He found Tilgate with a napkin tucked in his collar, staring at his untouched dinner. It seemed that Jack had lost his appetite, but was managing fine with the bottle of vino, already half gone. Stan knew he was taking a risk but at this stage of the game, fortune favours the brave. He crept up unobserved and sat down at the lord’s table.
‘Alright me ol’ mucker?’ He gestured at his full plate. ‘Nosh in here no good? You should have gone down Nellie’s chippie in Aldgate. She would have sorted out a nice pie and mash and thrown in a cheeky smile and a Tizer for free.’
Tilgate was struck dumb but he soon regained his balance. He didn’t look best pleased. ‘Yes, I might have expected you to turn up here. What did you do? Jemmy open a window with a crowbar? That’s how members of the criminal classes usually gain access.’
Stan faked hurt. ‘That’s a nice way to talk to an old friend. After I arranged a nice African safari for you. That’s charming.’
Jack poured himself a glass of plonk and leaned abruptly across the table. ‘Can I make a suggestion, Miller? Why don’t you make yourself scarce before I call the local constabulary? How does that sound?’
Stan leaned across the table in turn. ‘Jack – if there’s a problem, you only have to pick up the phone and talk to me. That’s what friends do – they don’t nurse grudges over dinner at their club. Did the bird not come up to scratch last night?’
The swell’s face turned red. ‘Come up to scratch? It sounded like someone was being fucking murdered up at that fucking rat hole you sent me to. The place was fucking filthy and as for the girl – she behaved as if it was beneath her dignity to provide a service. And the fucking noise she made.’
Mentally Stan cursed along with the Lord. So Mickey and Mel’s story was true. ‘Please, Lord Tilgate – there’s no need for that kind of barrack-room language. There’s ladies present.’ In fact, there weren’t; women were barred. But Jack looked around anxiously at the curious glances his raised voice was attracting.
‘Do you know what would have happened if the police had been called and I’d been found in there?’
Stan knew full well. When they’d discovered who their distinguished suspect was, the plod would’ve brushed down his suit and called him a cab. ‘So what was all the palaver about?’
‘I’ve got no idea. Sounded like a girl was being attacked. So fucking vulgar. And that reprobate you assigned to look after me was as drunk as my Great-Uncle Frederick.’
‘Pete was Brahms, then? Do you know who the girl was?’
Jack’s voice was going back up again. ‘I didn’t wait to find out. I made a very quick exit. I didn’t even have time to get dressed properly . . .’
Stan started sniggering, imagining Tilgate doing a runner across the square in his smalls.
‘You think this is funny?’ Tilgate leaned back with a superior expression. ‘Our association is at an end. I never want to see you again. Get out!’
Stan had enjoyed taking the piss. The tosspot had earned his ribbing and he’d got some helpful information too. Now it was time for him to play his ace. He took out an envelope and slung it across the table. ‘I don’t think so.’
Tilgate looked around furtively before picking up the envelope and pulling out the contents. Photos. The blood drained from his face. ‘What the hell is this?’ he asked angrily.
Stan calmly poured himself a glass of wine and knocked it back in one. ‘That, Jack, is a still of you bouncing up and down on a black prostitute in a knocking shop in Mile End. It’s from a film, so there’s plenty more. And there’s also a tape of you making squelching noises and a running commentary of the ooh ah my dear, yes, that’s very good variety. You know the score.’
Tilgate stuffed the snaps back into the envelope and shoved it into his pocket. ‘This sounds like a blackmail attempt.’
‘Hardly. It is a blackmail attempt.’
‘The police take a very dim view of blackmailers.’
Stan picked up the bottle of wine and tipped the remainder down his throat. ‘And Fleet Street take a very dim view of randy peers of the realm shagging prostitutes, especially black ones. You’re on a losing streak. You know what I want. Give me your name to stick on my stationery, get me into some parties, introduce me to the right people, and you can forget your night out on the wrong side of the tracks, on the wrong side of the bed, pumping the wrong side of a bird.’
There was a pause before Lord Tilgate grudgingly said, ‘I’d want the tapes and the film.’
