by Jessie Keane
Oh, and why didn’t that prospect fill her with excitement like it used to? Now the thought of an all-nighter was utterly bloody tedious and pointless.
Stop it, you miserable bitch, Bianca told herself sternly. Enjoy yourself.
She was determined to do that. She would do that.
‘Jesus, what happened to him?’ asked Shula, pointing out Donato further down the bar.
Bianca looked. All the boys called him Pizza Face now, and word was that Fabio had given him both a bad limp and a face-full of cigarette burns when he’d been stupid enough to bring him bad news. Nevertheless, gang loyalty ran deep. Donato was still here, still serving the family.
‘Dunno,’ she said, uninterested.
‘Dance?’ suggested Shula.
‘Not yet,’ said Bianca, and caught the exasperation in Shula’s eyes. She knew she was being a pain in the arse, but somehow she couldn’t seem to stop. She downed the second glass of champagne. It didn’t cheer her up, though. She poured another and brought it to her lips.
Then she froze.
There was a commotion on the stairs near the far end of the bar. Men were coming down, practically wrestling each other down the stairs – a big chunky blond bloke and Jay, her brother’s right-hand man, shouting and screaming, and . . .
‘Hey! Watch it!’ said Shula as Bianca’s hand twitched in shock, spilling champagne over Shula’s lap.
It was Tony Mobley. Jay had managed to grab him halfway down the stairs and they were yelling at each other. The blond one ran up a couple of steps and punched Jay in the head. Jay fell, and then Tony and the blond came on down and walked through the surging unconcerned crowds to the front of the club.
Bianca jumped to her feet. ‘Tony!’ she shouted.
He walked on; didn’t hear her.
‘Fuck’s sake . . .’ Bianca was hurrying after the two men now, going out to the front of the club, looking at the doormen. Damn it, he was gone.
‘Well, that was bloody clever,’ said Rob as he and Kit hurried back to the car. ‘Talk, you said. Cool things down, you said.’
‘Shut up,’ said Kit. All right, he’d lost it. He knew he’d lost it, he didn’t need that pointing out to him. But there was something about that ugly, self-satisfied smirk on Vittore’s face that had made him want to wipe it off.
Well, he’d done that.
Not very bloody clever at all. Rob was right.
Instead of rejoining Shula at the bar, Bianca made her way up to the office. Inside she found a scene of chaos: Vittore was behind the desk, his face ashen, clutching a bloody handkerchief to his left hand. He was cursing in Italian. Pizza-faced Donato had come up to see what was occurring, and Jay was standing over Vittore, saying they’d better get him to the hospital, get that cleaned up.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked. ‘What happened to your hand?’
‘Fucker Miller put the paper knife through it,’ said Vittore, grimacing with pain.
Bianca’s mouth was working but no sound was coming out. She looked at the newspaper on the desk, the paper knife, the smear of blood there. Then she thought, Tony was up here.
‘I saw two men go through the bar. Jay came down the stairs with them. I think I know one of them, Tony Mobley . . .’
‘You’re mistaken,’ said Vittore through clenched teeth. He staggered to his feet, cradling his injured hand. ‘Kit Miller was here with one of his crew.’
Bianca frowned. This was bad news. Tony could be one of Kit Miller’s mob. This was terrible news.
‘That big blond guy, that’s Kit Miller?’ she asked.
Jay was staring at her. ‘No. Miller’s the dark one.’ He shifted his attention back to his boss. ‘Come on, let’s get you sorted out,’ he said.
They pushed past Bianca. She stood there in the office after they’d gone, frozen and filled with horror and not wanting to believe it as the truth hit her like a runaway truck.
Miller’s the dark one.
But she’d seen Tony Mobley. She hadn’t been mistaken. That was him.
Only it wasn’t him. He must have lied to her, given her a false name. Because he was Kit Miller. Her family’s arch enemy.
He was the one who had turned up at Tito’s funeral, after she’d gone home, and laughed at her beloved brother’s death. A lot of people were saying he was the one who killed Tito in the first place.
