Streetwise

by Roberta Kray

  Through her marriage to Reggie Kray, Roberta Kray has a unique and authentic insight into London’s East End. Born in Southport, Roberta met Reggie in early 1996 and they married the following year; they were together until Reggie’s death in 2000.

  Also by Roberta Kray

  The Debt

  The Pact

  The Lost

  Strong Women

  The Villain’s Daughter

  Broken Home

  Nothing But Trouble

  Bad Girl

  Non-fiction

  Reg Kray: A Man Apart

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by Sphere

  978-1-4055-1696-9

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Roberta Kray 2013

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  SPHERE

  Little, Brown Book Group

  100 Victoria Embankment

  London, EC4Y 0DY

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  STREETWISE

  Table of Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Roberta Kray

  COPYRIGHT

  Dedication

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  55

  56

  57

  58

  59

  60

  61

  62

  63

  For Janelle Posey

  A much-loved and much-missed friend.

  1

  As Ava Gold walked along the streets of Shoreditch she began to have second thoughts. Was this really such a good idea? Probably not, she decided, but when it came to options hers were rapidly shrinking. Three weeks searching for work had yielded nothing even remotely tempting and now her money was starting to run out. Beggars couldn’t be choosers, she told herself. Of course she could always go back on the minicabs, but the memory of all those drunks cursing or crying or chucking up in the back of the car was enough to make her think again. Anything had to be better than that.

  She paused to check her reflection in the window of a butcher’s shop, running her fingers through her cropped dark hair while she wondered, yet again, if she’d worn the right clothes. She had been aiming for that fine line between not too prim and not too slutty, but wasn’t convinced that she’d successfully pulled it off. Was her navy dress too short or not short enough? Were her heels too high or too low? Was she wearing too much make-up or not enough?

  Ava pulled a face, her gaze drifting down to the meat, to the rows of chops, beef joints, sausages, liver and kidney. She glanced over her shoulder towards the club. She gave a sigh, knowing that she had no other choice. Like a lamb to the slaughter, she thought.

  Before she could find a good reason to change her mind, she crossed the road and walked up the path to Belles. It was eleven o’clock in the morning and the lap-dancing club, owned by the infamous Street family, wasn’t due to open for another hour. A man with a van was busy ferrying boxes into the lobby, watched over by a massive black guy with bulging muscles and a mean expression.

  Ava skirted around the van and went inside, trying to look as though she knew where she was going. The reception area, smelling of air freshener, had lots of shiny chrome and potted palms. The dark red walls were covered with photographs of semi-naked girls with large jutting breasts and pouting mouths. She let her gaze slide over them, doubt creeping into her mind again. But this wasn’t the time for a moral debate. She had rent to pay, bills to sort out.

  Immediately ahead of her was the main part of the club, the tables ready and waiting, the lights already dim. There was the chink of bottles as preparations were made for the lunchtime session. There was a counter to her right but no one was behind it. Her heels clattered on the marble floor as she strode purposefully towards the door marked Staff Only.

  At any moment she was expecting to be stopped, for someone to ask who she was or where she was going, but nobody questioned her presence. She pushed open the door and found herself in a long empty corridor. Above her, set into the ceiling, a series of small lights blinked red. Was she being watched? The thought made her feel as nervy as a burglar.

  She carried on walking almost to the end where she came across another door with a plaque saying MANAGER. She paused only for a second, took a deep breath and knocked.

  ‘Yeah?’

  Ava turned the handle and stepped inside. Chris Street, dressed in a smart dark grey suit, white shirt and silver tie was sitting behind a wide curved desk with a pile of papers in front of him. She smiled, recognising him instantly. He was older of course – it was getting on for seventeen years since she’d last seen him – but he hadn’t changed that much: dark hair, dark eyes, razor-sharp cheekbones in a well-defined face. A good-looking man, although probably not one to be trusted. She waited a moment thinking he might recognise her too, but there wasn’t even a flicker.

