The Colour of Violence Read online

  THE COLOUR OF VIOLENCE

  Roderic Jeffries

  © Roderic Jeffries 1974

  Roderic Jeffries has asserted his rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be identified as the author of this work.

  First published in 1974 by Walker Publishing Company, Inc.

  This edition published in 2017 by Endeavour Press Ltd.

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER I

  CHAPTER II

  CHAPTER III

  CHAPTER IV

  CHAPTER V

  CHAPTER VI

  CHAPTER VII

  CHAPTER VIII

  CHAPTER IX

  CHAPTER X

  CHAPTER XII

  CHAPTER XIII

  CHAPTER XIV

  CHAPTER XV

  CHAPTER XVI

  CHAPTER XVII

  CHAPTER XVIII

  CHAPTER XIX

  CHAPTER XX

  CHAPTER XXI

  CHAPTER XXII

  CHAPTER XXIII

  CHAPTER I

  In the bedroom of their rented cottage, George Armitage tried for the third time to force the bottom half of the collar stud through the holes in the neckband of his stiff fronted shirt and wing collar. The stud tilted and fell down inside his shirt. “Hell!” he said, exasperated.

  Gwen, his wife, spoke sharply. “Do hurry up, we’re late as it is.”

  “The later the better.” He tried to reach down inside the shirt for the stud.

  She looked away from the mirror. “If only you’d done as I wanted and bought a decent set of tails. As it is…” She stopped, nibbled her lower lip for a second, her expression of annoyance deepening the lines about her face, then turned back to lipstick her lips.

  He found the bottom half of the stud. He attacked the shirt and collar again.

  “George,” she said, “you won’t talk stupidly tonight, will you?”

  He grunted, as the now secured collar and shirt dug into his neck. Either he was getting fatter or everything had shrunk.

  “You know what I mean, don’t you?” she persisted. “It’s not at all funny or clever, even though you seem to think it is.” She removed the silk scarf she’d used to protect her petticoat, went past the bed and slipped into the ice-blue, full skirted, long-sleeved evening dress she’d bought two days before. “All you manage to do is upset people. You know why you talk like that, don’t you? It’s simply because you’re jealous.”

  “I suppose so,” he agreed. In fact, he wasn’t jealous of anyone, but he couldn’t persuade her that all he was doing was pulling the legs of some of the rich and famous of Ethington to discover how much sense of humour they had left.

  “Then, just for once, swallow your jealousy.”

  He studied her. At thirty-six, after nine years of marriage, she had physically altered very little. She had a good figure, as yet only lightly touched by the bulges of age, and always took a great deal of care over her appearance. Yet what she had lost was the fresh pleasure of her youth and in its place she had developed a general discontent, so often shown by the petulant set of her mouth. But she had only to laugh, to be gay, and she irresistibly reminded him of how she’d been when they’d married. “That dress really suits you,” he said, thinking the words would please her.

  “D’you think so?” She smoothed the front down with the palm of her right hand and turned to look once more at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror. “I wish,” she said slowly, “I’d bought that other dress.”

  He felt a quick stab of annoyance that was reflected in his tone of voice when he said: “You mean the one we couldn’t afford even more than we couldn’t afford this one?”

  “It was more soigné.”

  He began to tie his white tie, a task that very soon had him swearing. By the time the night was over, it would have cost at least twenty-five pounds and he wasn’t even going to enjoy it. Why wasn’t one, in this day and age, allowed to wear casual clothes to a hunt ball: what was a hunt ball doing in this day and age?

  “For pity’s sake, George, get a move on or we’ll only arrive in time for “The Queen”.”

  “I can’t get the tie to work.”

  “You really are fumble-fisted.” She tied the tie without any trouble.

  Their car, an ancient and rusting Hillman, refused to start. He tried the choke in and the choke out, the accelerator down on the floorboards and the accelerator untouched. The battery audibly began to weaken.

