‘What do I do?’ She looked beseechingly at her dad. The door started opening.
‘What any other female would do in this situation.’
As the person at the door pushed inside the room, Daisy let out a blood-chilling scream.
Daisy burrowed her distraught face deeper into Jerome’s neck. They sat at the desk in Randal Curtis’s office. Shock was still pulsing in her from finding Angel. Charlie was dead and now so was Angel.
‘Feeling better?’
Daisy lifted her head. ‘How could anyone do that to Angel?’
Jerome rubbed the pad of his finger gently over her beauty spot. ‘Just tell the police everything you know.’
Daisy’s eyes darkened. ‘But I don’t know anything.’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘The security guard told me a large package had been delivered to my office and the next thing I know I’m looking at Angel’s . . .’ Her voice ceased up. All she could do was numbly shake her head. ‘Where’s my bag?’ She anxiously looked around.
‘I’ve got it.’ Jerome picked it up from the floor and passed it to her. She held it tight to her tummy as she checked her watch.
‘You got somewhere to be?’
Daisy dipped her head so he couldn’t see her eyes. ‘Yeah. You know what it’s like, appointments coming out of my ears.’
Jerome placed his arms around her again as he said, ‘Don’t worry about those – the police will be here soon to interview you.’
She nodded just as the door opened. Daisy and Jerome pulled away from each other. A rumpled and stressed Randal Curtis strode in. Behind him was another man that Daisy couldn’t quite make out. Randal stepped to the side revealing the other man. Tall, finely suited and black.
‘Hello again, Miss Sullivan,’ Curtis said. ‘This is Detective Inspector Johnson.’
‘You murdered her didn’t you?’
Johnson felt like punching the wall he stood against outside the law firm. And if Stella King had been there he would have beaten on her as well. Instead he accused her furiously on his mobile. He’d just finished taking a statement from a dazed Daisy Sullivan. For all the good that had done, she’d been too shocked after discovering her friend’s body.
‘What the fuck are you on about?’
‘The girl at the law firm. The one who works with Daisy Sullivan.’
‘Sorry mate, you’re going to have to give me a bigger clue than that,’ she responded sarcastically.
Johnson fought for control with his anger. ‘You told me you got the security tape from someone inside the firm and my guess is that someone was this Evangeline Spencer-Smith who is currently in Daisy Sullivan’s office with her head nearly hanging off her shoulders.’
‘You’re shitting me ain’t ya?’ He heard the shock in her voice. But he was having none of it.
‘Listen up, bitch, I don’t want to play with you anymore than you want to play with me. I’m giving the orders and you’re taking them, get it? So from now on, keep the stiff count down.’
‘I’ll get it sorted out.’
‘She’s a bit sparked out about her friend’s death, but things are already getting out of hand, so make sure she knows that Mummy’s back in town soon.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Stella said softly. ‘By Monday afternoon she’s going to be wrapped up in my loving embrace.’
‘You sure you don’t want me to come in?’ Jerome asked.
They were outside her apartment in Wapping. He looked at her with such tender concern Daisy almost cried. The interview with Detective Inspector Johnson had been gruelling, one question after another after another until she wasn’t even sure she would have been able to tell him her name if he’d asked her. As she fought with her emotions she ran her fingers lightly down Jerome’s cheek. ‘I’ll be fine. Oh no.’ She let out a weary sigh as her eyes skidded down her arm and caught the time on her watch.
‘Forget the rest of your appointments today.’
She bit into her lip. ‘Sure,’ she replied rapidly. ‘I just need to lie down for a while.’
He pushed his head back to get a good look at her face. ‘Anyone would think that you’re trying to get rid of me.’
‘No,’ she almost shouted. ‘No,’ she continued more calmly. ‘I just need to relax.’
‘Right, I’m coming in and tucking you up in bed.’
Although she protested he wouldn’t hear any of it and hustled her into her flat. A few minutes later a fully clothed Daisy lay on the top of her bed with Jerome beside her.
He kissed her sweetly on the lips. ‘You fancy bangers and mash, just give me a shout.’
