Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  ‘Not yet, but it’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘Shit,’ muttered Terry. ‘That wasn’t supposed to happen.’ He hadn’t counted on Tommy refusing to let Connor drive the Jag home. It was the one fly in the ointment. He had no gripe with Tommy Quinn or Frank Meyer. ‘Why couldn’t the stupid bastards just have left well alone?’

  ‘Well, that’s the problem with going to war, mate. There are always casualties. Still, I wouldn’t worry about it.’ Lazenby gave a low, repulsive laugh. ‘It’s another Quinn off the streets. That has to be something to celebrate.’

  Terry, however, didn’t share this point of view. His conscience, so far as Joe and Connor were concerned, was clear – they had both deserved what they got – but Tommy had never caused him any grief. Still, there was always a chance that he’d get off when it came to trial.

  ‘You heard from the others?’ Lazenby asked.

  By the others, Terry knew that he meant the members of the firm. ‘Yeah, Fat Pete rang me early this morning.’ He’d done a good job, he knew, of acting shocked. Jesus, what? What? How? When, for fuck’s sake? ‘We’re meeting up later in the Hope and Anchor.’

  ‘They reckon Connor did it? Any doubts?’

  ‘Nah, they think he’s guilty as sin. It’s all sweet.’

  ‘Best keep it that way, then.’

  Terry frowned at the instruction – he didn’t need some bent cop telling him what to do – but held his tongue.

  ‘The Cowan Road boys will pull you in at some point,’ Lazenby continued. ‘Sooner rather than later. Make sure you’ve got your story straight. I take it you have got an alibi for the time Joe died?’

  ‘No problem. I’ve got a bird who’ll vouch for me. She’ll say that we spent the evening together before—’

  Lazenby waved a hand. ‘Spare me the details,’ he snapped. ‘You think I give a flying fuck? You just stick to your side of the bargain and I’ll stick to mine.’

  Terry gazed out across the lake again. His alibi wasn’t watertight, but then no one would know the exact time Joe had died. The bird in question, a hooker called Jeannie Kent, would swear that she had spent the evening at his flat before they’d walked down together to the Fox. There, at about a quarter to nine, they’d separated. She had watched him go inside the pub and then carried on round the corner to her sister’s place. He didn’t think Jeannie suspected him. It was normal practice in situations like this for any villain connected to the victim to make sure they had an alibi. No one wanted to spend unnecessary hours down the nick because they’d been unfortunate enough to be on their own when the incident took place.

  ‘Now we just need to wait for the dust to settle,’ Lazenby said. ‘Take your time, huh? Don’t go rushing in, trying to take over the firm. They’ll need a bit of time to get used to the idea that Joe’s dead and gone.’

  Terry leaned back and lit another cigarette. ‘You can skip the advice. I know what I’m doing.’

  Lazenby gave him a scornful look. ‘I’ve heard that from smarter men than you, mate, and most of them are six foot under now, or banged up for so long that they may as well be dead.’

  But Terry knew that he wasn’t most men. And with no one left to challenge his leadership, he’d be running the show in a matter of months. ‘I’ll bear it in mind.’

  ‘Do that,’ the inspector said, rising to his feet. ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  ‘Have a nice day,’ Terry said drily.

  ‘Oh, I don’t think it could get any better.’

  Terry watched him stride off along the path. Lazenby was a snide, arrogant bastard and one day he’d get what was coming to him, but not just yet. For the time being he was useful, and for as long as he was useful, Terry would tolerate him. He glanced back towards the lake. What next? He had a few hours to spare before he met up with the lads. Maybe he’d go over to the Fox and offer Yvonne his sympathy.

  37

  It was a fortnight now since Tommy, Frank and Connor had been charged with the murder of Joe Quinn, but for Helen it still hadn’t sunk in. Bewildered, she staggered through the days, trying to make sense of a situation that was senseless.

  For a week after the murder the Fox had been closed, but now it was open again and busier than ever. The regulars had returned, along with a number of new customers, all in the thrall of a ghoulish curiosity about what had taken place in the car park. They whispered in corners, revelling in the scandal of an unnatural death. When she was working, Helen moved silently among them, trying to close her ears to all the gossip and conjecture. It was hard enough living with it; she didn’t want to hear about it too.

