by Martina Cole
‘I’m sorry, Richard. Can I get you another drink?’
He knew it was over, that it was time for him to go, and sighed heavily. ‘I’ll make me way home now, I need a few hours’ sleep.’
They smiled at one another and a little later he left. Cathy watched him from the upstairs window and wondered what it was about the big bald-headed policeman that affected her so much. She could easily have stayed in his arms all night.
She heard Desrae moving about and went into the bedroom. He was sitting at his dressing table applying make-up.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ Cathy asked in surprise.
‘Nowhere, but the girls will all be paying their respects soon and I want to look me best, if you don’t mind.’ He was busily pencilling in his eyebrows.
‘I can always tell them to leave it till another time,’ Cathy suggested. But Desrae shook his head.
‘Best get it over with. Anyway, they’ll cheer me up.’ He applied more blusher and lipstick. ‘A large G and T would go down a fucking treat.’
As Cathy made his drink the doorbell rang and the first of the ‘girls’ arrived - a small black man with a blonde wig and tight hipster trousers. He was from the Valbonne and he and Desrae went back years. His name was Eugenie, and Cathy led him into the lounge.
Desrae looked like Queen Victoria in her black dress and mantilla and Cathy felt a sudden urge to laugh at the spectacle. With Desrae everything, even mourning, was so much larger than life.
At that moment the doorbell rang again and two more drag queens arrived, this time two men from the club, both in their daytime straight gear with only the bare minimum of make-up. Both burst into tears as they saw Desrae, and Cathy went to the kitchen and made a large pot of coffee. It was going to be a long day all right.
Bringing in the refreshments, and placing a bottle of Remy Martin on the table, she put on her coat and escaped into the daylight for a while.
She walked around to the club and let herself in. As she turned to shut the door she was pushed inside by two men. She opened her mouth to scream. A gloved hand was placed over her face and she was dragged through to the back of the shop.
‘Keep your mouth shut and you’ll be OK.’
The voice was unmistakably Liverpudlian and Cathy froze. The man dragged her up the stairs, copping a quick feel of her breasts as he did so. Inside the Dayglo pink office he pushed her away from him.
‘What do you want?’ she gasped.
The first man, blond and with arms like a Sumo wrestler’s, laughed. ‘We want all Pal Joey’s books.’
Cathy shook her head firmly, recovering from her shock. ‘Then you’ve come to the wrong place,’ she said defiantly.
‘He never kept anything here. This is my business, mine and Desrae’s. Joey had nothing to do with it other than providing the capital.’ She was amazed by the strength of her voice and the way she was standing up to them. Inside she was terrified but knew that these men must not see any weakness whatsoever.
The smaller of them began to tear the office apart and she stood and watched him. There was nothing they would want here, as far as she knew.
Five minutes later he shrugged and said to his companion: ‘She’s right.’
‘Where’s the safe?’
Cathy debated whether she should try and bluff her way out of it and decided against it. She went to the wall and removed the mirror Desrae spent all day looking in. Behind it was the safe. It contained money, about a thousand pounds, and a few documents pertaining to the club. Cathy unlocked it.
The larger man went through it all. Pocketing the money, he said nastily: ‘Tell the queer we’ll be back.’
Cathy answered coolly, ‘And you tell O’Hare he won’t get away with this.’ Her voice and words stopped the men in their tracks. ‘You can also tell him he doesn’t frighten me. The people of Soho don’t frighten easily.’
The bigger man laughed. ‘If I had the time, I’d give you something to think about, lady.’
She snorted at him in derision. ‘Don’t kid yourself, sonny boy. It’d take a man to get a reaction from me and I don’t see any in here, do you?’ She saw his face go pale with rage and knew she’d gone too far but stood her ground.
The men must have had strict orders on what they could and could not do. They left, taking the money with them, and Cathy sank into Desrae’s bright pink chair and tried to stem the wild beating of her heart. It was all going wrong. With Joey’s death their security seemed to have disappeared. It was a sobering thought.
Pulling herself together, Cathy went down the stairs and locked herself into the club. Then she picked up the phone and called Susan P, to put her in the picture.
Within ten minutes Richard Gates was with her; Susan P must have contacted him.
‘What did they take?’ he demanded.
