by Julie Thomas
‘What –’
She swung around. ‘No, Vinnie! No! Come with me.’
She was very white and shaking violently, but she used her arms to push him backwards, her hands against his chest. He was too confused to mount any resistance, and she slammed the door, grasped his shoulder and hauled him outside and down the steps.
‘What’s wrong? Mum? What’s happened to Dad?’ he asked, panic gripping him harder than her hand.
‘Be quiet. Just come with me.’
She half-dragged him down the path, onto the street and around to the next-door neighbour’s house.
‘I want you to stay here.’
She banged on the door with her closed fist.
‘Why? What’s happen –’
The door was opened by Mr Weatherly, half of the pensioner couple who lived there. He was already in his pyjamas and dressing gown, and stepped back in surprise.
‘Mrs Ross –’
Mary shoved Vinnie at the old man. ‘Please take care of him, Jim. Whatever happens, don’t let him come back to the house.’
Vinnie spun around and nearly fell off the step. Jim caught him by the shirt and pulled him back.
‘Please, Mum! Just tell me –’
Mary shook her head. ‘No, Vin. I have to go. Be good and don’t look out the window.’
Jim had been joined by his wife. The woman reached across him, took Vinnie’s arm and drew him inside the doorway.
‘Of course we will, Mary, don’t you worry about him … Come on, dear, come and have some lemonade.’
The door shut behind him, and Vinnie followed her reluctantly. His heart was pounding and his throat felt tight.
The ambulance arrived, followed by the police. He heard the sirens and the flurry of activity, doors banging and voices raised, but his guardians wouldn’t let him go to the window. They fed him cake, but he didn’t feel like eating, and when they tried to distract him with Blue Peter on television, he saw nothing and strained to hear what was happening next door.
His head spun with fear and an emotion he had never felt before. Something was very wrong. Every possible reason for what he had seen in the lounge ran riot through his brain. He had brought some artwork home from school – maybe his father had been hanging it up and had slipped, broken a leg and hit his head?
On a more sinister note, Vinnie had a secret. Marcus had given him a cigarette-card collection to hide, something Marcus had nicked from a kid at his school and didn’t want in his possession in case someone accused him and demanded his locker be searched. It had some rare cards, and Marcus intended to sell it and split the profits with Vinnie. To make matters worse, Vinnie had shared the secret when he had promised he wouldn’t. Had someone broken into the house in order to steal it back? The thought that his father had been hurt because of a card collection made his stomach turn over.
When his mother finally came back, her eyes were red-rimmed and her face was swollen and tear-stained.
She hugged him fiercely, and her body trembled against his. ‘We’ve always been honest with each other, and I’m not going to lie to you now, darling boy. Your father is dead.’
The words hit him like a swift punch in the solar plexus, and it was hard to catch his breath. He had accepted what the old couple had said: that his father had probably broken something and needed to go to hospital. His mother was watching him. She was probably wondering if her words had made sense. Did anyone want the damn card collection badly enough to kill for it? His eyes filled with tears, and she took his hands in hers. Her skin felt cold, and that was enough to break his train of thought. His voice was small, and the words were hard to force out.
‘How … how did he … die?’
‘He shot himself. I know it’s hard to understand right now, but you will. And we will be okay. We will cope together.’
Suddenly Vinnie could feel something he didn’t understand. It seemed to be spreading from his heart, and it made his limbs feel heavy. Her voice sounded unfamiliar and came from a very long way away. For one thing, he couldn’t see how she knew that they would be okay. How could anything ever be okay again?
Over the next few days it became apparent that Bert had been tipped off about an impending surprise audit. His calculations were excellent; his attention to detail, meticulous; he’d hidden money very cleverly, but not cleverly enough to fool the full scrutiny of the forensic accountants of Her Majesty’s Revenue and Customs. When his worst fears appeared to be coming true, he transferred money to offshore accounts set up for the purpose, carefully burned all his ledgers and papers in the fireplace of the front room, spread a sheet on the floor to make cleaning up easier and put a bullet through his brain.
