‘I ain’t too late to try one of them out?’ Tommy finally said, looking over at the women, his tongue flicking against his bottom lip.
Stella balled her hands and shoved them onto her hips. ‘You know what the going rate is, Tommy. If you’ve got that in your pocket, next to your stash of Charlie, you can have a pop.’
Tommy curled his lip. ‘Fuck. You.’
‘Watch your mouth around your mum, son,’ the other man near the door said, his voice low and menacing.
He stepped in front of Tommy, and got right into his face. Fifty-three-year-old Billy had been Stevie King’s right-hand man and now he was Stella’s. Built like a heavyweight boxer, with a bruiser’s face that showed every hard knock experience he’d ever had, he took his job seriously. Very seriously. If anyone tried to get to Stella they had to come through him first. And that included her kids.
‘Calm down, Granddad, I’m family. Are you?’ Tommy sneered.
‘Shut up, Tommy,’ Stella ordered.
She turned back to the women. Looked them over. She pointed at two of the women. One at the front and one in the middle. Two of the prettiest women there. ‘I want those two in my place in Finsbury Park. Divide the others between the houses in Bow, Spitalfields and Leyton.’
Tatiana nodded. Stella turned back to Tommy. ‘Stay here and help her sort this out. And don’t, for fuck’s sake, do anything stupid. Billy we’re out of here,’ she said, already moving for the door.
Once inside Stella’s four-wheel drive, Billy drove them through London’s hectic streets. Towards her headquarters in her brothel in Finsbury Park. Stella slipped her hand under her blouse and touched her breast. The one with the nipple that had been hacked from her body when she was seventeen years old. Mind you, that was nothing compared to the pain she’d felt every time her mum had demanded she ‘entertain’ some dirty geezer in the bedroom of their flat on the Caxton estate when she was fourteen years old.
Screw you, Mum, Tommy thought as he did one of the women up against the wall. If she found out about the bit of posh he’d met earlier she’d bitch slap him until his head was ringing like the sound of Bow Bells.
‘I understand you’re here to see Mr Hopkirk?’ Daisy greeted the two policemen who sat on the grey sofa near Charlie’s PA’s desk. Daisy had volunteered to speak to them instead of Randal as her way of showing the firm’s remaining senior partner that she was serious about taking care of the last of Charlie’s affairs.
They sprang to their feet.
‘Detective Sergeant Clarke,’ the shorter of the two men introduced himself. He was stocky, with a sweaty face attached to a balding head, with one too many pounds sloshing around his middle and tiny purple veins on his nose that said he liked a jar after clocking off every night.
‘Detective Inspector Johnson,’ the other detective said. He was tall, black, wore a neat fitting suit over a well-kept body and a face that was probably the same age as his partner but looked years younger. Daisy noticed that, unlike his partner, he wore a ring on his wedding finger.
‘I’m really sorry, but Charlie . . . I mean, Mr Hopkirk, won’t be taking any appointments today.’
The two detectives looked at each other. Looked back at her.
DS Clarke shuffled slightly forward, his face splashing with waves of red. ‘We’re on urgent police business, Miss, so if you just tell us . . .’
‘Unfortunately . . .’ Daisy gulped. Shit this was hard to say. ‘Mr Hopkirk passed away earlier today.’
‘What?’ Clarke’s voice rose in disbelief, the force of his words making his balding head rear back.
‘What happened?’ Johnson cut in, his voice way calmer than his partner’s.
Daisy quickly explained, then added, ‘Maybe I can help you instead. If you tell me which case you wanted to see him about maybe I can find the paperwork . . .’
‘No need for that.’ Johnson held up his hand. ‘We’re really sorry to hear about the firm’s loss. We’ll be in touch.’
Before she could say another word they walked off. She watched them go, with a puzzled look on her face at the speed with which they were moving. Then a voice beside her asked, ‘Did you find out what happened to Charlie?’
She turned to find Angel. Daisy sighed. She was getting tired of explaining what had happened.
