Blood Brothers by Patricia Hall Page A

nine,’ Robertson cut in, dictating the address. ‘I’ll fix it with Fred and Shirley.’ He hung up abruptly, leaving Barnard slightly breathless. He had no doubt that whatever the Bettanys’ plans for the evening were they would now be put rapidly on hold. What Ray Robertson wanted Ray Robertson generally got. He just hoped that Shirley Bettany, his occasional lover, betrayed not a hint to either her husband or Ray that in these circumstances he himself would be a very unwelcome visitor to her family home.
    Barnard parked outside Fred Bettany’s house shortly before nine without the usual precautions when he was visiting Shirley. There were no other cars parked on the road where most of the large houses had ample drives for family parking, and he waited until Ray Robertson’s Jag pulled up behind him.
    ‘Come on,’ Robertson said without bothering with a greeting. ‘I’ve told Fred to take his missus out for a drink while we have a chat.’ He rang the doorbell impatiently and Bettany, already in his coat, trilby in hand, opened it almost immediately. He flashed Barnard a look of inquiry before calling for his wife, who appeared on the stairs in a fur coat and hat with a tiny veil over her eyes. The pair were obviously not dropping into any old boozer, Barnard thought ruefully.
    ‘Come in Ray,’ Bettany said. ‘Trouble?’
    ‘Nothing to concern you, Fred,’ Robertson said, holding the front door open so that Bettany and his wife had no choice but to exit.
    Shirley avoided Barnard’s eyes as he hurried past her, catching just a waft of an expensive perfume and the rustle of silk, as he went inside closely behind Robertson.
    ‘Now then, Flash,’ Robertson said, leading the way into the Bettanys’ extensive sitting room at the front of the house and pulling the curtains closed. ‘What the hell is going on?’
    ‘I wish I knew,’ Barnard said flinging himself into one of the soft armchairs, carefully avoiding the sofa where he and Shirley had fairly recently dallied. ‘Scotland Yard is calling the shots. They’ve put a DS called Vic Copeland into Soho, allegedly to clean up the nick.’
    ‘Copeland? Isn’t he the bastard who killed someone? He was a City of London cop then. Has he joined the Met?’
    ‘Unfortunately yes,’ Barnard said.
    Robertson nodded slowly. ‘Can’t be good, can it? I heard he was lucky to get away with what he did. It was only because the casualty had a string of convictions as long as your arm that he swung it with the coroner. I didn’t know the poor beggar personally but I know a few people who did. He was a harmless enough sneak thief, as it goes, no violence in him. Hardly likely to launch a ferocious attack on someone of Copeland’s size, as alleged.’ Robertson shrugged and glanced around the room enquiringly. ‘Never mind. I think maybe we can treat ourselves to a glass of Fred’s Scotch,’ he said, making free with one of the well-filled decanters on a sideboard.
    The two men tasted their drinks and nodded in satisfaction.
    ‘So what’s Copeland got on me? Or hoping to get on me?’ Robertson asked.
    ‘Nothing specific as far as I know. But he and the Yard seem to be convinced that the body that was found on the building site at Tottenham Court Road has connections with you, or the Maltese or even Reg Smith. They see it as a gangland execution of some sort – the poor bastard had no fingers and toes as if he’d been tortured for information or maybe just as an example to others. They’re going to be looking very hard at what you’re up to. And the rest. And I’ve a nasty feeling I’m on their list too, long term. In any event, Copeland’s coming to see you tomorrow and I’m supposed to be coming with him. And I’ve no doubt that he’s planning to record what we say.’
    Robertson laughed. ‘Just shows I was right not to link up with Smith,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I’d more or less decided to give him a miss. I reckon you and Fred were right