The Ladykiller

by Martina Cole

  ‘Some of my bigger boys are very nasty, you know, Owen, and if they thought that someone, especially someone young and green, was taking the piss they would be very annoyed. ’Cos they love me, you see.’

  Owen was half relieved and half scared when a discreet tap came on the front door. Happy because it took Jimmy away from him, and scared in case it was some of the bigger boys that he’d just been talking about. Jimmy leapt off the sofa and pulled on a reasonably clean pair of trousers from the floor. Then, smoothing his hair with his hands, he went to the front door.

  Owen heard mumbled voices and then Jimmy walked back into the room with a man in a black suit. He was carrying a briefcase and he smiled at Owen. He felt his heart sink.

  ‘The boy’s in here, sir. I keep the door locked because you know what children are like. Always prying into things that don’t concern them.’ Jimmy spoke as if he was a benevolent father and smiled at the visitor. He smiled back and Owen felt the sickness again. The man was going in to the little boy in the bedroom.

  The house where they were had once been a large, imposing residence, now it was a mismatch of flats and bedsits. It still had the communal front door and as they were on the ground floor, their front door came into their lounge. The rooms that were once the morning room and the dining room were now bedrooms. All the windows were barred, as they had been since the houses were built. Jimmy also had the basement flat. He had set-ups like this all over London. Once Owen was established and trustworthy, he would be relocated to one of the other safe houses.

  He watched Jimmy unlock the bedroom and the man with the briefcase walked inside. A couple of minutes later Jimmy came out and went to the kitchenette. Owen watched him carry through a bottle of pills and a glass of whisky. Owen could hear the little boy’s cries through the door and put his hands over his ears.

  He wished more than ever that his mum was here. She would know what to do.

  She would sort out Jimmy.

  She would take him home.

  Owen realised that his video had ended and the television screen was blank. He stared at it, trying to hold back the tears. If they were going to do to the little boy what Jimmy had done to him, he would be in a lot of pain.

  Owen felt sick again.

  Then there came another knock on the door. This time it was loud and aggressive and Owen was convinced that it was the bigger boys that Jimmy had been talking about. He felt himself hunch into the settee.

  Jimmy came out of the bedroom and called out: ‘All right, all right, I’m coming. About bleeding time and all.’

  He opened the door and Owen was amazed when he tried to slam it shut immediately, pushing on it with all his might. Then whoever was outside got the better of him because the door was pushed open so hard that Jimmy went sprawling on the floor and the door banged against the wall loudly.

  Four large men were standing over him and one of them, a dark man in a light brown overcoat, kicked him hard in the kidneys. Then he faced the boy.

  ‘You’re Owen, aren’t you?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’m here because your mum’s been worried out of her head, son. Now you come with me and I’ll take you home. OK?’

  Owen stood up on trembling legs. He was trying hard to pull the pyjama jacket down so it would cover his naked genitals. He saw the man in the brown overcoat frown.

  ‘Where’s your kacks, son? Go and put them on. We’ll wait here for you, all right?’

  Owen nodded and went to the bedroom he had been using with Joseph and Jimmy. He began to pull his clothes on as quick as possible, glad of the unfamiliar feel. He went back into the lounge and pulled on his bumpers. Jimmy was still on the floor and one of the men, a large shaven-headed character with gaps in his teeth, was grinning at him. He was holding a large screwdriver to Jimmy’s throat.

  ‘Tell them that I never hurt you, son. Tell them that, will you?’

  Jimmy’s voice was frightened and then Owen remembered the boy in the bedroom. It was very quiet in there now. Too quiet.

  ‘Hey, Mister. There’s another boy in there.’ He pointed to the door. ‘He’s only a little mite. There’s a man in there with him.’

  Patrick’s face seemed to harden and he opened the door. On the bed was the man in the suit and the little boy. The man had his hand over the little boy’s mouth. His trousers were undone and his shirt, so nicely pressed and ironed was hanging over his flaccid penis.

