Tiger at Bay Read online

  The sergeant shuffled his feet.

  ‘Well, it’s more intuition than information, but I think they work the trucks away from home. We had a whisper a couple of years ago and went and worked their place over on grounds of receiving. We used a toothcomb on the cafe and didn’t find even the dust of any loot. Then Ismail sicked a lawyer on to us and even started an action for illegal entry. Didn’t get anywhere, but we had to be careful after that.’

  Bob Ellis nodded. ‘I remember that. We were told we wouldn’t get any more warrants without cast-iron evidence. There hasn’t been a twitch out of them since then; all laying low as far as Cardiff crimes goes.’

  ‘Any of them with a record?’ asked Meredith.

  ‘Only Joe Davies, not counting approved schools and that. Joe did a stretch for robbery with violence, but a fair time back now.’

  The chief superintendent eased across to the door. ‘So all this guff from our tame private detective is a lot of eyewash?’

  Dai Rees twitched his shoulders. ‘Nothing to say one way or the other. I wouldn’t put any sort of thieving past Tiger Ismail and his mob, but attempted murder isn’t his line.’

  ‘Keep an eye on it!’ ordered Meredith as he walked out.

  Terry Rourke sauntered past the front of the Cairo Restaurant, but made no move to go inside.

  He was a wily lad and knew that sitting inside drinking a cup of tea would give him as much insight into the Tiger mob as sitting on the Pier Head staring out to sea.

  He walked on slowly as far as the traffic lights at the lower end of Bute Street. Leaning against a shop window, he lit a cigarette and waited for inspiration.

  None came, so he made his way back along the pavement towards the cafe. Thirty yards short of it, he saw a narrow alleyway leading to his left. He sidled into it and came out in a wider back lane. Turning right, he found that he was now almost behind Tiger’s premises.

  Luck started to roll for him at that moment, though if he could have looked further ahead, he would have put as much distance as possible between himself and that lane.

  A large red lorry was standing just in front of him, almost blocking the full width of the lane. A rough stone wall, pierced with dilapidated doors, ran along the back of the Bute Street buildings and where the lorry was waiting, a pair of double gates stood open.

  A burly, red-faced man in a boiler suit was handing down cardboard cartons from the truck to a tiny old man with a gnarled brown face and a great hooked nose. He was staggering under the impact of massed baked beans as they dropped from the hands of the lorry driver high above him.

  Just as Terry began squeezing past the vehicle, there was a frightened squeal as the old man fumbled his catch and dropped a box heavily against the rear mudguard. With a ripping noise, the bottom tore out of the carton and a shower of tins sprayed out, some of them falling on the feet of the old Arab, who began wailing even louder.

  The lorry driver began swearing as the tins started to roll under the truck and into the gutter of the cobbled lane.

  Seizing the golden opportunity, Terry grabbed the broken box, turned it upside down and quickly collected the tins.

  ‘You go and have a sit down, mate,’ he shouted cheerfully at the almost tearful grandfather, who was actually a great-uncle of Tiger’s.

  ‘Useless old bugger!’ growled the man on the lorry.

  ‘Gimme the rest, mate – you’ve crippled grandpa for the rest of the day.’ Terry slid the broken case inside the gates and held up his arms for another.

  Baked beans, flour, rice and all sorts of dry groceries came down until a pile had grown inside the backyard of the Cairo Restaurant.

  ‘Gawd, are they stocking up for a famine?’ asked Terry. Work was a sort of allergy to him and he would spend more time and effort in dodging it than in doing an actual job. Only the hope of fiddling an entry to the cafe pushed him into this sudden spurt of activity.

  ‘That’s the lot, son. Sign here.’ The driver handed down a pink form and a pencil.

  ‘Nothing to do with me, squire, I was just passing. I’ll take it and find Abdul, the terrible Turk.’

  He was halfway to the back door when it opened and out waddled Florrie, with her usual frizzy hair and carpet slippers.

  ‘All present and correct, missus – here’s the chit.’

  He handed the invoice over and the woman trundled past him to speak to the lorry driver. On the way back she stopped.

