The Edge

by Jessie Keane

  ‘Going to the club. Want to come?’ asked Ruby.

  Daisy raised her head and her eyes met her mother’s. Ruby thought that her daughter’s eyes were like pits that led straight into hell; their expression was utterly bleak. ‘No,’ she said.

  ‘OK.’ Ruby patted her shoulder awkwardly. There were no words she could use that would ease Daisy’s agony. It was best to say nothing.

  Ruby made her way along to the nursery. The twins were playing, Jody was with them. They seemed fine. Kids were resilient. More so, she thought, than adults. She told Jody where she was going, then went downstairs to the hall. Fats was sitting in the chair by the door. He stood up when she appeared.

  ‘I’m going to the club,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll drive,’ he offered.

  ‘Thanks.’ Ruby hesitated. ‘So long as there’s someone here to stay with Daisy . . .?’

  ‘Daniel!’ hollered Fats.

  Daniel appeared in the kitchen doorway, slurping down coffee. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘We’re going out. You stick close to Daisy. Don’t let anyone bother her,’ said Fats.

  ‘Sure thing.’

  Ruby took up her coat, umbrella and bag, aware of the comforting weight of the handgun inside it, and Fats opened the door. She was halfway out when the phone rang.

  ‘I’d better get that, hadn’t I? I don’t want Daisy disturbed.’ Ruby went back to the hall table and picked up. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Darke?’ asked a quavery female voice.

  ‘Yep,’ said Ruby.

  It would be some idiot selling something. She waited impatiently while silence fell at the other end of the line.

  ‘Who is this?’ she demanded finally.

  ‘It’s Mrs Lewis,’ said the voice.

  ‘I’m sorry, do I know you?’

  ‘The photographer. Clive Lewis. I’m his wife.’

  Christ! She should have gone and visited the poor woman, she knew that. But losing Rob had been so awful, so devastating, that somehow the days since the wedding had slid past and all her good intentions had been lost in the general chaos.

  ‘Mrs Lewis,’ said Ruby more gently. ‘I meant to call on you. I’m so sorry for your loss.’

  It was as if the woman hadn’t heard her. ‘There’s something I have to show you,’ she said.

  ‘Oh. What is it?’

  Ruby couldn’t think of a single thing this poor mouse-like creature could show her that would be of any interest at all. She remembered her, shadowing her husband on the day of the wedding; nearly invisible in a muted blue tea-dress and clumpy, comfortable shoes, watching anxiously as each shot was taken, being jostled by crowds of guests and constantly being asked to stand aside so that they could take shots too, over the photographer’s shoulder. Mrs Lewis had been carrying a small camera of her own. Why, Ruby didn’t know.

  ‘Come to the studio,’ she said. ‘Can you come now?’

  ‘Well . . .’

  ‘I think it might be important.’

  34

  Fats drove Ruby through the press scrum and out. Their first stop was the photographer’s studio. It was a neat little shop, the facade painted burgundy and with CL Photos picked out in large, gold Gothic script over the top of a big plate-glass window. The studio was shoehorned into an unremarkable line of shops that included a launderette and a dry cleaner’s, and there were vast prints of brides, misty close-ups and sharp full-length shots that showed big swirling wedding dresses and voluminous net trains off to their best advantage, all set out in the window to entice punters inside.

  Ruby remembered coming here with Daisy when she booked the photographer, months ago. It seemed longer now. Much longer. In another world, where Rob was alive and everything was as it should be. The firm took protection money off this row of shops. The thought caused Ruby to frown. She supposed a photographer didn’t make that much money; but still, Kit – and, indirectly, she – took a cut from their profits.

  Fats parked up the car, and Ruby got out, ran across the rain-battered pavement to the door. It opened to the tinkle of a bell, and Ruby stepped inside, letting down her umbrella.

  The studio seemed empty. A bit cold. No lights on, and there were a lot of lights, gold uplighters that should have been switched on to accentuate the many enlarged prints that lined the tobacco-brown walls.

  ‘Mrs Lewis?’ called Ruby. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mrs Darke?’ Mrs Lewis appeared in a doorway at the back of the shop, holding a cellophane and paper package. A grey woman, Ruby thought. She was featureless, expressionless. Clearly, she had never been eye-catching, but grief had bleached her out even more, increasing her pallor.

