‘Yes,’ she said sharply. It was not the warmest of greetings.
‘Mrs Stoker, I’ve come to talk to you about your daughter Beryl.’
‘Have you? Well, Beryl is dead so there is nothing to talk about.’
‘I have reason to believe that she is still alive.’
This statement did not seem to faze her at all. ‘What nonsense,’ she said without a pause, her stern expression still intact.
‘I think you know otherwise.’
This got her. For a moment she was lost for words, but then with the flush of anger rising in her face, she said, ‘Go away. Go away, damn you.’
‘I can go away, but if I do I shall have to go to the police and they certainly will not be turned away. I think it would be wise to talk to me.’
The mention of the police caused her body to stiffen and the eyes flickered with unease. I stepped forward, placing my foot over the threshold, effectively stopping her from closing the door.
She fought hard to keep her emotions under control, but I could see that she was disturbed by my threat of the police and, after a pause, she stepped back and opened the door wider.
‘You’d better come in then.’
‘Thank you.’
We moved into the front living room which was scrupulously neat and tidy.
‘You’d better sit down,’ she said coldly, not wanting me to sit at all, not wanting me in the house at all.
I took one of the single chairs of the three-piece suite by the right of the fire, which glowed feebly in the grate. Mrs Stoker sat opposite, on the edge of the other chair, her hands clasped tightly in her lap.
I slipped a packet of cigarettes from my pocket. I needed a fag to see me through this difficult interview.
‘No smoking in my house,’ said Mrs Stoker in a metallic I-Speak-Your-Weight machine voice. And she meant it. Slowly I replaced the packet. It looked like I had to proceed without the aid of nicotine.
‘Your daughter, Beryl, was not very happy in her marriage, was she?’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Because Brian used to hit her, didn’t he?’
She bit her lip in an attempt not to answer but her emotions got the better of her. Her body shuddered with anger. ‘Yes, he hit her, all right. He was a beast,’ she snapped. ‘He got pleasure out of knocking her about. He never seemed to be happy unless he’d given our Beryl a nasty bruise or a black eye. Or worse. I’m glad he’s dead.’
‘You know?’
‘I read it in the paper. Stabbed in his own shop. The world’s better off without him. He brought nothing but misery to my girl.’
‘Did she give him cause to be angry with her?’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘I just thought perhaps she might have done something to upset him, to cause him to lose his temper with her. I’m not saying that would give him the right to knock Beryl about, but it would explain his hatred of her. And he did hate her, didn’t he?’
She hesitated a moment before replying. ‘Yes, he hated her. He loathed her…because he loved her. Like so many men with their women, he wanted to possess her and when he found that he couldn’t he wanted to hurt her and punish her.’
‘And why was that?’
‘How should I know?’
I allowed myself a grim smile. ‘Oh, but I think you do know. You see I have a pretty good idea what went on in that marriage, but I’d like to hear it from you.’
Gladys Stoker turned away from me and gazed in the direction of the window where the light, softened by the net curtains, bathed her anguished face with a pearl-like hue. She was trying very hard not only to control her emotions but to hold back the truth that I believed she was desperate to share with someone. That someone had to be me.
‘It was because…she didn’t love him. That’s right, isn’t it?’ I prompted her.
She nodded vigorously. ‘No, she didn’t love him. How could she?’ The voice was now strained and emotional.
‘Because it wasn’t in her nature, was it?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘To love a man.’
There was a long pause before she gave a reply and when it came, it was quiet and fierce: ‘No.’
‘And that offended Brian. Offended his masculine pride. He felt cheated, humiliated and so he took his frustration and hurt out on her. He was a bully in the first place, but this gave just cause in his eyes to punish Beryl.’
Mrs Stoker turned to face me again, her eyes were now moist with tears. ‘She was a fool to marry him in the first place, but he did seem a quiet, decent fellow before the marriage.’
‘But he didn’t know it was…a marriage of convenience. Helping her to create a respectable image.’