Jerome eased silently off the bed as he gazed down at Daisy. She was fast asleep. In some respects they were like chalk and cheese but in others they fitted so well together. He’d fallen in love with her the first time he’d seen her. Sounded naff but it was as simple as that. And next week, at his parents’ cocktail party, he had a surprise waiting for her. He left her sound asleep and quietly closed the door as he went out of her apartment.
Ten minutes later he was at another door. Knocked. The person who opened the door said, ‘Does she know you’re here?’
‘No. When I left she was dead to the world . . .’
Chapter Fifteen
Two days later, on Monday morning, Ricky Smart ducked his large frame slightly as he stepped out of the gates of Belmarsh Prison. His smooth, brown face breathed in his first shot of free air. He whistled Billy Joel’s ‘Movin’ Out’ as he rummaged in the blue carrier bag that held his belongings until he found his gold stud earring. He fixed it into the lobe of his left ear. Took out a fag and puffed, wishing it was a spliff instead. He slung the bag over his shoulder and started moving casually away from Her Majesty’s pleasure. He hadn’t reached the end of the road when he heard the purring of a car moving towards him from behind. He twisted around, smoke still in his mouth. A huge monster set of wheels, a sleek black SUV with smoky tinted windows. The car stopped beside him. The driver’s window didn’t ease down, instead one of the back doors sprang open. His body tensed the same way he’d learnt to do growing up on East London’s streets. When a strange car glides beside you and opens its doors you better be ready that the greeting you get doesn’t come courtesy of the barrel of a gun.
He relaxed when he saw no shooter and pushed the smoke from his lips at what he did see inside. A woman. Stark bollocks naked. Slim, bleached blond top and below, seductively swaying to the old-style piano music tinkling inside and reclining against the puffed-up leather seats. He caught her eyes. Everyday blue, her pupils wide, riding high on either coke or crystal. She gave him a come-hither smile as she parted her legs slightly. He nodded but didn’t smile back.
His head swung to the front of the car as the driver’s window finally eased down. He walked over and peered inside. A white guy kitted out in a black designer suit wearing shades. He didn’t need to be told who it was: Tommy King.
‘What you waiting for, Ricky?’ Tommy said, grinning revealing a set of crooked, but gleaming white teeth. ‘Jump in the back and get stuck in.’
Ricky drew the last puff from his ciggie. Flicked the butt into the air. He reminded himself that this was Tommy King and he should keep a respectful tone to his voice. But on the other hand, he didn’t want Tommy to think he was talking to a wuss. ‘My mum always told me never to speak to strangers.’
The other man grinned. ‘Tommy King’s the name. I hear you’re looking for work.’
‘What man in my situation ain’t? But I like to be self-employed, it’s less trouble.’
‘It’s all about connections these days, Ricky Boy. The high street can’t compete with the superstore – know what I mean? Small time means no time these days, so do yourself a favour.’
Ricky stared hard at Tommy and then got down to business. ‘So what’s on offer?’
Tommy’s smile grew stronger. ‘Plenty of time to chat later. Why don’t you slip into the back and enjoy one of the perks of the Tommy King organisation?’
Ricky wal
ked casually towards the back of the car. Jumped in. The woman’s cheap perfume swam over him, pushing him back into memories of another woman who’d worn a similar scent. Remembered the last time she’d kissed him on the cheek when he was thirteen years old, before she went to entertain her clients. His thoughts hardened as he remembered the photo in his pocket. He ignored the woman beside him as he closed the door. Tommy juiced the engine and soon Ricky was moving from one chapter in his life towards another.
Without speaking to him the woman next to Ricky flipped out a compartment in the armrest between them. Ricky’s eyebrows rose when he saw a mini Aladdin’s cave of hardcore drugs – coke, smack, crystal, crack and two joints rolled up and ready to go. The woman’s slim hand settled onto his crotch. He gazed at it as she started caressing him. He laid his hand over hers. He didn’t look up to see her smile. The smile was soon wiped from her face as he eased her hand away.
Ricky sat back as his hand dipped inside his jacket pocket. His hand smoothed over the photo. Over the face of his sister, Jenna. Tommy King didn’t know it yet but he was taking Ricky to the one woman who could answer questions about Jenna’s disappearance twenty years ago.
