The Edge

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Yeah, but we’ve advertised. No bites?’ They’d put ads in all the papers.

  ‘Some. But we want quality, like Crystal – and that’s rare.’

  ‘The agency not sent any new ones over?’

  ‘No one I’d care to put on stage.’

  The general theme of the club was discreet erotic retro – so when Crystal wasn’t dazzling her adoring public, the acts comprised of Forties-style performers with their hair in victory rolls, singing old hits like ‘Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy’. Those acts went down well. But Crystal was a bigger draw.

  ‘What about her two acolytes? The Rosettes. One of them like to step up? Take centre stage?’ asked Ruby. The Rosettes were Crystal’s younger sisters, and they seemed terrified of her.

  Laura shook her head and smiled grimly. ‘Have you met Crystal?’

  Ruby had to smile. Crystal was queenly, bossy, a right regal pain in the backside.

  ‘You want to start world war three? Crystal would go apeshit if she wasn’t head honcho over the other two. Older sister syndrome. You know what that’s like. Oh look,’ said Laura, gazing over toward the club entrance.

  Ruby looked and felt her innards shrivel. Shit.

  ‘Ain’t that Thomas Knox?’ Laura glanced from him and back to Ruby. ‘He’s one of the big boys around here. A local face. Didn’t you and he . . .?’

  ‘Yeah, we did. Once. Ancient history,’ said Ruby.

  Last time she’d seen Thomas, it was in his hallway and she’d been spitting mad. They still had stuff to square away, him and her. This time – for the first time ever, so far as she knew – he was bringing his young trophy wife into her club. What the fuck was he playing at?

  Ruby couldn’t resist the urge to examine Chloe in minute detail. Mrs Knox number two – the faded and faithful number one having been kicked to the kerb years ago – was a heavily made-up blonde who was wearing a red silk shift dress that very nearly covered her huge, balloon-like breasts.

  ‘Hot, isn’t he?’ smiled Laura.

  ‘I wouldn’t know,’ said Ruby, giving her a scathing look, turning her attention firmly away from Thomas and his wife. Was he taking the piss?

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t say no,’ said Laura.

  Ruby watched from the corner of her eye as he and Big Tits were led to a table by one of the hostesses. He passed by Crystal, who was just taking her seat, her eyes darting everywhere, her smile neon-bright – Look at me, I’m the star of the show – beside a neatly dressed man with dark hair.

  ‘Wouldn’t kick that out of bed,’ said Laura on a sigh, watching Thomas with narrowed, predatory eyes.

  Ruby shrank into her chair as he flicked a glance in her direction. She reached for her voddy and orange and drained the glass.

  ‘What I think is—’ said Laura.

  ‘Laura,’ Ruby cut her off.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  Ruby was in the bogs an hour later, washing her hands and repairing her make-up, when Tits showed up. Ruby wasn’t exactly surprised, because Chloe had been shooting her cold looks ever since she came in the club.

  Ruby cast a sideways glance at her in the mirror, but said nothing. Another woman, a big brunette, paused at one of the sinks, combed out her hair, departed. Soon as she was gone, Big Tits launched into The Speech.

  ‘What you need to do,’ she said flatly, ‘is stay the fuck away from my husband.’

  Ruby paused mid-lippy. ‘Sorry?’ she said.

  ‘You heard. I got friends, you know. I got people around town who tell me things.’

  ‘Good for you,’ said Ruby, popping the lipstick back into her bag.

  ‘You been to my home. People saw you.’ Chloe sent a scathing look over Ruby, from head to toe. ‘I know he had a thing with you once. But look at you. You’re not even young.’

  ‘Youth is overrated,’ said Ruby, heading for the door.

  ‘I told you . . .’ Chloe started, stepping in front of Ruby.

  ‘Get out of my fucking face,’ said Ruby.

  ‘You don’t scare me,’ said Chloe, but Ruby could see uncertainty in her eyes.

  Ruby leaned in closer and Chloe recoiled. ‘Don’t I? Well I bloody should. Now shift.’

  Chloe shifted, and Ruby swept out of the room.

  10

  ‘She’s stunning, isn’t she?’ said Crystal, seeing that her companion’s attention had been pulled away from her as Ruby Darke came out of the powder room and returned to her table. Crystal frowned. She was always the centre of attention. It was hardly a good start, him ogling other women. And Ruby was old. Well past it.

