by Roberta Kray
‘So I don’t understand why we need to have this discussion every month. Are you completely incapable of balancing the books?’
It was, of course, a rhetorical question. Tony lived beyond his means. Although the Hatton Garden shop provided him with a generous income, enough to keep his family in comfort, it was not enough to subsidise his less savoury habits: gambling, drinking and womanising were expensive pastimes.
Ruby shook her head and sighed. ‘When I think of how hard your father worked …’
‘I know,’ Tony said.
‘I sometimes wonder if you do.’
Strong’s was an exclusive jewellery chain. It was once renowned for its originality and style but now catered almost entirely to the kind of mindless celebrities who had more money than taste. Its profits were vast but then so were Tony’s outgoings. Mitchell, although he had bequeathed the flagship of his mini-empire to his younger son, had left all the other outlets to Ruby. She had immediately sold them on and stashed the money in the bank. If Tony wished to get the regular handouts he so desperately needed, he had no choice but to stay on the right side of her. She was more than capable of cutting him off and leaving her millions to the dog’s home.
Jo glanced along the table. Ruby was wearing her familiar gloating expression. Her hair, a distinctive silver grey, was cut in a neat bob and the long lobes of her ears were adorned with a pair of bright sparkling diamonds. There was another much larger rock on her left hand. She might always dress in black but she never skimped on the accessories.
‘Are you even listening to me?’
‘Yes,’ Tony said. ‘I’m listening.’
‘And so …’
‘And so I’ll be more careful in future.’
‘How many times have I heard that before?’
Had she been a more responsible or even slightly nicer person, Ruby may have tried harder to curb her son’s excesses. Instead she went through this regular charade of first berating him and then writing out a hefty cheque.
Jo wondered why she was still invited to these gatherings. It certainly wasn’t out of affection; Ruby didn’t even pretend to like her. More to the point, why did she continue to accept? It was partly, perhaps, out of a sense of duty – the woman was Peter’s mother, after all – but also because of Carla and the kids.
‘Even Josephine can manage to turn a profit,’ Ruby said, as if this was proof-positive of just how incompetent he actually was.
Tony turned his head, grinned at Jo and winked. ‘She’s a very smart woman.’
Jo quickly looked away. ‘Well, it’s a much smaller place. We don’t have the same overheads or—’
‘Yes,’ Ruby sighed. ‘I don’t think we need a lengthy speech on the subject. We’re all aware of the details.’
That Jo had refused to sell the business still stuck in her craw. Ruby’s had been Mitchell Strong’s first shop but not an especially successful one. Back then, Kellston had been a rough, down-at-heel East End borough without any of the potential it now possessed; the locals just hadn’t had the money to spend. How Mitchell had managed to up his game and move to Hatton Garden was a mystery but from that moment his fortunes had changed. Although Ruby’s had continued to trade, it had never been a part of the highly acclaimed Strong’s chain of stores. Like a poor and faintly embarrassing relative, it had been kept on purely because no one knew what else to do with it.
Tony, still smiling, refilled his glass. ‘Oh, credit where credit’s due, Mother. You can’t deny that she’s doing a great job. I’m sure Peter would be proud of her – carrying on the good work and all.’
Ruby put down her knife and fork and glared at him.
Jo’s heart sank. Any discussion of this nature was bound to end badly. She didn’t know what had caused the rift between her husband and his father, only that it hadn’t been resolved before Mitchell’s death. By then they hadn’t been in contact for years. Peter had been living abroad and hadn’t returned until after his father had been buried. His inheritance, he had told her, was his dad’s idea of a final slap in the face – he had left him the only business that was firmly in the red. It was also, perhaps, why Peter had worked so hard to turn Ruby’s around and to make it a success. Proving points seemed to run in the Strong genes.
‘That shop,’ Ruby said, ‘has sentimental value. It should have stayed in the family.’
‘Oh, come on, Mother. No one took the slightest bit of interest in it for years. And anyway, Jo is family.’
Ruby gave the kind of derogatory snort that suggested otherwise. ‘Peter didn’t expect her to run it. He would have wanted us to step in and relieve her of all that unnecessary worry.’
