*
‘Whose flat is it?’ Angie took David’s hand as he helped her from the car.
‘Mine.’
‘But don’t you live in that place in Mayfair?’
‘I’ve got a few places.’ He said it simply, not bragging, just fact.
The old girl in Burton Street can stay. I’ve got a few places. This was all getting a bit overwhelming. ‘Is it going to be a big party?’
‘Not really. About fifty, sixty people. Few more maybe.’
Angie hoped David didn’t notice her gulp back her fear.
Once they had entered the flat, Angie was placed in the care of a bulky, shaven-headed man called Bobby, with a glass of champagne and a smiling ‘Won’t be a minute’ from David. But she didn’t mind. As she watched him working his way round the room, greeting his diverse collection of guests, she felt relieved that she didn’t have to accompany him. But, unused to events anything like as smart as what she was witnessing, Angie found herself nervously compelled to make conversation.
‘What’s going on at the table over there?’ She had been introduced to Bobby by name, but couldn’t bring herself to use it. Using such familiarity with a man of his age would have felt impudent.
Bobby ran his finger round his thick, bull neck, loosening his collar. This was all he needed, a bird bloody chatting to him. ‘Scalectrix.’
‘What? The kids’ game?’
‘Mmmm … Scalectrix …’ he began again.
As if on cue, David appeared at their side, flashing another of his smiles and saving them both.
‘With a bit of a difference, eh, Bob?’
Bobby nodded. Thank gawd for that.
‘Fancy a go, Angel?’
Angie smiled back at him, still apprehensive about all the people, yet captivated to be back in his orbit, the orbit of the most handsome man in the room, the Michael Caine look-alike, who seemed almost telepathic in understanding her fears, and who knew how to sort everything out.
‘Yes, please.’
She took David’s offered hand and walked off with him as if Bobby no longer existed. Even with her lack of experience in such matters, Angie had grasped the pecking order in the room, having placed David very near the top and Bobby a very long way below him. And that, as host of the evening, David was important, but maybe not as important as several of his slightly older, male guests – if his attitude to them was anything to go by.
As David led her to the whooping, laughing, crowd huddled round the table, anyone who looked over their shoulder to see who was trying to squeeze to a place at the front of the action automatically made room for him.
And Angie.
With their position secured, Angie, finally, could see what was going on, and it wasn’t like any Scalectrix game she had ever seen.
At one end of the table stood a beautiful blonde woman, who, Angie guessed, was around her mother’s age. She was wearing an elegant, black velvet cocktail dress and was taking bets, very professionally, from the men and their young female companions; big bets, that were being placed on which of the two little cars would cross the line first. But, instead of the toys being steered by eager ten-year-olds – like Jackie’s spoiled, squabbling cousins had done last Christmas on the Murrays’ front-room floor – these ones were being operated by two girls, who were equally as beautiful as the croupier but who were a good fifteen years younger, much closer to her own age, in fact.
Even more incongruously, they were wearing PVC Artful Dodger-style caps and minute PVC bikinis, all colour co-ordinated to match the cars they were operating, and, tucked inside their skimpy bras and pants were fans of bank notes.
‘Tips from grateful punters,’ explained David, as a puce-faced man slapped his victorious driver hard on the backside before rewarding her with a couple of notes stuffed firmly down her heaving cleavage. ‘How about you having a go at driving?’
Angie looked horrified.
‘Don’t worry, Angel, you haven’t got to strip off. They only have to, because they’re …’ He thought for a moment then laughed. ‘The pros.’
‘I’d rather watch.’
‘Fine.’ He took some money from his inside pocket and handed it to her. ‘Here. Bring me luck. What colour do you fancy?’
‘I think I’ll try the red car this time.’ Angie, excited by her beginner’s luck, handed over five pounds to the blonde woman at the end of the table.
‘I’ll have a pony on that as well, darling,’ said a short, squat man standing by Angie’s side. ‘Your little lady’s got luck on her side tonight, Dave.’
