by Jessie Keane
Kit took a swallow of his beer and eyed her beadily. ‘You know, some men would find that a massive turn-off. A woman chasing after them like that.’
‘Do you find it a massive turn-off?’ she asked coyly, and gulped down a mouthful of wine.
‘That’s good stuff, you should sip it.’
‘Do you?’ It was as if he hadn’t spoken.
Kit shrugged and sighed. This was getting tedious. ‘Daisy . . .’
‘Are you involved with somebody? Is that it?’
‘I’m involved with somebody, yes.’ Involved right up to the hilt. Now would she take the hint?
‘Is she as gorgeous as me?’ asked Daisy with a smile, but he could see the hurt in her eyes.
Poor little rich girl, she just wants to be loved, he thought.
Gilda had filled him in about Daisy’s father Lord Bray – a public school product with perverted sexual appetites. And Mummy? She did charity and the church flowers down in the country, probably. She was never really seen around town.
But somewhere in this batty little cow, Kit could see a faint echo of his own insecurities. He had pulled a crew of men together under Michael Ward’s guidance, and they were his family. He liked his mates around him, because . . . he had never before had that strong feeling of belonging that he got from working for the firm. In the children’s home it had been all shoes-off-slippers-on, all rules and regulations. He’d been glad to get out of there.
Now he made his own rules, up to a point. But the scars from his institutionalized upbringing were always there. He had a chip of ice in his heart. Only Gilda had ever come close to melting it.
‘Let me buy you dinner,’ he said, surprising himself. What the hell? He wasn’t due to see Gilda until eleven; he had time to kill. The poor little mare didn’t mean any harm.
‘Great,’ she said instantly, and drained her glass. ‘I’m starving.’
84
1970
High Firs was a pretty nineteenth-century lodge set in a country park. Once it could have been the home of a prosperous wool-merchant. Now it was God’s waiting room, stuffed full of the elderly.
Kit and Rob were led inside by a blue-coated young woman, through a day room where lots of old folks sat. Some slept, their heads drooping onto their chests, some watched TV on the small screen in the corner of the room. A couple of them looked up and smiled as Kit and Rob passed by. One of them, her face spotted with age, said to Rob: ‘Do you speak Russian?’
Rob shook his head and they moved on.
There was a scent in the air that reminded Kit of the homes he’d grown up in – boiled cabbage, onions and Dettol, mingled with human body odours and strong soap. Holding his breath, he followed as the girl led them through the day room and out into a conservatory that had a look of long-faded grandeur.
Three more inmates were sitting out here, blankets made of multicoloured knitted squares draped over their laps. Two were dozing. One was letting her glasses fall down onto the chain around her neck. There was a little notepad on her lap, and in her shaking hands she held a ballpoint pen. She was watching them, her bony head with its thin white fuzz of hair wobbling on a neck that looked hardly strong enough to hold it up. Her cheeks were like softly collapsed balloons. Her bright blue eyes were hazed with age, but hopeful.
Christ, thought Kit. If he ever wound up like this, his fondest wish was that someone would have the decency to put a bullet through his brain and end it.
‘Have you come to take me home?’ she asked, her voice cracked and almost pleading.
‘These people have come on a visit,’ said the girl, ignoring the question just as Kit and Rob did.
Kit guessed that was what old age boiled down to, right there: speaking, and being ignored. Having the whole world forget that you and your needs existed. Until, finally, you – and they – didn’t.
‘Take a seat,’ said the girl, while Jennifer Phelps watched them in bewilderment, her head waggling around as she followed their movements.
Kit and Rob sat down in a couple of creaking Lloyd Loom chairs, and the girl departed.
‘This is nice,’ said Jennifer, one hand clawing at her blanket to straighten it. She knocked the notebook from her lap, and Kit picked it up, put it back there. ‘Thank you, dear. Don’t I know you?’
Kit looked into the eyes. Bright, but vacant.
Lights are on but the dogs ain’t barking, he thought.
‘I don’t think so,’ he said. ‘Mrs Phelps . . .’
‘Call me Jennifer,’ she said. ‘The Duke of York was here last week, you know. Visiting the wards.’