‘She’s not a leper, you know. Just because…Beryl didn’t deliberately try to fool him. She was determined to live a normal life and she did try to suppress her feelings at first. But it was a struggle. After all you can’t force yourself to love someone by sheer will. She did all she could to be a real…a proper wife to him.’
‘Until she met Sylvia Moore. Then she could not deny her inner feelings any longer.’
‘She couldn’t deny what she was? Is that what you mean? She couldn’t deny her love for a woman. It’s not her fault she’s the way she is. We’re all God’s creatures and we cannot help what he puts into our hearts and minds. It’s just the throw of the dice. Oh, my poor Beryl, it is the terrible secret that she’s harboured for most of her life. I know because I have shared that secret with her. Great heavens, I was aware she was different even before she knew herself. I tried to help her with her battle to conform, to bury her true self behind that brittle façade. I put no pressure on her or made any attempt to change her. I was just her mother, her confidant and comfort. Even her father didn’t know. I shielded him from the truth. He couldn’t have coped with it. He went to his grave in blessed ignorance.’
Mrs Stoker’s body had relaxed now and she was addressing me almost in a conversational tone. I suspected she was relieved to talk to someone about her daughter and release some of the anguish and pain.
‘Perhaps she was misguided…a fool to marry Brian,’ she continued, ‘but she paid a harsh price for that mistake. Sylvia became her salvation. Between them there was genuine affection, a real love. Kindness. They belonged together. Is that wrong?’
I shook my head. ‘I’m not here to judge.’
‘What are you here for then, if not to wreck my daughter’s life further?’
‘I’ve come to clear up the mystery of her supposed death and the murder of Brian Garner. Now you know as well as I do that Beryl is alive and in hiding with Sylvia. The best thing you can do is tell me where they are.’
As soon as I spoke, I realized that I had just touched a dangerous nerve. Without warning Gladys Stoker jumped to her feet, her body shaking with emotion. ‘Never!’ she screamed at me, her voice hoarse and violent. The change in her demeanour was rapid, dramatic and shocking. It was though she had suddenly become possessed by some strange violent spirit which had taken hold of both her mind and body. Her face contorted with rage as she spat the words out. ‘That girl’s suffered enough. You can go to hell.’ She rushed forward in quick jerky movements and at first I thought she was going to attack me, but she brushed by my chair and headed for a sideboard behind the sofa.
‘I’m only in search of the truth, Mrs Stoker,’ I said, trying to maintain a reasonable tone in my voice. ‘It will come out sooner or later. Now that Brian has been murdered, it won’t be long before the police come knocking at your door.’
‘Will they now?’ she roared, completely taken over by her anger, her whole frame shaking with emotion, her features suffused and demonic. Frantically she dragged one of the sideboard drawers open and reached inside. Now I sensed danger. She gave a grunt of satisfaction as she withdrew a long, shiny carving knife from the drawer. Before I knew what was happening, like a harpy in a wild nightmare, Gladys Stoker turned and
ran towards me, the knife raised high.
Instinctively I stepped to one side, but in a flash she was upon me and, as I turned sharply to avoid the blade, as it flashed with some speed in my direction, I tripped on the hearth rug and fell to my knees. In an instant the crazy woman was on my back. From the corner of my eye, I saw the sharp sliver of shiny metal swing close by the side of my face. With a great effort I rose to my feet and flung the crazed woman from my back, but not before she had sliced a piece of material from the sleeve of my overcoat. She landed with a cry on the sofa. But she was up on her feet again in an instant, powered by her fury and manic desire to kill me. She swung the knife at me again, the blade sweeping within inches of my face.
This time, I managed to grab her arm in mid air and attempted to shake the weapon from her grasp but she hung on to it with a fierce unnatural grip. We moved to and fro, as though locked in some kind of bizarre dance.
