‘I should get a job,’ he heard her call from the fridge.
*
‘This is nice. Us sitting down together like this.’ Sarah looked warily at the tea-stained cup and saucer her daughter had just handed her. A good soak in boiling water with a handful of soda wouldn’t have gone amiss. But she wasn’t here to criticize, she was here to try and build a few bridges, and to try and sort out a few things about Angie. And now her granddaughter was staying with her – safely out of the way, up in Lancaster Buildings – Sarah thought she could afford to be generous to Violet.
‘It was your idea to come here and have a little chat about her future.’ Vi lit a cigarette with little enthusiasm. Half past ten on a Saturday morning. She would rather be asleep, rather be having her toenails pulled out with pliers, than sitting here in her kitchen having a little chat with her interfering old bag of a mother.
‘It’s an important time for her.’
‘It’s up to her what she does.’ Vi spoke with a weary wave of her hand. ‘I’ve washed my hands of that girl. I’ve told her everything she wanted to know, and now she can take up nude tap dancing for all I care.’
Sarah felt a glow of triumph surge through her entire body: Violet wasn’t going to try and stop her, wasn’t going to try and spoil things.
‘Still seeing that Craig?’ she asked pleasantly.
‘What if I am?’
‘Don’t jump down my throat, Vi. I was only asking. He’s a nice-looking feller, that’s all I was going to say.’ She thought about the oily little git and how he had tried to smooth up to Angie at the wedding. ‘I didn’t really get the chance to say very much to him at Martin and Jill’s do.’ She took a tiny, trial sip of the tea. Stewed, of course. ‘So I don’t really know what he’s like.’
‘You should try going to bed with him. He’s cracking in that department.’
Sarah blanched at such smutty talk, but refused to be baited. ‘I heard you’d been seeing some Nick feller as well. He wasn’t the same one you used to go out with when Angie was a kiddie, was he?’
‘Lovely. Tilly Murray been blabbing to you about my private life, has she?’
‘Violet—’
‘Don’t worry, I couldn’t care less. What that old bag thinks doesn’t matter a shit to me. But, yes, if you must know, I was seeing Nick again for a while. Satisfied?’
Sarah noticed the grease-heavy cobwebs above the back door. The kitchen could do with a good disinfecting, and a lick of white paint round the skirting board wouldn’t go amiss, and as for the mucky fingerprints round the light switch … ‘I liked him. Nick. He was a nice man. He was good for you, Vi. Not like that married bloke from the shop. What was his name, now? Sam. That’s who I mean. What’s he up to nowadays?’
‘I’ll compile a list, shall I? Fill in the bits Tilly’s not sure on? OK, let’s see: I am not seeing Nick any more and I am not seeing Sam. They were both boring bastards. All right?’
‘There’s no need for that sort of talk, Violet. It’s very unladylike.’
‘Well, they were.’
‘Nick was well off, if I remember.’
‘So’s Sam.’
‘But Nick was ever so good to you. And single. He treated you with such respect. Like a proper lady.’
‘And he bored the arse off me.’
Sarah could only take so much. ‘A bit of boredom wouldn’t do any harm at your time of life, if you ask me.’
‘I’m not asking you. If you don’t mind.’ Vi took a deep lungful of smoke and blew it childishly towards her mother. ‘My time of life. Cheek.’
‘I just don’t want a daughter of mine winding up like some old brass.’
‘And I don’t want to die of boredom. Now. Really. If you don’t mind.’ Vi ground out her cigarette butt in the slops in her saucer and stood up. ‘I’m going to have a lie down. I think I’ve got one of my headaches coming on.’
As Sarah walked along the street, back towards Becontree tube station, she looked at Tilly Murray’s neat little end-of-terrace house, with its sparkling windows, snow-white nets and tidy, colourful front garden, and then back at her daughter’s run-down mirror image of it.
She sighed, exasperated.
