Blood Brothers by Patricia Hall

anticipation.
    ‘We could, but he’d have heavyweight lawyers on the scene even before the interview room door closed,’ Barnard objected. ‘What the hell are we going to ask him on the basis of what we’ve got? Are you and Reg Smith planning another great train robbery? He’d laugh at us.’
    The DCI drummed his fingers impatiently on his desk and scowled.
    ‘Are we getting anywhere with chasing down the site workers from the murder scene?’ Jackson snapped.
    ‘Not as far as I know,’ Barnard said. ‘We’ve got six DCs working their way through the lists the contractors gave us. But nothing of interest has come up so far. I doubt it will, to be honest. If someone in there told the killers when the concrete was going to be poured he’ll have made himself scarce by now.’
    ‘What we really want to know is whether any of Robertson and Smith’s people have disappeared,’ Copeland said. ‘If we pick up a few of their associates that should be easy enough to discover.’
    ‘Not if they’re scared they might be next,’ Barnard said. ‘If the Yard’s got contacts in the gangs surely they could suss it out. It’s certainly easier than trying to frighten one of the bosses. They’re not likely to tell us anything. They’ll laugh at us.’
    ‘The Yard are working on it,’ Jackson said. ‘Meanwhile we are to pursue our own inquiries. So the two of you get an interview with Robertson. It can be on his own turf initially but make it clear we’re not messing about on this one. We’ll have him in if you feel we have to.’ He flashed a glance at Copeland. ‘Softly softly to start with,’ he said. ‘I’ll listen to what you tape before we decide on the next step. Understood?’
    Barnard nodded non-committally.
    ‘Right guv, I’ll get it set up,’ Copeland said much more enthusiastically. ‘We’ll let you know when we’re going in.’

SIX
    H arry Barnard swung his favourite tweed swivel armchair disconsolately, sipping a glass of Scotch on the rocks without his usual enjoyment. Even his new Beatles record, which he had bought in Oxford Street on the way home and carefully placed on the radiogram’s turntable immediately, failed to cheer him up, and every now and again he picked up the telephone receiver just to make sure that the dialling tone was still purring away. So far Ray Robertson had not called, although Kate O’Donnell, who had delivered his request after she finished work, had sworn that he had agreed to contact him when he called her at home.
    He felt under siege. Between them DCI Jackson and DS Vic Copeland were constraining his movements around Soho and his strong desire to check out what he believed was the real identity of the body on the building site. He had left Copeland at the nick still finalizing the details of their eavesdropping equipment for tomorrow’s date with Ray Robertson. He needed to talk to Ray before that but was entirely dependent on him to make contact. Edgy with frustration he wandered into his small kitchen and made himself a sandwich. It was not what he wanted for supper but he could not stray from his phone until he had heard from Ray.
    After more than an hour of frustration the phone eventually rang and the familiar sound of a call box phone cranking into gear came a split second before Ray Robertson’s irascible voice cut in.
    ‘I don’t know what I’m doing standing here in a smelly call box in the freezing cold,’ he said. ‘What the hell’s going on, Flash? Why all the cloak and dagger stuff, for God’s sake?’
    ‘We need a meet, Ray,’ Barnard said. ‘Somewhere private where no one will recognize us. Believe me. This is important. Any suggestions?’
    There was silence at the other end of the line and it took some time for Robertson to cut through the crackle. ‘Do you know where Fred Bettany lives?’ he asked.
    Barnard shifted uneasily. ‘Somewhere in Hampstead,’ he said cautiously. ‘Not far from where I am?’
    ‘Meet me there at