Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  Lynsey Beck’s death, on the other hand, had barely registered with the media. They had found only one mention, and that was in the local Kilburn paper, a narrow six-inch column reporting the fire in Samuel Street and the death of the tenant. There was no suggestion of foul play.

  Helen squinted through the windscreen as they approached Camden, the early evening sun in her eyes. They had the windows open and a warm breeze caught her hair and sent it flying back over her shoulders. Since getting his money from Alfie, Frank had bought himself a second-hand motor, another MG, although this one was white. Now that he had some cash, he was free to move out and find his own flat, but as yet he hadn’t suggested it.

  He was only staying, she knew, because he didn’t want to leave her alone while she was digging up the past and possibly stirring up trouble. She wondered if she was a burden, if she’d involved him in something he’d rather not be doing. The thought made her uneasy. She wanted him to stay, but she didn’t want him to feel under any obligation.

  It was strange how quickly she’d got used to having him around, to waking up each day and finding him in the kitchen, the smell of toast and coffee wafting on the air. Every morning the bed was reconstructed as a sofa and the blankets piled neatly in the corner of the room. He was easy to get along with and she looked forward to the time when work was finished and she could race upstairs to the flat to see him again.

  This afternoon, they had spent several hours tracking down old friends and acquaintances of Anna Farrell, but had little to show for the effort. Of the few they had managed to find, nobody was prepared to say much, although whether this was down to fear or ignorance was impossible to fathom. On the whole, they had been met with only shrugs and frowns. No one knew where she was. No one had heard from her for years. No one seemed to care.

  ‘Are we wasting our time?’ sighed Helen as Frank cruised into the parking space outside the sandwich shop.

  He turned off the ignition and glanced at her. ‘Not giving up already, are you?’

  ‘Did I say anything about giving up? I just meant… I don’t know… Maybe we’re not looking in the right places.’

  Frank’s mouth curled a little at the corners. ‘Ah, the right places. You should have said.’

  ‘Now you’re laughing at me.’

  ‘As if.’ He made an effort to straighten his face. ‘But seriously, you have to be patient with these things. If we keep going, something useful will turn up eventually.’

  Eventually felt like a long way off for Helen. ‘I hope so.’

  They got out of the car and went on up to the flat. They had barely been inside a minute when the doorbell rang.

  ‘You expecting anyone?’ asked Frank. He went over to the window to take a look outside.

  ‘Oh, it’s probably Moira. She said she might drop by this evening.’

  ‘Maybe you should—’

  But Helen didn’t catch the end of what he was suggesting. She was already on her way downstairs. As soon as she opened the door, she regretted it. Standing on the pavement were three men, two of them as tall as Frank, the other – the one in the middle – with a face that she instantly recognised from the photographs she’d seen in the papers. Her heart leapt into her mouth as she found herself staring into the cold, steely eyes of Eddie Chapelle.

  ‘Hello, Helen,’ he said.

  She went to try and slam the door, but was way too slow. One of the goons stepped forward, inserting his heavy boot into the gap and shoving the door back, forcing her to retreat. The other two followed in his wake until all four of them were huddled together in the cramped hallway.

  Eddie Chapelle gave a weary shake of his head. ‘That’s not much of a welcome, Helen. I’m disappointed. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.’

  She could feel her heart thrashing, her mouth turning dry with fear. She knew what this man was capable of; she’d read and heard enough to comprehend the kind of danger she was in. ‘W-what do you want?’ she eventually managed to stammer out.

  He fixed her with that intimidating stare again. ‘Isn’t that the question I should be asking?’

  Frank suddenly appeared at the top of the staircase. ‘What the—’

  ‘Don’t even think about it,’ Chapelle said, looking up at him. ‘We’re just here for a chat. There’s no need for any nastiness.’

  The very next second, Helen felt the cold pressure of steel against the nape of her neck. One of the goons had a gun to her head. She drew in her breath, her gasp clearly audible.

  Frank gave a nod and raised his hands. ‘Okay, okay. I get it.’