An hour later, a blonde woman entered the K&I International Bank in the business district of Canary Wharf. It was twenty minutes after midday. She was dressed in an all black ensemble of a formal skirt suit and low level heels, and wore just a touch of gloss on her lips. She clutched her shoulder bag close to her side and hid her eyes behind Jackie O-style shades as she walked briskly past the security guard inside the entrance. The foyer was large, decorated in soft red and white and was surprisingly quiet. A young woman, wearing a navy, conservative suit, cream blouse and a jackpot-winning smile eagerly came towards the newcomer.
‘Hi, my name’s Teresa,’ she stated in her I’m-your-new-best-friend voice. ‘Can I help you?’
The woman didn’t smile back. Instead she said, ‘I’ve come about a safe-deposit box. It belongs to Charlie Hopkirk.’ She extended her hand. ‘My name’s Jennifer. I’m his daughter.’
Chapter Sixteen
Ricky didn’t like the turning Tommy’s car took. It shot into a part of East London where he’d flexed his muscles as a street hood in his younger days. Dark alleys, stained cobble streets, grim lock-ups and even grimmer lives. Most people didn’t come here unless they were forced to. His body tensed.
The car did a swift turn, which made Ricky breathe easier as they hit a stretch of road that resembled civilisation: some shops, a cab office and a few people milling about. The car stopped abruptly outside an amusement arcade. Tommy turned to face Ricky and threw something at him. Instinctively Ricky’s hands came up. Caught what was lobbed his way. He looked. His breathing stilled in his throat. A gun. A semi-automatic pistol.
‘I’ve seen your CV but you still need to do an interview,’ Tommy said.
He followed his words through by stepping out of the car. Ricky followed him, leaving the woman next to him behind with a sulky look on her face. He thrust the shooter into his waistband. Once they entered the building Ricky realised that this was no amusement arcade. It was a players’ club, its membership strictly reserved for gangsters. The décor was deep red, the lighting dim. There were tables, sofas, armchairs and fruit machines, while drinks – and anything else – were served at the long, chrome bar. The day might just be beginning outside, but in here it still could have been the dead of night. The clientele mainly stood around in their suits and designer clobber, no doubt bragging and laughing about rivals they’d sorted out, weapons they carried and jobs they might or might not ever do. Tommy approached a table where four men were deep into a game of poker with a bottle of whisky.
As if sensing his approach one of the men lifted his head up. He was younger than Tommy, but not by much; thin, with a pockmarked face, gelled dirty-blond hair and a gleam in his eye that said he thought he was king of the world.
He tilted his head to the side and threw Tommy a fuck you stare. ‘Look who it is, fellas?’ He plastered a cocky grin onto his chops. ‘Tommy King. Thought you were only seen about town hiding behind your mum’s skirt.’ One of the men at the table laughed wildly. The other two didn’t. Joke about Stella King in public and you were asking for trouble. Around them the room fell silent.
Tommy glared back at the man as if he were looking at doggie do under his shoe. ‘I caught one of your girls dealing shit in my place. I’ve told you before, Johnny Digby, to stay off of my patch.’
The men’s posse at the table shifted from relaxed to high alert.
‘Whoever’s been whispering in your ear has fingered the wrong bloke. Couldn’t have been me, I’ve been too busy with my lawyer, lovely girl, who just got me off a charge.’ He dismissed Tommy with a contemptuous look. Stared back at the cards in his hands. ‘Come on fellas, let’s get back on with—’
‘You ain’t speaking to your bitch brief now, sonny,’ Ricky butted in, stepping forward, his imposing height casting a vast shadow across the table. ‘Mr King told you to do something, nice and polite, so why don’t you give him a nice, polite nod of the head.’
Johnny raised his head and stared at Ricky. Decided he was another piece of worthless shit. ‘Is Mummy busy? Is that why you’ve brought your boyfriend instead?’ He let out a hoot of a laugh rocking back on his chair.
