Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  As Helen reached her destination in the cemetery, she took a bottle of water from her bag. Crouching by the grave, she pulled the dead flowers from the memorial vase, dropped them on the ground and replaced the stagnant water. ‘Hello, Mum,’ she whispered as she carefully arranged the six white lilies.

  She rose slowly to her feet and sighed as she gazed down at Irene Quinn’s headstone. There had been some talk of interring Joe’s ashes here, but thankfully Yvonne had decided to wait until after the trial was over. It wasn’t up to her to make decisions like that, she’d grumbled, and for once Helen had agreed with her. The idea of having the remains of Joe scattered in the same place as her mother made her stomach turn over. She wasn’t sure that Irene would be all that happy about it either.

  It was too cold to hang about. With a heavy heart, Helen began walking back towards the Fox. She wondered what news there would be this evening, trying desperately to hold on to hope but at the same time aware of it gradually seeping away. With Connor still loudly and aggressively proclaiming his innocence, the prosecution were having a field day. The evidence was stacking up: the constant rows, the attempted assault with the baseball bat, the very public death threats.

  Connor, of course, was not the type to plead guilty. If he’d been caught with the bloodied bat in his hand and the body at his feet, he’d still have sworn blind that he’d had nothing to do with it. He was going to go down – there seemed little doubt of it – and the tragedy was that he might take Tommy and Frank down with him.

  Helen strolled back to the high street and crossed Station Road. As usual, she hurried through the car park, not wanting to linger near the place where Joe had died. For weeks after his murder, a strip of police tape had remained by the cellar door, fluttering in the breeze. Eventually, unable to bear it any more, she had snatched it up and thrown it in the bin.

  After unlocking the back door, she locked it behind her again and started walking up the stairs. She was almost at the top when she became aware of Yvonne’s voice coming from the living room.

  ‘Can you credit it, the little slut just turning up like that? Brazen as you like.’

  ‘I’d have slapped her face,’ Carol Gatesby said. ‘I’m telling you, I would. The bloody cheek of it!’

  ‘I wish I had. And that top she was wearing. Jesus, you should have seen it, Maureen. Tits hanging out, everything on show. The little tramp doesn’t know the meaning of the word decency.’

  Hearing Helen’s footsteps on the landing, they all stopped talking and looked over their shoulders to where she was standing by the door.

  ‘Oh, it’s only the girl,’ Maureen said dismissively.

  Helen, who had wanted to ask about the day’s proceedings – Yvonne was back earlier than usual – now felt too embarrassed to do so. She could see that they were all on the booze, their glasses brimming with vodka and ice. The bottle on the coffee table was already half empty. ‘Is everything okay?’

  ‘Sure it is,’ Maureen replied. ‘Nothing for you to worry about.’

  Helen gave a nod, ignoring the slight. ‘Good.’ Maureen, taking her cue from Yvonne, always treated her with something akin to scorn. She had been intending to make a cup of tea before the pub opened in fifteen minutes, but that would mean walking through the living room in order to get to the kitchen. Imagining the resentful silence that would descend while she was brewing up, she decided to leave it. The women wanted to talk and they didn’t want her listening.

  After retracing her steps along the landing, Helen began climbing the next flight of stairs.

  She was only halfway up when the trio resumed their conversation. Was it Shelley Anne they were slagging off? It had to be. Although usually disapproving of men who cheated on their wives, Helen wasn’t so judgemental when it came to Tommy. Yvonne was the kind of woman who would try the patience of a saint; nothing was ever good enough for her. Not that that excused her uncle’s infidelity, but it went some way towards explaining it.

  In her bedroom, she got changed into a pair of black trousers and a black T-shirt. Most of her wardrobe, against the current fashion, was strictly monochrome. She preferred black or white to more garish colours, although whether this was down to a desire to be different or simply to blend into the background she hadn’t quite figured out.

  After brushing her hair, she tied it back in a ponytail and then took a look in the mirror. She frowned at her reflection. Her face seemed too pale, and there were dark circles under her eyes. Sleep didn’t come easily to her these days; she tossed and turned, dozing and waking, her dreams mingling with the nightmare reality of the trial.

