Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  ‘Nah,’ the girl said. ‘No idea.’

  ‘Oh, okay.’ Helen hesitated, but couldn’t think of anything else useful to ask. The only option was to come back later and try and talk to the others in the house. She was about to leave when the girl tilted her head to one side and gave Helen a long, cool stare.

  ‘Who you looking for, then?’

  ‘Her name was Lynsey, Lynsey Beck.’

  The girl gave a shrug. It was obvious the name didn’t mean anything to her. Why should it?

  ‘Thanks anyway,’ Helen said. ‘It was a bit of a long shot. I just thought I’d ask.’

  The girl took a step back, her hand reaching for the door, but then she stopped. Perhaps something in Helen’s face, the expression of disappointment, prompted her to offer up a suggestion. ‘Have you asked at the agents’?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘The agents’?’

  ‘They’re on the High Road. Matlin and Cope. They let out all the flats in this house.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Helen said, smiling at her. Perhaps her luck was on the turn. ‘The High Road, then?’

  ‘Next door to the Co-op.’ The girl glanced at her watch. ‘They’ll be closed now, though. They shut at five.’

  ‘Ah, okay. Never mind. I can always give them a call tomorrow.’

  The girl gave a curt nod and closed the door without saying goodbye.

  Helen was now in two minds: should she wait around for someone else to come back, or did she call it a day and head back to Camden? While she thought about it, she wandered down to the corner of the street. It would probably be a waste of time to stay here. It could be hours before anyone else showed up, and even when they did, they would probably have nothing more to tell her.

  The trouble was that she felt too restless to go home. Now that she’d started, she wanted to get on with things. With the estate agent closed, there was nothing she could do there until they opened again tomorrow. It was a shame she couldn’t talk to Tommy. He’d known her mother better than anyone, and surely he’d have contacts – people who knew people who knew people – in the circles that she’d moved in. That was the way it worked in Tommy’s world. A few phone calls, a few favours called in and the information was right there at your fingertips. But Moira was right: it wasn’t fair to burden him with this when he was still in jail.

  So who else could she turn to? One name leapt straight into her head: Frank Meyer. He’d been Tommy’s best friend at the time her mother had been murdered. Surely Tommy must have talked to him, confided in him? Perhaps he could point her in the right direction. The only problem was that she didn’t have a clue as to which jail he was in.

  Frustrated, she raised her face to the blue sky and sighed. How did you find out these things? She didn’t know where to begin looking. Unless… A seed of an idea was beginning to form. She rolled it around for a moment, weighing up the pros and cons. Perhaps she did know someone who could help her to find Frank. Too impatient to wait for a bus, she thrust out her hand as a black cab cruised past.

  ‘Kellston, please,’ she said to the driver as she climbed in the back. ‘The Fox on Station Road.’

  48

  Helen felt her insides clenching as she stepped out of the cab and looked up at the pub that had been her home for years. More than once during the journey, she had leaned forward intending to tell the driver to take her to Camden instead. But then, thinking of what was at stake, she had changed her mind and settled back into the seat again.

  The Fox hadn’t changed much since she’d last been here, not on the outside at least. There were a couple of hanging baskets that hadn’t been there when Tommy was running the place, but that was about the sum of it. She thought about the day Yvonne had kicked her out, her chest tightening at the memory of what had happened next. If she had never gone to Moira’s flat, never met Lily, never embarked on that stupid, careless way of living, then… But what-ifs never mended anything. She had made her own decisions and would have to live with the consequences.

  Helen took a deep breath and pushed open the door to the pub. Inside, the early evening customers were already settling into their pints, the tables about a quarter full, the air already redolent of cigarette smoke and ale. She walked through the rooms, glancing to either side, but didn’t find who she was looking for. Never mind. If he was as predictable as she thought he was, he’d turn up eventually.

  Helen went back to the bar and ordered a glass of white wine. There was a guy behind the counter she’d never seen before. He was in his mid forties, with cautious eyes and a weak chin. ‘Is this still Terry Street’s place?’ she asked him when he put the glass down in front of her.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said.

