Daisy made her way back to the sitting room where Priscilla Hopkirk was being comforted by her daughter and Randal Curtis on one side and Barbara Benton on the other. The other mourners had long gone.
Jerome stepped behind Daisy. ‘We should go.’
Daisy turned her head halfway towards him. ‘You go. I’m going to stay and help tidy up. It’s the least I can do for Charlie’s wife.’
His fingers caressed her cheek. ‘Alright, darling. I’d stay and help, but there’s people I need to see about the class-action case.’
After he’d gone Daisy stepped into the room. ‘Mrs Hopkirk, why don’t I help tidy up?’
The older woman raised bloodshot eyes towards Daisy and sniffed. ‘I’d be really grateful. I just can’t do this at the moment.’
Barbara Benton stood up. Although Daisy was tall she immediately felt intimidated by this woman’s height and power. No wonder she was tipped to be the face of the capital’s police force.
‘Why don’t I help you?’ Daisy was surprised by how light and soft her voice was, like her words barely touched the tip of her tongue.
‘I can do this on my own. I’m sure you’ve got more pressing business to take care of,’ Daisy responded.
‘Not on Charlie’s day, I don’t. Why don’t you do upstairs and I’ll sort it out down here.’
It took Daisy over an hour to rearrange the two bathrooms and three of the four bedrooms. The last room she tackled was the master bedroom. Old-fashioned, with its antique furnishings and littered with the loving touches of a couple who had been together for more than thirty odd years. She let out a long sigh as she took in the destruction. The sheets had been pulled from the bed and the mattress slashed. The drawers of the dressing table and the bedside cabinets had been pulled out and their contents lay strewn across the pale, blue carpet. The doors of the built-in wardrobe that stood next to the window with a great view of Hampstead Heath and Highgate village had been flung open and the clothes chucked below.
She started with the drawers. Over half an hour later she was on her knees picking up the last items of clothing. A pair of trousers, jacket and a handful of socks. Crazy patterned socks. Charlie had loved his socks. She bunched them under her arms as she carefully and lovingly placed the trousers and jacket back in the wardrobe. She let her hand smooth over the linen jacket remembering the last time she’d seen Charlie wearing it.
She pulled the top drawer inside the wardrobe. As she threw the socks inside two odd socks, one grass green, the other jet black, tumbled onto the floor. She leant down. Grabbed them. As her fingers closed around the fabric of the green sock she felt something bumpy and hard inside. Curiosity pushed her across the room to sit on the slashed mattress with the sock in her hand. She tipped the sock upside down. A small, silver key fell into her lap. As she picked it up the door swung open.
Chapter Eight
Across town the screams echoed around the room as Tommy played Gershwin’s ‘Rhapsody In Blue’ at the piano in his office at his main club in Mile End. The area of Mile End was, some said, divided into two. The posh lot that lived in the grand houses and Georgian squares across from the tube station; and those who dwelt in the housing estates that sprawled on the other side of the Mile End road. Tommy’s club, The Pussy Hound, was on the other side of the road.
As the screams continued Tommy shut his eyes and soaked up the drama of the music. He’d been playing the piano since he was eleven years old. It was the only thing that made him calm down, feel human again. The only thing that had made him stop wetting the bed. One of his mum’s ladies, a Russian immigrant who needed to top up her music tuition, had taught him between punters. Once Stella realised he had talent for the ol’ Joanna she’d paid the prostitute proper money to teach him. The pro had given up lying on her back and Stella, Tommy was sure, hoped that his mood swings would go. She’d been wrong.
Tommy snapped open his eyes and kept playing. ‘Bring her here,’ he said.
The screaming stopped. A young woman, about Tommy’s age, was dragged by two heavyset men towards the piano. The men doubled up as bouncers in the night and Tommy’s gorillas in the day. He stopped playing. Rested his fingers lovingly against the keys. Then turned around. He stared at the bleeding mess that had once been a very beautiful woman. One of the men grabbed her long hair and yanked her head back.
‘No one comes in here and sells dodgy gear in my place.’
