No Mercy

by Roberta Kray

  Eventually, he’d built up a picture of how the system worked. Once a month, Chris would leave the house at five in the morning, pick up Solomon Vale and then drive down to the lock-ups near the old railway arches. The Colombians would arrive at half past five, always in a white van. The van would drive into the open lock-up, the steel shutters would come down, and the exchange would be made. The whole procedure never took more than ten minutes.

  ‘Lazy,’ Adam murmured smugly. It was a mistake never to change the routine. But that was the Streets all over. Believing in their own infallibility, they’d grown overconfident and careless. Or maybe Chris Street was too preoccupied by his old man’s slide into madness to give any proper attention to the business.

  The Street family had ruled for too long. It was a tired regime, past its sell-by date. What Kellston needed was fresh blood, young eyes, a new perspective, and he was just the guy to provide it. He didn’t care what his mother thought; he felt nothing but contempt for her lack of vision. Safety first, that was always her motto, but you never got anywhere by playing it safe.

  He went back to thinking about the lock-up. There were security cameras there, but that was the least of his problems. The tricky part would be actually getting into it. Even from a distance he could tell that the shutters were reinforced and that it would probably take dynamite to blow a hole in them. He quite liked the idea of blowing the doors off – there was nothing like making a statement – but what if all the contents went up in smoke too? No, he might have to consider a more subtle approach.

  He was still pondering on this when his phone started ringing. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘It’s me. Where are you?’

  ‘I’m on my way.’

  ‘You said that last time I called. I’ve been sitting on this bloody doorstep for hours. I bet you’re still in the pub. Are you? What are you doing? Are you coming or not?’

  Adam raised his eyes to the heavens. What was it with women that they always felt the need to nag? The bitch should be grateful that he’d offered her a bed for the night, a roof over her head, but instead she was intent on giving him an earful. ‘Keep your hair on. Two minutes. I’m two minutes away.’

  He hung up before she had the chance to say anything else and was tempted to take the scenic route home. It was bad enough having his mother on his back without her joining in too. If it hadn’t been for the fact that he was in desperate need of a slash, he might have walked around for another half-hour just to teach her a lesson.

  As Adam turned the corner into Cherry Street, he could see the lovely Louise sitting on the top step, flicking through a magazine. She had a half-angry, half-sulky look on her face and was puffing on a cigarette with the same impatience as she was turning the pages. He was already regretting that he’d invited her to stay. In truth, he’d only done it to spite his mother. He frowned. No, that wasn’t the only reason. He reckoned Louise Cole could be useful, although he hadn’t quite figured out how. Still, he’d think of something. A girl like her would never go to waste.

  Irritated by her presence, he lifted his gaze to take in the house. The building, a three-storey Victorian conversion, was leaning towards the shabby, but the rooms inside were large and airy. He rented the first floor, a two-bedroom flat that suited him nicely. He could have lived on the Heights, but had no desire to do so. The place was all walls and locks and cameras, like some bloody prison, except it was designed to keep the lowlifes out of the compound rather than in.

  Adam was almost at the gate before she clocked him.

  ‘Jesus, where have you been?’ she said, jumping to her feet. ‘I’ve been here for hours.’

  Adam’s lip curled. ‘Haven’t we already had this conversation? Shit, I’m doing you a favour here. A “thank you” wouldn’t go amiss.’

  Her eyes flashed as if she was about to have another go at him, but then she thought better of it. When she spoke again, her tone was more peevish than accusatory. ‘I’m just tired, that’s all. I’ve been lugging this case around for ever.’

  He put his hands on his hips and stared at her. It was only a couple of days since his mother had chucked her out of the Chelsea apartment and already she’d exhausted all her other options. Sometimes you didn’t have as many friends as you thought. ‘I had a bit of business. I told you.’ He glanced up at the clear blue sky. ‘Anyway, it’s not as though it’s pissing down. Come on, let’s go inside.’

  Adam walked along the short path and up the steps, put the key in the lock and opened the door. He entered the shared lobby hallway, went over to the table and checked through the mail. Nothing for him. When he turned round, she was still standing on the doorstep. ‘What now?’

