She turned to look, expecting to see small children and then blinked as three large youths in black leather jackets came in. They looked like caricatures of Bad Boys, so heavily were the jackets studded with metal, and so spikily cut and dyed was their hair. One had a broad scar running down one cheek of which he was clearly immensely proud, for he kept his head tilted so that it was that side of his face that was most prominent, and all three wore obscenely tight jeans and heavy boots.
‘Well, there you are!’ Mort said, and the relief in his voice was almost palpable. ‘I’ve been waiting for you –’
The boy with the scar came and stood beside him, staring at Maggy with his face very straight. ‘Trouble?’
‘No, my dear fella, no trouble. Not at all – is there, Margaret Rose?’ Mort turned and looked at her, and the difference in him made him look ten years younger.
‘Maggy,’ she said, staring at the boy at Mort’s side, and very aware of his two companions, one standing across the doorway, the other behind her chair.
‘Of course. Maggy. I knew her when she was a child, Dave. Imagine that! Such a brilliant and beautiful girl, and I’ve known her almost thirty years. She’s a famous musician, you know!’
‘Yeah?’ said the boy at the door. ‘What group?’
‘My own,’ she said sharply. ‘If it’s any of your business.’
‘Where is it in the charts, then?’ the boy said, and tipped his chin at David, beside Mort’s chair.
She ignored him. ‘May we finish our conversation, please, Mort?’
‘Oh, I thought we had.’ He was becoming more comfortable by the moment, basking in the presence of his three louts, and he smiled at her again, but it no longer seemed so gentle, nor so familiar.
‘Not entirely. There are still things we need to discuss –’ She lifted her chin slightly. ‘Like what happened the last time we were together.’
She was never to know why she said it, or even what she really meant. That her mother had thrown Mort out because of her, she knew. She’d always known that. But she’d never, until now, thought much about Mort himself, and how he might have felt about that episode, and now, staring at him, she realized that she should have thought about it. And certainly before she had spoken.
‘There’s no more I can do to help.’ He said it loudly. ‘Sorry and all that. Now I have a lot to do. The boys will see you out. Good afternoon.’
The boy at the door moved in, closer, and the one behind her took the back of the chair in his hands, tilting it forward so that she had to stand up and she stood there tight with anger and a great deal of fear. They were so big and so patently enjoying the situation.
‘The front door’s this way, famous musician what I’ve never ’eard of,’ the boy with the scar said, and moved forward, and after one more look at Mort’s face, blank and empty-eyed again behind his glasses, she turned and went. There was nothing else she could do.
11
‘You don’t have to count it that way,’ Mort said loudly. ‘God damn it, man, has it ever been short?’
‘There’s always a first time,’ the man in the neat city suit said, and folded the envelope tidily and stowed it in his wallet. He was feeling better. His tooth had stopped hurting, miraculously, just when he’d reached the point of deciding he’d have to do something about it, go and see a dentist, have it out. He’d slept last night for the first time in a week, and that made him feel perky, energetic, ready for anything.
‘You ought to be glad they haven’t started taking inflation into account,’ he said, and looked at Mort with his eyes very bright. If he could lift the contribution without being told to by New York, that wouldn’t only improve his commission; it should make them realize how effective a man he was. They’d look at each other and nod and say, ‘Good bloke, that Ernest Gibbs. Good bloke. Knows which way is up –’
‘I’m at the end of my rope already.’ Mort said the words as if they were new minted. ‘At the end of my rope. One more twitch, and I’m – I’m over the top. Finished –’ He threw both arms up in the air awkwardly in a gesture that was both absurd and menacing. ‘You hear me? Tell that man from me – if he tries to push me any harder he’ll find he’s finished me. And what good will that do him?’
‘No one’s pushing you,’ Ernest said, soothingly now. The last thing he wanted was to have this stupid man get all excited. Even the silliest of them got excited sometimes and when they got excited there was no knowing what they mightn’t do. Like go over his head, direct to New York. Not that Lang was supposed to know the address or phone number or anything, but you could never be really sure. ‘No one’s pushing you. I just said, you ought to be glad they aren’t taking inflation into account. That’s all.’
