Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  Frank had been sitting at the bar nursing a pint. He was in his early thirties, a man with a square-jawed face and a bored expression. The place had been quiet, and they’d fallen into the kind of aimless conversation that was probably taking place in a thousand pubs around the country between a couple of blokes who had nothing better to do and who would in all likelihood never meet again.

  Tommy had downed his third short and was preparing to leave when the door had opened and two of the Gissing brothers, Lennie and Roy, had walked in. Not good. Not good at all. The brothers were tanked up and looking for trouble. It was only a year since the Krays had gone down, and other East End firms were jostling for dominance. There was a gap in the market, and the Gissings had ambitions to fill it.

  Tommy was handy enough with his fists, but he didn’t relish the prospect of two against one. He was off his home turf, with no one to watch his back. If the place had been busier he would have tried to slip away, but as things were, he was standing straight in their line of vision.

  It only took a moment for them to spot their prey. Like a pair of hungry hyenas they padded softly across the bar and stood directly in front of him. None of the Gissing brothers – there were three of them in all – was blessed with good looks, but Lennie took the prize for sheer unadulterated ugliness. He was in his forties, a former bare-knuckle fighter with the facial scars to prove it. Leaning in, he expelled a rush of booze-laden breath. ‘Well, if it ain’t Tommy Quinn.’

  Tommy smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Never show any fear. That was the number one rule. ‘Lennie. How are you doing? Long time no see.’

  Lennie gave a snarl, revealing a row of chipped yellow teeth. ‘Ain’t you got a pub of yer own to drink in?’

  Tommy held his gaze, trying to keep his voice casual. ‘Fancied a change, didn’t I?’

  Roy Gissing narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t as tall as his older brother, but what he lacked in height he made up for in sheer viciousness. ‘Quinns ain’t welcome in the Lion. In fact, now I come to think of it, Quinns ain’t much welcome anywhere.’

  Lennie sniggered. ‘Now ain’t that a fact.’

  Tommy glanced towards the door, but the two men were effectively blocking his path. He could see what was coming and there was no escape from it. Unless a bloody miracle happened, he was about to get a kicking.

  It was then that Frank Meyer stood up. ‘Is there a problem, gentlemen?’

  Three heads turned to look at him. Until that moment, Tommy hadn’t realised how big Frank was – six foot three or four at least – and solid with it. Glancing back at the brothers, he could see surprise blossom on their faces. Having come into the pub just as he was about to leave, they’d thought he was drinking alone.

  ‘What’s it to you?’ said Lennie, but his voice had a less aggressive edge. He might have been pissed, but he wasn’t completely stupid.

  Frank loomed over him, his cool grey eyes looking faintly amused. ‘And here was me about to ask the very same question. Mr Quinn and myself were about to go. If you’ve got a problem with that, please feel free to join us outside.’ He left a short pause before adding, ‘Be a shame to smash up this nice tidy bar.’

  Lennie exchanged glances with his brother. They were both in the mood for a scrap, but something about Frank – and it wasn’t just his size – made them think twice. They shifted slightly to the side, leaving room for the two men to pass them. ‘You’d better fuck off, then.’

  Once they were safely on the pavement, Tommy took Frank’s hand and shook it. ‘Thanks, mate. I owe you one.’

  ‘No worries.’

  ‘No, I mean it. My old man’s got a pub in Kellston, next to the station. It’s called the Fox. Drop by any time.’

  ‘Kellston,’ Frank repeated, as if the place meant something to him.

  ‘Yeah, you know it?’

  ‘Used to. I imagine it’s changed a bit since then.’

  Tommy hadn’t really expected to see Frank again, but a couple of nights later he had turned up at the pub. They’d been mates and business partners ever since.

  Now Frank leaned across the table. ‘Tommy? Have you been listening to a single word I’ve said?’

  ‘Sorry, I was just—’

  Frank waved a hand. ‘It’s okay. You’ve got things on your mind, yeah? We can do this some other time.’

  ‘Nah, go ahead. I’m listening.’