‘And we offered to do just that, as I’m sure you remember.’
Jo could feel the heat burning in her cheeks. There was nothing worse than being talked about as though you weren’t even in the room. ‘It’s not a worry,’ she blurted out. ‘I enjoy it. I like working there.’ She could see the hateful look in Ruby’s eyes but continued regardless. There was a limit to how much anyone could be pushed around and with everything that had happened over the past forty-eight hours, she’d just about reached her limit. ‘And it has sentimental value for me too. Peter was my husband, after all. I think I know exactly what he would or wouldn’t have wanted me to do with it.’
The shock of her speaking out stunned the table into momentary silence.
‘Well,’ Ruby said. ‘I’m sure no one meant to cause offence.’
Jo felt like snorting herself but wisely resisted. Someone had to behave like an adult.
She’d said her piece and hopefully that would be enough to put an end to the matter.
Tony refilled his glass from the decanter. He took a drink, sat back and smiled. ‘How delightful, all of us being together like this. I do so love these family occasions.’
The next twenty minutes seemed to drag on for ever. A few faltering attempts at conversation petered into nothing. There was only the thin scraping of plates interspersed with Ruby’s plaintive sighs. Jo knew that she was waiting for an apology, waiting for her to back down, but it wasn’t going to happen. For once, Jo Strong was going to hold her ground.
It was a relief when the meal came to an end. Ruby dabbed at her mouth with a napkin and looked at her son. ‘I believe we have some business to attend to.’ Then, slowly lumbering to her feet, she addressed the rest of them. ‘I’m sure you can manage to entertain yourselves for a while.’
Tony pushed back his chair and stood up too. He still had a glass in his hand.
Ruby took it from him and put it back on the table. ‘And Carla,’ she said, ‘if it isn’t too much trouble, you could make some coffee and bring it through to the study.’
Jo was surprised by the request – wasn’t that usually Mrs Dark’s job? – but Carla, aware that a much-needed cheque was about to be signed, nodded obediently and followed them out.
No sooner had the door closed than Mrs Dark moved around the table and sat down beside her.
‘How are you, dear?’ she said softly, reaching out to place her warm hand over Jo’s. ‘Not too upset, I hope?’
Instinctively, she wanted to pull away but the long slender fingers were placed quite firmly over her own. To remove them would require the kind of effort that would appear both rude and ungainly. ‘Not upset at all. Why should I be?’
‘I sense …’ Mrs Dark hesitated. ‘Your aura … you’re troubled. You have a lot on your mind.’
‘Haven’t we all,’ Jo said lightly.
‘Indeed,’ she agreed. ‘But so many responsibilities for you, so many pressures – I see storm clouds gathering. There’s been a change. Yes, I definitely sense a change. There’s confusion about who to trust. You have difficult choices to make but you mustn’t let your heart rule your head. The past flows into the future and—’ She suddenly stopped and tilted up her face as if she was listening to someone. She nodded and looked back at Jo. ‘It may be time to let go, to move on and make a fresh start.’
Jo stared at her, incredulous.
Mrs Dark’s eyes flickered and half closed. ‘The spirits are with us. Would you like me to—’
‘No!’ Jo said sharply. ‘Please don’t.’ She had already heard more than enough. It was patently clear that Ruby had set up this whole charade. Even now she wasn’t giving up. The old witch would try anything to get her to sell the shop. ‘Please don’t bother them. I’m sure they have better things to do with their Sunday afternoons.’
Mrs Dark’s eyes opened fully again and her scarlet lips widened into a smile. ‘There’s no need to be afraid, dear. I frequently do readings for Mrs Strong. She finds them very comforting. We often receive messages from her husband.’
‘Even so,’ Jo said. She thought it more likely that Ruby was sending messages rather than receiving them. Even in death Mitchell would have no escape from her constant interference and demands.
‘I can feel them pressing in around us. They wish to talk.’
With her free hand Jo reached for her glass and took a swig of wine. She wasn’t drunk yet but she was working on it.
‘It’s something to do with gold.’