Bianca felt the strength go out of her legs. She slumped forward, supporting herself against the desk. The world was spinning and her head hummed with the shock of it. She couldn’t begin to believe it, but . . . if Tony was Kit Miller, had he targeted her deliberately? Had this all been part of his feud with her family, that he would screw the sister, maybe laugh about it among his friends, tell them he had fucked Bianca Danieri, fed her all sorts of bullshit, given her a false name, fooled her completely?
Because if Tony was Kit Miller, that’s what he’d done.
Bianca’s stomach turned over at the thought.
He’d done the very worst thing he could – made her fall in love with him. Made her believe his poisonous lies.
It was a nightmare, but it was true.
The man she had fallen in love with was Kit Miller.
Tony Mobley didn’t even exist.
56
Lady Albermarle kept a house in Palace Court, Kensington, a big red-bricked monolith with huge bay windows and airy endless rooms, and she stayed there whenever she came up to town, which was often. When Ruby called in to see her old friend, Vi’s elderly husband Anthony was in Oxfordshire tending the ancestral family acreage, as usual.
‘Darling!’ Vi greeted Ruby, air-kissing her on both cheeks.
‘Hello, Vi,’ said Ruby, struck by the fact that in all the years she’d known her, Violet had somehow managed to remain unchanged.
There was something eternally attractive about Vi, something so effortlessly chic that Ruby thought it was no wonder Vi’s younger sister Betsy had resented her just about forever. But then Vi had always been the cleverer of the two. While she had deliberately wooed and then married old money, her younger sister had married less well, opting for Ruby’s brother Joe. While Vi rubbed shoulders with aristocrats and celebrities, poor Betsy seemed forever doomed to chase after respectability and status like an amateur collector snatching uselessly after rare butterflies.
‘You look wonderful,’ said Ruby truthfully.
Vi did. She still, at fifty-eight years old, sported the same dark red bob she had worn all her life; she was slim, tall, the same striking forthright girl she had been in the days when she stomped the boards and posed naked at the Windmill Theatre with Ruby, way back in her youth. Her green eyes were vibrant, her lips were painted carmine red, and she moved around in flowing drifts of Missoni fabric and wafts of her signature scent, Devon Violets.
‘Come in, sweetheart, it’s so lovely to see you,’ said Vi, ushering her into the drawing room and seating her upon a Louis Quinze chair before taking the seat opposite.
‘Would you like tea?’
‘No, nothing for me.’ Ruby looked at Vi. This was her best, her oldest friend. They had grown up together, coming through the war, forging very separate paths in life. Ruby had transformed a small corner shop into a nationwide chain of department stores; Vi had snagged a viscount.
‘How’s Daisy? And those adorable twins? Is Daisy still looking to follow in her mother’s footsteps?’
Ruby gave a rueful smile. ‘She tried working at the store, but truly, I think she hated it.’
‘I’m surprised you’re not at work though, beavering away as always. You live for that business.’
Ruby smiled painfully. If Michael’s death had taught her anything, it was that life is short. She needed cheering up, snapping out her low mood, and Vi – lovely Vi – was the one to do it. ‘I just wanted to see you. So here I am, on a workday – and what’s more I don’t care.’
‘Is everything OK?’ Vi’s brow wrinkled in concern.
Before Ruby could answer ther
e was a quiet knock at the door. It opened slightly and a young man with bright blond hair and a stunningly attractive face put his head around it. He saw Ruby there and smiled: ‘Sorry to interrupt, darling,’ he said to Vi. ‘What time did you say for dinner tonight?’
‘Nine, sweetheart,’ said Vi. ‘You know I never eat before nine.’
The young man nodded and closed the door.
There was a moment’s silence, in which the two women smiled at each other.
‘He’s very good looking,’ said Ruby. ‘And very young.’
‘Isn’t he.’ Vi gave a satisfied smile. ‘Now, what was I saying . . . ?’
‘You were asking if everything was OK.’ Ruby’s face clouded. ‘And it’s not, I’m afraid. There was something . . . something awful . . .’
‘What’s happened? Has someone been hurt?’
Ruby nodded. ‘Simon – Daisy’s ex-husband. Oh, Vi, it’s horrible. He committed suicide. Hung himself.’
