by Roberta Kray
‘What? On a Sunday?’
‘I won’t be a minute,’ Alfie yelled back, before returning his attention to Frank and Helen. ‘You’ve got to go,’ he urged, flapping his hands as if he was driving away a pair of unruly beggars. ‘I’ll meet you in the Black Lion. It’s round the corner from the tube. Ten minutes, yeah?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Frank said. ‘I’m not moving one fucking inch from here until you give me what I’m owed.’
‘You’ll have your money, I swear. But you have to go now.’
‘And let you do a bunk?’ Frank said. ‘I don’t think so. You could be out of here and—’
‘I won’t, okay? I’ve got a wife and kid. Where am I going to go? I’ll be there. I swear I will.’
Frank looked dubious, but Helen nudged his elbow. ‘Come on, it’ll be fine.’
Alfie gave her a nod and then dashed back inside, closing the door smartly behind him.
Frank glared hard at the door before turning to Helen. ‘The minute we walk away, he could clear off. All he needs to do is pack a bag and—’
‘And what? He’s got a business here, and a pretty good one by the looks of it. He’s hardly going to abandon that. Or his wife and kid. He’ll turn up. You can be sure of it. He won’t want you bashing on his door again in half an hour.’
Frank raked his fingers through his hair and glanced up the windows to the flat. ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’
‘A fiver says I am.’
‘Fighting talk. Okay, you’re on.’
‘Right, let’s find that pub.’
The Black Lion was exactly where Alfie Blunt had said it would be, round the corner from Angel tube station. Frank ordered a pint and Helen had an orange juice. Although her headache had receded, she couldn’t quite face the prospect of more alcohol.
They took their drinks to a quiet corner of the pub and settled in to wait. Frank lit a cigarette, then sat back and laughed. ‘Jesus, did you see the look on him when he spotted me? I thought he was going to have a heart attack.’
‘Well, maybe it’s a shock, you turning up like this.’
‘Maybe? What do you mean by maybe?’
‘I don’t know. He hasn’t made much effort to prevent you finding him, has he? He’s even kept the name of the shop.’
‘There is such a thing as sheer stupidity.’
Helen took a sip of her orange juice. ‘So what are you saying exactly? That you choose to do business with stupid people?’
Frank, who was in the process of lifting his pint to his lips, promptly put it down again. He gazed at Helen and grinned. ‘There’s no good answer to that one, is there?’
Fifteen minutes passed and there was still no sign of Alfie Blunt. Helen was starting to wonder if she’d just thrown a fiver down the drain when he suddenly came hurrying into the pub, out of breath, red-faced and apologetic.
‘Sorry, sorry… the missus… Margaret… I had to…’ He plumped himself down on a chair and took a few seconds to catch his breath. ‘Well, it’s good to see you again, Frank. How have you been doing?’
‘Just fine,’ Frank said. ‘But much better now that I’ve found you.’
‘I weren’t hiding anywhere, mate. I didn’t want to get in touch, send a letter or nothing. I know those screws read everything. I reckoned you’d find me soon enough once you got out.’
‘You reckoned right.’
‘Look, would you two like some privacy?’ Helen asked. ‘I can go and sit somewhere else for a while if you want to talk.’
‘No, stay where you are,’ Frank said. ‘You know all about it anyway. I’m sure Alfie here doesn’t mind.’
‘Martin,’ Alfie insisted again, keeping his voice low. ‘Call me Martin or Marty. Alfie’s dead and gone. He don’t exist no more.’
‘Okay, Marty, why don’t you get me up to speed with what’s been going on?’
Alfie had a quick glance round, making sure that none of the other customers were earwigging, before shifting his chair even closer to the table and leaning forward. ‘It’s like this, right. We was all geared for the sale – you know, like we planned and all – and then you and Tommy… well, I weren’t sure what to do after that, and so I just kept trading, thinking you might get a message to me or something. But I didn’t hear nothin’ and the shop began to do well, and so…’
‘So you just carried on?’