  ‘Stay where you are,’ the other thug said. ‘Don’t move a fuckin’ muscle.’ He also had a gun, a black revolver that he kept aimed at Frank as he jogged up the stairs. Quickly, he ushered Frank around the corner and out of sight.

  ‘And now you,’ the first goon said to Helen. ‘Up the stairs and take it slow, huh? No sudden movements.’

  Helen did as she was told, her legs shaky. It was only a few minutes since she’d been bemoaning their lack of progress – but this wasn’t the kind of progress she’d been hoping for. When they got to the living room, Frank was already in the armchair, with the thug standing guard behind him.

  ‘There’s no need for all this,’ Frank said. ‘What’s with the shooters?’

  Chapelle threw him a sneering glance but otherwise ignored him, turning his attention back to Helen. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, waving towards the sofa.

  Helen lowered herself into the corner, keeping her eyes on him. Eddie Chapelle was a dapper man in his mid fifties with grey hair and a thin, sharp face. Although he was of medium height and build, the size of his two companions made him seem almost petite in comparison. ‘What do you want?’ she asked again, trying to keep the panic she was feeling out of her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

  Chapelle remained on his feet, watching her carefully. ‘A little bird tells me you’ve been asking questions behind my back. I don’t like that, Helen. I prefer to conduct my business face to face. More honest that way, don’t you think?’

  Helen looked up at him. Despite her fear, anger was blossoming inside her. Was this the man who had killed her mother? It was more than likely. And if he was going to kill her too, she felt determined to find out the truth before he did. ‘You don’t think I have a right to know what happened to my mum?’

  ‘Every right,’ he said slyly. ‘But what makes you think I can help?’

  ‘Because you knew her. Lynsey Beck. She used to work for you.’

  Chapelle frowned and pursed his lips. ‘A lot of girls work for me. Many girls. Why should I remember her?’

  ‘Nineteen seventy,’ said Helen. ‘She was friends with Anna Farrell.’

  ‘Ah, Anna,’ he said. ‘Now I do remember Anna. A very attractive woman. We were also… friends for a while. But your mother, no, I don’t think I recall her.’

  Helen took a deep breath. ‘When you were in jail, she received threats, notes telling her to keep her mouth shut. Are you saying you didn’t send them?’

  ‘Threats?’ he repeated, his eyebrows lifting. ‘And you think…? But how would that be possible if, like you say, I was in jail?’

  Helen couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or not. He was the kind of man, she imagined, who lied with such regularity that it was virtually second nature to him. She answered his question with one of her own. ‘If you’ve got nothing to hide, why are you so bothered about what I might be doing?’

  Chapelle pulled a face. ‘A man has his… reputation to consider. Mud sticks, my dear. You start accusing people of—’

  ‘I’m not accusing you of anything. Somebody killed her,’ Helen said. She could feel Frank’s eyes on her – he was probably willing her to shut up – but she refused to meet his gaze. ‘I’m just trying to find out who that was.’

  ‘And looking in the wrong direction, I’m afraid.’ Chapelle tilted his head and gave a sigh. ‘I don’t wish to be dragged into this business. Do yo
u understand?’ He leaned down suddenly, grabbed hold of her chin, yanked it towards him and pushed hard into her cheeks with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Do you?’

  ‘Keep your hands off her!’ Frank said. He lurched forward, but the goon wasn’t having any of it. In one swift, brutal motion, he smashed the butt of the gun against the side of Frank’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

  Helen let out a cry. She instinctively tried to move, to help, but Chapelle tightened his hold. He grasped her shoulder with his left hand, his fingers like an iron grip. ‘Don’t worry about your boyfriend,’ he hissed. ‘He’s not dead… yet.’

  Frank, as if to verify the statement, gave a low groan from where he was laid out on the carpet.

  Chapelle stared hard into her eyes. ‘Look at me, not him. And listen to me good, because I don’t like to repeat myself. You stay away from me and my business. I hear you’re still poking around, and next time… well, next time it won’t be such a friendly visit. You got it?’

  Helen gave a nod.

