by Roberta Kray
‘Maybe.’
For a while, like an island in a stream, they stood as one while the world flowed unnoticed around them. As if the past nine years hadn’t happened, as if they’d never been apart, she clung on to his familiarity. She had loved her father. Patrick had loved her father. The three of them would always be connected.
Then, as if waking from a dream, she blinked and moved hurriedly away. What was she doing? Barely ten minutes had passed and Patrick had already lulled her into a false sense of security. She couldn’t afford to let herself slide into that comfortable, distant, nostalgic place, a place, she knew, that wasn’t even real.
Eve smoothed out the invisible creases in her coat. ‘Where are the others?’ she asked briskly.
He gave her a long hard look before he turned and glanced down the street. ‘Not far behind.’ Then he grinned. ‘So, what’s the deal with Darby and Joan – did you get a discount from Bodyguards Inc?’
They were sitting in a restaurant where the food was cheap and cheerful and the service a disgrace. Still, that suited her just fine. She didn’t need some over-attentive waiter hovering obsequiously round the table while she tried to explain to Patrick the reasons for the manhunt.
She provided him with the basic version of events, the same one she had given Sonia: Terry was in prison, in trouble, and he needed help. Someone inside was willing to give it but only at a price; that price was finding Jimmy Reece.
She kept it simple, hoping that Henry wouldn’t decide on any impromptu contributions about the breakin, the threats or her mystery stalker; the less Patrick knew about all that, the better. ‘All I need are the whereabouts of some bars or clubs where he’s likely to show.’ She smiled as if it was no great shakes. ‘Nothing else. That’s it.’
But simple wouldn’t wash with Patrick. First he had to know the details of why Terry was in jail and then, when she told him, the identity of his ‘protector’.
‘That doesn’t matter,’ she said.
He raised his brows. ‘It matters to me. If I’m going to help, I want to know who I’m doing it for.’
‘You’re doing it for me,’ she insisted. ‘And for Terry.’
But he wouldn’t budge. ‘Not good enough.’ He leaned back and folded his arms across his chest. ‘I want a name. It’s not too much to ask, is it?’
She glared at him, unwilling to give in. She knew him too well; he was playing games, calling her bluff, hoping she’d be unnerved enough to throw her cards on the table. But, as their eyes remained locked, her resolution gradually wavered. Perhaps she was only being obstinate for the sake of it. And, being purely practical, if she didn’t tell him soon, they could be there all night.
‘Okay, but you have to keep it to yourself. He’s called Martin Cavelli.’
She waited for a reaction, some sign of recognition, but his face remained blank. If he had read about the trial, he had long ago forgotten the name of the man in the dock.
Naturally, he asked the obvious question. ‘So what’s his interest in Reece?’
She shrugged. ‘I didn’t ask.’
Sonia shifted unhappily beside her. ‘Don’t you think—’
Eve threw her a warning glance but it was too late. Patrick had already picked up on the fact that there was more to be told. Before he could squeeze it out of his latest acolyte, she decided to come clean. ‘Well, probably nothing good,’ she admitted. ‘I believe Jimmy Reece ran off with his wife.’
Henry, who was unaware of this particular detail, dropped his fork in alarm. It clattered noisily on to his plate. ‘What?’
Seeing his reaction, she decided to skip the postscript; if he found out the whole story, the truth about what Cavelli was actually serving time for, he might try and call a halt to the search. ‘I know, I know,’ she said. ‘But it sounds worse than it is. Honestly. I mean, even if we manage to track Reece down, he can’t do anything with the information, can he? He’s inside and he’s not coming out for at least another year.’ She paused. Henry looked distinctly unimpressed. Then, recalling her own fears about Cavelli’s lust for vengeance, she hastily added, ‘And he’s not the type to get someone else to do his dirty work.’
Henry scowled, the lines on his forehead sinking into deeper ridges. ‘You don’t think so? Well, correct me if I’m wrong, but it would appear that he’s already doing exactly that.’ He expelled a short frustrated breath and turned towards Patrick as if in this wilderness of madness he might find another voice of reason. ‘Wouldn’t you agree?’
