The Runaway

by Martina Cole

  Cathy knew that her daughter’s forays into the club gave her enough kudos at school to keep her name in lights there till the year 2000. She didn’t think it was a bad thing for Kitty to get to know the girls who worked for her. They might be men dressed as women, but they were all nice people, all the type you would want around your children if you knew them as well as she did.

  They adored Kitty, and she adored them.

  As Cathy approached the bar she smiled at the young men behind it. All dressed in silver sequinned bikinis, all with blond wigs and deep pink lipstick, they looked like girls, beautiful young girls. One of them winked at her and made a sad face at Desrae, trying to let Cathy know that he was down in the dumps.

  She put her hand on Desrae’s shoulder. He could see her in the mirror behind the bar. Cathy whispered in his ear, ‘I’m so sorry, Desrae, I had no right to go off like that.’

  It was enough. Turning, he said breathily: ‘Hark at him hit the high notes!’ As the audience broke into rapturous applause, the sound deafening, they smiled at one another, all their anger forgotten.

  They stood together, surveying their club. It was a success story. No one would have dreamed, all those years ago, just how much of a success it was to become. It was a huge place now with a restaurant, three bars and an illustrious list of guest artistes. They even had a resident drag act who was rapidly making a name for himself on TV.

  It was their baby, their goal together, and they had achieved all they had set out to do.

  As Desrae embraced Cathy, there was a collective sigh from the bar staff.

  ‘Had a row, have we?’

  Desrae snapped back, ‘’Course we have. All women row, love, it’s what sets us apart from the men.’

  Cathy accepted a mineral water and sipped at it.

  ‘If he’s what you want, love, then that’s fine by me. After all, who am I to tell you what to do, eh?’ But Desrae’s voice was sad, troubled.

  Cathy kissed him full on the lips. ‘You’re my mother, father and best friend, all rolled into one. That’s what you are, lady.’

  Desrae preened with pleasure at the words but said sarkily, ‘Not so much of the father bit, love, if you don’t mind.’

  Cathy giggled, but then said seriously, ‘What would I do without you, Desrae? You’re my rock, my shelter in a storm, my only real family.’

  He cupped her chin in one large hand and said gently, ‘Other than Kitty, of course - we must never forget young Kitty.’

  As Desrae looked into Cathy’s fine blue eyes he felt an urge to cry. All his instincts told him that, one day, Eamonn Docherty would hurt his beloved Cathy. Hurt her very badly. But she could see no wrong in him.

  All he could do was wait, listen, and eventually be there to pick up the pieces. After all, that’s what friends were for, wasn’t it?

  Outside the club a woman watched the doorway. She was heavy-set and wrapped up well even though the weather was quite mild. She lit a cigarette with stubby fingers and drew on it deeply. As Cathy left with Kitty, the woman followed them back to their flat and then after they had gone inside, kept up her vigil once more: smoking and staring up at the lighted windows until the place was in darkness.

  Only then did she walk away.

  BOOK FIVE

  ‘Farewell, love, and all thy laws forever, Thy baited hooks shall tangle me no more’

  - Sir Thomas Wyatt, c.1503-42

  Chapter Forty

  LONDON 1990

  Cathy was packing for one of her weekends in New York. Desrae watched her, both of them carefully not mentioning the fact that they were once more at loggerheads.

  ‘So, I’ll go and visit Kitty, shall I?’

  Cathy nodded. ‘If you don’t mind, Desrae. Look, I know you don’t like me going, but surely you don’t begrudge me a few days a month away from everything? I need the break as much as anything else.’

  Desrae snorted. ‘You mean, you need a bleeding good rogering!’

  Slowly Cathy began to smile.

  Desrae smiled too.

  ‘You should listen to yourself,’ she said tartly. ‘Rogering indeed! I hope you don’t tell my daughter that!’

  Cathy placed an arm lovingly around her friend’s shoulders. ‘Please, Desrae, I need him. It’s hard to explain but me and Eamonn, we go back years. It’s like when I’m with Eamonn, I’m a whole person again. As if he’s a part of me and without him I can’t function. I know how you feel about him, and I understand that, but I can’t give him up - not for you, Kitty, anyone.’

