by Roberta Kray
The minutes ticked by. She needed a shower. If she didn’t move soon she’d be late for work and Saturday was their busiest day. Reluctantly, she got up, put on her dressing gown and carefully opened the door. She peered into the living room. The sofa was empty, the blankets she had provided him with neatly folded on the nearest chair. She looked towards the kitchen – no sign –then softly padded to the bathroom. That was empty too.
She let out a sigh of relief. He was gone! Thank God for that.
It was five minutes to nine when Jo started walking across the Green and five minutes past when she arrived at the shop. Despite the morning sun and the briskness of her pace she felt cold and shivery. Perhaps that mug of strong black coffee, especially on an empty stomach, hadn’t been the most brilliant of ideas.
She didn’t go in straight away but stopped and stared at the new window display. How did it look? With her head tilted to one side, Jo let her gaze roam over the latest collections. Sapphires were the theme for the month and the pieces were alight with a pure glowing blue. She tried to examine the display critically, objectively, as if she were just a casual passer-by, but couldn’t concentrate. Her thoughts kept slipping back to the kidnapped girl. Was she right to do nothing, to let Miller try to sort it out his own way? What if he was wrong about Susan? What if the girl was in danger? What if—
Before her fears could overwhelm her, she quickly pushed through the door. She was usually in by eight-thirty, before they opened, and a few eager customers were already browsing through the store. She took off her coat and scurried behind the counter. ‘Sorry I’m late. I got … I was just—’
Lifting a hand, Jacob swept her apology aside. ‘How many times have I told you? You don’t need to explain. You’re the boss.’
Jo still found it surprising, even slightly alarming, that this place actually belonged to her. Situated slap-bang in the middle of the High Street, Ruby’s was flanked on one side by a designer clothes store and on the other by a well-reviewed restaurant. This fortunate positioning allowed for a perfect shopping experience for the more well-heeled customer – the opportunity to buy a new outfit, choose the jewellery to go with it, then indulge in an excellent lunch, all without putting too much wear and tear on the feet.
She smiled and nodded. If it wasn’t for Jacob Mandel, she wouldn’t be here now. He was a small hunched man in his early seventies, his lined face topped by a thatch of bright white hair. She remembered when Peter had first made the introductions. Those sharp black eyes had cut straight through her, dismissing her, she was certain, as some dumb blonde who wouldn’t be on the scene for long. A lot had changed since then.
After Peter had died, his brother Tony had offered to buy the shop, to ‘take the place off your hands’ as he had so condescendingly put it. And Ruby, her sly mouth pursed for a fight, had been right behind him. ‘It’s for the best, dear. What do you know about running a business?’ Only Carla had remained silent although that was probably down to an unwillingness to side with the two people she despised most in the world than anything more actively supportive.
Still in shock, almost paralysed by grief, the last thing Jo had needed was to be at war with the family. How could she refuse? But Jacob had given her a reason. Determined to prevent the sale, he had cajoled, insisted and eventually talked her round. ‘You must keep the shop. Do it for him! It’s what Peter would have wanted. I’m quite sure of it.’
As Peter hadn’t made a will, there was no knowing what he’d specifically wanted. She had still had Ruby’s words echoing in her ears. ‘But I don’t know anything about the jewellery business.’
‘Then you learn, Mrs Strong, you put the effort in. I’ll help. We can do this together. Your husband put his heart and soul into building up this business. If he’d wanted that waster to have it, he’d have said so.’
She had been aware that Jacob had his own agenda – he must have feared for his own job, his own future – but she was glad now that he’d persisted. She still had plenty to learn but her knowledge was increasing by the day. What had begun as a way to fill the empty hours had, over the past two years, become a pleasure and the business was thriving. This was all down to Peter’s initial hard work, Jacob’s expertise and the flair of Deborah Hayes.
