CHAPTER ONE – NO TIME LIKE THE PRESENT
“The bleedin ‘eater is playing up again Bhai,” the cockney warble of my office girl Doris cutting through my elevenses-based reverie. She stood over me at my desk, arms folded, a finger wagging at me in mock frustration, with her foot tapping out a sympathetic tattoo on the worn linoleum floor.
In fairness I could understand her frustration, mock or otherwise, my tiny two room office was in great location at Bow Lane, but great location didn’t always come with great amenities, or even basic amenities in this case, such as heating for example. Great location also equated to great expense as I had come to learn.
“You promised me a better ‘eater, one of ‘em fancy fan ones, that rubbish bar thingy burns my legs and leaves my tits cold when it does work, but mostly it’s as dead as old Gandhi himself!” The east end inflected tirade appeared to be gathering pace, time for an intervention on my part.
“You know I’m waiting on the cheque from Collins Ji, he’s a little late, but worst case he’ll pay up in full once his divorce is finalized. I’ll chase him though once I’ve finished my chai, eaten my tiffin, and read the paper. In the meantime if your bosom needs warming maybe we could send for Charlie?”
“Ow do you know about Charlie?” A blush crept across Doris’s pale complexion, “And I don’t know what you see in that bloody rag, ‘cept those girls on page three with their titties poking out of their saris. Don’t they know you’re supposed to wear a blouse piece?”
You should see the murals at Khajuraho.
I wisely kept my reply as short as possible, “I am a detective wallah Doris, you are indeed the expert on saris, and as for the paper, I’ve been reading it since it was the Daily Herald. It’s hard to shake off some habits.”
“Habit! It’s a habit alright, one of those filthy types of habit. Don’t think I haven’t seen you making a note of the ones you like in your pocketbook!” She smirked her way through that last good-natured tease.
Credit where credit is due, smarter than she looks our Doris.
Indeed, I made a mental note to put today’s beauty into my book.
3rd April 1972, Priya from Weston Super Mare age 19, 36-24-36.
“Anyways, you can pop to the phone box, and chase Collins Ji once you’ve dealt with His Nibs in there,” she made a jerking motion with her thumb back over her shoulder towards the waiting room. “And why don’t we get a bloomin’ phone of our own while we are at it, even a party line. Imagine all the new clients, would make it easier to chase all the ones that don’t pay an all.”
“His Nibs? Who’s His Nibs? There’s a client waiting. Why didn’t you say so? Professionalism Doris, Professionalism!” Much as I loved that girl sometimes you had to question her priorities.
“Show him in, Show him in. Dushto me-e, Bad girl!”
“Professionalism! Ha! You can bleedin’ talk.” She took a dramatic sniff of the office air,
“By the stink of it you haven’t taken a bath in at least the last two days, and living on a diet of pork pies, samosa chaat, phuchka, and whiskey ain’t doing much for your looks you know. You won’t stay slim forever like that.”
“Doris__” I pointed to the office door but was cut off a loud tut from my employee.
“Pepper grey hair might work for some girls, and the curls are nice, but there is such a thing as hair dye. And that suit of yours? It looks like Nehru Ji’s original one, it’s that old. Professionalism my arse!” She sashayed smartly out to the waiting room; her hips beautifully framed by the elegant sari she wore.
Those Hips, I have a lot of time for those hips. FOCUS! Focus man! There’s a client waiting, and anyways you’re old enough to be her father.
The vision of the lovely Doris in the doorway was replaced by a considerably larger frame as my prospective client stepped through.
“Please come in. Come in. Have a seat.” I hurriedly cleared our sole remaining guest chair of several weeks’ accumulation of papers, whilst brushing away a similar accretion of biscuit crumbs and other detritus from my desk as surreptitiously as I could.
“Forgive me but the wee lass seems a little overdressed this for this gig, and a little undressed for the weather.” The stranger’s baritone evidencing a Scottish burr, as he settled his frame into the chair. Given the comparative sizes of chair and man, to do so as elegantly as he did was some achievement.
“Her family is orthodox Brahmoist, as are most of the East End these days. She’s really a modern girl, this time of year its normally a Kurta and Pyjama set, Salwar Kameez, that sort of thing,” I sized my new acquittance up as I continued my reply, “Saves the sari’s and miniskirts for summer, however there’s an a date with a new paramour tonight, hence the extra effort.”
