‘Mick got me out,’ he told Denny, ‘but things is going downhill, there, Denny. Mick ain’t strong enough to hold off the likes of Maxton’s lot, or Bull Shadbolt.’ He hesitated before going on, ‘Heard it on the street, Denny, your lady ain’t being treated with the respect what she deserves.’
Denny exploded with anger, but there was little he could do from twelve thousand miles away. He’d always hoped to slip back into London unnoticed when the heat was off, but it was still too soon. He had five years of a fifteen-year sentence hanging over him and he had no intention of serving it. He was only fifty-four and he’d already spent enough of his life inside. But now this diagnosis of advanced lung cancer was a different sort of sentence and one he knew he couldn’t dodge, so he decided to send Vic to collect his wife and daughter and to deal with Maxton and Shadbolt.
On arriving in London, Vic continued to use his Vic Merritt identity, complete with the safety of a new, legal, Australian passport, but once back in the familiar London streets, he reverted in his head to being Harry. Not Harry the cellar-rat; not Harry the streetwise kid and boss’s runner; not Harry the enemy alien arrested by the police; not Harry the black marketeer, but Harry, a combination of all these. A man at ease in his own skin, with a confident grasp on his life and ambitious for his future.
He found himself a comfortable hotel near Charing Cross station and booked himself in for three nights. His business would take much longer than that, but he had learned a lot of things from Denny over the years, and keeping on the move was one of them.
After a good night’s sleep, Harry dressed with care and walked out into the autumn sunshine, setting off with confident stride along the Strand. He was not a tall man, but there was something about him that made people move aside to let him pass. Well-dressed in a dark suit, white shirt and navy-blue tie, his boots polished to a mirror shine, he was clearly a man of means. He needed to be taken seriously if he were to complete Denny Dunc’s business in London and there must be nothing about him to give a glimpse of the runaway lad, Harry Black.
It was a beautiful morning and he decided to walk a while, to soak up the familiar sights and sounds of London before taking a bus to Maida Vale where Dora Duncan lived. He decided on the anonymity of a bus, a taxi being too noticeable. Dora was not expecting him. No message had been sent. Denny, having heard Ricky Mawes’s report of the state of things, didn’t trust anyone in London any more, not even Mick Derham. Maybe he’d sold out to Shadbolt or Maxton? A rat deserting a sinking ship? Denny could trust no one but Harry who’d been with him in Australia.
Harry had served time with Denny during the war. In the early days of his sentence, Harry, a young lad tossed into the harsh world of prison, had had to fight his corner, but he was a streetwise kid who’d survived the attentions of the Hitler Youth back in Germany. He fought hard and he fought dirty and proving he could handle himself, he came to the attention of gangland boss, Denny Dunc. Denny, seeing something of his younger self in Harry and recognising his potential, took him in hand. Harry, a quick learner, soon acquired skills from other inmates that would stand him in good stead in the jungle that was post-war London, and ensured he’d be useful to Denny once he was back on the outside. On his release Harry was happy to run some errands for Denny who still languished in gaol with several years of his sentence to run. Despite being inside, Denny’s influence was such that he’d had no difficulty organising Harry’s new identity. With new papers naming him as Victor Merritt, Harry shucked off his police record, and was able to walk the streets of London freely.
Denny Dunc’s escape plan, from prison and from the country, had been meticulously planned. The escape itself was carried out on VE Day when the world was thinking about something else, and once Denny was safely hidden in a run-down area of the docks, he sent Mick Derham to find Harry. Denny was taking ship for Australia, planning to stay there until the heat was off. Harry, unknown to him, had always been part of this plan, he was part of Denny’s cover. Despite his reluctance to leave London, he had no choice and as George and Victor Merritt, father and son, they had travelled together on a jobbing merchant ship, the Maiden Lady, and had arrived in Sydney some eight weeks later. Now Harry was back.
He took a bus to Maida Vale and walked down the street, Marsh Avenue, where Dora lived with her daughter, Bella. He had no intention of going there until it was dark, but he wanted to see the house and its neighbours in daylight.