But Patrick, as unfazed by this revelation as he was by all the other absurdities of his life, only raised his glass to his lips and laughed. ‘Perhaps he just wants to send him a thank-you card.’
It was after nine when they made their next move. Henry had been quiet for the preceding ten minutes, uttering only a few words. Despite her protestations, he’d insisted on picking up the bill. Apart from herself, no one else had offered to contribute. As they climbed the stairs she hung back and took his arm. ‘Hold on a sec’ She waited until Patrick and Sonia had reached the exit and the door had slammed shut behind them. A gust of chill evening air blew down from the street. ‘I just wanted to say thanks. Thanks for dinner and everything. And I’m sorry … sorry that I didn’t tell you about …’
‘I’m sure you had your reasons.’ The tone of his voice was flat, expressionless.
The stairway was badly lit. She could only see half his face, the rest was in shadow. She tightened her grip on his arm and peered at him through the gloom. ‘Haven’t I got you in enough trouble?’ Then, with a long sigh, she admitted: ‘Yes, I should have told you. The only reason I didn’t was because it was easier, because I didn’t want to hear what I knew you’d say. Right at this time I just can’t afford to listen to reason. The moment you learned about Cavelli’s connection to Reece, I knew you’d try and talk me out of trying to find him – and I don’t want to be persuaded. I need to do this, Henry. I don’t expect you to condone it. I don’t even expect you to try and understand. I know it isn’t smart, isn’t even sane maybe, but …’
As her voice began to break, she bit down on her lip.
She waited. A thin brittle silence hung between them. When he didn’t reply, she cleared her throat and said: ‘Look, why don’t you call me in the morning? I’ll let you know how it goes.’
Again, there was no response.
‘Or I could call you.’
‘There’s no need,’ he said.
So Henry was finally calling it quits. She was disappointed, dismayed even, but she wasn’t surprised. And she certainly didn’t blame him. There was a limit to the amount of grief anyone could bring into someone else’s life. ‘Okay,’ she murmured, trying to keep her voice steady. ‘That’s fine. That’s okay. I understand.’
But as her hand slipped from his arm, he reached out to retrieve it. ‘What I’m saying is that there’s no need to call because I’m coming with you.’
She lifted her head. ‘What?’ Out of pure relief, she laughed. So he wasn’t deserting her. ‘Thank you,’ she said, squeezing his hand. But then, recalling that he still didn’t have all the facts, her mouth twisted back into anxiety. ‘Trouble is, there’s more. There’s something else.’
He waited, his eyebrows raised.
‘Er … a couple of things really.’ She hesitated but then, realizing there was no way to present the facts as any less bleak than they actually were, she swallowed hard and blurted them out. ‘Reece dumped Nadine – she was Cavelli’s wife – and then she … she took an overdose … and later, well, that’s why Cavelli’s in jail, because of what he did to him.’
As if all his worst fears had been confirmed, Henry gave a long deep sigh. ‘God, Eve, have you really thought—’
‘I know,’ she said. ‘You don’t need to spell it out. I know how it sounds. But once Terry’s out, I can warn Jimmy Reece, let him know that Cavelli’s still on his trail. I’m sure he’s safe while he’s inside.’
‘And if you’re wrong?
’
‘I’ll have to take that chance.’ She paused. ‘Look, it’s okay. I’ll understand if you want to change your mind.’
‘Did I say that? I don’t agree with what you’re doing. How could I? I think it’s wrong. I think you’re being used. And I don’t believe you’ve thought it through or even considered the consequences – but that’s as may be. It doesn’t mean that I’m going to walk away’
But by now Eve was beginning to have second thoughts herself. She shouldn’t be dragging him around the seedier parts of Soho. ‘Maybe it’s better if you do. Well, for tonight at least. It’s getting late and some of the bars we may be visiting …’
‘You think they may be too racy for me?’
Eve smiled and shook her head. ‘It’s too risky. What if someone sees you, sees us, if Celia finds out …’
‘I’ll take that chance.’
‘But you don’t have to. I appreciate it, I really do, but I’m not on my own. I’ve got Patrick and Sonia with me.’