‘Course she has,’ he grinned. ‘She’s with me. She’s—’ Suddenly distracted, David’s expression hardened, then, having scanned the crowd, he began to ease away from the table. ‘You all right here a minute, Angel? I won’t be long.’
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’ Angie, absorbed in the fate of her five pounds, was happy to keep watching the little cars whizzing round.
He made his way, with copious nods and smiles for his guests, over to Bobby, who was standing in the corner, with his hands clasped in front of him, apparently silently observing the goings-on in the room. Only David had noticed him signalling to him.
‘What is it, Bob?’
Bobby stretched his lips wide over his strong, even teeth. How best to put it? ‘It’s Marshall, Dave. He was keen to get off. Wanted one of his, you know, special treats. Terry took him to get fixed up.’
‘Where to? One of the flats?’
‘No. Said he fancied going over to the Missy Me.’ Bobby stared down at his highly polished shoes. ‘You know how he likes being seen.’
‘Shit, Bob. He was pissed as a pudden when he got here. Never mind all the gear he’s taken since.’
Bobby looked sheepish. ‘He was mouthing off a bit.’
David ran his fingers wearily through his hair. ‘Tell me.’
‘About being untouchable. About how rich he’s gonna be when he retires. And something about how he’s gonna be the first copper ever to need a Swiss bank account.’
‘Bloody hell, Bob. Let’s hope Terry keeps him a bit quieter in the Missy Me.’
‘Shall I go after them? Make sure?’
‘Yeah, maybe you should. That club’s got itself a name already. Gawd alone knows who might be in there. How long they been gone?’
‘About half an hour.’
‘Fucking hell, Bob!’
‘I tried to tell you. But you were busy.’
‘Just get moving.’
*
‘That damned train. Now we’re going to be late for supper.’ Jill Walker checked her watch. ‘Daddy hates being kept waiting. And I know Mummy will have made something special.’
‘Will we be sharing a room?’ Martin was speaking to Jill, but he had his head ducked down so that he could get a full view of the big Georgian house as the taxi made its way along the tree-lined gravel drive.
Jill caught the taxi driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror and giggled girlishly; it was a small village and she had known the man all her life, and she knew what a gossip he was. ‘You are funny, Martin. Always joking.’ Jill pecked Martin on the cheek and said softly into his ear, ‘You’ll just have to creep along the corridor when everyone’s asleep.’
Martin smiled with his lips pressed close together. He was as nervous as a kitten, as nervous as he had been on the first day at university. No, far more nervous than that. At least when he had started his course, he’d known there would be a few students he could relate to, students who, like him, had gone to their local grammar. Coming here, to Sussex, to spend the weekend with Jill’s family, Martin knew he would be out of place, no matter how Jill tried to persuade him otherwise. But he had still agreed to come. Jill was the best thing that had ever happened to him – it was miraculous, she was actually as keen on having sex as he was – so if spending a few nights with her family was the cost of keeping her happy, then Martin thought it a small price to pay. That’s what he was telling himself, anyway. Actually h
e would have been happier, and more at ease, standing naked on the college steps, balancing his text books on his head.
As the taxi scrunched to a halt by a sweep of stone steps leading up to a blood-red front door, Jill squeezed Martin’s hand excitedly. ‘You’ll love Mummy and Daddy,’ she said, ‘and I know they’re going to adore you.’
Missing the straight-through train from Victoria certainly had made Martin and Jill late, and Mr Walker, Jill’s father, was annoyed. He simply could not understand why Martin hadn’t planned better, why he had not insisted on them catching the earlier train and why he hadn’t consulted the timetables more closely. Jill seemed exempt from any criticism, and Martin was beginning to wish that instead of coming down to Sussex, he had come down with some horrible, possibly fatal, disease, which would at least have prevented him from travelling.
But eventually Mrs Walker came to the rescue, first showing Martin to his room – the most distant from Jill’s own, he noticed – and then smoothing everything over with kind words, excellent food and a steady supply of wine.
‘A little more duck, Martin?’
