A Fine Night for Dying. Jack Higgins

      Mallory got straight down to business. ‘You’ve seen the body at St Bede’s?’

      Chavasse nodded. ‘Any idea who he was?’

      Mallory reached for a file and opened it. ‘A West Indian from Jamaica named Harvey Preston.’

      ‘And how did you manage to find that out?’

      ‘His fingerprints were on record.’

      Chavasse shrugged. ‘His fingers were swollen like bananas when I saw him.’

      ‘Oh, the lab boys have a technique for dealing with that sort of problem. They take a section of skin and shrink it to normal size using chemicals. They arrive at a reasonable facsimile.’

      ‘Somebody went to a lot of trouble over the body of an unknown man washed up after six weeks. Why?’

      ‘In the first place, it didn’t happen in quite that way. He was brought up off the bottom in the trawl net of a fishing boat out of Brixham, with about seventy pounds of chain wrapped around him.’

      ‘Murdered, presumably?’

      ‘Death by drowning.’

      ‘A nasty way to go.’

      Mallory passed a photo across. ‘That’s him, taken at his trial at the Bailey in 1967.’

      ‘What was he up for?’

      ‘Robbing a gambling club in Birmingham. The Crown lost, by the way. He was acquitted for lack of evidence. Witnesses failed to come forward, and so on. The usual story.’

      ‘He must have had a lot of pull.’

      Mallory helped himself to one of his Turkish cigarettes and leaned back in his seat. ‘Harvey Preston arrived in England in 1938 when he was twenty and joined the Royal Army Service Corps during the Munich crisis. His mother and father followed a few months later, with his younger sister, and Preston fixed them up with a small house in Brixton. He was stationed at Aldershot with a transport regiment as a truck driver. His mother gave birth to another son, whom they named Darcy, on the third day of the war in September, 1939. A week later Harvey’s regiment was posted to France. During the big retreat when the Panzers broke through in 1940, his unit was badly knocked about and he was shot twice in the right leg. He made it out through Dunkirk and back to England, but was so badly lamed by his wounds that he was discharged with a pension.’

      ‘What did he do then?’

      ‘At first he drove an ambulance, but then he underwent the kind of personal tragedy so common during the Blitz. The house in Brixton took a direct hit during a raid and the only survivor was his young brother. From then on, things seem to have taken a different turn.’

      ‘What did he do?’

      ‘Take your pick. Black market, prostitution. After the war he ran a number of illegal gaming clubs and became something of a power in the underworld. Moved into organized crime about nineteen-fifty-nine. The police were certain he was behind a very efficient hijacking organization, but could never prove anything. There were several payroll robberies as well and he was very definitely involved in drug trafficking.’

      ‘Quite a character. What happened after his acquittal? Was he deported?’

      Mallory shook his head. ‘He’d been here too long for that. But the Yard really turned the heat on. He lost his gaming licence for a start, which put him out of the casino business. It seems they breathed down his neck so hard that he hardly dared stir from his house. It was the money from the Birmingham casino robbery they were after. Even if he couldn’t be tried again, they could stop him spending it.’

      ‘Was he married?’

      ‘No, lived on his own. A different girl a night by all accounts, right up to the end.’

      ‘What about the brother, the one who survived the bombing?’

      ‘Young Darcy?’ Mallory actually grinned. ‘Funny thing happened there. Harvey kept the boy with him. Sent him to St Paul’s as a day-boy. Must have been an extraordinary life for him. Mixing with the sons of the upper crust during the day and the worst villains in London by night. He decided to go in for the law, of all things, passed his bar finals three years ago. Cleared off to Jamaica after Harvey’s trial.’

      ‘And what did Harvey do?’

      ‘Left the country on a plane to Rome two months ago. They just about took him to pieces at the airport, but there wasn’t a thing on him. They had to let him go.’

      ‘Where did he go from Rome?’

      ‘Interpol had him followed to Naples, where he dropped out of sight.’

      ‘To re-emerge two months later in the bottom of a fishing net off the English coast. Intriguing. What do you think he was playing at?’

      ‘I should have thought that was obvious.’ Mallory shrugged. ‘He was trying to get into the country illegally. As long as the police didn’t know he was here, he could recover his money at leisure and leave by the same way he came, whatever that was.’

      Chavasse was beginning to see a little light. ‘Someone put him over the side in the Channel, that’s what you’re suggesting?’

      ‘Something like that. There’s a lot of money in this passage-by-night business since the Commonwealth Immigration Act. Pakistanis, Indians, West Indians, Australians – anyone who can’t get a visa in the usual way. There’s good money in it.’

      ‘There was a case in the paper the other day,’ Chavasse said. ‘The navy stopped an old launch off Felixstowe and found thirty-two Pakistanis on board. That’s a fair night’s work for someone.’

      ‘Amateurs,’ Mallory said. ‘Most of them don’t stand a chance. It’s the professionals who’re getting away with it, the people with the organization. There’s a pipeline running all the way through from Naples. The Italian police have been doing some checking and they’ve come up with an interesting report on a boat called the Anya that makes the Naples – Marseille run regularly under a Panamanian registration.’

      Chavasse reached for the file, turned it round and went through the photos it contained. There were several of Harvey Preston taken through the years, one on the steps of the Old Bailey after his trial, an arm around the shoulders of his young brother. Chavasse leafed through the reports, then glanced up.

      ‘This is police work. Where do we come in?’

      ‘The Special Branch at Scotland Yard have asked us to help. They feel this job requires the kind of talents more appropriate to one of our operatives.’

      ‘The last time they asked for help, it involved me spending six months in three of the worst jails in Britain,’ Chavasse said, ‘plus the fact that I nearly got my leg blown off. Why can’t they do their own dirty work?’

      ‘We’ve worked out a suitable background for you,’ Mallory said impassively. ‘Use your own name, no reason not to. Australian citizen of French extraction. Wanted in Sydney for armed robbery.’ He pushed a folder across. ‘Everything you need is in there, including a newspaper clipping confirming your criminal background. Naturally, you’re willing to pay any price to get into Britain, and no questions asked.’

      Chavasse felt, as usual, as if some great sea was washing over him. ‘When do I go?’

      ‘There’s a three-thirty flight to Rome. You should make it with quarter of an hour to spare if you leave now. You’ll find a suitcase waiting for you outside. I had one brought over. A good job you didn’t have time to unpack.’ He stood up and held out his hand. ‘The best of luck, Paul. Keep in touch in the usual way.’

      Mallory sat down, replaced his glasses and reached for a file. Chavasse picked up his folder, turned and went out. He was chuckling when he closed the door.

      ‘What’s so funny?’ Jean Frazer demanded.

      He