‘You’ve checked Susan Tilley’s colleagues? Her exes?’
‘Yes, but there’s nothing. There’s no one who looks remotely likely to have—’
‘Well, I don’t know, maybe some stalker then. Some nut job. Someone she lived near or used to know.’
‘We’ve been very thorough. I promise you, Frankie.’
‘What about someone who knew her and knew my brother and that’s why they decided to frame him. Someone who knew them both personally, not just because of their connections to gangs.’
‘Like who?’ Sharon said.
‘I don’t know.’ He’d wracked his brains, trying to make a connection himself. But Jack and Susan had no friends in common that he knew of and Kind Regards had already asked Jack the same thing too and had drawn a blank. There was no one whose name had stood out.
‘What about Dougie himself then? What if she’d been, I don’t know, shagging someone else? What if he decided to—’
‘They were happy, Frankie.’ She caught the waiter’s eye and waved for the bill. ‘Properly happy. Or hadn’t you noticed? They were getting married the next day.’
‘Not everyone’s happy when they get married. Behind closed doors, things aren’t always what you’d think.’ He meant his own parents. How perfect it had all looked, right up to the day they’d split up. Maybe that’s how it was with Susan Tilley and Dougie Hamilton too.
‘We have talked to people,’ Sharon said. ‘Lots of people who knew them. And they – all of them – every one said they were completely in love.’
Frankie thought back to Dougie Hamilton attacking him the way he had. There’d been nothing fake about that. He’d been fucking gutted. Gutted enough to have beaten Frankie to a pulp, if he’d only been given the chance.
‘And this wasn’t a crime of passion,’ Sharon said. ‘Done in the heat of the moment. They’re messy. Whereas this, it was premeditated.’
‘This wasn’t messy? Give me a break,’ Frankie said. ‘There was blood everywhere. And I don’t just mean on Jack, in his room. I mean at the old lady’s house. Snaresby told me it looked like a video nasty.’
‘But no fingerprints,’ she said. ‘No DNA at the scene of the crime. In fact, your brother would have got away with it entirely if it wasn’t for the cctv camera recording his car.’
‘And your witness, of course,’ he said, watching her closely now.
Her cheeks darkened. Maybe she’d thought he’d not yet been told. ‘You know I can’t talk about that.’
Who are they? That’s what he wanted to ask her, even though he knew she’d just tell him to piss off. Who was this fucking liar? Who was this wanker set on putting Jack away?
‘Whoever it is, you know they’re lying, don’t you?’ he said. ‘Or they’re somehow involved. Or they bloody killed Susan Tilley themselves.’
‘I don’t know that, no, Frankie. And neither do you. They’re credible. Their story checks out. They’ve got no reason to lie.’
They. She was being careful, not even giving away if it was a woman or man.
She opened her mouth to speak, then clamped it shut. She didn’t need to say the words. He’d guessed them anyway. Not like your brother, she’d been about to say.
‘Frankie, you’ve got to trust in the process of law.’
Like with the old man? Forget that.
‘Please. I know this is hard on you,’ she said, ‘but you need to trust us – to trust me,’ she corrected herself, ‘to do my job.’
He stared up at the ceiling. His mind was a mess. He had to have faith in Jack. But he could still trust her too, couldn’t he? If he got her anything – anything at all – that could prove Jack’s innocence. To do the right thing. To act on it and not bury it or look the other away.
‘Look,’ she said, ‘can we just . . .’
‘What?’
‘Stop talking. About this.’
The waiter came back.
‘Mine,’ he told her, taking the bill. ‘I mean, my treat,’ he said, trying to soften his tone.
He paid in cash.
‘Thank you.’ She raised her glass to him. ‘It was every bit as good as you said it would be.’ She looked at the waiter and smiled. ‘I’ll be coming back.’
With him? Frankie wondered. With Nathan. Was that what she meant?
She finished her drink and got up, pulling on her jacket. He followed suit, then followed her outside. Rush hour was over. The evening was warm. A few people were smoking and drinking outside a little pub down the road, but other than that the world was still.