  ‘You expecting him in tonight?’

  The barman gave a shrug. ‘Couldn’t say.’

  Helen glanced towards the corner where Joe Quinn’s firm had always gathered on a Friday evening. Today was Friday. She looked back towards the barman. ‘Can’t or won’t?’

  ‘Who’s asking?’ he said, as if he’d learnt his script from an old gangster film.

  She raised her eyebrows. ‘I am. And a simple yes or no would suffice.’

  ‘Would it?’ he replied. ‘Well, as I said—’

  ‘Yeah, I get it. How about Maureen? Is she still here, or is that top secret too?’

  ‘She’s out back,’ he replied after a short pause. ‘Do you want to talk to her?’

  Helen shook her head. ‘No, ta. I was just wondering.’

  He gave her a curious look, but then shifted along the bar to serve a waiting customer.

  Helen took her drink and went to sit down at a table where she could watch the door. So, Maureen Ball was still around. She felt a wave of resentment, even though she knew it was irrational. She still couldn’t stand the thought of anyone other than Tommy running the pub. And soon he’d be out of jail but without any cash to buy back what was rightly his. Yvonne had well and truly taken him to the cleaners.

  Leaning across to the next table, Helen swiped a copy of the evening paper that someone had left behind, and started to flick through the pages. More pictures of the lovely Diana, alongside news of riots in Moss Side, IRA hunger-strikers and ever-increasing unemployment figures. She knew that she was lucky to have a steady job with a decent income, not to mention a roof over her head. In fact, over recent years, everything had been going pretty well. She pondered for a moment on whether Moira was right about letting things go. That would be the safe option, maybe even the sensible one, but she just couldn’t bring herself to do it. For as long as questions remained unanswered, she would have to go on searching.

  Helen kept staring at the newspaper even though she was no longer reading it. Being back in the Fox brought with it an avalanche of memories, some good, some not so. But she had been happy here – at least so far as she knew what happiness was. Tommy had made her feel as if she belonged, and for that she would always be grateful.

  It was close to seven when Vinnie Keane and a couple of other burly guys walked into the Fox. Helen was on her second glass of wine and her third cigarette. She’d more or less given up smoking, but the waiting had got on her nerves and she’d finally given in to the addiction and bought a pack of John Players. While Vinnie went to the bar to order drinks, the other two settled down at the regular corner table.

  Over the next ten minutes, more of the firm arrived, some of them familiar faces but most of them not. So, Terry Street had had a shake-up. It wasn’t that surprising. After Joe’s death, he’d have taken a good hard look at the army he’d inherited. A general liked to choose his own lieutenants and be surrounded by troops he could trust.

  It was another quarter of an hour before Helen’s patience was eventually rewarded. A small group of men, with Terry at the front, strutted in from the street. The barman, she noticed, had his pint on the counter before he’d even got there. She saw him lean forward and whisper something into Terry’s ear. A second later, Terry turned to look at her. Helen stared right back, but
she could tell he didn’t recognise her. He had that look on his face, the wary look a man has when he thinks some bird he might have had a drunken shag with – and who he never thought to call – has just turned up to hassle him.

  Terry gave her a thin smile, but she didn’t smile back. He took his pint and walked over to the corner table. As soon as he was gone, she stood up and went to the bar. As it happened, it wasn’t Terry she was here to see. It was the small scruffy man who had drifted in at the rear of the group and was now counting out his pennies for a half of bitter.

  ‘I’ll get that,’ Helen said, reaching for her purse. ‘And why don’t you make it a pint?’

  Pym, unlike Terry, recognised her instantly, but the sum total of his greeting was a small, abrupt nod. He gazed at her through pale rheumy eyes. He was just as skinny and just as scruffy as the last time she’d seen him. Despite the warmth of the evening, he was still wearing his tatty old overcoat.

