by Martina Cole
Finally, after many hours of restlessness, he had the glimmer of a plan. The main thing to bear in mind was that Patrick Kelly was not a man to cross. After the turn out with the rent boys, he knew without a shadow of a doubt that he would not make Kelly’s Christmas card list. He shrugged mentally. He never had anyway. All the same Kelly would not forget his part in the rent boy business for a long time. If he went to the repoman with any old cock and bull story, Kelly would see to it that he did not live long enough to collect his reward. If Kelly even suspected that he knew the name of his daughter’s murderer . . . Tony swallowed heavily.
But, and there was always a but, if he pretended that he had been going over his customer lists and happened to notice a George Markham from Grantley on it. Or better still on his mailing list. Yes, that sounded much better. As if he had never actually met the man.
He bounced the ideas around in his head for a while, finally convincing himself that if he played it just right, he would come out of it all with a good few quid and his neck intact. The latter being the most important.
He would put his plan into action first thing in the morning.
George woke up to a fine, crisp day and grinned to himself. The previous night’s events bundled into his mind, crowding it with erotic images. George hugged himself in the warmth of his bed. All his life he had wanted to be part of the men’s world, and always he had had to stand on the edge of it. Watching as an outsider. Last night it was as if a door had been opened and he had crept through it into the magic world of men together. He had been drunk on the mystery of it. At one point, he had experienced an ecstasy so acute he had felt tears sting his eyes.
He left the warmth of the bed and went into the bathroom. He had a long, leisurely bath as he dwelt on memories of the night before.
By nine he had finished packing, had ticked off everything on his carefully prepared list. He had everything from lightweight clothes to sunglasses. He had bought these a few years before. They were mirrored. He could watch and stare and no one knew what he was looking at. George kept them lovingly in a leather case.
He allowed himself the luxury of imagining himself on the golden beaches of Florida, watching all the girls and women. He’d watched the travel programmes, he knew what to expect. He felt a thrill of anticipation. He was flying out at seven thirty the following morning and had decided to stay overnight at the airport hotel. Start his holiday properly. He would have to check in to his flight at five thirty, so he would need a good night’s rest, a good meal, and then he could get on the plane and relax.
He checked his passport, then the one Tony Jones had procured for him. He put them in his jacket pocket. Poor Tony Jones, he had been ripped off. But, he reflected, the pornographer had deserved it.
The house was beginning to feel claustrophobic. George bent his head to one side, a look of concentration on his face. He listened avidly. Nothing. He kept thinking he could hear Elaine calling.
He shrugged. Let her call, he just wouldn’t listen. He took his bags out to his car and then had an idea. He could go and visit his mother. He would like to see her before he saw Edith. Give her a nice surprise.
He grinned. If she knew he was going out to Edith’s it would kill her. Maybe he would mention it. But then she would know where he was going. He frowned. He’d see how it went. Happy now that he had a plan in mind, he began to make himself ready in earnest. It was nice, he thought, to be busy. To be in demand. To be a . . . what did the youngsters call it nowadays? A free agent. He smiled to himself in satisfaction, that’s just what he was.
Up in the top of the house Elaine’s body shifted slightly with the pressure of the rapidly filling tank. The ballcock that had been trapped at the small of her back shifted position with her and the tank began to fill up faster.
Patrick Kelly had kissed Kate goodbye at six thirty and was on his way to see a man who had some news for him. Important news by all accounts. He clenched his fists in agitation. It had better be something concrete or he was going to explode.
The traffic into London was heavy, and Patrick’s Rolls Royce was duly stared at and discussed. Every set of traffic lights had people trying to look inside, thinking it was someone famous. Patrick Kelly smiled to himself. He was famous to an extent, only not in the way these people thought. The Rolls drew up behind a funeral cortège and Patrick frowned. He felt, rather than saw, Willy shift gears and banged on the partition, sharply shouting: ‘You bloody dare, Willy, and I’ll murder you!’