  The finality in her voice hit Desrae like a slap across the face and, sighing, he bowed to the inevitable. Over the last three years Cathy had emerged from her shell and even Desrae had to admit that the woman before him was strong, able, and very, very determined. Nothing could keep her from her New York jaunts. A few times she had taken Kitty, and her daughter had loved it there. But most of the time Cathy went alone, so that she could be with Eamonn.

  ‘Shall I make us a cuppa?’ Desrae offered.

  Cathy nodded, sorting through her underwear. ‘That would be lovely. Splash a drop of Scotch in mine, I could do with a livener.’

  Desrae left the room and went to make the tea, as happy in Cathy’s home as he was in his own. When the doorbell rang he walked through to answer it, as always admiring his friend’s taste in furnishings. Unlike his place, Cathy’s was all subdued colours and antique furniture. It looked classy, or at least that’s how Desrae always thought of it, though he felt if he lived in the place, it would be a bit too much like living in a museum.

  As he opened the door, his face broke into a wide smile. ‘Hello, Mickey! Long time, no see.’

  Mickey, otherwise known as Michaela, stepped into Cathy’s flat but there was no answering smile on his face. In full drag he looked stunning. Today, without make-up and dressed in slacks and jumper, he looked what he really was - a thirty-year-old man who dressed effeminately. He also looked worried.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Desrae asked him.

  Mickey sighed heavily. ‘Is Cathy about? I’ll tell you together, OK?’

  Desrae nodded, taking him through to the lounge and calling for Cathy. Five minutes later, armed with cups of tea, Cathy and Desrae listened in amazement to Mickey’s announcement.

  ‘Casper’s topped himself.’

  ‘What!’

  Mickey sipped at his tea and daintily wiped his mouth. ‘I said, ladies, Casper’s topped himself. He was found this afternoon in his car. He’d put a hose through and died of carbon monoxide poisoning. He’d been dead since last night, I reckon. He left the club about two and even old Daniella said he looked really rough. But then, he’s looked rough for weeks.’

  ‘Who found him?’

  ‘His neighbour. Apparently she’d asked for a loan of his lawnmower, of all things, and found him in his garage. She phoned the Old Bill and then the club. Shrewd old bird, by all accounts. Used to flog her arse on Park Lane years ago.’

  ‘But why would Casper do that? He was fit as a fiddle and the shops were doing really well.’

  Mickey sighed. ‘I spoke to one of the boys in the shop in Old Compton Street. He said Casper was in trouble with Terry Campbell. By all accounts Terry had been in a few times looking for him, and Casper had told them all to say they didn’t know where he was.’

  ‘Terry Campbell? But what could Casper have in common with him? He’s a pimp, the lowest kind and all. He deals in spring chickens - little boys.’

  Desrae tut-tutted. ‘If Terry Campbell was after him then he was doing something he shouldn’t have been or he would have come to one of us, that stands to reason. I think we should have a good look at the stock in the shops. If he was selling anything under the counter, then we’d best know about it. See, Terry makes films, does the more lucrative books. Kids was always his forte.

  ‘I remember him from years ago - used to cruise Soho looking for the young girls, offering them a place to stay and a hot meal, then he’d set up a deal and the girls would
get a fucking shock. Terry only used them once or twice. They couldn’t take more than that. He catered for men who liked a gang bang, five or six at a time, and videoed it all. The men paid a big price and got a nice souvenir video to remind them of their handiwork. The bloke isn’t welcome around these parts and he knows it, but for all that he still has a good business. He just makes sure he keeps out of everyone’s way.’

  Desrae looked at Cathy and said sadly, ‘He must have hooked Casper in.’

  Cathy was horrified. If any of those videos were on sale in her shops . . .

  She stood up. ‘I’ll cancel me flight. If Casper’s been using our premises to peddle that crap, then I think we’d best sort it all out before we have Vice on our arses.’ She looked at the two people before her and sighed. ‘I’d never have believed it, though, not of Casper.’

