Sisters Three

by Jessica Stirling

  ‘I think perhaps he will ask me to marry him,’ Penny said.

  Dougie snorted. He was smeared with oil, hair mussed, shirt rumpled.

  ‘If he does,’ he said, ‘what’re you goin’ to tell him?’

  Dougie was looking at her with a sly questioning expression, exactly like Oma Keller’s when she’d trailed home late from a dinner party or a ball.

  ‘I do not know what you mean,’ Penny said.

  ‘Well, it’s either yea or nay, lass.’

  ‘Yea or nay – or perhaps’ Penny said.

  ‘If you fancy Tony for a husband,’ Dougie said, ‘I wouldn’t dangle him on the string too long.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Unless I’m much mistook Tony can have his pick o’ women.’

  ‘Ah, but not women like me,’ said Penny. ‘In any case, I did not come to Scotland to find a husband. I came to make money for myself and my mother.’

  ‘Hard cash is always more dependable than a man.’

  ‘Do you believe that to be true?’ Penny asked, frowning.

  ‘Naw,’ Dougie said, ‘but I thought you might.’

  ‘Do not put words into my mouth or thoughts into my head.’

  ‘Aren’t you in luh-huve wi’ our Tony then?’ Dougie said.

  ‘I did not say that I am not.’

  ‘Make up your mind, lass,’ Dougie said. ‘I’ve got this blessed contraption just about ready t’ roll. When that happens an’ the money flows everythin’ will change again, not necessarily for the better.’

  ‘Because of Eddie, do you mean?’

  ‘Aye, an’ the rest o’ them,’ Dougie said.

  ‘So,’ Penny said, ‘you think they will squabble over the money?’

  ‘I’m damned sure they will,’ said Dougie.

  * * *

  Polly waited the best part of a week for Dominic to challenge her for she didn’t have the strength to confront him and precipitate the inevitable crisis. She had lived in the shadow of her husband’s secrets for years but adjusting to new secrets made her nervous, more nervous than she had ever been at the height of her affair with Tony.

  All she had to do was square up to Dominic and say, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that my father’s alive,’ and he would be on the spot. She could force him to confide in her, expose at a stroke the depth of his deception, his callous indifference to her family, his double standards, his double life. Provided he didn’t know about her call on Flint. She wondered if Flint had told Dominic about it or if greed had kept him silent. If she had known then that her father was involved with Flint – that her father was even alive – she wouldn’t have let Babs talk her into it. The fact remained that Dominic had known that Frank Conway had returned from the dead and had not had the decency to tell her. If the boot had been on the other foot what a song and dance there would have been, as if only Italians were entitled to have family ties and not the humble Scots who dwelled in tenement towns.

  She fretted about Janet, about Kenneth MacGregor, about her mother, most of all about poor Rosie who had been so hurt by Dominic’s mendacity. She did not fret for herself, though, for she was almost willing to admit that she had brought calamity upon herself, a victim of her own restlessness, of wanting more without knowing what ‘more’ meant or what having it might entail.

  Dominic hadn’t touched her for a week, in bed or out of it. At night he would lie beside her, hands behind his head, so still and silent that she didn’t know whether he was asleep or awake: then, on Tuesday, he suddenly said, ‘I’m taking you out to lunch tomorrow.’

  ‘Are you?’ Her voice sounded rusty. ‘Why?’

  ‘Please be ready at ten o’clock. I’ll pick you up here in the car.’

  ‘Lunch, at ten o’clock in the morning?’

  ‘I have someone I want you to meet first.’

  Oh God! Oh God! My father, he’s taking me to meet my father, Polly thought, and experienced a sickening hollowness within her. She parted her lips to cry out, ‘Is it my father? Is it my Daddy?’ but realised that was exactly how Dominic expected her to react and that by doing so she would give away every last advantage.

  She managed to sound calm, almost bored. ‘Someone interesting?’

  ‘I think you’ll find them interesting, yes.’

  ‘Ten o’clock, you say?’

  ‘Prompt,’ said Dominic.

  * * *

  It was a bright spring day but deceptively chilly. Cart horses still wore their canvases and the women about town had not yet shed their furs.