  ‘Ta, son – Uncle Ahmed is getting past it.’

  ‘Want a hand to get ’em inside, missus?’ said Terry quickly, afraid that his seam of luck was about to run out.

  She stared at him a moment. ‘Got nothing else to do?’

  The Irish boy grinned. ‘I’ve outstayed me welcome at the Labour Exchange – and I’m too broke to sit in the pub.’

  He grabbed the nearest box. ‘Where to, mum?’

  Florrie jerked a thumb at the rear of the seedy building and he stumbled inside with the box. It was the kitchen entrance and smelled of damp and stale frying. Yet another man with a faint touch of the East was toiling over a grubby sink and a fat man with red hair was sloshing something around in a plastic bowl at a table.

  They hardly gave him a glance as he took the box through to a dark storeroom that the woman pointed out to him. He stacked all the rest in there and when he finally came out, Florrie was talking earnestly to the old man.

  When Rourke approached, she turned to him. ‘Want a temporary job, son? You can pitch in here if you like. One of our lads has gone away for a few weeks.’

  ‘Without the option, eh?’ grinned Terry cheekily.

  Florrie started to look annoyed, then her sallow face cracked into a smile. ‘You catch on quick. What about it? Odd jobs and kitchen work. Ten quid a week and free grub.’

  Terry hesitated long enough to make a convincing show of surprise and uncertainty, then agreed before the manageress could change her mind.

  ‘I’m not a bleeding cook, mind, Ma,’ he warned.

  She cackled at him. ‘Slicing chips and opening tins is the nearest you’ll get to cooking, lad. When can you start?’

  ‘No time like the present. I’ll begin with some of that grub you promised.’

  She grinned again and waddled inside.

  After his pie and mash, he was put to washing up after the busy lunchtime rush. When things quietened down in the afternoon, he chatted in pidgin English with Uncle Ahmed, who was one of the few members of the family who had not been born in Cardiff.

  He hung about all day, but nothing of importance happened. The only thing that was remotely useful was the appearance at teatime of three men, who came down from the upper floors and immediately left in a waiting car. Terry recognized the lithe figure of Tiger Ismail and the more flamboyant Joe Davies. The other one was unknown to him, but a casual question to the old man gave him the information that this was Nikos the Greek who often drove Tiger’s Ford.

  Terry stared after the men with some interest. He had not seen the owner of the restaurant for some time; Tiger had become a minor legend amongst the youth of Bute town. These last few years he had lived a secluded life, which added to his air of mystery. Most of the day was spent in his upstairs flat or away from Cardiff altogether, either ‘casing’ jobs or arranging the disposal of stolen goods. In the evenings and far into the nights he was a familiar figure in the clubs and casinos that had mushroomed in the lower part of the city centre, but there the kids and youths of Dockland were hardly likely to be fellow patrons.

  The Irish lad worked the rest of the day out, then went home to the council flat in Riverside, where he lived with his widowed mother and three of the remaining family. His father had drunk himself to death some years earlier and Terry and the National Assistance Board now supported the family.

  Next day, the pattern was repeated and by teatime he was itching for some development that would bring the end of this awful work within sight. He had phoned Iago Price that morning to tell him that he was now an em
ployee of Tiger’s and that the first day had drawn a blank.

  By the early evening, he knew that if he could not think of something to produce a dramatic result by that night, he was going to jack in the whole business.

  He watched carefully to see who was going up and down the stairs, but only Tiger and Joe Davies used it that day, apart from some minor members of the family who apparently lived up on the first floor. Terry managed to get as far as this on one occasion and found a warren of small rooms, each with several beds housing part of the Ismail tribe and some offshoots. There was another staircase leading up to the second floor where Tiger lived, but he could find no legitimate excuse to penetrate that far into the enemy camp.

  In the hope that the late evening might see more action, he arranged with Florrie to go off at teatime and come back later, as there was a spurt in business when the pubs shut and some drinkers felt the urge for solid food.