‘So if they’re not pushing, why send that girl? Hey? Why send her? I’ve told you to tell them, I’m doing all I can as it is. I make the most I can out of every penny that comes in here, and there’s Sally’s money –’ He looked bleak then, tired rather than angry. ‘Sally’s money –’ His voice dwindled away and the two men sat and stared at each other for a moment. And then he started again, his voice lifting. ‘So, you see? There’s no sense in pushing me any harder. There’s a limit and I’m at it. Tell them that, tell them to keep that girl away, and to lay off. I can cope with you and that’s all. No more –’
‘What girl?’ Ernest was staring at him hard now, his eyes bright and hopeful. ‘What girl are you talking about?’
‘The Dundas girl, of course. Who bloody else?’
‘She’s been in touch with you?’
‘Stop playing silly games with me? I can’t be doing with it. Of course she was here and well you know it.’
There was a little silence as Gibbs tried to sort out the information, make it fit into the little he already had. But it wouldn’t fit.
‘What did she want?’
‘I told you, I can’t be bothered with silly games! You know as well as I do what she –’
Gibbs shook his head. ‘I know nothing about it. Nothing at all. That’s why I’m asking.’
Mort blinked and then his face crumpled, like that of a child struggling with a maths lesson he can’t comprehend. ‘You didn’t send her? They didn’t send her?’
Ernest shook his head, still trying to work it out himself. Had New York been playing both ends against the middle? Were they sending him after the girl when all the time they knew where she was, were using her themselves? But that couldn’t be. He’d been very clear on the phone last night, very clear indeed. Find her, or there’d be big trouble, he’d said. Find her and watch her and report everywhere she goes – no, they hadn’t sent her here. No way.
Mort was staring at him with that same crumpled agonized look on his face. ‘Oh, my God. Another of them. I thought she was the same as you. I thought it was him sending two of you. I never thought – oh, Christ!’
‘How much did she ask for?’
‘How much? Nothing – never mentioned money – I mean, not from me. Not directly –’ Mort was sounding more distracted by the moment and Ernest lifted his lip at him and shook his head.
‘Here we go again,’ he said. ‘Quivering jelly time –’ and indeed, Mort was sitting curled up in his chair, white-faced and shaking. It took so little to knock this stupid ass off his keel. ‘For Christ’s sake, man, stop making such a fool of yourself. One of your boys’ll come and then where’ll you be? Up shit creek –’
Mort straightened, stretched his lips in an attempt to smile. ‘Yes –’ he murmured, and took out a handerchief and wiped his mouth.
‘So what did she want if she didn’t ask for money?’
‘She said – she wanted to know something. Told me her mother had died and left her some debts and said I’d know how to pay them off. A lot of rubbish, and I didn’t fall for it –’
‘What’s rubbish? The debts?’
‘That I’d know how to pay them off. What do I know about Dolly’s money? I’ve had enough problems over – I’ve had enough s
ince those days. The last thing I need is to get involved with her debts.’
‘Was she asking you to pay them off?’
Mort frowned, staring through him. ‘No. Not directly. She just kept on about me knowing something. Never said anything about how much she wanted out of me, or when – but then, I never gave her the chance. The boys came in, and I got rid of her. But she would have. I was sure of that. Sooner or later.’
‘What did you tell her?’
‘Nothing! How could I? I don’t know anything! It was all a load of rubbish.’
‘Was she satisfied? Went away satisfied? Or is she coming back?’
