by Martina Cole
She was looking forward to it.
BOOK TWO
‘My son, may you be happier than your father.’
Sophocles (496-406 BC)
Chapter Twenty-Three
Patrick was in his office at Spitalfields. He watched through the window as members parked their cars before going into the gym. Everything he touched was turning to gold. It was as if he was being watched over by an angel. His legal businesses were raking in money, but it didn’t give him the buzz he got from his scams. Every time he fucked with a young girl’s head, or pulled in a few quid on a drug deal, he felt a euphoria that was becoming addictive.
He lit another joint and blew out the smoke lazily. As he finished it two men walked into his office. He knew immediately that they were police. He smiled and finished blowing out the smoke lazily.
‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’
He was Mr Nice Guy today and knew it would throw them.
‘Mr Connor?’
He nodded.
‘I am Detective Inspector Ragfield and this is my associate, DC Spicer. We need to talk to you about an event that took place yesterday in South London.’
Patrick looked suitably bewildered.
He was in businessman mode today. He knew these two policemen had nothing on him or they would have pulled him in for questioning proper. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and Italian designer jeans, knowing he looked every inch the young City entrepreneur. He smiled once more, showing his pearly white teeth. He was a very good-looking man and he knew it. He could also be charming when he wanted. It was a prerequisite of being a pimp. Charm got you further than anything with working girls. Until you had them by the throat, of course.
‘So, how can I help you?’
It was a question apparently asked by an innocent man with no idea what was going on. Ragfield was impressed despite himself. This was a consummate actor. He knew that Connor was suspected of enough skulduggery to keep the whole of the Met in forms until the next millennium. It was proving it that was the difficult part.
As he looked at him now it was hard to believe that this man was responsible for murder, arson, rape and drug dealing, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. It was rumoured he had high-up friends; in the Met and in the CPS. He must have someone because they were finding it increasingly hard to pin anything on him. Ragfield had been warned to go easy on Connor by his own supervisor and that in itself told him all he needed to know. This was one slippery bastard, and the worst thing of all was Patrick Connor knew exactly what he was thinking and found it all highly amusing. Well, the DI would enjoy taking him down once and for all. In fact, he was determined to do it. So he smiled back at Patrick, an easy smile very like his own.
‘We had an incident yesterday in South London. A Mr Malcolm Derby and three of his associates were murdered.’
Patrick butted in, ‘And what has that to do with me?’
He sounded shocked and affronted. As if it was ludicrous for anyone to think he could have had anything to do with a murder.
‘We were given your name by an associate of Mr Derby ...’
Patrick was swiftly on his feet, a deep frown on his forehead and his stance belligerent.
‘Do you have anything to substantiate your claim that my name has been put forward in connection with this terrible occurrence?’
Spicer was trying to suppress a smile and Patrick noticed.
‘Do you find this amusing, is that what you’re trying to tell me? I think I had better see what my solicitor has to say about it. Have you a warrant for my arrest? Have you anything to tie me into this investigation in any way?’
Spicer said clearly and loudly, ‘Have you been smoking grass in here, Mr Connor?’
Ragfield closed his eyes in distress at the crassness of his colleague.
Patrick also seemed to lighten up as he said, ‘Is this fucker for real, man?’ He was all West Indian now. ‘I can’t get nicked for a joint, you damn fool boy. I get a caution if that.’
He shook his head in amazement at the complete stupidity of the men before him.
‘No warrant, no talking. So either show the paper, man, or take a fucking walk. Who you think you dealing with, eh, a beastie boy? A fool? I’ll blow you so far out of the water, man, you will need a fucking rocket ship to get you home. Now get out and stop wasting my time.’
Ragfield smiled again, in control once more.
‘We’ll be back, Mr Connor.’
Patrick laughed aloud.
‘When you come back, boy, make sure you got something to talk about, OK? Don’t be wasting my time. It makes me angry, you know. I am a busy man, and a rich and busy nigger is not a man to cross. Because this is what it’s all about, ain’t it, eh? I am a rich boy, and I am black, and I don’t fit the mould. You better take care, man, because I have good representation in the City and they love cases of racism by the police. I’ll whip your arse and smile while I do it. You understand where I am coming from?’
He was baiting them and they knew it.
‘You will not make an example of me, you hear? Oh, a girl was found in a rubbish bin recently, are you going to charge me with that one as well?’
Ragfield could not believe what he was hearing.
‘She was the mother of your child, wasn’t she, Mr Connor?’
Pat grinned again.
‘Lots of bitches have my kids. If one of them gets hurt, are you automatically going to blame me? She was a whore and a lap dancer, a heroin addict, a fucking loser. She would fuck anyone for a fix, even you. Anyone could have done that to her. So remember that when you’re looking for a likely culprit, OK?’
Patrick pressed a button on his desk and two muscle-bound men came in. Both were white-skinned and blond.
‘Escort these gentlemen from the premises, please.’
He was smiling once more as they left the room. He felt invincible because he knew they had nothing on him.
