‘Must be Jackie,’ he said, dry-mouthed.
‘You’d better let her in.’
He nodded dumbly.
While Martin went in to the kitchen to pull himself together and to make the coffee, Jackie and Angie sat in the front room, whispering so that they didn’t disturb Tilly who, now her daughter was safely home, had allowed herself to go to sleep and was snoring loudly above them.
‘So, this Andrew you’ve been out with.’ Angie’s head felt as if it had been stuffed with cotton wool, and she was having a bit of trouble concentrating. ‘He’s the bloke you met at the Lotus on your birthday?’
‘Yes and he’s very nice, but never mind him. I’m worried about you, Angie.’
Angie, who had been rather more explicit with Jackie than she had with Martin, shrugged. ‘Not heard of free love?’ She hoped she looked and sounded more casual than she felt about the situation. With everything that had happened, she’d not been able to stop worrying about whether it was true what they said: that once you let a bloke have his way with you, he lost interest and cleared off, dumping you like used goods.
‘Angie—’
‘It’s all right, I’m on the Pill.’
‘The Pill?’
‘So? I said I’m on the Pill, not that I’m an axe murderer.’ She took her cigarettes from her bag and held them up. ‘Mind if I have one?’
Jackie shook her head. ‘Since when have you been smoking?’
‘A while.’
‘Put them away and don’t be so stupid. Mum’d be down here faster than a fire engine if she smells smoke. And you’ve been drinking.’
Angie snorted. ‘Like you never have.’
‘Angie, I’m serious. Travelling all that way by yourself in that state. Anything could have happened to you.’
‘Don’t look at me like that, Jack. I’m too knackered for a row. Let’s just go to bed, eh?’ Angie smiled self-pityingly, undid her coat, and flashed her naked body at her friend. ‘Lend us a nightie?’
Jameson sat in his Morris Minor watching Sonia, David Fuller’s wife, who was sitting in the driver’s seat of her scarlet Mini Cooper, kissing Mikey Tilson as if she were a kid in the back row of the pictures, in the full glare of the street lights.
The detective constable was always amazed when a man let himself be driven by his prick rather than his brains – not that Tilson gave any evidence of being in possession of much in the way of grey matter – but to be so blatant about carrying on with David Fuller’s wife. That took a particularly spectacular brand of stupidity.
After five minutes or so of passion, Sonia got out of the car, and Tilson clambered over into the driver’s seat. She stood and waved and blew kisses as he drove away, then crossed the road and let herself into the mansion block where she lived with her husband. The mansion block where all the lights in her flat had been burning for the past couple of hours, and where the back-lit silhouette of a large man, who looked very like David Fuller, could be seen standing by one of the windows.
From what Jameson knew about Fuller, his wife was either as stupid as Mikey Tilson, or she had a very advanced case of death wish.
As Sonia opened the flat door, David was waiting for her in the hall.
‘What do you think you’re up to?’
‘Me? How about you and your little scrubber?’
David grabbed her by the wrist. ‘I asked you a question.’
She looked contemptuously at him. ‘Grow up, David. You don’t own me. I do what I want.’
‘No, you don’t.’
‘Yes I do. And, I’m afraid, that includes falling in love.’
‘You what?’
‘Mikey and I are going away together. I’m going to have his baby.’
David let go of her wrist and raised his hand above his head.
‘Go on, big shot, hit me. Show me what a pathetic creature you really are. No wonder you have to go with little girls. That’s all you’re fit for.’
David shoved her out of the way and stormed out of the door. ‘I’ll show you, you bitch.’
Chapter 13
IT WAS THREE hours since David had driven away from the flat, oblivious of having abandoned Angie on the pavement in the rain, and less than twenty minutes since he had stormed out on Sonia. He was now parking his Jaguar behind a dark-blue Ford Zodiac, close to the staff entrance of the Canvas Club. It was a spot which suited David’s purposes very well, as it was outside the patisserie, one of the few local shops which was never open at this early hour, and one which would stay locked and silent until the bakers arrived to begin their day in about an hour’s time.