  ‘Yeah?’ he said again, this time with a touch of impatience.

  ‘Ava,’ she said. ‘Ava Gold.’ The name clearly didn’t mean anything to him either. She had, it appeared, been a less than memorable ten-year-old. ‘I’m here about the job.’

  Chris Street shook his head. ‘And what job would that be?’ He blatantly looked her up and down as if checking out her vital statistics. He didn’t seem overly impressed. She thought there was a faint sneer on his lips as he focused on her modest breasts, but she could have been imagining it.

  Closing the door firmly behind her, Ava advanced into the room. The office was almost disgustingly opulent with royal blue walls, gold paintwork and a cream carpet that was soft enough to sleep on. Two crystal chandeliers hung from the ceiling. On the walls, carrying on the theme from the lobby, were three framed paintings displaying the finer points of the female form.

  ‘You don’t remember me,’ she said.

  Chris Street’s face took on a wary, defensive look as if they might once have shared an intimate moment that had long since slipped his mind. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘That’s okay,’ she said, quickly putting him straight. ‘There’s no reason why you should. It was ages ago. I’m Ted Gold’s niece. You used to come to the car showroom in Kellston when I was a kid.’

  ‘Ah,’ he said, obviously relieved. ‘And how is Ted these days?’

  ‘Pretty go
od, I think. He retired to Spain, you know. I haven’t seen him in a while.’

  Chris gestured towards the chair that she was standing next to, his demeanour more cordial now that he knew who she was – and that he was off the hook. ‘Sit down, please. Grab a seat.’

  Ava lowered herself on to the swing chair, her short dress riding up as she did so. She quickly tugged at the hem, aware as she lifted her eyes that he was staring at her legs.

  ‘So, you’re after a job,’ he said, his eyebrows lifting slightly.

  She glanced towards one of the pictures on the wall, looked back at him and grinned. ‘Not that sort of a job. I heard you were looking for a driver.’

  ‘And who told you that?’

  ‘Are you saying it’s not true?’

  Chris Street leaned back, folded his arms across his chest and studied her carefully. A smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. ‘To be honest, we usually employ men in that position.’

  ‘Yeah?’ she said. ‘And how’s that been working out? I hear you’ve had three drivers in as many months.’ As he didn’t deny it, she continued with her pitch. ‘I’ve been around cars all my life. I’m reliable, trustworthy and very discreet. Anyway, it’s sex discrimination saying that you only employ men. What’s wrong with a woman?’

  ‘I employ lots of women.’

  Ava gave a snort. ‘So the men drive and the women strip? Is that how it goes?’

  Chris Street laughed, opening his mouth to reveal a row of white even teeth. ‘The women don’t strip, they dance. And they earn more cash than the men. I don’t hear them complaining.’

  She pulled a face, shrugging off his response. ‘Look, why don’t you give me a trial? I can start any time – straight away if you want. I won’t let you down. Early mornings, late nights, whatever you need. Give Uncle Ted a bell, he’ll tell you how good I am.’

  ‘In Spain?’ he said.

  ‘They do have phones in Spain.’

  Chris Street seemed amused by the exchange if not exactly convinced of her suitability for the job. She had the feeling he was humouring her, but she pushed on regardless. ‘I worked for Alec Harmer for five years. He runs an executive car service based in Mayfair.’

  He gave a nod. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of Harmer’s.’

  ‘I’ve got references if you’d like to see them.’ She took an envelope out of her bag and laid it on the desk. ‘All my details are in here as well.’

  ‘I’m sure your references are excellent. You wouldn’t be giving them to me otherwise. But perhaps you could tell me why you left?’

  Ava gave a wry smile. ‘I made the mistake of marrying the boss. And he made the mistake of not being able to keep it in his pants. I’ll spare you the details. But after we split up, I couldn’t carry on working there.’

  ‘Kind of awkward, huh?’