Jo tried not to groan. Next she’d be spouting some nonsense about journeys across the sea and tall, dark, handsome strangers. Although Jo couldn’t entirely dismiss the possibility of psychic powers – she wanted to believe in an afterlife – she was naturally suspicious of any medium who chose to spend a disproportionate amount of time in the company of rich old ladies. Not that Ruby Strong could ever be described as vulnerable; she was more than capable of taking care of herself. Anyone trying to fleece her would have their work cut out.
‘No, it’s not gold, it’s silver. Why do they keep saying silver?’
That caught Jo’s attention. She turned her head. ‘What?’
‘There’s fear there. I can feel it. The spirits are warning me of danger.’ There was a long pause. ‘He has no pity. He brings only death and destruction.’
Although Jo wanted to laugh, she couldn’t. The hairs on the back of her neck were standing on end. ‘Who are you talking about?’
‘He’s watching, watching all the time.’
‘Who?’ Jo urged.
‘He’s never far away.’
She waited, her heart starting to race. But there was nothing more. ‘Mrs Dark?’
For a moment her fingers tightened around Jo’s before she gave a faint shudder, let go of her hand and slumped back in her chair.
Chapter Twenty
It hadn’t taken Marty long to track him down; junkies were creatures of habit and dogs always returned to their own vomit. Quietly, he crossed the room. Lying prostrate on an old worn sofa, Ritchie was fast asleep with one arm raised above his head. He was snoring softly. Marty reached out a foot and gently nudged his ribs with the toe of his shoe. The kid twitched and shifted a little. The snoring stopped but he didn’t wake up.
Marty had keys to all the rooms. The dilapidated house in Clapton, one of Delaney’s many properties, was split into eight small bedsits. He looked around, trying not to breathe too deeply. How anyone could live like this was beyond him. It was almost dark but even through the gloom he could see it was a pit. Strewn with dirty clothes, empty bottles and takeaway pizza cartons, it clearly hadn’t been cleaned for months. On the coffee table were three chipped mugs, all with a greeny-blue mould floating in their liquid dregs. An ashtray had tumbled on to the carpet. The stink rose up to invade his nostrils.
Leaning over, he ran the back of his hand across the sleeping boy’s face. The contrast between Ritchie and his surroundings was extreme. Tall, slim and blond, he was almost disgracefully beautiful. Marty smiled. He had the kind of youthful good looks that had they been allied with any semblance of intelligence could have been lethal. Fortunately, the gods – perhaps momentarily distracted by the vision they’d created – had forgotten to insert a brain.
He sighed. It was almost a crime to destroy something so perfect.
He continued to stare until he noticed the time. It was nine-thirty in the evening. He’d better get a move on before Vic started hassling him again. Grabbing Naylor by the shoulder, he shook him hard. ‘Ritchie!’
‘Ugh?’
‘Wake up!’
‘What?’ As his blue eyes opened and he saw a face looming over him, he had a moment of panic. Fear distorted his pretty features. His jaw dropped and his mouth twisted in alarm. A small choked noise escaped from his throat. His arms flailed and he jumped away, but in doing so found himself trapped against the back of the sofa.
‘It’s only me,’ Marty said soothingly.
An unexpected visit from Marty Gull would have increased the terror in a smarter person but Ritchie instantly relaxed and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He let out a long breath. ‘Shit, man. What are you doing? What are you doing here?’
‘Got a job for you.’
‘Huh? What time is it?’
Marty figured that he’d probably been wasted since getting paid on Friday. ‘Too early to be asleep.’
Slowly Ritchie swung his legs over the side of the sofa, stretched out his arms and yawned. He was wearing tight black jeans and a crumpled white T-shirt. ‘It’s Sunday,’ he protested.
‘What are you,’ Marty laughed, ‘some fucking Godbotherer? Come on, shift your ass. I’ll make it worth your while.’
‘What sort of job?’
‘Just a little breaking and entering. Nothing too strenuous. We’ll be in and out in ten minutes.’
‘I dunno. I’m knackered, man. I’m not in the mood.’
Marty took a step back and glowered at him.