‘Seemed like the smartest thing to do. I wouldn’t screw you over, Frank, not you and Tommy. We’re a team, ain’t we? I reckoned I’d just wait until you got out, and then…’
‘You saying it never crossed your mind?’ Frank asked. ‘You could have gone ahead and scarpered with the cash.’
Alfie grinned at him. ‘I ain’t saying it didn’t cross me mind. I wouldn’t be human, would I? Course I thought about it for a moment. But that’s all it were, just a passing thought. There’s three shops now, Frank. It’s a good little business. Plenty of profit.’
‘Good,’ Frank said. ‘You won’t have any problems raising credit, then. We can get things back on track, go ahead with the closing-down sales and—’
Alfie gave a few rapid shakes of his head. ‘I can’t do that, Frank. How would I explain it to the missus? She ain’t gonna want to leave here. She’s got family down the road. And she don’t know about… she don’t know nothin’ about Alfie Blunt. So far as she’s concerned, I’m straight as a die.’
Frank made a light growling noise in the back of his throat. ‘Your family situation doesn’t interest me, mate. All I want is my money.’
‘Look, just hear me out, okay?’ Alfie wriggled in his chair, as if he couldn’t get comfortable. ‘There’s options, right? We could sell one of the shops, maybe even two of them, raise some cash that way. Or you and Tommy, you could just take a share of the monthly profits, use them to start something new. I’ve put some readies aside, Frank. I can get them for you soon.’ He reached into his inside pocket and took out an envelope. After another quick glance around the pub, he slid it across the table. ‘There’s a ton here. It’s all I can get for now, but I’ll go to the bank first thing tomorrow.’
Frank slid the envelope into his own pocket and stared at Alfie. ‘How much are we talking about?’
‘A few grand, but like I said, we can think about flogging off the other shops. You can look through the books, decide what you want to do. But these shops, they’re good little earners. Everyone wants electricals. Long-term, we could make a mint.’
Helen looked across at Frank, trying to figure out what he was thinking.
Frank sat back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘And what if I don’t like any of your options?’
‘Aw, Frank, give us a break. I could have screwed you over but I didn’t. I’ve spent the last seven years working like a dog. There’s a decent business here, all above board and no hassle from the law.’ Alfie looked at his watch. ‘Why don’t you go away and have a think about it, come over and see me tomorrow?’
Frank gave a nod. ‘I’ll do that.’
Alfie scraped back his chair. He looked at Helen and said, ‘Nice to meet you, love.’ Then he put out his hand to Frank. ‘Tomorrow, then.’
They shook hands and Alfie hurried away.
Frank and Helen finished their drinks and left the pub. ‘So what do you think?’ she asked as they got back into the car.
Frank switched on the ignition and pulled away from the kerb before he answered. ‘I’m not sure what to think right now. I’ll take a look at the books tomorrow, but I guess I’ll have to wait for Tommy to get out before making any final decisions.’
‘It’s funny really, isn’t it?’
‘Funny?’
Helen smiled at him. ‘You’ve just done seven years inside and you’ve come out a legitimate businessman with a share in three profitable shops.’
The corners of his mouth curled up. ‘Legitimate, huh? Well, that’s certainly a first.’
‘Oh, and you owe me a fiver.’
‘And here w
as me hoping that might have slipped your mind.’
‘I see,’ she said. ‘So you expect Alfie Blunt to pay his dues but you’re not so keen when it comes to your own debts?’
Frank laughed, took the envelope out of his pocket and threw it on to her lap. ‘Here, take it out of there.’
‘It’s okay,’ she said, handing it back. ‘You can buy a takeaway tonight instead. I fancy a Chinese.’
‘Chinese it is.’
They were approaching Camden when Helen noticed that Frank kept glancing in the rear-view mirror. ‘What is it?’ she asked, turning to look over her shoulder at the traffic behind.
‘I’m not sure, but I think we may have a tail. There’s a red Audi that’s been with us since Islington. Could just be travelling in the same direction, but I reckon I saw it earlier, too.’
‘Where is it?’
‘About four cars back, behind the black cab.’
She kept on looking, but couldn’t get a clear view. ‘No, I can’t see it properly.’
Frank flipped on his indicator. ‘Right, let’s take the scenic route and see if he stays with us.’