  Polly selected her outfit with care, a tailored suit in box cloth, a swagger coat draped over her shoulders. The hat was simple, almost mannish, one that Dominic had never liked. He said nothing about the hat, however, chatted casually to her about the children, the weather and the war while they drove into the city. He parked the car outside the Baltic Chambers, escorted her to a side entrance and into a passenger lift that hoisted them slowly up to the fifth floor.

  Polly’s heart was pounding and she had an ache like an unhealed scar just under her breastbone as the lift laboured upward and deposited them in a corridor flanked by offices. Six or eight paces carried them to a door, not glass but oak. Dominic knocked and ushering Polly before him, entered.

  There were two men in the room, two faces she recognised, not strangers.

  Dominic said, ‘I believe you know Mr Shadwell?’

  ‘I do indeed,’ said Polly.

  Although Victor Shadwell had visited her house many times but she had exchanged hardly a dozen words with him over the years.

  ‘And Mr Hughes?’ said Dominic.

  The lawyer too had visited Manor Park Avenue, had been locked in the front parlour with Dominic while she had kept tactfully out of sight. He was tall, with hawkish features, and emanated such an effortless air of good breeding that Polly was flattered to have him shake her hand.

  The room was part of a suite. A single window looked out over slates and chimneys and the odd decorative ironwork that had been all the rage in roof finishing twenty or thirty years ago. There was no desk, only an oval table, four chairs padded in maroon leather and an array of bookcases packed with calf-bound volumes. On the desk was a bronze ashtray, a carafe of water, four glasses, and a pile of box files and ledgers.

  ‘Well, gentlemen,’ Dominic said, drawing out a chair for Polly, ‘shall we get down to it?’

  The ache in her chest eased. She felt ‘floaty’, as if she were recovering from an illness. She’d no idea why Dominic had brought her to the lawyer’s chambers but it was obvious that her father had no part in it. She seated herself at the table and took off her gloves.

  ‘Dominic,’ she said, ‘may I ask why you have brought me here?’

  ‘Haven’t you told her yet?’ Victor Shadwell said.

  ‘Told me what?’ said Polly.

  ‘I wanted it to be a surprise,’ said Dominic.

  Victor shook his head. He was an old man now but age had granted him a dignity that he had not possessed before. He said, ‘I was under the impression that Mrs Manone was keen to participate. Haven’t you even asked her, man?’

  ‘I didn’t have to,’ Dominic said.

  The men discussed her as if she wasn’t there at all. Glancing up, she caught Carfin Hughes’s eye and he gave a little shake of the head and arched his brows as if to absolve himself from discourtesy.

  He tapped his knuckles on the table to gain Dominic’s attention. ‘Perhaps,’ he said, ‘we would do better to lay out the proposition and enquire of Mrs Manone what she feels about it and if she is willing to participate.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ said Dominic. ‘Yes.’

  The men seated themselves in a semi-circle facing her. Carfin Hughes leaned forward and clasped his hands as if he were about to lead them in prayer. He paused – a courtroom habit, Polly thought – then said, ‘Dominic has expressed a wish that you be shown the books: that is, the profit and loss accounts of the holdings to which he has access: that is, a listing or tally of all
Manone investments, together with portfolios of company stock.’

  Polly said, ‘Why are you telling me this, Mr Hughes? Why not Mr Shadwell who, I believe, is our accountant?’

  ‘There are legal implications,’ Carfin Hughes said.

  ‘To what?’

  ‘The transfer of shares, stock, bonds and debentures. The Law of Property Act of 1925 did not make the matter of transfer any less complex. I am here to ensure that you comprehend the law, Mrs Manone, and that the transfer or, more properly, transfers are effected without flaw. Dominic also suggests that I assume full power of attorney. I wish to ensure that you are satisfied with such an arrangement and will give me your confidence when I act on your behalf in matters relating to the holdings and transfers thereof.’

  In spite of the flowery language and Carfin Hughes’s rich, soft drawl, Polly grasped at once what he meant: Dominic was giving her a hand in the business: giving her what she’d always wanted and more, much much more. She felt a stab of apprehension, not just that he should have capitulated with her wishes so completely but that she would not be able to cope with the intricacies of ownership. My God, she thought, I don’t even know what ‘business’ we’re talking about.