  Louise glanced down towards her large brown Louis Vuitton suitcase. ‘You going to help me with this, babe?’

  Adam walked back to the door. The case had wheels, but Louise was the type of woman who expected a man to do everything for her. He grabbed hold of the handle and rolled it into the hallway. ‘First floor,’ he said, gesturing with his free hand. ‘You go on. I’ll follow you.’

  As she started climbing the stairs, he picked up the case by its handle. It weighed a ton. He was tempted to put it down again and jolt it up on its wheels but decided this might make him look less than masculine. ‘Fuck, what have you got in here – bloody bricks?’

  ‘Just stuff.’

  Adam’s arm was aching by the time he reached the top. It took a concerted effort not to wince in front of her. He unlocked the door and yanked the case into the flat. ‘I need a slash,’ he said, heading for the bathroom. ‘Kitchen’s through there if you fancy a coffee or anything.’

  When he got back, Louise was roaming around the living room, picking things up and putting them down. She had the critical look of a prospective tenant examining the fixtures and fittings. After the luxury of her Chelsea apartment, the prospect of kipping down in the backstreets of Kellston was clearly less than appealing. Still, beggars couldn’t be choosers. She was lucky that he’d said yes.

  Anyway, there was nothing wrong with the flat. It was clean and tidy, everything in its place and a place for everything. He liked things organised. He couldn’t stand mess. In fact, just the presence of Louise seemed to make the spacious room feel cluttered.

  ‘What are you doing? Why don’t you sit down?’

  Louise lowered herself on to one of the black leather sofas and crossed her long, tanned legs. She flicked back her hair and looked at him. ‘It’ll only be for a few nights, until I get myself sorted.’

  ‘No problem,’ he said. But girls like her, girls with a habit, didn’t get themselves sorted – at least not until they reached rock bottom. Then she would go running home to Mummy and Daddy, to the house in the country and the month in rehab. But not yet. She hadn’t reached that point yet. She was on a downward spiral – losing her job, losing her home – but was still blindly oblivious to the darkness that was coming.

  Louise gave him a thin, slightly pleading smile. ‘So, er… did you get it?’

  ‘Course,’ he said, digging into his pocket and pulling out the sachets. He threw them on the sofa. ‘Help yourself.’

  She snatched them up, her eyes glinting. ‘Ta.’

  Adam went over to the cabinet, reached into the back and took out a tortoiseshell box. He placed it on the low table in front of her, flipping open the lid. Inside was an oblong mirror, a small pile of razor blades and a pack of plastic straws. He watched as she leaned over and quickly, impatiently, poured the powder on to the mirror before nudging it with a blade into long, fat lines. Some of the coke spilled out over the coffee table, leaving an untidy trail of dust across the shiny polished glass. He instinctively flinched, fighting the urge to bend down and clear away the mess.

  ‘Careful!’ he snapped. ‘Doesn’t grow on bleedin’ trees, you know.’

  She glanced up at him, hearing the hard edge to his voice. ‘Sorry, hon.’ But the apology was a cursory one and she immediately switched her attention back to the coke.
>
  ‘You want a beer?’ he asked.

  She didn’t answer.

  ‘Louise?’

  She looked up at him again. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Beer,’ he repeated. ‘Do you want a beer?’

  ‘Oh, okay. Cool.’

  Adam walked through to the kitchen, grabbed a couple of bottles from the fridge and flipped off the caps. He went back to the living room and sat down at right angles to her on the other smaller sofa. He took a long pull of beer, watching as Louise picked up the straw and bent over the mirror. She was wearing a scoop-necked black and white dress and he could see straight down the front of it. Her breasts were a honey-brown colour, large and smooth. Her white bra had a ruffle of lace round the edges.

  He stared at her cleavage, feeling nothing but indifference. Although he occasionally slept with girls, it was only for appearance. He felt no real lust for them, no desire. The trouble with women was that… Well, the trouble was that they weren’t men. He disliked the softness of their flesh, their smell, even the way they moved.