  About ten o’clock, the three men he had seen the previous day came down the stairs, this time with a weasel-faced man in a cloth cap. Terry had seen him about the district, but did not know his name. They all vanished in the big Ford and left Terry to cast longing glances at the now-deserted stairway.

  Waiting for a slack moment, he watched until Uncle Ahmed was in the kitchen. Florrie had gone to a Bingo session, so he slid rapidly up the first flight of stairs. At the top he listened intently, heard nothing and went quickly up the next flight to the upper floor.

  He had some experience as a housebreaker, and now it came in handy. The top floor had the feel of being completely deserted and he quickly took bearings on the top landing. There were two doors at right angles, then a long passage leading to the back of the house.

  He tried the door of the front room and found it locked. The shrunken frame of the old building left a quarter-inch gap around the door and within a few seconds he was inside, having slid the tongue of the lock back with a piece of stiff plastic, actually a bank credit card stolen months before.

  He was afraid to turn on the light, but a street lamp just outside gave plenty of illumination. With the practised hand of the thief, he rapidly went through the room, not knowing what he was looking for, but hoping to find something incriminating.

  The few drawers and cupboards had nothing of interest. A writing desk against the wall delayed‘ him for a moment until he wriggled the simple lock open with a piece of wire from his pocket. The desk was packed with apparently legitimate bills dealing with the restaurant though one bundle, when studied briefly at the window, seemed to be cryptic lists of figures. He risked taking one sheet from the back of the wad, then returned the whole lot to the desk and locked up again. In the corner, covered by a curtain, was an old-fashioned safe, with a brass handle and embossed coat-of-arms. Ancient though it seemed, it was too tough a nut for him to crack, as he was no ‘peterman’.

  With a final frustrated glance around the room, he let himself out and clicked the lock shut behind him.

  He listened at the head of the stairs but all was quiet.

  The next door was open and he slid inside. The windows were covered by heavy curtains and he risked switching on the light.

  It was Tiger’s bedroom, furnished in expensive modern taste, with a large double bed and fitted wardrobes in gold and white. There was a mirrored dressing table groaning under a profusion of male toilet preparations. On the walls were several large nude photographs, of a frankness that suggested a Scandinavian origin.

  It seemed an unlikely room for incriminating evidence, but Terry thought he had better go through the wardrobes and drawers. His hand was on the nearest knob when he heard voices.

  In a flash, he was across the room and had knocked up the light switch. There was nothing more he could do but press himself to the wall behind the door and hope for the best.

  The voices grew louder as the men came up the stairs. Feet tramped past and then a key rattled in the lock of the front room. Seconds later it slammed shut and he breathed more freely.

  Moving over to the partition wall, Terry pressed his ear to the wallpaper. He could hear the muffled sound of voices and the clink of bottles, but no more. Realizing that this was the only chance he was likely to get of hearing something useful, he eased open the door and slipped on to the landing. The voices were louder now, but still unintelligible.

  Risking everything, the Irish boy put his ear to the panels of the front room door, eavesdropping at the ill-fitting frame.

  Now he could pick up odd snatches of conversation, but only intermittently. People seemed to be walking to and fro, glasses and bottles were still clinking.

  As someone walked past, he caught a few clear words: ‘… down the Ross motorway on Friday …’ Then it faded and a different voice said, ‘Any joy with those birds from the shop, Joe? …’

  For a moment the footsteps receded and Rourke could pick out nothing at all. Things suddenly got worse as the radio began blaring pop music. He swore at it silently and almost stopped breathing in an effort to pick out a few words of sense.

  A moment later someone passed quite near the door – he could feel the floorboards moving.

  ‘… that job should bring us in quite a bit, Tiger.’

  The words came so loudly that he was momentarily panic-stricken in case the owner was coming out of the door. It was the voice of Joe Davies, the only one he knew.

  Again the voices faded back, but another phrase was just audible. ‘… gaffer’s chips on Sunday night.’

  For a full minute after this he could hear nothing. Then a voice almost in his ear said, ‘I’ll get some more from the bathroom.’ A glass chinked and even as Terry dived for the stairs, the door handle started to turn. He was at the foot of the upper flight before the occupant had come out and the solid wall which replaced banisters sheltered him from view. He took a few seconds off to steady his nerves, then went more slowly down to the cafe.

