'Who on earth was that?' Tara was so shocked her mouth fell open. 'How did he know I'd be here, anyway?'
Queenie toddled over to them, a little unsteady on her high heels.
' 'E must have followed you 'ere,' she said indignantly. 'What a slag. I wonder 'ow 'e connected you to our 'Arry?'
'Josh,' Harry said, his face turning hard and cold. 'That creep would sell his own mother for a spot of free publicity!'
'Don't be ridiculous,' Tara snapped at him. 'What good could it do him?'
'Wait till tomorrow and you'll find out,' Harry sniffed. 'I can see the headlines. "Top designer celebrates with East End villain on his release." Quite by chance there'll be a picture of the shop, too!'
It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over them. All the rosy dreams Tara had planned of perhaps going on somewhere so they could be alone to talk vanished. She didn't like Harry's accusation and she was even more perturbed at the prospect of her face being splashed across the papers. Jumping into a taxi alone was instinctive, but once she'd got into bed she regretted it.
She thought of Harry's slim, hard body, sensual lips and those brilliant blue eyes. She recalled the way he'd tried to grab her back from the taxi, his face aghast because it wasn't what he'd planned either. He would see this as loyalty to Josh. All that passion pent up from a year inside might be unleashed elsewhere. Why hadn't she just thought of his feelings instead of her own stupid pride?
All at once she knew where she belonged. It didn't matter what other people thought or said. She had to be with him. She got out of bed and, going down to the phone in her workroom, she dialled Paradise Row, pulling her silky negligee tighter round her body.
But Queenie answered.
'Could I speak to Harry?' she asked. 'I was a bit hasty running off.'
' 'E's gone out, darlin',' Queenie's voice sounded tense, as if something else had happened. 'Only a saint would spend his first night of freedom at 'ome!'
'Do you know where he's gone?' She was quite prepared to get in a taxi and go to look for him.
'No, love. He didn't say.'
'Was he angry with me?'
'Sad more than angry.' Queenie sighed deeply. 'I won't take sides. I understand how it is for you, and him. But he's thought of nothing but you all this time. Whoever tipped off that reporter knew they would mess things up between you. You can't blame 'Any for thinking it was Josh!'
'I know, that's why I rang.' Tara felt tears pricking her eyelids.
'Let's just pray he gets quietly drunk somewhere and lurches home without getting up to any mischief.' Queenie chuckled. 'I'll leave 'im a note that you phoned.'
Chapter 22
'Yeah, of course I've heard of Harry Collins. But I don't like the idea of some ex-con steaming into our game.' Duke Denning spoke in a low voice, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure there weren't any eavesdroppers.
He needn't have worried. At eleven in the morning in the shabby Town of Ramsgate in Wapping High Street, the only customers apart from himself and Joe were two comatose old men staring at their pints.
The pub was one of the oldest on the river, overshadowed by soot-blackened warehouses. When the docks were in their heyday it had been a cheery little place, but now it looked as sad and abandoned as the rest of Wapping.
'Well, he ain't a cheat if that's what you're thinking. I might not like the bloke, but he's straight. His track record will tell you that,' Joe insisted.
Duke had been a gambler all his life, but he'd learned over the years to shorten the odds in his favour. He was tall and powerfully built, with the kind of blond good looks that usually opened doors for him automatically. But he had to remind himself he wasn't in Manchester or Birmingham now. East End villains and gamblers were different.
When Joe Spikes rang him late last night and asked for a meet, he was surprised. Joe rarely came north of the river, and he wasn't one to ask favours of mere acquaintances. Perhaps this was why Joe insisted on this pub. It was close to the Rotherhithe tunnel, frequented only by warehousemen and a few hardened drunks. Anyone observing them together would assume their relationship was employer and employee, because of the gulf between their appearances.
Duke's height, blond hair and rugged face made women turn their heads and flutter their eyelashes. Joe's appearance did the opposite. A hideous scar covered the right side of his face, puckering his upper lip and pulling his nose to one side. To make matters worse his head was as bald and shiny as a billiard ball. At six feet tall, with shoulders like a barn door and a hard, lean body, nobody would want to run into him in a dark alley.