  ‘Yes, that’s me,’ said Ruby, not bothering to correct her. She’d never married; never been a ‘Mrs’. She moved forward, extending a hand. Mrs Lewis took it, shook it. ‘This is all so awful,’ said Ruby, thinking that the woman’s grip was cold and damp, like holding a fish.

  ‘Yes,’ she said vaguely. ‘It’s terrible.’

  Ruby stood there, not knowing what else to say. Kit’s business was a dangerous one. Her family mixed with bad people. Somehow, this poor little woman and her husband had trod too close to them and paid the price. She felt bad about it. There was no doubt in her mind that the bullets had been meant for Kit.

  ‘You said you wanted to talk to me . . .’ said Ruby at last, as Mrs Lewis seemed in no hurry to break the silence.

  Mrs Lewis nodded, and finally she started to speak.

  ‘People think a photographer’s life is glamorous and artistic. But this is a business that has its own problems,’ she said. ‘We used to issue picture proofs without payment upfront, and then people started finding fault with the pictures – perfectly good pictures – to knock down the price. So we had to start taking full payment upfront—’

  ‘Mrs Lewis,’ interrupted Ruby, wondering where the hell all this was leading, thinking of Fats parked out there on a double yellow – not that the local plod would bother him, but still – and also thinking that this was a total waste of time.

  ‘Hm? Oh yes – anyway – sorry . . .’ Mrs Lewis held up the package and walked over to a small ornate desk. She paused to collect her thoughts and started in again: ‘Another problem we’ve had is brides blinking. They don’t have the sun in their eyes, because of course Clive always shoots . . .’ Her smile faltered . . . ‘He shot into the sun. Only very good photographers can do that. I’ve heard people muttering right behind my back at weddings, saying, “Oh, these photos aren’t going to be any ruddy good, the fool’s shooting into the sun!” Of course, they don’t know what they’re talking about. He was a brilliant photographer, my Clive. So in demand. He travelled all over the country taking photos, covering weddings, conferences and events. He always made brides look like angels. Even if they were plain, Clive could make them appear wonderful.’

  ‘So . . .’ Ruby prompted when the woman paused.

  ‘Yes. The brides. They blink. They get nervous. We did a wedding once where the bride closed her eyes in every shot. As soon as she heard the shutter click, she closed her eyes. Nervous reaction. Ruined all the photos.’

  ‘Yes, so . . .’ said Ruby.

  ‘So after that, we decided that what we’d do is this: while Clive used the Hasselblad or the Mamiya or the Rolleiflex – big-format cameras with fabulous lenses – we would double up the shots. I always carried Clive’s old 35mm Leica around my neck, and replicated every shot he took, for back-up.’

  ‘Right,’ said Ruby, watching as Mrs Lewis tipped out a batch of five-by-four colour photos onto the desk. In one of them she saw Daisy, smiling, getting out of the wedding car. And then there she was, herself and Daisy, both of them standing beside the bonnet of the Silver Ghost.

  ‘Oh God,’ said Ruby, feeling tears prick her eyes. Daisy looked so beautiful. So happy. ‘It’s so tragic,’ she said to the woman standing beside her.

  ‘It is,’ said Mrs Lewis, patting Ruby’s arm. ‘The Rolleiflex was smashed when the tripod fell over an
d the police have taken that, along with the film it contained. But I still have what I took on the Leica – they didn’t ask for it and, by the time I thought of it, it was too late, the police had left, I was at the hospital, it was all chaos.’

  ‘I know,’ said Ruby.

  ‘Anyway, I got them printed off, with our usual firm, and they came back today. I don’t know what I was thinking. I was . . . numb, I suppose. Just going through the motions. Working, because I couldn’t think what else to do. Oh Lord . . . poor Clive.’

  It was Ruby’s turn to pat Mrs Lewis’s arm. They stood there for a moment, united in grief. Then Mrs Lewis straightened with a sharp sigh.

  She’s a tough old bird, thought Ruby. She might look frail, but she’s not.

  ‘This is the one I wanted to show you.’