His note explained that he knew he would never stand up to intensive questioning and that he had acted alone, his employer was innocent. He had created a double set of accounts but gambled the extra money away. He would never survive jail, so he had taken the easy way out. The essential evidence had been destroyed by fire, and Tobias Lane insisted he knew nothing of what his accountant had done.
Mary was furious and completely mortified. She had suspected that Lane was a crooked businessman, but she’d had no idea he had corrupted her Bert to that extent.
‘My husband has never gambled a penny in his life, until now.’ She sat very straight in the chair, a handkerchief twisting between her hands, and looked at the stick insect of a man opposite her. Tobias Lane had been just a name, and now she was confronted with the unpleasant reality.
‘I understand what a shock this has been and that’s why I’m here. I want to help.’
Mary glared at him. ‘How exactly do you think you can do that?’ Her voice was icy.
He sighed. ‘The only way I can. Financially.’
Mary stiffened. How dare he! ‘We don’t need, nor want, your money.’
He smiled, and she could see a hint of indulgence in his cold eyes. She was a very gentle person, but she had never wanted to punch a man more in her life.
‘Come now, Mrs Whitney-Ross. I insist that you let me pay for Bert’s funeral.’
‘Absolutely not!’ She shot to her feet. ‘On no condition will I allow that to happen. Bert would be horrified, and I’ll thank you to stop patronising me.’
He shrugged. ‘Very well. Then please allow me to help with Vinnie. He’s a bright lad, he deserves a good education. Will you allow me to pay to send him to public school?’
It was a tempting offer. There was no way she, as a widow, could afford it. Did she have the right to reject such an opportunity for her son because of her hatred for this contemptible man? ‘On one condition.’
‘Name it.’
‘We move away. I want to sell up and buy somewhere else.’
‘Still in London?’
‘Probably. Possibly. I don’t know.’ She knew the anguish in her voice was obvious, and it made her feel vulnerable. He stood up.
‘Very well, take your time. When you are settled and ready to send him to school, let me know. I am happy to help. Bert was my friend.’
Vinnie held his mother’s hand throughout the funeral, and she didn’t cry, not once. He took his cue from her and choked back the tears. Marcus didn’t come, but his parents and grandparents were there. Mary shook their hands, but didn’t meet their gaze.
Two days later, Vinnie took the cigarette-card collection to his father’s old friend, Monty Joe, and sold it for £100. He suspected it was worth much more, but he didn’t know who else to ask. The next day he dipped into his savings box, and took some pound notes, plus the £100, to school. Throughout the day he kept checking his pocket to make sure the money was still there, bundled up and held with a rubber band. After school he walked to the nearest taxi rank and gave the driver the address written down on a piece of paper. His feet didn’t reach the floor of the back seat, and he spent the journey looking out the window and practising what he was going to say.
The house was as imposing as ever, and even scarier without his fathe
r. He paid the driver and pocketed the few coins left.
The butler answered the door. ‘Why hello, Master Whitney-Ross. What can we do for you?’
Vinnie drew himself up. ‘I would like to see Mr Tobias, please.’
The butler hesitated, and then opened the door wide. ‘Come in, sir. I will put you in the library and tell Mr Tobias that you are here.’
‘Thank you.’
Vinnie followed the butler across the massive entrance hall and into the library. He had been here before, and it contained more books than he had ever seen in anyone’s house, but none of them looked as though they had been read.
The butler pointed to an armchair. ‘Please take a seat. Would you like some lemonade?’
‘No, thank you.’
‘Very well.’ The elderly man left him alone.
The room was silent. Vinnie noticed how the sunlight coming in the window picked up particles of dust in the air. They seemed to be dancing as they fell to the ground.
‘Vinnie!’
The booming voice gave him a start and he jumped. Mr Tobias was standing in the doorway.
Vinnie stood up. ‘Hello, sir.’