Willy changed down again and sighed. They would be stuck here for ages now. Pat was like an old woman these days. Kelly shook his head in wonderment. He could just imagine the mourners’ faces when a Rolls Royce wheelspun around them. Willy was an animal at times.
‘Just take your time, we’ll get there soon enough.’
‘All right, Pat.’ Kelly could hear the sullenness in Willy’s voice and said, ‘Show some respect. It’s a funeral, for Christ’s sake.’
Willy kept his own counsel, but deep inside hoped that Porsche would one day do a stretch limo so he could go to his own funeral in style, and with a bit of speed and panache. The first corpse to do a ton!
He didn’t mention it to Pat though. He had a sneaky feeling he wouldn’t laugh.
Kate sneaked into her house at seven, grateful that no one was up. As she showered she heard her mother get up and the distant clatter of breakfast being made. She went into her bedroom and messed up the bed, smiling as she did so. At her age she should not have to worry about spending the night with a man, but it was respect really. Respect for her mother and her daughter. She felt the glow that still surrounded her body. The night had been a long one. With Patrick sex was a labour of love, and she had missed him. Oh, how she had missed him. She relived in her mind the slow deliberate lovemaking. She knew she was undone and did not care.
Her mother had come up trumps over the Australia business. It was remarkable that she had kept that money secret for so long. Kate felt a great surge of affection for her, knowing that Evelyn was just trying to take the burden from her. Lizzy was like a dog with six lamp posts at the thought of going. It was as if after all the trouble they had been having, everything had finally come together. All Kate wanted now was the Grantley Ripper - and she would get him. And when she did, she would see him put away for ever. Then she could concentrate once more on her family and Patrick. She was looking forward to concentrating on him.
Lizzy knocked on her bedroom door and walked in. ‘Oh, Mum, I just woke up and the first thing I thought was: This time next month, I’ll be in Australia! I just can’t believe it. A whole six weeks holiday in Oz! I can’t wait.’
Kate smiled at her daughter in genuine happiness.
‘Come here, poppet.’ She put out her arms and Lizzy fitted herself into them.
‘Were you with that man last night, Mum? That Patrick Kelly?’
Kate looked into her daughter’s face, so much like her own, and sighed gently. She nodded.
‘I think you should hang on to him, he’s really sexy.’
Kate grinned. ‘Oh, so you think that, do you?’
‘Mmm, I do actually.’ She kissed her mother’s cheek and stood up, looking very young and innocent in her long white nightie that seemed to hide the womanly curves.
‘I wouldn’t mind going out with him myself!’ She flounced from the room laughing. Kate laughed too, but uneasily. Knowing what she did about her daughter’s sex life the remark hurt. Not because of Patrick, but as yet another reminder of the fact that her daughter was more experienced than she was sexually. Kate forced the thought from her mind. Lizzy was nearly a grown woman and she had had problems - ones that Kate blamed herself for.
She admitted to herself that she would be glad, in a way, to see her off at the airport. She needed space from Lizzy, as much as Lizzy needed space from her. The thought made her sad.
She comforted herself. She was looking forward to waking up with Patrick in the mornings. But, more than anything, she was
looking forward to spending the nights with him.
Larry Steinberg ushered Patrick into his office and the two men shook hands. He had been here once before. Larry Steinberg dealt with the law, the unacceptable face of it. He was also a fixer, and had taken care of some things for Patrick that he had thought beyond the fixing stage. Patrick did not like him, but he had a grudging respect for him. And to Patrick, in business, respect was often preferable to liking.
He had called on Larry to defend a couple of his repomen a few years earlier. They had gone round a man’s house to repossess his car and been met by a crowbar and a sawn-off shotgun. Not unusual in their game; people were often far from happy when repomen appeared. One of his men, however, had removed the crowbar from the punter’s hand and then buried it in his skull, leaving the man scarred, semi-paralysed, and suffering from epilepsy.