  She held the print out to Ruby, who took it and looked. It was a full-length shot of her and Daisy. Ruby remembered Clive Lewis taking it, setting up the tripod, arranging Daisy’s dress, getting the shot just right. He’d been a perfectionist. And it showed, right here. It was a magnificent shot, backlit by the sun, the car’s metalwork gleaming; truly fabulous. She remembered Mrs Lewis there too, shooting close by her husband’s shoulder. Taking a back-up shot. This one.

  ‘There,’ said Mrs Lewis. ‘In the background, you see?’

  Ruby looked. She hadn’t noticed before, but there at the upper left edge of the shot was the beautiful Georgian building over the road from the church, heavily clothed with a vivid green Virginia creeper.

  And there . . .

  ‘Shit,’ said Ruby, her breath catching.

  ‘See it?’ said Mrs Lewis.

  There at an open first-floor window on the far side of the building was a glinting tube of metal; the sun had caught it. Behind it, she could see the outline of an angular, dark-haired figure. Kit was right – there was a shooter in that window. That was where the shots had come from.

  Ruby felt sick as she thought of that arsehole up there, about to ruin her daughter’s happiness forever. She looked at Mrs Lewis and saw tears standing in her eyes.

  ‘My Clive never hurt anyone,’ she said. ‘Not a soul. He didn’t deserve this.’

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ said Ruby, guilt scorching through her like wildfire. Kit’s way of life – shit, her way of life now too – all this had been brought down upon an innocent man, an unlucky bystander who’d got in the way, and upon Rob who had dived in front of Kit, protecting him – or trying to, anyway. ‘I am so very sorry.’

  ‘The police will have got something very similar from the Rollei,’ said Mrs Lewis, her chin trembling but her mouth clamped in determination. ‘But I thought that your family ought to have this. I know you have . . . influence. See what you can make of it. You take this.’

  Ruby took the print from her. Their eyes locked. ‘Do you have family, Mrs Lewis, someone to look after you?’

  ‘I only had Clive,’ she said.

  Clutching the print and feeling like shit, Ruby went back out to the car where Fats was waiting.

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘Let’s get on over to the club.’

  35

  Peachy Percival had once been an ace safebreaker, able to crack open any damned thing at a moment’s notice. Before that he’d been in the army. He still had a keen interest in small arms, and could be relied upon to discreetly supply certain items if they were needed, for a price.

  Peachy’s missus greeted Kit at the front door, and led him through the house and out into the back garden and down to a six-by-three wooden shed. Inside it, with the door standing open, was Peachy, a stooped wire-haired veteran of many a mob adventure, humming along to Frank Sinatra and a swelling brass section on the portable radio, his half-moon specs slipping down his big curving nose as he sharpened a chisel on his lathe.

  ‘Peachy!’ she yelled, sending Kit an apologetic look. ‘He’s deaf as a post. PEACHY!’ The old man turned, saw Kit and the missus standing there, and switched Frank off.

  ‘Mr Miller,’ he said, stopping the lathe.

  The missus withdrew, leaving the men alone, shaking hands.

  ‘Sad business at the wedding,’ said Peachy. ‘Sorry to hear it.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Kit took the spent shell casing out of his pocket. ‘Can you tell me anything about this?’

  Peachy turned it over in his hand. He looked up at Kit, then pushed his specs up onto the bridge of his nose and said: ‘This the one . . .?’

  Kit nodded.

  Peachy examined the thing again. ‘It’s a 7.62 millimetre. Fired from a high-velocity rifle. Can’t see any obvious distinguishing marks. I’ll have to get it up closer, under the magnifier, check for striations. Can you leave it with me?’

  ‘Yeah. I can. But look after it, Peach.’

  ‘With my life,’ said Peachy.

  36

  Today Ruby’s club was quiet, empty of patrons, empty of life except for two cleaners, who were hoovering and hollering at each other over the din of the machines, out in the main body of the club. Ruby went into her office, Fats following and stationing himself on a chair outside the door.

  Ruby took off her coat. Relieved to be alone for a moment, she turned on the TV and was instantly sorry. The news was on: a shooting at a wedding in the previously quiet village of Mitchell Underdyke, two people dead and the police had no leads yet. She switched it off, sat down at the desk and put her head in her hands, heaving a long, heartfelt sigh. Mrs Lewis’s small, pale face sprang into her mind and she let out a groan, guilt crippling her all over again.