The woman had been employed as one of Tommy’s pole dancers. Everyone knew, including her, that he didn’t tolerate anyone coming into his yard and selling drugs. That honour fell to him alone.
‘The only thing you were employed to do was sell yourself.’ He looked at one of the men. ‘Do it.’ The men pushed the woman to the floor. Spread her face down. One of them grabbed her arm and stretched it out until it lay under the piano near Tommy’s feet. He trapped her hand by the wrist so that her hand lay flat. Tommy didn’t get up. Instead he began to hit the room with some more ‘Rhapsody In Blue’. He swayed with the music. And then with no warning, at the same time the clash of cymbals would come in, he raised his right foot and stamped on the terrified woman’s pinkie. The scream she let out stopped all the human activity in the adjoining rooms. He leant back into the piano, heard the imaginary cymbals and raised his foot again and did the next finger. This time the crunch of bone was audible in the room. Piano, cymbals, he did another. And another. As he raised his foot one final time his mobile rang. He eased his foot back down. Took the call.
He smiled when he heard who it was. ‘Paul. How’s life in Her Majesty’s dope palace?’
They chit chatted on while the woman on the floor moaned and grunted. Then Paul got down to business. ‘I’ve got a mate in here who’s been looking out for me. I just wanted to know if you can take care of him when he gets out on Monday?’
‘What’s he been doing?’
Paul told him. Tommy was impressed.
‘Can you do it?’ Paul asked.
Tommy thought for a while. Then looked down at the woman on the floor. He moved the phone away from his mouth. Twisted his mouth as he gazed down at the shattered woman. ‘You better tell the Digbys that I’m on to them.’ He stamped on her last finger, with no music this time. Stamped again shattering her bone. His victim passed out.
He moved the phone back to his face and finally answer, ‘Yeah. Why not? That’s the trouble with this country, no one will give an ex-con another chance.’
Daisy tightened her hand around the key and shoved her fist into her lap as the Deputy Chief Commissioner of the Met police stood gazing at her from the doorway. Barbara Benton stepped inside, minus her jacket and with her sleeves rolled up in a no-nonsense fashion.
‘I was just wondering how you were getting on.’
Daisy pushed herself to her feet, her fist falling tight by her side. Flustered, she picked up the sock that had fallen. ‘Fine. I’m just finishing up.’ She turned her back and walked quickly to the wardrobe. She leant over to put the sock in its place. She took a deep breath, praying that the woman behind her wouldn’t see what she was about to do next. She pushed the fist that held the key deep into her front trouser pocket. She sighed with relief as she turned back around.
She found Barbara looking with murder in her eyes at the slashed mattress. ‘I’m going to make it my business to find out who did this and when I do . . .’ She left the words hanging in the air. Daisy understood why her nickname was Basher Babs. ‘I think we should go now and let them have some privacy,’
‘Do you think whoever did this will come back?’
Barbara shook her head. ‘Most break-ins are opportunistic crimes. Whoever did this probably saw the hearse outside the house, waited for everyone to go and took their chance.’
‘That’s horrible.’
‘No, that’s the world we live in today.’ She gave Daisy a slight smile. ‘Is your car outside?’ Daisy quickly explained that she would get a cab. ‘I’ll give you a lift back.’
D
aisy nodded and followed the other woman out of the room.
‘I just need to use the bathroom and get my jacket.’ Daisy nodded absently at Barbara’s words. She turned one last time to look at Charlie’s room. Then her thumb pressed against the outline of the key in her pocket. The key she hoped would unlock Charlie’s medicine cabinet.
Daisy had never felt comfortable in the company of coppers, a leftover from her days as Frankie Sullivan’s daughter. And now she sat in the passenger seat next to the second in command of the country’s strongest police force. They sat in silence for the first leg of the ride. Daisy was the first to speak.
‘I hear that you’re going to be wearing the chief’s cap soon,’ Daisy said.
Barbara’s face split into a crooked smile. ‘I hope so, but you can never tell what’s been plotted behind closed doors. It’s all politics. But hopefully I will be presented to the world as the new commissioner at a gala dinner at city hall next Thursday.’
