Dead Beat by Patricia Hall Page B

truth.’
    But Barnard did not believe him. ‘Come on, Joe. You know that’s not good enough. We’ve known each other a long time, haven’t we? You’ve done very well out of it, too. You could have been deported after that last little episode and you got away with six months. But I need something back. You must have heard something.’
    Joseph Inglott shrugged helplessly. ‘Nothing,’ he said.
    â€˜What I don’t understand is why?’ Barnard said, barely able to contain his frustration. ‘Here’s a couple of queer boys, an actor and some sort of a minor player in the rag trade, both apparently working, quite legit, no police records, low profile, and some beggar cuts one boy’s throat and the other’s disappeared. Maybe he did it, or maybe he’s lying dead somewhere too, with his throat cut, for all I know. And no one, and I mean no one, not a soul, has heard a whisper.’
    â€˜The boy who ran away cut his friend’s throat,’ Inglott said. ‘Is obvious. It happens all the time with these queer boys.’
    â€˜Sure, it happens,’ Barnard said. ‘After a quarrel, a lover’s tiff, jealousy, all that, but there was no sign of that. The place was neat and tidy, no sign of a fight, no jealous frenzy, just a dead body and a lot of blood. Nothing smashed, nothing broken, except the table he fell against. It doesn’t look right. There’s more to it. Must be.’
    â€˜The Man has nothing to do with queer boys,’ Inglott said. ‘You know that.’
    Barnard nodded. It was true that the man Inglott was referring to, another Maltese, Frankie Falzon, who controlled much of the prostitution and pornography in Soho, had apparently steered well clear of the homosexual scene, perhaps from religious scruple, as hangers-on like Joe Inglott piously claimed. Barnard thought it more likely it was simply because Falzon had not yet succeeded in ousting someone else who was controlling that segment of the business in Soho.
    Whoever ran the trade, homosexual pornography was increasingly getting on to the streets and Barnard was sure that not all of it was any longer being smuggled in from abroad. Some of what he had seen recently had a distinctly home-grown look. And while his bosses tolerated, and in many cases connived with, most of what went on in Soho, the head of the Vice Squad, Keith Jackson, disliked queer porn with a particularly visceral hatred. Jackson wanted to stamp out the trade in what he called ‘queer filth’. It was a vain hope, Barnard thought, but he was wise enough not to share that view at the nick.
    He sighed regretfully in the face of Joseph Inglott’s ingratiating look. ‘It’s a pity, Joe,’ he said. ‘And you’re the poorer for it. I’m not going to shell out when you’ve got nothing to offer.’
    Inglott nodded enthusiastically. ‘Of course not, Mr Barnard,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t expect—’
    â€˜And I may not be able to hold my bosses off on that other matter for much longer. You and I both know you were involved in smashing up the coffee bar on Wardour Street. The manager’s still in hospital.’
    Inglott’s face paled and he licked his dry lips but he did not deny the charge. ‘I’ll keep my ears open, Mr Barnard,’ he said. ‘I’ll ask around. I promise I’ll do my best for you.’
    Barnard got to his feet lazily and put a hand on Inglott’s bony shoulder as he squeezed past him, with a lot more pressure than was strictly necessary. Inglott winced.
    â€˜I’m sure you will, Joseph, I’m sure you will. So let’s not be strangers, eh? I’ll hear from you soon?’
    â€˜You can bank on it,’ Inglott said in a whisper, missing entirely Barnard’s satisfied smile as he made his way out of the bar. Inglott remained slumped over his half-finished half pint, until the tremor in