‘Just the money from the safe - but I’m not pressing charges if that’s what you want,’ Cathy joked.
Richard laughed. ‘I guessed as much. I just want to know what’s going down, that’s all.’
Cathy shrugged. ‘So do I.’
He watched her as she made them both a coffee with shaking hands.
‘Me and Desrae are really in danger, ain’t we?’ she said.
He nodded. ‘Yes, darlin’, you are in danger until we can get a handle on this Liverpool wanker.’
Cathy stared at him; his face was open to her. He got up and put some brandy in her coffee. ‘Get that down your gregory, love, and we’ll put our thinking caps on, eh?’
Cathy sipped the hot liquid and felt the warmth of it as it hit her stomach. Every time something bad happened to her, Richard Gates was there to pick up the pieces. She was grateful to him for that. He always made her feel safe - as if, while she was with him, no one and nothing could hurt her. It occurred to her then that he really cared for her, and she smiled to herself.
Another fatherly man like Joey - she had been blessed in that respect.
But Richard Gates’s thoughts as he watched her were anything but fatherly.
Joscelyn Driscoll was listening to her husband’s tirade against the police, the establishment and their Asian neighbours when Richard Gates walked in through the French doors. Both the Driscolls were shocked into silence.
Smiling, Gates pulled the man out of his chair by the shirt and proceeded to slap him around the room. Joscelyn, even though she hated the police, felt a moment’s euphoria as she saw her old man getting a taste of what he’d doled out to her so often. Whatever had possessed her to marry a Liverpool wide boy, she still didn’t know.
As her husband lay on the floor with Gates kicking him, she went to the kitchen to make one of her endless cups of tea. Let Lenny sort it out, she thought viciously. He was the one who had brought all the trouble to their door.
‘Where’s O’Hare?’ Gates’s voice was breathless, but as usual softly spoken.
Lenny Driscoll shook his head. ‘I swear on me daughter’s head, I have no idea what you’re talking about, Mr Gates.’
Gates closed his eyes and said: ‘You’re not making this any easier for yourself, you Liverpool wanker. Now, for the last time, where the fuck will I find O’Hare?’
Lenny took the blows once more but still wouldn’t answer. ‘Please, Mr Gates,’ he groaned, ‘my life is worth more than that.’
‘Your fucking life will be extinct if you don’t tell me what I want to know, mate. Where’s that bastard O’Hare?’
Lenny just lay on the floor curled up into a ball as he shook his head in denial. Picking up a small leather-covered stool, Gates began to beat the man with it mercilessly. Lenny took the punishment. It was all he could do.
The only interruption was when Joscelyn popped her head into the lounge and said gaily: ‘Anyone for a cuppa?’
Dropping the stool, Gates nodded at her. ‘Yeah, all right then.’
Sitting on the arm of a chair, he watched as Lenny Driscoll pulled himself up from the floor and tidied himself. It was the same everywher
e Gates went: fear of Derrick O’Hare was far greater than fear of the police. It was beginning to annoy Gates.
Sipping his tea, he pondered on a man who could instil such terror, and obviously kill on a whim. O’Hare was an unknown quantity and that worried Gates. He liked to know exactly what he was dealing with.
Finishing his tea, he said to Lenny, ‘Nothing personal, son.’
Lenny, battered and bruised, laughed painfully. ‘No offence taken, Mr Gates.’
Gates left as he had arrived, by the back way, and grinned to himself. No offence had been taken, eh? Not unless Lenny could meet him down a dark alleyway one night. Then he had a feeling that offence would be taken - very seriously.
Cathy went back to the flat and was pleased to find Susan P with Desrae. The ‘girls’ were all gone.
‘The doctor’s been again and given him another shot. I think he’d be better off in bed, he lost it again earlier,’ Susan told her.
They put a stoned and acquiescent Desrae to bed and then went into the lounge. Cathy told Susan P what had happened at the club. She hadn’t wanted to tell her in front of Desrae.
‘This O’Hare has to be sorted, and quick,’ the other woman said grimly. ‘If he gets what he wants, I’ll have to deal with him anyway - unless I kill him, of course. I’m quite capable of that, you know.’