  The two fresh brews arrived and Frank waited until Connolly was out of earshot before resuming the conversation. ‘I may have found a fella,’ he said softly. ‘Over Romford way. His name’s Blunt, Alfie Blunt. I reckon he could be our front man.’

  ‘And he’s sound?’

  ‘Yeah, I’ve checked him out. He’s clean and he’s well up for it.’

  ‘Good. Let’s set up a meet and get things moving.’ Tommy hadn’t even considered long-firm fraud until Frank had suggested the idea, but once he’d got his head around it he could see the advantages. The MO was simple. First, you got a front man, preferably one without criminal convictions, to open a shop or a warehouse. Goods would then be ordered on credit and the suppliers would be paid promptly. This would continue over a longish period of time, with more and more business being done, until the moment came for the final big bang: there would be a series of massive orders and the credit-bought goods would be sold at knockdown prices in a ‘liquidation sale’. After that, the premises would be closed and the profits pocketed.

  Tommy took a slurp of tea. ‘So how long do you reckon we’re talking, start to finish?’

  ‘About a year, maybe longer. You need patience in this game, Tommy. You can’t rush things. It’s all about building up trust.’

  ‘I can do patience. I’m married to the lovely Yvonne, remember?’

  Frank grinned back at him. ‘You’ve got a point.’

  ‘So we’ll go ahead?’

  ‘Sure. I’ll set up a meet and we’ll take it from there.’

  Tommy gave a nod, pleased that the plan was going ahead. Joe Quinn preferred the quicker, more basic approach to business – protection, intimidation, poncing off the local villains – but Tommy was looking for less risky ways of making a living. If Frank was right, the long-firm fraud could bring in a hundred, even a hundred and fifty grand – and with little chance of getting caught. By the time the creditors had realised they’d been done, it would all be too late. The front man would have disappeared and the trail would be cold.

  ‘What’s the news on Connor?’ Frank asked. ‘Got a trial date?’

  ‘Not yet.’ That was something else to think about. When the date was set, there’d be witnesses to be sorted, money to be paid out. Connor was a liability, but family was family. Tommy would do whatever was necessary to make sure his older brother wasn’t sent down. ‘He’s still doing his nut about not getting bail.’

  ‘You found out why yet?’

  Tommy shook his head. ‘I just don’t get it. I mean, it’s not as though it’s a bleeding murder charge or anything.’ After Connor had been arrested, Tommy had paid a visit to the Albion at Ludgate Circus and given a grand to Bernie Humber to sort it, half down, the other half to be paid on completion of a successful bail application. Humber was a professional straightener, with connections in high places. Usually the arrangement would go like clockwork – the coppers being paid off and agreeing in court (with a feigned show of reluctance) that the defendant was unlikely to abscond – but not this time. A day after the money had been handed over, Humber had returned it, claiming that on this occasion his contacts weren’t prepared to play ball.

  ‘Someone doesn’t like your brother,’ Frank said. ‘Mind, when I say someone, what I really mean is everyone. He might be family, but he’s not worth the bother.’

  ‘So I just leave him to rot?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Like I left Lynsey?’

  Frank gave him a long, steady look. ‘That won’t change anything.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Blaming you
rself, beating yourself up about it. She made her own choices. None of it was your fault.’

  Except it didn’t feel that way to Tommy. He averted his gaze, looking out at the street. The clouds had finally burst and the rain was pouring down. It pummelled against the window, making the pane vibrate. It beat down on the pavement. It ran in fast streams along the gutters, washing away the dirt and the dust and the litter – cleansing everything apart from his own troubled conscience.

  Tommy’s guts were beginning to churn again. His hand tightened around the mug he was holding. How the hell was he going to get through today? His sister’s funeral. God, it made him sick just to think about it. It should be about coming to terms, laying the past to rest, but that didn’t seem possible. Lynsey might be gone, but what had happened could never be buried.

  6

  It was ten to one when Tommy pulled up outside Farleigh Wood crematorium and turned off the engine. By now the rain had eased, and he wound down the window, lit a fag and tried to prepare himself for what was to come. He tugged hard on the cigarette, aware that the service was due to start soon. There was no one near the building, no one going in or coming out. In fact the whole place was eerily quiet.