  Desrae wiped a hand across his mouth, as if to stem a feeling of sickness, and then replied: ‘There’s more to this than meets the eye. I’ll talk to Gates, see what he can come up with.’

  Cathy brightened. ‘Good idea. After that we’d best have a chat with Susan P. She’ll know the score with Campbell anyway.’

  Desrae squeezed Mickey’s hand. ‘Thanks for letting us know so soon.’

  Mickey shrugged. ‘Someone had to get it sorted. Might as well be me as anyone else.’ But for some reason he couldn’t look Desrae in the eyes.

  Cathy was tense and subdued as she turned the shops over looking for videos or books that should not be there. If Casper had been selling anything too risky, she was liable to lose her shops and a hell of a lot more besides: the respect of the Soho community, for a start, as well as the goodwill of the police. If Casper hadn’t topped himself, she might well have done it for him, the mood she was in.

  Richard came into the Wardour Street shops and she looked at him anxiously. He smiled. ‘Relax, Cathy, I ain’t going to nick anyone.’

  She said sadly, ‘I can’t believe it, can you?’

  ‘There must be something fishy going down because Casper was a diamond,’ the policeman said. ‘If he was peddling for Campbell, then Campbell had something over him, I’d lay money on that. What we need to do is find out what the rub was. Once we know that we’re halfway home.’

  Cathy gestured at the shelves. ‘There’s nothing here as far as I can see.’

  ‘There’s nothing at his house either - I had it searched as soon as I knew what was going down. We need to find that fucker Campbell and have a word with him. Maybe he can shed some light on it all.’

  Cathy lit a cigarette. Taking a long pull, she sighed, blowing out smoke.

  ‘Have you had the floorboards up?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘Well, I think that’s where I’ll start then. I mean, he’s hardly going to have stuff that iffy under the counter, is he?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘Definitely not. What we need to do is find his contacts, anyone who might have an inkling what’s going down. Campbell is a nonce and caters for nonces, but he’s branched out over the last few years into brothels. He keeps one in Paddington but the place changes addresses more often than you change your drawers. He uses empty houses to hold his parties. Afterwards they clear up and fuck off. It’s hard to tie the ponce down. But someone, somewhere, knows all his moves, it stands to reason. If we can’t find Campbell himself, we find one of his oppos then move in for the kill.’

  ‘But where does Casper fit in? He hated nonces, you know that as well as I do.’

  Richard shrugged. ‘As my old mum used to say: It’ll all come out in the wash. Now I’ll start taking up the boards and you can put the kettle on. We’ll worry about anything else when we have to. Meet trouble head on, so to speak.’

  He smiled at her to take the edge off his words and Cathy did as he asked, but all the time her mind was whirling. Casper had been her friend, a good friend. She would never have believed it if someone had told her he was a nonsense. There was something wrong here and she was determined to find out exactly what it was.

  Mickey went to the club after he had visited Cathy’s flat and finished brushing out his wigs and pressing his dresses for the evening show. His close friend Leyla, a large-boned Mancunian with a deep throaty voice and impossibly large breasts, sighed heavily as he consoled Mickey.

  ‘Poor old Casper, eh? What do you reckon the score was there? Do you think he was up to something?’

  Mickey shrugged.

  Leyla, always letting his mouth go, said loudly, ‘Well, you spent a lot of time with him. Didn’t you suss anything? I mean, you and him was mates . . .’

  Mickey grabbed him by the chin and, pressing his face close, said nastily, ‘Why don’t you just shut up, Leyla, give your brain a breather?’

  Leyla’s heavily made-up eyes were wide with shock - which was what Desrae noticed when he walked in.

  ‘What the fuck’s going on here?’

  Leyla said quietly, ‘Just a girlish tiff, that’s all.’

  Mickey stood up and said, in a high breathy voice, ‘Sorry, Leyla. I think I’m overwrought, what with Casper and everything.’ His eyes filled with tears and his bosom heaved and both Leyla and Desrae were all over him, petting him and telling him to sit down and relax. He’d had a big shock, as Desrae pointed out over and over again.

