‘The rest of you go and get cracking for later.’ The others followed her command quickly and left her alone with the round and curvy Crystal.
Stella plonked herself down by the distressed woman. ‘Did your old man find out what you do to top up his dole money?’
Although Stella used illegals from the former Eastern bloc, most of her girls were women who lived regular lives. Who woke the kids up in the morning and took them to school, who did the laundry and the shopping, who tried, well some of them, to study for higher qualifications.
Crystal gave her head a tearful shake.
‘So what’s all the noise about?’ Stella persisted.
Crystal wiped her nose with the back of her hand. ‘I’ve just found out he’s dead.’
‘Who? Father Christmas? Come on, spit it out.’
‘Charlie.’
Stella reared back in her seat. ‘Charlie flamin’ Hopkirk?’
Crystal nodded. Shocked, Stella just looked at the other woman. Charlie was one of the brothel’s most popular clients. Always cheerful and respectful of the girls, he often came for a quick poke and a longer chat. He’d been seeing Crystal for a good three years. But what Crystal and the other girls didn’t know was that Stella and Charlie went back a long way. Back to when she was fifteen. The day of her first ruck with Old Bill. She’d been arrested, along with everyone else, inside a brothel that had been so unsavoury that even Stella did her best never to think about it. Once down the nick Charlie had been assigned as her solicitor. Back then she thought most older blokes were just dirty old men. And when she’d met Charlie she’d stuck him inside the same box. But he’d proved her wrong, alright. Got her a minimum fine. Right on the court steps she’d offered to show him a good time as a thank you. He’d laughed and declined, gave her his card and said she should go home to her foster mum. She’d done that but was back on the streets in two weeks flat. When she was arrested the next time she knew just who to call. And that’s how it had gone on for years until Charlie had set himself up in partnership in the city.
She hadn’t charged Charlie a penny when he first came through her door. It was her quiet nod to him for being there for a young girl when most hadn’t given two fucks. Mind you, after that she’d made him pay through the nose like everyone else, just so he understood she was no pushover.
‘How did he go?’ she asked, slipping out of her memories.
‘His heart gave out.’
‘His heart? Well, at least that’s one organ most of our punters don’t have to worry about.’ Stella stood up and looked down at Crystal. ‘Look, babe, you know the rules, we don’t get attached to the sad sods who come through the door do we? Unless they’re promising to take you away from all this and prove it by bringing you a large rock and a cheque for your auntie Stella.’
Crystal stood up sniffing. She gave the taller woman a funny look. ‘Everyone’s dead frightened of you, ain’t they? But you’re a softie underneath it, ain’t ya?’
Stella shot a look back that was so sharp and piercing Crystal thought she’d been stabbed by steel. Stella’s next words twisted the knife. ‘Oh yeah, I’m a real softie, me. Just ask anyone who’s got in my way. They’ll tell you, the ones that are still alive anyway. And especially where family’s concerned, I’m a regular Nelson Mandela.’
Crystal knew who Stella was talking about straight away. Her daughter Jo-Jo. That had been a bad business, one that those in the know had whispered about for the last couple of years.
‘And she was my own flesh and blood. You ain’t, so if you know what’s good for you, you’ll get up those stairs and get that little toosh of yours made up.’
Crystal belted out of the room. Stella’s mouth twisted. She hated hearing anyone talk about Jo-Jo, hated even the most oblique references to her daughter. Everyone knew never to mention that name in her presence. She’d done everything for that girl and what had she done time and time again? Spat in her face. Bitch. She’d overstepped the mark the last time. She’d been gone for two years and could stay gone. Why hadn’t she been like that other little girl who’d been in Stella’s life? Black-haired and blue-eyed. A real cutie. And who did as she was told.
Stella closed her eyes and soaked in the memories for just a few seconds.