Marsh Avenue proved to be a small side street of detached houses, each set back from the road, maintaining its privacy behind a walled front garden. The grey stone wall protecting Dora Duncan’s home ran the width of the frontage. It was taller than most with a privet hedge behind and above, shielding it from casual curiosity. Halfway along was wrought-iron gate allowing Harry a glimpse of the house beyond. It looked much like its neighbours, double-fronted, with bay windows, the front door protected by an arched porch. Harry took a quick glance through the gate but kept on walking. Marsh Avenue was empty, basking in the October sunshine; there were no parked cars, no pedestrians, no one sitting in the small public garden at the end of the street. On the corner was a pub, the Blue Anchor, and opposite the garden was a parade of shops. Harry went into the newsagent and bought a newspaper before wandering into the garden. He sat down on a bench in the sunshine and opened his paper. From here he could see the front door of Dora’s house. He sat there for nearly half an hour, ostensibly reading his paper and enjoying the autumn sun, then he got to his feet, folded the paper and strolled off in the direction of Kilburn High Road. There had been no sign of interest in Dora’s house. Denny had been right. The police had given up hope of him coming home.
Early that evening, Harry took a bus back to Kilburn and walked the few hundred yards to the Blue Anchor. As he waited for it to get dark, he had a pint of bitter, sitting quietly in a corner and listening to the general chat going on round him. He heard nothing to interest him, he hadn’t really expected to, but another of Denny’s maxims was that you should always take the time to look round a neighbourhood you were interested in.
As the twilight faded to darkness, Harry downed the last of his pint and left. No one showed any interest in him as he walked briskly up Marsh Avenue and let himself in through Dora’s front gate. He had been concerned that Dora might not believe he came from her husband, might not even open her front door at night.
‘She’s never met me, Denny,’ he’d said. ‘How’ll she know I’m legit?’
‘Don’t worry about that, Vic,’ Denny replied. ‘We have a password, “Thermometer”.’
‘Thermometer?’ Harry sounded incredulous.
‘Yeah, for testing the water, ain’t it? Not the sort of thing you say out of the blue. If you say thermometer to her, Dora’ll know you come from me.’
He rang the bell and waited in the shadow of the porch. After a moment a light came on over his head. There was a spyhole in the door and Harry realised he was being studied from the inside. He waited and then a man’s voice said, ‘Who is it?’
‘Vic Merritt,’ said Harry. ‘I have a message for Mrs Duncan.’
There was a moment’s silence and then the door opened on its chain, and Harry saw Mick Derham peering at him through the crack.
‘Vic Merritt,’ Harry said again. ‘With a message for Mrs Duncan. Come on, Mick, stop fucking about and let me in.’
Mick’s eyes narrowed. He knew the name and now that he could see Harry properly he knew the face. He’d been instrumental in Denny’s and Vic’s escape from London, but he found it hard to equate this smooth-looking bloke on the doorstep with the scruffy lad who used to be called Harry Black.
‘Wait there,’ he said and closed the door again.
Feeling very exposed standing in the lighted porch, Harry moved into the shelter of its arch. Moments later there was the rattle of chain and Mick Derham opened the door and allowed Harry to step inside, closing it behind him.
‘Stand there,’ Mick snapped and with quick rough hands
he patted Harry down, searching for weapons. Harry submitted to this without comment. He’d have done the same to anyone who’d arrived unexpectedly on his doorstep, but Mick was inefficient. Satisfied that Harry was unarmed, he failed to find the flick knife tucked into his boot. He was certain now that Harry was who he said he was, the lad Denny had taken a shine to in prison, and Mick’s resentment of him was as great now as it had been then. He glared at him and said, ‘So, what d’you want with Dora?’
Harry held his gaze and said, ‘That’s between me and her.’
Mick’s cheeks darkened at the rebuke and he turned abruptly to knock on double doors that led off the hall.
‘Come in,’ said a soft voice from within. Mick stood aside and Harry pushed open the doors and stepped into the room. A comfortable sitting room, with soft lighting, the curtains drawn across the windows against the night and prying eyes, it was warm with a fire smouldering in the hearth.