Larry had arranged for the Attempted Murder charge to be quashed and for a pretty stiff out-of-court settlement that had guaranteed a satisfactory outcome for all concerned. The sawn-off shotgun had mysteriously disappeared from the armoury of the Metropolitan Police and had since been used on two different robberies, but that was not Patrick’s business. One thing he knew for sure was that the man who had been hit with the crowbar was the man behind the robberies. He was a gas meter bandit gone big time, and with his pay-off from Patrick’s insurance and his medical records he was as safe as proverbial houses.
Larry blew his nose and sniffed loudly. His bulbous eyes were watering and he wiped them with his fingers. Patrick disguised his distaste as best he could.
‘Right then, Larry, let’s not beat about the bush - what you got for me?’
‘It’s to do with Tony Jones. He came to me a while ago for a passport.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘The passport wasn’t for him, it was for someone else, a bloke from Grantley.’
Patrick’s ears pricked up.
‘Go on.’
Larry Steinberg wiped his nose once more with a grubby handkerchief. He knew that if you drew your story out, people became impatient and listened better.
‘He didn’t pay me much, Mr Kelly.’ His voice had taken on a whining tone.
Patrick closed his eyes.
‘Look, Larry, you’ll get the money on the fucker’s head as soon as I have a face. Now tell me the geezer’s fucking name! I ain’t in the mood for games.’
Larry hurriedly obeyed.
‘It was Markham. A George Markham’.
‘Did Tony say why the bloke wanted a passport?’
Save the best till last, that was Larry’s motto.
‘That was the funny thing about it all - the passport had Tony Jones’s photograph in it.’ He watched Kelly’s expression and gabbled on: ‘Now be fair, Mr Kelly, I’m just a fixer. If you pay me enough I’ll fix up anything, but I knew that there was something wrong with all this and that’s why I’m telling you. At first I didn’t think anything, you know yourself what it’s like. Then I read about the blood testing in Grantley and it came to me like - well, like a vision from God . . .’
He shook his head for maximum effect. ‘I’ve dealt with bank robbers who wanted to retire abroad, the scum of the criminal world. But my life, Mr Kelly, I would not cover for a sadistic murderer. I heard through the grapevine that you were looking for the man who took your young daughter’s life and thought it was my duty to inform you of what I knew.’
Larry Steinberg himself actually believed this now, so good was his acting.
Patrick nodded.
‘I hope I have been of some little help?’
‘You’ll get the money, Larry, if this is the man, I promise you that.’
He held out his hand and Larry shook it. Feeling the animal strength of Kelly, he shuddered inwardly.
Poor Tony Jones. Still, he reasoned, Kelly had shaken hands on it, and from him that was as good as a signed contract. Steinberg had to stop himself from rubbing his hands together with glee.
That would have been in bad taste, even for him.
Patrick left the office. Getting into his Rolls Royce, he shouted to Willy: ‘Tony Jones’s gaff, now!’
Willy started the car and Patrick filled him in on what had taken place as they drove. By the time they reached the sex shop, both were ready to commit murder.
Emmanuel had been on his own all morning and was exhausted. Tony hadn’t even bothered to ring him to say when he would arrive. The only high spot had been two definite dates for later that night from two rather well-dressed city gents. Tony hated him procuring from the shop, even though it brought in business. He heard rather than saw Kelly and Willy come in. The door flew open, sending a display of Masochist Monthly magazines flying all over the floor.
‘Where is he?’ Patrick Kelly’s voice was low and Emmanuel felt his fury.
‘Who?’ The boy’s voice was high and squeaky.
‘Tony fucking Jones, that’s who. Who else would we come in here for? Princess Diana?’
‘I don’t know where he is. He didn’t come into work today.’
Willy grabbed Emmanuel round the throat and shook him. ‘Where’s he live? I want his address now.’
A big man in working clothes walked into the shop and Patrick grabbed the front of his overalls and threw him out on to the pavement with such force he careered into some passers-by. By now the other shopkeepers had noticed what was going down and were watching the action from strategic points.
Emmanuel wrote down the address with shaking hands. His mascara was running into his eyes and making them sting.
