by Martina Cole
He looked suitably weird but then, as she knew very well, he was frightened. Terrified, in fact. It showed in the way his hands shook and his voice trembled whenever he answered her questions.
As she watched him making another match-thin roll-up she knew he had been in prison and that he was under the firm impression he might be going back there.
‘So, Milo, I guess you know what I want to ask you about?’
He looked at her directly for the first time and smiled nervously, displaying brown crooked teeth.
‘Do I need a brief, lady?’
Kate grinned. ‘You tell me, Milo, you’re obviously the expert.’
He sat silently for a few seconds. He was actually thinking. Kate was impressed. She would have laid money that actual real-life thinking was beyond him.
‘I never touched no fucking kid,’ he said finally. ‘And if that cunt has, and thinks she can lay it at my door, you can tell her from me I’ll break her fucking back.’
Kate raised one perfectly plucked eyebrow. ‘In those exact words, or shall I soften the blow a bit?’
Now he was talking he couldn’t seem to stop.
‘She treats them kids like slaves, man. I mean, she shouldn’t even be allowed to have a dog, let alone those poor little bastards.’
‘You sound like an expert on childcare. Now, can you tell me all your movements from yesterday lunchtime, please?’
Milo started laughing then. A low, scornful sound. ‘I can’t even remember getting up half the time. I mean, please!’
His arrogant yet frightened voice irritated her and she said loudly, ‘Well, you’d better remember, boy. In fact, you can have a good bloody think while I get you a brief, OK? Suddenly I think there’s a very good chance you’ll need one.’
Kate stood up and was pleased to see a sober expression on Milo’s face.
‘I never touched no fucking kid, lady. You better believe that.’
She smiled again. ‘I think you’d better convince me of it, don’t you? After all, you were there, you were out of it, you are a prime suspect. I mean, for all I know, you and Regina worked a flanker. Did it together. I don’t know, do I? But someone does. Someone was there, someone saw what happened, someone did the deed . . . and, Milo, I intend to find out just who the hell it was. Got that?’
Her hard voice penetrated his fogged brain and he looked very young suddenly and vulnerable and Kate felt a surge of reluctant pity for him. For Regina. For all the wasted lives she saw on a daily basis.
She ended the tape and quietly left the room.
Patrick Kelly sipped at his brandy. He knew he was in shock which didn’t help dispel the trickle of fear that was slowly creeping over him. A man he had known all his life was lying dead in the club they’d owned together - a club where he had a feeling a serious amount of ducking and diving had occurred over the last few months without his knowledge. Otherwise why else would someone waste Micky?
He stared at Broughton. ‘All right then, what’s the scam? What has been going on?’
Tommy Broughton shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Pat. I take oath on that.’
Patrick finished his brandy in one gulp. ‘Don’t fuck me about. Not today. I really ain’t in the mood.’
Broughton shrugged. ‘You know what he was like, Pat. One minute he was all over you like a rash, the next he wanted to fight ya.’ He held out his arms in supplication. ‘Micky had more rows in here the last few weeks than fucking Adolf Hitler on a bad trip. Christ, his nickname was Wanker - that says it all, don’t it?’
Patrick stared at Broughton. What he’d said was true enough. Micky had argued with everyone. Rumour had it he’d argued bitterly with his mother, brothers, wife, girlfriends - even with the lap dancers and he had trumped most of them.
That was how Micky was made, unreliable in many respects. But, Christ, everyone who knew him respected his foibles. They were part and parcel of Micky. He wound everyone up, but if you were in a tight corner, he was the man to go to. He would move heaven and earth for a mate. Even a mate he had cunted into the ground a few days before.
None of this made sense to Patrick.
‘How about the dancers?’ he asked. ‘Any jealous boyfriends about?’
