by Jessie Keane
Romilly indicated the rope. ‘Someone was target-shooting here. This wasn’t kids playing hangman, this was someone perfecting their shot. And penny to a pinch of shit?’ She waved the bagged rotten fruit in Harman’s face. ‘This was a melon. Check this whole area for spent shell casings.’
53
Ruby was at the club watching a rehearsal when Romilly called in. The DI was accompanied today by a large blonde wearing a navy-blue skirt suit and plain white blouse.
‘Speak to you?’ Romilly asked. Up on the stage, Jenny, the bolder of the Rosettes, was climbing into the champagne glass, having agreed – reluctantly – that she would try to take Crystal’s place in the act. Marilyn Monroe was cooing ‘Diamonds’ over the sound system.
‘We’re too upset over Crystal to even think about this,’ Jenny had said when Ruby asked her for the tenth time to at least give it a go.
‘Come on, give it a try,’ Ruby had coaxed her. And to her surprise, Jenny had said she would.
Now, watching the Rosettes up there on the stage, Ruby was thinking that it was a disaster. One of the many disasters happening in her life right now. Jenny was taller than Crystal, and she was having trouble folding herself into the bowl of the glass. Sister Aggie was on the stage, hands on hips, directing operations full-volume to make herself heard over the soundtrack.
Ruby led Romilly and the big blonde woman over to her office. ‘Laura handed in the CCTVs at the station, didn’t she?’ she asked.
‘She did. Thanks for that.’ Romilly and the blonde followed Ruby into the office and closed the door, shutting out Marilyn’s breathy singing voice and Aggie’s shouted instructions to an unsteady Jenny.
‘Take a seat,’ said Ruby, going round her desk and sitting down. Romilly and the woman sat. They all looked at each other. ‘How can I help?’ asked Ruby.
‘This is DS Appleton.’
Ruby nodded, waited for them to get to the point.
‘The night Crystal Rose vanished, she met a man inside this club,’ said Romilly.
‘That’s right,’ said Ruby. ‘You should get a good look at him on the CCTV.’
‘Yes. I’m afraid we’re bringing bad news, Miss Darke,’ she said.
‘What is it?’ asked Ruby, feeling nervous.
‘Crystal Rose’s sisters . . . can you call them in?’
‘Of course.’ Ruby stood, went to the office door. Aggie turned, and Ruby hooked a finger at her. Both of you, she mouthed. Over here.
Leaving the door ajar, Ruby stepped back into the office and in an uneasy silence walked around the desk and sat down. ‘They’re coming,’ she said.
Marilyn’s soundtrack was abruptly silenced. Moments passed. At last the door swung open and the Rosettes stood there, Jenny in front, Aggie behind, as usual. They came in, closed the door behind them. Suddenly, the little office was overcrowded, packed with bodies. Both Romilly and Bev stood up, offered the girls their seats. ‘What is it?’ asked Jenny. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m so sorry. But we’ve discovered a body,’ said Romilly. ‘We believe it’s your sister.’
Ruby stared at her in horror. Both the Rosettes were wide-eyed with shock. Aggie had a hand over her mouth. ‘Oh God. No,’ said Jenny.
Bev reached out and squeezed Jenny’s hand comfortingly. Jenny snatched her hand out of the woman’s grasp.
‘How did it . . .? I mean, how did she . . .?’ asked Jenny.
‘We believe the cause of death was strangulation,’ said Romilly. ‘And now we want to find whoever is responsible, and bring them to justice. For that to happen, we’re going to need your help.’
54
After an hour, Romilly left Bev Appleton in the club, still talking through events with the Rosettes and Ruby. Gladly, she stepped back out into the sunshine. PMs were the worst, but another painful part of the job was breaking bad news to the bereaved. She hated it, and was glad that it was done. As she made her way out, she bumped into Kit Miller, coming in.
‘Oof,’ she said in surprise at the impact, and fell back.
Kit steadied her with both hands on her upper arms. ‘Hello, detective,’ he said. ‘In a rush?’
Romilly stepped away, shrugging off his grip. ‘Not particularly. Actually, I’m glad I ran into you, I’d like a word.’
‘About . . .?’ prompted Kit.
