by Jessie Keane
96
Another fucking funeral, thought Ruby when they all assembled at the crematorium next day. Daisy hadn’t come, but Kit was there and quite a few others too – including that police detective, giving everyone the evil eye as they gathered to pay their respects to the departed. The service was short, and throughout it Ruby kept her eyes on Mrs Lewis at the front, near to where Clive Lewis’s coffin sat on the dais.
The vicar droned on, and when the curtains opened and the coffin slid out of sight, Ruby was glad to get outside again, into the fresh air. It was done.
‘Can I have a word?’ It was the detective inspector, Romilly Kane.
‘You can have one,’ snapped Ruby. ‘In fact, you can have two. Why don’t you piss off and do your job, instead of hanging around us like a bad smell?’
‘I’m doing my job, Miss Darke,’ said Romilly, unfazed. ‘I’ve got someone connected to the case in custody and I’m hoping to round up your son-in-law’s killer very soon now.’
Ruby looked at her sharply. ‘Oh? This person you’ve got in custody and the shooter, are they one and the same?’
‘No. They’re not.’
‘It’s all taking a bloody long time,’ said Ruby.
‘These things do, sometimes,’ said Romilly.
Truthfully, Romilly was worried. They’d already detained Patrick Dowling for nearly twenty-four hours and he was proving a tough nut to crack, responding to their questions with a string of ‘no comments’. She’d left Harman chipping away at the bolshie old sod, but she didn’t hold out a lot of hope. Any longer, and they’d have to apply to a judge to keep him and that could easily go either way.
She didn’t want him slipping out of her grasp. He could vanish, go to ground. She would, in his place.
‘Excuse me,’ said Ruby, and walked away, in the direction of the tear-soaked widow.
‘Hi,’ said Kit.
Romilly turned and there he was. Black suit, white shirt, bright blue eyes. Handsome as the devil.
She felt her stomach do a neat little back-flip.
‘Hi, yourself,’ she said.
‘Making progress, detective?’
‘Some. We’ve traced the shooter back to a particular gun club.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one his uncle Patrick Dowling belonged to. It’s in Barnes.’
That jolted Kit. He thought of Patrick, and his connection to Rob’s family and therefore to him. And Fats hadn’t told him about any gun club in Barnes. Christ, could that have been deliberate?
Could Fats be involved in this mess?
‘Let’s walk,’ he said.
They strolled along the car-lined driveway of the crem, heading for the gate. Fats tailed them, at a distance. Romilly glanced back. Other people were moving back there, chatting. Kit’s mother was among them, talking to Mrs Lewis.
‘So you’re still keeping bodyguards around you,’ she said, looking at Fats.
‘I’m still a target, right?’
‘It doesn’t seem to worry you much.’
Kit gave a thin smile. ‘I’m with a detective inspector. I think I’m safe.’
A car was turning into the gates up ahead of them. Behind them, car engines were starting up. Everyone was off for tea and cakes at Mrs Lewis’s place, going to toast Clive Lewis the drugs mule and say what a great man he’d been, contrary to all the evidence.
‘I heard you tell my mother that you had someone in custody,’ said Kit. ‘You pulled Dowling in?’
‘Yes. I have.’
Kit stopped walking. Turned and stared at her. ‘Let me just check something. This is the same Patrick Dowling who’s an item with Rob’s mother? The car dealer? That bastard?’
Romilly nodded. The car was still coming toward them, heading in from the gate. A BMW.
‘Was that son-of-a-bitch cunt involved in Rob getting offed?’
‘We’ve yet to prove it.’ Romilly was watching the car approach. Tinted windows. She couldn’t see the driver. And . . . she felt the hairs on the back of her neck rise. Something felt wrong.
‘Well, when are you going to?’ he asked, facing her.
‘There’s more. I checked with Mrs Lewis because something was niggling at me about the lock-up and the money. You remember she said Mr Hinton had a key?’
‘Yeah. Of course I do.’
Romilly paused. ‘She didn’t say Rob Hinton.’
‘She . . .’ Kit froze, staring at her face. ‘So which Hinton did she mean?’