Ricky leapt forward. Grabbed the back of Johnny’s head mid-laugh. Smashed his face onto the table. ‘When Mr King asks a scrote like you a question . . .’ He jerked the man’s head back up. There was blood pouring from his crushed nose. He slammed his head back on the table. ‘ . . . you open up that lying gob of yours.’ He raised his head again. Banged it back onto the table. ‘And you tell him what he wants to hear.’
Ricky anticipated what happened next. The other two men lunged at him from the table. Ricky grabbed a leg of Johnny’s chair and whipped it from under him. The largest of the men was almost upon him. Ricky lifted the chair and swung it in one movement so it crashed into the big guy’s face, caving in his nose and cheek and sending him reeling backwards, spilling blood everywhere. The other guy seized Ricky by the windpipe in both hands, pushing him down on the table. The table collapsed under their weight. The man squeezed so hard Ricky could feel the life being wrung out of him. With his vision swimming Ricky’s hand searched on the ground. Found the bottle that had rolled off the table and smashed it into the side of his opponent’s head. Ricky’s face splattered with sticky liquid, a mixture of blood and Jack Daniels.
Ricky staggered, breathing hard, to his feet. The others in the room were fixed in their positions. No one came forward. It wasn’t their fight. Tommy stood there, arms folded, which didn’t surprise Ricky. This was Tommy’s little test to see where he fit into his crew. Ricky heard a moan. Turned to find the source. Johnny was lying on the floor, coming to, and Ricky had a little surprise for him. Ricky kicked the remnants of the table aside giving everyone an open view of what he was about to do next.
He stood over the younger man, lying twisted on the floor. ‘Like I said, when Mr King asks a question he expects to be answered.’ He pulled out his shooter. The whole room gasped and he didn’t need to look to know that included Tommy. Aimed at the man’s thigh. Pulled the trigger. The man screamed as the bullet tore into his leg. Without a flicker of emotion Ricky shifted the gun higher and plugged another cap into his shoulder. ‘And that one’s for Mr King’s mum. If I were you I’d take the first bus out of here before she finds out that you’ve been running your mouth about her.’
‘Time to go,’ Tommy said.
Both men turned, moving past the silent crowd. As they reached the door Tommy shoved a wad of notes into the bouncer’s pocket. ‘Sorry about the damage. And tell him my mum says hello.’ The bouncer paled. Just mentioning his mum’s name would make sure that no one came calling on Tommy for compensation for the damage.
Once they were back in the car Ricky asked, ‘Ready to tell me where I fit into your organisation, Mr King?’
�
�A mad cunt like you is only gonna be in one place – right by my side.’
Tommy’s mobile started ringing. He pulled it out, listened. ‘You what?’ he yelled. He cut the call. Looked at the woman in the back seat. ‘Alright, darlin’, your taxi ride’s over. Now fuck off.’
The woman reared up. ‘But I haven’t got any clothes . . .’
‘That’s alright. The sun’s shining. Now get outta the fucking motor.’ Whoever Tommy had just spoken to on the blower had really poked his ribs. The woman slipped her shoes on and got out of the car buttoning her coat. Tommy threw the car keys at Ricky. ‘Get me to Bow now. There’s some business I gotta sort out. And this time I’ll do the fist-work myself.’
‘This is Jennifer Hopkirk,’ Teresa, the bank employee introduced her, voice still cheerful, to a male colleague who sat at his desk.
They stood in another room, which was rectangular and the size of a school assembly hall with polished floors, large clock on the wall and people working at desks on the edge of the room. A security guard stood posted just inside the door.
The man at his desk shot to his feet and introduced himself with a handshake. ‘I’m Adam.’ He was lanky, with a welcoming smile that highlighted his wholesome boy-next-door looks.
She took his hand. ‘I need to talk to you about my father’s safe-deposit box.’
He waved his hand at the chair on the other side of his desk. Once seated he clasped his long fingers together and said, ‘I’m afraid it’s the bank’s policy not discuss any client’s account unless you happen to be that client.’
She sagged in the chair as she ran her finger under her sunglasses as if she were wiping a tear away. ‘My father recently . . .’ She paused as if she found the words hard to say. ‘Recently passed away.’
The happy-go-lucky attitude fell from Adam. ‘I’m so terribly sorry to hear that. Please accept my condolences.’
Gangster Girl Page 11