‘Let’s walk,’ said Romilly, and set off along the pavement, dodging other pedestrians. Walking, she didn’t have to look at him, or think to herself how annoyingly cocksure and good-looking he was. Still, she was irritably aware of him swaggering along beside her, like he owned the world.
And maybe he did. For sure, he owned this one. These streets. As they walked on, people glanced at him, nodded. He seemed to exude a fearsome and yet somehow fatherly vibe, both benevolent and pitiless, and there was something deeply respectful in the way they looked at him.
‘So? You got anything?’ he asked.
Romilly shot him a sour sideways glance, cop to a man she knew was into crime. So what if he was hot? He was hot in other ways, too. Bad ways. But too clever, thus far, to be caught. ‘I’ve got a lot,’ said Romilly. ‘And at the moment it’s bewildering. A dead girl who worked in your mother’s club. A hit at your sister’s wedding that seemed to be aimed at you. A robbery that appears to tie in with you and your family . . .’
‘Why would anyone want to shoot me?’ he asked, all innocence. But she saw his jaw tighten.
‘Because you are who you are.’
‘And that is . . .?’
Romilly ground to a stop. Looked him dead in the eye. ‘You know what I’m talking about.’
‘Don’t think I do,’ said Kit.
‘Extorting money from businesses.’
‘What, me?’
Romilly sighed.
‘Do you know anything about that supermarket warehouse heist?’
‘I saw that on the news. No. Why would I?’
Romilly turned and started walking again. Kit fell into step beside her once more.
‘Protection rackets are a dangerous game, I imagine. People – other gangs maybe – get envious. Start thinking they’ll turn your lot over and step in,’ she said.
Kit said nothing.
‘He was your best friend, yeah? Rob Hinton?’
‘He worked for me,’ said Kit. ‘Security.’
But Romilly saw the tension in him. Rob Hinton had been more than an employee to Kit Miller. Much more.
‘What we want to avoid,’ she said, ‘is the idea that anyone could take the law into their own hands over this. I understand that you might be upset . . .’
Kit stopped walking and turned to her. ‘I’m not upset,’ he said.
Yeah, you are, thought Romilly. You’re ready to tear someone’s head off over Rob Hinton’s death. But she’d prodded the wound, seen what was there. It was still open, still angry. Festering. And she’d issued her warning, so job done.
‘The missing girl,’ she said.
She saw the stress lift in him. ‘Crystal Rose. The burlesque dancer.’
‘She’s turned up dead. Strangled.’
‘Shit.’ Kit paused mid-stride.
Romilly stopped walking too and turned to face him. ‘About the wedding photographer,’ she said.
‘What about him?’
Romilly hesitated before informing him: ‘During the autopsy, we found twenty bags of cocaine in his stomach.’
Kit stared at her, astonished. ‘You serious?’
‘Deadly. Our surmise is that he’s been shipping the stuff round the country while doing photography jobs.’
‘You’ve got to be kidding me. That little bloke was a drugs mule?’
‘Photographers don’t earn much. Drug dealers do.’
Kit thought about that. If Clive Lewis was shipping product, she was right; he was probably a good earner.
‘You checked his bank statements?’
‘We have. No good.’
He thought again of Rob on the wedding day mo
rning, worried, needing to talk – about what? Business stuff, he’d said. Was it this? No, surely not. Rob knew that Kit never touched drugs operations. Not his field, and he despised druggies. But Rob always did the milk run on that arcade. Had Rob somehow got wind of what Clive Lewis was up to? Or was it something else that was bugging him? Something worse?
‘Could be he’s hiding the cash somewhere else. Or maybe washing it through another business.’
Romilly stared at his face. ‘Is that what you’d do?’
‘It’s what anyone would do, if they regularly had a gutful of coke and a lot of payments coming in from it. What about the wife?’
‘What about her?’
‘You’ve spoken to her?’
‘I have. And she seemed shocked by the news that her husband was carting drugs around the country. She acted shocked, anyway. As for payments? She claims to know nothing about any of it.’
Kit rocked back on his heels, his face thoughtful. ‘Maybe she’s lying.’
‘Maybe she is. My feeling is, she isn’t.’