He scanned the rain-slicked street in his rear-view mirror. The few people he saw seemed to be paying more attention to keeping dry and getting home before daybreak than in bothering with the bloke in the expensive motor. Of the two who did afford him more than a passing glance, one had him down as a worried father, probably up from the Surrey stockbroker belt, waiting for his spoiled, drug-using child to eventually condescend to leave some club or discothèque, and the other dismissed him as one of the upper-crust types who came slumming in Soho, looking for a bit of sleazy action in the small hours.
If the latter had been the case, David wouldn’t have had much luck, the toms were all indoors, either too lazy or too averse to getting a soaking to be working the almost empty streets.
David turned off the engine, and the wipers shwooped to a stop; the windscreen was immediately pitted with rain drops the size of shilling bits.
He took a pair of tan leather gloves from his briefcase on the passenger seat and eased them on, unhurriedly, checking each finger for a perfect fit, then leaned forward and felt around under his seat. Pulling out two heavy, empty cola bottles and a copy of the final edition of the London Evening News, David smiled to himself. That bastard Mikey Tilson would be in the papers himself before too long.
He wrapped one of the bottles in a few sheets of the newspaper and slipped the other into the pocket of his rain coat. Checking that no one was watching, he opened the car door, stepped out on to the pavement, walked up to the bonnet of the Zodiac, and placed the paper-wrapped parcel in the gutter by the front wheel. With another brief glimpse along the almost deserted street, he brought down his heel in a swift, hard movement, smashing the glass in the now soggy paper, then placed the jagged shards around each of the front tyres, just so, making sure each shattered piece was clearly visible.
David then melted into the shadows of the cake-shop doorway, wrapped the other empty bottle in the rest of the newspaper, took out a cigarette, shielded it behind his hand and lit it. He figured he had ten minutes or so to wait.
In fact, he had to wait just five.
As Mikey came out of the staff entrance to the Canvas, head well down against the sheeting rain, he was grinning like a prize candidate for the Happy Olympics. He had plenty to be happy about.
He had laid Fuller’s old woman for the very last time – thank Christ – he was well shot of that one, she had gone bloody baby bonkers these past few weeks and had been getting right up his pipe; he had enough dough stashed away not to have to worry, as he stretched out on a Spanish beach, thinking about which of the bars he fancied buying; and, the icing on the cake, the tasty, young blonde from Coffee Bongo had turned out to be a genuinely hard-nosed and very experienced little pill-pusher. She would come in more than handy on the Costas, if Mikey ever ran short of a few quid.
He patted the pocket that contained his final instalment from the club and his grin broadened. He had more than had one over on David fucking Fuller.
But Mikey’s happiness was as short-lived as a pint of cold lager on a hot summer’s day. When he saw the jagged chunks of broken glass that had obviously been placed deliberately by his front wheels, his expression hardened into a thin-lipped, angry scowl.
‘What rotten little bastard’s done that?’ He bent down and, gingerly, began picking up the thick, transparent remains of the soft-drink bottle from the slick of unidentifiable muck in the wet
gutter. ‘Fucking kids.’
He never had time to straighten up again.
David stepped forward, brought the paper-wrapped bottle up over his head, then brought it down – thwack! – in a single blow to the back of Mikey’s skull.
As Mikey crumpled like a deflated balloon, David dropped the empty bottle and paper into the gutter, alongside the broken glass and other old news stories – just a bit more litter for the bin-men to smash and crash into their truck in the pre-dawn hours – hooked the unconscious Mikey neatly under the arms, and dragged him back to his car like some mug-punter who had overindulged in overpriced mock champagne in one of David’s clip joints.
He would finish off the job somewhere a little more private.
All the while this was going on, Christina, the tom who was increasingly too drink-raddled to be doing much business – regardless of the weather – except with the likes of Mad Albert Roper, sat in her dingy, unpleasant-smelling, fire-scorched and blackened room, looking down at the scene from behind the safety of her incongruously new net curtains.