She shoved her bag under the counter and positioned herself behind the till. On the far side of the store, Deborah was artfully rearranging one of the displays. She was a tall, elegant redhead in her late thirties. Jo, if she was being honest, had never really liked her but was smart enough to recognise her value. Along with experience and efficiency, Deborah brought a vibrant energy to the store. She was full of ideas, everything from showcasing up-and-coming designers, through searching out talent in the local art colleges, to making the place more customer-friendly. She was even good at schmoozing the press; they’d had three flattering articles published about them in the last few months and that was the kind of publicity money couldn’t buy. The reputation of Ruby’s was steadily growing.
A young woman approached and passed over a pair of earrings. Jo wrapped them carefully. The earrings weren’t expensive but they were well-made, bold and original. She was pleased that there was still plenty of good, affordable jewellery on sale. It had never been Peter’s intention to make the place too exclusive; fashionable, yes, but not beyond the pockets of the less wealthy locals.
As the customer left, Jo glanced at Deborah again. How Peter had ever persuaded her to leave the hallowed ground of Asprey’s was a mystery – or perhaps it wasn’t. He had been a quiet, private man but he had been a charming one too. She suspected, although she had no solid evidence, that there had once been something between them. It was just a feeling. Although Deborah had never been unpleasant to her – indeed she was often overly-polite – there was no mistaking an underlying coolness. Had there been a fling, some kind of affair before she’d met and married Peter? Her empty stomach shifted a little. At least she hoped it had been before they—’
‘Passion and fire,’ Jacob said.
Jo’s cheeks flushed pink. She spun round, her heart beginning to race. ‘What do you mean?’
Startled by her sharpness, Jacob took a step back. His thick white brows shot up and he hesitated for a moment before stretching out his hand. She looked down. Nestled in his wrinkled palm was a small but brilliant gem. ‘The ruby,’ he said. ‘I thought …’
‘Oh,’ she murmured, wincing as the true meaning behind his words gradually sank in. After giving up so many of his evenings to try and teach her about precious stones, Jacob had formed the disconcerting habit of testing her when she least expected it. She should have realised. Instead, for one awful second she had thought he was referring to … Quickly, she pushed the thought aside. Dismayed to have snapped at him, she raised her face and sighed. ‘I’m sorry. I was miles away.’
‘Ah,’ he said, his smile reappearing. ‘I understand. It was a good night, yes? I’m the one who should apologise. You have a fragile head and I shouldn’t be talking so much.’
‘I’m not hung over.’ Jo swept a damp strand of hair behind her ear; she hadn’t had time to dry it properly before leaving the flat. ‘Well, maybe a bit. Is it that obvious?’
‘You think I don’t remember what it means to go out on the town? You think I’m too old and decrepit?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You young people – you imagine you invented the art of sex and debauchery.’
‘Jacob!’ she exclaimed, beginning to laugh. ‘It was hardly that. It was only …’ But, thinking back to the night before, what it had only been was perhaps best left unspoken.
‘So?’ he said.
Jo reached out and took the ruby from his hand. She held it between her fingers. It was a pretty thing, glowing even under the bright fluorescent light. Drawing on their lessons, she recited what she’d learned. ‘From the latin, ruber,’ she said, ‘meaning red. The best are usually from Burma but they’re also mined in Thailand, Vietnam and Sri Lanka. The finest exam
ples have high colour saturation.’ She looked at it more closely. ‘Like this one. The colour should be intense, not too pale or too dark. The most desirable, and the most valuable, are a pure and vivid shade of red.’
She continued to stare down at the stone. Peter had had a dislike of rubies – a loathing that bordered on revulsion. It was perhaps not entirely disconnected to an association with his mother. She thought of the lunch she had promised to attend tomorrow and felt her stomach shift again. After everything that had happened, the prospect of an afternoon with Ruby Strong was like the icing on a poisoned cake.
‘And?’ Jacob said.
Jo racked her brains. She knew this stuff – or she ought to. She’d spent enough nights trawling through the books. ‘Rubies tend to have more inclusions than sapphires,’ she said, ‘but these can enhance the beauty of a stone.’