‘If Clive Lewis was fiddling someone on the drugs, it could get nasty. Christ, it could be, couldn’t it?’ His eyes met hers and to her surprise she saw a flash of pain in them: real, genuine pain, quickly replaced by anger. ‘Those three shots could all have been for Clive Lewis. Maybe Rob got hit by mistake.’ Or maybe Rob was involved. No. Why was he even thinking that? ‘You got someone watching the widow woman? She could try to get access to the cash. The people who shot Lewis and Rob could contact her. Maybe Lewis was getting antsy, refusing to cooperate any more. And now they’ll switch their attention to her.’
‘I think that’s unlikely. She’s not a photographer. She’s a stay-at-home type, if I’m any judge. And we can’t spare the bodies,’ said Romilly. ‘Have someone sitting outside that studio for – what? Weeks, months? No. Not possible.’
‘I can spare someone for that,’ said Kit.
‘No.’
‘They’ll get straight on to you, first hint of a sniff.’
‘Absolutely not.’
Kit thought of Rob, lying dead on a slab, taking his mystery with him to the grave. He wanted to get to the bottom of this, and soon. ‘I’m going to do it anyway.’
Romilly held her breath. ‘Fuck!’ she burst out. ‘All right. Do it.’
‘Anything else I can help you with, detective?’
‘Don’t bloody push it,’ said Romilly, and walked off.
55
When Ruby got home to Marlow, it was chaos outside the gate. There were more journalists than ever, and the instant they saw her car coming they were firing flashguns, shouting questions.
‘Miss Darke, you got anything to say about the shooting at your daughter’s wedding? Or on the death of the girl who worked at your club?’
‘Was this a gangland hit, Miss Darke?’
‘Was your son the target, Miss Darke?’
‘Are you a target?’
‘How do you feel about the girl getting killed, Miss Darke?’
‘Are you concerned that innocent people got hurt?’
‘What the fuck?’ said Ruby out loud, and the car swept in, the gates closing behind them, shutting the press out.
Christ, they were getting more rabid, not less. She hoped to God none of them tried to get into the grounds to come up to the house itself. Daisy was in a fragile state, Rob gone, the kids gone, she didn’t need any of that shit. It was all so bloody awful. The Rosettes had lost a sister, Mrs Lewis a husband, and Daisy the love of her life. And now, after what Kit had told her following his conversation with DI Kane, there was even a question mark in Ruby’s mind around quiet, grey little Mrs Lewis. Either Mrs Lewis was a bloody convincing liar, or she really was in the dark about what her husband had got up to on his travels.
Ruby was relieved to get indoors, shut out the world.
Leon emerged from the kitchen when he heard her come in.
‘Where’s Daisy?’ asked Ruby.
‘Upstairs. Asleep, last I checked.’
‘And Kit?’
‘Out and about.’
Ruby nodded and went on up. It was deathly quiet in the house without the rumpus and giggles of the twins; she missed her grandkids already. She went to Daisy’s room, knocked lightly on the door and went in. The curtains were closed against the sunlight. When her eyes grew accustomed to the half-dark, Ruby saw that Daisy was in the bed, but her eyes were open; she was staring up at the ceiling, seeing nothing.
‘Daisy?’ Ruby felt a pang of alarm. If Daisy had been seeking drugs, had she taken something else, was she . . .?
Then Daisy’s head moved; she blinked and her eyes fell on Ruby. ‘What?’ she said vaguely.
Christ, I thought you were dead for a moment there.
Ruby went over to the bed and sat down on the side of it. Her heart was beating uncomfortably hard and fast with the aftermath of fright. She felt like her world was falling apart, but she had to be strong for Daisy, not show a moment’s weakness.
‘How you doing?’ she asked, taking her daughter’s hand. Her heart was breaking for Daisy. She wanted to take her pain away, make it her own. But she couldn’t.
‘OK,’ said Daisy. ‘Leon said there’s even more journos at the gate now they’ve found this missing girl who worked at your club.’
‘Yes. There are.’
‘Vultures.’ Daisy shuddered. ‘I saw the one o’clock news; they said they’d found her body in woods somewhere.’
‘That’s right.’ Ruby sighed. ‘The DI in charge of the case came over this morning and broke the news to Crystal’s sisters. I was there.’