  The trial. Her lips parted slightly in a sigh. Shelley Anne, wisely or not, had chosen to risk Yvonne’s wrath by attending court. Shouldn’t she have done the same? Maybe Tommy would think that she didn’t care. And Frank, too. No, she shouldn’t have given in to Yvonne’s demands. Whatever the consequences, she should have followed her heart instead of her head.

  Helen left the room, ran down the two flights of stairs and went into the bar. While Maureen was still occupied, she poured a pint of Best and snatched a pack of John Players and a box of matches from the shelf. She took the beer and the fags through to the small room at the rear of the pub and left them on the table by the fireplace. Bending down, she put a light to the kindling under the logs and then went back to the main room and did the same.

  It was only as she stood up that she realised that Maureen was now behind the bar.

  ‘Hope you’re intending to pay for that pint,’ she said, giving Helen a surly look.

  Jesus, the woman had eyes in the back of her head. ‘Of course.’ Helen scrabbled in her back pocket for some change and put the coins down on the counter. ‘Here.’

  Maureen scooped them up and dropped them in the till. ‘I suppose it’s for that little creep Pym. I don’t know why you have to keep buying him drinks.’

  Helen could have retorted that she wouldn’t need to if Yvonne would actually keep her up to speed with what was happening in court, but seeing as she’d got away with nicking the fags, she decided not to go there. ‘He’s okay, and it’s only the odd pint.’

  Maureen gave a snort before walking round the counter, going over to the doors and pulling back the bolts. It was five o’clock exactly. Outside, a small group of customers had already gathered. Pym was the third one in, hurrying towards the rear of the pub as if afraid that someone might try to snatch his freebies. He was dressed in a shabby overcoat that looked too large for him. A green scarf was tied loosely around his neck.

  Helen followed behind, aware that he hadn’t even bothered to greet her – not so much as a nod – so eager was he to reach the table. She pulled out a chair and waited patiently while he ripped the cellophane off the pack of fags and lit one with a shaking hand. His fingernails, she noticed, were ingrained with dirt.

  It was only after he’d taken a few fast draws and a large slurp of beer that he finally lifted his head to acknowledge her. ‘Woman trouble today. Did you hear?’

  ‘You mean Shelley Anne turning up? Was it Shelley Anne?’

  ‘Yeah, it was her all right. Large as life and twice as…’ Pym licked his lips in a lascivious fashion. ‘Shame she don’t work ’ere no more. Used to brighten the place up, that girl.’ He lifted his eyes towards the ceiling. ‘Course, her upstairs weren’t too pleased. I mean, you wouldn’t be, would you, havin’ yer husband’s bit on the side show her face. Thought she were gonna have a fit. Spent the whole morning staring daggers at her, and then come lunchtime it all kicked off.’

  ‘But what happened in court?’

  ‘That’s what I’m saying, ain’t it? The two of ’em had a real go, screaming at each other like—’

  ‘Not with Shelley Anne,’ Helen interrupted. ‘With Tommy. With the trial.’ She only had a limited amount of time before Maureen would be on her back about getting some work done. ‘How’s it looking for him?’

  Pym, who’d clearly been relishing his account of the cat
fight, seemed disappointed by her lack of interest. ‘Well, we’ll know tomorrow.’

  ‘Tomorrow?’ she echoed, startled.

  ‘Yeah, ain’t they told you? They did the summing-up today. The jury’s out. There should be a verdict in the morning.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  Pym gave a shrug. ‘Makes no odds what I think.’

  Helen stared at him, trying to contain her exasperation. ‘But how did it go? Is there any chance for Tommy?’

  Pym took another drink while he thought about it. ‘In my opinion… well, it ain’t looking so good. I reckon the jury think he’s guilty. Why else’d Connor hand over the car keys like that?’

  ‘Because he was drunk,’ Helen said, her voice rising as anger and frustration bubbled to the surface. ‘Because he knew Tommy wouldn’t leave it alone. Because he decided it was best to give in, let Tommy run him home and then get rid of the body later.’