‘What’s an inclusion?’ Jacob asked.
‘A foreign body enclosed in a mass.’
‘Meaning?’
Jo’s head was starting to bang again. If she remembered correctly it was something to do with mineral threads, with needles, with the way they were spread through the stone. Unable to recall the exact scientific jargon, she resorted to a less specific description she had read: ‘Meaning that where there might have been darkness, there is actually light.’
‘Okay,’ Jacob said. ‘Forget the rubies. Is he smart? Is he rich?’ His black eyes looked at her inquisitively. ‘Is he handsome?’
Jo stared back at him, confounded. ‘Who?’
He tapped the side of his nose. ‘Mr Mandel always knows when there’s a man on the scene.’
She shook her head. How wrong could he be? The only male she’d met in the past twenty-four hours was one she never wanted to see again. The mere thought of Gabe Miller made her feel queasy. ‘There isn’t,’ she insisted. ‘Absolutely not.’
‘You women,’ he said, raising his eyes to the ceiling. ‘You say one thing and always mean another.’
Jo passed the ruby back to him and smiled. It was better perhaps that he thought her in love, mooning over some romantic notion of a man, than stressing over past affairs or kidnapped girls.
Chapter Sixteen
Leo Kearns rolled back the sleeve of his shirt and studied the bruises. There were two on his upper arm and two more on his wrist, all a shade of dull mustard yellow. He thought of the big man’s fingers digging into his flesh and instinctively flinched. If it hadn’t been for Jo …
The memory of her intervention provoked two deep and conflicting emotions: pain that she had witnessed his humiliation and pleasure at her obvious concern. That he had been so easily overwhelmed caused him nothing but anguish. He hated being fourteen, skinny and weak. And yet there was a plus side to his shame: it was his very vulnerability, perhaps, that had finally proved her affection. She had rushed to save him! She had shown him that she cared! That had been clear from everything she’d said and done.
So what was she doing with a brute like that?
What made it even worse was that he’d stayed the night. Leo’s guts twisted at the thought of his strong vile hands touching her, undressing her. It made him want to puke. But at the same time he couldn’t stop thinking about it. He could imagine them kissing, their mouths meeting, the thin straps of her black dress slowly slipping from her slender shoulders, revealing first the soft skin beneath her neck, then her breasts and then …
He rapidly blinked his eyes, trying to expunge the image. She wasn’t like the cheap girls in the glossy magazines. He couldn’t think of her that way. Real love went beyond sex, beyond the merely physical.
Turning towards the computer, he opened one of the files and flicked through the old pictures. Most were of Peter and Jo, taken on his mobile phone as they had come into the house or left it, along with a few he’d managed to snap along the High Street. He nodded as the images swept past. They had been the perfect couple but, at this moment, it was Jo he was concentrating on most. Back then her hair had been long, a pale blonde curtain reaching almost to her waist. He wondered why she had cut it all off. He sensed that it was connected to sadness and grief and change, although he didn’t completely understand it.
Reaching out, he gently touched the image on the screen. Even though she had seemed more glamorous when her hair was long, he liked it short too. It made her seem younger somehow, more approachable. Her face, with its high cheekbones, was heart-shaped and delicate and her eyes were a soft shade of blue. Leo’s gaze automatically slid down to her breasts, her slim waist and legs. There was no denying that she had a great figure …
Quickly, he concentrated on her face again. Real love, he thought, should be sacred and lasting. Leo knew that if he was married to her and she died, he would always be faithful to her memory. Just as she should have always been faithful to Peter’s.
He banged his fist down on the table. And yet he wasn’t really angry. Not at her at least. She had made a mistake but he couldn’t condemn her for it. She was vulnerable, still in mourning. Jo was too beautiful for this world, too soft and delicate – the bastard had plainly taken advantage. His fingers gradually uncurled. No, last night had been an aberration, a moment of weakness and for Peter’s sake, as well as hers, he would make sure it never happened again.