Ritchie, for all his stupidity, quickly got the message. He nodded. ‘Okay, okay, but I need to take a shower.’
‘Yeah, you do. You smell like a pig. But it’ll have to wait. We have to make a move – and now!’
Ritchie was still looking dazed as they drove into Stack Street. His blond head lolled against the window. ‘I’m hungry,’ he whined. ‘Can’t we get something to eat?’
‘Sure,’ Marty said. ‘Once we’re done. We’ll grab a takeaway, anything you like.’
‘Chinese. I fancy a Chinese.’
‘Whatever.’ Marty peered to the left and right. There were plenty of parked cars but no sign of Parry or Devlin. That was good. It was their job to be here, watching the flat, but it was over twenty minutes now since Vic had got the call. Marty had persuaded a lowlife he knew, another junkie in need of a fix, to give Delaney a bell and tip him off that Miller had been spotted at King’s Cross.
He’d been counting on the fact that Vic would send the two big guys. The station wasn’t far and there wasn’t much purpose to them being here if Miller wasn’t coming back.
Marty found a space, pulled in and killed the engine. He looked over at the house. It was a small semi-detached conversion and all the lights were out. The house next door was in darkness too. Bloody perfect! Not that he’d expected anything less. He’d had that feeling in his guts all day, the knowledge that nothing could go wrong. The incredible Marty Gull was on a roll.
‘Stay put. I’ll only be a minute.’
Marty climbed out of the van and walked around to the side. Sliding open the door, he jumped inside, took off his jacket and folded it neatly. This was likely to get messy and he wasn’t going to take the chance of ruining over three hundred quid’s worth of Italian soft black leather. He pulled on a pair of grubby off-white overalls and shoved a cap on his head. Then he picked up the holdall, carefully closed the door and strolled back round to the passenger seat. ‘Ready?’
Ritchie nodded but didn’t move. He was so out of it that he didn’t even notice that Marty had changed his clothes. ‘So what’s the deal, man?’
‘I just need someone to watch my back. You can do that, can’t you?’
‘Whose place did you say it was?’
‘I didn’t – and it’s none of your business. Just get out of the frigging van.’
‘Okay,’ he said sulkily
. ‘I was only asking.’
Marty pulled the cap down over his eyes as they walked across the road. It was dark enough now for his features to be hidden – there was only the thin orangey glow from the streetlamps – but better to be safe than sorry. A short path led up to the house. Miller’s flat was on the ground floor. It had its own entrance and there was even a convenient brick porch to hide them from any prying eyes. He smiled as he stepped inside. The guy really should take more care over his security.
Ritchie shuffled in behind him.
Marty put down the holdall and listened. What he was about to do would create some noise but hopefully not enough to alert anyone to a break-in. He crouched down and unzipped the bag. He took out two pairs of gloves and shoved a pair at Ritchie.
‘Put these on. We don’t want any prints.’
Marty slipped on his own gloves before feeling for the torch. He switched it on. ‘Here, shine this on the door.’ He took out the crowbar and stood up. If there’d been more time he’d have got Ritchie to do it; he didn’t want the job to appear too professional, but that could take for ever. Instead he deliberately made a few false attempts, badly splintering the wood, before finally forcing it open.
Inside, there was a short hallway. Marty used the torch to negotiate his way to the living room. He pulled the curtains across the wide bay window and turned on a lamp. He squinted for a second until his eyes adjusted to the light. He quickly looked around. The place was clean and tidy. It had the kind of furnishings that came with a particular type of rented property – not too cheap, not too fancy. The carpets and curtains were beige. There was a tan sofa and a matching chair. Everything was neutral, bland and durable.
‘What are we after?’ Ritchie whispered.
‘Shut it! You’re not after anything. Just stay by the door and keep your fucking eyes and ears open.’
Ritchie pulled a face but retreated back into the hall.
Marty went into the kitchen. A slim pine table was set against the wall. On it was a well-thumbed London A-Z, a pepper mill and an electricity bill made out to Mr G. Miller. He picked up the book and flicked through it. There was nothing useful, no notes or markers, not even a clue to suggest where Miller might be hiding out. He threw it back on the table.