Broughton shook his head. ‘Not that I know of. Most of them are sorts, Pat. You know the score. A few nice ones, a few slags. The usual. Nothing much for Micky to get his knickers in a twist about, though. You know he hated silicone tits and there’s enough of the stuff here to keep Bill Gates in microchips until the next century. There was a bit of hag with the bloke dancers, but that’s only to be expected. Micky hated them, especially the straight ones - I think a bit of jealousy was at work there. Some of them are right good-looking boys and we take more on the hen nights lately.’
‘No faces been round? No one you noticed ’specially?’
Broughton thought for a few seconds. ‘Only Jamie O’Loughlin. But they was mates of a sort. He was in the other night. Bought a bird, shagged it up in the office. The usual.’
Patrick’s eyes widened. ‘Shagged it up in the office? You mean, my office?’
Broughton looked shamefaced. ‘Well, Pat, be fair. I wasn’t in a position to argue the toss with Micky, was I?’
‘What a fucking liberty! Good job he’s brown bread. If he wasn’t, I might have the urge to do the deed myself.’
Broughton, desperate to change the subject, said: ‘Hang on a minute, Pat. I tell you who was in the other week, and he and Micky had a row - a loud one out the back - Leroy Holdings. You know, the coon with the white convertible? Drug dealer, tall . . .’
Patrick sighed heavily. ‘I know who you mean. What did they row about?’
Broughton held out his arms again. ‘I dunno, Pat. I can’t tell you that one, mate.’
Patrick shook his head slowly. ‘You are a fucking right good front man, you are. How much wedge are you collaring off of me? You’re supposed to be my eyes and ears in this place. Helen fucking Keller could have done a better job! I’ll tell you what, how about you tell me what you do actually know? That way we can cut the conversation by about nine hours and Micky can be moved before rigor mortis sets in, eh?’
Broughton looked offended. His bald head was shiny with sweat, his powerful body rigid with suppressed anger.
‘No need to be fucking funny, Pat. I did me best. Wanker - I mean Micky - wasn’t the easiest of people to work with.’
Patrick calmed down a little at his words.
‘I know. But I mean, be fair, who needs this on a Wednesday afternoon? My own mate and business partner topped in the bogs and I am having dinner this very night with an Old Bill. Remember Kate, my old woman, the love of my fucking life? Cheer her right up, this will, especially as I’m supposed to have got rid of all my dodgy dealings. Good job we ain’t married or I’d be in the divorce courts within the week.’
Estelle was listening to all this with half an ear. Patrick suddenly remembered her and turned to where she was, sitting at the bar with a bottle of brandy and a pack of Marlboro Lights.
‘Comfortable, are we? Can I get you a sandwich or something?’
Willy, sensing Pat was about to blow, stepped in.
‘We’d better get Old Bill in, Pat. Any longer and we’ll have even more explaining to do. Just report it and go home. They can get in touch later and you can act all shocked like. That way you’re out of it all, eh?’
Patrick nodded. ‘Well, I wasn’t going to pop round Soho Central meself, Willy.’ He took a wad of money from his pocket and gave it to Estelle. ‘Take this, piss off and keep your trap shut, OK?’
The girl nodded and slid from the stool. As she reached the door he called out to her, ‘If I hear you have preached one word I will personally cut your tongue out. OK?’
Estelle nodded again and left the building.
‘Where’s Micky living now?’
Broughton relaxed at Pat’s change of tone.
‘I don’t know, to be honest. Round here somewhere. I think h
e still keeps Marianne on the go.’
‘That’s all we need. She’ll be straight round for her compensation. Mouthy mare she is. So we can’t dump him at home and let someone else do the dirty then?’
Broughton shook his head. ‘You get off, Pat, I’ll deal with it from here, OK?’
‘That’s fucking big of you, Mr Broughton. Am I being dismissed by any chance?’
Willy took his arm gently. ‘Leave it out, Pat, he’s doing his best.’
‘That’s right, Willy, you cheer me right up.’
As he walked from the club Willy raised his eyes at the ceiling and Broughton nodded sadly. Patrick Kelly was strung out - and with Kelly that meant he wanted answers, and quick. Broughton wasn’t sure what answers he was willing to give. He would play it by ear for a while.