‘Jennifer,’ Kit corrected himself. She thought she was in hospital. She thought royalty had visited the wards. There was no hope. He rolled off the spiel about his father dying and how he wanted to trace his father’s old friend, Hugh.
‘Hugh? Your father knew Hugh?’ she asked. She was frowning hard.
‘Yeah.’
‘Well, that’s amazing. Hugh never had time for anyone. Never had a kind word to say for a soul, either.’
Kit and Rob exchanged a look. Clearly, the old woman was nuts. But sometimes the very old and even the demented remembered what happened years ago with clarity, while yesterday was a mystery to them. Did her daughter ever come and see her here? Having met the hatchet-faced woman, Kit doubted it.
‘Were you close? You and Hugh?’ asked Kit.
Jennifer made a huffing noise. ‘Hugh weren’t close to anyone. And he was cruel. Used to pull the wings off flies when he was a boy, used to make me and my sister cry to see it.’
A psychopath in the making. A boy who would go on to become a man who disposed of ‘rubbish’ for gang leaders like Charlie Darke.
‘Did you ever hear anything about a baby?’ asked Kit. They were wasting their time here, but what the hell.
One of the other residents, bathed in sunlight in the conservatory, gave a bubbling snore.
‘A baby?’ Jennifer gave a croak of laughter, displaying a shocking mouthful of crockery, huge pristine white dentures that looked odd against her wrinkled, yellowing skin. ‘Hugh weren’t married. Never had it in him. Never even looked at a girl. Are you interested in poetry?’
Kit took a breath. ‘Not really,’ he said, and Rob got up and walked to the glass wall that separated them from the neat gardens beyond the conservatory’s edge. Rob let out a loud sigh.
‘I am. I write it. I’m quite good,’ said Jennifer.
‘Getting back to this baby . . .’ said Kit.
‘Just for my own amusement, you know.’
‘That’s nice. The baby . . . ?’
‘I told you. Hugh weren’t married. Now, young man, you just listen to this,’ she said, and picked up the glasses that dangled on the chain around her neck and flipped over a page of her notebook.
Ah shit, thought Kit.
Her voice wobbling, Jennifer read aloud:
Bury me in wicker
And garland me in flowers
Then go off and have a drink
Celebrate for hours
For life it is a precious gift
The greatest we are given
So raise a glass and smile and laugh
You’re still among the living.
Kit had never heard anything so gut-wrenchingly sad in his entire life. Jennifer removed her glasses and looked at him.
‘What do you think of that, young man?’ she asked.
‘That’s beautiful,’ said Kit.
She smiled, her dentures twinkling like a toothpaste commercial.
‘You’re nice,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ said Kit, and stood up.
‘You’re not going, are you?’ she asked anxiously, the smile dropping from her face.
‘We have to go, yes,’ said Kit.
‘But I thought you wanted to know about a baby?’
Kit looked at Jennifer. ‘Do you know anything about a baby?’
‘Only the one I found on the night Hugh died,’ she said.
85
Richard Dorley met up with Sammy Bell, who wrote for the Globe, in a fuggy corner of El Vino in Fleet Street. He set it all out for Sammy. That he believed respectable, married Lord Bray had been – maybe still was – having an affair with his son, Sebastian. He showed the journalist the photo.
Sammy Bell was a tired old hack, bald on top but with grey hair sprouting from his nose and ears and with huge bushy eyebrows. He was looking forward to retirement and a quiet life with the wife. But his newshound’s nose twitched when he saw this. He hated the establishment – all those twats who broke the rules and never paid the price. Bray was right up there among the upper echelons. He would love to rattle the bastard’s cage. And look at this. Clearly the old sod was turking the boy, you could see that from the cosy way they were standing there: a couple.
‘You showed him this?’ asked Sammy, downing his pint.
Richard nodded. ‘He just said he’d met Sebby once, and hadn’t seen him since.’
‘Which could be true.’
‘It could be. But now Sebby’s gone off somewhere. He hasn’t been in touch, and that’s not like him. We’re worried . . .’