‘Oh God, how awful.’ Vi looked aghast. ‘Rubes, I’m so sorry.’
‘It’s the funeral on Friday. I’m dreading it, I really am. The worst of it is, Kit says Simon’s death wasn’t suicide at all, it was some sort of reprisal.’
‘Reprisal for what?’ asked Vi.
Ruby waved her hand tiredly. She had probably already said too much. ‘Let’s just say things have been pretty tough since Michael died.’
‘And Kit? Are you and he getting on any better?’
Ruby’s eyes were brimming with tears. She shook her head.
‘Not good,’ she said, and it all poured out then: that Kit had been drinking heavily, losing it; that he believed the Danieri family had been behind Michael Ward’s death, even though Bella Danieri swore this wasn’t true.
‘What, she genuinely doesn’t think her boys were responsible for Michael being shot? But, Rubes, it must be them,’ said Vi with an incredulous little laugh. ‘Of course it was them.’
‘She says not. And I believe her. Kit is determined to find out who did it. He loved Michael so much, it nearly broke him when he died.’
‘I was so sorry about Michael,’ said Vi. ‘I thought you were settled, you and him.’
‘What about you, Vi? Are you settled?’ Ruby indicated the door the delicious young man had appeared at.
‘What, with dear old Anthony? Yes, I suppose so. Although I do have my diversions, as you know.’
Ruby knew. A procession of very young handsome ‘walkers’ attended Vi whenever she was in town. Ruby had met them. They were all beautiful, polished and charming; lovely diversions indeed.
‘And you? There’s no one else yet?’ asked Vi, her eyes resting on Ruby’s face.
‘No. Of course not. Only . . .’ Ruby hesitated.
‘Only what?’
Ruby frowned. ‘Someone’s been in touch with me, a couple of times. He sent me flowers, asked me to call him, asked if he could call on me . . .’
Vi’s eyes lit up with interest. ‘Really? Who is he? Have you seen him?’
‘We’ve both seen him. He was at Michael’s funeral.’
‘Is he part of that world then? Michael’s world?’
Ruby looked at Vi. She knew exactly what Vi meant. Did this man, like Michael, inhabit that shady grey area that hovered between respectable business and the dodgy deals done on the London streets?
‘Yes, I suppose he is.’
‘What’s his name? What does he look like? You say we both saw him?’
‘He looks like . . .’ Ruby paused, searching for the words . . .’ He looks like a thug.’
‘Oh, come on, Rubes, I need more than that. Is he handsome?’ Vi was nearly hopping on her seat with excitement now.
Ruby thought about what she had so far seen of Thomas Knox. She had noticed him at the funeral, watching her with hard blue eyes. The straight dark-blond hair, the firm mouth, the air of a lion walking through a jungle, knowing he was king of the beasts. He had nodded to her, she had nodded back. They hadn’t exchanged a word. And then had come the flowers, the notes, the letter . . .
‘I suppose he is handsome, yes,’ she said cautiously. ‘In a brutish sort of way.’
‘Why don’t I remember him? I don’t usually miss a pretty face.’
Ruby shrugged. ‘He isn’t so much pretty. More . . . rugged.’
‘So what are you planning to do? Will you take him up on his offer and call him?’
Ruby thought of Michael, how desperately she missed him. Thomas Knox was clearly a perilous man to mix with, essentially lawless and without scruple, the sort of person who would always live by his own rules and to hell with whatever society might say.
‘I think he’s dangerous,’ she said.
‘Maybe that’s what you need: someone exciting.’
This drew a nervous laugh from Ruby. She reckoned she had more than enough excitement in her life for the time being.
‘Do you think you’ll get in touch with him?’ asked Vi.
Ruby thought it over. Well, did she? Since Michael’s death she had felt a bleak, aching loneliness that was close to complete despair. She would wake in the night, thinking I will never love again. That’s it for me. He’s gone. There’s nothing left.
‘No,’ she said, finally.
But when she got home later that same day, she found that Knox had sent her another letter, assuring her of his best wishes and asking once again if they could meet.