‘Thanks, Mrs Walker, I’d love some.’ Well-apprenticed in praising mothers and the food they produced, Martin had earlier said yes to a second helping of the rich, coarse pâté with which they had started the meal, and was now on to his third helping of duck. His experience of home-cooking might have been rather more prosaic than the dishes Jill’s mother was serving up, and the kitchen table in Becontree might have been about a tenth the size of the dining-table in Twycehurst, but the effects of an appreciative eater were just the same on the cook.
Jill smiled happily as her mother topped up Martin’s plate. ‘Mum’s a great cook, isn’t she?’
‘Terrific,’ said Martin. ‘I love this sauce.’
‘What? That? It’s nothing.’ Mrs Walker brushed away the compliments, but she was glowing with pleasure. ‘Just a few cherries, that’s all.’ She held up her glass to her husband. ‘Darling, how about some more wine? That one looks almost empty.’
Mr Walker grumped a grudging reply, but, Martin noticed, he seemed quick enough to go to fetch another bottle.
‘We’re so pleased you could come, Martin.’ Mrs Walker looked on admiringly as Martin worked his way through his duck. ‘And it’s such a pleasure to cook for someone who enjoys his food. Jill has always had the appetite of a bird, and Mr Walker doesn’t seem to notice what he’s eating.’
‘More interested in the wine, eh, Mummy?’
Jill’s mother shot her a warning look. ‘You’ll be giving Martin the wrong impression, dear.’
Martin carried on eating as though he hadn’t heard the slightly pointed exchange.
‘I hope you’ve brought something pretty to wear, Jill. We’re having people over tomorrow.’
‘Oh? Who’s coming?’
‘Everyone. You know the village. They’re all desperate to hear your news from London. And to meet Martin, of course. It’ll be such fun.’ She looked up as her husband came back into the dining-room. ‘You’ll have to keep an eye on him, Jill. Having a handsome young man like Martin around will turn a few Twycehurst heads.’
Jill giggled.
Mr Walker hurrumphed.
And Martin swallowed what was left in his glass of the wine that tasted to his unaccustomed palate as if it was just this side of paint stripper.
Everyone. Everyone from the village wanted to meet him. Martin felt his appetite shrivel like a plucked cherry left out in the summer sun.
‘Sorry I was so long, Angel. Bit of business to sort out.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Those girls.’ Angie, who had drifted away from the table when the short, squat man who had placed twenty-five pounds on her choice of car had become a little too familiar, was standing where she had earlier been parked with Bobby.
‘What?’ David pointed with his whisky glass at one of the smart but scantily dressed young women who were circulating with trays laden with drinks and little silver bowls. ‘The hostesses?’
Angie nodded. ‘The stuff in those bowls. Is it …’ She tried to come up with a word that wouldn’t offend David, and that wouldn’t make her look like an inexperienced kid. ‘Pep pills?’
‘Some of it.’ He stopped a passing hostess and took a glass of champagne from her tray and gave it to Angie along with a lighted cigarette. ‘They give my guests whatever they fancy. Some go for speed. Others like a bit of pot. Amyl nitrate. One or two are going for acid. Me, I stick to a good malt, or a drop of fizz.’
‘How can you be so … easy-going about it?’ Angie was whispering, glancing nervously about her for eavesdroppers. ‘What if the police found out? You could go to prison.’
David smiled to himself at the thought of the amount, and variety, of gear that Chief Inspector Gerald Marshall had just consumed. ‘The police wouldn’t bother us, Angel. Private party, see. And they’re only having a laugh.’
‘But—’
‘Look, the difference between the Purple Hearts and the Black Bombers on the streets and what’s going on here is that these are all adults. They all know what they’re doing. Relaxing after a hard week at work. That’s all. No different from you enjoying that glass of bubbly and your cigarette.’
Angie sipped automatically at her drink. David was so calm about it all. So persuasive. She looked around the room, listening to the buzz of conversation and the occasional eruptions of pleased laughter. It all looked so beautiful. Like a film set. The clothes, the jewellery, the people. She thought about the girls with their bikinis stuffed full of cash. More money than she earned in a month sitting behind a boring desk.