  ‘Fuck me, Mr Kelly, what’s going down here?’ This from one of the other large men, a hard case called Dicky Brewster. He walked into the room and punched the man in the suit as hard as he could. The little boy, realising his mouth was free, began to scream in fear. His large brown eyes were opened to their utmost and snot and tears were raining down his face into his mouth. Dicky Brewster picked up a corner of the grubby bedsheet and wiped the boy’s nose and eyes gently, his great hands seeming to cover the child’s whole head.

  Patrick and the other men watched him, fascinated. All were shocked and appalled at what they had stumbled on. It was worse than even they had expected. Dicky wrapped the child in a blanket and picked him up, trying his hardest, in his rough-handed way, to be kind. Kelly flicked his head to the other man with him.

  ‘Take the boys and go down to my car, Dicky. You, go with him.’

  The men nodded and left the flat with the children. The little boy’s sobs were subsiding now, but Patrick waited until they were gone before he walked into the bedroom. Then he began systematically to kick the suited man in the head, chest, anywhere he could. The rage inside him was white hot now and it needed to be spent. Finally, the man lay still and Patrick Kelly didn’t care if he was dead. Breathing hard he went back into the lounge.

  ‘You’re a fucking piece of shite, McDougall, and I am personally going to see that you never get to ply your filthy trade in this city again.’ He nodded at the man with the shaved head.

  ‘You know what to do, Tim. Do it.’

  Jimmy McDougall was terrified, and his terror gave him an added strength. He fought as hard as he could to get away from the man but Patrick Kelly kicked him in the head, a stunning blow. Then Tim pushed the screwdriver into Jimmy’s ear, banging down on it hard with the palm of his hand.

  Jimmy was still and silent.

  Tim wiped his hands on his jeans and both he and Kelly walked from the flat.

  They were disgusted.

  Not at their own violence, but at what they both knew had been going on in there. It just didn’t fit in with their code of right and wrong.

  In Kelly’s mind, a man had to do many things, such as dole out a hiding to the likes of McDougall. Anyone who lived off the proceeds of children, whether it was putting them on the streets or dealing in child pornography, was classed as a nonce or a beast. It was quite reasonable and just to maim or harm them permanently. That was right to Kelly. Just like robbing a bank was considered gainful employment. It grieved them that a rapist often got a lesser prison sentence than a bank robber. It was the old, old story. Property had more value than people. Kelly might own massage parlours and be a repoman, but he would never raise his hand to a woman or a child. The men in the car with him felt the same.

  There were just some things you did not do, and these were some of them. You could break a man’s arm or a leg for the payment of an overdue debt, but this was right and fair. When the man borrowed the money he knew what the penalty for not paying would be, and he generally took his punishment like a man. That was how Kelly had always lived his life. How he had survived in life. His first business had been founded on a two thousand pound loan from one of the biggest villains ever to walk the earth. Kelly had paid back the loan and the interest with it. He had showed the man the respect due to him, and now, all these years later, the man was a trusted friend.

  Kelly was the old-style villain and proud of it. He had no time for the youngsters who went steaming through the trains or who took it into their heads to go and run a stolen Range Rover through an electr
ical shop. Ram Raiding they called it. That was a mug’s game. He blamed society for these people. He did not put himself on a par with them. He saw himself and his colleagues as businessmen. Men who did a job that had to be done. Like the job they had done tonight.

  When he found the Grantley Ripper, and he would find him, he was sure of that, he would pay back his daughter’s debt one hundredfold. He would exact his payment painfully and with the minimum of fuss. In Kelly’s mind it was expected of him. If you didn’t look out for your own then who would?

  He shook his head at what the world was coming to.

  Inside Kelly’s car, Owen sat as still as death. Relieved to be out of the flat, but still not sure if he was out of danger. Now the relief had worn off he was wondering if he had walked into more trouble.

  ‘We’re going to take you home, son, to your mum. But first we’ve got to drop the little fellow off. All right?’

  Owen nodded warily.