Harry didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but Dora Duncan was nothing like he’d imagined. For some reason he’d pictured her as thin, with lined cheeks and sparse hair, creeping towards old age, bitterness etched on her face from how life had treated her, left alone for so many years. He couldn’t have been more wrong. On a sofa, her feet up on a stool, was a late-middle-aged woman, who, Harry thought, if she stood up would be as wide as she was tall. Her permed hair was carefully styled with no hint of grey in the corrugation of its curls. She stared across at him from a pair of coal-black eyes, regarding him shrewdly as he paused in the doorway. Her gaze noted the well-cut suit, the polished shoes and the brushed trilby hat he held in his hand, taking in every detail.
‘Thanks, Mick,’ she said dismissively. ‘I’ll call you if I need you.’
Mick glowered at Harry before accepting his dismissal and leaving the room.
‘So,’ Dora said once the door was closed, ‘you’re Harry Black. Denny’s told me about you. Done well for yourself, by the looks of you.’ She waved a pudgy hand towards an armchair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘Sit down.’
Harry sat and waited.
‘You been with him in Sydney all the time,’ she said – a statement not a question.
Harry nodded. ‘That’s right.’
‘And now you’re here.’
‘Yes.’
‘Denny sent you.’ Again a statement.
‘Yes.’
‘This is like drawing teeth, Harry,’ she said in exasperation. ‘What did he send you for? What’s going on?’
‘He gave me a password,’ Harry said.
‘I don’t need a password,’ Dora snapped. ‘I know fine well who you are. Mick said it was you and I only had to look at his face to see it was true! So, what’s going on?’
‘He sent me to fetch you, you and Bella.’
‘Fetch us?’ Dora showed surprise for the first time. ‘Fetch us where?’
‘To Sydney.’
‘To Sydney?’ she echoed in astonishment. ‘But I don’t want to go to Sydney. I thought you was going to tell me he’s coming home at last.’
‘I’m afraid he ain’t coming home again, Dora. Not now, not never.’
Dora stared at him for a moment and then asked flatly, ‘Is he dead?’
‘No,’ Harry shook his head, ‘but he’s not well.’
‘What sort of not well?’
‘Lung cancer,’ Harry replied. ‘He was diagnosed a couple of months ago.’
Dora turned pale but went straight to the point. ‘How long’s he got?’
‘About nine months is their best guess, but I don’t think they really know.’
‘That’s a facer.’
‘So, he wants you an’ Bella to come out to Sydney and he’s sent me to fetch you.’
‘We ain’t got passports,’ Dora said. ‘If we apply for them they’ll know. They’ll find him and put him back inside.’
‘Don’t worry about passports,’ Harry said. ‘Denny’s given me money to sort them out for you... new names.’
‘But how quick? And how do we get there?’
‘Once we know your new names,’ Harry told her, ‘I’ll get you booked on the next available ship.’
At that moment the door burst open and a young woman of about nineteen came in. She was tall and slim, her blonde hair, swept back off her forehead in a smooth victory roll, tumbled about her ears in fluid curls, her eyebrows were plucked and pencilled into perfect arcs dark above her sea-green eyes, and her wide, inviting mouth was a glossy crimson. She paused on the threshold, looking Harry up and down.
‘Mick said someone had come, Ma. Who is he? What’s going on?’
‘Bella, this is Harry Black. Went to Australia with your dad.’
Harry stared at her, stunned for a moment, before recalling himself and saying, ‘I’m known as Victor Merritt now. I’ve come to see your mother, to see she’s OK and to bring a message from your dad.’
‘He’s dying,’ Dora said. ‘Got cancer.’
‘Dad has?’ whispered Bella, glancing at Harry as if for confirmation.
He nodded. ‘I’m afraid so.’
Bella sank into a chair and a sob escaped her as she covered her face with her hands.
‘Harry’s come to take us to see him,’ said her mother.
‘In Sydney?’
‘Yes. He’ll get our passports sorted and then we’ll go.’
‘I’m sorry to bring such bad news,’ Harry said. ‘But we’ll get you both there as soon as we can.’
‘Where’re you staying?’ Dora asked. ‘You need a bed here?’
‘No, thanks, Mrs Duncan...’
‘Dora.’
