by Robert White
All she could hope for, is that with time, Harry would come around, forgive her and accept that she really did love Jamie.
* * *
That same evening, Laurie examined her bruises as she sat at her dressing table mirror. Frankie stood behind, watching her attempts to cover them with make-up.
He knelt behind her and wrapped his arms around her waist.
“Where did you go today?” he asked. A hint of accusation somewhere in his tone.
“The bank,” she said, truthfully, as she’d deposited a large sum of cash in her newly opened offshore account, before visiting Harry.
Frankie looked at her damaged face.
“You know I hate to hurt you, don’t you?”
Laurie didn’t answer. She wanted to move his arms, but it would only make further trouble.
“It’s just that you make me so angry sometimes.”
Frankie moved his hands inside Laurie’s dressing gown. They were cold against her warm skin.
“I mean, I just can’t have you seeing that soldier boy. And now, well, when he comes out, I’ll have to make sure you never see him again.”
Frankie cupped her breast and squeezed it just a little too hard.
Laurie knew what was coming.
“Don’t Frank. I have to get ready. I have to open the club.”
Verdi nibbled her earlobe. He whispered. “Come on babe, we can work this out. You don’t need that soldier boy. And me and Maisy are over, finished. I told her as much. We’re the team, the team that built all this.”
Laurie squirmed. “Is that why you stink of her Frank? Is that why I smell her all over you?”
Verdi held onto her, in no mood to set her free, his other hand now reaching between her thighs.
“Please Frank, don’t.”
Verdi’s tone changed. Instantly all attempts at romance discarded, the quiet whisper suddenly surplus to his requirements. Here, was the true, sinister, insistent Frankie, the unrelenting controlling Frankie, the man of violence. He pushed his hand further upward, probing with his fingers.
“You live in my house, you eat my fucking food and drink my fucking booze. You drive the car I paid for and wear the clothes that I work for…”
Laurie dropped her make-up brush and grabbed his hand, but Frank was too strong.
“…And if I want to fuck you…” Verdi released her breast and grabbed her long locks, dragging her from her seat to the floor.
He fell on her, grabbing at his fly to release his manhood. “…I fucking well will.”
Laurie didn’t struggle, just as she’d learned not to struggle as a young girl on those awful nights when her mother had brought grown men to her.
Now, twelve years on, as Frankie humped and grunted on top of her, racing toward his orgasm, she lay there once again. Like a rag doll thrown from a pram.
* * *
Laurie shook with fear, with resentment, with disgust. Her hands trembled as she pulled herself to her seat.
She went back to applying her make-up as if nothing had happened. Forcing herself not to cry, to show weakness to the man she hated.
Verdi sat on the bed sweating.
She eyed him in the mirror. Her voice was flat calm.
“You need to let me go Frank,” she breathed. “You need to let me go, or kill me… or I swear, I’ll kill you.”
* * *
The office of Toast was hot and humid.
No windows to open, no air conditioning. Not built for the summer months. Frankie sat in front of the CCTV monitors, flicking through the cameras in no particular order. He was bored.
Bored with Maisy, bored with Laurie, bored with, well, just about everything.
He needed a holiday, some sun on his back, some fresh pussy to play with, away from the prying eyes of the press.
There was no doubt he had the money. His restaurants almost ran themselves, his managers so terrified of him, they wouldn’t dare take their foot off the gas. Laurie looked after Toast, and Joe Madden had turned out to be a diamond when it came to the darker side of the business.
So why not go? Thailand maybe. He’d heard all the stories of the whores there. They’d do anything for a couple of dollars. Pretty young things who did as they were told. Just his type.
He flicked on the camera for the main bar.
Laurie leaned on one corner, still wearing her dark glasses. She took a long drink from her glass and looked unsteady on her feet. Not a good advert for his business.
He zoomed in on her image. She was a fine-looking woman, no doubt. But she wanted what Frankie couldn’t or didn’t want to give. Marriage, kids, normality. A recipe for a lifetime of tedium.
It was as he examined Laurie, that he noticed that she’d left her bag on the table alongside the monitors.
Frankie looked at it for a moment, then stood, feeling an irresistible urge to open it.
Inside, he found all the things he would have expected to find. Her purse, keys, lipstick, tissues, two spare tampons; a couple of old receipts.
Then he noticed that the bag had a centre compartment. It was zipped closed.
Frankie took a glance at the screen. Laurie was ordering another; not going anywhere soon.
He furtively opened the centre compartment to find a bank book and other papers from NatWest Bank. His company, and to his knowledge, Laurie, banked with TSB.
He instantly felt his stomach churn. Something wasn’t right. He slowly opened the book with shaking hands. The account holder’s name was printed on the first page, together with the account number and sort code. “Laurie Marie Holland 24433567 20-30-19”.
He turned the page.
The book showed regular weekly deposits of £500. Every Friday since before Christmas, Laurie had been paying in the same amount in cash. The current balance was £15,000.
Frankie noticed the book was shaking as much as his hands. His stomach now in knots. Bile filled his throat.