  Tommy looked at his watch, saw that it was almost time and quickly checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He smoothed down his fair hair and straightened his tie. ‘Okay,’ he said softly. ‘You can do this, Tommy Quinn. You can do this.’ He got out of the car, ground the fag end into the gravel with his heel and strode purposefully towards the door.

  Inside, the chapel was almost empty. There were only six other people there, all of them female. Three were sitting together up front; the other three were scattered around. He thought for a moment that he’d come to the wrong place, but then, as he glanced up the central aisle, he recognised Moira Sullivan. She turned her head and gave him a nod. He could have gone to join her, but instead he slid into a chair on the back row.

  Tommy leaned forward and frowned. What kind of bloody turnout was this? The Lynsey he’d known had always been popular, always surrounded by friends. He wished now that he’d taken Frank up on his offer. At least there would have been one more person to swell the numbers and mourn her passing. He gazed dolefully at the pale wood coffin. On top were a large spray of white lilies, and the wreath of yellow and white chrysanthemums that he’d ordered from the florist in Kellston. She’d always liked yellow.

  The service began, and while the priest jabbered on, Tommy’s gaze slid from the coffin to the three figures seated at the front. It was the kid he was most interested in. Helen. The niece he had never set eyes on until today. Unfortunately, he could only see the back of her bowed head. The nape of her neck was ivory pale and her hair, a muddy shade of brown, was cropped short like a boy’s. She was wearing a plain black woollen dress that looked a size too big for her.

  To Helen’s right was a woman in her sixties, her back as straight as a ramrod. That must be the grandmother. From what Moira had told him, there’d been no love lost between her and Lynsey. The remaining woman, on Helen’s left, would be Joan Beck’s daughter, Janet. She was the one who had called the Fox to pass on the news and discuss the arrangements for the funeral.

  Tommy gritted his teeth as he recalled that short telephone conversation. He could still hear her clipped tones in his head; her manner had been brusque, her voice devoid of any emotion. The death of Lynsey, he suspected, was nothing for the Becks to grieve over. Except for Helen, of course, but then he didn’t consider her to be a Beck. She might bear her father’s name, but to Tommy she would always be a Quinn.

  It was a short service, lasting only fifteen minutes. No one got up to speak about Lynsey, to say what she’d been like, to share their memories of her. Moira was the only one who wept, a tissue pressed hard against her eyes, her shoulders gently heaving. The priest talked of the resurrection and the life. Prayers were spoken before the coffin slid back and the curtain swished silently across in front of it. Tommy closed his eyes at that moment, feeling a thickness in his throat. So this was it. The end. Lynsey Quinn was gone for ever.

  Tommy slipped out of the door and went to stand on the drive. He lit another fag, greedily drinking in the nicotine, and stared longingly at the white Cortina, wanting to jump in and roar away as fast as he could, preferably to the nearest boozer. Christ, he needed a drink, something to take the edge off it all. But it would have to wait. He had one last duty, and that was to check that Helen was all right. It was the least he could do for Lynsey.

  After a minute or so, Moira Sullivan appeared and joined him on the drive. Her eyes were red and puffy. She stuffed the mangled tissue into her pocket before laying her hand gently on his arm. ‘Are you all right, love?’

  He gave a shrug. ‘Not much to show for a life, is it? I mean, seven lousy people, for Christ’s sake. And two of them didn’t give a damn about her.’

  As if on cue, the Beck women appeared in the doorway. Joan Beck was talking to the priest, making spare nodding gestures. She was a tallish woman with a wrinkled neck and a thin, sour face.

  ‘Don’t be too hard on them,’ Moira said. ‘It can’t have been easy losing Alan like that. Things were difficult with Lynsey, but they’ve always been good to Helen. She’s been living with her grandmother for most of her life.’

  Tommy took another drag on the cigarette. That was Moira all over, kind and big-hearted, always ready to forgive. He looked at her, remembering the gawky teenager with the wild red hair and the generous smile. The hair had been tamed now, but the smile was the same. She’d been forever in Lynsey’s shadow but was never resentful about it.