‘It’s like the world’s gone mad, ain’t it?’ Cathy shuddered. ‘But I tell you something - if anything happens to Tommy or anyone else, I’ll kill him.’
Susan P felt an urge to laugh. The thought of little Cathy killing anyone was mad, yet inside she knew that the girl was capable of it, if the circumstances were right.
‘Listen, darling, this man is dangerous with a capital D. You just watch over Desrae and leave everything else to us. Tommy ain’t going to take none of this lying down.’
‘But what if he can’t do anything?’ Cathy fretted. ‘After all, this man has already killed Joey, and whoever thought anyone would make a hit on him? If this man can kill Joey, then he really thinks he can do what he wants and that is what scares me. He has the North and now he wants the South - at least that’s what Tommy says anyway.’
Susan P sighed. ‘Listen to me. Tommy’s not a mug, love. He’ll sort it all out, you’ll see. You just look after Desrae and leave all the planning to us. We know what we’re dealing with and we’re used to sorting these problems. It’s par for the course in Soho.’
Cathy nodded and kept her own counsel. If this O’Hare wanted a war, then she for one was quite willing to give him one.
Flinty was a small man but strong, and a known grass. He knew everyone, and everything about everyone. No one knew his real name, he had been Flinty always. Even he wasn’t sure any more about his given name. At sixty-five years old he was a gofer. In and out of prison for petty offences, he kept his eyes and his ears open and earned extra cash by telling tales, not only to the police but to other villains as well. If he heard a story, he took it to the person who would be most interested and picked up a few quid.
It was the way of the world. There were lots of Flintys about, except that in his own way he had brought grassing almost to a fine art.
Opening his front door he was all smiles. Twenty minutes earlier he had ordered himself a bottle of Scotch and a Chinese takeaway and was waiting for the cab driver to deliver it. Earlier in the day he had passed on a little bit of information to a policeman at Vine Street about a robbery due to go down in Essex. The man had paid him twenty-five quid for the info with a promise of the same again if anyone was nicked.
All in all, it was a neat day’s work.
Seeing Gates on his doorstep, with his Chinese and Scotch, the smile dropped from Flinty’s face.
Pushing his way into the small bedsit, Gates smiled. One of his rare real smiles. ‘All right, Flinty? Long time no see, eh?’ He placed the food and alcohol on the coffee table. Then, going to the kitchenette, he put on the kettle, filling it to the brim.
Flinty watched him with wary eyes. He didn’t attempt to touch the food but eyed the drink with longing.
When the kettle had boiled, Gates turned down the Calor-gas stove and the kettle whistled softly in the silence of the room.
‘Is it a cuppa you’re after, Mr Gates?’ Flinty already knew the answer, but he still asked the question.
Gates picked up the kettle with the help of a grubby tea towel and said menacingly, ‘Take off your shoes and socks.’
Flinty paled and shook his head, saying, ‘Oh, come on, Mr Gates, not that. You’d not do that to me, surely? I’ve always tried to help you out, you know I have . . .’ His voice trailed off as the kettle was banged down once more on the small two-ring stove.
‘Flinty, if you don’t remove your socks, I’ll fucking rip them off myself, OK? Now, you can make this hard or you can make it easy.’
The runty little man took off his shoes and socks, babbling: ‘What do you want to know, Mr Gates? I’ll tell you if I can, I always tell anything I learn. You must know that, surely?’ He knew that Richard Gates would scald his feet without a second thought, and that all the screaming in the world would not do him any good. Screams in this houseful of bedsits were nothing unusual. It was that kind of place.
‘Please, Mr Gates, tell me what you want and I swear on me mother’s eyes I’ll tell you what you want to know.’ He had his feet exposed now and the smell was ripe in the cloying heat of the room.
‘Jesus Christ, the hum of your feet is enough to make me scald the fuckers anyway! Don’t you ever wash, Flinty?’
He shook his head. ‘Where would I wash here? The bathroom’s like a fucking war zone most of the time. The bath’s filthy. I get by. Sometimes I bath at a friend’s.’
‘Sit yourself down and stick out your plates.’ Flinty hesitated and Gates rolled his eyes to the ceiling. ‘I’m getting annoyed now, Flinty. Just do as I ask and tell me what I want to know and you’ll be OK.’