‘Not a problem. Wouldn’t do you any good though. You know there’ll be copies.’ Stan dropped his voice to a chilling whisper. ‘Come on, cough up and let me get out of here.’
‘I wouldn’t need to see you again?’
Stan pulled a napkin towards him, pulled out a pen and wrote on it. ‘That’s the name of my brief. Give him a bell and he’ll sort out the particulars.’
Once he was outside, Stan took out his golden list and crossed off the third name from the bottom.
Lord Tilgate.
He took off down the street, a killer smile lighting up his face. Now all he had to do was confirm what happened to Pete and find out where Mickey and Mel had stashed him. And Stan knew exactly who could help him.
‘Wotcha, Cleo,’ Babs yelled out as she hurried as fast as her large belly would allow her towards the woman Neville had pointed out.
Hearing her name, the woman turned. Up close Babs decided that she wasn’t just gorgeous, she was a proper stunner. Cleo was decked out in a caramel-coloured Afro, a long patchwork coat and thigh-high black suede boots.
She looked down at Babs with a hard frown. ‘How do you know my name? Who are you?’
‘I just need some information—’
The other woman cut her off with a scoff. ‘Look, luv, if your old man is one of my friends you need to take that up with him—’
‘I’m looking for my mate Denny.’
Cleo stiffened and her dark eyes became jumpy. ‘Denny? I don’t know anyone by that name. You’ve got me mixed up with someone else.’
As she turned to make a speedy getaway, Babs caught her arm. ‘A mutual friend of ours said you would know if Denny had been to the brothel.’
Cleo tugged her arm loose. ‘Brothel?’ She stuck her nose in the air. ‘Do I look like the kind of lady who would be making her living on her back in a knocking shop?’
But Babs stood her ground. ‘Then what was all that talk about your “friends”? You thought I was one of your clients’ missuses come to have it out with you in broad daylight.’
Cleo growled and bent slightly forward. ‘Naff off. I’m busy.’
But Babs was going nowhere. It was her fault Denny had got mixed up in this in the first place. If she’d taken control of the situation she could’ve introduced Denise to Stan, who would’ve warned her off.
‘I ain’t going nowhere until you tell me the truth.’
Cleo kissed her teeth and started marching off down the road. Babs took off after her, despite the dull ache forming in her belly. ‘I know Denny was in your knocking shop with Mickey Ingram.’
Cleo abruptly stopped and swung around. ‘Look, babe, I’ve never heard of your mate. Now clear off before I go and set my dog . . .’ Glancing down at Babs’ belly she amended, ‘my very titchy dog on you.’
Babs hung tough. ‘If I do clear off, I’ll be back – and I’ll bring the law with me next time. And we’ll knock on the door of every house until we find this brothel. I know all about Mickey Ingram because he works with my boss Stanley Miller.’
‘Stanley . . . Miller?’ For some reason that had the other woman nearly in tears.
Babs’ heart skipped a beat. Why would hearing Stan’s name make this woman nearly cry? And what did it have to do with Denny?
Fearful for her friend, Babs said, between gritted teeth, ‘I mean it. I’ll bring the Bill down on you.’ She rubbed her hand over her belly to try and get rid of the ache that was now see-sawing deep within her.
Cle
o seemed to have collected herself. ‘This is how it is. Mickey Ingram owns a modelling agency and a girl called Denny went there looking for work. Some of Mickey’s girls earn a bit extra by meeting gentlemen, you get me?’ Oh, Babs got her alright. ‘Mickey brought Denny down to the house where gentlemen meet ladies last night, but there were some crossed wires and she didn’t realise what was what. She got upset and threatened to go to the cops. Mickey told her if she did she’d be in aggro up to her pretty eyes. Obviously she got scared and scarpered.’ Cleo’s voice rose slightly. ‘So you can be as sure as eggs are eggs that your mate Denny is hiding somewhere because she thinks Mickey is after her. That’s what happened. She’ll turn up – OK?’
Babs listened in silence to Cleo’s explanation. At least she was admitting she knew Denny, but Babs was far from satisfied. ‘Not really. I want to hear it from Mickey.’
Cleo was silent for a while. ‘What’s your name, babe?’
‘Babs.’