‘They haven’t got anybody for it?’
‘No. Not yet. You going to get up? I could cook us something.’
‘Not hungry.’
‘Well . . .’ Ruby stood up. ‘I’m famished. I’ll go and rustle up a snack. Sure I can’t interest you?’ Daisy didn’t answer.
‘Daisy . . .’ Ruby stared down at her daughter in anxious frustration.
‘There is one thing, though,’ said Daisy.
‘Oh? What?’
‘I want Kit to sack that bastard Leon.’
‘You what?’
‘He was very rude to me. He’s always rude to me, come to think of it.’
Ruby wondered about that. Maybe Leon had kicked off about the drugs, and Daisy hadn’t wanted to hear it.
‘I’ll pass it on,’ said Ruby, thinking that she wouldn’t bother. Leon had just lost his brother; he had enough problems.
56
Down in the kitchen, Ruby made omelettes for herself and Leon. She turned on the radio, tried to cheer herself up. Darts were singing ‘Duke of Earl’.
‘What you been saying to Daisy?’ she asked him as they sat at the breakfast bar eating. ‘She wants Kit to fire you.’
‘Someone had to tell her to get a hold,’ he said, unabashed.
Ruby looked at Leon. The mouth on this chippy little fucker. He was nothing like Rob, nothing like blockish Daniel either. Leon didn’t even look like his brothers. Or his sisters, come to that. Leon was almost classically beautiful. He had white-blond hair, aquiline features, stunning blue eyes. And he was fiery; he could lose his temper and ten minutes later have no clue what he’d got so enraged about.
‘Take it easy with her,’ advised Ruby. ‘She’s having a tough time.’
‘We could all sit in the corner and cry. But it’s no good falling to bits, is it?’
‘Leon.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Button it for a change, OK?’
Leon wiped the bread around his empty plate and scoffed it down.
‘Noted,’ he said, and took the plates over to the dishwasher, doing a little one-two shuffle as the beat changed and Michael Jackson started in on ‘Don’t Stop ’Til You Get Enough’.
Ruby watched him. He had a lot of charm, Leon, when he wasn’t being a pain in the arse. And at least he seemed to be coping with Rob’s death OK, even if no one else was.
‘Oh, Eunice?’ Leon never called Eunice ‘Mum’. And he always looked sour at the very mention of her. ‘She’s OK,’ he shrugged. ‘Shocked, of course. Well, we all are.’
‘You seem to be handling it well. Better than Daniel, I think.’
‘Daniel’s a fucking idiot. Thinks the sun’s pulled up on a rope.’
‘Bit harsh,’ said Ruby.
Leon heaved a sharp sigh. ‘I’m tired. So I’m turning in,’ he said, and headed for the back door. He met Daniel, just entering. They passed each other without a word. Daniel closed the back door, locked it.
‘I’m going to take my coffee into the sitting room,’ said Ruby, switching off the radio and standing up. ‘Join me, Daniel, if you like.’
Ruby went into the sitting room and sat down. This morning, she had left the print the photographer’s wife had given her, the one of her and Daisy standing beside the Rolls with the Georgian building opposite the church in the background, on the coffee table. Now she looked at it and sighed for the ruination of what should have been a blissfully happy day.
Then she took her copies of the club’s CCTV out of her bag and fed them into the machine beneath the TV. She watched as the night of Crystal’s disappearance was replayed in black and white on the silent screen. She watched Crystal walk to one of the tables, a tall, thin, dark-haired man following behind her. They sat down; a while later, Joanie the hostess came over and left champagne in an ice bucket. They drank, talked. At one point Crystal’s body language seemed to signal annoyance. Her companion was looking away from her, across the other side of the room, then his head swung back.
Ruby tensed.
Christ! Was he looking at me?
She could see herself there, in his eyeline.
Was he?
Daniel came in, pushing the door closed behind him, a mug of coffee in his hand.
‘This from the club?’ he asked, his eyes fastened to the screen as he sat down.
‘Yeah.’
Daniel’s attention wandered to the photograph on the table. ‘The day of the wedding,’ he said, picking it up to look more closely at it. He was quiet for a long moment.