  ‘Hm?’ His eyes came back to hers.

  ‘Her. Ruby Darke. She owns this place.’

  ‘Does she?’

  ‘Yes, she does,’ said Crystal, still miffed. ‘And now she’s in business with her son and they say the deals are distinctly dodgy. Lots of under-the-counter stuff going on. Do you fancy her?’

  He’d come backstage, given her all the chat, saying how much he loved her act, he was a huge fan, would she join him for a drink? Her sisters had squawked that she was too busy, she was exhausted after her performance, but she had overruled them, saying, Of course, why not? He was very fuckable, with dark hair and dark eyes, his face fine-boned, angular. Pity about that thin judgemental mouth.

  But he was beautifully turned out. Expensive cologne. Yeah, why not?

  Now here he was, looking at other women. This did not sit well with Crystal. She was the star, no one else. She turned her attention from him as he ordered champagne from Joanie, one of the club hostesses. She watched the act onstage; three tubby girls in GI uniform singing something about Uncle Sam.

  ‘You’re exquisite,’ he suddenly whispered in her ear. His mouth brushed her skin and she shuddered. Yes, she was. And he’d better remember that. Her. No one else.

  ‘Am I?’ she was half-smiling now, preening as Joanie came with the champagne in the ice bucket.

  The hostess unpopped the cork, poured out two flutes, and left the rest on ice.

  ‘Bloody fantastic,’ he said, his breath like a feather against her flesh. ‘Here’s to you. You are such a star.’

  He was holding his champagne flute out. Her bad mood dissolving, Crystal lifted her own glass, clinked it against his, smiled, and drank.

  The killer was annoyed with himself. He was going to have to be more careful. Maybe too many brandies after dinner; he was relaxing too much. Crystal didn’t know it, but he’d stared at Ruby Darke not with sexual interest but in a dispassionate and predatory way – the way a cat would look at a helpless mouse before it gobbled it down.

  They’d chatted, laughed, and after that he’d been careful not to let his attention waver again because he wanted sex tonight. He quickly discovered that voluptuous and dazzlingly attractive though she might be, Crystal was also a fucking nightmare: arrogant, mouthy, telling him more than he wanted to know about her act, how useless her sisters were, and that she had always been the star of the family and one day soon she was going to make it big, go to Hollywood, the works.

  Yeah, yeah, he thought.

  ‘You could do it,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure you could. You have star quality.’ She lapped that up.

  ‘You worked at the burlesque club long?’ he asked her.

  ‘Nearly a year.’

  ‘What’s she like to work for – Ruby Darke?’

  ‘All right.’

  ‘Her family show up much? I think there’s a daughter. And a son?’

  ‘Don’t know. I saw them once. Odd thing, that. Daisy, the girl, is white and Kit, the son, looks half-caste like Ruby. But they’re twins. Born on the same day. Weird, yeah?’

  ‘I suppose it can happen. Never thought about it. You ever spoken to them?’

  ‘No.’ She stared at him, eyes narrowing. ‘What is this – twenty questions?’

  He dropped it. Didn’t want to have to work to get her out of another sulk. Even bed with this tedious woman was a look-at-me pe
rformance. Both mildly drunk, they got a taxi back to the hotel where he’d booked a suite – cash on the nail – as Mr Ted Smith from Preston, Lancashire. He started kissing her the instant they were inside the door, mostly to shut her up; he wanted sex, not another monologue on how marvellous she was. In the bedroom, she started doing an elaborate striptease while he watched from the bed, pretending to be turned on but actually getting pretty annoyed. He’d seen all this shit earlier in the evening, now all he wanted was the sweet release of a quick uncomplicated fuck, then eight hours’ sleep.

  When she danced closer, sliding her undone bra left and right, he grabbed it, pulled it off, tossed it aside. She smiled and covered her nipples with her hands, coyly. She was tiny in stature, but large-breasted, nipples big as beer mats. It was a combination he liked very much.

  ‘Oooh, does he like it rough?’ she teased, smiling.