  She glanced across the pub to where Maureen Ball, the temporary manager, was cashing up after the lunchtime shift. Helen didn’t like the woman – she was hard-faced and loud – but then she probably wouldn’t have liked anyone who had taken the position. So far as she was concerned, the only person who belonged behind that bar was Tommy.

  It was Terry Street who’d suggested bringing Maureen in. ‘I know you don’t want to think about it, love,’ he’d said to Yvonne, ‘but every day the Fox remains closed, you’re losing money. You’ve got the kids to think about. And Tommy, too. It won’t help him if he thinks the business is going down the pan while he’s banged up.’

  It hadn’t taken Yvonne long to decide to reopen. And as it turned out, she got on like a house on fire with Maureen. The two of them would spend hours together, chatting in the bar or upstairs at the kitchen table. Maureen had been all kindness and sympathy, but Helen still didn’t trust her. There was something false about the woman, something cold and calculating.

  Helen ran a cloth over the last of the tables and said, ‘I’m done here. You need a hand with anything else?’

  ‘No, love, it’s fine. You get off. I’ll see you later.’

  After Tommy’s arrest, Helen hadn’t been to school once. Since Karen and Debs had left Kellston Comprehensive, she no longer had the same protection and she couldn’t bear the thought of all the pointing and sniggering. She would be the granddaughter of the murdered man, the niece of the murderer, a freak and a weirdo. As no one at home had objected to her bunking off, she’d simply carried on. Here, at least, she could feel that she was being useful, helping Tommy while he was away.

  Helen went upstairs to her bedroom and stood by the window, biting her nails. She wasn’t sure which was worse – being in the bar surrounded by gossips, or being up here alone. Her fears had a habit of creeping up on her when she wasn’t occupied, and that was exactly what was happening now. Unable to control her thoughts, she started rolling through her interview with the policewoman, trying to recall exactly what she’d said.

  The room at Cowan Road had been small and stuffy. She’d been interviewed by a female officer, a middle-aged woman called Lesley Jakes. ‘Now there’s nothing to worry about, Helen. All you need to do is tell the truth and everything will be fine.’

  But it was the truth that Helen had been concerned about. Which part of the truth would be good for Tommy and which part would be bad? She understood how words could be taken and twisted, distorted until they meant something else entirely. She had looked anxiously towards the woman beside her – a social worker type who, because Helen was underage, had been drafted in to sit with her – but nothing useful had come out of her mouth.

  ‘Don’t worry, dear. You’re not in any trouble. Just take your time and answer the questions honestly.’

  Yvonne could have been the one offering support, but she had claimed to be too upset to sit in on the interview. In some ways, Helen had been glad of it. She would have been even more on edge with Yvonne’s eyes boring into her.

  Lesley had given her a kindly smile. ‘You understand the difference between right and wrong, don’t you, Helen?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And you know it’s wrong to lie?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Things had carried on in much the same vein for a couple of minutes, until it was established that Helen Beck had a mo
ral backbone and would never, under any circumstances, try to deceive the police. There were other questions, some of which she couldn’t remember, and then Lesley had introduced the subject of the Quinn family.

  ‘Did they argue a lot, Helen? Your grandfather and your uncle?’

  ‘Which uncle?’

  ‘Well, either of them.’

  Helen had shrugged. ‘Sometimes, but then everyone argues, don’t they? Joe didn’t live with us any more, so we didn’t see that much of him.’

  ‘But he still came into the pub.’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Helen had said again. An image of Joe’s cold, cruel eyes had jumped into her head, and it had taken every inch of her willpower to stop herself from shuddering.

  ‘And there was one occasion, wasn’t there, a few months back, when your uncle Connor arrived at the Fox with a baseball bat?’

  Helen hadn’t been able to deny it. She had given a small nod of her head. ‘Yes.’

  ‘That must have been scary for you.’

