Harry’s flat was on the corner of Dean Street and Bateman Street with windows that looked out over both.
Taking the syrup with him he clambered up the wooden steps and unlocked the roof-light…
Friday the thirteenth had dawned and Costas felt uneasy…
Carrie hadn’t slept well and she had not heard from Snowman since yesterday. This was not unusual, but she had a deep sense of foreboding since he’d crept in the previous night. He had taken a bundle of money and left without a word.
Carrie retrieved her mobile and the Controller came on the line. She was unusually friendly, “Hello Carrie,good to hear from you.” She was relieved to hear Carrie’s voice after the report from Whitey.
“I’ve got news.. he’s met somebody who…” Carrie was about to tell the story when she heard the creak of the apartment door behind her…
Soho Cars’ office in Old Compton Street used to be a tobacco kiosk.
The Black Brothers took it over in the eighties and still ran it from the pavement.
Harry White was the name on his licence and he had been given the nickname ‘Whitey’ by the Brothers as he was the only white man on the fleet.
It was Sunday evening and the Crisis Response Team was off duty.
In the warmth of Costas’ flat Branen started to thaw out.
He was tortured by the image of the contorted body being flung forward over him. He kept feeling the warm blood as it ran down his face and the taste as it crept into his mouth.
The bright lights..
The cold and damp had penetrated and he ached all over…
He was looking for a scooter…
St. Barnabas’s
For destitute women… Harry’s fantasy venue.
The tramp was mumbling and pulled himself up on to all fours.
On the plinth there were pock marks that looked like bullet holes.
He walked through the early morning streets…
…would he get out alive?
Snowman went through the velvet curtain and down the dark mirrored staircase into the club.
The breeze rustled through the branches of the Eucalyptus tree beside Branen’s stone farmhouse.
He wondered down from the 100 Club to Bar Italia…
He stopped at a cafe on the corner of Wardour Street…
…He pulled the brim of his hat down to hide his face.
The gate closed behind him…it was just the two of them now.
She chopped out a couple of generous lines…
A thin filleting knife lay on the chopping board…
He found a flaking black door with a hand-painted sign, China Hotel.
Harry crept down to the front door.
The Prime Minister scoop guaranteed the syndication income.
So!Ho! was the hunting call when Henry VIII chased wild boar in the woods where Soho now stood. If you listened carefully today you would still hear the snorts of male boars as they copulated in tarts’ rented rooms.
His luck was in; the queen bee was visible in the middle of the chamber…
Soho is full of contradictions. Beneath the sociable veneer of the cafés, bars and restaurants there exists an underworld of crime and a thriving drug industry.