Duke wore a light grey Savile Row suit, but Joe was in rough corduroys and a donkey jacket.
'Why are you so anxious to get him in on the game?' Duke had already picked up the vibes that Joe had a grudge against Collins, but setting someone up at a game of cards was a strange way to get even.
They'd first met a couple of years ago, in Manchester. Duke had an interest in an illegal gaming house, and Joe was brought in as a debt collector. No-one they'd ever employed was so successful; one look at that face was enough to frighten even the most persistent 'welsher'. But Duke liked Joe, even if he knew little about the man's past. He was tough, entirely fearless and far brighter than people gave him credit for.
'I want him to lose, of course.' Joe grinned, but it did nothing to enhance his fearsome appearance.
'Fair enough.' Duke smiled back. 'So he's loaded. Right?'
'Dunno about that.' Joe shook his head. 'But I want him cleaned out of what he's got.'
'Come on! Why?' Duke asked, his piercing blue eyes homing in on the other man like lasers.
'That's between him and me,' Joe dropped his eyes from Duke's. 'It's quite simple, ain't it? You get the others to let him in, you take his wedge off him. What you got to lose?'
'Well, if he's a demon poker player, everything,' Duke smirked.
He couldn't make out why Joe didn't just give the guy a good thrashing, but then Joe was a devious bastard and maybe this way the hurt would last far longer than a few broken ribs.
'Harry ain't a gambler. Sure, he's had a game or two, but not in your league. I know why he's bin trying to get into a big game, because I was enough of a mug to do it once or twice myself. He thinks it's easy money. I want to teach him a lesson.'
'OK.' Duke finished his pint and stood up. 'We can all do with a couple of pigeons in a game, I'll send word he's in.'
Joe gave that evil grin again.
'Thanks, Duke. I owe you one! But do me a favour and don't let my name slip. This is just between us. You know where you can reach me to let me know the result!'
Harry nervously patted his breast pocket as he got out of the van by Swan Wharf in Wapping.
It was four weeks since his release and tonight was the first stage of the plans he'd made in prison. He'd drawn his entire savings, three hundred quid, out of the post office, and if his father knew he'd kill him. But what could he do with three hundred? Buy a secondhand motor, take a holiday or get a new suit. What he needed was enough dosh to buy a couple of derelict houses, a bit of spare to do them up and he'd be on his way.
It was all very well his dad saying they were partners and making out like he really needed his son around, but, aside from humping heavy boxes, Harry was just a spare part. Employers didn't want someone with a record, unless it was navvying. Harry wanted to work with his hands and marry Tara.
There was money to be made as a builder and he had a nose for places that were right for speculation. Hadn't it been his idea to buy the house in Paradise Row? So maybe he'd lose this wedge, but so what? He'd played poker inside enough, listened to all the tales of fortunes won and lost. As long as he didn't go beyond what was on the table and kept his cool, he'd be no worse off.
The tall warehouses looked spooky in the darkness. As a boy he had loved this place with its narrow cobbled streets and names like Cinnamon Street and Tobacco Wharf. Sailors and dockers crammed into the little pub
s, a rich soup of every nationality. There were strange exotic smells of spices, coffee and tea, and noise and confusion everywhere. But now there was only the sound of his feet on the cobbles, the occasional fog-horn on the river, and wind whistling through dilapidated buildings.
He had taken it as a good omen that the game was to be played in Baxter's warehouse, as he remembered it from his childhood, when he and Needles used to go down the narrow alley at the side to watch the ships unloading their cargoes. But Baxter's looked sad now. Most of the windows on the front were boarded up, a bush grew out of the roof, and the old hoists creaked ominously in the wind. The old man who owned it, Stan Baxter, died a few years ago. Harry had done his homework about all the players tonight and one of them was Chas Baxter, the owner's son.
Harry flicked down the cuffs of his white shirt. He'd got to start bluffing right now and make them all believe he was a pigeon. The gun cufflinks were part of the image he wanted to portray. Only a naive eighteen-year-old or a mug would wear such things, but he'd known they'd come in handy one day.