Mort shook his head. ‘I don’t know. I told you, the boys came in, and they frightened her, thank God. If she comes back, I won’t see her unless my boys are here – if I had any sense I wouldn’t see you unless they were here –’
‘Oh, sure! And have me tell what I could tell? That one word from me, and this whole place falls about your ears? One word from me, and the council throws you out on your ear, and puts someone else in who’ll keep the place running properly, keep them in control the way they ought to be? I should cocoa! We’ve been through all that before. I’m not scared of your nasty little bully boys, and don’t you ever think I will be. Use them to frighten silly women, if you like, but not for me – now answer a straight question, for Christ’s sake! Is she coming back or not?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mort said, sounding sulky now. ‘How the hell should I know? I told her I knew nothing about her mother’s money. Told her –’ he brightened then. ‘I told her about Hornby. Thought that’d get rid of her, send her off on another tack, you know? I thought maybe if she knew there was someone else who had – things that had happened when they were living with her mother, she’d go and try it on them, instead of on me. Oh, I don’t know what I thought! I go so confused – I get confused all the time what with you and Sally and worrying about my boys –’
‘Who was Hornby?’
‘Just another villain – used to live there. In the old house, you know? Got sent down for a wages robbery, him and another bloke there. Codling. Dolly used to visit them in prison, so I told the girl that, and sent her off. Maybe she’ll find them, keep off me –’ He looked hopefully at Ernest, child-like and eager.
‘I’ll be here as usual next week.’ Ernest was on his feet, smoothing his jacket. ‘Usual time, usual amount. But listen – if she turns up here again meanwhile, you’re to call me, you understand? The number I gave you – leave a message on the answerphone, and I’ll be here like a shot. Find out where she lives. I haven’t been able to yet –’
‘Why do you want to know?’
‘None of your business. Just do as you’re told. I’ll get her off your back, see? If she starts being a nuisance I’ll deal with her. I can’t say fairer than that, can I? I’ll get her off your back.’
‘Why don’t you know where she lives? You told me you were a private detective. Why can’t you –’
‘She’s too bloody fly, that’s why,’ Ernest said savagely. ‘Ex bleeding directory, the lot. But I’ll get to her. See if I don’t.’
‘What do you want her for?’
Ernest was shrugging into his coat. ‘None of your bloody business. Just do as you’re told, and keep quiet. And tell me when she turns up.’ He took a notebook from his pocket. ‘Who were those blokes you told her about?’
‘Hornby and Codling. Ted Hornby, I think it was. I can’t remember the other one’s first name. Ordinary it was – Jack? John? I can’t remember –’
‘Where did they do their porridge?’
‘The Scrubs.’
‘All right.’ Ernest stowed the notebook in his pocket and straightened his coat with pernickety little movements. ‘Don’t forget, now.’ And he went, leaving Mort sitting in the little pool of light thrown by his desk lamp, looking miserable and frightened and relieved, all at the same time. One of these days, Ernest thought, pulling the front door behind him, and listening to his feet crunching over the gravel path, one of these days that stupid bugger’ll crawl right up his own arse, he gets so terrified. Born to be blackmailed, he was. Was the Dundas girl going to play that game with him? Or was she really looking for something else out of her mother’s past? Would there be any point in looking out this Hornby bloke? There was a lot to think about, a lot, and he walked away down the lamplit street, smelling the flowers from the dusty gardens and enjoying thinking. This was a bit more like private detecting. Maybe he’d make a go of it yet.
She had done her best to keep herself calm. She’d driven back to the flat, holding the steering wheel so tightly that before she was half-way home she had pins and needles in her right hand; but she’d remained calm on the surface. Parking the car and locking it, walking back round the Crescent to the house, climbing the front steps, she managed all that with an air of togetherness that she was proud of. But when she started to reach in her bag for her front-door key, her courage dissolved. She remembered with her body rather than her mind that moment on the top flight when whoever it was had knocked her over; actually felt the thrust against her ribs, the shock and the thick fear it had created in her, and she could go no further. To climb those stairs again would be impossible, and she turned and went back down to the street and after hesitating for a moment on the pavement, began to walk towards Holland Park station.