‘You could go to the police.’
‘Sebby’s not underage. He’s not actually missing, is he? He just ran off down here when we fell out. But that photo . . .’
Sammy knew what Richard meant. It was clear as day looking at this: these two were in a hot physical relationship.
‘Can I take this?’
‘I’ll want it back,’ said Richard.
‘Of course.’ Sammy whipped out a notebook and pen. ‘I’ll have a word with my editor, see if he’s interested. OK? Give me your address and telephone number, I’ll be in touch.’
Richard gave him the address of the B & B he was staying at, over in Rotherhithe, and his home phone number in Leicester. His son Andrew could relay any messages when he next phoned home from the B & B. The landlord didn’t like anyone using the phone much; he’d made that very clear.
Sammy tucked the photo into his notebook, put the notebook and pen back in his pocket. He drained his pint and stood up, holding out his hand. Richard rose too, and shook it.
‘I’ll see my editor,’ said Sammy. ‘See what he says.’
‘Thanks,’ said Richard, his voice shaking now. ‘It’s made my wife ill, all this. When Sebby sent us this photo, it gave us some hope. I thought his lordship might know where Sebby’s got to.’
‘We’ll see what we can do,’ said Sammy. He wasn’t interested in Richard’s sob story – but he was interested in making Lord Muck squirm, if he could.
86
1970
Michael had invited Ruby to dinner at his restaurant, Sheila’s, to tell her the news that Kit had relayed to him. Sheila was his late wife. He’d named the restaurant after her. Ruby wondered if he was still in love with Sheila. And if so – where did that leave her?
‘The kid wasn’t killed,’ he said, after they’d eaten.
Ruby sat like a stone, her eyes fastened on his face as he said those words. Suddenly she screwed her eyes tight shut and released a huge breath.
‘You OK?’ asked Michael.
Her eyes opened. They were brimming with tears. She nodded, swallowing.
‘Hey, don’t cry. This is good news. Have a sip of wine.’
Ruby lifted her glass. A tear spilled over, and she wiped it away. She took a mouthful of the wine, and felt a little steadier. Her son was alive.
‘Where is he?’ she asked. ‘I don’t understand. Charlie took him to that awful man, he should be dead.’
‘He was called Hugh Burton. We tracked down his sister.’
‘You said he was?’
‘Patience.’ Michael made a calm-down gesture. He paused, lit a cigarette and took a drag. ‘His sister’s very old. She married and was widowed a long time ago. Her name’s Jennifer Phelps. She’s in a nursing home. She’s lost a few marbles, but some of ’em are still hanging on for grim death.’
Ruby stared at Michael’s face, digesting this. ‘And she knew what happened to the baby?’
Michael nodded.
‘She said she remembered that night as if it was yesterday,’ said Michael, leaning closer, lowering his voice a little. ‘She took her brother over a cooked meal every evening during the war; she only lived in the next street. He was single. Lived alone in the house where they all grew up. Hugh stayed on, didn’t marry, looked after the parents until they both passed away – he was a misfit. A loner. Didn’t care for company of any sort, male or female. That evening she got there and let herself in with her key, as usual.’
He paused, took a drink.
‘And?’ Ruby prompted. ‘Come on, Michael.’
‘And there was Hugh Burton, her brother, laid out dead on the hall floor. Heart attack.’
‘The baby. What about the baby?’
‘The baby was there too, but alive and well.’ Michael sipped again. ‘Seems there is a God. Jennifer said she was upset at finding her brother like that, she hardly knew what to think. There’d never been much affection between them, but this was her brother after all. She didn’t know where the baby had come from. Hadn’t a clue. So she grabbed a police reservist off the street, and he helped her with sorting out an ambulance to take Hugh’s body to the local morgue, which was in the hospital. The baby was also taken to the hospital, and that was the last Jennifer saw of him. She said she’d wondered over the years, wondered what the baby was doing there – and Hugh being Hugh, she said she was probably better off not knowing. She said the police found weird stuff in his cellar. An acid bath. Traces of human and animal skin and hair.’
‘Jesus.’
‘You OK there?’
She nodded.