  ‘Give me the phone, Tim.’

  Kelly dialled a number and the deep voice of a Chief Inspector friend of his came on the line. He outlined the situation in as few words as possible, then smiled and switched the phone off.

  ‘We’re taking him to Charing Cross Hospital, they’ll be expecting him. Come on then. Let’s get our arses in gear.’

  He smiled at Owen.

  ‘When was the last time you two had a bath? You smell like a couple of paraffin lamps.’

  ‘They look like a pair of tramps and all, guv.’

  This from Dicky, who was feeling happier now they were taking the boy somewhere.

  They all chatted amiably until they’d dropped the little boy off. Kelly wondered briefly what would become of him. At four or five he wasn’t a runaway, more likely sold to Jimmy by his mother or father. It was surprising what people would do for a couple of ounces of heroin.

  Owen was delivered to his mother’s house and Juliette cried her eyes out as she hugged her son to her, thanking Patrick and the other men profusely until Dicky’s face was as red as a beetroot in embarrassment.

  Later on, Patrick drove home and his heart felt lighter than it had since Mandy’s death.

  He was seeing Kate the following night and couldn’t wait. He had observed Owen’s happiness at the attention from his mother who had hugged and kissed and shouted and berated him in her joy to see him home in one piece. It crossed Kelly’s mind that twelve, twenty, forty or eighty, everybody needed someone to care for, and to care for them. He wished he still had his Mandy.

  If only they could find a clue to the villain responsible for her death.

  Patrick Kelly didn’t realise he had spoken that very day to the man who had George’s full name, address and phone number.

  Later that evening Patrick had a call from his police contact.

  McDougall would live, though he would walk as if he had been on a roundabout for the rest of his life.

  Kelly smiled to himself. It was a job well done.

  Now all he wanted was his daughter’s murderer and then he could settle down to some kind of a normal life.

  Kate watched Patrick’s face closely, her heart going out to him. ‘I tried to get in touch with you yesterday, but I just couldn’t locate you anywhere. I wanted to tell you myself.’

  ‘I know that, Kate.’ He pulled her towards him and kissed the top of her head.

  ‘In a way I’m relieved, but in another way it makes it all seem real somehow. Sometimes I wake up in the night and I think it was all a big mistake, and if I get out of bed I’ll walk into her room and she’ll be there. Fast asleep, her arm draped across her eyes. That’s how she slept even as a small child. But I suppose I’ll get over all that eventually. The wishful thinking. I’ll make the arrangements first thing in the morning. What’s happening with the O’Leary family?’

  ‘I told the mother yesterday, the husband is taking it all very badly . . .’

  ‘I mean, how are they off for dosh? Money?’

  Kate was surprised.

  ‘I don’t really know, they aren’t rolling in it. They were buying their council house so I expect her death has paid off the mortgage. He’s not working though, and as she worked at the wine bar for extra money for Christmas I shouldn’t think he earns that much anyway. Especially with three children.’

  Kate saw Patrick’s jaw clench. She knew it was the motherless children that affected him the most.

  ‘I’ll send my brief round to see the mother. I’ll pay for the funeral for them. I’ll pay for the Butler girl’s as well when the time comes.’

  Kate was silent. She didn’t like to say that maybe the Butlers wouldn’t want him to pay for something so personal, but she knew it was a salve to him. In his mind he was making amends and actually doing something. More than anything, she knew Patrick Kelly was only happy when he was sorting out things. She knew that in his own way he was trying to take the responsibility from other people, trying to make things easier for them.

  She wasn’t really sure if this was a good thing. After all, he wasn’t God.

  ‘Do you want to go out, Kate?’

  ‘Not really, Pat, but it’s up to you.’

  He hugged her close again. ‘Good. I’ve had Mrs Manners make up a nice bit of dinner for us. We’ll eat in and have an early night. What do you think?’

  He tried to smile at her, but Kate was aware that his heart wasn’t in it. But she would go along with him; she had a feeling that he needed her tonight for more than the usual reasons. Even if they didn’t make love, she knew that having someone beside him through the night would mean a lot to him.