As if reading her thoughts the other woman continued, ‘Why don’t we have a couple of lattes at that Italian place around the corner and you can tell me all about it?’
Daisy shook her hair back. ‘Randal wants me to go through Charlie’s things. I should . . .’
Angel placed her finger on her friend’s mouth. ‘Sh. Sh. Sh. I’m taking you out.’
Angel’s finger dropped away. Daisy noticed the smile playing at the other woman’s lips. ‘You’ve got that I’ve-met-a-tasty-bit-of-male look on your face.’
Angel just smiled and hooked her arm into Daisy’s.
As they walked Daisy whispered, ‘Randal said something really strange to me. He said that when I look through Charlie’s things if I should find anything “interesting” I should let him know . . .’
‘Bitch. Bastard. Bitch. Bastard. Bitch.’
Detective Inspector Johnson cursed as he beat the living shit out of his steering wheel with his fists. He sat next to Clarke in their car parked in a side street two minutes’ drive from the law firm.
As Johnson turned the air as blue as a serge suit, Clarke pulled out a hip flask of whisky from his breast pocket. Took a double shot. They’d been partners back in the old days, starting out as PC Plods at the now defunct Bethnal Green station. The days when it was usual practice to get a confession by banging a suspect’s head against a cell door. Both men had prided themselves on never being part of the bully-boy-brigade. They were cops who took their vow to uphold the law seriously. Until that night twenty years ago . . .
‘If only we’d got here a day sooner,’ Johnson seethed, as he examined his bruised hands.
‘Yeah, and if my auntie had balls she’d be my uncle. So let’s not worry about the “ifs”.’
‘So what are we going to do now?’
‘Well, let me think . . .’ Clarke replied sarcastically. ‘Why don’t we go down the morgue and slap Charlie Hopkirk’s corpse around until he sees sense and comes back to life.’ He held up his hip flask and gazed into it.
Johnson slapped the flask out of his hand, and it landed in Clarke’s lap. ‘You’re being very unprofessional – and we’re professionals remember?’
‘Professional? May I remind you that we may end up kipping on Charlie’s slab if we don’t find it.’
Silence descended as they both thought about what it was. Charlie Hopkirk had something that could put them both in the slammer slumming it with criminals they’d put inside.
‘Anyway,’ Clarke started. He picked up the bottle and placed it back in its hiding place. ‘It ain’t just down to us. If we go down so does our “friend”.’ The word friend was soaked in sarcasm.
Johnson wiped his hand over his mouth. Pulled out his mobile and punched some numbers into it. Before he could utter a word the voice on the other end of the line calmly asked him, ‘Did you get it?’
Johnson shook his head. ‘No. And you know why? Charlie Hopkirk has gone and kicked the bucket.’
‘When?’
‘Apparently he dropped dead on a squash court early this morning.’
‘His ticker must have had a double fault . . .’ Clarke sniggered.
Johnson shot him an evil look. Turned his attention back to the phone. ‘What do we do next?’
There was no reply for a few seconds. Then, ‘We meet. Tonight on the South Bank. In the meantime I’m going to find out as much about Charlie’s Hopkirk’s affairs as possible.’
The line went dead. Johnson looked at the mobile for a while and then shoved it back into his pocket. Without any warning he twisted around and grabbed Clarke by the front of his ill-fitting jacket. Rammed him into his seat.
His voice was te
nse as he inhaled the booze fumes coming off Clarke’s sharp, erratic breaths. ‘I’ve come a long way since that night twenty years ago. I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it ain’t easy for people with my colour skin to get doors to open in Her Majesty’s police service. I’m what they call a fucking role model. I’m the Met’s fucking poster boy for recruiting more ethnic minorities. And you know something? I like being a role model and I want to keep it that way. So while me and you are handcuffed back together again, you knock the sauce on the head. Keep that,’ he tapped Clarke in the temple, ‘clear. I’ve come too far to let an unfortunate incident from 1990 fuck up my life.’
