later.
The domestic bliss went on undisturbed. With his knack of being able to produce a voluntary schizophrenia, Paul was able to shut his mind at will to the sordid other half of his life. When he was in Cardiff, he really was a respectable antique dealer with a nice respectable house in a select district, a cultured and utterly respectable wife, and a few respectable friends in the local golf club.
The only contact that Jacobs allowed between his two lives were the dates of his next visits to London and the judicious transfusion of his local bank account with illegal money.
Since coming back to Cardiff on the Tuesday, he had spent every day at the shop. He had not bothered to look in his newspaper, rightly presuming that no national daily would bother to report a solitary fatal road accident.
He was confident that no suspicion of foul play would arise and that he could safely reappear in the West End without feeling the heavy hand of the law to fall on his shoulder.
The tremendous crunch he had heard when the speeding Sunbeam had hit the parapet of the bridge on Cuckoo Hill told him that it must certainly be a complete wreck, and that Ritaâs body had shared in the destruction.
He had rather hoped that the car would have caught fire, but even so, he expected that the injuries to the body would be so severe as to completely confuse the issue, if it was ever raised. Perhaps he would have been less complacent at his fireside if he had known that the police were at that very moment arranging with the Home Office for the exhumation of his late mistress.
Conrad Draper sat at his tycoon-size desk and scanned through the lists of accounts from his betting shops. Saturday morning was a time of reckoning, when he could assess his takings for the week. This was when he kicked out his branch managers who were falling by the wayside and when the âblack spotâ was put on clients who were winning too much or too often. Occasionally, he used Saturday morning to pick out the customers who needed his strong-arm boys to call on them to encourage them to hurry up with their debts.
The importance of this routine had driven even the matter of Paul Golding from his head for an hour or two. All the week, Draper had harried Irish OâKeefe for more information on the mysterious drug merchant of Newman Street, but so far, he had turned nothing up of any use.
Plenty of people, especially around Gerrard Street, knew Golding by sight, but very few had any idea that he was a drug runner. No one knew where he went when he left Soho, in spite of all Irishâs efforts to wheedle information from the junkies and pushers of the district.
They did no direct business with Golding; he was strictly a wholesaler and never risked the dangers of dealing with a host of small-time traders, who were notorious for their unreliability.
It was on this Saturday morning, when the boss was absorbed in his gambling statistics, that Irish had his first break. OâKeefe tapped on the door of the inner sanctum and slid in like a wraith. He was standing in front of the desk before Conrad realised that he was there. The pouch-eyed bookie jerked his head up in surprise.
âDonât you ever bloody-well knock, Irish,â he rasped. âWhat dâyou want?â
The little manâs mouth cracked open into a grin, exposing a ragged line of yellow teeth.
âI did it, boss, I got a bloke outside. I think he knows something about Golding.â
Draper slammed his accounts folder shut and stood up quickly.
âDoes he know who he is? Show him in â fast.â
Irish shook his head sorrowfully.
âHe donât know who he is, nor where he goes, but he may know something that might tell you that youâre in a bit of a spot.â
Conrad reddened. His coarsely handsome face, thickened by fighting and whisky, scowled down at his sidekick.
âCut the innuendo, Irish.â He was proud of this word, gleaned from an old
The domestic bliss went on undisturbed. With his knack of being able to produce a voluntary schizophrenia, Paul was able to shut his mind at will to the sordid other half of his life. When he was in Cardiff, he really was a respectable antique dealer with a nice respectable house in a select district, a cultured and utterly respectable wife, and a few respectable friends in the local golf club.
The only contact that Jacobs allowed between his two lives were the dates of his next visits to London and the judicious transfusion of his local bank account with illegal money.
Since coming back to Cardiff on the Tuesday, he had spent every day at the shop. He had not bothered to look in his newspaper, rightly presuming that no national daily would bother to report a solitary fatal road accident.
He was confident that no suspicion of foul play would arise and that he could safely reappear in the West End without feeling the heavy hand of the law to fall on his shoulder.
The tremendous crunch he had heard when the speeding Sunbeam had hit the parapet of the bridge on Cuckoo Hill told him that it must certainly be a complete wreck, and that Ritaâs body had shared in the destruction.
He had rather hoped that the car would have caught fire, but even so, he expected that the injuries to the body would be so severe as to completely confuse the issue, if it was ever raised. Perhaps he would have been less complacent at his fireside if he had known that the police were at that very moment arranging with the Home Office for the exhumation of his late mistress.
Conrad Draper sat at his tycoon-size desk and scanned through the lists of accounts from his betting shops. Saturday morning was a time of reckoning, when he could assess his takings for the week. This was when he kicked out his branch managers who were falling by the wayside and when the âblack spotâ was put on clients who were winning too much or too often. Occasionally, he used Saturday morning to pick out the customers who needed his strong-arm boys to call on them to encourage them to hurry up with their debts.
The importance of this routine had driven even the matter of Paul Golding from his head for an hour or two. All the week, Draper had harried Irish OâKeefe for more information on the mysterious drug merchant of Newman Street, but so far, he had turned nothing up of any use.
Plenty of people, especially around Gerrard Street, knew Golding by sight, but very few had any idea that he was a drug runner. No one knew where he went when he left Soho, in spite of all Irishâs efforts to wheedle information from the junkies and pushers of the district.
They did no direct business with Golding; he was strictly a wholesaler and never risked the dangers of dealing with a host of small-time traders, who were notorious for their unreliability.
It was on this Saturday morning, when the boss was absorbed in his gambling statistics, that Irish had his first break. OâKeefe tapped on the door of the inner sanctum and slid in like a wraith. He was standing in front of the desk before Conrad realised that he was there. The pouch-eyed bookie jerked his head up in surprise.
âDonât you ever bloody-well knock, Irish,â he rasped. âWhat dâyou want?â
The little manâs mouth cracked open into a grin, exposing a ragged line of yellow teeth.
âI did it, boss, I got a bloke outside. I think he knows something about Golding.â
Draper slammed his accounts folder shut and stood up quickly.
âDoes he know who he is? Show him in â fast.â
Irish shook his head sorrowfully.
âHe donât know who he is, nor where he goes, but he may know something that might tell you that youâre in a bit of a spot.â
Conrad reddened. His coarsely handsome face, thickened by fighting and whisky, scowled down at his sidekick.
âCut the innuendo, Irish.â He was proud of this word, gleaned from an old
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