‘OK Babs, let me tell you something. I can see you’ve got some guts. But you’re in over your head with the wrong kind of people.’ She bit her lip. ‘Trust me; I know what I’m talking about. Asking questions of guys like Mickey Ingram is never a good idea. Not for Denny, not for you, and not . . .’ she patted Babs’ belly, ‘. . . for your young ’un in there either. And Mickey won’t be showing his face at our house of introduction for a while. You’ll be in the maternity ward before he turns up. And you’d be in another ward if he did . . . Are you alright?’
Babs wasn’t. There were spasms in her back and legs. She’d been determined to stay put but when she felt pain shooting up and down her body, she suddenly wanted to be back in her flat. She’d heard all she needed to hear anyway. Now it was just a question of passing the news back to Stan. ‘Yeah, I’m fine.’
She tried to walk but her legs folded. If Cleo hadn’t caught her she’d have fallen flat on her face in the street.
Cleo’s eyes widened in alarm. ‘Bloody hell. When’s your baby due?’
Very gingerly, Babs pulled herself free. ‘Not for another month. I’m alright. We’re alright.’
‘Here – let me help.’ But as Cleo reached for her, Babs waved her away.
Her face screwed up as another pain hit. Somehow she managed to remain standing until the pain passed.
She urgently whispered to her belly, ‘You can’t come yet. In the middle of Mile End Road? If the other kids found out you’d never live it down.’
‘You alright?’
Babs ignored Cleo. Something wasn’t right. She somehow made it across Mile End Road. But her belly and legs felt strained and awkward. As she turned the corner onto her estate, a wave of dizziness hit. She had to get to the flat to call the doctor’s.
By the time she reached her block she was sweating a second skin. Babs gazed up, almost defeated. She was washed out. Couldn’t make it.
‘Yes you bloody well can,’ she told herself fiercely.
She grabbed the stair rail and took the first step. And another. By the time she reached her flat she was blowing out air like a horse. Babs got inside and closed the door thankfully. She took a moment to steady her breathing. Then she moved towards the phone.
She never made it. A vicious cramp twisted her belly and she groaned as she fell to the floor. Her body burned and then chilled. Her belly seemed to expand and then contract. She tried desperately to get up but couldn’t. Then she felt wetness seeping from between her legs.
Twenty-Seven
An hour later, a jumpy Cleo stepped out of the brothel with a floppy hat pulled down over her ears. She drew up the collar on her Afghan hippy boho coat to conceal the bottom of her face and walked down the road. She felt hunted since Babs and her belly had accosted her in the street, even though she knew no one was after her. No one could be. But she felt hunted anyway. Mickey and Mel were in and out like it was their second home. But they had nothing further to say to her. And, of course, Pete was long gone.
Cleo still couldn’t believe what Pete had done. It didn’t add up. Sure the geezer had a problem handling his booze, but murder . . .? After Pete was gone she’d locked herself in her room and feverishly read the Bible. She read a passage that had given her strength over and over again:
‘God is our refuge and strength. An ever-present help in trouble.’
Cleo needed His help but also something extra to steady her nerves. She was heading to the offy to get some brandy to mix with Babycham.
Furtively she looked across the square. Everything was as per usual. A couple of winos and some kids mucking about. No one loitering. No one watching. But her heart was thumping away for some reason. She walked briskly towards Mile End Road, keeping half an eye on her surroundings. When she was out of the square, she relaxed a little and was caught unawares when a car pulled alongside her. The man at the wheel beckoned to her and asked, ‘Hello, sugar, you doing business?’
She didn’t answer, pressing on instead. She heard the car accelerate and pass her again. It drew to a halt. The driver had a flat cap like the one Lord Nob had worn the night before. ‘I said – are you doing business?’
She caught the briefest of glimpses of the driver but still didn’t look at him. ‘No. I’m off duty.’
But then she froze slightly. How did he know she did business? She couldn’t have looked less like a tom if she’d tried; she was even wearing plimsolls. She felt her breathing speeding up, turned quickly on her heels and began to motor back to the square. The car mounted the pavement in front of her, blocking the way. She took a couple of steps backwards but the guy was out of the motor in a flash. He grabbed her by the collar. ‘Get in the car, Cleo. Don’t worry about anything, just get in.’
