by Martina Cole
‘Ratchette is willing to let him take the rap for murder, but I think I may have to inform my superior that Pat was with me that night. I am ready to give a statement to that effect and if they want to call me a liar I may have to bring up Mr Barker’s case and Mr Ratchette’s involvement in it.’
Caitlin shook his head. ‘Don’t you dare! You need to talk to CIB, Kate. That’s the only way you’re going to get any answers here, surely you realise that much? But don’t even involve them until you can finger the fucker. I will help you all I can. I am due a bit of leave and I might just take it.’
Kate smiled widely and grasped his hand. ‘Thanks, Kenny.’
He looked serious then and his voice was grave as he told her, ‘Don’t be too quick with the thanks, Kate. I have a price like all men.’
She frowned. ‘What is it?’
He grinned. ‘A few more dinners like this and a bottle of good Irish whiskey now and again.’
Kate relaxed. To have him on board was like a dream come true.
‘You, Kenny, can have what you want,’ she told him.
‘Now, Katie, you should know better than to make a statement like that to a poor old fella like meself!’
Evelyn laughed for the first time in what seemed ages.
‘You dirty old sod! Now then, who’s for a great shive of apple pie and custard?’
Everyone groaned their acceptance and she laughed again, but after everything she had heard tonight she wondered how any of them could find it inside them to crack jokes and be merry. She knew their conversation would haunt her in the small hours as she tried to sleep tonight.
Patrick lay in the hospital bed, his mind working overtime. He had awoken in more ways than one. Now that he had heard the ins and outs of everything from Kate he knew he was going to be up for murder. The thought didn’t bother him as much as it bothered her, but he knew he was on dodgy ground.
As pleased as Kate was at his recovery, he had the sense to realise that she wasn’t going to be so over the moon once everything came out.
He wiped his hand across his face. His head was still aching, but the doctor had told him he could expect that after such a trauma. He was still trying to get over the fact that he had been shot in the first place!
He was furious to hear that he had actually been shot twice. The buttocks wound was the final straw as far as he was concerned. He wanted nothing more than to retaliate by shooting that Russian cunt in the face. At least, that was what he told himself. But he was so weak he knew he wouldn’t be capable of picking up a gun, let alone firing it.
Which wouldn’t stop him paying someone else to do the deed. Patrick was a great believer in delegating.
He opened his eyes, fighting the sleepiness that kept trying to overtake him. He wanted out of this place and he was going to make sure he left as soon as possible. Even if he had to go private and pay for his freedom.
He grinned. It wouldn’t be the first time he had paid for that.
He closed his eyes as sleep welcomed him once more. He would not admit that part of his fear of sleep was that he might not wake up again.
‘All right, Pat?’
His eyes flew open at Willy’s voice. The two men looked at one another and then Willy bent down carefully and embraced him. It was the nearest either man had ever come to the other.
‘Am I glad you’re on the mend, boy!’
Patrick watched as Willy gingerly tried to lower himself into a chair by the bed.
‘What happened to you?’
Willy waved one hand dismissively. ‘Plenty of time for all that fanny when the doc says you can be aggravated. Until then I want to know how you’re feeling?’
‘Obviously a fucking sight better than you do, mate,’ Pat joked feebly.
Willy chuckled. ‘You’re a boy, Pat, and no mistake.’
It was all that would be said on the matter but each knew the deep joy the other felt to see their friend still alive and more or less whole.
The woman pushed back her shoulder-length red hair. It was a very feminine gesture and she smiled seductively as she looked at herself in the mirror.
‘You are going to break a few hearts,’ she said to her own reflection, then picked up her bag and tripped out of the room on high heels.
At the bottom of the stairs she smiled at the little boy who stood beaming up at her. ‘Ready?’
He nodded.
She picked him up in her arms and left the house, slamming the door behind her. In the car she put on a tape. Kylie Minogue. She sang along with it, heavily painted lips enunciating every word. When the little boy was falling asleep she turned the tape down.
‘Thank God for Valium!’ she sighed.
Twenty minutes later, she arrived at a derelict building. Parking the car, she got out and picked up the little boy who was snoring softly. She pushed open the old wooden door to the depot.
‘Goodbye, little chicken, goodbye.’
She whispered the words into his ear as she placed him on a broken-down sofa. Then she quietly left the building.
She drove off with a squeal of tyres, just missing the canal bank that skirted the building. The water was filthy, full of old bedsteads and car tyres. It was also stinking.
‘Straight into the water, boy! My own little water baby!’
The woman was laughing out loud as she drove away.
Kate got to the hospital at 10.50 that night. Patrick was awake as she’d guessed he would be. He was over the moon to see her.
‘I love you, Kate. Whatever you think of me, don’t ever forget that, will you?’
She shook her head. ‘I love you too. I missed you more than I thought possible.’
They were quiet for long moments.
‘About the club, Kate . . .’
She put a hand gently over his mouth. ‘It doesn’t matter, Patrick. None of it matters now. I know everything and I want to help you any way I can.’