In all my time as a detective I’d been in many fights, but never with a demented woman. In her fury she seemed to have inherited the strength of a circus strongman. In this frenzied state, bending an iron bar would be no problem to her. As we struggled, the point of the knife came ever closer to my face. I tried to push her towards the sideboard in order to ram her body against the edge. It was an action which I hoped would wind her and cause her to lose her hold on the knife. But before I could accomplish this manoeuvre, she kneed me in the groin. A fierce pain took hold of my senses for a brief moment and I released her arm. I staggered back, the throbbing ache in my crotch taking precedence over everything else, including the imminent danger I was in. Luckily in stumbling backwards in my pain, I had gone beyond her immediate reach and, as the knife slashed down again, it missed my face, but once again it sliced a piece from my coat. This was getting serious. I really was in danger of losing my life. The ignominy of it, I thought irrelevantly, cut down in my prime by a mad pensioner!
As my would-be assassin advanced on me, I threw a punch at her, hitting her squarely on the chin. Not a particularly chivalrous thing to do, sock an old woman on the jaw, but then this wasn’t your average old woman. It was a crazed hell cat with a desire to kill. She lurched backwards, the knife slipping from her grasp at last. Her eyes flickered momentarily, but with remarkable speed she recovered her equilibrium and reached down to snatch up the weapon from the floor.
As she did so, a voice rang out, ‘No, Mother! No!’
On hearing these words both Gladys Stoker and I froze in our tracks and turned in the direction of the voice. There standing in the doorway were two women. Despite my somewhat disorientated state, I recognized them both: Beryl Garner and Sylvia Moore.
Eighteen
Vic Bernstein slid into the darkened booth opposite the attractive young woman in the tight-fitting raspberry-coloured dress.
‘This restaurant is a bit posh, isn’t it—especially for lunchtime?’ he said.
Gina smiled and took a puff of her cigarette before replying. ‘We’re on our way to the big time, Vic. Relax and take the advantages while you can. What’s the point of earning money if you can’t indulge yourself? Personally, I don’t believe in that rainy day you’re supposed to save up for. As far as I’m concerned it’s raining all the time, so treat yourself to a large luxury umbrella.’
Vic chuckled. It was an uncertain response. He didn’t like the girl because she posed a threat, but he couldn’t help admiring her panache. Admiring it and jealous of it at the same time. He had never met anyone quite so self-assured, confident and apparently resilient as she was. He couldn’t help it but he felt a little like a clumsy teenager in her presence. She was a looker, too. He actually felt a frisson of sexual excitement just being with her. Certainly if she were not his cousin, he’d be all over her. Of course, she really didn’t seem like any kind of relative to him. She was a cold, pragmatic stranger who had suddenly forced her way into his comfortable life and brought upset and uncertainty with her.
A waiter materialized out of the sepulchral gloom and handed them each a leather-bound menu. ‘Would sir and madam care for an aperitif?’
‘Certainly,’ replied Gina without hesitation. ‘I’ll have a martini. The drier the better.’
‘And you sir?’
Vic gave a ‘why not’ raise of the brow. ‘Yeah, the same for me.’
‘So, what’s this all about?’ he added, when the waiter had gone. ‘Why invite me out to lunch on my own?’
‘Choose your food first, Vic, then we’ll talk. Pleasure before business always. I think I fancy the chicken.’
After the drinks had arrived and the choices had been made and relayed to the waiter, Gina lit another cigarette and sat back, her cigarette displayed elegantly between two fingers of her right hand. ‘It’s early days with this protection business but Anthony and his cohort seem to be doing OK,’ she said casually.
‘Yeah, it’s been smooth sailing so far. As far as I know there have been no problems.’
‘So I reckon it’s time for more action.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘It means I need your help.’ Gina stretched her hand across the table and stroked the sleeve of Vic’s jacket. ‘I believe I can rely on you,’ she purred.
God, thought Vic, tingling with sexual tension, this woman uses her femininity like a fly swatter.
‘Rely on me for what?’
‘It’s time to move forward again.’
Already? he thought. The protection scheme was only just up and running. This lady was certainly in a big hurry and he didn’t like it. It was clear that he would have to cut her down to size sooner than he planned. Well, not exactly down to size. Just cut her.
