Kate pulled a pillow over her face. Like an ostrich with its head in the sand, she could see nothing for a few moments, and that was fine by her. The project in Blundellsands had been taken away from her, some dangerous people were looking for her, but that was all peripheral. Alex loved her. Alex was her core; he was all she truly needed.
I feel there’s a disease that’s spreading to embrace England and, perhaps, France. Inspector Allen has found and given me the names of two men who were Jim’s runners. There’s a Max Alton, usually known as Mad Max, and a Trevor Jones who’s normally Trev. There used to be two more, but there was an accident on the M25 and they died.
The inspector has been in touch with Liverpool’s Chief Constable. Max and Trev were seen near Euston station, and possibly caught the train to Lime Street from there. It all dovetails together quite sweetly except for one problem. The bastards (Inspector Allen’s word for them) have done a disappearing act. So they are the ones who invaded my space and ruined my project. Even though he no longer walks the earth, Gentleman Jim continues to spoil lives and destroy any hope nursed by those among us who want to move on and forget our nightmare pasts.
I told the inspector I had changed address and that my house had been ransacked. ‘There wasn’t much to ransack – I lived in one room,’ I said. ‘And I’m pretend-married to Alex Price. Look him up – he got a warning for knocking the Master of Foxhounds off his horse in the nineties. Probably Holcombe Hunt.’
Of course, he wanted the pretend-married bit explained, so I told him Alex has superb security people and we’ll be truly married when everything calms down and Amelia comes home. He tutted and laughed, telling me that if he lives to be a hundred he’ll never work me out. I said snap, because I don’t always know who and what I am, either.
He now has my theory about the Latimer grave, so that will be investigated almost immediately. Once the missing boxes are found, Max and Trev will have no further use for me, but I won’t feel completely safe until they’re locked up. Oh, how I hope I’m right about the grave.
I shower, make sure I’m wearing the wedding band as well as the engagement ring, slip into a blue dress and flat navy shoes. With the shoulder-length blonde wig covering my own hair, I descend two flights and meet Mrs Bee in the downstairs hall. ‘Good girl,’ she whispers. ‘I see you’ve got the wedding ring on. He’s in the sitting room with Bob, that good-looking black man from Cheers. I get the feeling there’s more trouble, something to do with one of the clubs.’
She seems flustered when I give her a hug and a quick kiss on her forehead. Brenda is so small, I could probably tuck her head under my chin. I leave her and go in search of my man.
When I enter the sitting room I find he and Bobby Ray are clinging to each other, and Alex is actually sobbing.
My fiancé, my husband, my beloved, is in tears, and the mother in me rushes to comfort him. ‘What happened?’ I ask Bobby Ray. ‘He was fine upstairs a few minutes ago. Alex?’
Being unable to speak, he gives me no answer.
‘Bobby Ray? What’s going on?’
Clearly choked himself, the man dries his dark eyes. ‘We couldn’t open the broom cupboard in the back of the club.’ Bob inhales a shuddering breath. ‘There was a dead boy behind the door, needle still in his arm. There were no tracks or old injection marks, so he’s been killed by his first hit. He looks about sixteen or seventeen and there was no club stamp on his hand. Alex can’t cope with shit like this. Excuse me.’ Desperate for air, he makes for the door, leaving his partner in my useless hands.
‘I’m here, my love, I’m here,’ I say.
‘Somebody killed that boy. Oh, Kate, he was a novice. Whoever gave him the drugs buggered off and left him to die behind that door. His arm had a band on to tighten it and make the veins swell. Someone did this in my club, then escaped through a window.’
‘Your and Bobby Ray’s club,’ I remind him.
‘It’s not his fault.’ Alex dries his eyes.
‘It’s not yours, either. You were with me—’
‘Not all the time. I was back and forth to the clubs, up at your house, and back here only from three in the morning,’ he says, his tone steadying. ‘I’m going now with Bob to talk to the police. There’s a meeting this afternoon at my office. I’ll send a car for you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because you’re part of my life,’ he says simply.