Daisy sank deeper in her seat beginning to feel more comfortable in the other woman’s presence by the minute. Suddenly she felt in awe of this woman’s immense achievements. Barbara was the type of woman she could look up to. A woman that all women could look up to. ‘Is that how you got to know Charlie, through your work?’
‘Charlie was the brief on the first arrest I made as a green WPC. He did quite a number on me, spinning this law in my face until I was so confused I almost let the suspect go. Over the years we worked well together. It was a bit cat and dog sometimes but he was a friend and I will miss him.’
They both sank into memories of the man who linked their lives. Then Barbara flipped the radio on. Chrissie Hynde’s husky, mellow voice, midway through singing ‘Brass In Pocket’, eased effortlessly into the car.
‘I hear that you’re helping out on a high-profile class-action case we’ve taken,’ Daisy said a few minutes later.
Barbara’s hands tightened on the wheel as she took a sharp turn that bought them into the heart of London. ‘Yes. I got my stripes leading one of the Met’s first units on child protection. It was a hard slog getting people to take child abuse seriously and if we had we wouldn’t be in the position of having this class-action case now.’ She peeped a quick look at Daisy. ‘Are you working on the case?’
‘Not really, but my boyfriend . . .’ She blushed. ‘I mean, my partner Jerome McMillan is the lead barrister.’
Barbara’s instant grin softened her features. ‘Young love.’ Daisy’s blush deepened, but her lips tugged into a tiny smile.
Daisy was starting to like this woman. ‘You married? Got kids?’
Barbara took the car into a deep turn, not answering for a few seconds. She shook her head. ‘This is where I’m meant to say I never got around to it, but the truth is I never saw domestic bliss as being part of my life. All I ever wanted to do was be the best copper in town. I hear that Charlie was your mentor.’
Daisy straightened slightly in her seat. ‘How did you know?’
‘His wife was telling me about you when you were upstairs. She’s really pleased that you’re the person going through his things at work. You remind me of someone I mentored years ago. Someone who grew up on the streets.’ Daisy tensed at her words. ‘Don’t worry, I think I’m the only person who can suss out which end of town you’re really from. You know why? It takes one to know one. I came up the tough route as well. I grew up on a real rough estate in London. The Caxton, which I’m pleased to say has now been pulled down. I worked hard and kept going. So will you, Daisy.’
They drove the remainder of the way in silence until Barbara stopped the car outside Curtis and Hopkirk’s in Holborn.
‘It was great meeting you.’ Barbara gazed at Daisy smiling. ‘What’s your last name?’
Barbara may have figured out where she came from, but Daisy knew if she supplied her surname the other woman might put two and two together and come up with Frankie Sullivan. Daisy hustled to open the door as she quickly said, ‘I’ve got to run. See you again sometime.’
‘Wait,’ Barbara said. Reluctantly Daisy turned back around. The older woman pushed her hand into her jacket pocket and held out a white business card. ‘If you ever need me . . .’
Daisy nodded as she reached for the card. As she took it the other woman’s hand caught her own. Held on to it.
‘Take care of yourself,’ Barbara whispered simply.
She let go of Daisy’s hand. Daisy tightened her grip on the card and got out of the car. Without another word Barbara roared off into the distance. Daisy quickly fished in her pocket for Charlie’s key. Stared at it for a few seconds as it lay in the palm of her hand. She curled her fingers around it as she decided to go straight to the office to see if it would unlock Charlie’s medicine cabinet. As she stepped forward her phone pinged. She took it out and read the text.
Need u pronto
Of all the times for her adoptive mum Jackie to call her it had to be now. Jackie most probably wanted a blow-by-blow account of the funeral. Her hand tightened on Charlie’s key. She should go to the office, but she knew if she didn’t go and see Jackie now she was in for a mouthful the next the time she saw her. When Jackie called you bloody well better move your arse sharpish. She pushed the key back in her pocket. Whatever secrets Charlie was keeping in his medicine cabinet would have to wait until tomorrow.
‘We found fuck all.’ Johnson rammed his words down his mobile.
