?’ Machin asked him sharply. He didn’t like getting caught having a snifter at only four in the afternoon.
‘Sorry, guv,’ said Ginge. He then turned to Vince. ‘You’ve got a call from a Mr Ray Dryden.’
‘Thanks.’ Vince stood up.
‘You can take it in here,’ offered Machin.
‘It’s OK. You’re busy so I’ll leave you to it,’ he replied, wanting privacy for this particular call.
‘I’ll sort you out a desk later,’ said Machin.
Vince gave him an appreciative nod and followed Ginge out the door.
Machin cleared up the evidence of booze by simply knocking it back. He then slumped into the chair that Vince had vacated, gazed at the family portrait and smiled. Then he wondered if he’d get to charver Shirley again tonight.
Ray Dryden had joined the Met along with Vince as part of the new fast-track graduate intake, and they soon became close friends. Ray read Modern Languages at university, but got caught up in detective novels and decided that was the life for him. He was smart, though not really up to the physical side of things. To make up, he had tons of enthusiasm and knew his way around research libraries, halls of records and drawers of press clippings. He was good with names, dates, paper trails, piecing data together and thumb-tacking it on to a cork board and, to his credit, getting results. A year ago, Ray had joined the small team that ran the London bureau of Interpol.
Vince’s hunch, like everyone else’s, was that Jack was somewhere out of the country. Jack Regent’s Corsican connection was too strong to ignore, therefore Interpol had been put on alert. Vince had put in a call to Ray as soon as he was thrown the case.
‘What do you say, Ray?’
‘Why the sudden air of secrecy? You don’t trust our Brighton brethren?’
‘London, Brighton – all the same to me.’
‘The Eddie Tobin situation?’
‘It’s still a bad beef.’
‘Don’t let it get you down, Vince. It’ll blow over, you’ll see.’
‘I don’t want it to blow over, Ray. I saw a girl getting killed up on that screen.’
‘Girls get killed on the screen all the time, Vince. They call them actresses.’
‘This wasn’t acting. This was for real, and I’m going to prove it.’
‘Did you
Vince glanced over at the photograph. ‘Nice,’ was all he could come up with for the fat smiling faces in the frame.
‘Jack had a bird he was keen on. A right eyeful, as it happens – not bad at all. A real looker, if you like that type of thing.’
Vince glanced around at Machin. ‘What type of thing?’
‘Slim ones, not a lot of meat on ’em, like a Jean Shrimpton or a Cathy McGowan.’ Machin shook his head in mild disgust at the prospect of having his way with either the international model or the Zeitgeist pop-show presenter and self-styled Queen of Carnaby Street. ‘No, son, give me a Mansfield, a Russell or even a Dors any day of the week.’ Machin cupped and jiggled both his hands in front of him, as if weighing up some imaginary breasts he’d just sprouted. ‘Real birds, I mean. Something you can hang your hat on.’
Vince smiled, knowing that Shirley the barmaid, with her tits spilling out of her blouse, was more the ideal ticket than Jayne Mansfield, Jane Russell or even Diana Dors.
‘What’s her story, then?’ asked Vince.
‘She runs one of Jack’s clubs in Oriental Place,’ Machin said. ‘Place called the Blue Orchid. We had her followed for a couple of weeks, but nothing came of it.’
‘What’s her name?’
‘Bobbie LaVita.’
‘Bobbie … LaVita ?’
Machin gave a bemused shrug. ‘You know this town. Here everyone’s a character.’
Vince repeated the name under his breath, pondering it. ‘LaVita. La … vita. The … life.’
‘The what?’
‘LaVita is Italian for “The Life”.’
Just then, the door swung open, and Ginge swung in along with it.
‘Don’t you ever bleedin’ knock?’ Machin asked him sharply. He didn’t like getting caught having a snifter at only four in the afternoon.
‘Sorry, guv,’ said Ginge. He then turned to Vince. ‘You’ve got a call from a Mr Ray Dryden.’
‘Thanks.’ Vince stood up.
‘You can take it in here,’ offered Machin.
‘It’s OK. You’re busy so I’ll leave you to it,’ he replied, wanting privacy for this particular call.
‘I’ll sort you out a desk later,’ said Machin.
Vince gave him an appreciative nod and followed Ginge out the door.
Machin cleared up the evidence of booze by simply knocking it back. He then slumped into the chair that Vince had vacated, gazed at the family portrait and smiled. Then he wondered if he’d get to charver Shirley again tonight.
Ray Dryden had joined the Met along with Vince as part of the new fast-track graduate intake, and they soon became close friends. Ray read Modern Languages at university, but got caught up in detective novels and decided that was the life for him. He was smart, though not really up to the physical side of things. To make up, he had tons of enthusiasm and knew his way around research libraries, halls of records and drawers of press clippings. He was good with names, dates, paper trails, piecing data together and thumb-tacking it on to a cork board and, to his credit, getting results. A year ago, Ray had joined the small team that ran the London bureau of Interpol.
Vince’s hunch, like everyone else’s, was that Jack was somewhere out of the country. Jack Regent’s Corsican connection was too strong to ignore, therefore Interpol had been put on alert. Vince had put in a call to Ray as soon as he was thrown the case.
‘What do you say, Ray?’
‘Why the sudden air of secrecy? You don’t trust our Brighton brethren?’
‘London, Brighton – all the same to me.’
‘The Eddie Tobin situation?’
‘It’s still a bad beef.’
‘Don’t let it get you down, Vince. It’ll blow over, you’ll see.’
‘I don’t want it to blow over, Ray. I saw a girl getting killed up on that screen.’
‘Girls get killed on the screen all the time, Vince. They call them actresses.’
‘This wasn’t acting. This was for real, and I’m going to prove it.’
‘Did you
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