I hand him back to Bobby Ray when he returns. One way or another, I have to get to the bottom of Alex’s historic problem. He’s my man. I must mend my man.
*
To begin with, it was sheer bloody murder. They had to drive on the right side, which was the wrong side, their passports were forgeries, and they had no French beyond Voulez-vous coucher avec moi ce soir?, which was of little use when they were hungry and searching for food. Of course, Trev had forgotten to bring the French phrase book he’d pinched from W H Smith.
Max, who had hired the Renault via forged documents, took about an hour adjusting to the rules of the road, and they ended up in Saint-Malo, which was nowhere near the Haute-Loire area for which they were supposedly heading. In fact, they were still near the English Channel. Driving wasn’t too bad once he got used to it; the driver still sat in the middle of the road, and he became better with practice. Right was now the easier turn, but that was all.
He found a parking spot. ‘See them walls?’ he asked.
Trev sighed. ‘Course I do.’
‘In 1963, I read about this place in the papers. I was a kid, but I knew what they were on about. The Great Train Robbery had just happened, and somebody said they thought they’d seen one of the robbers here. These walls were crawling with Frog cops all shouting and blowing whistles. It’s part of our history,’ he said proudly. ‘They done a job that was dangerous and daring. Several months ago, we watched Hatton Garden while Jim and the others done a job worth millions.’ He closed his eyes. France and action were exercising a beneficial effect on Max’s temper.
‘Are you gonna drive with your eyes shut?’
‘No. Just thinking about Ronnie Biggs. He was the one that got away.’
‘To Hot Lo-higher?’
‘No. South America. And the river’s Lo-ire, no aitch in it.’
‘I hope there’s fish in it. I’m bloody starving.’
‘We won’t get there today, you tinhead. We need a carte.’
‘We’ve got a car.’
‘Carte means map. Wait here. I’m going in that shop over there to see what they’ve got for us to eat.’
‘Don’t get none of that quiche crap. Cold egg and bacon pie makes me want to chuck.’
Max opened his door. ‘This is a small car, so no chucking up in it. I should have come on my own.’ He marched off to the nearby bakery.
Trev was fed up. Max was right – this country was a damned sight bigger than mainland Britain. He wanted to go home. He could have been running drugs for Fat Arthur, having a pint down the Beggar, game of arrows, pie and mash.
He watched as Max came out of the food shop and went into another place. God, he was buying a tent. How long would they be staying in a country with folk Trev couldn’t stand? Even their bloody president had hidden in England during the war. They were all white flags and unused guns, the French. And they talked daft. And his stomach was rumbling. And Max was back, throwing things in the car.
‘What the hell’s that bloody lot?’ Trev wanted to know.
‘Tent and fixings. Matches, kettle, tins of food, tin plates, tin cups and sleeping bags. Oh, and a couple of pans, coffee, tea, sugar and dried milk.’
Once Max was back in the driving seat, they sat in a silence that was punctuated only by the clacking of Max’s ill-fitting dentures. Trev didn’t even stop to think about what he was eating – food was fuel, and fuel was what he needed.
‘It’s a long river,’ Max said when he’d finished eating.
‘I’d worked that out,’ Trev snapped. ‘It was my old auntie that got the
address, remember? She copied it off that letter she found where she cleans. Thank God Katherine Latimer’s mother writes to her neighbours. I’m not as daft as you try to make out.’
Max grinned. ‘Did you enjoy your French smelly-feet cheese?’
‘Is that what I’ve ate? Yeah, it was OK.’ He picked his teeth with a fingernail.
Max opened the map. ‘We’re here,’ he explained, ‘and they’re all the way over there, something like Martin Fleurs, it’s called. The man in the camping shop had a bit of English, and he showed me the place on the map. He says if we get lost, follow the river.’
Trev took a loud swig of pop. ‘And we can’t just pounce when we get there. We’ve got to stop and watch the house, the comings and goings.’ He paused. ‘Speaking of movements, what about when we need a toilet?’