She froze with terror. He knew her name and he knew what she did. ‘Fuck off, just fuck off, OK? I’ll scream the place down and I’ve got friends nearby.’
He tightened his grip. ‘Mickey’s people, you mean? I don’t think Mickey’s people are going to want to mix it with me.’ He used his spare hand to pull open the front of his jacket and show her a pistol pushed into his waistband. ‘I don’t want to cause you any grief and I don’t want to get into any rough stuff. Just get in the motor. Everything’s good.’
But Cleo’s terror grew. He’s got a shooter. A shooter. ‘I keep myself to myself, alright? I don’t know anything about anything. Let me go and this stays between me and you.’
‘If you don’t get your rear end inside this car, you won’t be telling anyone nuthin’ ever again.’ He opened the passenger door and shoved her inside, then got in and motored off. A few streets away, he pulled up in a darkened street, switched off the ignition and sat back. Cleo saw his face clearly for the first time. If it had been any other situation she would have said he was a looker, but at the moment all she could see was a man with a gun.
‘The name’s Stanley Miller. I’m Pete’s brother.’ She couldn’t hold her surprise back at that. ‘I’m just looking for some info, that’s all. I want to know two things. What happened last night, and where Pete is. You tell me that and I’ll drive you back to Mickey’s place. I can’t be fairer than that.’
She looked at the passenger door and wondered if she could leg it before she was shot. ‘How do you know who I am? How did you know where to find me? Did Pete tell you to come after me? He’s got it all wrong. I never did anything.’
‘You worried about the gun? Ere – look.’ Cleo flinched as Stan took out his pistol. He unlocked the magazine, shook the bullets into his hand and then threw them out of the open window. ‘There you go, you don’t need to worry about the shooter. Now, what happened last night?’
Cleo was shaking but she did her best. ‘I dunno. There was some kind of fight. Pete was supposed to have attacked some girl. She got hurt. This morning he left in a hurry. That’s it.’
‘That’s it?’
‘Yeah – I dunno anything else.’
She knew he didn’t believe her. He left a long gap before he said anything else, the way the police
did, to make you think they weren’t having it. His voice was cold and metallic. ‘So when did you last see Pete?’
Cleo’s gaze skidded away. ‘I didn’t really see him last night. He was busy.’
Stan turned her face towards him. ‘You know why I picked you and not one of the other girls? – because I know my Pete was a touch sweet on you. Plus, I know all about the specials.’
Cleo reached desperately for the door, but he pushed her back into her seat. ‘Oi. Oi – calm down. If you don’t know nuthin’ else what’s the big rush?’
Cleo waved her hand. ‘I just do what I’m told.’
Stan half-smiled. ‘Come on, a bird like you has brains. You’re clever. That’s what Pete always said – “that Cleo is a right brain box. She’s wasted on the filth that paw her every evening’.’ ’ His smile slipped away. ‘Now, I’ve heard from a posh little dickey bird that you know more than you’ve let on. You know him – the toff who came over for a portion last night. Pete was meant to be recording the event for posterity. Daffy got the gear to me as usual. If the toff heard what went on, so did you. Am I right?’
Cleo’s expression betrayed her, so he carried on. ‘Mickey and Mel would have given you a long and complicated story to remember but you’ve kept it simple and not left any details that might unravel. Am I right again?’ Cleo nodded. ‘See, Humpty and that rag doll Jemima on Playschool have more brains in their heads than Mickey and Mel.’
‘Look, I don’t want to get involved—’
‘You are involved, darlin, whether you like it or not. You want to get disinvolved? You want out of this disgusting business for good? I’m the man to help you. All you’ve got to do is say what really happened and what Mickey told you to tell the plod.’ He placed both his palms gently on her shoulders. ‘And whatever that loud mouth Mickey offered you to stick to his side of the story—’
Cleo cried out in anguish, ‘I never took a penny. All I wanted to do was help Pete.’
Blood Mother: Flesh and Blood Trilogy Book Two (Flesh and Blood series) Page 16