  “This car!” she said, in tones of hatred.

  “There’s only one thing left — a belt on the dashboard.” He hit the dashboard with his clenched fist and then turned the ignition key once more. The starter engaged and the engine fired. He laughed. “The oldest trick in the mechanic’s handbook and it seldom fails.”

  “You’ve just got to buy another car,” she snapped.

  He was about to answer that he’d ordered a Rolls only the day before, but restrained himself. Whereas he managed to find a wry amusement in many of their minor troubles, she usually found only angry annoyance.

  *

  The rectangular recreation room was sixty feet long, thirty wide, and fifteen high, with windows along three walls. Prisoners usually spent two hours a day in it, except at week-ends when there were not sufficient warders on duty, and there was a wide choice of games ranging from table tennis to chess, television, radio, and a large assortment of newspapers and magazines, but it was most popular as a clearing house for information, a market for tobacco, and a betting shop.

  By tradition, started no one knew when but zealously guarded, the clock end of the recreation room was reserved for the Big Men: top mobsters, and snout barons, and the occasional loner whose character or career commanded unusual respect. As with any stable social system, those at the bottom longed to be seen to be friendly with those at the top, while those at the top were conscious of their superiority. Healey was a poor fish, weedy in appearance, very excitable by nature, who longed to ingratiate himself with the aristocracy and who seemed immune to snubs, insults, or even open threats of violence. He was always as near as possible to the carefully arranged tables at the clock end, ready to do anything that was demanded of him and even occasionally daring to join in conversations. To some, he became a jester, ready to be the butt of cruel practical jokes.

  He edged his way to a table at which sat two men, listened to what they were saying, and then joined in. “Wouldn’t you reckon a hundred grand made for a big job, Lofty?”

  Weir ignored the question.

  Healey persevered. “What about you, Wally? Don’t you reckon a hundred makes any job a top one?”

  “Belt up,” muttered Farnes. He was a huge man and his strength was staggering. He’d once run amuck in another prison and it had taken five warders to overpower him: three of them had had to be taken off to hospital.

  “Of course, I’m talking about a hundred grand to each member of the mob.” He made a careful point of using prison slang, but either because he used the wrong word or else gave the right word the wrong emphasis or pronunciation he always sounded the outsider that, in fact, he was.

  Weir at last took some notice of what had been said. “A hundred grand’s for the punks.” Neither of the other two made the mistake of reminding him that he was inside because he’d failed on a robbery which would have totalled only forty-three thousand pounds.

  “I know of a job that’ll pay at least a million.”

  Weir looked up and his dark brown eyes, almost black in some lights, studied Healey intently.

  “Straight, Lofty, this job’s worth at least a million.” Weir lit a cigarette with movements that were strangely effeminate. He had very smooth facial skin, rose colouring, and a small cup
id’s-bow mouth.

  “It’s straight, Lofty. A bank which never has less than a million in it. I know how to screw it.”

  Farnes said violently: “You couldn’t screw an empty soup kitchen.”

  “But my firm did the job.”

  “What firm? What job?” demanded Weir.

  “I used to work for a firm of architects in Ethington and we did the plans for the bank’s strong-room and…” He was interrupted.

  A whistle blew and the warders shouted at the prisoners to leave. Healey hurried to obey their order as he hurried to obey all orders. Weir and Farnes moved at their own pace and the warders did not try to rush them. Weir walked with a slightly mincing gate, and alongside, towering over him, Farnes looked like a huge, awkward bear.

  *

  The Angel Hotel in Ethington was an ugly-looking, multi-roofed building from the outside, but inside there was quiet, faded elegance, an air of past prosperity, which held its own charm.

  Armitage and Gwen entered the ballroom, decorated in very heavy rococo style, and were audibly assaulted by the noise from two horn-blowing perspiring, red-faced men who were already slightly tight and gaining great amusement from making a nuisance of themselves. Gwen stood up on tiptoe, then said: “There’s Fred — over to the right.” She waved, before leading the way between the tables.