  ‘Kind of awkward,’ she agreed. ‘But I’m over it now.’ This wasn’t exactly true, but she didn’t want to give an impression of weakness. No one wanted a driver prone to excessive bouts of weeping. ‘The divorce came through six months ago. I’m just trying to get on with my life.’

  Chris Street nodded. ‘Well, I know that feeling.’

  ‘You too?’ Hoping that this shared experience might tip things in her favour, she made a final plea. ‘So how about it, then? I need a job and you need a driver. Why don’t you give me a chance? If you don’t, I’ll be forced to go back on the minicabs, and believe me you don’t want that on your conscience.’

  Chris Street smiled. He thought about it for a while, scratching his chin. ‘And how would you feel about being hassled by Old Bill?’

  ‘Am I likely to be?’

  ‘How do you think I lost my licence?’ he sighed. ‘Everywhere I turn these days, there’s some bloody copper lurking in the shadows.’

  ‘I can handle it,’ she said. ‘I’m no stranger to the law. My dad was in and out of nick for most of his life.’

  Chris Street continued to gaze at her, mulling it over.

  ‘Please,’ she begged. ‘Give me a chance. You won’t regret it.’

  ‘Okay,’ he said finally. ‘I’ll give you a trial. A week, yeah? And if it doesn’t work out —’

  Ava reached over the table to grasp and shake his hand. ‘It will. I won’t let you down, I swear I won’t. Thanks. Thanks very much.’

  ‘Here’s the address,’ he said when he eventually managed to retrieve his fingers. ‘And my phone number.’ He scribbled the details down on a slip of paper and passed them over to her. ‘Do you know Kellston?’

  ‘I live in Kellston.’

  ‘No excuse for being late, then. Ten o’clock sharp. I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Ava put the address in her bag and then leapt up before he could consider changing his mind. ‘I’ll be there.’

  She left the office with a smile on her face and in the happy knowledge that she’d be able to pay the rent at the end of the month. Things were finally on the up. Chris Street might be a villain but there were worse men to work for. She knew that for sure. Hadn’t she wasted five stupid years on Alec Harmer? Still, that was all in the past now. She walked through the lobby with her head held high. Her gaze raked the images that lined the walls, but her smile didn’t falter. She might not have a 34DD cup or a backside that looked like a peach, but she didn’t give a damn. She had a job and that was all that mattered.

  2

  Chris Street drummed his fingers against the top of the desk, wondering how the hell he’d just managed to employ a woman driver. Ava wouldn’t exactly be handy in a scrap. Still, she was easy on the eye and she smelled a damn sight better than her predecessors. Plus, she’d had the guts to come here and plead with him for the job. It wasn’t as if decent drivers were queuing round the block. Out of the last three, two had spent more time in the pub than the motor and the third had managed to reverse the Mercedes into the gates of the house. Perhaps, all things considered, he’d made the right decision. Yeah, the girl wasn’t ideal but she’d do until he found someone better.

  He frowned as he thought about the morons he’d had to fire. What the hell was the matter with people these days? Lazy fuckers, that’s what most of them were. Once upon a time he’d have no bother at all in finding someone suitable: anyone who wanted to be someone would have beaten a path to the door of the Street family. Now, however, there was little interest and sod all respect. It came to something when —

  Chris pulled himself up, realising that he was sounding – even if it was only in his own head – exactly like his old man. Jesus, if he wasn’t careful he’d turn into Terry Street, forever complaining, forever harking back to the good old days. And although there was no doubting that his father had been a major player in his time, the empire that he’d built up had been in steady decline for the past ten years. The Streets no longer ruled the East End and had little influence in the West End either. Other more powerful firms had moved in, gradually squeezing them out. The glory days were over and there wasn’t much chance of them returning. Kellston was the only place where Terry had any influence and he was clinging on to that by the skin of his teeth.

  Chris knew that once his dad was gone – and with the amount he drank that could be sooner rather than later – what power they retained would quickly crumble. That was why he was trying hard to ring-fence the more legitimate sides of the business, the clubs and the pubs, so that when that day came there would be something to fall back on.