Romilly was still watching the car. Suddenly the engine roared, it screamed, and the car was coming fast, like lightning. She shoved Kit Miller away from her, hard, and dived the other way. She felt a clunk and a burning pain lanced down her shoulder as she rolled dizzily, end over end, landing up on the grass in a heap.
Bedlam broke out. Romilly looked up blearily, everything tilted at the wrong angle, and saw Kit scrambling back to his feet. The man who’d been trailing him at a distance was now chasing after the car, but it was speeding away around the big turning circle, people leaping out of its path, and then it was back at the gates and it was gone.
‘Shit! You OK?’ asked Kit, running over to her. ‘Fucker hit you.’
Her arm really, really hurt. Her head spun. Suddenly, she felt sick and disorientated.
‘I’m OK . . .’ she started, and then she was gone, out cold.
97
This time Daisy didn’t have Ashok or even Fats to fall back on. When she came downstairs, it was Leon who was sitting in the hall, on duty. Her heart sank at the sight. No Daniel. She hadn’t seen him for days, ever since they’d come back from Brayfield. It was pretty clear now that he was avoiding her. She’d thought they’d grown close over the past weeks, that they were friends, united in their grief over Rob; but obviously he didn’t feel the same, and that really hurt her.
‘Going somewhere?’ asked Leon.
‘Yes. Out,’ she said, pausing to place the note she’d written to Ruby on the hall table, then carrying on to the front door.
Leon stood up, blocking her way. ‘Not on your own. Kit’s orders.’
‘Where is Kit?’
‘The Lewis funeral.’
‘Right.’
‘So where to? I’ll drive.’
‘Just out.’
Daisy was thinking of being stuck in a car with Leon. But she couldn’t drive on tranquillizers: she didn’t feel steady enough for that. The pills were kicking in, calming her down, and she was grateful for it. Now, she could hardly get her head around the fact that she’d tried to drown herself. She had kids. What the hell could she have been thinking?
‘OK. No problem, I’ll drive you,’ said Leon. He was looking irritable; nervy.
‘I’d prefer Daniel to do that,’ said Daisy.
‘Daniel’s busy.’ Leon was smiling now, but it wasn’t reaching his eyes; they were cruel, and cold. ‘Got a soft spot for my big bruv, have you? Remind you of Rob?’
Daisy tensed. ‘That’s a fucking horrible thing to say.’
‘Just saying, that’s all.’
‘Well don’t. This is why I’d rather have Daniel than you, Leon. He doesn’t give me lip like you do.’
Leon’s lips tightened. ‘Oh, what? Have I offended Her Majesty?’
‘Why don’t you just shut your mouth and give your brain a chance to catch up, you moron?’ snapped Daisy. ‘I’m going out and I don’t want you with me.’
She walked out to the car, aware of Leon following. Christ, she loathed him. He was a total pain in the arse.
‘Tough,’ he said, grabbing the keys off her. ‘It’s me or nobody.’
They got in the car. Leon switched on the radio, turning the dial until it hit a different station to the one Daisy usually listened to. It was Squeeze and ‘Up the Junction’. Leon cranked the volume up until Daisy winced.
‘So where are we going?’ he shouted at her over the noise.
‘Brayfield,’ said Daisy. Fuck’s sake! She’d just have to put up with
the mouthy sod.
98
Romilly came out of A & E after several hours of waiting, checks, X-rays and consultations. She felt shaky and drained and her left arm was in a sling. Kit Miller had driven her there and was still waiting for her.
‘All OK?’ he asked.
‘Just twisted my arm and got a bit of a shaking up, that’s all,’ she said, feeling stupid. ‘It’s sore, but a few days and it’ll be right as rain.’
‘You still look white.’
‘I’ll be fine. If you can drop me home . . .?’ Harman had taken the car back to the cop shop and he had let her know that he was currently applying for an extension of Patrick Dowling’s twenty-four hours in custody. She hoped he’d get it. For now, all she wanted was her own bed and some sleep.
‘Sure. No problem.’
Having Kit see her home made Romilly painfully aware that her little terraced house – that was supposed to have been her pride and joy – was in fact a project she’d never yet tackled and now barely had the strength for. When she’d moved in, before she’d met and married Hugh, she’d had such plans for this place. Knock through into the kitchen, open out the rooms. Decorate. Tidy the garden up, maybe even get it professionally landscaped.