  She lifted her chin and stared haughtily at her husband.

  He was toying with an unlit cigar, dabbing it against the table, his attention fixed on the cigar, eyes down. He was smiling, though, that soft, insufferable smile that was sly and sinister and smug all in one. No other man she had ever met smiled like that, expressing so much and revealing so little.

  ‘Why are you doing this, Dominic?’ she asked.

  He went on dabbing the cigar, manipulating it with forefinger and thumb, turning it over and over and over until it seemed to whirr in the air like a little brown baton. Then he lost it, let it fall. ‘It’s what you want, Polly, is it not?’

  ‘I never asked – never once did I suggest…’

  The three of them – Dominic, Hughes and Shadwell – had obviously argued about it and rehearsed what each of them would say, how the proposal could be put to her as a fait accompli.

  Smoothly, too smoothly, Carfin Hughes took up the running. ‘Let’s dispense with euphemisms, Mrs Manone, shall we? In the event of a declaration of a war with Germany and preceding any possible pact with Italy, aliens will be stripped of their rights and entitlements.’

  ‘Dominic isn’t an alien. He was born and brought up in Scotland.’

  ‘That’s true, but your husband,’ Hughes paused tactfully, ‘has long been a subject of police attention. You must be aware of it, Mrs Manone. By which I mean that you cannot be unaware that he has engaged in the past in activities that in some circles might be considered less than entirely honest.’

  The lawyer’s explanation made perfect sense. In the event of war Dominic would be classed as an alien and any defence against such an unjust classification that Hughes might put to a hearing would be bound to expose his less than legitimate activities and might lead to criminal charges. She had never been the sort of wife who saw only good in her husband, a good provider, a loving father and loyal son. She had always known what Dominic was and what he did. What he was and what he did had been a huge part of his attraction.

  ‘Thank you, Mr Hughes. I do understand. Dominic?’

  ‘Dearest?’

  ‘Why are you doing this now? Is there a special reason for ridding yourself, nominally at least, of control of the company?’

  ‘I prefer you to have control of our affairs under the guidance of men I can trust to deal with you fairly rather than…’ He lifted his hands, palms open, and did not complete the sentence.

  She knew: Flint had told him, Flint, or her father. All the deceptions, lies and betrayals were coming home to roost at last. Dominic was punishing her by giving her exactly what she believed she wanted. She stared at him across the table and experienced not triumph but guilt, guilt at not loving Dominic enough, guilt at loving Tony more.

  ‘It is, however, imperative that you trust me,’ Carfin Hughes said. ‘In the course of the next few weeks Mr Shadwell will steer you through the financial statements and, with your agreement, your husband will assign a majority of the holdings to you.’

  ‘A majority,’ said Polly, ‘not all?’

  ‘Some will be sold or traded off,’ Hughes said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because,’ Dominic told her, ‘they’ll have no value in wartime.’

  ‘But others will?’ said Polly.

  ‘Others certainly will,’ said Carfin Hughes.

  ‘What others?’

  ‘That will be explained to you,’ Victor Shadwell said. ‘If you’ll just have a wee bit patience, Mrs Manone, I’ll be pleased to take you through the books page by page and show you what’s what.’

  ‘Why can’t Dominic do it?’ Polly asked. ‘Why can’t you do it, darling?’

  ‘Because,’ Dominic said, ‘I may not be here.’

  ‘Where in God’s name will you be?’ Polly said, sharply.

  ‘I wish I knew,’ Dominic told her and with that smile and that shaping of the hands again, shrugged off all further questions on that score.

  * * *

  ‘Is this where you grill suspects?’ Bernard said.

  ‘No, this is my office,’ Kenny said.

  ‘I didn’t know sergeants had offices.’

  ‘My new office,’ Kenny said.

  He was tempted to brag about his recent promotion to head of the Special Protection Unit but responsibility had already begun to affect him and he was more guarded than he had been a week ago.

  ‘Is it sound-proof?’ Bernard asked.

  ‘Pardon?’

  ‘Can anybody outside hear us?’

  ‘Only if you shout,’ said Kenny.