  ‘I didn’t really see much. I was in the back room. I mean, I heard some shouting and that, but… I don’t know. By the time I got there, it was all over.’ She hadn’t been trying to cover up for Connor – there would be lots of witnesses to the attack that night – but rather to distance herself from the actual event. Yvonne’s only words of advice, uttered just before Helen had left the flat for Cowan Road, had been: Don’t tell those bloody bastards anything or they’ll have you up in the dock giving evidence at the trial. And believe me, hun, it won’t be for the fuckin’ defence.

  It hadn’t been much longer before Lesley Jakes had moved on to that fateful night. ‘So, do you remember seeing your uncle Connor when he came into the Fox on Friday?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And did you think there was anything unusual about him?’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Helen had asked.

  ‘Was he acting oddly? Did he seem upset, angry, confused?’

  Helen had frowned, pretending that she was thinking about it. ‘There were a lot of people in that night. I was helping out, collecting glasses and that. I didn’t… I wasn’t really taking much notice of him.’

  Lesley had tipped her head to one side, watching her carefully. ‘You didn’t speak to him, say hello?’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘Do you not get on with your uncle, Helen?’

  Helen had given another shrug. ‘It’s not that. It’s just that I don’t know him very well. He’s not been out of prison that long. We haven’t… you know… spent much time together.’

  It was only when they had come to the final part of the evening that Helen’s nerves had really begun to jitter. She had held the glass of Coke with two hands, aware of the shake in her hands and the dryness of her lips. Lesley had glanced down at her file and then looked up again.

  ‘So, after the Fox closed, it was just the four of you left in the bar? Your two uncles, Frank Meyer and yourself.’

  ‘Yeah. I mean, yes.’

  ‘And how was your uncle Connor then?’

  ‘He was a bit tipsy, I suppose.’

  ‘Tipsy?’

  ‘He’d had a few drinks.’

  Lesley had leaned forward, putting her elbows on the table. ‘Was he being… difficult?’

  Helen had shaken her head. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘I mean, was he arguing with your uncle Tommy?’

  ‘I don’t think so. I was clearing up. I wasn’t… I wasn’t really listening to them.’

  Lesley had left a long pause, as if Helen, given time, might wish to add something. But Helen had kept her mouth shut. When it had become clear that nothing more was going to be said, Lesley had changed tack.

  ‘And why was Frank Meyer still there? Did he often stay behind after closing time?’

  ‘Sometimes,’ Helen had been able to answer truthfully. ‘He and Tommy are mates. He only lives down the road.’

  ‘Is Frank friendly with Connor, too?’

  Helen had hesitated, trying to work out what Lesley was getting at. She’d been so determined not to say anything incriminating that her head had started to ache. ‘Not especially.’

  ‘Were the three of them planning to go on somewhere?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’ Yvonne’s warning had leapt into her mind again. But if she said nothing, then mightn’t she be withholding evidence that could help to clear Tommy and Frank? She had to make it clear that the two of them had known nothing about the body in the boot of the Jag. Taking a deep breath, she’d quickly carried on. ‘I reckon Tommy was worried about Connor driving, that’s all. He asked him for the car keys and said he’d take him home. Frank offered to give him a hand.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘You know, getting Connor into the car and that.’

  ‘So your Uncle Tommy thought that Connor had had too much to drink, yes? That he wasn’t fit to drive?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And then what happened?’

  ‘That’s it,’ Helen had said. ‘I was tired and I went up to bed.’

  ‘So you didn’t hear anything else that was said? You didn’t see them leave?’

  ‘No.’

  And that, as far as she could recall, had been pretty much the end of the interview. Had she said the right things? She still wasn’t sure. Now she leaned against the side of the window, gazing down on the street and the people passing by. She frowned. It didn’t seem right that life was carrying on as normal when Tommy and Frank were locked up, waiting to be tried for a crime they hadn’t committed.

