Quinn left it to Macadam to hammer on the door to the apartment in the New Cavendish Street mansion block. ‘Police! Open up!’ Macadam did his best to create an intimidating racket, but he was no Inchball, as Quinn reflected with a tinge of regret.
The concierge had let them in and was there beside them ready with a spare key should it be necessary.
The element of surprise was on their side. In addition, it was still early enough in the day to catch a man like Simon Symington napping. His reputed habits were not generally conducive to early rising. That said, his livelihood depended to some extent on his ability to maintain at least the appearance of respectability. And so, he would be eager to cut short the scandalous commotion outside his door.
Quinn’s calculations turned out to be correct. The lock was turned from within, the door opened and a tall, thin man in silk pyjamas and dressing gown appeared. Simon Symington rubbed a hand through his already tousled hair and stood blinking on his threshold. ‘I say, what the devil is going on?’ He took in the three detectives with an untroubled sneer, reserving a look of wounded rebuke for the concierge.
That worthy individual defended himself with an imploring whine: ‘These gentlemen are policemen, Dr Symington.’ As if to say, what do you expect me to do if you will be bringing policemen here?
Quinn held up his warrant card to confirm the concierge’s statement. ‘DCI Quinn, Special Crimes Department.’
‘Special crimes?’ Symington gave an effete giggle. ‘Oh, well, in that case, I suppose you’d better come in.’
Symington let the detectives in, gleefully closing the door on the disloyal concierge. He showed them into a sitting room that was tastefully furnished but layered with the debris of a disordered life. Unwashed crockery, discarded clothes, upturned bottles and broken glasses littered the floor and even the furniture. An ashtray had been kicked over, scattering ash and cigarette butts all over the carpet. Symington showed no sign of embarrassment, nor made any effort to tidy up. The air was thick with the fug of the previous night’s indulgences.
‘Now what’s this all about?’
‘The concierge called you Dr Symington?’ began Quinn.
‘A misunderstanding on his part. My friends call me “doc”, you see. Old Barker got the wrong end of the stick, I suppose. It’s just a nickname.’
‘Why do they call you that?’
‘I don’t know. I suppose because I … am …’ Inspiration came to him. ‘Always a tonic when they see me.’ He giggled appreciatively at his own wit.
‘But you’re not actually a doctor? And never have been?’
‘No.’
‘And you never thought to put Mr Barker straight?’
‘What is this about?’ Symington forced out an incredulous laugh. ‘I told you, it’s just a nickname. I have never claimed to be a doctor.’
‘We have a witness – a very reliable witness – who is quite prepared to go on record to testify that you are regularly to be found dealing cocaine at a certain gentlemen’s club.’
‘What of it? It’s not against the law.’
‘You are not aware of the 1908 Pharmacy Act then, which classifies cocaine as a poison which may only be sold by a registered pharmacist? You are not a registered pharmacist, I think?’
Symington was on the verge of answering but thought better of it.
‘Perhaps if we were to have a look around now …?’
Macadam and Leversedge tensed at Quinn’s side, like bulldogs straining at the leash.
‘Well, to do that, you would need a warrant, I believe.’
‘Actually, no,’ corrected Quinn. ‘As I said, we are from the Special Crimes Department. Given the nature of the crimes we were established to investigate, the warrant I have already shown you gives us the right to conduct a search wherever we deem necessary.’
Symington shrugged as if this was of no concern to him, although he was unable to suppress a deep, agitated sniff. The chaos evident in the room seemed to reflect a disorder in Symington’s mind. He began to twitch and fidget, as if the cravings that ruled his life were beginning to make themselves felt. The thought of losing the means to satisfy them was no doubt a cause of deep anxiety.
It was time for Quinn to play his hand. ‘There’s a way to make this all go away, Mr Symington.’
Symington’s face opened up with desperate hope.
‘Did you ever deal cocaine to Sir Aidan Fonthill?’
‘Fonthill?’ Symington seemed genuinely surprised. He thought for a moment before shaking his head decisively. ‘No. I – he may have dabbled once or twice. I sometimes give my friends little gifts. Samples, you might say.’
‘In the hope that they will become addicted, no doubt.’
Symington did not deny it. ‘It never took with Fonthill.’
As soon as the major-domo at Pootle’s had told Quinn of Fonthill’s association with an alleged drug dealer, he had entertained the theory that Fonthill’s need for money stemmed from an addiction. Symington’s emphatic denial put paid to that idea.
‘No, powder was not Fonthill’s vice, more’s the pity.’
‘He did have one, however?’
‘Who doesn’t?’ Symington’s gaze as it took in Quinn was like a chill shadow passing across him. ‘Even policemen have vices. Don’t try and deny it. I have experience in these matters, remember.’
‘What was Sir Aidan’s?’
‘Nothing too vile. Quite innocent, in fact. He liked to gamble.’
‘Did he ever get into debt over his gambling?’
‘He did, yes.’
‘Recently?’
Symington drew a hand over his face. He was becoming increasingly agitated. ‘I don’t know!’ His voice was suddenly petulant. ‘Recently? I suppose so. It must have been. I can still remember it.’ He gave a high-pitched giggle.
‘You were there?’
