‘Must be tough, mind,’ said Mackenzie, ‘making enough money to keep a place like that going. Especially in a recession and with the way kids’ tastes are changing these days. Scruffy buggers in baggy jeans. No idea how to dress. Probably don’t even go out at all. Rather take pills and get twatted at home these days, eh? Sitting there playing their fucking Game Boys and whatnots. Got no bloody class. Probably wouldn’t even know what a snooker hall was. Makes you wonder,’ he flashed Frankie that bright white smile again, ‘whether a property like the one you’re leasing off of Tommy might not be better off being used for something else. A restaurant, for example. Or an office.’
Frankie said nothing. So this, today, it was about the money. Or a warning about what Frankie owed, anyhow.
‘Tommy’s looking forward to hearing all about it,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Your investigation. He’s hoping you might have some good news and I’m certainly hoping so too. Because we’re all rooting for him, your brother,’ he added, as he pulled the Jag smoothly over in a posh-looking street in St James. ‘What with him being one of our own.’
Investigation? One of our own? What the fuck had Frankie got himself into? This shit storm was going from bad to worse by the second.
‘Et voilà. Your destination,’ Mackenzie said. ‘Number twelve.’ He lit another smoke and stared dead ahead.
‘You not coming?’
‘Not really my kind of place.’ Mackenzie looked him slowly over again, the same way he had done earlier when he’d lit his cigarette. ‘And, who knows, maybe not yours either, eh?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘You’ll see.’ Mackenzie tapped his watch – another Breitling, the exact same model Snaresby had been wearing. ‘You’d better get your arse in there. He don’t like to be kept waiting. And here . . .’ he pulled an embossed white business card from his pocket with a flourish ‘. . . Tommy told me to give you this. My number. In case you need any helping out.’
Helping out? What did that cover? What didn’t it? From the bruises on Mackenzie’s knuckles, it probably meant trouble for someone. That much was for sure.
27
Frankie stared up at the sandblasted stone building. Wealth. The stonework practically screamed it. Wealth and privilege. Very fucking tasty indeed.
He stared down at the pavement too. At his feet. No point in kidding himself. He was about to cross another bloody line. ‘WITNESS’. He’d written it in red ink on the torn scrap of fag packet in his jacket pocket. The second Sharon had confirmed that the cops were convinced this witness of theirs was credible, he’d known it was going to have to be him, not them, who’d have to dig up the truth and find out what this fucker was really about.
Who were they? Why were they lying? Because they were involved themselves? Because they’d murdered Susan Tilley? Or had helped? First things first. He had to find them. Make them talk. And if his little visit to Mo hadn’t brought him any nearer to discovering what had really happened to Jack that night, it had taught him this: he could frighten people. Into talking. And would frighten them too. No matter who the hell they were. If that’s what it took.
Right. Let’s do this. He smoothed down his suit, adjusted his tie and walked up the steps and hit the buzzer. Just the one button. Meaning someone owned the whole house. In this part of town, that meant someone filthy rich.
Was this Riley’s home? Not likely. People like Riley tended to keep their business activities hidden, off radar, away from the law. And totally separate from their families. The way the old man told it, neither of his great uncles’ wives had ever had a clue about what it was they really did for a living. They’d thought their husbands had worked over in Smithfield’s for one of the meat supply companies. Which was how come they’d always had so many bloodstains on their knuckles after work.
A crackle of intercom static.
‘Hello. How can I help you? Have you got an appointment?’ a woman’s voice asked.
The soft whir of an electric motor. Frankie glanced up to see a sparkling new cctv camera pivoting on its bracket and focussing in on him.
He said, ‘I’m here to see Tommy Riley. His driver just dropped me off.’
Silence. Three seconds, five, ten. Frankie wondered if he might have somehow got the wrong building, and was about to step back onto the pavement to check out the two either side, when the door lock finally buzzed. He pulled the door open. Spotted a whole bunch of bolts retracted in the frame. Electronic. State-of-the-art.
He walked through into a black-and-white chequered hallway. Plush. Light and airy. Very tasty indeed. Bunches of tall fresh flowers – lilies, his mum’s favourite – stood on even taller marble plinths either side of a black stone staircase which spiralled up out of sight. It smelt good in here. Not just of flowers. Some kind of expensive perfume or cologne.
Not the only tempting thing here either. A pretty girl, aged nineteen or twenty, dressed in a slim-fitting grey business suit, was sitting at a polished antique mahogany desk.
He smiled. Couldn’t help himself. She was that good-looking. He got a funny little pang of guilt, mind. About Sharon. But she had a boyfriend, right? She’d kicked him out.
He walked up to the desk. ‘Hello,’ he said, trying on another smile for good measure.
She wasn’t impressed. Gave him the same kind of look his bank manager did whenever he tried extending his overdraft.
‘And you would be . . .?’ She left the word hanging in the air.
‘James,’ he said, spotting another cctv camera watching him from the corner of the ceiling. ‘Frankie James.’