  Placing the palm of her hand against the pane of glass, Helen wondered, just for a second, if it was possible that Tommy had been aware of what Connor had done. Usually they at least cleared up the dirty glasses on a Friday night, but not on this occasion. Why don’t you leave those, hun, and we’ll sort them in the morning. Had he wanted to get rid of her? But no sooner had the thought entered her head than she pushed it away. Tommy had been tired, irritated by Connor’s behaviour, but he hadn’t been afraid – and no one, surely, could fail to be afraid if their brother had confessed to murder and their father’s body, bundled into the back of a silver Jaguar, was lying less than twenty yards away.

  Helen moved her hand from the window and rubbed at her face. She felt guilty for allowing the thought to even enter her mind. She felt drained, exhausted by the horror of it all. Glancing towards the bed, she recalled Frank’s last words to her: ‘Sleep well.’ But she knew that she couldn’t and wouldn’t ever sleep well again until the two men she loved were free.

  38

  Helen turned up the collar of her coat, surprised by the coldness of the wind whistling down the main thoroughfare of the cemetery. Spring had passed, barely noticed, into summer, and then summer into autumn. Finally, winter had arrived, and so too had the trial of Tommy, Frank and Connor.

  All week the pub had been unusually quiet at lunchtime, with most of the regulars finding more diverting entertainment at the court of the Old Bailey. The trial had been in progress for four days now. Helen had wanted to go too, was desperate to go, but Yvonne had asked her not to.

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t, love,’ she’d said. ‘Obviously I can’t let the girls hear all the gory details of what happened to their grandad. Or their father’s part in it all. It wouldn’t be right, would it? And if they can’t go… well, perhaps it would be better if you didn’t either.’

  Helen hadn’t quite got the logic of the argument, but the meaning of it was plain: if she even thought about stepping foot inside court, Yvonne would not be pleased. And so in order to keep the peace, she had stayed at home, relying on others to keep her up to date with what was happening. Some things she learned from the customers, blatantly eavesdropping on their conversations. Other snippets – and they were only snippets – she gleaned from Yvonne. But the bulk of her information came from Pym, the odd little man who had hung around Joe like a bad smell. Bribing him with beer and cigarettes, she sat him down in the smal
l rear room of the Fox every evening and listened to his version of the day’s events in court.

  Pym took a certain pleasure, she thought, in relaying bad news. And to date, it had all been bad. Although the charge of murder had been dropped against Tommy and Frank, they were still accused of attempting to dispose of a body. The post-mortem had showed that Joe had died somewhere between the hours of seven and nine, hours when Tommy had been serving in the pub and in clear view of everyone. Frank too had got himself an alibi, spending the early part of the evening having dinner at Connolly’s before walking down to the Fox with a couple of the regulars who’d been eating there too.

  The defence were claiming that Tommy had acted in innocence, insisting on driving his brother home simply in order to make sure he got there safely. The prosecution, however, were pushing the idea that Connor would only have relinquished the keys to a car containing the corpse of his father if Tommy had agreed to help him to get rid of it. With Connor so drunk as to be a liability, Tommy and Frank must have decided to drop him off at the flats before proceeding with the ghastly business of disposing of the evidence.

  ‘And the jury?’ she’d asked. ‘What do you reckon they believe?’

  Pym had shaken his head before fixing his small beady eyes on her face. ‘Ah, I don’t like the look of that lot. Already made up their minds, I reckon.’

  Helen shivered as she turned on to the smaller path and wound her way round to Irene Quinn’s grave. It had been months now since she’d last seen Tommy. She had gone to Brixton prison once on a visit with Yvonne and the girls, but it had all felt strange and awkward, as if she was intruding on a family occasion. Tommy had put on a brave face for them all, but she could see that he was scared. Karen and Debs, still grieving for their grandfather, had shifted uneasily in their seats, wanting to believe in their dad’s innocence, but not entirely certain of it.

  The jail, with its walls and locks and peculiar smells, had been an intimidating place. Helen had been aware, throughout the visit, of being under the scrutiny of the prison officers – the screws, as Tommy called them – their eyes following her every move. The atmosphere, taut and unnatural, had wrapped itself around them all, inhibiting normal behaviour. Even Yvonne, never usually short of things to say, had been oddly quiet.