It wasn’t that hard. ‘I’m guessing Eddie Smith, the right-hand man to Tristan Angel. Do I win a lollipop?’
‘You certainly do. Listen to this. Back in 2015, you and I rolled up an East End gang run by a thug called Archibald Brains. Remember him?’
‘How could I forget somebody with a name like Brains? I seem to remember he got life with a minimum term of twenty-five years for multiple murders, GBH and robbery with violence. Is that right?’
‘Very close. It was twenty-eight years. He’s currently banged up in Belmarsh prison and he won’t come out until well after his seventieth birthday, if at all. It’s interesting that Edward Smith currently describes himself as Tristan Angel’s right-hand man, because that’s exactly what he was to Archibald Brains.’
‘So, Eddie was in it with Brains.’ I whistled in surprise. ‘So why don’t I remember him? He remembered my name.’
‘Probably because, in those days, he was a professional boxer and he went by the name Eddie the Beagle. He even had a tattoo of a dog on his forearm. He was a minor-league fighter who never made it into the big time.’
‘Now I hear it again, I do remember the name Eddie the Beagle – who wouldn’t? – but I don’t remember questioning him.’
‘I’ve been looking at the file this afternoon, and Eddie wasactually in hospital with two broken knees at the time of our investigation. I remember you sending me to talk to him, and rereading my report of that interview reminded me that I came up against a stone wall. He didn’t know anything about anybody. He was innocent of everything. He loved everybody, and everybody loved him. The fact that somebody had broken both his kneecaps with a pickaxe handle was an unfortunate accident, and he refused to press charges or even identify his attacker. Either way, apart from his having had several years of association – allegedly as a bodyguard – with Archibald Brains, we had nothing on Smith and we had to leave him alone. That’s why you never saw him, I suppose.’
When the sergeant brought Eddie in for interview, I noticed his limp yet again, and when he sat down opposite me, still wearing his shorts, I couldn’t miss the scars across both his knees. As agreed with Virgilio, I started the questions and I pointed to what was quite obviously the tattoo of a dog on his forearm.
‘I used to do a bit of boxing myself, Eddie, but I never faced anybody called the Beagle.’
He looked up suspiciously. ‘You been checking up on me?’
‘We’ve been checking up on everybody, and Scotland Yard have reminded me of your association with a particularly nasty character called Archibald Brains, currently a resident of Belmarsh prison. Do I assume that the unfortunate accident to both your knees marked the end of your boxing career?’
‘What do you think?’ There was no trace of his usual cheeky grin now. ‘Anyway, I was getting on. I was in my thirties, and they were using me as a punchbag.’ Seeing the incomprehension on some faces, he explained. ‘When promoters have a new boxer they’re trying to bring on, they set him up with fights they know their man will win, but the fights can’t be too easy. I had a reputationas a hard man to knock out, so I often got called in. It was good money – as long as I didn’t do anything stupid like win a bout. Anyway, after the accident to my knees, I knew it was time for a change.’ He was trying to sound philosophical and resigned, but I could hear the bitterness below the surface.
‘A change from being enforcer for a vicious criminal to being bodyguard to a notorious arms dealer.’
‘Mr Angel was all right.’ I felt I could detect real regret in his voice. ‘He looked after me.’
‘How did you meet up with him?’
His expression became softer. ‘Funny story, guvnor. He knocked me down as I was crossing the street.’
‘That doesn’t sound very funny, at least not for you.’
‘It wasn’t his fault. To be honest, I was plastered – and I’m not just talking about my legs.’ He didn’t even try smiling at his attempt at a joke – no doubt often repeated – and his brow furrowed as the memories returned. ‘After Archie got banged up, and after they finally let me out of hospital, I went off the rails.’ He looked up and I could read the pain in his eyes. ‘You said you did a bit of boxing. Then you know how tough the training is. Every day, whatever the weather, running miles, and then sweating it out for hour after hour in the gym. When, suddenly, I couldn’t do that any more, I hit the booze, big time. I was completely out of it for weeks, burning through my savings in alcohol. It was in the Old Kent Road, one night about eleven, and I stepped out in front of a car.’
Oscar, who had been keeping his distance up till now, pulled himself to his feet and trotted over to lean against Eddie’s battered knees. The big man reached down and stroked his head as he continued his tale.
‘I don’t know to this day whether I did it on purpose, or whether it really was an accident, but, at that stage in my life, itdidn’t seem to matter. I was almost broke, no prospects, nothing. I might just as well have been dead.’ He rubbed a big hand across his face and sniffed. ‘Anyway, I got lucky. I could have walked out in front of a bus or an old Ford Transit with dodgy brakes, but, as luck would have it, I chose a brand-spanking-new Porsche. That thing had brakes that could make it stop on a sixpence, and Mr Angel had the reflexes of a hawk. It hit me, but so gently, it didn’t even leave a bruise. He jumped out to see how I was, gave me a lift home, came in for a chat and, right there and then, he offered me a job – on one condition: that I stayed off the booze.’ There was pride in his voice now. ‘And I haven’t touched a drop ever since.’
‘I can see that he must have meant a lot to you.’
Eddie looked up from Oscar, straight at me, and I could see moisture glistening in his eyes. ‘A lot? He turned my life around. I’d have done anything for Mr Angel.’
‘Anything? Would you have killed for him?’
‘I said anything, and I meant anything but, in case you’re wondering, he never asked, and I never did.’
‘So can we safely remove your name from the list of people who might have murdered Tristan Angel in the duomo?’
‘I’d rather have killed myself.’
I looked across and caught Virgilio’s eye. I was certainly in no doubt. Eddie hadn’t killed his beloved boss, but what if he had discovered the identity of the killer and had meted out rough justice of his own? Might Donald Hicks have murdered Tristan Angel, but then paid the ultimate price at the hands of Angel’s faithful sidekick?
The questions just kept on coming.
17