  Two customers were waiting to be served and Uncle Ahmed was shuffling along towards them.

  ‘Sorry I was so long, dad. Must have been that shepherd‘s pie,’ he said with a flippancy he didn’t feel.

  The old Arab said nothing and Terry waited impatiently for the time when he could leave the restaurant, this time for good.

  At eleven thirty Florrie came back and said he could go, and he hurried out into the damp, misty December night.

  He wanted to justify his fees to Iago Price and lost no time in letting him know his meagre news.

  There was a phone box on a corner of West Bute Street, a branch of the main road, just above the Cairo Restaurant. Once inside, he thumbed through a grubby wallet and found Iago’s number written on the back of a racing slip. He dialled in the dim light of the overhead bulb and after a long time, the sleepy voice of the private eye came over the line.

  He told Iago all that had happened, embroidering it as much as he could to make it sound more important.

  ‘What’s all this about “gaffer’s chips”, for God’s sake?’ asked Iago petulantly.

  ‘I dunno, Mr Price, but that’s exactly what it sounded like.’ He spelt out his interpretation for the detective’s benefit. ‘Gaffer’s chips on Sunday. Sounded like Tiger’s voice to me.’

  After some heavy breathing and thinking, Iago spoke again.

  ‘What are you going to do now?’

  Terry Rourke shrugged at himself in the phone box mirror.

  ‘Can‘t see me getting a better break than I did tonight. I’ve searched his rooms and listened at his keyhole. Short of "bugging" the place, can’t see what else can be done.’

  Iago grunted. ‘I’ll see you right with the money,’ he said rashly. ‘Better carry on for a day or two. Have a good snoop around the docks to see if you can pick up any tales about Tiger. Try the pubs, that should suit you,’ he added unkindly and rang off.

  Mention of money brought a satisfied smirk to Terry’s face as he pushed his way out of the box.

  The smile was short-lived.

  He stepped straight int
o the centre of a silent and very unsmiling group of men – Joe Davies, Nikos the Greek, Archie Vaughan and Uncle Ahmed.

  Joseph Stalin grabbed his elbow in a grip like a monkey wrench.

  ‘And jus’ what was you doin’ upstairs tonight, chum?’ he growled menacingly.

  Chapter Six

  Cardiff’s West Dock was a long, narrow basin, half a mile in length, separated from Bute Street by a high stone wall, a railway and a row of warehouses.

  ‘Was’, because after over a hundred years of use, it was nearing the end of its life.

  Hundreds of thousands of ships and millions of tons of Welsh coal had passed through its narrow lock gates, but now this was almost a memory. For several years, lorry loads of rubble and ash had laboriously forced the reluctant water out, and on the second day after Iago’s late night phone call, only a few yards of grey stone wall and a large pool of dirty water remained.

  Two small urchins, mitching from school, had dodged the site watchman and were playing with a tattered mongrel on the steep slope that led down to the edge of the remaining water.

  Oblivious of the dangers of an avalanche, the ginger boy skidded down the ramp, yelling and waving his arms. The other one, a gleaming-eyed coloured lad, pointed a piece of wood at him and made machine-gun noises.

  ‘Gotcha! Yer dead!’ he screamed, and obediently Ginger fell carefully to the ground and slid the last few feet until his scuffed toecaps were actually touching the water.

  The dog slithered down after him, barking rapturously – then suddenly stopped. It began snuffling energetically, then sneezed as the dusty ash went up its nostrils. Not to be put off, it scratched at the water’s edge and seized something in its mouth.

  A second later, it was bounding up to the dockside, where it dropped its find for a more leisurely inspection.

  The two little boys, Commandos forgotten in the new diversion of dog-chasing, scrambled after it. Ginger grabbed it by the tail and the half-caste snatched the dog’s prize.

  Before they had a chance to look at it, a gruff shout came from behind them. The site foreman had returned from his morning brew-up. He marched across wagging an angry finger in the direction of the entrance gate.