First impressions? Hmm let’s see. Six foot plus. Beats my five eleven for sure. Hair dyed black. Vain?
Military bearing, so serviceman or ex-serviceman given his age. Same as myself? Late forties? Early Fifties?
Handsome? Ruggedly so I guess. Well groomed. Saville Row suit and patent Italian leather shoes.
So, either wealthy himself, in which case he deigned to visit my shabby digs himself!? Or more likely then, works for a wealthy employer?
“So, what is that I can do for you, Mister...?”
“Connery.”
“Thomas Connery.”
Connery Ji shook my hand with a firm grip, which I endeavoured to return, for a few seconds anyway.
“And you of course would be Sri Norton Folgate? Or would you prefer the Sassenach Mr?”
“Mr is fine,” I bore no pretensions regarding social status, “Though I prefer Norton.”
“Well…Norton, I have to say you aren’t what I expected when I was given your name,” Connery Ji paused as he pulled a fine silver cigarette case from inside of his tailored jacket.
“Would you like one?”
I shook my head, “I’m trying to cut back, on one vice at least.”
I pushed my ashtray across the desk towards him as he lit up.
“You were expecting maybe an Old Etonian, with a shock of blonde hair and the Aryan body to match?”
My prospective client took a long drag before giving a quick shake of the head no.
“Aye yer colour caught me out, but mainly I’m thinking that for such a lordly name, everything about this place, yer saen included, seems a little shabby. No offense intended.”
Offense taken you Gaelic prick. No more respect for you. Pay check or no pay check.
“Yes Mr Connery, I’m Anglo Indian, or so I’m told. Destined to serve the Empire loyally one foot in either side of our heritage but claimed by neither. Truth is I don’t know my parentage. I was named by a priest in the Calcutta orphanage that raised me. I could be the lost prince of Jhansi and I’d never know.”
“Ha!” Connery let rip with a hearty chuckle, “I think your priest had a sense of humour. It could have been worse though I guess…White’s Row or Milk Lane!”
Ah that. Yes. Well.
“Indeed, I didn’t realise that until I had cause to see a client near Spitalfields Market. He thought it was quite funny too.”
Well there was less laughter when I showed him the photos of his wife and brother.
“There’s worse things than being named after an A road I’m sure.”
The client took another long drag on the cigarette.
“You’ll no doubt be wondering what’s brought me to your palatial offices,” the elegantly tailored arm stretching out to tap the built-up ash into the tray in one fluid movement, “You are a detective, right?”
“I hold a private investigator’s licence, and I’ve been making a living as the same since I moved here to the Old Country in the fifties.” I had a spiel that I rolled off for clients at a first introduction.
“I specialize in marital cases mainly, but I’m available for all types of deduction, if you want me to find a Maltese Falcon, I’ll find you a Maltese Falcon.”
“Deduction eh? Right enough. That’s makes you sound more Sherlock than Sam Spade though,” drawled the world’s most irritating Scotsman, “Just to clarify you won’t be expected to make a heroic self-sacrifice off of the Nohkalikai Falls.”
“I prefer to think of myself more of a Satyanweshi.” I knew that sounded more than a little grandiose particularly given the surroundings.
Professional pride though eh?
“A Truth Seeker? I cannae imagine old Byomkesh wobbling at the top of a ladder trying to take snaps of some banker’s buttocks heaving between his secretary’s legs,” the smirk on the Scottish barbarian’s face seeming to stretch to an impossible length, “Or is it the wives with the pool boys that you’d be spying on?”
“Mostly it’s the husbands looking to trade the wives in for a newer model. This being the City there’s no shortage of pinstripes and bowler hats so plenty of business. The recession though is proving a bit of a…drag currently.” Grubby work I know but everyone had to make a living somehow.
“Let’s get down to business, shall we? What’s your wife’s name?”
“Hah! It’s nae for me laddie, and it’s not what you’re thinking. Gonna involve a bit of travel if you’re up for it, should be right up your street though. Provided you can keep your mouth shut, as the boss will need you to be discrete.”
Boss? Bingo! Observational skills are obviously undiminished. So, if this the monkey who’s the organ grinder?