A nurse came in and smiled at them. ‘How’s the patient?’
‘I’m OK. Did you do what I asked?’
She nodded, looked over her shoulder and then said quietly, ‘Dr Tarbuck will be here to see you first thing. You should be moved by ten-thirty in the morning.’
‘What’s going on?’
Kate’s voice was cold and Patrick grabbed her hand.
‘I am exercising my prerogative to go private, that’s all. I got the nurse here to phone a mate of mine and he’s sorting it all out.’ He saw her sceptical look and said loudly, ‘Tell her who he is, Nurse, before she starts questioning me. She’s Old Bill so she can’t help doing that. It’s a bad habit she’s acquired over the years!’
‘Dr Tarbuck is a very respected neurologist. He has a private practice and Mr Kelly is going to be moved to his hospital in Brentwood, Essex.’
Kate’s mouth was a grim line.
Patrick pleaded with her. ‘Come on, Kate. I can’t take up a bed in the Health Service that could go to someone who really needs it when I can pay and get Sky Sports and a proper drink in me room!’
She laughed reluctantly. ‘You are definitely on the bloody mend.’
He shrugged. ‘Find a decent cup of coffee for this one, will you, love?’
The nurse left the room.
‘I can’t stay here, Kate,’ he hissed. ‘Fuck me, they offered me a salad tonight that looked more in need of fucking doctoring than I do!’
She laughed despite herself.
‘I need a bit of space, love. When you go home will you bring me in some proper pyjamas and that?’
She didn’t answer him.
‘You are back home, Kate?’
She shook her head. He closed his eyes and sighed.
‘Please don’t leave me to get over this alone. I need you, Kate. More than ever before. I am frightened to go to sleep in case I go back into a fucking coma.’
His voice was harsh and the fear in it communicated itself to Kate.
‘Let’s get you back on your feet, eh? Take one day
at a time. I’m there for you twenty-four seven. You know that, Patrick.’
‘I don’t know about getting me back on me feet. I wouldn’t mind laying you on your back . . .’
She put her hand over his mouth again. ‘Like I said, darling, one step at a time, eh?’
He grinned and her heart melted. How could she ever have imagined she could live without this man? What did it matter how he made his money? As he had pointed out from the start he had never pretended to be completely kosher. She had known what he was and had still loved him. Now she could not imagine being without him.
Even if he had committed murder.
That fact frightened her more than anything. It went against everything she believed in, but it was a fact and Kate dealt in facts.
She kissed him hard on the mouth and with that gesture sealed both their fates.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tristram McDavey thought of himself as a hot-shot estate agent. He was vain, he was gelled and he was dressed in designer clothes. He prided himself on being able to sell anything, absolutely anything. As he drove his client, John Larvey, towards the old Lux factory, Tristram was already selling him the property.
‘It’s ideal for what you want. There’s ample parking for lorries, and the old depot itself is over four thousand square metres. More than enough for what you want and still enough space for further offices if you need them.’
He laughed gently, showing perfectly capped teeth. ‘And let’s face it, the way you’re going you will need them.’
‘Do you think the owners will come down on the price?’
Tristram nodded vigorously. ‘Without a doubt. I’ve had this place for a while and between me and you they won’t get the asking price.’
He negotiated a steep turn flamboyantly in his BMW Cabriolet, making Mr Larvey’s face go pale with fright.
‘I have told them over and over that it is a sought-after property but it has to be realistically priced. If you are interested - and I think you will be when you see the location - I shall put myself out on a limb to get you a substantial discount.’
He drove through a muddy puddle and looked at himself in the mirror, checking his hair.
‘I’m sure we could come to an arrangement,’ he murmured.
Tristram didn’t tell Mr Larvey that he often overpriced things so the buyer felt they had got a bargain when he supposedly haggled the price down to a realistic level. It was good psychology as far as he was concerned. No one could resist a bargain.
As they pulled up outside the dilapidated building, Tristram checked his hair once more. He was a great believer in making a good impression and made a point of always looking well groomed and in control.
He had parked in the least filthy part of the large yard before the building, having been caught out here before, getting out of his car and stepping straight into a puddle of mud and rust, ruining an expensive pair of shoes from Brown’s. A mistake he was not going to repeat.
The air was crisp as they stood admiring the imposing building. Tristram extolled its virtues as they walked the perimeter, carefully steering his client away from the smelly canal.
‘It certainly seems to be what I’m looking for.’
Tristram preened himself in the knowledge that he was in for a good chunk of the sales commission. He was determined to get shot of this place and in doing so, to prove to his bosses what a shit-hot salesman he was.
‘It is rather out of the way, though.’
Mr Larvey was wavering and Tristram said carefully, ‘With respect, I’d have thought that was part of its charm. You will have lorries?’
‘Artics, actually.’
‘Artics then, leaving here at all hours of the day and night. In an area of residential streets that can cause problems. Out here, who is going to complain? Certainly not the wildlife!’
He laughed loudly at his own wit and Mr Larvey was quiet, pondering what he’d said.