‘You’re getting on my tits now, Trev. I have a tin opener for when we’re shoving the food down our throats, and a spade for when it comes out. Dig a hole, soft arse. Yes, I’ve got baby wipes and loo roll. If I’d left it to you, we’d have arrived here with sod all.’
‘Sorry, Max. I know I can be a muppet sometimes.’
Max grinned. ‘You’re good in other ways, mate. When it comes to shifting drugs, you’re ace.’
‘Thanks. Right, where are we going now?’
‘Paris.’
‘Is that near the river?’
‘A different river. It’s spelt S-e-i-n-e, but you say sane.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’s French.’
‘No, I mean why are we going to Paris?’
Max shook his head slowly. ‘It’s like London. When people visit England, they don’t give London a miss, do they? We’ve come all this way, so why not?’
Trev couldn’t think of a why not, so he sat back and fastened his seat belt. Paris? It would be packed solid with French folk all dressed up as if they’d come straight off the gangplank, or whatever they called the thing models walked and posed on. ‘There’s no ballroom under the tower like what they have at Blackpool.’
‘What?’
‘Well, it’s just stuck in the middle of the road, innit? No candy floss and ice cream, no arcades. And it looks rusty.’
Max rolled his eyes heavenward. It was going to be a series of long, long days with Trev moaning his way through every single second. ‘Listen to me. If I’d wanted a foghorn complaining down my ear’ole, I’d have brought the missus instead. So shut up and put up.’ He pondered. ‘When did you go to Blackpool?’
‘When I was ten.’
‘Right. And now, we’re going to Paris.’ Max turned on the engine and pulled away. Whether he liked it or not, Trev was going to see the capital of France. It was what normal people did, wasn’t it?
*
Dressed once more in the elegant charcoal suit, except now teamed with emerald green blouse and gloves, Kate alighted from the chauffeur-driven car. Alex was waiting for her, and he took her hand as she stepped on the pavement outside Price Partners.
She whispered in his ear, ‘I can’t marry you for real, darling. I’ll be Katie Price if I do. I wouldn’t make a very good Jordan.’
‘Then you’ll be Katherine or Kat.’
‘Whatever you choose.’ Although she was trying to keep the atmosphere light, she knew that he was still in a bad place. Goose bumps travelled up her arms, and a slight headache threatened to strengthen its grip if she didn’t stop worrying about Alex worrying. Tim. She needed to get hold of Tim, who knew the past and helped Alex through his nightmares.
‘Are you all right?’ he asked.
‘Are you all right?’ was her reply.
He stopped in the empty foyer. ‘He was celebrating his sixteenth, Kate. His mother thought he’d gone round to a friend’s house, but . . .’
‘No one will blame you.’
He inhaled sharply. ‘I blame me.’
‘Why?’
‘My club, my staff, my security guards.’
She pulled at his hand and led him to a leather sofa; the foyer probably doubled as waiting area. They sat. ‘Alex, at any given time, we can manage to be in one place, and in that place only. Bobby Ray owns half the club – does he blame himself?’
‘I’m not sure. He’s upset.’
‘Where’s this meeting?’
‘Upstairs. The conference room is not huge, so it’s packed. Everyone is here – well, everyone connected to the clubs. First, I shall introduce you as my wife. That’s for your own safety. Then I have to cut them all to the quick, because I’ll get to the bottom of this lad’s death if it’s the last meaningful thing I do. Don’t be afraid of me when I’m in CEO mode.’
‘I won’t.’ Kate smiled as relief coursed through her veins. Apart from the ill-conceived guilt, he was speaking rationally. ‘I love you, beautiful boy,’ she whispered.
He smiled and led her upstairs. This was it, he realized; this was the day on which Kate would meet both sides of him. He would be showing the power he had assumed as a businessman, the role he had been forced to play on the road to success; she already knew the damaged child who hid under the cloak of managing director. Today, she might accept the part she would have to play as partner of a crazy man. Or, God forbid, she might abandon him. He’d been right – love was painful. He was held in her capable hands, and she had the ability to make or break him. Like . . . like when there’d been all that blood. He mustn’t think about that wretched, heartbreaking time. He took a deep breath before leading her into the centre of his working universe.