  ‘You got it?’ he asked again.

  ‘Yes,’ she croaked.

  ‘Good.’ He let go of her, turned to his goons and gave a fast flicking gesture with his hand. The two thugs, like well-trained Rottweilers, immediately walked over to the door. Chapelle gave Helen a long final stare. ‘Let’s hope we don’t meet again.’

  As soon as he had gone, she jumped off the sofa and crouched down beside Frank. ‘Are you okay? Are you all right?’

  Slowly, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and leant his forehead briefly against his knees. Then he touched the side of his head and winced. There was blood in his hair. ‘Jesus, what did he hit me with? A bleeding brick?’

  ‘Don’t move. Let me get something.’ Helen rushed into the kitchen and ran a clean cloth under the cold tap, then wrung it out and took it back into the living room. She kneeled down again and dabbed tentatively at the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.’

  Frank looked at her. ‘Why? Did you hit me?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘But—’

  ‘Then it’s not your fault.’

  ‘You know what I mean. If I hadn’t started… if I hadn’t… I never meant for you to get hurt.’

  ‘Here, let me do that,’ he said, reaching up to take the cloth from her.

  Helen felt the breath catch in the back of her throat as his hand collided with hers and their fingers became briefly intertwined. Their eyes met, and for a moment their faces were so close that their lips could have touched with only the barest of movements. Flustered at the thought of it, she quickly turned her head to one side and pulled her hand away. ‘We should go to the hospital. You may need stitches.’

  Frank frowned, as if trying to fathom out what had just happened. Or maybe it was the pain he was frowning at. ‘What I really need,’ he said, as he pressed the cloth firmly against the cut, ‘is a stiff Scotch.’

  Helen, glad of an excuse to leave the room, jumped to her feet and went back into the kitchen.

  ‘You may as well bring the bottle,’ he called out. ‘I get the feeling I’m going to need it.’

  She returned with the bottle of whisky and two glasses and sat down on the floor near but not too close to him. She poured out a large measure and passed it over. ‘How are you? That’s a nasty cut. It’s still bleeding. Are you sure you don’t want to go to hospital?’

  Frank knocked the drink back in one, winced and then sighed. ‘Ah, that’s better. No, honestly. I’m going to have a headache, but there’s no lasting damage.’

  Helen poured him another whisky and then picked up her own glass. She took two large gulps, feeling the burn as it slid down her throat. ‘Do you know, when he was here… I really thought…’

  ‘I know,’ he said. ‘The idea crossed my mind too. It’s not every day you get a visit from Mr Chapelle and live to tell the tale.’ He looked at her over the top of his glass. ‘And it’s not everyone who’d have the guts to do what you did. I was impressed, Mouse.’

  Helen flushed at the compliment, even though she felt she didn’t deserve it. ‘What’s there to be impressed by? I was terrified.’

  ‘But you still went ahead and asked the questions. It was a brave thing to do.’

  She bowed her head before raising her face to look at him again. The shock of it all was only just beginning to sink in. ‘Brave or stupid?’ Briefly she pushed her fist against her mouth, thinking of how much danger she had put him in. ‘You were the one who got hurt.’

  ‘I’ll live.’

  ‘No thanks to me.’

  Frank shifted back and leaned against the armchair. He laid the bloodied cloth on the coffee table and lit a cigarette. ‘I knew what I was getting into. I don’t blame you, so don’t start blaming yourself.’

  Helen understood what he was saying, but it was hard for her to see it that way. She felt responsible for what had happened. She was responsible. Quietly she said, ‘He did kill her, though, didn’t he? He did kill my mum.’

  Frank hesitated before replying. ‘Well, I’d swear that he had Anna Farrell killed. That’s what he’s worried about. But I’m not so sure about your mother. I don’t think he was faking when he claimed that he didn’t remember her. I mean, why would he bother to pretend?’ He pulled on the cigarette while he pondered some more. ‘My gut instinct says he came here only because of his connection to Anna’s death. I could be wrong, but that’s the way I see it.’