She had tried to get through to Violet this one last time, tried as hard as she could be bothered to try – which, to be honest, wasn’t really that hard at all – but, she had to admit it, her daughter just wasn’t much good, and that was all there was to it. It was very sad, sad as a woman like Sarah could imagine, but it was true: Violet was nothing more, nothing less, than a trollop.
Still, maybe this Craig would at least make her happy.
‘Won’t be long, Nan.’
‘All right, girls.’ Sarah kicked off her shoes and settled down into her armchair. The journey back from Dagenham had taken ages and all she wanted to do now was to have five minutes to herself before she had to think about popping down Chris Street before they started closing away the stalls. ‘There’s no rush.’
‘Just the bottle of sterilized and a crusty loaf?’
‘That’s it.’
‘I’ll call into Doris’s on the way out, see if she needs anything.’
‘Good girl, Ange. Sure you’ve got enough money?’
‘Plenty.’
‘Use the change to get yourselves a nice lump of that seedy cake in the café, and a nice glass of milk each.’
Jackie and Angie smiled at one another. They both knew, as well as Sarah, that they would creep into the Britannia for a lager and lime and a packet of fags rather than into Pelligi’s for a bit of cake and a drink of milk.
Angie put down the two half-pint glasses on the table, and handed Jackie a bag of crisps.
‘You won’t be able to afford this, going to pubs, when you go to college,’ said Jackie, tearing open the crisp packet.
Angie, who, for the past two weeks, had been putting up with Jackie’s increasingly pessimistic list of reasons why she should go back to work with her in the City rather than to college, swallowed a gulp of lager and lime and smiled mockingly. ‘I’ll get a Saturday job.’
‘That won’t pay you enough to buy new clothes though, will it?’
‘Lucky you taught me how to make them at home then, eh, Jack?’
‘Angie,’ she whined. ‘I’ll really miss you.’
‘But you’ve got your loverboy, Andrew.’
Jackie poked out her tongue.
‘Anyway, the college is only in East Ham.’ She grinned, as she tore the Cellophane off her packet of Number Six. ‘I’ll be able to go round and see Marilyn in my lunch hour.’
‘Might only be East Ham, but it feels like you’re going to the other end of the world.’ Jackie munched forlornly on a crisp. ‘And how about Guy?’ she added slyly.
‘I’ve told you a million times, Jackie Murray. He keeps phoning, but I’m not going out with him. I’m not going out with anyone. Ever again. Not after what happened.’
Jackie leaned forward and poked her friend in the arm. ‘Here, we could have a double wedding. Me and Andrew and you and Guy.’
‘Will you stop it?’
‘All right, humpy. And I suppose I’d better keep on the right side of you. I mean, I don’t know when you might turn into a tycoon and earn your first million, do I? That’d be handy, though, if I needed to borrow a few bob.’ She shook her head. ‘Fancy you going back to study.’
Angie rolled her eyes wearily. ‘Jackie. I am doing a few O levels. At a further education college. While I decide what I want to do with my life. I might even be able to do them at evening classes.’
Jackie smacked the table enthusiastically. ‘That’s a fantastic idea, Ange. You could still work up the City with me. It’d be really fab. Just like it used to be.’
‘It’s nothing definite, Jack. I’m not sure yet what I’m going to do.’
Jackie sat back in her chair, folded her arms and regarded her friend. ‘I always knew you’d make something of yourself.’
‘You liar.’
‘Well …’
They sat in silence for a while, with Angie smoking and Jackie picking at the crisps.
Then Angie said: ‘Give my love to Martin when you see him next.’
‘Come round ours later and you can do it yourself if you like. He’s back home for the weekend.’
‘What, him and Jill?’
Jackie shook her head. ‘Jill’s family are going to some horsey do and he couldn’t stand the thought of it. So he’s pretending he’s got work to get done before the new term starts. And that he needs to stay at ours because he’s using the library at Mile End. I’m a bit worried about them two, to be truthful. They don’t act much like newly-weds.’
‘They’ll be all right, Jack. They’ll have to be. Just like the rest of us.’