‘I’ll wave you down a cab,’ he said.
‘Or we could just walk.’
He looked at her, confused. ‘Really?’ he asked. ‘Where to?’
‘You can keep me company back to mine.’
He didn’t even know where she lived. Was it close? ‘I thought you were heading for the tube station before?’ he said.
‘No, just the street next to it. The same one we talked in. That’s where my flat is.’
My flat. Interesting. Not our. Not hers and his. Meaning maybe things between her and Nathan weren’t actually as fully advanced as all that after all.
‘All right,’ he said, resisting the urge to slip his arm through hers like . . . like what exactly? A couple? Hah. Who was he kidding? He must have had too much plonk.
They chatted about nothing much of anything as they walked. About school. Kids they’d both known, wondering where they were now. Not Jack.
After only a few minutes, they entered the same nice quiet street of white Georgian town houses as before. She stopped outside one halfway along and Frankie walked with her up to the top of the stoop. On the wall by the door were a bunch of buzzers with the names of the flat owners below them. He saw her surname there. No one else’s beside it. Not like the other couples on display.
‘I’m not going to invite you in, you know,’ she said, turning her key in the lock.
‘I know. You’ve got a boyfriend.’
‘Exactly.’
‘Meaning that if you didn’t, then you would?’
‘What?’
‘Ask me in.’
She opened the door and stood there holding it. ‘Now you’re putting words in my mouth.’
‘I’m just saying it takes two, that’s all.’
‘To do what?’ she laughed. ‘Tango?’
‘To think what I’m thinking. When I look at you now.’
There . . . he’d done it again. Let it all out.
She didn’t answer. Didn’t shut the door either. Not the front door to the building, as he followed her inside. Or the door to her flat on the first floor, which he closed behind them. Or the door to her bedroom, which she left open for him too.
She reached the bed and turned to face him. Just do it. He walked up to her and kissed her. He’d wanted to do it all night.
25
‘Be outside in ten minutes,’ a man’s voice said.
‘Eh?’ Frankie rubbed his eyes and sat up.
He dropped the phone. What? Bloody hell. He was still half-asleep. This wasn’t his bed. Shit. Where was he? Right. The living room. What was he doing here? He leant forward off the sofa and picked up the phone. But it was already dead. He checked his watch and groaned. Quarter past eleven.
He peered blurrily at the table. No bottles. What he normally saw when he woke up here. No hangover either. He felt . . . great. So what the fuck had happened last night? Oh yeah. Blimey. He’d been at Sharon’s. With her. In bed. Nice . . .
Or not. Because . . . Shit. She’d kicked him out, hadn’t she? She’d woken him up at just gone six with a coffee and had told him she was off for a run and that he should get dressed and be on his way too. He’d tried getting her back into bed. Of course. Why wouldn’t he have? They’d had a great time. But she’d been having none of it. Embarrassed? Was that it? Or guilty? Because of her boyfriend? Or because of her work? Because of the line they’d just crossed?
‘What’s the matter?’ he’d said.
/> ‘Nothing. I just . . .’
‘What?’
‘I just hadn’t expected to . . . I don’t think this was . . .’
Right. A good idea. He didn’t need her to say it. Had worked it out for himself. She’d not planned what had happened between them. It had been a mistake.
‘So that’s it then?’ he said. ‘You’re just kicking me out?’
‘It’s not like that.’
‘Like what?’
‘Like you’re making it sound. Like a one night stand.’
‘Isn’t it?’
‘No.’
‘So there’ll be another?’
‘No . . .’
‘Ah, so it’s not like that either.’ Fine. He’d got up and pulled on his jeans.
‘Listen,’ she said. ‘I don’t know . . . last night, we’d both had a drink . . .’
‘A drink. But not drunk,’ he said. ‘Neither of us were.’
‘I’m not saying I didn’t have a good time, Frankie. Because I did. But I’ve got a boyfriend. Who I love.’
Love. The word hurt. A lot more than he thought it would have.
He’d lashed out. ‘Yeah? Well, it wasn’t his name you were calling out last night.’