  It wasn’t the answer that Helen had wanted. She thought back over the encounter with Chapelle. It was true that he hadn’t shown even a flicker of recognition at the name of Lynsey Beck, but that could have been a deliberate ploy to put her off the scent. It didn’t mean anything. Not really. Men like him wore deceit like suits of armour. ‘He’s hardly going to admit it, though, is he?’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘But you think I’m wrong?’

  Frank’s shoulders lifted a fraction before dropping again. ‘All I’m saying is that his main interest, his main worry, seemed to be Anna Farrell.’

  Helen, who needed things clear-cut – she wanted justice for her mother – was reluctant to give up her main suspect. Chapelle had the motive and the means. He could easily have paid one of his goons to commit murder and then torch the flat afterwards. ‘But why would Lazenby have put his name forward if he didn’t have anything to do with it?’

  Frank gave a snort. ‘Why do bent coppers do anything? Because there’s some advantage in it. Because he wants to cause Chapelle grief. Perhaps he’s got a grudge. I don’t know. All I do know is that you can’t trust Lazenby any more than you can trust Chapelle.’

  ‘But if Chapelle didn’t kill her, who did?’

  Frank swirled the whisky around in his glass. ‘Whoever sent the notes? Perhaps we’re confusing two completely separate issues. Maybe there was someone else who wanted her dead.’

  ‘God,’ said Helen, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. ‘If that’s the case, then we’re back to square one. How do we even begin to find out who it was?’

  Frank didn’t seem to have an answer to that one.

  ‘So what next?’ she asked.

  ‘That’s up to you.’

  Helen’s gaze dropped from the wound on his temple to the bloodied cloth lying on the coffee table. She’d caused enough damage for now. It was time to pull back for a while. ‘I think we should leave it until Tommy gets home. It’s only a few days. Let’s wait and see what he says.’

  58

  Terry Street, although inwardly raging, kept his expression composed as he gazed back at Lazenby. The man was a liability, a dangerous, interfering fool. You didn’t fuck with the likes of Chapelle unless you wanted to end up in a wooden box. But Lazenby, of course, thought that he was bloody invincible, thought that he could get away with anything.

  ‘Don’t you see?’ the copper said, almost knocking over the bottle as he refilled his glass. It was one o�
�clock in the morning and he was drunk on triumph and whisky. ‘He’ll have to try and get rid of her. She’s digging too deep and she isn’t going to stop. There’s only one sure way to shut her up, and when he makes that choice—’

  ‘You’ll be there to put the cuffs on.’

  ‘You’ve got it. He’s already paid her a visit, thinking he can scare her off. All I have to do now is tip him the wink that it hasn’t worked out, that she’s still shooting her mouth off about how he murdered her mother, and he’ll have to come up with a more permanent solution.’

  Terry gave a nod, giving nothing away. He’d spent the last five years building a good working relationship with Eddie Chapelle – they owned three gambling establishments together, a few clubs and a string of strip joints – and now Lazenby was about to blow it all out of the water. For years, the rival firms in the West End had been at war with each other, fighting over territory, over ownership of pubs and clubs, until it had reached the point where they were inflicting more harm on each other than anything the filth could come up with. Barely a week went by without a firebombing or a stabbing. Someone had to find a way to keep the peace, and he was the one who’d come up with the perfect compromise.

  He lit a fag, still pleased with his idea and with the way it had panned out. The plan had been a simple one. Instead of single ownership, all of the clubs were to be split between the major firms, so they had half, third or quarter shares in each establishment. With everyone getting a fair share of the profits, there was no reason to attack each other. Of course there were still disagreements, petty squabbles and personal vendettas, but on the whole, life was a lot calmer. Everyone had benefited from the deal, and for the moment, a truce was holding.

  That truce, however, could easily be shattered. Eddie Chapelle was one of the major players, an influential one, and if he was taken out of the picture, the whole balance would shift. There’d be a renewed tussle for power and everything would fall apart. Before long they’d be back to their old ways, tearing each other to pieces instead of concentrating on the cash that could be made.