‘They’ve already almost come to blows over what they’re doing for Christmas. The baby’s due around then, but Martin’s still insisting he wants to be with Mum and Dad. I can’t see Jill taking it lying down. She’s got a right temper on her. You’ll have to be there, Ange, or I’ll go mad if they’re at one another’s throats all the time.’
‘You make it sound so tempting,’ she said sarcastically, ‘but I might not be able to. I’ve had a word with Mum—’
‘Angie, you are not still letting your mum tell you what to do, even now you’re at your nan’s, are you? Not after everything that’s happened?’
‘No. This is nothing to do with Mum.’
‘But you said—’
Angie shrugged. ‘Not exactly, it’s not. It’s just that I’ve been trying to trace—’ She paused and gulped down the last of her drink. ‘—my dad. There, I’ve said it.’
‘Your dad?’ Jackie sat bolt upright, as though she was still at Campbell Mixed Infants and a teacher had just come into the classroom. ‘But he’s dead.’
‘It’s a long story, Jack, and I didn’t want to say anything till I was really sure, but I don’t think he is.’ She held up her empty glass. ‘Another drink?’
Jackie pushed her friend’s hand away. ‘Never mind no drinks. First that David bloke you were seeing turns out to be a big-time drugs-dealer and gets his gob splashed all over the papers—’
‘He’s not been found guilty yet, Jack.’
‘Yeah. Yeah. All right. I’m not thick. And now you reckon you’ve found your dad. Any other little secrets you’ve got to tell me while you’re at it?’
Angie shrugged. ‘Not that I can think of.’
‘You weren’t swapped by the fairies at birth or anything.’
‘Who knows?’
‘You’re making all this up, right? About your dad?’
‘No. This is as real as these empty glasses.’
‘Blimey.’
‘Yeah, blimey. You’re right. I think we could both do with another lager and lime, don’t you, Jack?’
Angie set the fresh round down on the table. ‘I’m thinking about trying to see him during the Christmas holidays.’
‘Where’s he from? Round here somewhere?’
‘No. He’s from Vancouver.’
‘Vancouver? Where’s that?’
‘Canada.’
‘Canada? Are you sure?’
‘You sound just like a parrot.’
‘Very funny. Now, are you going to tell me the whole story?’
‘I’m not sure of it myself. Not really. Not yet anyway. It was something Nan started off. She told me a few things about my dad. My real dad.’
‘The one who’s still alive?’
‘Yeah. Then, when Mum knew I wasn’t going to leave it, she eventually gave me all the information she had. It wasn’t much, to be honest, but I got lucky. I got a really good lead. And, if I get the letter back I’m hoping for, I’m going over there. Imagine that. Me going all the way to Canada to meet my dad. Nan said she’ll treat me to the fare if I do go.’ She grinned at Jackie across the rim of her glass. ‘I’ll have to go on a jet.’
‘What do you think will happen?’
‘Well, I’ll pack my bags, and then I’ll go to the airport—’
Jackie spluttered with exasperation. ‘Angie!’
‘Sorry. I don’t know, Jack. It might all be a terrible mistake or it might be the best thing I’ve ever done. All I know is, I feel strong enough to do it. And it’s not anyone else telling me to, or making me, or even trying to kid me. It’s just me. I’m doing it because I want to. Because I choose to.’ Angie flashed her eyebrows. ‘Fancy that, eh, Jack, a timid little thing like me, being brave enough to go all the way to Canada to find my dad.’
She took a sip from her glass and then licked the sweet foam off of her expertly outlined top lip. ‘I get really scared when I start thinking about it. Think how rotten it’ll be if I go all the way over there and he doesn’t like me.’
Jackie studied her friend closely, watching the girl she had once known so well, and tried, honestly tried, to understand what she was feeling. She was saddened to realize that it wasn’t possible. Not any more.
‘Yeah, that’s likely, Ange,’ she snapped, her abruptness a cover for her sense of loss. ‘Someone not thinking you’re fantastic. The bloke behind the bar’s been practically dribbling over you since you came in, and all your nan’s neighbours think you’re the sweetest girl they’ve ever met.’