  ‘Do you have five minutes?’ she asked. ‘I’d like to talk to you about something.’

  Pym glanced towards the group at the corner table, and then back at her, as if weighing up the pros and cons of their respective company. Then, clearly working on the bird in the hand principle, he nodded again and said, ‘Got any fags?’

  Helen bought a fresh pack of John Players for him and ordered another glass of wine for herself. After she had paid, they went through to the table at the rear of the pub and sat down by the fireplace. Pym, who had not bothered to thank her for the drink, took a few hasty slurps, as though worried that she might be about to snatch it away.

  Helen, aware that any small talk would be lost on him, skipped the preliminaries and launched straight into her request. ‘I’m trying to track someone down,’ she said. ‘Frank Meyer. Do you remember him?’

  ‘In jail, ain’t he,’ Pym said flatly.

  ‘Yes, but I don’t know which one. Do you think you could find out for me?’

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Good,’ she said, taking his answer as a yes. ‘And how long do you think that would take?’

  ‘Depends,’ Pym said slyly, his eyes darting down towards her bag.

  ‘Naturally, I’d make it worth your while.’ She took out her purse and slid a five-pound note across the table. ‘But I need to know quickly. Can you do it by tomorrow?’

  Pym palmed the fiver smartly, the note disappearing into the pocket of his overcoat. ‘Tomorrow,’ he repeated.

  Helen rummaged in her bag until she found a scrap of paper and a pen. She wrote down two telephone numbers, the sandwich bar and the flat. ‘Here,’ she said, passing the piece of paper over to him. ‘Call me any time. There’s an answering machine, so you can leave a message if I’m not there.’

  Thinking their business was completed, Pym picked up his pint and the cigarettes and rose to his feet. But Helen had other ideas. Seeing as she’d just spent a fiver, she decided that she might as well get her money’s worth. ‘There was one more thing,’ she said.

  Pym scowled and sat back down again. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I want to get hold of the police reports on my mother’s death. Do you know anyone who could help me do that?’

  Pym stared at her for a while. ‘Cops’ll give ’em to you.’

  ‘Eventually,’ she said. ‘How would I get them sooner?’

  ‘Your old man was a cop,’ Pym said, as if this answered her question.

  Helen waited, but he didn’t elaborate. ‘And?’

  ‘So find someone who knew him and get them to pull some strings.’

  Helen could have reminded him that she’d only been a child when her father had died, but decided not to bother. Already a name had come to her. Lazenby. She had heard Joe and Terry talking about him years ago. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  Pym got up again, and this time she did nothing to stop him. He shambled out of the room and back to the main part of the pub. He hadn’t asked her a thing about her life since leaving the Fox; it was as if she hadn’t been gone more than five minutes. He wasn’t interested. And why should he be? He had a living to scrape and no time for catch-ups or reminiscences. It crossed her mind that she might not hear from him again, that she had just thrown a fiver away, but on balance she thought that she could trust him.

  Helen sat and finished her wine. She rolled the name over her tongue again. Lazenby. There had been suspicions that he’d had a connection to the Gissings, that he’d had some involvement in the fire at the Fox. So, another bent cop, just like her dad. And one who had borne a grudge against Joe Quinn. Still, at least that gave them something in common. She would track him down and call him as soon as she got home.

  49

  DCI Tony Lazenby leaned back in his chair and gazed with interest at the woman sitting across the desk. The call had come through last night, a tentative voice on the other end of the line asking if he was the officer who had once worked with Alan Beck. When she’d explained what she was after, he had wondered at first if it was some kind of trap – the past come back to haunt him – but now he was sure that she was genuine.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘You’re Alan’s daughter.’

  ‘Helen,’ she said again, although she’d already introduced herself. ‘Would you like to see some identification?’

  He smiled at her. ‘You’ve got all the ID you need on your face.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘Your eyes,’ he said. ‘They’re just like his.’ It had given him a shock when he’d first noticed them, those distinctive blue-green eyes with their curving black lashes. She was an attractive girl, although he didn’t think she knew it. His let his gaze slide quickly over her body. She was slim, with an oval face and a wide, generous mouth. Her hair, dark and silky, was chopped just below shoulder length.