‘You ever wish we hadn’t done it?’ Clarke’s voice was quiet and calm, just like the days before he found refuge in a bottle of booze. Johnson gazed at his former partner, knowing that Clarke hadn’t touched a drop of liquor until that night twenty years ago. None of them had been the same since. You do something bad, for whatever reason, you live your life dreading the day you might have to pay the price. That’s what they always said to murderers on those TV appeals – give yourself up, what’s the point? Waking up every morning, worrying whether today will be the day, there’s a knock on the door? But that wasn’t going to happen to him, no fucking way.
He gently let Clarke go as he vowed, ‘I don’t know about you, but I’m prepared to do anything to stop it rearing its ugly head again. And that means we need to find it before someone else does.’
Chapter Four
She didn’t want to do it.
Daisy stood on the threshold of Charlie’s office not wanting to take a step further. The room was neat and tidy, not fussy and showy like Randal Curtis’s. Surprisingly it was one of the smaller offices on the floor. Daisy smiled as she remembered the first piece of advice Charlie had given her – ‘You don’t need to be big to show quality.’ It was rectangular with a well-trodden wooden floor and shelves stacked high with files and books. Another door, positioned in the right wall, led to a private bathroom. Daisy’s eyes scanned the room and came to rest on the one place you could always find Charlie – at his desk. It was wooden and littered with papers, a phone, a small reading lamp and photos of Charlie’s family. She imagined Charlie sitting in the leather chair, sleeves rolled back, smiling and chatting away as if there would always be a tomorrow.
She still couldn’t believe that her mentor was gone. Her fingers tightened around the set of keys that Charlie’s PA had given her, which gave her access to all his cupboards and drawers. She stepped inside. Closed the door. The first time she’d met Charlie was while she was still at university studying law. The legendary lawyer Bell Dream, her auntie Anna’s girlfriend, had introduced them in order to set up a work placement for her at his firm. When Bell let it drop that she’d told Charlie all about Daisy’s history she’d become scared silly that Charlie would withdraw his offer. But the opposite had happened, with Charlie declaring that the sins of the father should never be visited on the daughter. After her course had finished Charlie had offered her a job. Charlie had watched her back in the two years she’d been here and the least she could do was to now pack away his things.
She moved towards his desk and stared at the framed family photos. One showed Charlie with his arm slung casually around his twenty-four-year-old daughter Jennifer, who Charlie always claimed was a dead ringer for Daisy.
The door opened making Daisy flick her head up. Charlie’s PA stood in the doorway holding a stack of bright red plastic packing boxes in her hand.
‘I’ll get you more of these tomorrow,’ the woman said, tears still glittering in her eyes.
Daisy pressed her lips together as she nodded sadly. Well, better get to it girl, she told herself once she was alone again. She put her emotions aside and got on with the job of clearing Charlie’s life away. She started on the desk by using the keys to unlock the drawers. She sorted and stacked, two piles: Charlie’s personal belongings in the packing crate; anything of the firm’s on the desk. Next she approached a locked cabinet next to the window. Charlie’s legendary drinks cabinet. She found the correct key in the bunch in her hand and opened it. She smiled when she saw bottles of champagne and other drinks. Charlie certainly knew how to enjoy life – Champagne Charlie, indeed! She closed the cabinet, deciding to leave the booze as Charlie’s welcome to whoever next occupied his office. She moved across the room and opened the door to the private bathroom. Small and square, with a surprisingly modern sink, shower unit, wall cabinet and frosted window. The scent of the soap Charlie used hit her. A spiral of memories washed over her. She pushed them away. Shut the door. The air seeping in from the window added a chill to the room. Daisy shivered as she moved towards the steel medicine cabinet on the wall. She caught her sad reflection in its mirrored twin doors before she tried to open them. She tugged hard but they wouldn’t budge.