He knocked loudly on the narrow door next to the loading bay, polished up his old winklepickers on the backs of his strides while he waited, and set his face to look like an arrogant twerp.
It was eleven o'clock and he wondered if it would still be dark when he came out.
He could hear footsteps coming down a metal staircase, the echo proving the place was no longer used for storing goods. Metal bolts were pulled back, a key turned in the lock and the door creaked open.
'Harry Collins.' He shot out his hand and gripped the other man's. He knew this was Duke Denning by the descriptions he'd been given, but he hadn't expected him to be quite so good-looking.
'Come in, Harry. The others arrived a few minutes ago. Ready for a good night?'
Aside from a description and the knowledge that this man was reputed to be one of the best players in England, Harry hadn't found out much else. He didn't seem to have any form. Rumour had it he was just a professional gambler.
The wind was howling through broken windows on the river side of the building, bringing with it that peculiar, tangy river smell Harry loved. Although there was only one dim light on the metal spiral staircase, he could see enough to know the place was in ruins.
'It's gonna be a bit chilly, ain't it?' he said as he followed Duke up the stairs.
'The old office is OK.' Duke turned to speak. He wore an impeccably tailored navy suit, a military tie and hand-stitched shoes. Even the man's voice was quality, deep, clear and accentless.
Harry had dug out an old suit tonight, dark green mohair, with a flashy gold lining. But, like the cufflinks and winklepickers, it was just a prop.
Duke flung open a door and warmth, light and cigarette smoke came billowing out.
'Here we are, lads,' Duke said in an overloud voice. 'Harry Collins!'
Three men, all far older than him, sat round a table strewn with pub ashtrays, lighters and glasses. An almost full bottle of Scotch stood at the centre. Harry grinned as he waited to be introduced.
The office was oak panelled and still very gracious, despite the ruin elsewhere in the building. An electric fire was on in the old fireplace, and an oil painting of a stern-faced Victorian gentleman hung above it. Nothing else of the past remained. The floorboards were bare, the curved-topped windows taped up with cardboard. A single dim light above covered in a red fringed shade suggested someone's attempt at creating atmosphere.
'Chas Baxter.' Duke waved a hand towards a man in his fifties with a florid complexion and a huge beer gut. 'Alf Reed, Jack Somers.'
Harry shook their hands and sat down.
Alf owned two West End night-clubs; a flashy bastard of forty-something whose Rolls-Royce he'd seen parked along the road. Harry knew he lived in Millionaires' Row in Hampstead and, although he might not have quite reached that status yet, he was loaded. His light brown hair looked as if it had been blow-dried by some poof; his pale brown eyes were shrewd.
Jack Somers was a building contractor from South London who once had the reputation of being a hard man. Now he was close on sixty, as rich as Alf, with a permanent suntan, lean body and barely any hair.
Harry knew these men wouldn't be a pushover. Anyone who resorted to playing cards in such dingy surroundings had to be serious about the game.
They exchanged pleasantries and he was handed a glass of whisky. Jack commiserated with him about his prison sentence and asked what plans he had now.
Harry was certain they knew everything about him, including his inside leg measurement, but he couldn't show that.
'I gotta few deals lined up,' he said, grinning foolishly as if surprised to find the other players were men of stature. 'Nuffin' certain yet, but I might open a club.'
'Not on my patch, I hope.' Alf's thick eyebrows lifted, and fleshy lips curved into a wry smile.
'Where's that?' Harry asked innocently.
'Alf owns the Ace of Hearts in Wardour Street and the Purple Pussy Cat,' Duke said with a smirk.
'No!' Harry laughed, quickly pulling out his cigarette case and flashing it round. 'I got me heart set on King's Road, a place for dolly birds. Know what I mean?'
'Takes a lot of dough,' Alf said. 'You need experience in the club world, too.'
'I got both.' Harry looked smug. 'Well, the experience of clubs is only drinking in them, but it can't be that 'ard.'
He saw them exchanging glances and decided he'd said enough.