She wouldn’t, would she? Would she dare steal from me? Steal from Frankie Verdi? If so, why? Well there was only one reason for that. She was planning to run away, to run away with that fucking fag soldier boy, the one who would be out of jail in a matter of weeks. Well, she wouldn’t get far on fifteen grand, would she?
Frankie examined the other papers stuffed into the pocket alongside the bank book. One was a letter, headed “The Bank of Jersey”.
Laurie had an offshore account. It showed an opening balance of £20,000, paid in just this morning.
Now you could go a lot further with thirty-five.
Frankie thought his head would explode.
He strode around the office, spittle forming at the corners of his mouth, unable to control his rage. He lashed out at the furniture, sending chairs tumbling, turning over desks, files flew through the air, paper covered the floor.
Sweating, he stopped dead in his tracks, a light flickering in his head.
Frankie rooted underneath the piles of paper and found a desk phone he had thrown across the room, checked for a tone, and dialled the main bar.
Head barman, David Reece, answered almost immediately.
“Davey boy… Frankie here. I see that my dear Laurie is having a few tonight.”
“Erm, well yes boss, looks like it.”
“Don’t worry son, it ain’t a problem, she’s just had some bad news is all. Just make sure when you serve her refills, that they are doubles from now on eh? On me.”
Frankie could tell that Reece wasn’t sure about his orders, but he wasn’t going to argue with Frankie. He valued his job. And his kneecaps.
“No problem boss,” he answered.
Frankie, then dialled the VIP area. Tony Thompson picked up the phone. He sounded high as a kite.
“Who’s calling the Golden Shot?” he shouted.
“Tony… F
rankie here… get your arse to the office now and bring Eddie and Joe with you.”
Tony was quiet for a second as he took in Frankie’s tone. “Oh, okay Frank, I’ll get them now.”
The three men stepped into the mess that was the back office. Eddie scanned the room and dared comment.
“Been having a smashing time Frank?”
Frankie’s eyes shone like polished black marbles. Sweat formed on his top lip.
“Don’t be fuckin’ funny Eddie. This is no laughing matter. Find a chair and sit the fuck down… all of you.”
Moments later the three men sat in silence awaiting Frankie’s obviously serious message.
“We have a fucking dirty thief amongst us boys,” he began. “A dirty thieving whore, stealing our hard-earned cash, so she can run off with her fag soldier boyfriend.”
Frankie scanned the faces of his three comrades in arms. All looked blank.
Verdi held up Laurie’s bank book and the letter from the Jersey bank.
“Thirty-five fucking grand boys. Thirty-five grand, in just eight months.”
A light came on in Joe Madden’s head. “You’re talking about your Laurie ain’t yer Frank?”
Verdie curled his lip. “You bet your fucking arse, I’m talking about my dear Laurie.”
Frankie stood and prowled about.
“After all I’ve fucking done for the bitch… she’s stealing from me, so she can run away with the soldier boy.”
Madden nodded. “You mean the one who gave me the kicking on opening night, yeah?”
“One and the same Joseph,” pointed Frank.
Tony scratched his head. “What we going to do, Frank?”
Verdi rooted in Laurie’s handbag, found her car keys and threw them at Joe Madden. “Go get her motor from the house Joe and bring it here to the club. Eddie, Tony… stay here.”
* * *
Joe delivered the car to the front of the club, locked it, slipped by the door staff and over to Tony Thompson who was waiting in the foyer. Tony held out a massive hand. Joe handed him the keys for the Golf and wandered into the VIP area.
Strangely, he found himself alone. That said, he didn’t want, or need to know any more than he already suspected. He ordered himself a beer and watched the main bar.
Laurie was still there. She looked dishevelled, unlike her normal professional self. As she downed another Jack and Coke, Tony appeared, took her firmly by the arm and went to lead her away.
Laurie appeared reluctant, and there were words exchanged that Joe couldn’t make out. But from Tony’s body language, he seemed conciliatory rather than aggressive. Even so, it didn’t look good.
Joe took a long drink from his pint. Left more than half on the table and made to leave. He said a little prayer to himself. Thankful he’d remembered to put on gloves before he’d touched Laurie Holland’s car.
Tony held onto Laurie as she negotiated the steps of the club.
She was so drunk, the fact her car was waiting outside didn’t register in her muddled brain. Tony opened the passenger door and made a big show to the doormen.
“Come on Laurie,” he said in a stage whisper. “Let’s get you home eh?”
The two doormen sniggered, half at Laurie’s condition, and half at the fact that Tony had been given the thankless task of taking the boss’ drunken girlfriend home.
Tony gave the two men a hapless look and shrugged his shoulders.
One gave him the thumbs up.
As Tony pulled away, Laurie slumped forward in her seat, close to unconsciousness. She mumbled something about a taxi.
Tony ignored her. He had a job to do.
Before he had reached Preston’s ring road, Laurie was asleep. He checked the rear-view mirror. Eddie was behind in an unregistered and untraceable car he’d bought cash, from the auctions.
All going to plan so far.
Rather than take the A6 toward Broughton and Frankie’s house, Tony made for the M6 turning south one junction, then taking the M61.
Again, one junction.
Another left, then another half a mile of A road before hanging a right and starting the steep climb toward Rivington Pike and Winter Hill, the tallest peak of the West Pennine Moors.