‘Jennifer said she wondered how the baby got on. How his life went from there.’
Ruby’s eyes widened in distress. ‘So we still don’t really know what happened to him.’
‘We know he was safe. In hospital. Alive. After that, I’m guessing fostering, maybe a children’s home. The authorities would have looked after him.’
Ruby was folding and refolding her napkin, her movements convulsive. ‘We have to find him,’ she said.
Michael looked at her. ‘He may not want to be found. Chances are, he don’t feel very friendly towards his mother. In his eyes, I suppose he was abandoned; unwanted.’
Ruby threw the napkin down. ‘It was the stupidest thing I ever did,’ she said hotly. ‘Getting involved with Cornelius. Trusting him. I was such a fool.’
‘You were young,’ said Michael. ‘We all act the fool when we’re young. We don’t see the consequences. It’s only later when reality hits.’
Ruby’s eyes were full of sadness as they held his. ‘I don’t think this is ever going to come out right,’ she said.
‘We’ll make it,’ he said.
But Ruby couldn’t bring herself to believe that.
87
‘No,’ said Sammy Bell’s editor. He squinted at Sammy through a pall of cigarette smoke, then looked back at the picture of Lord Bray and some gay-looking young bloke. ‘No way.’
Sammy stared at his editor Brian Scott, fat as butter with his white nylon shirt stained yellow, sweat around the armpits, the buttons straining across his chest and stomach, wheezing and coughing as he puffed on his umpteenth fag of the day.
‘What?’ Sammy was surprised. He’d expected arguments, maybe. He hadn’t expected a flat, unequivocal ‘no’.
‘I said no. Drop it.’ And to Sammy’s dismay, Brian tore the photo into shreds and dumped it in the waste bin.
‘I said I’d give it back to the man,’ he objected.
‘Say you lost it,’ said Brian. ‘Better yet, say nothing at all. Don’t get back in touch with him and don’t pursue this.’
‘Brian . . .’
‘No arguments. We’re a Tory paper, you silly fucker. You don’t piss in your own tent.’
Sammy drummed his bitten fingernails on the arm of hi
s chair.
‘You got this bloke’s address?’ asked Brian.
‘Yeah.’
‘Let’s have it then.’
‘I thought you said . . . ?’
‘Hand it over.’
Sammy handed over Richard Dorley’s address.
‘I just think . . .’ he started, standing up, gutted by this put-down.
‘I know what you think. You think you’d like to squeeze his lordship’s poncey nuts in a vice. Well, so would I. But it don’t work like that. You know it don’t. Jesus! You’re not retiring a minute too soon, you idiot. Off you go.’
Fuming, Sammy left the office. Before he’d even shut the door, Brian was on the phone.
88
Gilda was in bed with Tito one morning when she realized she was dead.
They’d spent the night together, and he’d been his usual self: brutally sexual, bruising her and then rolling over and snoring like a hog. She lay there long after he was asleep, dreaming of Kit, gorgeous Kit with his strong yet gentle hands and his beautiful body. Then she slept, and awoke to find Dan and Biffy, two of Tito’s heavies, standing at the end of the bed.
‘What’s going on . . . ?’ she asked, blinking, pushing her hair out of her eyes.
Tito was waking too, sitting up. He saw the two men there.
‘You ready then, boss?’ asked Biffy, his eyes glued coldly to Gilda.
She felt her skin start to crawl. She clutched the sheet to her, her fingers cold with sudden fear.
Tito turned his head. His ice-cold eyes bored into hers.
‘What is it?’ she asked, her voice rising in panic. ‘What’s happening?’
Tito let out a sigh. ‘We need to talk,’ he said.
‘What? What about?’ she asked, dry-mouthed.
‘About you.’
‘What?’
‘You and Kit Miller,’ said Tito. Then he looked away from her. ‘OK, boys,’ he said.
Gilda was dragged naked and screaming from the bed. Tito watched dispassionately as the two men hauled her out of the bedroom. The door slammed behind them and he could still hear her screaming. He sighed and went into the bathroom and turned on the shower to deaden the sound. It annoyed him.