  ‘That sounds great. I could do with an early night, I had a hard day myself.’

  ‘Good. I’ll go and make the arrangements.’

  As he left the room, Kate could not help but notice the slump to his shoulders and felt a rush of love for him. She sat back in the settee and sighed. She wasn’t sure if it was a good thing or a bad thing. But she knew that she liked the feeling.

  George was watching Elaine. Since the night of the tiepin and his euphoric relief at finding it, the marks on his wife’s neck had been bothering him. He watched her shove a Ryvita with a scraping of low fat cheese on it into her mouth. She was definitely a lot thinner and, he admitted to himself grudgingly, getting quite attractive for her age. She had toned down her eye make-up, and had taken to putting kohl pencil on the inside of her bottom lashes. This small act had opened up her eyes and given them a mysterious look. He gritted his teeth.

  They were all the same, women. He knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that Elaine, that slob Elaine, was having an affair. Was lifting her skirts in the back of someone’s car and sitting on someone’s erect . . .

  ‘George! Are you all right?’ Elaine’s voice was sharp.

  The picture in George’s mind evaporated and he dragged himself back to reality.

  ‘Of course I am, dear.’ His voice was his usual mild and humble one.

  ‘Well, stop staring at me, it gives me the creeps.’

  George stood up from his seat and felt dizzy as a picture rose into his mind once more. This time, he was standing over Elaine with his Swiss army knife raised above his head . . .

  ‘I think I’ll go for a walk, dear, I don’t feel very well. I need to clear my head.’

  ‘But Taggart’s on in a minute.’

  Taggart was George’s favourite programme. But tonight he had to get out of his house and away from Elaine before he exploded.

  ‘I won’t be long, dear. Tape it for me.’

  Elaine turned her gaze back to the television. George knew that within seconds he would be forgotten. She would be thinking of her fancy man. He hurried from the room, grabbing his hat and coat, and left the house. As he walked down the road he pulled his gloves from his pocket and put them on. He felt a rage inside him. A blinding rage. How dare she? He didn’t want her, he had not wanted her for years, but she was still his wife. His wife. He had married her and given her his name. He had raised her from the gutte
r to be his wife. But, like them all, she was a conniving cunt.

  He saw Elaine again in his mind, taking off her clothes as she had been the night he had seen the marks on her neck. He saw her then in the back of a car, with a faceless man touching all her secret places. And Elaine liked it! She liked it, the slut!

  George was walking faster and faster, his shoes clattering on the pavement. Elaine was like his mother. Oh, they pretended to be good women, but deep down they were whores. Like Eve, they betrayed you. You gave them your all and they took it. They took it and they smiled and they simpered - and all the time they were laughing at you. Laughing their fat ugly heads off.

  George’s breathing was laboured.

  He stopped and looked around him. He was outside the block of council flats where he’d been mugged. He crossed the road and strode purposefully up the incline and under his tree. He watched the second floor, cursing Elaine because in his haste to get away from her he had forgotten his opera glasses.

  Leonora Davidson was watching Taggart, unaware that not twenty yards away the Grantley Ripper was watching her bedroom window. She snuggled into her chair, a mug of coffee on a small table beside her and her cigarettes on the arm of her chair. She was content.

  George watched the window for ten minutes. Nothing. He glanced at his watch. It was ten to ten.

  He began to walk towards the block, his eyes scanning the street and the windows of the flats for movement.

  Leonora heard a knock at her front door and tutted. ‘Taggart’ was just about to unmask the killer. She got up from her chair and went out into her tiny hall.

  ‘Who is it?’ Her voice was loud and impatient.

  ‘Is that Mrs Davidson?’

  Leonora frowned. She didn’t know the voice.

  ‘Who wants to know?’

  ‘I’m the man who got mugged, you came out to help me.’ George’s voice was quiet and meek.

  Leonora’s eyebrows went up.