Whether it was the twisting country lanes, the climb, or just the fact that something had recorded in Laurie’s subconscious, Tony didn’t know, but she woke suddenly and peered out of the windscreen.
“Where are we Tony?” she slurred.
“On our way to your house Laurie.”
She turned down the corners of her mouth and did her best to focus on the road ahead.
“This isn’t the way home.”
“Yeah,” bluffed Tony, hoping he could keep the falsehood going for a little while longer. “It is, I’m just taking a short cut.”
Laurie was coming around, her head clearing by the second.
She turned and eyed the man she’d known since a teen. “What’s going on Tone? What are you up to?”
Tony slammed on the brakes. The German car slewed left, then right. Laurie held onto her seat to steady herself.
Sensing real danger, the moment the car came to a halt, she made a grab for the door.
She was way too slow.
Tony reached out with his left hand and grabbed her hair, snapping her head violently backwards. He twisted his body in his seat and slammed his massive right fist into Laurie’s face. Once, twice, three times.
There was blood, lots of blood. It was splattered up his forearm, on his shirt, his cheeks.
He examined Laurie’s mangled features. She rasped short breaths through her mouth, her nose badly broken.
Tony shook his head. “Oh, look now, why’d you go and make me do that?”
He pushed the car into gear and resumed the climb toward Laurie Holland’s final destination.
* * *
Eddie William’s unrequited love for Frankie Verdi had always ensured his quiet hatred of Laurie Holland. He knew, of course, that even if Laurie hadn’t been around, his relationship with Frank would still have remained that as one of friends. Yet he couldn’t hide his pleasure at seeing the woman in the position she was.
Tony had parked the Golf in a sweeping layby that was a popular spot for sightseers as it overlooked the whole of the moor. It was also equally popular with climbers as it boasted a sheer two hundred feet drop directly onto jagged rocks.
Eddie wandered over to the edge of what was essentially a cliff and looked down. “Shame about the motor. It took me ages to find one in such good order.”
Tony was busy pulling Laurie from the passenger seat and sitting her in the driver’s side. Eddie wandered over and examined her ruined features.
“Fucking hell Tone, you gave her a good slap there pal.”
“She woke up Ed, was about to start kicking off like.”
Eddie shrugged, “Whatever… right start her up.”
Tony leaned into the car and turned the key. The Golf fired first time.
Eddie pointed, “Handbrake off.”
Again, Tony obliged.
“Now,” said Eddie. “You’re going to have to ram it into first without pushing the clutch, so give the stick a good shove.”
On Tony’s second attempt the car lurched forward sending it toward the edge of the precipice. Eddie ran over and slammed the driver’s door shut.
The car trundled along, over the rough ground, but as its front drive wheels went over the edge of the cliff, it stopped, stuck on the ledge, engine revving, the bonnet dangling precariously in mid-air.
“For fuck’s sake,” spat Eddie. “Fucking front-wheel drives. Come on Tone. We’ll have to shove her over.”
Both men leaned into the rear of the car. There was a grating sound as the exhaust scraped over the rocky edge, then, moments later, the weight of
the engine see-sawed the car over.
The air was suddenly silent.
The cabriolet landed nose first with an almighty crash then teetered for a moment before falling on its roof.
Eddie checked his watch. “Come on Tone, still time for a beer.”
* * *
Laurie knew she was dying.
Not because of the pain, but because there wasn’t any. She couldn’t feel anything, couldn’t move. She was upside down. Something, she presumed the engine, had been pushed into the footwell and trapped her legs, but there was no sensation down there. There was no sensation anywhere below her neck.
The sun began to rise. It was going to be a beautiful day, it felt warm on her face, at least God had left her with something.
She began to cry. What had her mother used to say? “You’ve made your bed girl, so you better lie in it.”
Well here she was, paying the price. Because that is what her mother really meant wasn’t it? Pay the price for your actions, your deeds, good or bad.
Laurie hadn’t been to church since Rose’s funeral, so she figured praying was a little pointless. She’d been a bad girl, plain and simple. She’d put money and possessions above love, and this was the ultimate fee to pay.
She closed her eyes and tried to imagine Jamie’s face, his smile, his eyes.
Then Laurie Holland took her final breath.
* * *
Detective Jim Hacker
It is a natural thing for a policeman to be inquisitive; not to accept what you are expected to believe to be true.
Instinctively, a cop should question everything. He must look beyond the obvious. Good coppers are just like that. I happen to believe you are born with it.
Sgt Gerry Smart was one such officer. For nineteen years, Gerry had worked traffic. Eleven of those on Lancashire’s motorway network.
Now, just as it takes a certain type of policeman to become a detective, the same must be said for motorway coppers.
Gerry Smart would tell you that the motorways are the safest roads in the country. But he would also tell you that when it goes wrong on there, it usually means fatalities.
Sgt Smart was one of Lancashire’s most experienced road traffic accident investigators.
I sat alongside him in Headquarters canteen. He’d been investigating Laurie Holland’s fatal accident, and I’d asked to meet with him, as my team had been looking at her death from a completely different angle.