It was a different world from the one she knew. Maybe the rules were different for people like these.
‘How about giving the cars another go? Or roulette? I’ve got a table set up in the other room.’
Glad of the distraction from her thoughts, Angie was about to say she’d like to try roulette, if that was OK with him, when Bobby appeared.
‘Sorry to bother you again, Dave.’
David looked displeased. ‘I thought you were going over the Missy Me.’
‘I got held up. By a phone call.’ Bobby leaned close to David and said quietly into his ear. ‘It was Terry. Something needs sorting out.’
‘Give Angel some money and take her through to the roulette, then see me in the back bedroom.’
When Bobby came into the room, David’s muscular frame was perched on a delicate pink-and-gold brocade bedroom chair; he was puffing angrily on a panatella, his broad legs splayed wide. Had anyone not known David Fuller’s reputation, they might have been inclined to have laughed.
‘That Terry needs a fucking good hiding. He knew he had to keep an eye on Marshall.’
Bobby agreed, but said nothing.
‘How bad is it?’
‘It was a set-up, Dave. The papers were there.’
He threw up his hands. ‘Well, that’s it. I can’t do anything for him now. I don’t think even Burman could get the silly bastard out of this one.’ David stubbed out his cigar in a porcelain dish on the dressing-table, stood up and adjusted his tie in the mirror. He closed his eyes and shook his head in wonder. ‘Fucking stupid idiot. Still, can’t be helped. Might as well get back to the party, eh, Bob?’
It was the early hours of Sunday morning and Detective Constable Jameson was sitting in the canteen, working his way methodically through Saturday’s Guardian crossword, while he ate the cheese-and-salad sandwich he had eventually persuaded the woman behind the counter to make for him. He was drinking tea from his flask, having given up on the foul, dark brown brew that the rest of the station seemed immune to.
As usual he was alone, but a table close to him was occupied by two female constables. Jameson closed his ears to their inane chatter, not wishing to know about their sex lives and the various preferences of their boyfriends, but suddenly his attention was grabbed.
‘At least he
doesn’t get up to tricks like the Old Man,’ said the red-haired one.
‘What tricks?’
‘You haven’t heard?’ She grinned knowingly.
‘Sandie …’
Sandie leaned forward for the sake of privacy, but she still spoke loudly enough for Jameson to catch her every word. ‘Know that new club over in King’s Cross? The Missy Me.’
‘Can’t say I do. Gambling, is it?’
‘No. It’s for people who like to take their pleasures rather seriously. The type who enjoy a bit of S and M, but with an audience thrown in for an extra thrill. The right hardcore, really extreme lot, I’m talking about.’
‘Are you saying the Old Man …’
Sandie leaned back, folded her arms across her chest and opened her eyes wide. ‘Yep. He got caught in there last night.’ She could barely keep a straight face. ‘Sadomasochistic practices, according to Barbara down on the desk.’
‘No …’
‘That’s right. All dressed up in this rubber women’s corset thing and stockings. With long, pink rubber gloves.’ Now she was sniggering helplessly. ‘Doing horrible things with surgical appliances. The whole three-ring circus. With a few extra trick ponies thrown in for good measure.’
‘Never!’
‘I’m telling you. He’s finished.’ Tears of laughter were pouring down her cheeks. ‘The papers’re only going to be able to show them photographs from the waist up.’
She handed Sandie a glass of water. ‘Is this kosher?’
Sandie sipped the water, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and did her best to control herself. ‘Wait till you see the papers in the morning. It was the Clarion that set him up. It’s going to make the front page. And’, the sniggers exploded again, ‘you know how quiet Monday is for news.’
Jameson calmly folded his newspaper, wiped out his cup with a paper napkin and screwed it back on his flask. He stood up and tidied his empty plate on to a plastic tray, which he returned to the counter, then walked out of the canteen towards the car park.
Playing Around Page 21
