Inside were two shelves. None of the usual bottles and boxes found in a typical medicine cabinet. Certainly not the illicit drugs she thought Charlie might have locked away. Instead, sitting pretty, on its own, on the top shelf was a large, beige A4 envelope.
Puzzlement rippled over her face as her hand felt what was inside. Flat, long, rectangular. She put her hand in the envelope and drew out three sheets of A4 paper.
Daisy plonked herself down in Charlie’s swing chair. Switched on the desk lamp. She held the stapled sheets of A4 paper in her hand. Scanned the information on the top sheet. Relaxed back in the chair when she realised that what she was reading were the details of a safe-deposit box in Charlie’s name. Her gaze flipped back up to the top of the paper. To the address of the bank where the box was held:
K&I International Bank
Canary Wharf Square
Isle of Dogs
So Charlie had a deposit box, nothing strange about that. But why would he keep the papers locked away and hidden in a medicine cabinet? She flicked to the next page. Details of ownership. Charlie’s name and signature. She looked lower down the page. That’s when her world rocked. At the bottom a single name was scrawled in black pen.
Frankie Sullivan.
Angel watched, hidden in a corner of the second floor, as Daisy bolted out of Charlie’s office. The distressed look on her friend’s face told her something was wrong. Daisy hustled into the lift. Angel eased from behind her hiding place and gave it five minutes, enough time for Daisy to be well away from the building.
She pulled out her mobile. ‘Sean,’ she addressed the reception downstairs. ‘I wonder if you can come up here for a minute. I seem to have locked myself in the Ladies.’
She punched off and ran for the stairs. When she reached the reception it was empty, as she knew it would be because she’d just sent Sean upstairs. She ran into a room directly behind the reception desk. She stared at the surveillance equipment, which included a divided screen so that the security guard could observe each floor. She rushed forward when she saw the machine tape-recording all the images. She pressed eject. Shoved the tape under her jacket and raced to the exit.
Angel waited nervously near her silver Porsche on the roof of the four-storey car park. She’d called Tommy after belting out of Curtis and Hopkirk and he had asked her to meet him there. She shivered in the cool night air; this wasn’t an end of town she usually came to. All she wanted to do was hand over the tape and then pretend she’d never met him. Daisy had always said that her love of men would get her into trouble one of these . . .
She whirled around when she heard a footstep next to her. Her hand tightened on the tape as her petrified gaze found Tommy inches away from her. He wore a thigh-length leather jacket and stood tall and mean in the night shadows. Her breath tightened in her throat.
‘So what you got for me?’
She thrust the tape at him as if it were a disease. ‘Daisy was in Charlie’s office—’
‘Doing what?’ His question was hard as he took the tape.
‘I don’t know. But whatever she was doing is on that tape. It’s the security tape.’
Tommy smiled as he shoved the tape into his pocket. He looked up at her. ‘You done good, girl.’
Angel took one, then two steps away from him. A crooked smile flashed onto his mouth. ‘Where you going in such a hurry babe?’ He spread his arms wide. ‘I think my girl deserves a treat.’
Angel swallowed as she hesitated. The she cautiously moved forward, one slow step at a time. His arms engulfed her. Pulled her tight. He dropped his mouth close to her ear. ‘There’s no need for my girl to feel frightened of Tommy.’
Frankie Sullivan. Frankie Sullivan. Frankie bloody Sullivan.
Daisy paced up and down inside her lounge as she saw her dad’s name over and over again on Charlie’s safe-deposit box papers, which she held in her hand. She had always thought her dad’s lawyer had been Bell Dream, Anna’s girlfriend. How the heck was her dad, a gangster, connected to Charlie, a lawyer and family man? She knew whatever Charlie’s deposit box held about Frankie wouldn’t be good. Frankie might have been the best father in the world to her, but to most of the world he was a psychotic bastard who let nothing and no one stand in his way. Her dad hadn’t broadcast his work in the house, but as she’d got older she’d heard the stories about him. Like that time she was in the loo at school and heard a group of girls on the other side of the door, who weren’t aware she was in there, whisper scandalously about how Frankie Sullivan had put one of the other dads in hospital with both legs broken and smashed ribs because he hadn’t paid back money he’d owed to him on time.