They cut up into Kentish Town, went as far as the tube station and then swung a right and started to wind around the back streets, away from the main stream of traffic. The red car followed them, keeping its distance.
‘Not much doubt about that, then,’ Frank said. ‘I’m going to pull in by that bus stop down there. Try and get a look at his face as he goes past.’
As he flipped on the indicator, Helen leaned forward. The red Audi slowed a little as the driver realised what was happening and then accelerated again, speeding past them so quickly that she only caught a glimpse.
‘Mid thirties,’ she said. ‘Short brown hair, wearing sunglasses. Sorry, that’s about it.’
Frank left the engine idling while he lit a cigarette. ‘Now who the hell would want to be following us around?’
‘It’s creepy,’ Helen said, shivering a little. ‘Do you think it’s to do with my visit to see Lazenby?’
‘Hard to say. Have you talked to anyone else about Eddie Chapelle?’
Helen shook her head. ‘Only you. You think this is down to him?’
‘Could be.’
‘But Tony Lazenby’s the only person who knows about Chapelle’s connection to my mum. At least, he’s the only person who knows that I’m trying to find out about her murder.’
‘Yeah,’ Frank said, pulling hard on the cigarette. ‘If there’s one thing I’ve learnt in life, it’s never to trust a copper.’
‘But why would he…? I don’t get it. I don’t understand.’
Frank gave her a sideways glance. ‘Just be careful, okay? Don’t get anywhere on your own for a while.’
‘What? You think that—’
‘I think someone’s had their cage rattled and they’re not too happy about it. We’ll stick together, yeah? Wait and see what happens next.’
Helen pulled a face. ‘Is that what you call a plan?’
‘Best I can come up with at the moment. You got a better one?’
‘No.’
‘Right, let’s go home.’
As Frank turned the car around, Helen kept her eyes peeled for their shadow. A ripple of fear ran down her spine. She was afraid, she couldn’t deny it, but a part of her felt strangely exhilarated too. Maybe, finally, the truth about her mother’s murder was starting to unravel. It hadn’t taken much – a single visit to Tony Lazenby – but already someone was worried enough to put a tail on them. She sent up one of her silent prayers to the heavens. Please God, keep us safe.
56
It took Frank less than thirty seconds to break the lock with a screwdriver and prise open the old tin. ‘Here.’ He pushed it across the kitchen table without flipping open the lid or looking inside. Then he stood up and went through to the living room.
Helen was grateful for his tact. She sat for a while staring at the initials in the right-hand corner. She wondered how old her mother had been when she’d painted them on. Her hand hovered over the tin while she braced herself for whatever might lie inside. Memories, she thought – and they weren’t always easy to deal with. She took a deep breath and opened it.
The first thing she came across were photographs, pictures of herself as a baby, as a toddler, in school uniform, in a blue velvet dress for a kids’ party. She took them out and laid them to one side. Next there was a picture of her mum and Tommy when they were children, standing outside the Fox with their mother. She had never seen a photograph of Irene before. Her maternal grandmother, a slim blonde woman, had a nice face and a pleasant smile but also an undisguised weariness about her eyes.
Helen stared at the picture for a while before placing it on top of the others. Next there was a birth certificate confirming that she was the child of Lynsey and Alan Beck. And also her parents’ marriage certificate. She found a crayon drawing that she couldn’t remember doing, a hotchpotch of coloured circles that might have been balloons. Her name was unevenly scrawled across the bottom of the page.
She continued to work her way through the box, uncovering receipts, buttons, a broken silver link bracelet, used cinema tickets, an unopened sachet of sugar, a couple of tiny pebbles and a pale pink feather. She had no idea what these mementoes had meant to her mother, but she knew that they’d meant something: tiny remembrances, perhaps, of happier times.
At the bottom of the box was a small heap of envelopes, six in all, addressed to Mrs L. Beck at the Samuel Street address in Kilburn. Helen’s first thought was that they might be love letters. She smiled, wondering if there had been someone special in her mother’s life after the disappointment of her marriage. As she took the letter out of the first envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper, her smile instantly froze. Instead of the sweet nothings she’d been expecting, there was a brutal threat written in bold black capitals. YOU ARE A BITCH AND YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.