He sat opposite Clarke at a round, scratched table in The Merry Swan boozer in Bethnal Green. The pub had once been their favourite haunt when they both worked at the now closed Bethnal Green police station back in the eighties. The pub was already filling up, even though it was only minutes to three. Thin Lizzy’s ‘The Boys Are Back In Town’ threw a wild, hectic beat over the place.
But neither Clarke or Johnson got in the groove. They were too anxious about not finding any information about the safe-deposit box in Charlie Hopkirk’s home.
Johnson carried on talking into the phone. ‘We tore the place apart and didn’t come across a dickie bird.’
‘I think I know who’s clearing away Charlie’s stuff at his office.’ The voice on the other end of the line said.
‘Who?’ Johnson replied eagerly. When he heard the name he started with surprise. ‘You’re pulling my dick . . .’ He stopped abruptly remembering who he was talking to. ‘I mean joking.’
‘I wish I was. Ain’t life a bitch sometimes. You know what this means? We’ve got no alternative but to involve Stella—’
‘No way,’ Johnson kicked in, half lifting out of his chair. ‘I ain’t going down that route again.’ Clarke looked up in surprise.
‘Believe me, if there’s an alternative to getting involved with that woman again I’d be taking it. She was involved in this as well. If I’ve got the person going through Charlie Hopkirk’s belongings right, then she is the only person who can get to her.’
Johnson fell back into his seat. ‘What do you want us to do?’
‘You need to get the ball rolling tonight.’ Then the line went dead.
Johnson cupped his hand over his mouth, letting out a shaky breath as he caught Clarke’s worried, bloodshot eyes. ‘What’s going on?’
Johnson stood up, pushing his mobile into his suit pocket. ‘I’ll tell you about it in the car. And you ain’t going to like it any more than me.’
As Clarke eased to his feet the barman’s voice bit out like a human Rottweiller, his words now commanding the attention of everyone in the room. ‘I’ve told you already that I ain’t serving you. Why don’t you go home and remind your neighbours why they’re trying to get a house transfer.’
Johnson was too unsettled by the latest twist to events to pay much attention to the disturbance, but Clarke looked over and saw who the barman was yelling at. A woman. Small and as dainty as a child. Her size reminded him of his little girl when she was twelve, the last time he’d seen her before his two-timing bint of an ex-wife had taken her to live in Portugal with the guy she’d
been fooling around with behind his back. Said she couldn’t live with him anymore, couldn’t stomach the drinking. Clarke moved towards the bar.
‘What are you doing?’ Johnson asked angrily.
Clarke turned back to Johnson and the pain he saw in Clarke’s eyes made him swallow. ‘I was a good cop once, you know.’ Johnson said nothing because he knew the other man was right. ‘I’ll meet you at the car,’ Johnson said and then made his way outside.
Clarke reached the bar, his eyes switching between the stocky barman and the woman. ‘There a problem?’
At the sound of his voice the small woman wobbled to face him. She was a pretty little thing, Clarke thought. Short, black layered hair, with purple streaks at the front, a silver nose stud and a delicate bone structure that put him in mind of a ballerina. Big caramel-coloured eyes shimmered back at him in her pale, white face. Compassion washed over him as he stared at the haunting hurt look that lurked in her eyes.
‘You alright, love?’
She tottered towards him and peered up at him. He could smell the drink on her. ‘Love?’ she threw back in a thick cockney voice. The twisting shape of her mouth removed the image of the ballerina instantly from his mind and instead he saw the seen-too-much-of-life mouths of every tough woman he’d ever arrested. ‘You saying me and you are in love?’
The barman sniggered at that. Clarke ignored him. ‘Look—’ he started to say, but she cut him off.
‘I can’t imagine being in love with a tub of lard.’
That bought more laughter and not just from the barman this time. Clarke took no offence at her words. He’d been called much worse in his years patrolling the streets of London. Without responding Clarke grabbed her arm and marched her towards the door.
‘Oi,’ she shot out as she tried to wriggle out of his grasp. ‘Get off me, you gorilla.’
Gangster Girl Page 6