Patrick took the proffered paper and nodded at Willy, who promptly set about tearing the shop apart. Emmanuel watched in terror.
Whatever Tony had done it must have been bad. He wondered briefly if he should start looking for another job.
When Willy had finished the two men left. Emmanuel looked at the debris around him and began to cry again. The other shop owners came in when the coast was clear and, under the guise of helping Emmanuel calm himself, tried to prise some gossip from him. He thought it was to do with the time Kelly came in looking for the rent boys and told them so. But it was obvious he didn’t really know too much about anything.
The story hit the streets in Soho within the hour, it was the talking point of the day.
People nodded their heads sagely. Tony Jones had always courted trouble and now it had knocked on his door.
Tony himself heard the news ten minutes before Kelly and Willy arrived at his house. While they banged down his door, Tony and a very frightened Jeanette were on their way to their eldest daughter’s in Brighton.
Nancy Markowitz, as she now liked to be called, sat drinking a cup of hot steaming tea. Her daughter-in-law Lilian was making the beds. Nancy scowled to herself. A cat’s lick, that’s what Lily gave the house. When she herself had been younger her house had shone out like a beacon, showing all the neighbours how a house should be cleaned. She passed a malevolent eye over the skirting boards in the front room. They could do with a good dusting. What she wouldn’t have given then for a nice house like this!
She shook her head. Lily had always been lackadaisical, even her children had never looked right. Pasty-faced little buggers they’d been. Still were, in fact. Nancy sipped her tea. Like cat’s piss, Lilian didn’t even know how to make a decent cup of tea. More than likely poured water over tea bags. Real tea leaves would be too much of a chore for her . . .
She was taking her time making the beds. Nancy glanced at the clock. It was nearly twelve. She shook her head again. Imagine not making the beds till lunchtime. Lazy bitch.
She sat sipping her tea, building up in her mind every little thing she could against Lily; all the things she’d done or failed to do, real and imagined.
Nancy Markham had a knack of putting other people in the wrong. It had been a major asset all her life. It was her power over people and she used it, along with bullying and cajoling, to her own best advantage.
Lilian was actual
ly lying on her own bed reading a magazine and having a cup of tea and a biscuit herself. Savouring the half hour away from her mother-in-law. It was the only time of the day she had wholly to herself, where her mother-in-law’s voice wasn’t intruding on her thoughts, her bell wasn’t stopping her from working and her presence could not be felt like a malign force. Sometimes Lily thought that Nancy was a witch. Fanciful as that seemed it was the only logical reason why everyone should hate her so. Her own children included. How many times had Joseph promised, under cover of darkness and the duvet, that he was going to put her away in a home? And how many times had he come face to face with her and backed down? Too many times.
Though Lily admitted to herself that she would not relish the task herself. Nancy frightened her. She frightened her grandchildren. She frightened her son. Her son whom Lily had loved once with all her heart and now despised for his weakness, a weakness that she had played on herself since learning all the tricks from her mother-in-law. Even Elaine and drippy George had balked at Nancy coming to live with them.
Lilian tried to concentrate on her Best magazine. It didn’t do to dwell on things in this house. It was oppressive enough. Still, the Rabbi was due tomorrow. Even though Nancy’s following her Jewish faith annoyed Lily, it also gave her a free afternoon a week when she could go out of the house in peace, knowing that the young Rabbi would be too frightened to leave Nancy alone until she came back. She suppressed a grin. The poor boy’s face when she finally arrived was a picture. Nancy, self-righteous and actually being friendly, was more scary than when she was her usual overbearing and evil self.
Lily forced her mind back to her magazine just as the doorbell rang. She pushed herself up on the bed. Who could that be? She jumped up and hastily brushed her clothes to get rid of any tell-tale biscuit crumbs. The bell rang again and she rushed from the room.
By now her mother-in-law’s bell was also ringing. It was an old-fashioned school bell and Lily sometimes fancied that it tolled her life away. She hurried to the front door.