Alex liked to keep things simple, Kate decided after they had walked to the front of the gathering. There were few pictures on the walls, and furniture was sturdy, modern and plain. She stood next to him when the silence instigated by their arrival was broken. A low buzz rippled through the room as Alex took her hand. ‘This is Katherine Price, my wife,’ he announced.
Applause followed his brief statement and he asked her to be seated. ‘Stay with us,’ he told her quietly. ‘This won’t be pretty, but it must be done. You need to know the business.’
Kate wondered why, but said nothing.
While Alex remained standing, she sat by him at the end of a large table, hands clasped on its surface. People she presumed to be managers and staff from the clubs were clustered round the table, while large men, who had to be security, lined the walls. Some occupants of the room smiled at her, although she noticed two or three females staring at her with daggers in their eyes. Bring it on, she said inwardly.
Glancing sideways, she watched her man as he drew himself up like a warrior preparing for battle. He seemed taller, broader and older, yet she knew in her heart of hearts that he was still suffering.
‘A boy died,’ he stated baldly, ‘and we are all to blame. The body was hidden away in a cupboard, in Cheers. There were all manner of drugs there too. The police also discovered something labelled imaginatively as natural steroidal pills in Chillex.’ He banged a closed fist on the table, causing everyone in the room to jump.
‘All our businesses will remain closed to the public until I know who bought and distributed these poisons. Who is responsible for the boy’s death? Who gave him that needle before escaping through the window? Who allowed people into Cheers without stamps on hands? You know the score – all of you. Goodness knows we’ve been through it often enough. Security, you must give me the names of any colleagues who broke this most important of rules.’
He moved his head and stared into the eyes of every security guard. ‘The alternative will be the dismissal of all minders at all five locations. There are many jobless people out there who will step up to the mark. Any reprisals arising from those dismissals would be dealt with quickly and legally – that’s a promise. Once reopened, the clubs will be guarded round the clock.’ He glanced at Kate. ‘My wife will help with ongoing refurbishment; she is a designer and therefore is perfectly suited to the role of artistic director.’
Kate looked at him. Here was another fine mess he was dragging her into
, though she had to admit that Alex’s clubs would benefit from her theatrical flair and experience. Yes, this would be better than mending a house.
Alex continued. ‘You must all take a card from the table near the door. On each card is a phone number dedicated to the subject of this meeting. Put that number in your mobiles and destroy the card. I know that grassing up a workmate seems harsh, but this is about a dead teenager whose family is reeling in shock. He died on his sixteenth birthday. Phone me. Tell me who allowed this to happen, and your name will be kept out of the mix unless the police force my hand. Think about the boy. As I said, if I get no response, the security teams at all five nightclubs will be replaced.
‘I repeat – any information passed to me will be treated as anonymous unless the boys in blue kick up an unmanageable fuss. Go home and think about this.’ He dropped into his chair. ‘If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother,’ he said without thinking, as his members of staff began to file out of the room, many of them looking dazed.
Kate froze. Could she? Should she? She must. While people continued to pick up cards and leave, she said it softly. ‘Is your mother part of all those swimming-through-blood scenes you dream about?’
He nodded just once. ‘Not yet, Kate. I can’t even think the words yet. For months, I blanked it. My mother was insane, and I thought I was following the same route, as if I’d inherited it from her. All this . . .’ he waved a hand across the room, ‘all this is just salad dressing. I buried myself in literature, then in commerce. Outwardly, I’m successful, but . . .’ He ran out of steam.
Kate smiled at him. ‘The success doesn’t bother me – but what does upset me is my need to help you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t know how or where to start.’
With the room empty, he found the courage to slide his arm across her shoulders. ‘Begin with this,’ he said. ‘I have already started to learn something. A man can know so much about himself that he thinks it’s enough, the whole package, the full deal. It’s no such thing. Only when a woman – the woman – fills in the gaps does he realize who and what he is.’
For the Love of Liverpool Page 9