“Discretion is my middle name, for the right price of course. Who’s your employer then?”
“Discretion will be your first, last, and middle names unless you want me to straighten those crooked teeth of yours for free,” The smirk dropping into a menacing grimace, “And just so you get my meaning, I’m not a dentist. The boss is Eric Iverson, you might just have heard of him.”
What’s wrong with crooked teeth, I’ve been told they’re my best feature. Whoa, hold on, Eric Iverson. Eric G Iverson? The steel tycoon? One of the richest men in the Empire? And…Bapri! Oh god!
My pulse jumped and mouth began to dry out like I was a camel herder in Rajasthan. I was beginning to get an awful premonition of where this was headed.
“What’s the job?” I croaked wishing I’d asked Doris to fetch the chai wallah.
Some sweet tea lubrication would go down quite well right now. Oh well there’s always the bottle of Old Monk in the filing cabinet.
“It’s a missing person job,” my pulse relaxed slightly at that; Connery continued, “The identity of the missing person is why we require a high level of discretion.”
My pule rose again.
“And who would be the err, missing personage?” The one crore rupee question stumbling from my lips.
“Anika Haan-Iverson, the boss’s wife.”
And there it was.
Bugger.
#
“You know the boss wasn’t sure you’d say aye.” Connery imparted in an on off-hand manner, his attention mainly focused on the flow of green and orange clad citizens swarming in front of the car. The protestors blocked the route ahead, leaving us sat as frustrated observers in his smart saloon.
“Well I haven’t actually said yes yet.” I retorted back, hoping to convince myself that I hadn’t been reeled in yet.
Not hook, line, and sinker anyway.
From memory the journey from my digs up Cannon Street to Iverson’s London office on Great Tower Street shouldn’t have taken more than five minutes, but unluckily we caught the tail end of a massive procession by King William Street junction as it marched across from London Bridge. The next fifteen minutes evaporated as the crowd meandered its way along our intended path up East Cheap.
“You’re almost there now, and that’s probably good enough, the boss can be really persuasive when he wants to be.” Connery ran his hand through his thinning hair in an irritated manner, “Mind you I was beginning to think the boss would die of old age before we got here.”
I looked up at ‘here’.
Hmm, imposing modern looking building in a 1950’s build. Grey stone with red brick pointing. Eight storeys or nine maybe, not worth a crick in the neck to confirm. Corner plot location in the heart of insuranceville. Pricey. An imposing temple to Capitalism, it’d be no surprise to find Lakshmi herself residing within.
“He also pretty generous when he wants to be, this beauty was my bonus from a couple of years back.” My companion turned the car right down a narrow street parallel to the office building, narrowly missing a couple of straggling protestors, which drew a few Irish accented curses in our direction.
I wasn’t good with cars, but I took an educated guess.
“It’s a Bharat right? B5?” That sounded good.
“Aye, it’s a Bharat PB5 right enough. The same car as her Imperial Majesty herself.” The Scot seemed to swell with pride on imparting that pearl.
The side street was on a considerable incline and ran down to the ruins of a bombed-out church, no doubt another victim of the Nazi occupation. As a result, the rear aspect of the office building was considerably lower than the front elevation, enough for a private garage to have been installed at basement level. Connery swung the car into the garage, nodding as he did so to the peon who had opened the gates for us.
“Right, I’ll just finish up with the car, you just head through there, turn right, and take the lift up to the eighth floor. The boss’s secretary will take care of ye from there.” The Scotsman gestured off-handily to a pair of double doors at the end of the garage, “I have some more errands to run for the boss, but I have a feeling we may be seeing more of each other later.”
Let’s hope not eh.
“What is it you do for your boss exactly Mr Connery?” I paused in the act of opening the car door.
“Just think of me as his fixer, I deal with problems for him. Oh, and people that are problems for him.” The fixer’s smile held more than a hint of menace, causing that volatile pulse of mine to raise again.
“Do I fall in that bracket Mr Connery?” I hoped I managed to keep the nerves out of my voice, and out of my movements as I clambered out of his car.
“That would be telling widdenae it?” His large frame seeming to ooze out of the driver’s seat, “Now get on with you, doesn’t pay to keep the boss waiting.”
That’s the monkey survived then, now a date with that organ grinder. Anika, Anika what have you gotten me into?