Somehow, none of that had happened. Instead, Hugh had kept his shabby old pad but moved in with her when they married. As well as being deeply commitment-phobic, Hugh had proved himself a useless do-it-yourselfer. Any job he grudgingly tackled on the house was bodged, and usually cost a fortune to put right. Then there were arguments over employing tradesmen to do the work. They charged too much, Hugh always insisted, and a full-blown fight invariably followed. In the end, it had all proved too fucking stressful, so Romilly had thought: sod it. And the place had fallen into disrepair.
The pressure of the job, the early starts and late nights, the broken weekends, the full-throttle concentration that was required of her, had all impacted not only on her marriage but on her house, too. None of the improvements she’d intended had been done, and she was starting to doubt they ever would be. This was a bad-memories place now, and she wouldn’t be sorry to leave it. The porch light still shorted out, the path to the front door was thick with weeds and a fast-growing rogue buddleia. The hallway was dark and depressing. The kitchen was a tiny box with a faultily wired dishwasher that often sent the whole property plunging into blackness, and the previous owner’s ghastly scarlet Venetian blinds still hung dustily at the bathroom window. It irritated her every time she went in there.
The whole place irritated her now.
‘What you need,’ Bev was forever telling her with a jokey smile, ‘is a wife.’
And she knew Bev was right, no doubt about it. A cleaner would be good, too, if she ever got around to organizing one. Lower-class guilt held her back on that; Mum would throw a fit if she heard that her daughter employed a cleaner. Mum kept her house spotless. Of course she did. She had fuck-all else to do.
Romilly considered that it might be nice to have a housekeeper too, to organize bill payments and stuff like that, because she kept forgetting to open the post. She never forgot work stuff, of course. Never. And a cook would be nice, to keep her from starving. Yeah, Bev was right. A wife. That’s what she really needed.
‘Nice place,’ said Kit, following her in through the front door.
Romilly made a humphing sound and sent him an amused glance.
‘What?’ he asked.
‘You don’t have to be polite. It’s a shithole. Tea?’ she asked, heading for the kitchen.
‘Yeah, sure. Let me.’ He moved into the kitchen and grabbed the kettle and filled it. ‘Sit down. Take a rest, for God’s sake.’
Romilly sat on a bar stool and watched him moving around her poxy little kitchen. She was reflecting on the splendid irony of life. He’d driven her here in a shiny new Bentley and she knew damned well that him and his family lived in considerable splendour. Their lives were nothing like as chaotic, pressured or downright shabby as hers. But wasn’t she supposed to be the good guy? Wasn’t Kit Miller supposed to be a crook? So why wasn’t she living it large? And why wasn’t he shut away at Her Majesty’s pleasure, sewing mailbags, instead of being obviously minted and having flunkies fix his meals and wipe his gorgeous arse?
Kit busied himself while Romilly sat there, watching him.
‘You’re domesticated,’ she said at one point, when he put two cups of tea on the work surface.
‘Is that such a surprise?’
‘Dunno. I guess I thought you’d have staff. Doing the cooking, ironing your drawers, mopping your brow, etcetera.’ She sipped the tea. Hot and sweet.
‘Toast?’ he asked, and when she nodded he got a loaf out of the freezer and started organizing that. Then he brought the plates over with knives, butter and jam, and sat down beside her. ‘Arm really sore?’
‘A bit, but it’s eased off now. I’ll take some more painkillers.’
‘Where are they?’
‘That cupboard. There.’
Kit got them. Sat down again. Looked at her struggling to butter her toast. He took the knife out of her hand and did it for her. Romilly watched him. He was so damned good-looking, so gorgeous.
‘What?’ asked Kit, catching her staring.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Right.’ Kit paused in the buttering. Then he leaned in and very gently kissed her.
‘I told you to stop doing that,’ said Romilly.
Kit gave the ghost of a grin. ‘Shoot me,’ he said, and kissed her again.
When Romilly started to kiss him back, he pulled her in closer.
‘Ow, ow, ow,’ said Romilly, wincing.
‘Sorry,’ he murmured against her mouth, relaxing his grip.