Her eyes snapped open. She flicked her hair off her shoulders as she made her way to the door. Soon she was marching across the lightly lit hallway towards the receptionist’s desk. The desk was where all the money and bookings changed hands and where the new clients were told that house rule number one was to treat the girls with maximum respect. Abusing them was the management’s job. She passed the ATM which she’d had installed in case clients needed extra cash and looked over at the desk. Molly, the young receptionist, was laughing loudly with Clive, one of the security men who also drove the courtesy Mercedes if wealthy clients needed picking up and dropping off. Seeing her approach, Clive straightened up and nodded silently at Stella and moved back to his chair near the front door.
‘Shame about old Charlie boy,’ Molly whispered to Stella.
‘I want you to order a mega bunch of flowers and send them to Charlie’s widow.’
‘What shall I have put on the card?’
Stella mulled over the question. ‘Put . . . He was one of the best. From an old friend.’
‘Talking about flowers . . .’ Molly started as her hand reached below the desk. She pulled out a simple bunch of red carnations. She said nothing as she handed them to Stella. The flowers were delivered twice weekly as regular as clockwork. Stella made her way up the stairs towards her office. Her hand caressed every petal as she thought of the grave she always put them on. The grave of the only man she’d ever loved.
Chapter Five
‘Rumour has it that Charlie Hopkirk kept a safe-deposit box.’
‘So what? I’ve got a safe-deposit box.’
‘Yes, but I expect you keep sandwiches and crisps in yours. Charlie Hopkirk may have kept rather more serious and incriminating material in his. Do you see where I’m going with this, gentlemen?’
Clarke and Johnson considered the words spoken by the person opposite them. They were seated on a bench by the river on the South Bank later that evening. The Thames shifted in front of them, dark and moody, while high-energy music played behind on a ghetto blaster belonging to youths showing off their skateboarding moves.
‘We can’t proceed on a rumour,’ Johnson snapped.
‘Well it’s more than a rumour really,’ the person opposite him and Clarke answered. ‘Apparently during that big robbery case last year, the leader of the gang’s phone was being tapped. He mentioned that his solicitor kept sensitive documents in a deposit box . . .’
‘And his brief was Charlie Hopkirk,’ Clarke finished quietly.
‘In the end the investigation found all the evidence they needed without requesting to see inside Hopkirk’s box.’
‘We’re fucked,’ Clarke responded harshly. ‘If this all comes out I’ll lose my pension.’ He pulled out a flask and took a deep drink.
The other person looked at him with open disgust. The three of them went back years. The person opposite had gone on to greater and bigger things and he’d, well, he’d just sunk deeper and deeper into the hole the alcohol had dug in his life.
‘How do you know he kept it in this safe-deposit box?’ Johnson asked.
‘I don’t for sure but I do know that Charlie was no fool. He wouldn’t have kept anything of a sensitive nature just lying around. That’s why he lasted so long in the game because he knew how to play it. He wouldn’t have kept it at home as it could put his family in danger; keeping it in the office runs the risk of someone stumbling across it. Really, it’s a simple case of elimination. A safe-deposit box is the simplest solution. Our job is to find it before anyone else does. The deposit box might be mentioned in his will, which means his wife could get it. We can’t afford for that to happen.’
Johnson leant forward. ‘So what do you suggest we do?’
/>
‘First we need to find out where he kept the information about the box. It’s either going to be somewhere safe in his office or at his home.’
‘We can’t just go stomping off into his office . . .’ Clarke cut in.
‘Just listen. Someone in his firm will have been given the task of packing his personal effects away. Most probably his PA, but we can’t make that assumption. That’s going to be my job to find out. I’ve got friends inside the building and I’ll get them on the case straight away. In the meantime I want both of you to spin his drum.’
Johnson snorted. ‘And how the fuck are we going to do that?’
‘Easy. You get into his home at a time when no one’s around.’
‘Now he’s dead his house is going to be swarming with people holding his grieving widow’s hand. That’s going to be morning, noon and bloody night.’
‘No it isn’t. There’s going to be one time when no one will be around.’
‘When?’
‘When Charlie Hopkirk’s being lowered into the ground, being laid to rest.’