She frowned. Lifted the bunch of keys. Tried the first. No luck. The second. No luck. She tried all of the keys but the lock wouldn’t move. She peeped nervously over her shoulder at the door because she wanted to check no one was there to see what she was going to try to do next. She opened her bag. Took out her purse. Took out a credit card. This was a trick she’d learnt from her dad. She slid the edge of the card with ease between the lock, but it didn’t work. The doors stayed closed.
She sighed as she stepped back. Briskly she turned and moved out of the room, across the office and opened the main door. She pushed her head out and called across to Charlie’s PA, who sat tapping away at her computer.
The woman raised her head. ‘Have you got any other keys of Charlie’s?’
‘No.’ Her hands fell away from the keyboard. ‘Is there a problem?’
Daisy opened her mouth to start telling the other woman about the cabinet, but she saw how tearful she still looked and clamped her mouth closed.
‘It’s nothing. We’ll get it sorted out after the funeral.’
As soon as the word ‘funeral’ sprang between them new tears trickled onto the woman’s face. Just looking at the other woman’s emotions made Daisy feel choked up all over again. She couldn’t go through Charlie’s things anymore, she felt too upset. She stepped outside. Quietly closed the door. Walked away from Charlie’s office. As she shoved the bunch of keys into her pocket, her mind wondered why Charlie would keep his medicine cabinet locked. She stopped abruptly as a terrible thought hit her. What if Charlie had been into some hard drugs? That was nonsense of course. But then it was surprising just how much nonsense some of these respectable middle-aged suits could be into, so what on earth could be inside that cabinet?
Randal Curtis’s words rang in her head. ‘If you should come across anything that’s, let’s just say, “interesting”, you will bring it to me, won’t you?’ Shit, maybe he was right and Charlie did have secrets. No, she wasn’t going to allow anything to sully Charlie’s reputation. Charlie had given her a chance when most wouldn’t have. He’d hidden the fact that she was Frankie Sullivan’s daughter. She’d do anything for Charlie. Anything. And that included finding the key to the medicine cabinet before someone else did.
Deadwood Hotel.
That’s what the huge white building was called in Finsbury Park. It advertised itself as an impressive B&B accommodation made up of thirty clean and bright rooms, with twenty-four-hour security and private parking. The other B&Bs and hotels that lined the street offered mainly places of rest for homeless families working their way up the council housing list and recently arrived refugees and asylum seekers. But Deadwood Hotel was different. The only accommodation it offered were to men looking for an appointment with their sexual fantasies for an hour or two.
Stella King stood in the large main room, or the Meet ’n’ Greet room as it was called. It was situated at the front of the house, but with discreet light blinds always down to ensure that privacy was the brothel’s number one priority. It had pastel coloured walls to create a calm, kick-off-your-shoes-and-chill-out feel, with huge comfy red sofas, a large plasma TV screen mounted
on the wall and a bar that served hard liquor and softer refreshments. A black grand piano sat neatly in a corner. It was the room where the clients were introduced to the toms. And currently Stella stared at a group of three women who were huddled, comforting one of the other girls. She looked at them with a miffed expression. If there was one thing she hated it was a woman boo-hooing as if the world was coming to an end. Gave the establishment the wrong atmosphere. The Deadwood was, as far as she was concerned, a top of the range brothel in London town. None of that dark shabby, get your dick in-and-out, hole-in-the-wall type of joint. This was a place where men came to forget the world outside. A place they wanted to come back to again. And again. And again.
And there wouldn’t be coming back if they saw girls showing how they actually felt.
‘What are you bawling your eyes out for?’ The women all looked at her. ‘Are you watching the end of Four Weddings and A Funeral? For fuck’s sake . . .’ She slammed the door on her last word, just so the girls knew she wasn’t pleased.
The women stepped back. Away from the woman in the middle they had been comforting. Stella was shocked to see that the one blubbing her eyes out was one of her most popular girls. Crystal to the blokes who came through the door, and Belinda to the world outside. Stella stared at her run mascara and red nose.
Gangster Girl Page 3