Duke was to deal the first game and, as Harry was already sitting to his right, he would have to make the opener. The atmosphere changed immediately Duke picked up the sealed pack of cards. The sit-down money, two hundred pounds, was slapped down beside them, cigarettes, lighters, drinks and ashtrays placed strategically, and Duke dealt.
Harry had a pair of sixes, but nothing else. He changed two and came up with another six. It was a fair hand, but he had to act cautious. He noted that neither Alf nor Jack asked for new cards, which could mean they had good hands, too. He picked up a ten-pound note and flicked it down. Alf raised him twenty. Chas raised twenty; already there was fifty pounds in the pot. Jack hesitated just a second but raised forty. Duke folded.
Harry smiled weakly and raised twenty, sliding a hundred pounds on to the pot. Alf folded.
He was sure that earlier hesitation on Jack's part meant he had a poor hand. Chas looked supremely comfortable, but Harry had no way of knowing whether that was his usual look. It was Jack's turn and he raised twenty. Harry glanced at Chas, but his face was impassive and he pushed his money on to the pile, raising thirty.
Harry didn't dare look at his money on the table. He just picked it up and threw it down in an expansive gesture. 'Raise you fifty.'
Jack folded and Chas smiled benignly as he threw a hundred on. 'I'll see you,' he said.
It was the moment of truth. He laid his three sixes down and waited.
Chas had only a pair.
Aripple of laughter went round the table, even from Chas. He pushed the money towards Harry and lit up a cigar. Harry didn't know what to think. Was this some sort of wild strategy on Chas's part, or everyone's?
He folded on the next game and lost his stake. But in the third he won six hundred.
The air was thick with smoke; it hung around the light above them like a blanket. The cardboard on the windows wobbled in the draught and Harry could feel another one from the door nearly cutting his ankles in half while his head was roasting. He was no nearer sussing anyone out, they were all steady players who gave nothing away, and seemed to have endless amounts of notes in their pockets.
'Bloody George Raft from the door,' he said casually as he looked at his cards. He'd got nine hundred on the table now; maybe it was time to up the ante. He had a straight, and he knew the time was right.
Jack was dealing and Chas made the opener with two hundred pounds. Duke raised him a hundred and now it was Harry's turn. He dropped in the three-hundred stake and raised another two hundred.
Al
f folded, quickly followed by Jack. Chas, still as cool as a cucumber although he hadn't had a win, tossed on his three-hundred stake and raised two hundred. Duke raised another hundred and Harry matched it, shoving his whole pile in. Chas folded.
It was between him and Duke now and he would have to fold if Duke didn't, or call him. But to his surprise Duke called. Harry put his cards down gingerly, sure Duke could beat them.
'It's yours, Harry,' Duke said. 'Only three of a kind.'
The feeling as he drew the money towards him was almost as good as Christmas morning. He had almost four thousand, and he still had his other hundred in his breast pocket.
They stopped for a beer, moving back from the table while they chatted. Harry sat back grinning while he studied them. The grin was meant to disarm them. They'd taken him for a sucker and he guessed each one thought his luck would soon break and they'd get the money back.
The night wore on. In the good games time flew, in the bad it stood still. At one point he'd had six thousand; then it went down to three. The temperature was rising in all ways. Chas stripped off his jacket. Duke dabbed delicately at his forehead with a maroon handkerchief. Only Jack and Alf looked cool, but perhaps that was because their sort of losses meant nothing to them.
Harry kept up the bluff – opening his jacket to show the gold lining, flicking his lighter, going down frequently to the filthy toilet below, drumming his nails on the table.
Pure adrenaline was keeping him going now as his pile reached ten thousand, only to be cut in half in the next game, but when he looked at the other men they showed no emotion.
Duke had the most wins; Harry came next, beating Chas by one game. He wondered how they could pull out that kind of dough without wincing, and how often they did this.
It was after four when finally Duke suggested the next game should be the last.
Harry was dealt three kings, but two low cards. When he changed the two and got the king of hearts he could barely believe his luck. He tried to remember what the old guy in prison had told him about the odds on someone having a better hand than that, but it escaped him. All he could think was that this was shit or bust time.
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