Lane strode across the room and held out his hand. Vinnie shook it and the man’s grasp embraced his past his wrist.
‘What a nice surprise. How are you? How is your mother? It was a very fitting funeral.’
‘We’re fine, thank you, sir.’
Vinnie sat down and Lane sat opposite him. There was a moment’s silence.
‘Have you come to ask me for something?’ Lane asked gently.
Vinnie shook his head. ‘No, sir. I’m the master of the house now and I wanted to tell you that I’m very sorry. For what my dad did. He wasn’t a bad man.’
Mr Tobias was studying him, his head on a slight angle and his eyes kind. He didn’t seem mad to find Vinnie here. Something told Vinnie he wouldn’t want to make Mr Tobias mad.
‘No, of course he wasn’t! And he was an excellent father. I could see that because he brought you with him to play with Marcus.’
At the sound of his friend’s name, Vinnie smiled and sat forward. ‘Is he here? Marcus?’
Mr Tobias shook his head. ‘No, I’m afraid he’s at his house. Can I give him a message for you?’
Vinnie nodded. ‘I just wanted to say goodbye. We’re moving away. I wanted him to know that I loved having him as my friend.’
‘I’ll make sure he knows that, and he will miss you, too.’
Vinnie stood up. ‘When I’m older and I have a job and I’m earning money, I will pay you back any money that my dad owed you. I have this, for now.’ He took the roll of money from his pocket and held it out.
Mr Tobias said nothing for a moment, and then he sighed. He looked sad. ‘Thank you, Vinnie, that’s very grown-up of you. I won’t forget that, but I won’t take your money right now. You give that to your mother instead. Now, how did you get here?’
‘In a taxi.’
‘Does your mother know?’
Vinnie shook his head. ‘I took the fare from my savings.’
Mr Tobias nodded. ‘Never mind. I’ll get Jones to call you a taxi, and when you get home you can give the driver this and put the change back in your savings and give the other money to your mother.’
Mr Tobias gave him a £20 note.
Vinnie’s eyes widened. That was a lot of money! ‘Thank you, sir.’
That night, as he lay in bed and thought about his day, it occurred to Vinnie that Mr Tobias hadn’t asked him where the money had come from. Maybe Marcus had told his grandfather about the cigarette-card collection, so Mr Tobias already knew. It was a very grand house and Mr Tobias obviously didn’t need extra money, so maybe he had told Marcus to forget about it. Either way, Vinnie felt uncomfortable about the money and unsure what to do with it. If he admitted to his mother that it was the proceeds of a crime she would be heartbroken, and he couldn’t cause her any more pain. Best to hang on to it for now – you never know when you might need some capital to set up a little sideline business.
Mary sold the house and most of their possessions and bought a flat over a shop in Hendon, far away from the scene of her husband’s betrayal. Vinnie missed his dad and Marcus very much, but being close to the RAF Museum was a bonus, and he visited there every weekend. The irony was not lost on Mary that they were also very close to the police college.
Vinnie found his own way of coping, part of which was lying about the way his father died. He had no way of knowing that if he had told his mother this, she would have been immensely relieved.
CHAPTER FIVE
MARCUS GROWS UP
Marcus did tell his mother about the body in the garage at Tom’s, and she decided he wouldn’t play there anymore. He was just getting tired of thinking up excuses when his grandfather introduced him to a new boy, a boy who didn’t go to his school, a boy who came to visit with his grandfather’s accountant, a boy who was easily led, a boy called Vinnie Whitney-Ross.
To start with, Marcus thought Vinnie was a bit of a softie. It seemed that the boy could read proper books, all by himself. That impressed Marcus, but he decided not to show it. When they played games, like running races, he won and that was what mattered. Vinnie was funny and clever and liked listening to his stories. He knew an awful lot about dinosaurs, and that meant they could play at being Diplodocus and T-rex on the lawn.
Once or twice he considered telling his friend about the time in the garage and the man on the floor, but he wasn’t sure how Vinnie would react. Something told him that Vinnie wasn’t fascinated by dead bodies, and he might decide not to come back.