  ‘Are they?’

  ‘Yes, they are.’ With a slight jolt, he realised that she reminded him of someone else too – his ex-wife, Dana. He wasn’t sure if this made him more inclined to like or dislike her. In truth, he had never thought much about Helen Beck except as the unfortunate mistake that had ruined Alan’s life. And that, of course, wasn’t her fault. It was all down to her slapper of a mother.

  Helen Beck put her hands on the desk, linking her fingers firmly together as if to prevent any possible shake. ‘I was hoping you could help me. Like I said last night, I know I could go through the usual channels, but I don’t want to wait. So anything you could tell me – off the record, naturally – I’d really appreciate.’

  Tony gave a nod. She had a pleasant voice, low and gentle, but he suspected it disguised something harder. She was nervous, certainly, but there was an edge of steeliness there too. Her gaze met his and didn’t waver. He hadn’t decided yet how much he was going to divulge. He needed to find out first how much of a threat, if any, she might be to him. What he had done, he had done for Alan’s sake, but she was unlikely to see it that way.

  Reaching out to his side, he tapped the brown folder that was lying on the desk. ‘I was able to make a few calls, call in a favour or two, but you have to understand that—’

  ‘That it’s confidential, yes?’ she said, interrupting him quickly. Her eyes dropped to stare hungrily at the folder. ‘I won’t mention it to anyone. I promise.’

  ‘To be honest,’ he said, ‘I’m not even sure there’s much in here that’ll help.’ He took a certain amount of pleasure in withholding the information, in making her wait. ‘It’s all fairly basic stuff, the police inquiry, the coroner’s report… Nothing, I’m sure, that you don’t already know.’

  ‘I don’t know much,’ she said. ‘That’s why I’m here.’

  Tony gave a shrug. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘How about some coffee? It’s only from the machine, but it’s just about drinkable.’ He stood up, deliberately glancing towards the file in order to make it clear that it was there for her to read as soon as he’d left. ‘It’ll be about ten minutes, yeah?’

  She gave a nod. ‘Ten minutes. Thank you.’

  Tony checked his wat
ch, then walked out of the office, closing the door behind him. He strolled down to the first floor, through the foyer and into Savile Row. While he waited for the time to pass, he checked out the suits in the window of a nearby tailor’s. Helen Beck, he was sure, was going to be disappointed by what she read: no suspects, no leads, just the sordid murder of a cheap little tart in Kilburn. What she really needed to know was in his head, but he still hadn’t decided whether he was going to share it with her.

  Things had gone well for him over the past few years, with a promotion to DCI and a gradual tightening of control over business in the West End. Terry Street’s rise to power had been swift and effective, and together they had carved out a decent portion of the trade – the drugs, the toms, the sex shops – that went on there. On the one hand, he didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks, but on the other, he could see certain advantages in telling her some of what he knew.

  Tony had made a few discreet enquiries and uncovered the rape that had happened in Soho. He hadn’t heard about it at the time, or if he had, he hadn’t made the connection with Alan Beck’s daughter. It wasn’t unusual for toms to run into trouble, but that had been a particularly nasty attack. Bad enough, from the looks of it, to get her out of the game for good.

  He strolled back towards the station. Helen Beck might be fragile, but she was driven, too. He could see that. She wanted answers and she’d push to get them. If he played this right, he could make sure that the only grief she caused was for somebody else.

  When he stepped into the office again, she was leaning back in the chair and the file was exactly where he’d left it. He put the plastic cup of coffee down in front of her and walked around the desk. ‘You see what I mean?’ he said.

  Helen gave a nod. Her eyes were full of the expected disappointment. ‘Not much to go on.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed, sitting down. ‘Unfortunately, the trail – if there is one – tends to go cold pretty quickly.’