David Fuller. What was he up to?
He might have got her out of trouble with the law, but that still didn’t mean she was very happy with him. Bringing all these kids into the area, with these new discothèques of his; it was completely ruining her pitch. A Friday night and what had she earned? Bugger all, that’s what. Her sort of punters weren’t interested in dance halls, they wanted strip joints and dirty book shops. Something to get them going. The proper trade of Soho.
And he had the cheek to complain if she didn’t get his bloody rent together on time. Threatened to throw her out on her arse.
It was a right bloody liberty, the way he was treating the working girls round here. They’d brought him a good living over the years, a right good living, but now he had no respect for any of them. It wasn’t good enough.
She took a swig of whisky straight from the bottle.
Hang on. Whatever was he up to now?
When Tilly Murray took her daughter’s usual morning cup of tea and biscuits into her bedroom – at ten o’clock rather than seven thirty, it being a Saturday – she had been pleased, if a bit surprised, to find that Angie was in there too. She was, after all, another customer for breakfast. And even if Jackie had claimed she was going out with Andrew, a very nice young man by all accounts, and Tilly’s hopes of her daughter maybe settling down and thus ceasing to be a worry to her had been falsely raised, she still liked the idea of Jackie going out with her friend and having a good time. There was still a year or two for engagements of the non-desperate kind to be announced, when all was said and done.
But when Angie had sat up, claiming that she wasn’t hungry and couldn’t possibly face a fry-up, Tilly had seen the state of the child, and had changed her mind. She looked terrible. Maybe some of the rumours she had been hearing about Angie – and, up until now, always loyally refuting – were actually true. And maybe she didn’t want her Jackie mixing with the likes of Violet Knight’s daughter. Not if she really was following in her tramp of a mother’s footsteps.
She would have a quiet word with Jackie later, when Angie had gone home. Get a few things straight.
It was a good job Tilly was patient. It was nearly midday by the time Angie eventually managed to drag herself out of Jackie’s bed and then to make her way unsteadily down the stairs to the bathroom.
She was now sitting at Jackie’s white melamine dressing unit staring at herself in the mirror. She looked as miserable as she felt.
‘Can I borrow some make-up, Jack?’
Jackie was still flat out, staring up at the ceiling. ‘Help yourself.’
‘Thanks. I look like a real freak.’ Angie sorted through the drawer full of cosmetics, selected a few tubes and bottles and set about her face.
Jackie propped herself up against the headboard and mouthed and squinted along with her friend as she shaded a grey banana shape into the crease of her lid and then drew a deft, subtle line along her lashes and topped it off with two layers of mascara.
‘You’ve been practising. That looks good.’
‘I went up to Selfridges. Had a make-up lesson.’
‘Why didn’t you ask me?’
‘You were at work.’
‘Course.’ Jackie dropped back down on to the pillows. ‘Want to borrow a dress?’
‘Please.’
‘Don’t know if I’ve got any good enough for you.’
‘Jackie.’
‘Just take what you like.’
‘Thanks. Then I’d better be off.’
Jackie turned over and faced the wall. ‘All right. See you.’
Angie lifted the curtain and looked out at the sky. The storm clouds had cleared and the sun was shining brightly again. She pulled on a pair of Jackie’s tiny, lacy knickers, then took a daffodil-yellow linen shift from the wardrobe and slipped it on over her head. ‘Jack.’
‘What?’
‘You couldn’t lend me the tube fare, could you?’
‘In my bag.’
‘Any plans for tonight?’ Angie asked, rummaging through her friend’s bag for her purse.
Jackie rolled over to face her. ‘Not sure. How about you?’
Angie held up a pound note to show Jackie what she was borrowing, then leaned over the bed and hugged her. ‘How about meeting up with Marilyn?’
‘I miss this, you know, Ange. I miss you.’
‘Me too.’
‘You will be careful?’
‘I told you, I’m on the Pill.’
‘I’m not talking about you getting up the spout.’