Daisy stopped pacing as a horrifying thought slammed into her. What if something inside that box linked Frankie to her? Made Randal Curtis realise that she was Frankie Sullivan’s daughter? The sweat deepened on her skin as she saw all her plans for her career and Jerome blowing in the wind. All her dreams about having her own family disappearing in the dust. Another thought slammed into her. What if it connected Charlie to something unsavoury and ruined his reputation? She couldn’t let that happen to Charlie. Happen to the man who had become like a second father to her in the last two years.
Deflated she finally stopped pacing. Her head thumped like crazy and she felt as stressed as she’d done the first night she’d come to live with Jackie. She couldn’t go on like this. She needed to figure a way out of this mess for Charlie.
She hurried to her bedroom, hand still tight on the safe-deposit box papers. She stopped in front of her dressing table. Placed the papers down. Pulled out the drawer. Drew out her happy pills. Just one, that’s all she needed. Just to see her straight. Just to get her to think. She dropped a single, small white pill into her palm and hesitated, remembering how messed up her mind sometimes got after taking one. Not to mention all that stuff in the papers and on the Internet about the dangers this drug was supposed to pose to a user’s mental health. Those stories about breakdowns, hallucinations and suicides. Websites for ‘victims’ of the drug, questions in parliament, petitions to get it banned. But she was only going to do it this once. Wasn’t she? Besides the tabs didn’t always make her go gaga. Sometimes they made her come over all calm, really relaxed, back in control of her life. And that’s why she kept a bottle close at hand. It made her feel better knowing that they were there.
She popped the pill. Swallowed. Held on tight to the dressing table. Then she thought, ‘what the fuck, I need this’ and took one more. Closed her eyes. Stayed like that for God knows how many minutes. Her breathing eventually evened out. Slowed down. Her heart returned to its normal pace. She sighed. That was it, they were doing their magic. Untwisting her tangled nerves, setting her heartbeat back to its regular pace. The images in her mind were still running a bit too fast, but she knew that would sort itself out. She stayed like that for some time, knowing she needed to give the medication the time to work. Finally she re-opened her eyes. And froze at what was reflected back at her in the mirror, swimming in her mind, like a mist in human form. There on her bed, with a half-smoked fag hanging from his lips, sat the last person she’d ever expected to see again. Her dad. Frankie Sullivan.
Chapter Twelve
Everything around Daisy disappeared. The furniture. The walls. The very ground beneath her feet. The only thing that existed was her dad.
He eased the cigarette from his mouth and gave her a bittersweet smile. Then he started to sing, their song, The Mamas and Papas’ ‘Dedicated To The One I Love’.
His voice was husky and soft, taking her back on a journey of her childhood – summer days in Southend on Sea; afternoons spent at the matinee show at the pictures; dancing together, once a month on a Friday, at the Hammersmith Palais. She’d loved those Fridays. Loved dancing. Safe and secure in her dad’s arms, laughing and smiling, looking forward to the other great things she knew that they would do together in the future. Suddenly his voice stopped. Daisy couldn’t look away.
‘Hell
o, gel.’ He pulled a lug from his ciggie. Let out the smoke slowly. ‘Who would’ve ever figured that a girl of mine would go over to the bright side? Not that your ol’ dad ain’t pleased, of course I am. What father wouldn’t be?’ The smile dropped from his face as his expression set into one resembling the coldest piece of marble. ‘Don’t spoil it all by coming over to my side. In both senses of the word.’
Abruptly she crashed into the dressing table, sending its contents – perfume bottles, jewellery box, pills – banging and rolling across its surface. With shaking hands she steadied the dressing table. Flicked her terrified gaze to the mirror.
He was gone. She twisted desperately around. No smoke. No sign of anyone else. The furniture was back. And the walls. And, thank God, the ground beneath her feet. She hadn’t ever told Jackie, hadn’t ever told anyone, not even the doctor or therapist, that when she took the pills sometimes she’d start seeing her dad. Because as terrifying as it was, at least she had the chance to see him.