  Pym raised both his hands as if shielding off an attack. ‘No need to shoot the bleedin’ messenger, love. I’m just sayin’ it how it is.’

  ‘Sorry,’ she said quickly. ‘I didn’t… Sorry.’

  ‘Anyways,’ he said slyly, ‘what would have happened if Tommy had taken the keys back to the Fox with him? What would Connor have done then?’

  Helen didn’t have an answer to that.

  Pym tapped the side of his head. ‘You’ve got to think like the jury, see. They reckon Tommy had to be in on it. Everyone knows there was bad feeling between him and Joe. It weren’t no secret. And there’s the bat, too. Found it down in the cellar, didn’t they?’

  ‘But Connor had keys. He must have hidden it there.’

  ‘He could have. Or Tommy could have.’

  The pub was starting to fill up, and Helen knew she didn’t have much longer. Those glasses wouldn’t collect themselves. ‘And Frank Meyer?’ she asked quickly. ‘What about him?’

  ‘If Tommy’s guilty, Frank’s guilty too. That’s how they’ll figure it.’

  ‘Christ,’ she murmured.

  ‘Last day tomorrow,’ Pym said, staring dolefully down at what remained of his pint.

  Helen wasn’t sure what he was more dismayed about – the trial coming to an end or the fact that his supply of free beer and fags was about to run dry. She couldn’t suss him out. Did he have any feelings, good or bad, as regarded Joe? Was he sorry that he was dead, or did he not give a damn?

  ‘What?’ he said curtly, aware of her scrutiny.

  She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’ Pushing back the chair, she quickly stood up. ‘I’d better get on.’

  Pym waited until she was almost at the entrance to the next room before speaking again.

  ‘One other thing,’ he said.

  Helen looked over her shoulder at him.

  His eyes flicked up towards the ceiling again. ‘If I was you, love, I’d watch my back.’

  ‘What?’

  But Pym wasn’t prepared to say anything more. He turned his head away and reached out for his cigarettes.

  39

  The next morning dawned cold and grey. A great blanket of cloud hung low in the sky, spilling out a torrent of rain. Helen lay in bed, listening to the rattle of the window pane. She heard Yvonne get up, followed by Karen and Debs. She heard the bathroom door open and close, the flush of the loo, the gurgle in the pipes as the water ran through them.

  It had been just after four o’clock, the loneliest time of the night, when Helen had first woken up and realised what she had to do. She’d go mad if she was forced to stay here waiting for news on the outcome of the trial. It didn’t matter what Yvonne said: today she was going to be there.

  Helen wondered how the girls could bear to go to work when the verdict on their father was about to be announced. But then again, she knew that it was different for them. They had loved Joe Quinn and were still trying to come to terms with his murder. Although they wanted to believe that Tommy was innocent, they didn’t share her conviction. The appearance of Shelley Anne at court hadn’t done much to help matters either. Yvonne, angry and humiliated, had told them both about Tommy’s infidelity. So now they had a dad who was not only charged with attempting to dispose of a body, but who’d also been cheating on their mother.

  Helen waited until she was sure that Karen and Debs had left before getting out of bed and going to the bathroom. While she showered and brushed her teeth, she could feel the tension growing in her guts. In a few hours, everything would be different. Either Tommy and Frank would be cleared and life would begin again, or… No, she couldn’t bear to think of the alternative.

  Looking through her limited wardrobe, Helen finally chose her black Mary Quant dress with the white collar. She put it on, along with her black woollen tights and a pair of black shoes, and looked in the mirror. It was really more the kind of thing you’d wear in the evening, but she didn’t have anything else that was smart enough. Well, it would have to do. She brushed her hair and put on some make-up, a little eyeshadow and a light smear of lipstick.

  Yvonne, who was sitting at the kitchen table with her hands wrapped around a mug of black coffee, glanced up as she came into the room. ‘Jesus, what are you so dressed up for?’

  Helen took a deep breath. ‘I’m coming with you to the Old Bailey. I can’t wait here. I just can’t.’

  Yvonne opened her mouth as if about to object, but then just gave a shrug.