  He grabbed her and dumped her on the bed. Leaned over her, a flare of anger in his eyes. ‘Oooh,’ he mimicked her. ‘Does she like it rough? Cos that’s how she’s going to get it.’ She stared up at him, suddenly uncertain. Then he smiled brilliantly.

  ‘Joking,’ he said, and kissed her again to stop her yammering on.

  After that, it was easy; he had a tried-and-tested ritual he always observed when in bed with a woman. Get it all out of the way, then on to the main event. Suck her tits. Bite her tits. Not too hard.

  ‘Ow!’

  ‘Sorry, I just want you so much . . .’

  Then on to the magic button. They all had one, and some were more responsive than others. Crystal Rose went roaring through the ceiling after the merest touch, gasping and screaming. Theatrical bitch, she would. Might even be faking it, but who knew? Who cared? He slapped a hand over her mouth so that the people in the room next door didn’t know his business, then shoved his penis into her and rode her like a showground pony until his own orgasm crashed over him. He drew out of her, limp, spent. Then he rolled over, away from her, and fell asleep.

  He woke up with sunlight beaming into his eyes through a crack in the curtains. A room he didn’t know. Well, no change there then. He was used to that, waking up in an alien environment. He liked it that way. No ties. He was happy drifting around the country, footloose. He’d check out tomorrow, go on somewhere else. Find somewhere near the target area for the job. Didn’t know where yet. Didn’t care.

  Aware of movement, he opened his eyes fully. Someone was humming a tune. A woman. Yesterday came back and slapped him into full wakefulness. The job he’d taken on. The payment. Celebrating last night with fine wine, a good steak dinner and a so-so fuck with Crystal Rose, who never seemed to stop talking. She was still at it now.

  ‘Honey? You awake? Where d’you keep your robe, I’m buck naked here and it’s freezing . . .’ A stab of alarm hit him as he heard the wardrobe door slide open.

  He sat up in the bed, pushed his hair out of his eyes. She was peering in the wardrobe.

  ‘You got some lovely clothes. Designer stuff,’ she was saying. She pulled his Calvin Klein jacket off a padded hanger and slipped it on. ‘Beautiful. The fabric’s so soft. I’ll wear this to make the tea, OK?’

  Not OK. He hated anyone touching his things. And now . . . shit . . .

  He sprang out of the bed but he was too late. She was looking in the bottom of the wardrobe, her curvy little bare arse up in the air. When she turned to face him, she held a handful of cash and her eyes were wide open with surprise.

  ‘Holy moly, there’s a fortune down here.’ She glanced back into the wardrobe.

  He’d left the bag undone. Stupid shit, you left the bag undone and then invited the world’s nosiest, mouthiest woman back for sex. You moron.

  ‘Hey!’ Now something else had caught her eyes. ‘Is that a gun? It looks like a gun. Do you shoot? My dad has a farm in Gloucestershire; he’s a keen shooter,’ said Crystal.

  ‘Come out of there.’ He was shoving the door closed, wrestling some of the notes out of her hand, all at the same time.

  ‘All right, no need to be so rough,’ she said, laughing.

  He reached past her to his tie. Grabbed it. Looped it around her neck. And pulled tight.

  Suddenly Crystal Rose wasn’t laughing. The remaining banknotes fell to the floor in a cascade as her hands flew to her neck to claw at the tie. Choking noises were coming out of her mouth and her face was turning brick-red as the blood was cut off. Her terrified eyes stared into his.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ he said through gritted teeth as he applied more pressure. ‘I really am. But you shouldn’t have done that. You shouldn’t have looked in there.’

  ‘Don’t,’ she managed to wheeze out.

  ‘Sorry. Got to,’ he said, and pulled the tie tighter.

  Suddenly she went limp. Her eyes glazed over. He kept pulling, tighter and tighter, his hands aching with the effort. Then he heard liquid running and the stench.

  ‘Oh fuck,’ he grimaced. He’d never actually strangled anyone before; he much preferred the neatness, the cool distance, of a gun. Now he was shocked. He’d heard they did that when they were hanged. Voided themselves. And that’s what she’d done. All over the fucking carpet. Shooting was so much nicer than this. But what choice had she given him?

  None.

  She slumped to the floor. He let the tie go and stepped back, his face crumpled with disgust as he stared down at the corpse still wearing his jacket. Well, he was never going to wear that again. He’d have to buy new.