  “Well, then, how’s everyone? In the mood?” Fred Letts winked. He was always winking. “Gwen, my love, you’re a treat for sore eyes. If you weren’t married, I’d get on my knees and propose to you right now, I would.”

  “Well, I certainly wouldn’t accept you…Not here,” she added archly. He pulled out a chair for her and she sat down at the circular table. “Where’s your partner, Fred?”

  “Dolly wasn’t feeling a hundred per cent, so she cried off.” He sat down. “I got out my little red book and went through all the pages, and know what? There wasn’t one of ‘em I wanted here, not with you coming.”

  “I suppose they were all booked up?”

  He chuckled. “Never mind. Old George is a good sport and he won’t mind me having a bit of a shuffle with you. Isn’t that right, George?”

  “Help yourself, Fred.” Armitage didn’t really like Letts, but wasn’t certain why. He’d once made the mistake of saying this to Gwen: predictably, she’d told him his dislike was really jealousy that anyone with no background could make such a financial success of life.

  “The waiter wanted to know what we’d drink, so I’ve ordered bubbly,” said Letts. “Suits you both, doesn’t it?”

  “How extravagant!” said Gwen.

  How unnecessary, thought Armitage, remembering what drinks cost here. At the end of the evening his self-respect would force him to offer to pay their share of the bill and Fred’s sense of greed would force him to accept because he could never actually turn down money…Though if left to pay for everything, he’d be quite happy. Who was it, wondered Armitage, who’d said that of all his possessions, man’s self-respect was the most expensive?

  There was a roll of drums and the perspiration rolling down his chubby face, stepped out on to the floor. He announced that the hunt supporters’ club had raised over two hundred pounds, which would be used to help pay for new kennels for the hounds. People clapped and cheered and a few made barking noises.

  A waiter brought a bottle of champagne to Letts’ table, dumped it down, and was about to leave when Letts asked him for a bucket and ice. He muttered that none was available, but finally agreed to have another look when he saw Letts was prepared to get nasty. He brought a bucket filled with ice.

  “They’re all the same,” said Letts, as he poured out the champagne.

  “But at least you don’t let them get away with it,” said Gwen. “George does.”

  “Do you?” Letts turned. “Always the dreamer, eh? I’ll tell you. The only thing the average waiter understands is a kick up the backside.” He finished his drink in a few quick gulps. “What about shaking a leg, then, Gwen? I rather go for a quick-step.”

  “For your information, Fred, this is a slow foxtrot — but I don’t suppose that’ll make much difference.” She stood up.

  Letts put his arm round her waist as he threaded a way through the tables to the dance floor. Did he, wondered Armitage, still have hot hands on the dance floor as Gwen had once said he had? A man at the next table smiled and nodded. His bank manager: so charming, he could make the refusal of an overdraft sound as if it were set to music. A couple pushed by, knocking the table hard enough to spill some champagne out of Gwen’s glass, but neither bothered to apologise. He recognised her — a daughter of one of the county’s minor aristocracy who was said to have a very good seat in the field. It was certainly of noble proportions.

  The band played another foxtrot. It was unusual to hear so many old favourites — presumably, members of the Ethington and District Hunt were not in favour of pop. The next tune had been all the rage when he and Gwen had been engaged. It was interesting to remember that in those seemingly far-off days she’d thought it was really exciting that he was an author and she’d been proud of him.

  His thoughts were interrupted. “Hullo, there, Armitage. All on your own, then?”

  He stood up and shook hands with Dudley Broad-bent. He knew no one else whose name fitted so exactly. Dudley Broadbent sounded like ’12 Taylor’s, Romeo and Juliet coronas, Hackermann suits, and sufficient self-satisfaction to arm himself against the sharpest arrows life could fire at him. “I’m only a temporary widower. Gwen’s somewhere out on the floor, in the middle of the pack.”