Since the death of his daughter Mandy, Patrick had changed. He seemed harder outside, but there was now an inner core of softness to him that in their world spelled certain death. Maybe not physically, but definitely businesswise. Word on the street was that he was finished, over the hill, and that was just from the kinder of his peers.
Whoever had killed Micky Duggan was after the crown and Broughton hoped they had a head big enough to wear the bastard if and when they finally got it.
Patrick went home, devastated. Micky could be a handful, true, making more than a few enemies in the course of any average day, but it was part and parcel of him and his life. Someone had once said Micky could start a fight in an empty pub. But why kill him like that? Whoever it was had either hidden in the club or else Micky had let them in. Maybe even arranged to meet them there.
From what Broughton had said he had left Micky locking up alone the night before. Estelle said she’d come in for a quick fix from him and had found him there in the late morning. The place had been open all night. How they weren’t robbed Patrick didn’t know. Anyone could have walked in. Even the alarm was off.
The fact Micky had still been dealing was annoying. All of that ducking and diving was supposed to be a thing of the past. How could they front a respectable club when one of the partners was still banging out skag to prostitutes?
Micky never did have any class, that was part of his rather dubious charm. For charming he could be when the fancy took him. Now he was dead, and there would be an investigation, and Kate would know Patrick was still holding the reins in Soho even though he had led her to believe he no longer had any interests.
He was so annoyed he could happily have strangled Micky Duggan himself.
The phone rang and he ignored it. He already knew what the caller was going to tell him and he wasn’t ready to do his big surprised act just yet. He had to sort out what he was going to say to Kate. Because she was going to launch him into outer space when she heard about this.
Willy came into the room with a pot of coffee and an uneasy smile.
‘That was Kate on the blower,’ he said. ‘I told her you were on another call. She’s cancelling dinner this evening. Has to work. Sounds like a terrible case, Pat, child abuse of all things. Life’s a right bastard really, ain’t it, for some people?’
Patrick nodded, relieved to be putting off the inevitable until later. He cared what Kate thought of him; her opinion really mattered. He could not bear the thought of seeing her face as she realised they had, in effect, been living a lie for the last few years.
Why did he have to get a capture now, when everything was going so well and they had even talked of marriage? It was so unfair.
He poured himself some coffee and looked around his beautiful drawing room. Kate’s picture now sat beside that of his dead wife Renée on the mantelpiece of the Louis XV fireplace. Her presence was everywhere in the house. Her perfume lingered in the bathroom. Her clothes hung beside his in the closet. Her make-up and creams thrilled him every time he saw them on the dressing table. He loved her with an ache. After losing Mandy and Renée, the two people closest to him, he knew about love. About making the most of it as and when it happened.
So many people never learned to do that.
And he had jeopardised it all for the sake of a few measly grand a night. Money he didn’t really need but couldn’t resist earning. It was his nature.
As he sipped his coffee, Patrick knew that Kate’s late night was only postponing the fireworks that would erupt at some point within the next twenty-four hours.
Kate was going to court to ask for another twenty-four hours in which to question Regina and Milo.
Her heart was aching. The Carlton children were now under a care order and were to go to a foster family for the night. They were all distressed without their mother as Robert Bateman had predicted, trying to make her feel guilty and succeeding only too well.
But Kate pushed that thought to the back of her mind. She needed to know what exactly had gone on, and she needed to know fast.
Chapter Two
Patrick opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling, feeling apprehension wash over him. Turning, he pulled a sleeping Kate into his arms. She nestled into his body and he looked down at her face. Kate was everything to him. He adored her. Just looking at her lying beside him gave him a feeling of immense peace.
She slipped one slender arm across his body and nestled against him, and he instinctively pulled her even closer. He glanced at his watch. Nearly six-thirty. In a few minutes Kate would stir. That was another thing he loved about her. Most of the women before Kate wouldn’t even contemplate getting out of bed before ten. They had been aimless, depending on men like him to keep them. Using their bodies as opposed to their brains to get what they wanted.