  In the company of blokes like the Gissings, Adam was careful to keep these feelings to himself. It might be the twenty-first century, but in certain circles it was still unacceptable to be gay. Once he had power and influence, he could do as he liked, be who he liked, but until then he would conduct his liaisons away from prying eyes and away from Kellston.

  Louise snorted a couple of lines, sat back and sniffed loudly. ‘Go on, hon,’ she said, nodding towards the mirror. ‘There’s plenty to go round. Fill your boots.’

  Adam shook his head. ‘Nah, I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘That’s the point, babe,’ she said, giggling. ‘It’s to get you in the mood.’

  But Adam rarely touched the stuff. Sure, he had all the paraphernalia, but that was only for when he had visitors. He had seen what addiction did to people, how it pulled them down into the abyss. It was a weakness, and he despised weakness.

  ‘You know something?’ she said. ‘Your mother’s a bitch.’

  ‘Get your facts right.’ Adam took another swig from the bottle and grinned at her. ‘My mother’s a rich bitch.’

  ‘You’re not wrong there. Can you believe it, just chucking me out like that? What a cow! And I’m the one who’s been doing all the damn work, lining her pockets while she swans around like Lady Muck. Did I tell you what she said to me? She just turns up out of the blue and…’

  As Louise embarked on a tale he’d already heard over the phone, Adam’s thoughts drifted back to the morning and to the file that his mother had been reading. The fact that she hadn’t wanted him to see it had made him all the more determined to do so. He couldn’t stand the way she hid things from him, the way she treated him like a kid.

  ‘…  and if she thinks she’s going to get away with it, she’s got another think coming. I mean, it’s not bloody fair, is it? It’s not right. And you can’t just throw someone out on the street like that. It’s not as though…’

  The early evening sun was slanting through the windows, casting a lemony glow over the moss-green carpet. Louise continued her tirade. Adam raised a hand to his mouth and chewed on a nail. He’d finally got a chance to see the file when his mother had received a phone call and disappeared into the apartment. A part of him wished he hadn’t read it now.

  The report was from that slimeball Yeats and was all about a girl called Maddie Layne. The face in the photographs had seemed vaguely familiar to him. One of his mother’s tarts? That was what she’d said, but he hadn’t believed her. Something had told him otherwise. He had skimmed through the written contents – age, address, where she worked, who she saw – none of which was particularly interesting.

  It had taken a minute or two for the penny to drop, for him to suddenly realise. The shock had been like a low, painful thump to his guts. Maddie Layne. There had to be a connection. An unwelcome image of Greta had risen into his mind. Jesus! Yes, of course, this girl must be her sister – the same slim build, the same eyes, the same hair – but why the hell was his mother having her followed?

  Adam’s fingers tightened around the bottle. Louise yattered on, her voice like an irritating buzz in his ear. He would have liked to smash the bottle in her face, to shut her up for good. He needed to think. He needed to figure out what he was going to do next. One thing was for certain: he should never have got involved with Bo Vale. That had been a big mistake. He had thought it was all over, done with, but now he wasn’t so sure. Getting away with murder wasn’t always as easy as it seemed.

  17

  The days passed by in a blur of work, school runs, cooking, cleaning and washing. Before Maddie knew it, it was Wednesday morning again and she was on her way to the cemetery. This time, in addition to her final visit to Lucy Rivers, she also had two other graves to tend. Zac had been dropped off at his grandparents’ – Alisha would pick up Kyle and take the boys to summer school – and she had two clear hours before her shift started at Marigolds.

  Now that she had made the decision to sever her ties with Jay Cato, she felt a mixture of relief and guilt. She would be glad to be free of her involvement with a murderer, but felt bad about abandoning Lucy. A part of her felt, irrationally, as if she was turning her back on Greta too. Not that the plot would be neglected: Cato would simply employ someone else to tend it. And if he didn’t… well, there was nothing to stop her visiting the grave from time to time.