But they were at his door once more, and that was two visits too many as far as he was concerned. He would have to spread a few more grand around to stop any repetition of this foolishness. He had it all sewn up, he was the king and he knew it. Now he just had to convince the filth and he was home and dry.
He rolled himself another joint and smoked it slowly, savouring the taste and the buzz. It calmed him and he needed calming now more than ever. He was ready to explode again. Anger always did that to him.
He stood up and looked out of the window once more, master of all he surveyed. Gradually he calmed himself, but it was difficult, really difficult. Because he had the taste for blood again and it was making him excited.
He thought about Tiffany and wondered if she was dead yet. He hoped so, he wanted her obliterated from the world. It occurred to him that he would have to remove the witnesses as soon as possible. Grassing was a lucrative business these days, so it was just as well to watch your back.
He felt pleased with his own forethought. All in all he was doing well. Very well. That was what happened when you worked hard for a living.
Marie lifted the letter box and felt for a string. She found it and pulled the key towards her. Old habits died hard.
She opened the front door carefully, so as not to make too much noise, and walked into the damp dinginess of the flat. She wanted her visit to have the element of surprise. She stood still and listened. All she could hear was the muted sound of the TV. The familiar smells of old food and broken-down furniture pervaded her nostrils. How did people live like this? How had she lived like it all those years ago? Every time the smell invaded her senses it reminded her of a life that was wasted and useless, even though it had seemed so exciting at the time.
Carole Halter was still lying on the sofa. She was in agony. All night she had tried to sleep but not even whisky had brought her any relief from the aches and pains that racked her whole body.
As she watched Richard and Judy she lit another cigarette. She liked Richard, would give him one as she’d ofte
n said to anyone who would listen to her. Though it was the furthest thing from her mind at the moment.
She was frightened she’d lost her will to work, the nerve to go out on the street and consort with strangers for money. If she couldn’t get that back she was finished.
Then she heard a noise; it sounded like the front door. She felt the sweat break out on her forehead. It might be the madman coming back to finish her off. When the door opened and she saw it was Marie, for a split second she felt relief. Until she remembered what she had done, and acknowledged the fact that Marie had walked into the flat unannounced. Carole prided herself on the fact she could smell a rat before it was stinking and realised she was in deep shit. Marie was after her for what she had done to little Tiff, and who could blame her?
‘All right, Marie?’
It was a form of address and a question all at once.
Carole was so scared she was having trouble breathing. She knew what Marie was capable of and in her heart of hearts she knew that she deserved whatever was coming her way. The law of the street dictated that Marie should take an eye for an eye. Carole Halter was expecting the worst.
Marie stared at her. Her eyes were cold and her face so still she looked as if she was carved from stone. Carole was reminded once more of how beautiful Marie actually was. Tiffany had the look of her mother but had never had her presence. Marie had always had a way about her; men either adored her or wanted to fight her. But one thing they all had in common was they wanted to fuck her. It had made Carole jealous as a girl, and it still made her jealous as an adult.
Now, looking at Marie standing in her home, she realised just what she had done to the woman she had been friends with for so many years. One thing she was sure of: she was going to be the recipient of some serious physical retribution.
Marie stood and stared at her. She took in Carole’s battered face and body, knew she had got a rogue punter and inside herself was pleased that her old friend had at least experienced something of what her daughter had gone through over five lousy grand.
‘Where’s the money, Carole?’
Her voice was low and clipped. It felt like a slap it was so cold.
‘What money?’ Carole was silly enough to try and front it out. Her voice was high and nervous. A tic was working just by her left eye and she could feel it even as she tried to control it.
Marie shook her head in utter disbelief. Then, moving quickly, she had Carole by the throat.
‘The fucking money Connor paid you! Five grand, if I remember rightly. Now don’t fuck me about, Carole, I really am not in the mood. I watched my Tiff die over you, you piece of fucking shit. So, I am begging you, don’t wind me up any more than I already am.’
Carole knew she was in deep trouble. Could see that Marie was on the edge. Tiffany was dead . . . the words penetrated her brain. In a split second she realised exactly what she had done.
She saw Tiffany as a little girl; saw her grown-up. Saw her taking care of Anastasia, the pride in her face as she’d looked at her baby. Remembered introducing her to Patrick Connor. Went red with shame as she remembered telling Tiffany what a bad mother Marie had been to her and her brother. Patrick had given her money then. The worse she had made Marie out to be, the bigger the sum.
Shame washed over her like a hot flush and she could not look at Marie, aware finally of what she had done and the trouble she had caused. Marie threw her back against the sofa and pain raged through her body like a fire. Carole was in mortal agony and it didn’t matter any more. For the first time in her life she was thinking about someone else and it felt strange. Even her own children had come second to her and her lifestyle.
‘I’m so sorry, Marie. So very, very sorry. I don’t know what made me do it, I swear. I must have been mad or something.’
It was useless, she knew, but she had to say the words because for once she actually meant them.