For the first time in ages Daisy thought about popping one of her happy pills. She sighed as she leant heavily against the back of the lift taking her to the second floor where her apartment was located and absently rubbed her fingers over the large, gold bracelet on her left wrist. She looked down at the bracelets that rested on both her wrists that she rarely took off. They were made of thick, pale gold with a large golden daisy moulded on the top. They were a gift from Jackie, her adoptive mum, when she was fifteen years old. Instantly her mind shot back to that dreadful night, the first night she’d stayed with Jackie. The night when the pain of losing her dad had become unbearable. The doctor had prescribed antidepressants and therapy. Jackie had been happy for her to do the second, but not the pills. Jackie hated any types of drugs. But Daisy had taken the pills just to get through each day. That was until the weird things they did to her mind got too much. She started hallucinating and seeing her dad, having those painful dreams about a little girl . . . Now she only took them when she was really stressed out, and boy had Charlie’s death knocked her for six. No, she shook her head, she wasn’t going to take them. She could get through this without them. All she had to do was get through Charlie’s funeral in four days’ time and find what was inside his medicine cabinet.
The lift opened and wearily she stepped into the second floor of Nutmeg Wharf in East London’s fashionable dockland district of Wapping. Perched on the edge of the river it was an immaculately maintained, sprawling, four-storey former warehouse built of red brick, with an uninterrupted view of the river. Disused and abandoned in the 1970s, it became a hang out for squatters, but then it was taken over by developers at the height of the property bubble, and now it was a place that the offspring of many generations of families that had grown up in Wapping couldn’t afford. Jackie had purchased the apartment for her on her twenty-first birthday. Where Jackie got that kind of dough Daisy would never know.
She pushed her key into the door. Stepped inside. Instantly froze because the light in the hallway was on. She hadn’t left the light on. Then she heard a noise in the kitchen. Someone was in her home. Shit. She didn’t need this after the day she’d had.
She had two options – either get out of there and find help or stay and defend her property. It was a no-brainer. Frankie Sullivan had taught her everything she needed to know about fighting. He’d made sure that his daughter could drop kick a man the other side of Christmas by the time she was thirteen; punch someone’s lights out in two quick moves by the time she was fourteen; put a man down with a bullet by the time she was fifteen. Frankie Sullivan had made sure that his little girl was ready for all those little things that life throws at you.
She kicked off her heels. Moved forward, softly on the balls of her feet. She reached the lounge doorway the same time a tall body popped out of nowhere. She didn’t hesitate. Flicked her foot straight into a forward kick. Caught the intruder in the stomach. With a groan the person crashed to the floor. Daisy rushed forward. Stopped dead in her tracks when she realised who it was.
‘Jerome!’ Her fingers fluttered just over the beauty spot above her lip. ‘Shit. Sorry.’ Quickly she crouched down beside her boyfriend who looked at her with pain in his eyes. ‘I didn’t know it was you.’ She had given Jerome the spare key to her flat only weeks before, and she was still unused to the fact that he would let himself in without arranging it with her first.
‘“Hi honey, I’m home” would have done,’ he said weakly as he struggled into a sitting position.
She winced at that. ‘Sorry. I’d forgotten you were coming around tonight,’ she said as she helped him to his feet.
‘Where did you learn to do that?’
‘From my—’ Abruptly she stopped and changed tack. ‘My self-defence classes. There was a string of attacks on girls when I was at college. The students’ union organised them,’ she finished weakly, casting her eyes down so he wouldn’t see her lie.
‘That’s a relief, I was just wondering what on earth they taught you in the Girl Guides.’ His hands caressed her face as he gently smiled. ‘I thought you could do with some TLC after hearing about Charlie.’
That’s what she loved about Jerome, he always knew what to do to make her feel safe and secure. Made her realise that the reality of having her own family was in her reach.
‘I love you,’ she said simply.
‘Good.’ His fingers continued to feather her skin. ‘Because I’m planning to stay with you for the rest of your life.’