  That poor woman! All she had in the world was a modest business, and the firm had been dipping into the Lewises’ earnings for years, providing protection. Worse, doing a simple job for the same firm had now killed the photographer. Without him, what would happen to the business? It would fold. It had to. Leaving Mrs Lewis without an income.

  Christ!

  It would be up to the firm to support her. That was only fair. Then Ruby thought of Daisy back at the house, nearly catatonic with grief, staring out of the window at nothing. And of the photograph now sitting in her handbag, the glint of a gun and someone behind it. Aiming at . . . at Kit, of course.

  The boss of the business. The one to take out.

  Her son was in mortal danger.

  And he was even more vulnerable now, without Rob minding him. Ruby hated the idea of that.

  She sat up, trying to focus, pushing away the panic that threatened to swamp her. She still had a business to run. Whatever else was going down, work had sustained her over the years. Her eyes drifted to the telephone. The answering machine light was blinking.

  She didn’t want to talk to anyone, not now. But she reached out, pressed play message all the same. You had to force yourself to keep going forward, because really, what was the alternative? Collapse? Give up?

  Ruby Darke had never done that, not in her entire life.

  It was Jenny, one of Crystal Rose’s ‘Rosettes’.

  ‘I wanted to check if you’d heard anything from Crystal,’ said the girl in her high, nasal voice. ‘Can you phone me back? I’m on . . .’ She reeled off a number.

  Ruby wrote it down, stopped play and dialled out to Laura’s home number. The manageress picked up straight away. ‘Hello?’

  ‘Laura, it’s Ruby. Crystal’s sisters are climbing the walls. Has that cow Crystal contacted you?’

  ‘Nope. Not a peep from her.’ Laura’s voice took on a note of concern. Ruby had told her about the shooting at the wedding. ‘Ruby, is there anything I can do?’

  ‘There’s nothing anyone can do,’ said Ruby tiredly.

  ‘How is Daisy?’ Laura tutted. ‘Christ! Stupid question. Look – anything you need, just shout, OK?’

  ‘I will.’ Ruby disconnected. Then she phoned Jenny’s number. ‘Laura hasn’t heard from Crystal. Not a word.’

  ‘I’m calling the police,’ said Jenny.

  Ruby stared at the phone. Ordinarily, she would dissuade Jenny from police involvement, but now,
after the shooting, there were police crawling all over the sodding place anyway, so what the hell difference would it make?

  ‘You have to do as you think fit,’ she said.

  ‘I will.’

  As she put the phone down, it rang again. ‘Hello?’ said Ruby.

  There was silence, followed by faint breathing.

  ‘Hello?’ Ruby repeated.

  ‘You want to leave him alone,’ said a female voice. ‘I’m warning you.’ It was Big Tits.

  ‘Leave who alone?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘You know.’

  Ruby had met up with Thomas again, briefly – but only to give him the CCTV tapes from the warehouse to look at. She was due to meet him again soon, right here at the club. It was all arranged.

  ‘I think you must have the wrong number,’ said Ruby, and slapped the phone back onto the cradle.

  37

  Days later, Daniel was sitting inside the front door at the Marlow house, flicking through the daily paper and not even seeing it, feeling gutted, disorientated, locked inside a nightmare he couldn’t wake from. Jody the nanny had gone out with the kids, Ruby had gone out to the club, and the house was silent.

  His big bro was dead. It was all too hard to take in. He’d always loved Rob and looked up to him. Rob had taught him all his fancy ninja moves. Sparred with him – and with Leon too, though not so much because Leon was a moody sod. It was Rob who had taught them how to be tough. How to kick arse and chew bubblegum. Now they would have to – somehow – go on without him.

  Daniel wanted to find out who’d ripped his family apart this way, but here he was, doing what Kit told him to do as always, standing guard. Daniel hated sitting around, ‘guarding’ people. There was no one here to guard, not really. Daisy never came out of her room, anyway, so what the hell . . .?

  His thoughts were suddenly cut off.

  Daisy was coming down the stairs.

  She was wearing a cream, belted mac, tan suede knee-high boots. No make-up. Her hair was a mess.