‘Dora. I’m staying at the Kingswood, near Charing Cross. I’m better staying there until I’ve sorted all the things Denny has told me to do. It’s anonymous-like, no one interested in why you’re there, or when you come and go. But thanks for the offer, it would’ve been nice.’
For a moment his eyes met Bella’s and she blushed at the look she encountered.
A sound from the door made them all turn. Mick was standing in the doorway. None of them had heard him come in. Had he heard what they’d been saying? The news of Denny’s cancer? Harry hoped not.
‘I got a meet,’ he said. ‘I’ll come by tomorrow or the next day, Dora.’ He looked meaningfully at Harry. ‘See everything’s all right.’
‘It will be, Mick,’ replied Dora. And with that Mick Derham left the room and left the house.
‘He don’t live here?’ asked Harry.
‘Lord, no,’ cried Dora. ‘But he comes round from time to time, checking up.’
‘Checking up?’
‘Checking up on business. He makes sure we get our money, Bella and me, but I’m not sure I trust him no more,’ Dora said.
‘Denny don’t trust him, neither,’ Harry said. ‘What’s been going on?’
‘Things have been going wrong lately.’
‘How wrong and how lately?’ asked Harry. He hadn’t liked Mick’s attitude but had assumed it was because of him.
‘It was all right at first. Mick ran Denny’s businesses, you know, the usual stuff, clubs, girls, protection, gambling. The money come in the same as usual. Everyone thought Denny’d be back soon, but it’s been too long now and he ain’t the boss no more. Mick’s no use. No backbone. When the Orion burned down...’
‘Orion?’
‘A nightclub Denny owns... or rather owned. Legit business, that was. Anyhow, it burned down crack of dawn one day last month. No one in it, so no one hurt, but the premises gone. Fire brigade called it in as arson. Police suspected us. Word went round that we’d torched it ourselves and so there weren’t no insurance money. We was all pretty sure it was down to Shadbolt, but no one’s talking. He wouldn’t’ve risked it, not if Denny’d been here, but Mick, Mick’s a pushover.
‘Then there’s been trouble with some of those we protect, and money going missing from the bookies’ runners.’
‘But hasn’t Mick dealt with that? That’s basic
enforcement, that is. Shouldn’t be standing for nonsense like that!’
‘Think it’s Bull Shadbolt behind all of it,’ Dora said, ‘and Mick isn’t strong enough to take him on. Denny wouldn’t have stood for it, that’s for sure.’
‘Think he’s on Shadbolt’s payroll now?’
Dora shrugged. ‘Could be, wouldn’t surprise me. His or Maxton’s.’
‘Hmm,’ said Harry. ‘I’ll keep an eye.’ It was the kind of thing they’d been hearing back in Sydney, though the news of the Orion fire had yet to reach them. It’s what he’d been sent to sort out.
‘Tell me about Dad,’ Bella said suddenly. ‘Tell me about him in Australia. I haven’t seen him for years. I was a kid when he was arrested and Ma wouldn’t let me go into the prison to see him there.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Dora, keen to change the subject until she could discuss what was going on with Harry in private. ‘What happened when you got to Sydney? Den’s sent me occasional letters, sent from all over the place. Take months to get to me, some of them do, but he’s not much of a letter writer, so I don’t know about his life over there.’
‘Well, when we landed he made contact with a bloke called Bernie Welbeck; said he owed him cos he’d helped him get out of London in a hurry some years ago. Denny said Welbeck had known we was coming, but not our new names and not when. Didn’t trust him. When I asked him why not he said, “Vic, I don’t trust no one, son. And nor should you.”’
‘That Welbeck help you?’ Dora asked. ‘I remember him, slimy bastard. Den was right not to trust him.’
‘Yeah, you’re right there,’ Harry agreed. ‘Denny called in the favour, he let us in on a few bits of business, and Denny took it from there. Had to sort Welbeck out once things got going. Tried to play two ends off against the middle. Never pays, that. Still, Denny eased his way in and gradually built his business up. Took on Mawes, a boxer he’d known in London as an enforcer, collecting payment from some of the small businesses who were under his protection.’ Harry smiled at Dora. ‘Nothing big, just enough to keep him in the readies. Doing OK, your Denny is.’
The Married Girls Page 6