She covered her face with her trembling hands, wanting to cry. But she didn’t. What a bastard of a day. First burying Charlie and now seeing her dead dad. She quickly righted the items on the dressing table. Placed the spilt pills one by one back in their bottle. That was it, she wasn’t ever taking them again.
Her hand fell on the safe-deposit box papers, reminding her of what she had to do. ‘Don’t spoil it all by coming over to my side.’
She dismissed the warning words from her mind. She had to get that box before someone discovered how Charlie was mixed up with the illegal activities of her dad. And she had no doubt they would be illegal because why else would Charlie keep them in a deposit box? But how was she going to get a safe-deposit box securely locked away in a bank?
Stella, Billy and Tommy looked at the fuzzy black-and-white images of Daisy on the TV screen. Watched her come out of another room in the office. Watched as she sat down and then took some papers out of a large envelope. Watched as she covered her mouth in horror. Watched as she bolted for the door.
‘You done good, Tommy,’ Stella said, raising her head to look at him. ‘But how did you get this? And so quickly?’
Tommy eased back away from his mum’s desk in her private room on the top floor of the brothel. ‘I ain’t thick am I? I know people . . .’
Stella sighed. Everything lately with her son was a competition. If she did something he had to go one better. Mind you, she couldn’t fault him this time.
‘I hope you ain’t done nothing stupid.’
For a millisecond Tommy averted his gaze from her. The piano tattoo on his neck moved as a vein throbbed in his neck. Then he was back to his cocky self, gazing straight into her face. ‘Course I ain’t. My contact knows the score.’
‘So what happens next?’ Billy asked. His gaze kept moving strangely back to the screen to stare at Daisy.
Instead of answering Stella pulled out her mobile, dialled and waited. ‘It’s me . . .’ she said into the phone. ‘I know it’s late, but don’t forget you came to me not the other way around. I’ve got someone on the inside of this law firm who’s given me a security tape—’ She gritted her teeth at what the other person was saying. ‘Listen, you dick, she’s found something . . .’ A fuming Stella shot to her feet. ‘I dunno what. But whatever it is made her run from the room like she’d grabbed an old dear’s purse.’ She nodded a couple of times, then cut the call.
She looked back at the two men, their gazes pinned squarely on her. Finally she spoke. ‘It’s been twenty years.’
‘You what?’ Tommy threw out looking at his mum as if she were crazy.
‘Twenty years since I’ve seen my daughter. And on Monday that’s all about to change.’
Johnson stared at the mobile in his hand. He looked across the bed at his wife. Thank God she was still sleeping and didn’t hear him talking to Stella. He eased out of the bed and walked, in his jim-jams, into the hallway. He made the call quickly.
‘You were right, it is Daisy Sullivan. That’s the good news. The bad is she might have found something.’
The person on the other end of the line said, ‘Get Clarke to follow Daisy’s every move, every day until I say otherwise.’
‘You sure you want it to be Clarke and not me?’
‘Is there something I need to know?’
Johnson hesitated. Then said, ‘I’m worried about him. Keeps going on about what a great copper he used to be before . . . Well you know . . . His life went downhill after that night back in ninety.’
‘I’m fully aware of that. But remember we made a choice. A choice about what is right and what is wrong. Clarke will be fine. While he’s following Daisy Sullivan I want you to be on Stella King’s tail. Never, ever, underestimate Stella King.’
Chapter Thirteen
Misty McKenzie wasn’t wearing her face as she walked towards the Shim-Sham-Shimmy Club in Wapping, it was only 7.05 in the morning after all. She shielded her make-up-free features behind a burgundy scarf and a slanted hat that she called her raspberry beret because of its colour and her love of Prince’s song. Misty had started life as the youngest brother in the once notorious McKenzie underworld crew, but now he was a she and had become one of London’s best-known drag queen bees, if not, as she would have you believe, the reigning monarch. Misty could be downright stroppy or an absolute doll. This morning she was definitely in stroppy mode because her hay fever was playing up something chronic. That’s why she’d decided to get out of bed and get to the club early before anyone else showed their face. No one had better bloody well be there because she hated anyone seeing her without her face on.