  ‘Silly cow,’ he said, breathing hard, and started gathering up his money.

  He didn’t want any of that stuff getting on this.

  11

  DI Romilly Kane was down the nick, still talking to her team about the warehouse robbery and right now getting no-fucking-where. They’d hauled Finlay in, and had to let him go. Questioned Thomas Knox again, ditto. Turned up all the other faces they could, questioned them hard, searched premises, caused a general stir. Spread the search wider and wider for the getaway van. So far? Just a fat zero.

  Getting into February now, and what did they have to show for it? Fuck all.

  ‘Me and DS Harman took another look over at the warehouse, like you said,’ said DC Phillips, a keen young woman with brunette plaits. ‘Bately, the MD, looks like he’s had an argument with a pit bull.’

  Romilly frowned at her.

  ‘Apparently he went home the night of the robbery and fell arse over tit down the stairs, smashed his face up good and proper, poor sod. He’s still all colours of the rainbow,’ Harman explained with a grin. ‘This is definitely not his year.’

  ‘Don’t you think that was strange? The man with the gun saying “a present from Thomas Knox”?’ said Romilly.

  ‘I do,’ agreed Harman.

  ‘Announcing his involvement? Who’d be crazy enough to do that?’

  ‘He’s crazy like a fox, Thomas Knox. Maybe he is involved. Maybe he’s expanding. Branching out.’

  ‘And what? Telling everyone about it? Not clever.’

  ‘Maybe he was issuing a deliberate V-sign to whatever lowlifes think they “own” that area,’ suggested Harman. ‘Damn sure someone does.’

  ‘Yeah? Who does, exactly?’

  ‘Miller mob, isn’t it? Used to be Michael Ward’s patch, big local tough, but Kit Miller took it over after Ward got done.’

  ‘Bring me in Miller’s file, will you?’

  ‘Sure thing. So . . .’ Harman let out a breath. ‘We find those two blokes – the blond and the black – and maybe some pieces will start to fit.’

  Romilly looked at the blown-up still of the CCTV from the warehouse, pinned up on the board. There was runty blond guy, and there was black guy with dreads.

  ‘Get people out on the streets again, do door-to-door, take the pics of those two and see what’s to be found,’ said Romilly. They’d already done this, many times, but they had to keep slogging away.

  She went back to her office, passing DCI Barrow’s room as she did so. He called her in.
She stepped inside and closed the door.

  ‘Progress?’ he said, peering over his specs.

  ‘We’re working on it, sir.’

  ‘And you? How are you?’

  Romilly gawped at him in surprise. Their conversations rarely got personal. ‘I’m fine,’ she said.

  ‘Only there’s been a rumour circulating.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Rumour that your marriage has hit the buffers.’

  ‘That didn’t take long.’

  ‘Has it?’

  Romilly screwed up her face. She didn’t want to talk about this. ‘Sort of.’

  ‘That’s vague.’

  ‘Well, it has.’

  ‘You need time off? I could pass all this over to Turner. By rights, it should have been his shout, but he was away. Now he’s back.’

  ‘No. I’m fine, sir. Honest.’

  ‘Help’s always here, if you need it,’ he said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘OK.’

  Romilly went. As she walked along the passageway to the door, she looked down at her left hand. There sat a plain little diamond engagement ring, and an even plainer wedding band. Both Hugh’s choices, not hers. Had she ever really liked them? No.

  Stickability was her middle name, and she’d stuck with a dead marriage when instead she should have dug a hole and buried the fucker. She took both rings off and dropped them into her bag.

  Suddenly, she felt more free, more herself, than she had in a long, long time.

  12

  Fats went down the Mile End Road to collect from a couple of restaurants and a dry cleaner’s there. He hadn’t anticipated any trouble, and he didn’t get any. All the owners paid up, offered him free meals, free cleaning on his suits. Which was only what he had come to expect; he was working for Kit Miller, who was a very big noise on these streets, and respect was due.

  The Bill hadn’t nicked anyone for the warehouse job in January, not yet. And Kit was still spitting mad over it. There was taking the piss, and then there was that. Three million quid lifted from a place that paid to his people. Not good. Not good at all.