  Mickey allowed them to fuss him, but when Desrae left the room to get them all a large brandy, he stared at Leyla malevolently and whispered: ‘You keep your thoughts to yourself, OK? Otherwise you might just find yourself in big trouble.’

  Leyla, real name Ronald MacVey, felt the first stirrings of fear. Michaela had always been a bit different from the other girls, had always kept his distance. After work, the others often made their way to a club in Tavistock Street where they loved to party in full drag and make-up, and put on a show for the straight men and women who enjoyed drag watching. Michaela had never done that. Now he thought about it, Michaela rarely mixed with his co-workers outside the club. A few of the other girls thought he had a secret lover, a real name. It happened like that sometimes. They got a politician or a TV star and afterwards kept a low profile.

  Now, though, Leyla wondered what the hell Mickey was involved in that would make him utter such violent threats? Surely Casper had just topped himself? It happened a lot in the sex game. It got to you in the end. Maybe he couldn’t hack it with the toms no more. Maybe he had had a thing with Michaela. Whatever it was, it was frightening Michaela, and he was bloody terrifying Leyla.

  Cathy and Richard were in her flat drinking more tea and trying to think where Casper could have hidden anything he knew to be dangerous. The floorboards had been pulled up and all the shops turned inside out but there wasn’t a thing to go on.

  ‘I’ve had my boys pull his house apart, same again. Not a fucking sausage. Maybe we’re barking up the wrong tree,’ Richard said gloomily.

  ‘So there was no note, to say why he topped himself?’

  ‘Maybe the post mortem will show up something. Assisted suicide isn’t unheard of, you know.’

  Cathy’s eyes widened. ‘You mean, he was murdered?’

  Richard scratched his chin. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, would it? And if Terry Campbell is involved then I wouldn’t rule out nothing. What time is Peter from the shop supposed to be here? He could give us a lead maybe.’

  Cathy glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘About an hour ago. Peter’s only young, and I think he’s frightened of the Old Bill so go easy on him. He only came out about a year ago and he’s nineteen top whack. He’s very effeminate, too, so don’t intimidate him, OK?’

  Richard grinned. His deep-set blue eyes looked positively evil as he answered: ‘Why would I intimidate him?’

  ‘You look frightening at the best of times. When you smile you can look terrifying, and you know it. You play on it. Only people like me and Susan P know that deep down you’re like a teddy bear.’

  He rolled his eyes and groaned. ‘Well, don’t let that get around my men
, will you? I’d lose all me street cred overnight.’

  Before Cathy could answer the doorbell rang. She came back accompanied by Peter’s boyfriend, a small rotund man in his fifties called Brian Hacker. Brian was a businessman dealing in overseas investments - namely time shares. He had a permanent smile that displayed many gold teeth and was so black-skinned he shone like a well-oiled piece of ebony.

  ‘Where’s Peter?’ Richard demanded bluntly.

  ‘He’s gone, taken his clothes, everything. He’s also taken my jewellery and petty cash.’ Brian looked very upset. ‘I always keep about a grand in the flat. For expenses, you know. That’s gone. He’s gone.’

  ‘Do you think he’s fucked off, or do you think someone has removed him from the premises?’

  Brian thought for a few seconds, then: ‘I think he’s fucked off, meself. He looked frightened this morning. I can’t explain it, but he wasn’t right, you know? I think something or someone has scared him away. We were happy enough, no big love affair but we got on well and had a rapport of sorts. I took care of him, and he took care of me. I like a bit of the exotic now and again; Peter provided it.’

  He looked at Cathy as he said the last part and she nodded.

  ‘Have you any idea where he could have gone?’

  Brian thought hard. ‘Originally he’s from a place in Essex called Little Dunmow or something like that. His sister still lives out that way, but they weren’t close. You know what the gay community is like: most of us leave our families behind with our old lives. It’s difficult for some people to accept the real us, especially family. I know his parents have nothing to do with him. In fact, his father threatened him with a shotgun last time he visited his mother. Peter was a sensitive boy, really felt things. He was very cut up about it.’