Quickly, Helen snatched up the next one. KEEP LOOKING OVER YOUR SHOULDER, BITCH.
And then the next. YOU DESERVE EVERYTHING YOU GET.
The other three were in a similar vein, short and to the point, nasty and threatening. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest as she gazed down at them. Her hands were shaking, damp, and she had a sick feeling in her stomach. Grabbing the first envelope, she stared at the postmark. It had been sent from Holborn in 1970, a few weeks before her mum had been murdered.
‘Frank,’ she called.
He came into the kitchen with a bottle of beer in his hand. ‘You okay?’
Helen gestured towards the notes lying on the table. ‘I… I found these. They were in the bottom of the tin.’
He sat down beside her and picked up the notes, one after the other. ‘Christ,’ he murmured.
‘You think Chapelle sent them? Or got someone else to send them? You know, to warn her off about giving evidence.’
‘Could be,’ he said. He examined the envelopes, peering at the postmarks. ‘All sent from different parts of London.’ He sipped on his beer and pondered for a few seconds. ‘Not sure if it’s really his style, though. If he wanted to give her a warning, he’d be more likely to send one of the boys round. Why bother with this kind of thing?’
‘Perhaps he just wanted to scare her.’
‘Easier ways of doing it.’
‘But there has to be a connection.’ Helen raised a hand to her mouth and chewed on her knuckles. ‘God, why didn’t she go to the cops? Why didn’t she tell them?’
‘I don’t suppose they’d have done much. The best she could have hoped for – and that’s presuming she was prepared to give evidence – would be witness protection. And that would have meant changing her identity, moving away and probably never seeing you again.’
Helen played with the notes, picking them up and putting them down again. ‘At least she’d have been alive.’
‘But did she even know enough to be a threat to Chapelle?’
She shrugged. ‘She was friends with Anna
Farrell. Anna was Chapelle’s girlfriend. Well, according to Lazenby. And girls talk to each other, don’t they? Anna could have told her all kinds of stuff.’
‘She could have,’ Frank agreed. ‘But it would only have been hearsay. Surely Anna was the one he’d be more concerned about.’
‘So he killed them both. Just to be sure. She’s probably dead too, don’t you think?’
Frank sat back, frowning. ‘I don’t know.’ He played with the beer bottle, revolving the neck between his finger and thumb. He was quiet for thirty seconds, and then he said, ‘You sure you want to carry on with this?’
Helen gave a nod. ‘Of course I do. I have to.’ She swallowed hard. Suddenly, after the tail that had been put on them and the threatening notes to her mother, the danger had become more real. ‘I’m not scared of him,’ she lied, although the tremor in her voice betrayed her.
‘Sometimes it’s good to be scared,’ Frank said. ‘Especially of men like Eddie Chapelle.’
57
For the next few weeks, Helen divided her time between working in the sandwich bar and finding out everything she could about Eddie Chapelle and Anna Farrell. While she was buttering bread and doling out teas, Frank was either in Islington, sorting out business with Alfie Blunt, or up West making discreet enquiries about Chapelle.
On Wednesdays, which she had off, she and Frank took the Northern Line up to Hendon and went to the Colindale newspaper library, where they trawled through the mass of microfilm, searching for anything that could be relevant to her mother’s murder. The library had been Moira’s suggestion, and through its archives they had found out a little more about Anna Farrell: she had been a model and socialite in the early sixties, a rising star mixing with the glitterati, but by 1970 – when she was thirty-two – she had more or less slipped out of view. There had been a couple of convictions for soliciting in 1967 and 1968, but since then nothing else.
On Chapelle, however, they’d compiled a much larger dossier, none of which made for comfortable reading. Eddie Chapelle had been arrested on numerous occasions, usually in connection with pimping, pornography or gang warfare in the West End. In 1969, there had been a particularly nasty killing: a man called Raymond Deed had been brutally murdered, slashed and stabbed, his head almost severed from his neck. Chapelle had been in the frame, had even been charged, but the case had never gone to trial.
