‘Alla tavola...’
Nick gestured to a table and pulled a chair out for Jane.
‘Is there somewhere out the back we could talk more privately?’ she asked.
Nick looked surprised. ‘What’s this about?’
‘If we could go somewhere more private I can tell you.’
‘OK. My wife is away just now, so we can go upstairs to the flat.’
‘That would be ideal, thank you. PC Bottomley mentioned your wife hadn’t been well — he asked me to send his regards to you both.’
‘That’s kind of him. My a wife is suffering from breathing problems — she’s staying with her brother in Southend. I’m hoping the sea air will do her good.’
As they walked through the downstairs kitchen the smell of cooking oil and fried food was almost overpowering. The living room was small, with a two-seater sofa, two armchairs and a four-place dining table. It was neat and tidy but, like the kitchen below, smelt heavily of cooking oil and fried food.
‘Please sit down. Who are these men you wanna know about?’
Nick sat down in an armchair. Jane sat on the sofa with Teflon, who got out his pocket notebook to take notes.
She smiled. ‘We were hoping you could help us with that. From our enquiries we know they are white, in their mid-forties to early fifties, and usually use your cafe on Monday and Friday mornings.’
She didn’t want to give away too much information until they’d gauged Nick’s willingness to help.
‘I’m full of customers at that time: there’s a decorators, plumbers, electricians, engineers — you name it, I get them all in my place.’
‘These men like to sit at the far end, at the table by the wall,’ Teflon told him.
‘I need a some more clues if I’m gonna be able to help you,’ Nick said, lighting a cigarette.
‘One of them wears a chain with a little pair of gold boxing gloves,’ she added.
His eyes lit up. ‘Ah, OK, that’s a gotta be Tommy, il pugilatore — he tell me he used to be a champion boxer. He owns the new snooker club over the road.’
‘And the other man?’ Teflon asked.
Nick shrugged. ‘There’s a few people I’ve seen sittin’ with Tommy... but I think is probably his brother George you talkin’ about. He’s a bit older and sometimes has breakfast with him.’
‘Does George smoke?’ Jane asked.
Nick frowned. ‘Yes, the big fat Cuban cigars. The smell upsets some of my regular customers as his cigar make more smoke than my bloody frying pans—’
‘Do you know their surname?’ she asked.
‘No, they’ve only been coming in here a few months. I have a little chat sometimes with them, I like a due chiacchiere with my customers — is good for business.’
‘Is George involved with the snooker club?’ Teflon asked.
Nick shrugged. ‘He could be, but I never ask him what he do and he never tell me. Have they done something bad?’
‘We don’t know... Some information we received suggests they might have, but for now we’re just trying to find out more about them,’ Jane told him.
‘You said there’s a few people you’ve seen sitting at that table with Tommy. Do you know their names?’ Teflon asked.
‘When the inside of the snooker club was being built, he used the cafe like it was his office to discuss the building work — so he was talking to lots of different people.’
‘I meant more recently...’ He turned to Jane. ‘Have you got that description of the white lad who wears the designer polo shirts?’
She got her pocket notebook out of her bag and looked for the relevant entry.
‘He’s late twenties to early thirties, five feet eight tall, slim, with blue eyes and wavy blond hair down to his shoulders.’
Nick looked more curious. ‘I thought you said you just wanted to know about two men?’
‘We’re also interested in their associates — any information about them could also be helpful.’
‘Are you the CID from Tottenham?’
Jane and Teflon looked at each other, wondering who should answer and how much they should divulge. PC Bottomley had given Nick a clean bill of health, so Jane decided they could risk being more open with him.
‘We’re from the Flying Squad at Rigg Approach.’
Nick’s bushy eyebrows shot up. ‘You’re from the bloody Sweeney!’
‘We didn’t want to alarm you — that’s why I didn’t mention it initially.’
‘I don’t know anything about any robberies... Madonna mia!’
He took a long drag on his cigarette, shaking his head.
‘At present we have no hard evidence that either Tommy or George are involved in a robbery. We are just following up on some information received.’ Jane tried to make it sound as routine as possible.
Nick looked concerned. ‘I understand you have a job to do, but my wife, she is very ill already. If she knew you’d been here asking about a robbery, she would get upset and it would make her breathing worse. Ti prego, enough,’ he said, waving his finger.
Jane nodded. ‘I understand, and we’ve no intention of speaking to her. What you’ve told us is just background information and nothing incriminating against Tommy or George.’
‘What a robbery you investigating?’
‘A Securicor van,’ Teflon told him, ‘outside Barclays Bank in Leytonstone on Thursday morning—’
Nick’s eyes narrowed. ‘Was that de one on the news, where the policemen were shot and they crash the car?’
‘Yes—’
‘Vigliacchi bastardi!’ he said with a look of anger in his eyes.
Jane quickly pressed their advantage. ‘We want to arrest whoever is responsible before it happens again, and if these men are involved, we need your help.’
Nick stubbed his cigarette out, then ran his hand over his bald patch and took a deep breath.
‘The young a man with long blond hair... I’ve a heard Tommy and George call him Carl — and George some time say, “You all right, son?” But I donna know if he is really son, you know?’
‘Do they look like father and son?’ Jane asked.
Nick thought for a moment. ‘Not really, no.’
‘Do you know if Carl works for Tommy or George?’
‘Maybe George... I’ve seen him give Carl a big wedge of cash, but I dunno what for — and I don’t ask.’
Jane looked in her pocket notebook ‘We’re also interested in a white man who’s about five feet eleven tall, with dark slicked-back hair. He wears a brown camel hair coat with a black suede collar.’
Nick smiled. ‘I see him a couple of time in here, he’s very smart and speak with, how you say... a plum in his mouth.’
‘You mean he speaks with a posh accent?’ Teflon asked.
‘Si. I dunno his name, but he has a face I don’t forget, cause he look like the actor who play Dracula—’ Nick paused to think of the name.
‘Vincent Price?’ Teflon suggested.
Nick raised his eyes. ‘No, no Vincent Price — he never play Dracula... I mean the man in the black and white film.’
‘Bela Lugosi?’ Jane offered.
‘Yes!’
‘How old is he?’ Teflon asked.
Nick shrugged. ‘I dunno, he’s dead now.’
‘I meant the man in the camel hair coat,’ Teflon said, stifling a laugh.
‘He about fifty, fifty-five maybe.’
‘Have you ever heard George talk to him — or anyone else — about a wedding?’
‘Not to Mr. Lugosi... but a few weeks ago Tommy ask a me if I can do catering for a big wedding at a cheap price as the caterers for a George’s daughter’s wedding charging a fortune. I know Tommy taking the piss so I ask how a many plates of full English breakfasts he wants. George no a look amused and told us both to eff off.’