‘You did it for five grand. Money is the reason why my child is dead. Money, Carole. Something you and I worshipped many years ago. Me for skag, and you for drink and speed. I can remember me and you going to see Dr Grass in Hampstead for slimming pills. Neither of us was over eight stone them days. Then scoring grass at the Roundhouse. It was all drugs and drink then, and now you’ve sold my baby like you’d have sold your own fucking mother for a drink in those days. Eventually we would do anything for a few quid. I killed over drugs the first time, and I’m going to kill over them a second time, aren’t I?’
The words penetrated Carole’s brain and she started to cry. As bad as her life was she did not want to die. After her recent brush with death she finally understood what life was all about. Money meant nothing if you had no friends or bad health. It was a bonus in life, nothing more and nothing less.
Easy money had always been her lure as it had once been Marie’s. But even though she had been locked away for years she had come out a better person.
‘You were supposed to be my mate. I would have looked out for your daughters, you know I would have. I looked out for us all until I cracked up. Even Caroline and Bethany would come to me if they had a problem. How many times did I share what I had with you, eh, food, drugs, whatever I had? Whereas you would buy twenty fags and leave fifteen indoors and come and smoke everyone else’s. You were a ponce then, and you are still a ponce now. But you killed my Tiffany as sure as if you’d given her the kicking yourself. She died hard that girl, without anyone giving her a kindness in her young life. She could trust no one, not even me, thanks to you and Patrick. You turned her away from me and you know you did. I would have got her away from him but you two poisoned her mind against me.’
Carole was crying, her face already blotched and swollen. She looked terrified.
‘Are you going to kill me, Marie?’
The words were low, spoken in terror but with a certain bravado because at least she had the front to ask the question out loud.
Marie started laughing.
‘I’m not killing you, Carole. You’re not worth doing the time for. I’m after Mr Connor, the big man, love. What I want from you is all you know about him. No more and no less. You tell me about his prostitution ring and I’ll leave you in peace, OK? But I want the truth or else I will really harm you and I take oath on that one. I want to know where his girls hang out and what they expect from him these days. I want to give him a surprise, see.’
Carole saw the blackness in Marie’s eyes. It was as if her pupils covered her eyeballs. She looked drugged up, but it was adrenaline and hatred that had given her that look, two of the most powerful chemicals ever so far as Carole was concerned.
‘What you going to do, Marie?’
‘Why? You thinking of ringing him up and earning another few quid, you two-faced ponce?’
Carole shook her head furiously.
‘Never, Marie. I wouldn’t.’
Marie looked at her old friend, and in one part of her didn’t really blame Carole who knew no better. Her whole life had been spent tucking people up, looking out for number one. It was the law of the pavement, the law of the street. She was too long in the tooth to change now; the course of her life was set.
‘What happened to your boat?’
Carole shrugged painfully.
‘I had a rogue punter. Right fucking nutter. He skanked me dough and all. Five grand, up the fucking Swannee.’
Once more, even in the face of Marie’s distress, it was all about her.
‘One of them will kill you one day, Carole.’
It was said caringly and Marie wondered how she could still be bothered about this woman who was a piece of dirt by most people’s standards.
Carole shrugged.
‘Who gives a fuck? Not me. But I wanted that dough. I really had plans for that money, you know?’
Marie sat on the edge of a chair and, taking back her hand, slapped Carole a resounding blow across her face.
‘It means nothing to you, does it, my Tiffany dying all because you wanted a few quid?’
Carole realised then what she had said and could have kicked herself. Why could she never remember what she’d said to people even a few minutes before? She really must start listening, and concentrating on what was going on.
‘Patrick threatened me, he was gonna really hurt me. You know what he’s like . . . Look what he did to Tiff.’
The old Carole was back, the lying scheming Carole. The woman who looked for the scam in everything and everyone she came into contact with.
Marie was amazed at how easily her old friend fell into the role of poor weak woman.
‘If the truth be told I bet you got a hiding because you tried to scam the punter. It wouldn’t be the first time, would it?’
Carole was shaking her head once more.
‘No, I swear on me grand-daughter’s head.’
Marie held up her hands for quiet as if she was in a classroom full of little children.
‘I don’t want to hear it. I think you got what you deserved, Carole, no more and no less. Now talk to me about Connor and let me get on me way.’
Carole lit a cigarette with shaking hands and began to talk. She knew she had to tell Marie what she wanted to hear if she was going to get her out of her home. Suddenly it was important to get her out of the way. Carole would just dig herself in deeper and deeper otherwise, she couldn’t help it.
She was loose-lipped, always had been and always would be. And this time she had gone too far, even she could see that much. But deep inside, as sorry as she was for what had happened to Tiffany, the loss of the five grand was hurting her more. She convinced herself that anyone would have done the same, even Marie.
Old habits really did die hard. She had been deluding herself all her life. It was impossible to change now.
Alan had a meeting that ran on much longer than he’d expected. When he got back to work he was not surprised that Marie was not there. He stared around the yard for a while. Soon he would be gone from here for good. It was the only way out. The meeting today had put the final nail in the coffin as far as this place was concerned.