The years flew by and Marcus grew more and more confident. No one questioned him when he ordered the servants around or reprimanded them, and even the teachers at school seemed a bit scared of him. He became aware that being ‘Norman Lane’s son’ had advantages, and he used them to the hilt. Vinnie was a willing subject, and Marcus enjoying teaching him how to steal and how to tell when people were lying.
When he was ten he changed schools to Priory College Junior School, the feeder for the public school where he would spend his senior years. It was full of gullible, spoiled boys from wealthy backgrounds who were eager to show how grown-up they were, and it made for rich pickings for an articulate, manipulative boy like Marcus. Within days he had a group of acolytes who hung off his every word and delighted in bullying anyone who appeared weak.
During that summer his grandfather called him into the great big library. ‘I have some news that might make you sad. Bert Whitney-Ross has shot himself. So Vinnie won’t be coming to play anymore.’
Marcus hardly blinked, so used to hiding his emotions had he become. ‘Vinnie has something of mine, something I want back. I can sell it.’
His grandfather looked surprised. ‘What is it?’
‘A collection of cigarette cards.’
‘Is it yours to sell?’
Marcus shrugged. ‘It is now.’
‘Why does Vinnie have it?’
‘In case someone wanted to search for it and found it in my locker. He’s looking after it for me.’
Tobias smiled. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll pay you for it. How much do you want?’
‘Some of the cards are hard to find. I think £200 sounds fair.’
Tobias was obviously surprised again. ‘Do you? I think £150 sounds generous. Now, run along and scam someone else.’
Later, Marcus went down to the garden and ripped the heads off all the carnations. Then he sat down on the lawn and cried with frustration. He knew crying was weak, but that strange emotion of missing Vinnie, the feeling he was so used to between visits, now seemed overwhelming. After a few moments he wiped his eyes and ran to the end of the lake where the net lay waiting. He played duckling racing by himself, as he considered how he would have liked to tell Vinnie that a gunshot was a noble way to die.
While Marcus’s natural leadership skills made him popular at Priory College, his thinly veiled temper got him i
nto trouble. He played rugby in the winter and cricket in the summer, and took great pride in wearing the purple house colours of Mortimer on his school tie. As he matured, the lesson about actions and consequences was reinforced: if you didn’t commit the action, you weren’t held responsible for the consequence. This seemed like a tremendous stroke of luck, so he found less intelligent boys who would take care of the physical side of discipline and punishment for him.
He styled his gang on the Italian mafia, and gave each boy a codename. He was ‘Mario’ and his compatriots were ‘Luigi’, ‘Carlo’, ‘Vincenzo’, ‘Roberto’ and ‘Paulo’. He gleaned information from many sources and put it into action: homemade gunpowder led to homemade fireworks that flew higher than any shop-bought ones, and he even made a brief, if unsuccessful, foray into homemade napalm. But his most creative and popular invention was the matchbox bomb.
‘How many should we use as flints?’ The boys were staring at the contents of a matchbox, laid out on the table.
‘Half and half,’ Marcus replied.
They watched with quiet fascination as he prepared the matches and packed them back into the box, then wrapped it tightly in foil.
‘Now what?’
Marcus smiled at the boy who had dared to ask the question.
‘Now you get to try it out.’
The first one failed to ignite, so he packed it more snuggly and bound it into a hard silver ball. This time the elected perpetrator threw it into a wastepaper bin in the school playground and the explosion was immediate and dramatic.
Eventually, Marcus came to the attention of the Order of Bacchus, an association of senior boys who took their drinking seriously. They met fortnightly in a locked common room, and he knew the invitation to attend was a rare honour for a fourteen-year-old. The boy leading him there knocked on the door with a complicated sequence of rhythms.
‘Enter.’ The voice from inside was clear and strong. Marcus recognised it instantly but said nothing. The boy took a key from his blazer pocket and unlocked the door.