It was six o’clock, and the rush hour was well under way, and she had to push her way into the station against the home-going mass, and felt fear lift in her again. Could someone be following her in all this hubbub? The little man in the city suit she’d seen – she was surrounded by little men in city suits, all looking the same, anonymous, faceless and infinitely threatening in consequence. Or could one of Mort’s horrible boys have followed her here? Everywhere she looked there seemed to be blank-faced youths in metal-studded black leather jackets and punk haircuts. London was full of them, and she was frightened of all of them.
But she got herself on to a West-End-bound train, and sank down in a corner seat, grateful to be going against the traffic; this train was much less crowded than those going the other way, and so she wouldn’t feel so threatened.
But she did, finding herself studying every other passenger in the carriage with sidelong glances, trying to see if she recognized any of them, and of course finding every face familiar. It was as though she was paddling at the edge of a sea of panic, could be sucked into it any moment.
She managed to stay put as far as Oxford Circus and then could stand it no longer, feeling claustrophobic, needing to be out and up in the street, and she plunged through the crowded corridors and up the escalators, pushing and shoving and being sworn at and not caring. She had to get out, and when she did at last burst her way through the maelstrom that was Oxford Circus station at quarter past six on a working day she took a deep breath of the diesel fumes and dust and fried onion smells from the hot-dog stalls and felt the panic at last begin to recede.
What was she panicking for, after all? Because Mort had asked the boys he looked after to see her out? Because they were punky kids with sneers on their faces? What would you expect boys who lived in a council hostel to be, for Christ’s sake? Eton schoolboys with pretty manners and naice accents?
She was being jostled by the heedless passers-by, pushing any way they could to get into the station, to get home to spend the evening stuporously watching television screens in dreary suburban sitting rooms, and she moved away, turning right, pushing up towards Tottenham Court Road. Quite where she was going she wasn’t sure; but home was the last place she wanted to be, that was equally sure. She’d go somewhere to eat; that would be a good idea. She hadn’t eaten a proper meal since – she couldn’t quite remember. She’d go to Joe Allen’s, have a steak and a spinach salad, see a few friends, maybe play the piano for them a little. That would be fun.
With a goal now she felt better and began to walk, slipping into the easy dodging stride of the native Londoner, weaving her way through the
purposeful pushing crowds like a dodgem car in a fairground, not having to think about it. And began to think, instead, of what had come of her afternoon visit.
Mort. That tired old man, so frightened and bewildered, was Mort. She tried to mesh the memories that she had had all these years with the man she had seen but the memories had softened at the edges, lost their old sharpness. Now she had seen old Mort as he was she couldn’t see young Mort any more. And she felt a sudden stab of pain, as though she had lost something. And forced herself to order her thoughts more usefully, deliberately pushing away any emotion the afternoon had dredged out of her past.
He had said he didn’t know what the message on the photograph meant, and she believed him. She couldn’t have said why but she believed him. He hadn’t been trying to hide anything, hadn’t been prevaricating in any way. He truly hadn’t known. That he’d been frightened about something was obvious, but that had nothing to do with the core of the situation. He really didn’t know.
She contemplated that fact bleakly, turning left into Soho Square, making her way across the dusty grass towards Greek Street. Which meant either that Dolly had been playing stupid jokes or whatever it was that Mort knew, he didn’t know he knew it.
Like me, she thought suddenly, stopping on the corner of Greek Street, and staring blindly down its bustling food-scented length, watching the early diners parking their cars, hurrying into their restaurants, but not really seeing them. He was frightened of me because I know something about him that he doesn’t want me to know, and I don’t know what it is. At least, I don’t think I know – and she shied away from the sharp vision she had of herself, rolling on her bed in her blue nightie and shrieking and laughing and displaying her bottom. What I know doesn’t matter. It’s what he knows.
She began to walk again, heading towards Cambridge Circus, still weaving her way expertly along the crowded pavements. It’s what he knows that matters. Was what he said about Hornby important? Hornby and Codling. That was the only thing he’d said that might be of any use. Oliver had mentioned them too.
Reprise Page 13