  ‘Poor little thing. She’s got no mum or dad to take care of her. It’s not right, Tommy.’

  Tommy glanced towards the door again and saw his niece clearly for the first time. He felt a rush of disappointment. He’d expected to see something of Lynsey in her, but there was nothing. She was a small, skinny, colourless creature, not exactly plain but hardly pretty either. He quickly pushed the thought to the back of his mind. It wasn’t important what the kid looked like. All that mattered was that she was Lynsey’s flesh and blood.

  ‘I’m going to get off,’ Moira said. ‘Take care of yourself, yeah?’

  ‘You want a lift?’

  Moira shook her head. ‘Thanks, but I’m fine. I’ve got the car.’

  Tommy was relieved that he wouldn’t have to take her back to Kellston. He liked Moira well enough, but he was gasping for that drink. The pub was the only place he wanted to be at the moment. He watched as she climbed into the Morris, catching a glimpse of thigh as her coat rose up. Hastily he blinked the image away. This wasn’t the time to be eyeing up his sister’s best friend. He raised his hand as she drove off, watching until she disappeared from view. He should have married someone like Moira, he thought, someone kind and loyal and decent.

  Tommy turned his attention back to the chapel. The priest had gone inside and the trio had been joined by the two other women who’d been at the service, both plump and middle-aged. One of them left a minute later, giving Tommy a sidelong look as she walked past. It wasn’t a friendly look. He dropped his fag on the ground and winked at her. She scuttled on, her lips pursed and disapproving.

  He waited for the other woman to go, but after a while the group started to head towards a blue Ford Escort. They must all be leaving together. He moved to intercept them, wondering what to say. The usual standby, I’m sorry for your loss, didn’t seem appropriate in the circumstances. In the event he settled for, ‘Hello, I’m Tommy Quinn.’

  He was met by a wall of silence.

  Janet was the only one to respond, and that was with a curt nod.

  He looked down at the kid. ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘I’m your uncle Tommy.’

  The girl gazed blankly up at him, as if she’d never heard the name before. Maybe she hadn’t. Was it possible that Lynsey hadn’t told her about her family in Kellston? As he gave her his most winning smile, he noticed that she wasn’t quite
as nondescript as he’d originally thought. Her eyes were a deep blue-green, almost startling against the paleness of her skin.

  ‘It’s nice to meet you,’ he said.

  As if Tommy was the type of man who lured small girls into his car, Janet placed a hand protectively on the kid’s shoulder. Her thin, tight mouth finally managed to squeeze a few words out. ‘Well, thank you for coming.’

  Tommy bristled. It was meant, he knew, as a form of dismissal. ‘I just wanted to make sure she was okay.’

  Joan Beck peered hard at him for a moment, and then turned her head to address her daughter. ‘Who is this man?’

  ‘He’s Lynsey’s brother, Mum.’

  ‘Lynsey? Who’s Lynsey?’

  Tommy stared at her. ‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ But then he saw the confusion in her eyes, the genuine bewilderment. The old bat didn’t know what day of the week it was, never mind whose funeral she was attending. He looked at Janet. ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘Nothing’s going on. She’s fine. She’s just a bit… stressed. It’s been a long day.’

  ‘Stressed?’ Tommy echoed. He could see that it was more than that. ‘No, I’m not having it. This isn’t right. How can she take care of a child when—’

  Janet raised a hand, stopping him in mid flow. ‘Brenda, could you take Mum and Helen to the car? I’ll be with you in a minute.’

  The middle-aged woman, who was clearly relishing the exchange, reluctantly ushered the two of them away.

  Once they were out of earshot, Tommy said, ‘I need to know she’s being taken care of properly.’

  ‘Oh yes? And how much care have you been providing, proper or otherwise, for the past eleven years?’

  Tommy glared at her. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. He didn’t like her attitude, but she had a point.

  ‘Exactly,’ she said. ‘So unless you’ve got a better idea, we’ll just have to struggle on as best we can. Helen isn’t in any danger. I pop in every day and make sure that she’s all right. Mum’s more than capable most of the time.’