Flinty sat in the chair, his face a study of fear. Gates picked up the kettle once more and went to him, saying with a laugh: ‘Sad little faces cut no ice with me, you cretin. I know what you are and you know that I know. You’re a fucking nonce, mate. You prefer little boys to grown men. I know all about you so don’t come the old soldier with me.’
Flinty dropped his gaze and stared instead at the steaming kettle of water hovering over his feet. Gates let a few drops escape and land on his legs. Even the thickness of his trousers, a tweed pair he had picked up from a second-hand stall in Camden, didn’t prevent him from burning.
‘Sorry, mate, bit of an accident there. I meant to hit your feet, see.’
Flinty closed his eyes. He was a coward. In his life he had been banged up many times and had endured humiliation after humiliation rather than have any pain inflicted on him. Now he resigned himself to his fate.
‘What I want to know is, where can I get my hands on Derrick O’Hare?’ Gates saw Flinty’s face go even whiter and grinned. He had the little fucker; if anyone knew the whereabouts of the Liverpool lout, Flinty would.
The grass had tears in his eyes as he answered: ‘Burn me now, Mr Gates. That’s more than my life’s worth.’
Gates let half the kettle of water land on the man’s feet, and watched in fascination as blisters appeared like magic. Then, placing the kettle back on the gas ring, he proceeded to tie the weeping Flinty’s hands behind his back with his own tie.
‘Look, mate, I know this is painful and I’m sorry about that, but I have to know where the cunt is. If I have to, I shall pour all this water over your genitals. Now that is painful . . .’
Flinty went quiet and for a few seconds Gates thought he had died of fright. Looking into the man’s face, he saw he was gritting his teeth, eyes tightly closed. He was willing to let Gates burn him rather than face O’Hare.
Putting the boiling kettle back on the hob and turning off the gas, he sighed heavily. Flinty’s feet looked like two red pieces of meat, and Gates felt a moment’s sorrow for what he had done. It
was blanked out almost immediately by the knowledge that O’Hare could easily get away with anything while people were this frightened of him. Not since the Krays had Gates seen such a wall of silence.
It seemed no one wanted to fall foul of the Scouser and no one seemed able to persuade them otherwise.
Picking up the kettle once more, Gates tipped some over the man’s genitalia. Flinty screamed, and Gates slammed the kettle on to the table. Knocking the Chinese to the floor, and opening the bottle of Scotch, he said quietly: ‘You writhe in agony, you bastard, and remember - this is nothing to what I’m going to do to you in a few minutes, all right? I’ll fucking torture you all night if I have to but I’ll find out what I want to know, OK?’
Flinty was traumatised, his face white, his lips blue. The hands trembling with shock behind his back made him look as if he were dancing in the chair. Spittle hung from his lips as he whispered: ‘Please, Mr Gates, please stop hurting me.’
Gates took a deep drink from the bottle of Scotch and said reasonably: ‘Tell me what I want to know, Flinty, and I’ll see you get to a hospital, I can’t be no fairer than that. I’ll never let on where I got my information, you know that.’
Flinty shook his head and muttered, ‘He’s madder than you, he’s madder than anyone. Untie me and I’ll tell you his latest escapade.’
Richard untied the man’s hands and Flinty lay back in the chair, panting. The pain must have been excruciating and Gates felt a sneaking admiration for the man’s ability to keep quiet after all he had done to him. He gave Flinty the whisky and the man drank deeply.
‘A few weeks ago, O’Hare tortured to death Billy Wright. You know old Billy, the tramp from Berwick Street?’
Gates nodded, not sure where this conversation was leading. Groaning now, Flinty began to talk once more.
‘O’Hare bought him a drink and put him in his car. I was with them - I went along for the ride. O’Hare said we’d get a good drink and all he wanted was a bit of info. I do the same for faces as I do for the filth, you know that. They skinned him alive, Mr Gates, old Billy Wright. In front of me eyes like. He honestly didn’t know what they wanted from him, he’d have told them else. But that man O’Hare, he skinned him anyway. It was terrible, he’s a fucking nutter. So, Mr Gates, I’d rather be tortured by you than him any day of the fucking week. Burn me, stab me - fuckin’ shoot me, I don’t give a toss. But keep me away from him.’