Angie stiffened. ‘So what are you talking about?’
‘This David bloke. He’s so much older than you. And where did he rush off to like that? What do you really know about him?’
‘I know that he’s kind, generous, good-looking, and that he cares about me.’
‘If he cares so much about you, how comes he let you get so drunk last night?’
Angie turned away from her friend and looked in the mirror again, smoothing and primping her hair. She laughed carelessly. ‘Drunk? I was practically sober by the time I got here. You should have seen me a few hours earlier. The trouble is, champagne goes right to my head. It’s all those bubbles. You should try it some time.’
‘It’s not funny, Ange. And just because it’s champagne, it doesn’t make it any better.’
‘You are such a hypocrite.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Yes you are.’ Angie folded her arms and stared levelly at her friend. ‘Are you saying you wouldn’t jump at the chance of doing what I’m doing?’
After a moment, Jackie said, ‘Yeah, you’re right. Course I would.’ She sounded as if she meant it.
Angie pulled on her shoes and her oilskin. ‘Fancy coming over to the flat? You can try some champagne.’
‘Won’t he mind?’
‘No. Course he won’t.’ She paused, then added lightly, ‘I’ll ask him.’
David and Bobby were driving along in stony-faced silence – their practised ability to deal calmly and practically with events having proved a life-saver on more than one occasion – even though Bobby had been closer to panicking than David had ever seen him when he had arrived at the Greek Street office and had found Bobby waiting anxiously for him to turn up.
That wasn’t usual either, him being at Greek Street on a Saturday morning. Bobby always took his wife out in the car to do her weekly grocery shopping, and only showed up at the office for the racing on the telly some time in the afternoon. And then, when Bobby had flashed a nervous, sideways glance at Bill and George, who were taking bets over the phones in the outer office, and had said in a low voice that he needed to speak to David urgently, somewhere more private, David knew something was really up. So, at David’s suggestion, they were driving over to the flat that Angie had moved in to the night before.
He needed a bath and a change of clothes, anyway.
David went through the flat call
ing for Angel, but the place was empty and the bed was still unmade.
‘She must be out shopping or something.’ David ushered Bobby into the main room and gestured for him to sit at the table. David remained standing, leaning on the back of one of the dining chairs. ‘What’s all this about then, Bob?’
Bobby gnawed at the inside of his lip, giving his speech one final rehearsal in his head, then said, ‘I don’t know if someone’s trying to send you a message, Dave, but the word is, Mikey’s been done in. Right outside the Canvas. Last night.’
David’s expression was blank, but his mind was working overtime. How the hell had it got out already? Then he said flatly, ‘I know. It was me. I got rid of the slimy little cowson.’
‘You?’
‘Yup.’
‘Dave, tell me you mean you got someone else to get rid of him.’
‘No. I did it. Knocked him out cold, then used the stupid bastard’s own Luger on him. Didn’t even have to use my own tool.’ For the first time that morning, David unbuttoned his raincoat. His shirt was spattered with blood.
Bobby drew in a deep breath. ‘Where is he?’
‘You just drove over from Greek Street with him. He’s downstairs. In the boot of the Jag. I drove him down to the marshes earlier, but it was still too wet, didn’t want to leave no tyre marks, did I? Then we had a trip down to a pig farm in Black Notley. Same story. Been all over the place, that boy has, this morning.’
Bobby stood up and went over to the phone. ‘I’ll call Toby.’
As Angie neared the house, she was thrilled to see David’s car parked outside. She had been fretting all the way back on the tube from Becontree to Sloane Square and all the time she was walking along the King’s Road to Flood Street that David would simply have locked up the place and disappeared, bored and with no further use for her now that they had actually ‘done it’. At least she’d have the chance to explain where she had been all night.
The door opened and she was just about to fling herself into his arms, but it wasn’t David standing in the hallway, it was Bobby.
‘Hello, Bob,’ she said sheepishly. ‘Can I come in?’
Bobby opened the door wider and stepped back. ‘Course. He’s in—’
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