  The rucksack, heavier than usual, bounced against her back. As well as her tools, her cloths and water, it also contained bags of potatoes, carrots and beans. She had a detour to make before passing through those cemetery gates. Turning left along Lester Road, she kept on walking until she reached a small terraced house that, on the outside, was almost identical to her own. The inside, however, couldn’t have been more different.

  Agnes Reach must have been watching out for her because she had the door open before Maddie had even reached for the bell. ‘Hello, dear. Come in, come in. It’s lovely to see you again.’

  ‘And you. How have you been?’

  ‘Oh, very well, thank you. Isn’t it a marvellous day? They say the weather might break at the weekend, so we’d better make the most of it.’

  Agnes was eighty-two years old, a tiny, bird-like woman who, despite her physical fragility, still had an active mind and a keen interest in everything that went on in the world. She had lived in the house for over sixty years and the interior, with its patterned carpets and tasselled lamps, still had a fifties feel to it. The only nod to modernity was a small flat-screened TV nestled in the corner of the living room.

  Maddie followed her through to the kitchen, where a teapot with a pink knitted cover was already sitting on the table along with two china cups and saucers. She heaved the rucksack off her shoulder, put it down on the floor and opened it.

  ‘I’ve brought some veg. I hope you can use it. We’ve had a bumper crop this year, much more than we can eat ourselves.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ Agnes asked, as she peered inside the brown paper bags.

  ‘It’ll only go to waste otherwise.’

  ‘Well, if you’re sure. Thank you, dear. That’s very kind.’

  Agnes had been Maddie’s first client and over time the two of them had become friends. Her husband, Alfie Reach, had been dead for seven years. With her dodgy hip and her painful arthritis, Agnes couldn’t walk far and had needed someone to tend the grave and put flowers on once a month.

  Maddie didn’t like taking her money – she knew that Agnes lived on a meagre pension – but her offer of doing it for free had been flatly refused. Agnes was a proud woman and wouldn’t take charity. By bringing regular supplies of ‘unwanted’ vegetables, Maddie was able to still her own conscience and everyone was happy.

  ‘You’ll stay for a cuppa?’ Agnes asked. ‘It’s all brewed and ready.’

  Although she had work to do, Maddie knew that Agnes didn’t get many visitors and looked forward to having someone to talk to. ‘Thanks. I’d love one.’

>   She pulled out a chair and sat down at the table. As Agnes poured the tea, her gnarled hands shook a little. Maddie bent down over the rucksack, pretending not to notice. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. I brought you roses too,’ she said, pulling out one of the stiff cardboard containers that protected the flowers. Inside were half-a-dozen blooms with long arching stems, the outer petals blush-pink, the inner ones a deeper shade. ‘They’re called Gentle Hermione. I’ve got some for Alfie as well.’

  ‘Well, aren’t they beautiful,’ Agnes said. ‘They’ll cheer up the place no end.’ She put down the teapot and picked up one of the roses, bringing it close to her face so that she could breathe in the fragrance. ‘And what a smell! They’re like the ones my mother used to grow.’

  Maddie stood up. ‘Here, I’ll put them in the sink and you can find a vase for them later.’

  ‘You’re a darling. Thanks. So how’s it going at the cemetery? Got any new customers yet?’

  ‘Sadly not.’ Maddie put the plug in and ran some cold water. She didn’t mention that as of today she was about to be one customer down.

  ‘I’m sure things will improve come winter. People don’t want to be out in all weathers.’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Maddie, joining Agnes at the table again. Losing that monthly cheque from Cato was going to put a hole in her finances. ‘Perhaps I’ll place another ad in the paper, see if I can drum up some trade. Or try and get more shifts at Marigolds.’ She took a sip of tea and placed the cup back on the saucer. ‘Actually, there was something I meant to ask you. Did you ever come across a girl called Lucy Rivers? I’m going way back here, about thirty years or so.’

  ‘Lucy Rivers,’ Agnes repeated. She gave a light sigh. ‘Now, I haven’t heard that name in a long time.’

  Maddie leaned forward, her eyes flashing with interest. Before she’d retired, Agnes had worked at the post office, where she’d come into contact with most of the local population at one time or another. ‘You knew her?’