A thrill ran through her at his words. Maybe, just maybe he was going to ask her to . . . Don’t get ahead of yourself, girl, she warned herself. He might not mean marriage and babies, he might just be chatting away like men do when they want to protect their woman. But she wasn’t like the other women she knew. She hadn’t been the same since the day the kind-faced policewoman had told her the devastating news that her dad wasn’t coming home. Shot to death on a summer afternoon when she was fifteen years old. She hadn’t seen her real mum since she was four years old, could pass her on the street without recognising her. The only thing that had saved her from ending up in the care system was being adopted by Jackie Jarvis, the woman her dad had appointed her guardian. Even though Jackie had done a terrific job of bringing her into adulthood, Daisy had always felt like an orphan. No mum. No dad. That’s why she worked 24/7 to prove she was the best at her job because it was her gateway to having a decent family life when the time came. And she couldn’t have asked God for a better man to send her than the gorgeous man standing in front of her. She knew that one day that she’d have to level with him and tell him all about her dad, but not yet.
‘I’ve cooked your favourite,’ Jerome said leading her towards the lounge. He moved to the stereo and put on the soundtrack of the classic fifties’ musical, Calamity Jane, that Daisy loved. Doris Day’s regretful, haunting voice singing about a ‘Secret Love’ pulsed around her. This was the room she loved the best because she’d modelled it on the main room of Calamity Jane’s cabin in the movie. A blindingly bright yellow door with the names Calam and Daisy printed in fancy black, fancy script. Exposed brickwork on all four walls and wired-brushed oak floors. The fabric of the white curtains, dotted with brightly coloured flowers, also covered the long soft, sofa. The warmth in the room came from the artificial log fire and the golden light that seeped from the old-fashioned lamps fixed to the walls. Daisy even pretended that the river Thames outside was just like the creek that was at the bottom of Calamity’s cabin. Scattered around the room were photos of her adoptive family. But there were none of her dad.
Her face lit up with delight when she saw the small dining table positioned on the open-air balcony that looked out across the river. Laughing, they walked hand-in-hand outside and stared at her favourite dish: bangers and mash. Jerome had prepared something completely different for himself because he didn’t care for bangers and mash. But she’d get him into it on
e day.
Later they were back inside, snuggled in each other’s arms on the sofa as they watched the final minutes of Calamity Jane. It didn’t matter how many times she watched this film, it always brought a smile to her face. Tough gal gets her man. Just like she’d got hers. She pressed a few kisses against Jerome’s jaw line.
As his arms tightened in appreciation around her he asked, ‘Did you have a chance to look through Charlie’s things?’
She cuddled deeper into his side as she thought about the locked medicine cabinet. ‘I started but I couldn’t face it.’
‘If you find anything to do with this class-action case let me know. He said he had some information on a character called Maxwell Henley.’
‘Who?’
‘He was the leader of Woodbridge Council, so as far as my claimants are concerned the buck stops with him about what happened in all those care homes.’
Daisy sighed. ‘I don’t want to talk about work anymore.’ But even as she said the words an uneasy feeling crawled in her stomach. She knew she had to get the key that opened Charlie’s medicine cabinet.
A boat ride away, up the river, in a penthouse in London Bridge, Angel wasn’t being any angel. She pulled down the red, satin straps of her bra with one hand as she stood on top of an electric blue grand piano. The tune ‘Big Spender’ pumped from the piano as the man’s fingers glided across its black and white keys. He looked up her and smiled, passion flaring in his eyes, as his fingers didn’t miss a beat. Angel shot him a wicked grin as she continued her striptease. Soon she stood only in her suspenders and eye-blinding pink high heels. She tossed back the remaining champagne in her glass. Threw the empty glass across the room. Giggled as it smashed into the wall next to a ridiculously huge painting of a horse. Shit, she was high as a fucking out-of-control balloon, which had less to do with the coke she’d snorted earlier than with the man who played the piano. A man she’d met only hours before at the courthouse. But if there was one thing that Angel loved it was danger. And she knew that this man was dangerous. Rough, from the other side of the tracks, with gangster oozing from every pore of his tough body. She couldn’t resist it when he’d whispered in her ear ‘Meet me at eight, Merchant’s Quay.’
Gangster Girl Page 4