Leo treasured his memories of Peter Strong. He had a lot to thank him for. It was Peter who had come to their rescue five years ago. He could still vividly recall the two cramped rooms he’d been living in with his mother, the peeling wallpaper and the pervasive odour of damp and decay. There had been the noises too, the sounds from the hallway that went on through the night, the screams and the shouts. He couldn’t forget the fear that she had always tried to hide.
It had been like one of those crazy stories, a miracle, when they’d been transported to this clean and roomy flat in Kellston. And it wasn’t just their surroundings that had altered, there had been more money too, a complete change in their circumstances. Not that they were rich or anything but life was certainly more comfortable.
Why Peter had done it was a mystery. He had often asked his mother and always got the same reply.
‘He wanted to help. He was a friend of your dad’s.’
‘But why should he—’
‘Because good friends take care of each other.’
And that, no matter how often he asked, was all she would say. He sensed it was not the whole story but he’d given up trying to pursue it. She was a generous mother, loving and kind, but obstinate too. On certain subjects she refused to be moved. It was, perhaps, too hard for her to talk about the past. His father, Leonard, had died when he was two. He had been named after him although she always called him Leo. He wished he could remember something, anything, about him but he couldn’t.
He clicked on a picture, the only photo he had of his dad. The original was in the prayer book beside his mother’s bed. He had taken it out and scanned it into the computer. It was actually of both his parents, taken shortly after they were married. They seemed strangely young and unfamiliar. He didn’t directly resemble either of them, although some of their features were evident when he looked in the mirror. He had inherited her straight black hair and pale brown skin, his grey eyes, skinny build and height. And yet none of these were exact reproductions. It was as if their DNA had been put in a blender, given a whir and poured out to create the thin blurry soup that was Leo Kearns.
He often thought about his dad. Mum said he’d been a salesman but that was too bland and boring. The very fact that he had died abroad imbued him with a kind of glamour that Leo longed to know more about. But how could he find out? How could he ask? Questions like that only disturbed and upset her.
And Leo didn’t like to see her unhappy.
The last time she’d been really stressed was after Peter’s death. And it hadn’t just been at the loss of a friend. She’d become anxious, pacing the flat, talking about having to move again. But the weeks had passed, then the months and now, almost two years later, they were stil
l here.
His thoughts returned to the man Jo had brought home.
Leo’s bedroom was at the front of the house and he’d heard the door click at dawn as the bastard crept out. Except, of course, he hadn’t crept – he’d swaggered down the path as though he owned the place. From behind the shelter of the curtains, Leo had watched him cross the road and cut across the Green. He’d felt a surge of anger. If he’d had a gun he could have opened the window, taken aim and fired. In his mind’s eye he saw the rose blossoming on his assailant’s back and could imagine his surprise as he crumpled to his knees and slowly fell forward.
Leo rubbed at his arm and smiled. Perhaps he should buy a gun. There were lads from the Mansfield Estate, guys who hung around the Green, who could get anything you wanted – for a price. He had no idea what a weapon like that would cost, hundreds perhaps, but it would be worth it. London was full of dangerous people and it was his duty to protect the ones he loved.
His mother called to him from the kitchen. ‘Leo? Do you want a drink?’
‘Thanks.’
‘What are you doing?’
‘Homework,’ he said, quickly closing the file on his computer.
She didn’t approve of violence but then women rarely did. They didn’t understand the true order of the world. Approving or disapproving was beside the point; life, no matter how you viewed it, was ultimately to do with the survival of the fittest. And if you weren’t the fittest – and fourteen-year-old boys rarely were – then you had to be the smartest.
Chapter Seventeen
It was almost twenty-four hours since Silver had been taken from the hotel. On Monday morning Delaney would receive the next note, giving him three days to get the ransom together. But even then, they wouldn’t return her straight away. This wasn’t just about the cash – it was about making him suffer too.