  ‘I’m not going to shout.’ Bernard lowered his voice to not much more than a whisper. ‘I just need a few words with you, if you can spare the time.’

  ‘My time is your time,’ Kenny said, then, ‘Why aren’t you at work, by the way? Half-eleven on a weekday morning, shouldn’t you be at the office in Breslin?’

  ‘I’m here,’ Bernard put in. ‘That’s all that concerns you.’

  They glowered at each other for five or ten seconds, though neither man was by nature surly and scowling did not come easily.

  At length Kenny said, ‘Is Rosie okay?’

  ‘No, Rosie is not okay.’

  ‘Is she the reason you’re here?’

  ‘Part of it,’ Bernard said.

  ‘What,’ said Kenny, ‘is the other part?’

  ‘I know what’s going on.’

  ‘Going on where?’

  ‘What Manone’s up to.’

  Kenny tried to appear cool. He had been less than a week in the job and had spent much of it doing little except brood on how he could win Rosie Conway back and at the same time fulfil his professional obligations. He hadn’t been entirely idle. He had posted Galbraith in the radio van outside Lombard’s flat for late evening shifts but so far Lombard hadn’t turned up. He’d sent Stone to loiter in the park opposite Manone’s house but the comings-and-going there had been very ordinary. So far he had done nothing original or adventurous, however, and hadn’t a clue how to progress with the case on his own account. Until now.

  ‘And what might Manone be up to?’ Kenny asked.

  ‘I’m not going to tell you,’ Bernard said. ‘You can’t make me tell you.’

  ‘May I remind you, Bernard, you came here of your own free will, so presumably you had a purpose other than telling me that you weren’t going to tell me anything.’

  ‘I know a lot of things I didn’t know before.’

  ‘Bully,’ Kenny said, ‘for you.’

  Bernard dropped forward over the desk so abruptly that for an instant Kenny wondered if he, like Winstock, had been struck down by illness. He inched back in his chair, waiting for a fountain of blood: none came of course. Bernard beckoned, drew the sergeant closer so that their brows were almost touching, his
voice so low and hoarse that it hardly seemed like a human voice at all.

  ‘Between you and me,’ Bernard rasped, ‘I don’t give a damn about Dominic Manone. He’s been a bad influence on everybody he’s ever come in contact with. I mean, if he wasn’t married to my wife’s daughter I’d give him over to you right here and now and say good bloody riddance.’

  ‘But?’ said Kenny.

  ‘I can’t do that.’

  ‘Won’t do that, you mean.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what I mean,’ Bernard said. ‘I won’t do that until we have some kind of agreement, just between you and me.’

  ‘I can’t make deals,’ said Kenny.

  ‘Won’t, you mean,’ said Bernard. ‘Who do you answer to upstairs? Sillitoe?’

  ‘He’s at the top of the pole, yes,’ said Kenny.

  ‘What would he settle for?’ Bernard asked.

  ‘I’m not sure I like that question. It smells like a deal to me.’

  ‘Would it be enough to stop them? Would that satisfy you?’

  ‘It’s not a question of satisfaction.’ Kenny was tired of craning over the desk. He straightened and sat back. ‘Nor is it a matter of criminal law, Bernard. To be honest with you, it’s gone beyond that.’

  Bernard nodded. ‘Treason.’

  Kenny hesitated. ‘Possibly.’

  ‘If what you’re investigating is a treasonable offence then you’ll have all sorts of special powers at your disposal,’ Bernard said.

  ‘I still can’t make a deal.’

  ‘Could you make a deal with Manone, perhaps?’

  ‘Never. I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  ‘Then,’ Bernard pushed back his chair and rose, ‘I’m going now.’

  ‘I could have you detained, you know.’

  ‘On what grounds?’

  ‘Withholding information.’

  ‘Rubbish! There’s no such charge.’

  ‘I didn’t say “charge”,’ said Kenny. ‘Those “special powers” you mentioned do come in handy sometimes.’

  Reluctantly Bernard lowered himself back into the chair. ‘Look,’ he said, ‘I’m as keen as you are to have Dominic put away but I don’t want to see him hanged.’

  ‘What about Rosie’s father, wouldn’t you like to see him hanged?’