  Helen, expecting an argument, was surprised by the reaction. Perhaps Yvonne was simply too hung-over to embark on an argument. She’d been on the vodka again last night, knocking it back like there was no tomorrow. Her face looked pinched and tight, her eyes still slightly glazed.

  Helen made herself a cup of tea and sat down. There was cold toast on a plate, and although she wasn’t hungry, she forced herself to eat a slice. In the silence of the room, every bite she took sounded unnaturally loud. She watched Yvonne, while pretending not to, wondering how she would cope if the worst came to pass.

  Five minutes later there was a loud knock on the back door followed by the sound of the door opening and closing. ‘Only me!’ Carol Gatesby called up the stairs.

  Yvonne lifted her head and looked through to the living room and the landing beyond. ‘In here,’ she said when her friend was close enough to hear.

  Carol swept into the kitchen, shaking her wet umbrella. ‘Jesus, it’s pissing down out there.’ Leaning down, she pecked Yvonne on the cheek. ‘You okay, darlin’? Oh, daft question, course you’re not. You want me to make you another coffee?’

  ‘No, ta.’

  Carol propped her wet umbrella against the wall, pulled up a chair and sat down beside Yvonne. Only then did she acknowledge Helen, with the faintest of smiles. ‘Don’t usually see you at this time of day,’ she said, as if Helen made a habit of lounging around in bed for most of the morning.

  Helen stared straight back. The only reason Carol Gatesby hadn’t seen her for the past four mornings was that she’d deliberately stayed upstairs until they’d left. ‘I’m coming to court with you.’

  Carol’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Really?’ She glanced over at Yvonne, as if expecting to hear an immediate denial, but Yvonne only sighed and reached for her cigarettes.

  There was the sound of a car pulling up outside. Helen rose to her feet and went to the window. ‘Terry’s here,’ she said, watching as he swung the sleek dark blue Mercedes in beside Tommy’s Capri.

  ‘He’s early,’ Carol said, looking at the clock.

  Terry Street got out of the motor and ran his fingers lightly through his hair. He was wearing a smart grey suit, white shirt and charcoal-coloured tie. He had altered, Helen thought, since Joe’s murder. He seemed older somehow, more serious. He was still charming, still good-looking, but he’d acquired a harder edge. She saw him glance quickly towards the cellar, as if he too was incapable of crossing the car park without being reminded of what had happened there.

  There was a quick rap on the back door before it opened. ‘Yvonne?’ he called up. �
�Are you ready? I thought we’d go a bit early, try and beat the traffic.’

  ‘We’ll be right down,’ Carol called back. ‘Just give us a minute.’

  ‘I’ll wait in the car.’

  Helen stayed by the window, watching as he strolled back to the Mercedes. She had noticed how Terry’s position within the firm had shifted over the last six months. He was, perhaps, a natural leader, and even the older members of Joe’s entourage deferred to him. They all still met in the Fox every Friday, only now Terry was the one who was making decisions and distributing the cash.

  ‘You ready, love?’ Carol said to Yvonne.

  Slowly, Yvonne stood up. ‘I don’t know why we’re bloody bothering. We all know what the verdict’s going to be.’

  ‘Oh, don’t be like that,’ Carol said. ‘You can never tell with them juries. He might get lucky. All it takes is for one of them to think he might be innocent and—’

  ‘He is innocent,’ Helen said, turning to look at the two women. ‘He shouldn’t even be on trial.’

  Carol gave her a thin smile. ‘Of course he is,’ she replied, although her tone suggested otherwise. ‘Course he is, love.’

  Yvonne put on her coat, stubbed out her cigarette and took a long look around the kitchen, as if it was her, not Tommy, who might not be coming home again. Then without another word, she made for the stairs.

  Once they were in the car and heading towards central London, Yvonne perked up a bit. She clearly liked being in the Mercedes; it was large and comfortable and smelled pleasantly of leather. Seated in the front passenger seat, she assumed an almost queenly stance, her back very straight, her shoulders pushed back. ‘Thanks, Terry. It’s good of you to do this.’