Someone was following Frederick Troy.
Of course Jim Westcott would have him followed. It would be madness not to have him followed.
Troy led his followers—two of them, clumsy, obvious, flat-footed buggers, he thought—across Covent Garden’s rotting vegetable remnants, slippery as ice, an excellent place to lose them if he so chose, onto Long Acre, across Seven Dials and Great Newport Street, into the Charing Cross Road. It wasn’t quite a full circle from the Garrick, but close enough for him to be sure they really were following him, and close enough for them to work out that he knew they were following him—but he didn’t think they’d do that. They stuck to orders to the letter, they did not think for themselves. Robby the Robot would give more thought to the job in hand than they would.
Not knowing how long he’d be at a loose end, or how long he’d have to keep this up, he dropped into Dobell’s Jazz Record shop at 77 Charing Cross Road, just south of Cambridge Circus. He was an occasional rather than a regular, but was known to spend large amounts of money when he did visit, and so was on first-name terms with the proprietor. His indifference to the occasional aura of pot trailed by other customers like clouds of glory helped him to fit in. Douglas Dobell thought of Troy as a customer first and a policeman, if at all, second.
“It’s been a while, Freddie. How’re things in Murder?”
“Bloody as ever, but I’m on leave for a few days … so what’s new on vinyl?”
“It’s been a good year. I’d say one of the best. Stereo is really taking off.”
“It’s a gimmick, Doug. It’ll never catch on.”
“It’s more an illusion than a gimmick, and take it from me, it’s here to stay.”
“I shall be listening on my old electric gramophone, come what may, so …”
“They call them record players now, Freddie. Electric? I’m amazed you don’t still have one with a wind-up handle.”
“Do you want to make a sale or not?”
“Are you buying for you or the missus?”
“Both, I suppose.”
“There’s a new Billie Holiday. Great title. Lady in Satin. Miss Foxx’ll love it. Stan Getz has teamed up with Oscar Peterson. A great jam session.”
“I’ve always thought ‘jam session’ musician-speak for arsing about.”
“No, trust me. It’s great. A wonderful ten-minute medley in the middle based around “Bewitched, Bothered and Bewildered.” Then there’s Duke Ellington’s Indigos, Ella’s recorded The Irving Berlin Songbook, and Miles has a film score out … Asc … Asc …”
“Ascenseur pour l’échafaud. I’ve seen the film. Jeanne Moreau and I forget who else. Stick one on in a booth, would you?”
“Which one?”
“Any. I won’t be listening.”
Troy reached up and twisted the light bulb, and the booth dropped into semi-darkness. Troy could just make out the two coppers on the other side of the road. The Charing Cross Road was so well lit, it would have paid them to retreat into a shop doorway, any one of the dozens of second-hand bookshops that lined the street.
Doug changed records, played him a track off each LP he’d mentioned. It was well past five now and Troy wondered at what point the Branch would call it a day. The taller of the two coppers had been glancing at his watch every couple of minutes, and on the dot of five thirty they both set off down the road in the direction of the tube station. Predictable as clockwork.
Troy emerged from the booth.
“Which is it to be?” Dobell asked.
“I’ll take the lot. And while I’m in spending mood, is there anything new from Coltrane?”
Dobell reached under the counter and held up Soultrane.
“Fine. I’ll take that too. Cheque OK?”