As if that provided even greater cause for concern, he made a small growling noise in the back of his throat.
The door swung open again. Patrick peered down the stairwell. ‘Are you two coming?’
‘No,’ she said.
‘Yes,’ Henry said.
She frowned at him.
‘Just for an hour or two. Where’s the harm in that?’
Micky Porter swirled his whisky, making the ice cubes chink against each other. Through the fug of cigarette smoke he watched as she walked back from the bar. Not bad. He let his gaze slide the length of her body, lingering for a second on her breasts and hips. He wouldn’t mind a piece of that himself.
He had no idea why Joe wanted her followed but, shit, he wasn’t complaining. There were worse jobs than pursuing a bit of skirt round Soho. Mind, he could have done without the earlier fiasco. They had barely arrived at the address in Norwich when she’d emerged from the flats with the old bint, got in a cab, and headed straight for the station. On the forecourt he’d left Frank Gruber in the motor while he checked out their destination. Of course it had to be fucking London! What were the odds?
He laughed into his glass. Sod’s law. That’s what it was. They could have saved themselves the journey. Still, with Gruber taking the car back to the city and him on the train, he’d enjoyed a temporary break from his driver’s scintillating company. That man was so morose he could make a bloody angel weep.
The crowds had made it easy to trail her, first to the pub and then the restaurant. By then the party had increased by two. He’d used his phone to take some pictures. He hadn’t followed them into the Greek joint; from the street he couldn’t tell how busy it was and a man could stand out if he was eating alone. No point drawing attention to himself. Instead he’d gone to a pizza place across the road, found a spot by the window and waited. They’d emerged over an hour later. By the time Gruber had caught up, they were well into a tour of the local bars.
‘So what do you reckon? They searching for someone or just out for a good time?’
Gruber shrugged and grunted into his beer.
Micky lit a cigarette and returned his attention to the group. The four of them were seated at a table about ten feet away. They were a bizarre combination, like odd pieces of a jigsaw that didn’t fit together. Without staring, he took another look at Eve; cool, classy, expensive. You’d never get a cheap date out of her. Still, and he smirked at the thought, she’d probably be worth it. The older woman, however, had a definite air of coarseness. A tart. He’d stake his life on it. What was their connection? Related, maybe? They’d come out of the flats together but he couldn’t see much of a family resemblance. He shifted his gaze to the tall good-looking blond guy in his thirties. Shark eyes. Smooth and confident, smart, always ready to oblige. Micky knew his type; he could spot a hustler when he saw one. Friendly with the Weston girl but were they a couple? Hard to tell. Perhaps the three of them were planning a shakedown on the old geezer.
Except he didn’t look worth the effort.
He didn’t look very happy to be here either. There was something tight and wary about him, not nervous exactly, more … bemused. As if he’d walked in off the street expecting a tea dance and inexplicably found himself in a brothel. Not that this place was quite that. Although if sleaze was what they were after, they were certainly getting their fair share.
He flicked the ash off his cigarette on to the floor. An accountant, that’s what the guy looked like, not one of those flash City types but the quieter, greyer, old-fashioned sort. And accountants, no matter how dry and dusty, could always be useful.
Micky wondered what Joe Silk’s interest was in the redhead. He opened his mouth, intending to ask Gruber, but then closed it again. Why waste his breath? If the man ever had any opinions, he rarely chose to share them. It made for dull company on a long night but perhaps he shouldn’t be too critical. For all his short-comings, there was no one he’d rather have beside him in a tight spot; what Gruber lacked in conversational skills, he made up for in solid unyielding muscle.
He turned to him and smiled. ‘All right, mate?’
Gruber nodded.
Micky went back to thinking about Joe. Something had rattled the boss recently, something that he wasn’t sharing. Well, except with that fucking psycho of course. He’d been holed up in his office with Chase for the past few weeks, plotting, planning, doing his nut at the slightest provocation. Yeah, something serious was going down, no doubt about it.