‘You never see anyone round this way, or at least very rarely. It’s very quiet and private here. You could be dead and no one would know for months!’ Tristram joked.
He had the sale, he was convinced of it. Mr Larvey looked sold. It was an expression he had come to recognise. People tried to look nonchalant and that told him, clever dick that he was, that they were interested. More than interested.
He carried on with his carefully planned sales pitch.
‘I know the roads aren’t too well maintained in the immediate vicinity, but it’s only a mile or so and with the tyres on your lorries not such a problem. I think the great thing about this place is the fact that you will be bothering no one. In these days that is such a bonus. All you seem to see on the news lately is people protesting about noise from industrial areas.’
Mr Larvey sighed his agreement. It was the reason he was looking for new premises himself.
‘Come inside and let me show you the pièce de résistance !’ Tristram pushed open the broken door, registering the fact that someone had been there since he’d last visited. The door was jemmied open and he cursed himself for not checking the place over yesterday. All they needed now was to encounter New Age travellers or tramps.
But Mr Larvey was not registering the broken door, he was too busy staring at the large expanse of floor. Probably seeing it bustling with his own busy work-force. Tristram smiled smugly and mentally chalked up one more big commission to himself. Then he realised what Mr Larvey was staring at.
A small boy was standing in the middle of the floor, urinating.
The two men looked at one another when the child said in a high piping voice, ‘Where’s the lady gone?’
Boris walked up the narrow stairs. His normally impassive face looked worried, something he rarely allowed.
The girl who had opened the door to him was weeping. She knew she was in trouble.
‘Please, I couldn’t do it.’ She was almost incoherent with fear and Boris looked into a pair of deep brown eyes that pleaded for his understanding.
He stared around the room. The cameras were still set up. The lights had made the place like a hothouse and the girl’s face was beginning to bruise around her left cheekbone.
Boris looked at Geoff Marchant, his face hard now. ‘Who arranged this?’
Marchant was nervous and it showed. His forehead was beaded with sweat that had nothing to do with the heat from the lights.
‘I thought it would be a good idea.’
Boris stared at him and Sergei knew that trouble of the worst kind was brewing. He could read his boss like a book and Boris was near to blowing. Geoff Marchant, however, did not know the signs and was obviously hoping to talk himself out of deep shit.
Sergei smiled to himself. Would these English never learn?
‘Have I got this right?’ Boris looked at Geoff with raised eyebrows, as if desperate for his opinion, and Sergei cringed inwardly. ‘You were making a film here with this young lady . . .’ He looked at the girl enquiringly.
‘Soraya. My name is Soraya.’
Boris smiled widely, making his whole countenance seem benevolent, caring. ‘. . . with this young lady, Soraya.’ He smiled at her as he spoke. ‘And you decided to introduce a German Shepherd dog?’
She started to cry again.
‘I’m not being troublesome,’ she snivelled, ‘but I’m not doing that! I don’t like it here and I want to go home.’
‘I thought it would make it different,’ Marchant said arrogantly. ‘I didn’t realise I had to discuss the film’s content with you.’
Marchant was being clever now or so he thought. Sergei marvelled at the man’s stupidity. Boris looked at him like a fly he was thinking of swatting.
‘Fuck the content. I understand that her screaming brought the police to this door. They came here for the first time ever.’
Geoff could no longer meet Boris’s piercing gaze.
‘I have a house full of prostitutes from all over Europe and you brought the police to my door. Do you think I can overlo
ok something like that?’
Geoff looked at Soraya, who was cowering on a white leather sofa, hiding her face in her hands. Her shoulders were shaking and she looked very small and very frightened. He felt a momentary urge to slam the silly bitch against the wall and crack open her head.
‘If you are so stupid, or more to the point if you think I am so stupid as to allow someone like you to bring the police to my premises, then I don’t think we have anything more to say to one another. Do you?’
Geoff felt his heart sink. He knew he was dealing with a dangerous man here. Knew he was making the Russian richer, too. But men like Geoff Marchant were eminently expendable in this industry. Pimps and porno film-makers were ten a penny in the smoke and he realised with a sickening lurch of his stomach that his job was not as important as he had led himself and others to believe.
He had known while he was pushing Soraya into doing what he wanted that he should have left it. There were plenty of women who would do things like that for the right price. In fact, he knew one girl who said she preferred it to strange men, a statement he had never asked her to explain.
But he had had a lot of coke, and as usual, that had been his downfall. He had pushed it. He was renowned for pushing things, and usually it didn’t matter. These girls were lower than scum. They expected to be treated badly. He often forced them to do things they had never done before. But this bitch had been adamant, becoming more and more hysterical. Eventually she had lost it and that was when the trouble started.
Now he was in a position where he could not, in all honesty, justify what he had done. When the police had arrived he had been terrified. Not of them, but of the fact that they had come to Boris’s safe house, a house where he plied more than one trade and paid heavily for the protection not just of himself but of his customers. Most of them were wealthy businessmen and other high-profile people who paid for discretion and a bit of sex that was out of the norm.