‘Oh, yeah?’ he said casually. ‘What have you got up your sleeve this time?’
Gina took a gentle sip of her martini before replying. ‘I intend to be the head of this family business in less than a year. It’s time for Uncle Leo to step down, to retire. You know that as well as I do. He’s too old and, frankly, he’s too timid. Age has brought a dulling of the spirit. He’s stuck in old-fashioned ways. Leo and my father allowed things to stagnate. There’s been no growth, no development. They just meandered along for years doing the same old thing—no progress and no innovation. And to be frank, you allowed them to.’
She held up her hand to silence his protestation.
‘Don’t splutter. It’s true and you know it. But I’m here now. And all that is going to change. Leo should be on a veranda somewhere with a pipe and slippers.’
Vic contained his anger, masking it with a taut smile. Certainly he knew that his father was past it, was no longer up to playing the fast game, but if anyone was going to replace his old man it should be him not this jumped-up arrogant tart. However, Vic knew that for the moment, however galling it was, he had to keep his thoughts and emotions to himself. He had to play it her way for now. It would be foolish at this stage of the game to make an enemy of the bitch.
‘You’re not going to bump him off, are you? I’m rather fond of my dad.’
It’s a thought,’ she replied rather chillingly, with no hint of humour in her expression. ‘But no. I think he can be persuaded to stand down completely.’
‘In favour of you?’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Who else? You have talent, Vic, and you’re coming along nicely, but you’ve been too lazy, or maybe complacent. I can’t figure out which. Maybe a mixture of both. But you don’t have the drive or the ambition to go places. I do.’
She paused and stared him hard in the face. ‘You’ll forgive me for being brutally honest, but I reckon you’re bright enough to know that I speak the truth.’
Vic didn’t answer. He didn’t know how to. Part of him agreed with her and part of him wanted to reach out and strangle the life out of the arrogant cow there and then on the dining table.
‘It is important you see how the land lies, Vic. I want you on my side. We could be useful to each other.’
‘Really? Why me? Why not Anthony?’
&nbs
p; Gina grimaced. ‘Do me a favour. That immature little brat. I wouldn’t trust him to run my bath water. I reckon I’m a pretty good judge of character and I’m certain you’re the man for me. We could make a good team.’
She flashed her eyes provocatively and stroked his arm. Vic’s libido roused itself. That fly swatter was out again, he thought, and heading in my direction.
A good team, he mused. Yes…with you as my boss and me as your dogsbody. Go to hell, lady.
‘So, are you with me?’ she asked.
‘I think I know on which side my bread is buttered,’ replied Vic.
*
Later that afternoon, Vic took a solitary stroll along the Embankment, partly to clear his head from the cocktail, the wine and the post prandial liqueur he’d consumed at lunch and partly to rearrange his plans regarding his newly discovered cousin. It could no longer he as he had first intended it to be, a wait-and-see game. Things were happening too fast for that contingency. She was racing ahead and it was important that he not only catch up with her, but overtake the bitch.
He paused and leaned over the parapet and stared into the shimmering greasy waters of the Thames, the fiery late afternoon sunshine seeming to send bright orange ribbons of fire across its surface. The heaving river was like Gina, deceptively attractive but with a cold and deadly depth which could suck a man to his doom.
This affair could have only one outcome, he determined. It must have only one outcome—and he certainly wasn’t going to be the one sucked to his doom.
Nineteen
Despite the house rules, I lit a cigarette and attempted to bring my heart rate down. It wasn’t every day that I was attacked by a mad obsessively protective mother wielding a carving knife. There is something much more dangerous in facing a wild irrational opponent than one who has cold, calculated tactics and techniques. Rationality is much easier to deal with than insanity. I was lucky to have escaped unscathed. The same could not be said for my overcoat, which was a sorry sight decorated with rips and a seriously sliced sleeve.
The Darkness of Death Page 12