‘Yes, we were all there. Me, Lucas, Fonthill. Soapy was there too, I seem to remember. And some other fellow. Porter, Potter or something. He was there as someone’s guest, I think.’
‘Where was this? At Pootle’s?’
‘The party started at Pootle’s. And then we went on somewhere.’
‘Where?’
‘I don’t know. It was dark. It took an age to get there. It was a filthy rotten room in a filthy rotten house. Belonged to a filthy rotten man.’
‘What man?’
Symington gave a high nervous laugh. ‘The man.’
‘The man Fonthill owed money?’
‘I’ve said too much as it is.’
‘How much was the debt?’
‘Oh, come on! Who do you think I am? Datas, the Memory Man? Do you think I care enough about Aidan bloody Fonthill to remember every detail of his sorry life?’
‘We need you to remember as much as you can, Mr Symington. Otherwise we may be forced to take action on that other matter after all.’
‘Other matter?’ Symington frowned and then remembered the threat to search his apartment. He screwed his face up, wincing in concentration. There was an element of performance to it, especially when his face brightened as the memory seemingly came back to him. ‘I remember now, it was a lot. Fonthill was in a funk about it. He begged us all to chip in. The chap he owed … let’s just say, he’s not the sort you want to get on the wrong side of.’
‘Who was it? Who was the man?’
‘Don’t remember his name.’
‘Can you describe him?’
‘No.’ The answer came quickly, without any attempt at recollection. Symington was almost certainly lying. He was also growing increasingly restless.
‘Whose idea was it to go there?’
‘Listen, all these questions … questions … questions … they’re frying my damned brain, you buggering bastard.’
‘You watch your language!’ warned Macadam.
‘Perhaps you would like a moment to refresh yourself in the privacy of your bedroom. We’ll wait here for you.’
Symington pointed a finger at Quinn. ‘I like you. You’re a good man. Very understanding.’
As Symington slouched off, Quinn gestured for Macadam to follow. ‘Get him with the gear in his hands. Don’t let him take any. Just grab him with it and bring him back here.’
Alone with Leversedge, Quinn felt the other detective’s critical gaze on him but did not turn to meet it. ‘Do you have something to say, Inspector Leversedge?’
‘I hope you know what you’re doing, guv, that’s all.’
‘Really? Wouldn’t it suit you better if I didn’t?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’ But Leversedge’s answer had been a beat too slow in coming.
Shouts of protest erupted in the other room. Macadam marched a sullen-looking Symington back in. He held up a green leather pouch, tied with a draw string. ‘Unless I’m very much mistaken, this is cocaine.’
Symington wriggled beneath Macadam’s hand on his shoulder. ‘I thought you said I could refresh myself? I thought you were a decent chap.’ He gave a recriminatory pout.
‘I’m saving you from yourself. Sergeant Macadam, I think you know what to do with that junk.’
Macadam started to move but was detained by Symington’s howl. ‘No-o-o-o! Have you any idea what that’s worth? Listen, listen, listen … I know what you policemen are like. I know what you’re after. Can’t we come to some arrangement? Let’s say, three per cent. Each.’ To Quinn, he added confidentially, ‘Four per cent for you, as you’re the boss.’
‘Are you trying to bribe us?’
Symington appeared on the verge of tears. His bottom lip stuck out like a petulant toddler’s. ‘I don’t know what you want of me.’
‘Who was it? The man Fonthill was in debt to?’
But Symington closed his eyes tightly and shook his head. Then a huge sob exploded from him and he began weeping in earnest.
‘You do know him, don’t you? You know him very well. Is he your supplier? He’s the kind of chap who can get hold of large quantities of cocaine quite easily, I imagine.’
Symington’s flinch was all the confirmation Quinn needed.
‘Was it you who introduced Sir Aidan and the others to him?’
‘You don’t understand. He’ll kill me.’
‘I won’t let him hurt you.’ Even as Quinn said them, he knew they were empty words, given what he had in mind. Even so, that didn’t stop him adding, ‘I promise.’
Symington sniffed loudly.
‘Let me make this easy for you. If you help us, you can have that.’ Quinn nodded at the pouch in Macadam’s hand. ‘We’ll even let you stay in business. If you don’t help us, you’re going to jail.’ Quinn waited for this to sink in. Then took a gamble that he hoped would tip Symington over the edge. ‘And we’ll let it be known that you were the one who fingered Tiggie Benson.’
‘You know! You already know!’
So Macadam had been right. Quinn saw the beam of satisfaction on his sergeant’s face. The mysterious Mr Toad was none other than Tiggie Benson.
‘Yes. And we can easily put it about that we found out from you. I dare say Tiggie Benson has friends on the inside. One or two of them probably owe him a favour. None of them will look too favourably on a snitch.’
‘Why do you need me if you already know?’
‘That will become clear in the car.’
‘In the car?’
‘Yes. You’re going to take us to Tiggie Benson. I have no doubt you know perfectly well where to find him.’
The terror that showed in Symington’s eyes was not feigned.
But Quinn let out a deep sigh and nodded to Macadam, who reluctantly handed the leather pouch back to the desperate addict. Symington’s face went into a reflexive spasm, as a series of loud, involuntary sniffs anticipated the imminent relief of his cravings.