57
1953
Tito was taking a keen interest in the foreign family. They were Swedish, Finnish, something like that. Gabe didn’t give a shit. Gabe and Tito stood near the woman when she was at the checkout with her little girl; her English was faltering, barely enough to conduct the exchange of money for goods. But she smiled a lot, and kept up a steady stream of conversation with the little girl, saying ‘Agneta’ often.
That was the little girl’s name, then: Agneta.
The child looked up at Gabe and Tito, and smiled shyly. Tito smiled back. Gabe didn’t bother. He’d never felt less like smiling. He was sick and tired of all this wandering about the countryside, he hated it now. All he wanted was to go home. He thought of leaving Tito to it, but he couldn’t do that; Tito would take offence, and Gabe had realized that you didn’t ever, ever, want to offend Tito if you valued your life. Besides, he had no money for trains. However this situation developed, he was stuck with it.
They returned to their tent, but Tito’s eyes were on the blonde woman and little Agneta as they walked to the far side of the site and a beige camper van parked there; a tall young man with white-blonde hair greeted them, took the shopping from the woman, swept little Agneta up into his arms. They could hear her tinkling laughter from where they stood.
Gabe was confused now as well as bored. Tito’s entire attention seemed to be focused on the family, and this puzzled him. For two days Tito did little but squat at the mouth of their tent and watch the comings and goings of the two attractive adults and their daughter. Then, when the family folded the awning on their camper van and loaded their belongings, Tito hurriedly began packing, telling Gabe to get a move on, they were leaving.
‘What is it with those two? How come you’re watching them?’ asked Gabe as he loaded up the Jeep.
Tito didn’t deign to give him an answer.
Now Gabe was starting to feel apprehensive. He didn’t know what Tito was playing at, but he didn’t like the feel of this, not at all.
They followed the little family at a discreet distance as they left the camp site. The man – Lars, they had heard the woman call him on several occasions – drove fast, and Tito sped along to keep up. Eventually Lars pulled into the car park of a pub that offered bed and breakfast. Tito drove on past, parked the Jeep up at the side of the road.
‘Come on,’ he said, and hopped out.
Gabe followed him reluctantly into the pub, and they ordered beer and sandwiches. The couple were nowhere in sight. Tito beckoned Gabe to follow him, then they wandered over to the table where the
visitor’s book was laid out for B&B patrons.
Lars-Birger Blomdahl was written there, and today’s date.
The family were upstairs, being shown to their room.
Tito returned to the bar, apparently satisfied. Gabe trailed him to a table in the bar and soon their sandwiches came. Gabe found he couldn’t eat. He felt apprehension gnawing at his guts. Something horrible was going on here. Something frightening.
58
Even as Ruby sat down for drinks in the American Bar at the Savoy with Thomas Knox, she was thinking I shouldn’t be here. When she had talked to Vi, she had been sure that she wasn’t going to get involved. Then had come the second letter. Uncertain, she had slept on her decision, and what she now thought was this: Knox could perhaps be useful to her and more specifically he could be useful to Kit. According to Rob, Knox’s hard men and Kit’s had always shown respect for each other, the two firms working side-by-side without any trouble. And if she could get Knox further onside then that could only be a good thing.
She could see that Kit was really up against it, struggling to come to terms with Michael’s death and running the business, let alone facing the Danieri threat. And now there was this Gabe character to contend with, fresh out of prison and with a history of violence. Even if Kit could cope with him, she had been appalled to learn that Gabe had waylaid Daisy.
‘Does he think he has a claim on Michael’s estate?’ she’d asked Kit when he filled in the blanks for her, telling her about his visit to Joe’s.
Kit told her what Joe had said, trying to calm her fears by adding that he was going to track the guy down and sort him out.
But that would only mean more trouble, at a time when they had troubles enough. Ruby hated all this. Running the business, her stores – that she could cope with; that was sanity. But for as long as she could remember, there had also been that other element in her life, edging around her like a black fog, seeping into her peace of mind. The shady London underworld had always been there – first with her brothers, Charlie and Joe, then with Michael, and now with Kit. That world frightened her; she had never sought it but she seemed unable to escape it. The most she could hope for was to hold it at bay.