  Broadbent, who’d clearly had quite a lot to drink, decided he might smile. “You can’t sit here on your own. Come on over and have a drink with us…I don’t believe you’ve met my wife?”

  “No, I haven’t had that pleasure.” And, as he stood up, Armitage wondered if there was anyone he wanted less to meet than Broadbent’s wife. She would be plump, with carefully set hair and over-manicured face, twin ropes of pearls around her turkey-wattled throat, a bosom of much billowing magnificence, pebbles under her tongue, and a carefully cultivated manner for dealing with tradesmen, hawkers, and indigent authors.

  Even a cheerful cynic could be wrong. Patricia Broadbent was almost half her husband’s age, conventionally slim and with a bosom that did no more than promise, her auburn hair was filled with highlights and had the look of having just come in from an exhilarating blow on the moors. She wore round her slim neck an exquisite piece of early Victorian diamond and opal jewellery, her voice was light and musical, and her manner was unaffected.

  “George Armitage writes,” said Broadbent, as if explaining away certain odd facts. “You’re a great reader, Patricia, you must have read some of…George’s. We know each other well enough for that. And I’m Dudley.”

  “How very kind of you, Dudley,” said Armitage, before he could stop himself. Broadbent had noticed nothing.

  “Some of George’s books, dear.”

  “I don’t think I have,” she said.

  Broadbent, puffing slightly, sat down. He emptied a bottle of champagne into a glass for Armitage and then beckoned to a waiter who hurried over and took the order for a fresh bottle. “Of course you must have read some,” he corrected sharply. “They’re full of exciting things and sex.”

  “I don’t know that I accept the separation and in any case there’s hardly any sex in my books,” said Armitage.

  “No sex? But I’ve been told that’s what sells books.”

  “True enough, but when I started writing some in, my publishers said it was very unrealistic and I ought to stick to things I know something about.”

  Broadbent frowned slightly as he tried to decide whether or not Armitage was being serious. Patricia suffered no such doubts. She laughed, and for the first time Armitage realised that her mouth was very slightly lop-sided.

  “Do you write under your own name?” she asked.

  “That and two others,” he answered.

  “Then you can tell me
something I’ve always wanted to know. Why do authors use different names?”

  “Because when each book sells as few copies as mine do, one has to write several a year to make a living and publishers don’t like more than one book a year under any one name.”

  Broadbent was becoming impatient at being left out of the conversation. “I thought paperbacks did very well?”

  “I’ve often heard that rumour.”

  “I read a paperback the other day…”

  The description of the plot was long and inaccurate. Perhaps, thought Armitage, good memory and lucid exposition were not, after all, the prerequisites to being a successful solicitor.

  *

  Five hours later, as Armitage was thankfully undoing the collar and neckband of his shirt, Gwen said sharply: “Who was that you spent most of the evening with?”

  “Call-me-Dudley.”

  “What are you talking about? Why can’t you ever answer a question sensibly?”

  He sighed. “Until tonight he was Broadbent and I was Armitage. Tonight he told me to call him Dudley. A beautiful friendship was cemented.”

  “When you talk like that you’re not in the least bit funny.”

  He rubbed his neck, where the base of the stud had dug into his flesh and there was now an indented, red crescent.

  She took off her dress and slipped a covered hanger under the straps. “Is he very important to you?”

  “How on earth do you mean?”

  “I wondered why you spent so long with him and couldn’t be bothered to return to our table?”

  “I was being subjected to a lecture on how to write successfully and couldn’t escape until it was all over. In any case, you weren’t on your own. Or were Fred’s hands getting a little too hot?”

  “If they were, you obviously didn’t give a damn.”

  He spoke quietly. “Spit it out, pet. What’s the real trouble?”

  She turned her back to him and crossed to the wardrobe.

  “If you were bored, why didn’t you come over and let me introduce you?”