She licked the end of her finger and dipped it in the last of the crisp crumbs. ‘In fact, Angela Knight, you make me sick.’
Angie grinned at her. ‘Good. That’s always been my sole purpose in life.’
Jackie sighed. ‘Things have changed so much, Ange. And I get scared as well sometimes. Knowing I’ve got to grow up and that.’
‘Know what scares me?’
‘Apart from meeting your dad and that?’
Angie nodded. ‘How I acted like a cheap little tart, and what I nearly got myself involved in.’
Jackie leaned forward. ‘You haven’t heard any more from the police, then?’
Angie shook her head. ‘No. And I don’t want to either. I hope I can put all that behind me.’
‘No more Angel then?’
She grinned wickedly. ‘Come on, I never said that, now did I? How could I get rid of Angel without going back to being that pathetic little thing who wouldn’t say boo to a goose? And, I’m telling you, there is not a single, solitary chance of me doing that, thank you very much.’
‘I can’t say I’m surprised.’
Angie put down her glass on the table and watched her finger as she rubbed it, slowly, round the rim. ‘You know, things always work out in the end. One way or another.’ Then she raised her eyes, looked at her friend and, in an unconscious imitation of David Fuller, she winked reassuringly. ‘Even if we don’t always realize it at the time, eh, Jack?’
Postscript
Detective Constable Jameson flicked through the buff, cardboard file as he drank his tea, alone, at his desk. He no longer bothered going into the canteen.
After his success in getting David Fuller put away for a good long stretch, on drugs and forged-passport charges, he had been ready to spread his net wider and to make a real name for himself. But he knew now that it wasn’t going to be quite as easy as he had hoped, that it was going to be damned hard work, in fact. His hoped-for progress with his boss, Detective Chief Inspector Leigh, had been disappointing to say the least, and his contribution to getting Fuller banged up was hardly acknowledged in the final reports. But Jameson had determination, youth and efficiency on his side, and every moment of his spare time was now concerned with beating a foolproof path to the well-hidden, but very crooked, door of Peter Burman.
No one would be able to ignore Jameson if he nailed a genuine Mr Big, a real player like him.
Jameson had dismissed a couple of leads as being a complete waste of his time, but had now found a very interesting new direction to follow that had caused him to seriously consider spending his annual leave in Cyprus.
The focus of his interest was Bobby Sykes, who, during the past eighteen months, and despi
te his apparent stupidity, seemed to have risen rapidly in the ranks of Burman’s organization over there. Rumour also had it that Sykes’s wife, Maureen, had been taking an active interest in the business, and that she was a bit of a powerhouse.
Jameson was very curious to see what he could dig up over there.
Then there was Sonia Fuller. Although she was still in a coma after all this time, he knew she was the key to what had happened to Mikey Tilson – which motorway fly-over he’d been cemented into, or which Essex smallholder had minced him up and fed him to the Dobermans.
He jotted down a note to remind himself to give the London Hospital a ring. She would have to wake up one day and Jameson wanted to make sure the consultants knew who to contact.
He flicked over another sheet of paper. Sarah Pearson. Was she worth a follow up? He read through his neatly typed notes. Worth keeping because of her association with that old fence, Doris Barker, but anything more? He put her details to one side, on the pile he had yet to decide on.
Now, who was this?
Angela Knight.
She’d not shown any sign of involvement in Burman’s world for over two years now. Never really had any serious involvement in the first place.
He studied the photographs of the smiling, glossy-haired girl. One of them showed her arm in arm with Fuller, as they made their way along the King’s Road, in the summer, that would be, of 1965, mingling with all the other Saturday afternoon shoppers.
She was a pretty girl. Very pretty. But totally insignificant. And no one got anywhere by playing around with the tiddlers. No one got anywhere playing around, full stop.
Jameson screwed up the sheets of paper headed Angela Knight and the photographs of the smiling, glossy-haired girl and tossed them into his bin.
He had far bigger fish to fry.
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Playing Around Page 33