Idiot. He wished he hadn’t said it.
‘No, I don’t suppose it was . . .’ she said. ‘But that’s why I don’t think we should—’
‘Save it,’ he’d said, buttoning up his shirt.
That was the last thing they’d said to each other. He’d let himself out.
His phone trilled again. He thought about letting it ring out, but whoever had just called had sounded pretty urgent. Maybe it was Kind Regards? He snatched it up and answered, ‘Yeah?’
‘Outside. Nine minutes,’ the voice said.
Nine? ‘Who the fuck is this?’ said Frankie.
‘Mackenzie. Grew.’
Frankie didn’t exactly gulp, but he wasn’t far off. He sat up straighter. Grew worked for Tommy Riley.
‘Tommy wants to see you,’ he said.
‘Now?’
‘No, next year, that’s why he’s sending round a car in eight minutes to pick you up.’
‘But—’
‘But nothing. Don’t be fucking late. I’m driving round to get you myself.’
Shit. The line went dead. Frankie stared at the receiver. Then he was moving. Fast. No time for a shower. He got dressed. Splashed cold water on his face. Shoved a fingertip of toothpaste into his gob and swilled it round and spat.
He’d been going to call Tommy Riley today anyway. Because he needed help. He was all out of leads. He needed Riley to help him reach someone he could never get to on his own.
But why the fuck was Riley calling him in? That was more of a worry. About the rent he still owed? Had he changed his mind about going easy on him on all that while this shit with Jack was going down? Or was that what this was about? Was he calling him in because he’d totally fucking failed to help Jack and so hadn’t pulled any heat off Riley at all?
He hurried downstairs and into the club. Good. Slim was already there, pulling the covers off the tables.
‘I’ve got to go out,’ Frankie said. ‘To see Tommy Riley.’ Probably no bad thing having someone else know. Just in case he didn’t come back.
‘No problem,’ Slim said. ‘We’ll be fine holding the fort.’
‘We?’
A clattering and swearing out back. Ah, yes. Xandra. In there sorting out the storeroom.
‘All going OK between you two?’
‘I’m keeping an eye on her,’ Slim said.
‘Good.’
‘And on the till,’ Slim added.
‘Fair enough.’ He was probably right, of course. To be wary. But Frankie still had a good feeling about her.
‘But seeing as she is going to be around . . . I could do with a bit more help around the rest of the business,’ Slim said, folding the heavy cover over onto itself.
Meaning maybe he was prepared to give her a chance as well? Bloody hell. Who said leopards couldn’t change their spots?
‘All right,’ Frankie said. ‘I hear you. Let’s see what we can do.’
He checked his watch. How long did he have? Five minutes? Tops. He walked quickly through the storeroom. Xandra was halfway up a ladder, covered in paint. She’d cleared a lot of the crap out of here already and was now busy decorating. She’d got paint in her hair and all over her T-shirt. Her bare feet were spattered with it too, but he was pleased to see she’d already stashed the Nikes he’d bought her safely and in pride of place up on the window sill.
‘Morning,’ he said. ‘How’s it all going?’
‘How does it look?’
‘Funny?’
‘Right.’ She grinned. ‘That’ll cover it. It’s going funnily. Thanks for asking, boss. Don’t suppose you fancy giving me a hand?’
‘I’ve got to go out. But listen . . . There’s something we need to talk about.’
‘Yeah?’
‘About you . . . about you being here . . .’
Her expression crumpled. ‘What? Have I done something wrong?’
‘No,’ he told her quickly, ‘not a bit of it.’
‘Then what?’ She looked embarrassed at having jumped to the conclusion that whatever he’d been about to say had been bad.
‘I was just wondering, if you’d . . . you know, once you’ve fixed your place up . . .’
Your. She smiled at the word.
‘It’s just I’ve been talking to Slim,’ he said, ‘and well, between you and me, he’s not getting any younger, and while it’s going to be great you helping out with odd jobs and cleaning and that, I’m thinking that maybe you could help him a bit too. Let him train you up. You know, on more front-of-house stuff. How to deal with customers. A bit of waitressing. Maintaining the tables. That kind of thing.’