She walked past the warehouse conversion that Daisy lived in, which was a hop, skip and jump away from the club. She gazed idly up at the building as two people hustled past her on their way to Wapping tube station, wondering if everything was OK with the younger woman. Jackie had asked her to keep an eagle eye on Daisy while she was away. Jackie always worried about Daisy, and although she never said it, Misty suspected she worried that Daisy would turn into a carbon copy of her old man. Misty chuckled; Daisy was the most respectable out of all of them. She’d built a career for herself on the right arm of the law and had a terrific boyfriend on her other arm. Mind you, Misty had not always felt like that. She remembered the horrified words she’d said to Jackie when she found out who Jackie had taken into her home.
‘You take in Frankie Sullivan’s little girl and you better be prepared for what’s going to land on your doorstep one day, wrapped in a black bow – trouble.’
But Daisy had proved her wrong. Except for that first night when Daisy had stayed at Jackie’s, she had been the model of the perfect daughter. Maybe she should pop in, say hello. She thought for a minute as the sun broke through up above. Shook her head. Leave the poor cow alone, she must need a mega-snooze session after the sad business of Charlie’s funeral.
Her heels clicked rapidly against the pavement as she walked towards the club. The Shim-Sham-Shimmy Club was one of London’s legendary nightspots. It sat nestled, a long rectangular two-storey building, in a prime position overlooking the Thames. Misty co-owned it with Jackie, Anna, Ollie and Roxy. She knew that people whispered about where they’d got the cash to renovate the disused building into a swanky nightspot, but none of the rumours ever came close to the truth. Even Daisy didn’t know the story and they’d all agreed it would stay that way, because if they told her they’d also have to confess how they’d been mixed up in Frankie Sullivan’s life. And death.
Misty entered the club and sniffed. Shit, this hay fever was really knocking her for six. She walked quickly through the narrow reception and into the main room. She kicked off her new four-inch lilac heels and headed for the lipstick red stools at the bar. She sat and immediately twirled her pinched toes. Left foot, right foot. She shut her eyes. That felt sooo divine. Suddenly her head rocked in a violent sneeze. Bloody hay fever was doing her head in. She searched in her Burberry jacket pocket for her packet of antihistamine ta
blets and pulled out the first thing she found. Shit. She stared at the small long vial in her hand: Midnight Blue, one of the newest drugs doing the round in town, which she’d taken off one of the club’s punters last night. The club had a strict no gear in here policy. She was about to shove the vial back in her pocket when she heard it. A noise, coming from somewhere upstairs. She twirled the stool around, her sharp grey eyes shooting up the steel spiral staircase that led to her office. The sound came again. Bollocks, there was someone in her office. Couldn’t be the cleaner because it was too early. Couldn’t be the girls because they were all chillin’ out in sunny Spain.
Misty twisted her lips as she straightened her back, her hand tightened on the vial of Midnight Blue. Whoever it was wasn’t going to believe what hit them once she got her manicured fingers on them. She eased off the stool. Headed to the other side of the bar. Picked up the first bottle she came across. Krug rosé champagne. On her turquoise-painted tiptoes she headed towards the stairs, holding the bottle of fizz in the way when she’d been a number one baseball bat wielding handy Andy in her family’s outfit.
She took the steps two at a time, pushing her six-three frame forward. Reached the top. The white door was partially opened. She stopped for a few seconds, just to listen. Heard the noise again. The slam of a door inside. She hoisted the bottle higher as she eased quietly forward. Slipped her body inside. She spotted them immediately. Smaller than her, wearing black jeans, black jacket and black hair that fanned to their shoulder. The intruder triumphantly whispered ‘Sorted’ as Misty took another step forward. She kicked her foot back. The door slammed dramatically behind her. The other person twisted around as Misty brandished the bottle, one-handed, over her head . . .
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