Then the bell rang.
‘Shit,’ said Kit. ‘Just when things were getting interesting. Expecting someone?’
‘No.’ Romilly was glad of the interruption. She felt hot, right to her core. God, the man certainly knew how to kiss. He only had to touch her, and it was like electricity zapping through her veins. And that was bad. Very bad indeed. ‘Can you . . .?’
Kit went out into the hall and opened the front door.
‘Oh!’ said Hugh, standing there on the doorstep.
‘Who is it?’ Romilly called through.
Kit gave Hugh an expectant look.
‘Hugh,’ shouted Hugh back, stepping into the hall. Kit stopped him with a hand on his chest. ‘Hold up, pal.’
‘I’m Romilly’s husband,’ said Hugh, his face reddening with anger.
‘You want him in here?’ Kit called back to her.
‘Let him in,’ she said.
Kit stood aside and let Hugh walk ahead of him into the kitchen. Then he followed.
‘What’s up with your arm?’ Hugh asked her.
‘Had a bit of an accident, but it’s fine. Mr Miller brought me home.’
Hugh was still looking at Kit like one animal catching another trespassing on its territory. Kit was looking amused.
‘What did you want?’ asked Romilly.
‘Oh sorry, am I interrupting something?’ Hugh asked sourly.
‘No,’ said Romilly. ‘You’re not, and even if you were, it’s no business of yours.’
‘There’s no need to be like that.’
‘There’s every need. We’re over. And I told you, I don’t want you back here. What the hell do you want?’
‘I came for my cassettes. Up in the spare room,’ he said.
‘Go and get them then,’ said Romilly.
Hugh went off up the stairs and Kit looked at Romilly. ‘You want me to go up with him? Make sure he don’t nick the family silver or something?’
‘You’re finding this very funny, aren’t you?’
‘Sorry.’
‘Thanks,’ said Romilly. ‘For all your help today.’
‘Least I can do. I think you saved my frigging life. Thought you said I was supposed to end up shot. Not run over.’
‘Different MO,’
said Romilly. ‘Doesn’t add up. Our shooter’s a neat person, a creature of habit. Hitting people with cars is messy.’
Kit looked at her face. ‘So . . . what? He’s changing tactics?’
‘Unlikely.’
‘You mean we’ve got two people trying to top me now, instead of one? Terrific.’
‘I didn’t intend to save your life,’ said Romilly.
He looked at her. ‘What’s that mean?’
‘What it says. I . . . acted on instinct, I suppose. You weren’t looking. I shoved you out of the way. Nothing heroic. I just did it.’
‘Well – thanks anyway. Eat your damned toast.’
Romilly ate it, took some tablets, drank some tea, and began to feel a bit steadier. Hugh came thudding back down the stairs and stood in the kitchen doorway. He shot a wrathful glance at Kit, then looked at Romilly.
‘I thought we could talk. Like civilized human beings,’ he said.
‘I think I gave up on the idea of talking to you, Hugh, when I caught you riding the local bike.’
‘Listen, Romilly . . .’ said Hugh.
‘Did you hear what she said?’ asked Kit.
‘Who the fuck asked you?’ said Hugh.
Kit straightened up. ‘You want me to throw this tosser out onto the pavement?’ he asked her.
‘I’d like to see you try,’ said Hugh.
‘Trust me – you wouldn’t,’ said Kit.
‘Stop it, the pair of you,’ said Romilly. This situation was embarrassing, and it was about to turn into something farcical. ‘Hugh – bugger off.’
With a last furious glance at Kit, Hugh left, slamming the front door closed behind him.
Romilly looked at Kit. ‘I don’t want to even talk about it,’ she said. ‘OK?’
‘Fine. So tell me. You were saying something before the car hit you. About the money in the lock-up. If it wasn’t Rob the Lewis woman was talking about, who was it? She said Mr Hinton. And Rob always managed business on that side of town.’
‘I checked with her. It wasn’t Rob she was talking about. And it wasn’t Daniel. It wasn’t even Patrick Dowling, calling himself Mr Hinton. It was Leon.’
Kit stared at her face. ‘What the fuck?’
‘That’s what she said.’