His respect for her was boundless, and he depended now on the respect she had for him in return. But how long would that last when she found out about yesterday’s fiasco? The cold feeling around his heart returned. Kate expected everyone to be like her. What you saw was exactly what you got. Upfront, straight and honest. That was his Kate.
The alarm went off, clamouring in the quiet of their bedroom. She opened her eyes while he turned it off, lay back against the pillows and smiled at him. Then, closing her eyes again, she stretched dreamily.
Patrick watched her, enjoying the morning ritual. Willy would bring in a tray of coffee in ten minutes. By then Kate would have showered and washed her hair.
He was amazed at how well they fitted together. Lifelong early risers, Kate and he both enjoyed this part of the day together. Reading the papers for ten minutes and chatting over the headlines was a great start for them both. He was even willing to have the Mail delivered so she could peruse the women’s pages, exclaiming over the facelift trials, the alternative medicines and sundry other crap he would know nothing about but for her.
Every bit of it was a joy to him now.
The phone rang on Kate’s side of the bed; it was her work line, especially put in for her use when she had come to live with him three years ago. For the first time ever he was glad to hear its shrill ringing this early.
Kate answered it, stifling a yawn. ‘Burrows here.’
He watched the changing expressions on her face and saw how her eyes dilated at what was obviously distressing news. She replaced the receiver and leaped from the bed.
‘What’s up, Kate?’
‘One of my suspects tried to commit suicide this morning. Bit clean through her own wrist. I’ll have Dave Golding’s balls for this. I told him to have her watched. I must get along to the hospital, see what I can salvage.’ She disappeared into the shower.
Patrick toyed with the idea of jumping in with her, felt the usual stirring in his groin. Then Willy knocked on the door, and the coffee and papers were there, and Kate was dressing quickly. Kissing him and leaving.
As she walked to the door she half turned. ‘You OK, Pat?’
He nodded. ‘ ’Course I am. You?’
She grinned. ‘Never better. Speak to you later.’
Then she was gone, leaving him feeling bereft. He loved her so much, so very very much. But he knew that he was living on
borrowed time.
Regina had been given six stitches in her wrist. Kate gazed down at her and wondered at a life that could at once be so complicated and yet so ineffectual. In repose, Regina’s face showed a prettiness it lost when she was animated. The sour look was gone; the lines that anguish had imprinted there were smoothed out. She looked what she was: an attractive young woman with good bone structure and thick auburn hair that would probably have been glossy on another woman. One with self-respect, one who still cared about herself.
Kate took Regina’s hand in hers and held it gently. The warm pressure was returned and the gesture made Kate think of her own daughter, Lizzy, when she had overdosed. Unlike Regina, her mother had been there for her; her granny had too. Regina, it appeared, had no one to depend on. To share things with. All she had was three children, a council flat and drugs. A lethal combination. Loneliness was the worst kind of unhappiness, something Kate herself knew only too well.
She saw the girl’s eyes open. ‘You’re OK, Regina,’ she said softly. ‘Try and sleep.’
Regina was still half drugged. She nodded and said in a hoarse voice, ‘I never hurt my baby . . . not my baby. The only person I’ve ever hurt is myself.’
Kate didn’t answer her. She didn’t know what to say.
Outside the hospital Kate lit a cigarette and sat on a bench while she gathered her thoughts together.
She remembered coming to this same hospital when Patrick’s daughter Mandy had been attacked. Kate could still see her lying in the hospital bed after what they had hoped would be a life-saving operation. Her head had been opened up to relieve the pressure on her swollen brain. Mandy Kelly had taken a beating that had been as vicious as it had been random.
Kate would never have dreamed that night, as she waited in the hospital, that Mandy’s father - a local hard man and local businessman to boot - would not only garner her respect, but also her love. Patrick’s helplessness at his daughter’s plight had struck a chord inside her. She had seen him vulnerable and frightened, as she guessed no one else ever had. Not even his wife Renée, or his daughter Mandy, who had died at the hands of the Grantley Ripper.