She looked surprised, but only for a moment.
‘No problem. I’ll do it,’ she said.
‘Great, and of course I’ll pay,’ he added. ‘The same rate as for the odd jobs. But I’ll stick you on an hourly. We’ll sort out some shifts.’
‘Deal,’ she told him. Grinning, she came down the ladder and held out her hand towards him, before seeing it was covered in paint. ‘Or perhaps we’d better just shake on it later?’ she said.
He remembered then. What Sharon had said. What he’d been too dumb and insensitive to think of himself.
He said, ‘There’s something else I’ve been meaning to ask.’
‘What?’
‘It’s probably none of my business and I don’t want to pry, but . . .’
Right there, something about her changed. A darkening in her eyes. Christ, how many times must people have said something like this to her before? Bollocks. Just cut to the chase.
‘It’s about your family,’ he said.
‘I haven’t got one.’
‘All right, then . . . your people.’
‘My people?’ She tried to make a joke of it. ‘I’m not the fucking queen.’
‘You know what I mean.’
She just stared blankly at him. ‘Nope.’
‘What I’m saying is . . .’ he said ‘. . . is that . . . if there is anyone out there . . . anyone at all, anyone decent, that you ever cared about . . . or who cares about you . . .’
‘There’s not.’
‘Yeah, but if there is . . . then I’m just saying that if you want to call them . . . or you want me to call them . . . just to let them know that you’re O—’
‘I am OK. I’m fine.’ She picked up her paintbrush. ‘So . . . if it’s OK with you . . .?’
She turned her back on him and climbed back up the ladder.
He sighed.
Fuck it. At least he’d tried.
26
‘You’re late.’
Mackenzie Grew glared at him from inside the sparkling red Jag. A flash of white teeth, a pop of central locking. Frankie got in the back. Mackenzie turned round and glared.
&nbs
p; ‘Do I look like a fucking chauffeur?’ he said. ‘Now shift your arse into the front before I sling you back out.’
He was big enough to as well. Frankie did as he was told, feeling a right fucking plonker.
‘Clunk-click. Buckle up,’ Mackenzie warned him. ‘Don’t want the fucking rozzers pulling us over, do we?’
Frankie fastened his seatbelt and Mackenzie Grew pulled out into the street.
‘Cigarette?’ he asked.
Frankie took it. He could smell bacon on Mackenzie’s breath as he held out a silver lighter in the shape of a German Luger pistol.
‘You’ve got nice clear skin, son,’ he said, glancing over at him. ‘Nothing like your brother. Been working out too, I see. Good man. Tommy wasn’t wrong when he said that one day you might come in handy, should you ever see the light.’
Clear skin? What the fuck? Was he coming on to him? Jesus. That’s all he needed today. And as for the light? More like the life. His way of life. The fucking gangster way. The life that got you patent snakeskin shoes, a powder blue Italian suit and a forty-thousand-pound fucking classic motor. Just like Grew.
‘How is the snooker business going, by the way?’ he asked.
‘All right,’ said Frankie. He took a long, soothing drag of the smoke. He hit the window button, wound it down. The smell of bacon was making him sick.
‘I should pop in some time,’ said Mackenzie. ‘Have a few frames with you. Just like in the old days, eh?’
The old days? Nights, more like. Yeah, yeah. Frankie remembered, all right. Mackenzie was fucking hard to forget. He’d been a regular for a while, just after Frankie’s dad had taken over the club. Him and a bunch of Riley’s other boys had used to call in once or twice a week. Always around closing time, after the pubs had shut. A good place for a lock-in and a few more drinks. That had been the Ambassador’s rep. Frankie remembered one night when there’d been a scuffle, loud enough to have woken him and Jack upstairs.
Worried for his dad, Frankie had run down and opened the door through to the club. But the old man had been nowhere to be seen. No one had. Next day he’d told Frankie he’d got it all wrong. There’d been no fight. Just some drunken misunderstanding. No one had got hurt. It had all just sounded a lot worse than it really was.
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