He shifted in his seat and scowled. Even after all these years Keeler Chase still gave him the creeps. A queer for sure. He’d never seen him with a woman. Not that he had anything against queers, so long as they kept their eyes off his cock, but this one – and he wasn’t ashamed to admit it – scared the shit out of him. He could slit a man’s throat with a smile on his face. Violence was more than second nature to Chase; it was his fucking nature. Inflicting pain brought him pleasure. A sadist, that’s what he was. And he and Joe were close. Too close, some people said, although personally he’d never believed the rumours. Joe was as straight as they came. Had a wife and kids, didn’t he? Not that that stopped some blokes from … but no, he wasn’t the type. He’d noticed the way he looked at the women in the clubs, heard the way he talked to them.
Micky knocked back the last of his drink. Whatever was going on, Eve Weston had a part in it. He wouldn’t be here otherwise. Joe never used him for the scrappy shit. If he wanted him to follow her then he wanted to make sure that it was a job done properly. Had she stepped on his toes, tried to do him over? That would take one very brave or very stupid woman. Or was his interest more personal than professional? Perhaps the sexy Ms Weston had made a different kind of impact.
He’d never known the boss play away from home but then there was a first time for everything. She was a looker, no doubt about it, not in the first flush of youth perhaps but there was a lot to be said for experience: those knowing wide grey eyes, that sultry mouth, the way she walked across a room … it was enough to turn any man’s head.
But no, tempting as the idea was, he couldn’t quite swallow it. This wasn’t about infatuation or some muddled mid-life crisis. Whatever was bugging Joe had nothing to do with her neat little arse. Business was what came first with him, always had and always would.
So what the fuck was going on?
He glanced at her again. Where did she figure in all this? He didn’t like being kept in the dark. It made him anxious, jumpy. He quickly looked away in case she caught him watching. Women had a sixth sense for when they were being scrutinized. Instead he transferred his attention to a group of girls at the bar, three blondes and a brunette, rating their availability with one part of his brain while he continued to think about Joe Silk with the rest.
He had only seen him like this once before, a couple of years ago. He’d never found out what that was about either. A short holiday, a trip abroad, and he’d come back acting like the devil was on his heels. Spooked, that was t
he only way to describe it. And with a temper short enough to shame his psycho sidekick. One wrong word, one wrong look, and there’d been no accounting for his reaction. Micky had been smart enough to keep his mouth shut but there were others – well, the ones who were still alive to tell the tale – who wouldn’t forget those days in a hurry. He’d wondered then if Joe was losing his grip, getting too old for the game, but the crisis had passed and everything had returned to normal.
The blonde on the left looked at him for the second time. He grinned back at her. Nice smile, nice tits. Yeah, she’d be up for it. Perhaps he should go to the bar and introduce himself. No point wasting a Godsent opportunity.
He was halfway to his feet when Gruber nudged him in the ribs.
‘What?’
He gestured towards the table they were supposed to be watching.
The party had got to its feet and was making its way towards the door.
They were on the move again.
Chapter Fifteen
They had been sitting in the dim smoky gloom for over twenty minutes. It had gone midnight and Eve was starting to despair of ever finding Jimmy Reece, starting to wonder too if Patrick was leading them all on a wild-goose chase. She wouldn’t put it past him. There were occasions when his sense of humour left a lot to be desired.
Soho had plenty of excellent bars, some cool, some quirky, but they hadn’t had the pleasure of setting foot in many of them. Reece’s taste, if Patrick was to be believed, lay with the more downmarket establishments, and boy they’d visited enough of those this evening to write the definitive tourists’ guide to sleaze. Still, there was one small mercy: the waitresses weren’t topless here. Over the last few hours she’d seen enough naked breasts to last her a lifetime.
In comparison, this bar was verging on the respectable. She couldn’t exactly call it classy – it hadn’t seen a lick of paint or breathed a can of air freshener in the last decade – but it was less overtly disreputable. Even so, there was something oppressive about the place. This was maybe down to the walls, painted a too heavy shade of red (reminding her momentarily of the tape around Cavelli’s boxes), or just the thin pinkish light that barely penetrated the darkness. The circular tables, marble-topped, were arranged either side of a wide central aisle and securely bolted to the floor. But at least the music, a soft rhythmic jazz, was at a volume where you could hear yourself speak.