She checked the leather-bound book on the desk. She had a silver padlock hanging from a black velvet choker tied round her pale throat. She caught him staring. Something flashed in her hard brown eyes. Annoyance? Or maybe amusement? Maybe she didn’t find him so repellent after all?
‘And how about you?’ he said. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Chloe.’
‘Nice.’
A flicker of a smile. ‘Have you visited with us before?’
Visited with us? What the hell was that meant to mean? On the surface, her voice was pure Home Counties, but beneath it he detected something rougher, an accent she’d probably spent years working hard to disguise and smooth over, something much more like his own from the streets.
‘No.’
‘Very well. If you follow the stairs up to the greeting room and make yourself comfortable, one of the girls will come to collect you.’
Greeting room? Girls? OK. Now he got it. What this place was. What Mackenzie had said outside. The need for all the bloody locks and cctv. His thoughts must have shown on his face. Chloe slowly raised an eyebrow at him. Invitingly? Disdainfully? Hard to tell.
‘No need to leave a credit card,’ she said. ‘Today you’re here as Mister Riley’s guest. I do hope you’ll enjoy your stay.’
‘Right.’
Something in her expression seemed to be inviting him to say more. Or maybe she was just messing with him. If he’d been in a bar, he’d have bought her a drink. Or asked for her number. But not here. Not with that camera looking down. Just get upstairs. Stop making a dick of yourself. He wasn’t here for pleasure. Time to get his game face on.
‘Thanks,’ he said, turning his back on her and heading up the stairs, the Blakey’s on his shoes clicking out an echo with each step. He could feel her watching him. Wanted to turn to see if she was. Managed to resist.
The staircase opened up into a massive, dimly lit room with heavy drapes covering its windows and tapestries hanging off its walls. A bunch of red and black velvet and leather sofas had been placed at different angles, with polished glass and chrome tables in between. Three arched doorways led off to the left, right and centre, each guarded by heavy, beaded curtains.
There was some kind of bar in the middle of the room, covered in glinting bottles, crystal decanters and tumblers. He sat down on a sofa to the left of it. No matter what other people came here for, he was here on
business. Might be in trouble too. He needed to remember that. So no getting hammered.
The smell of perfume was even stronger up here. It was warm as well. Muggy. It reminded him of being abroad. Night times here, he reckoned, if you were wrecked enough, you might even end up believing you’d blinked and woken up in Marbella or Greece. Or had even died and gone to heaven. It was that fucking nice.
He heard footsteps. The bead curtains covering the arched doorway opposite hissed aside as two girls came in. The first was tall and Asian-looking. Dazzling green eyes. The other was Latina, with dark curly hair piled up high on top of her head. Both of them were dressed in shimmering long white gowns. Like something off the cover of Vogue.
‘Hello,’ they said in unison, flashing him wide, white smiles.
‘Er, hi,’ he said.
The Latina sat down next to him. As in right next to him. Pressing her thigh up against his, she stroked her hand across his shoulders. What the . . .? He flinched, making her giggle. He tried shifting away from her a little, but she just moved closer still, working her hand slowly down his arm, gently massaging as she went.
‘I like strong men,’ she told him.
‘What would you like to drink?’ asked the Asian girl, pouring herself a whiskey and taking a sip.
‘I’m fine,’ Frankie said.
She flashed him another smile. ‘Tut, tut. You know you really shouldn’t ever leave a girl to drink on her own.’
‘Or two girls,’ said the Latina.
‘That’s right,’ said the Asian girl, ‘and whatever the reason for your visit with us today, you must make certain to include us both.’
Finishing her drink, she iced a tumbler and brought it over to Frankie, along with the bottle of whiskey.
‘You sure I can’t tempt you?’ she asked, sitting beside him.
What the hell. He could smell the whiskey on her breath. Maybe just the one. Where was the harm in that?
‘Go on then, twist my rubber arm.’
He watched her pour. Then downed it in one, loving the burn of it hitting his empty stomach. Jesus. What time was it? Talk about an early liquid lunch.
She sat down beside him and poured him another. ‘There, I think you’re now feeling much more homely.’
‘You what?’
‘She means at home,’ said the Latina.
‘Yes, Mister Riley said we were to make you feel perfectly at home,’ the Asian girl purred in his ear. ‘So how do you think is the best way for us to do that?’
Well, there was one easy answer. Stick him in front of a sink full of dirty dishes and a doormat piled high with unpaid bills. That would work a treat. He smiled, but didn’t bother sharing the joke.
‘And just exactly where is Mister Riley and when’s he planning on—’ he started to say, before feeling the admittedly not altogether unpleasant sensation of the Asian girl darting her hand down in between his legs. He grabbed her wrist. ‘Thanks, but not now, love,’ he said.
Not now? Charming. Not ever, he’d meant. Hookers. All this. Whatever this was. It wasn’t his thing, no matter how seductive it all might look. He thought again about what Mickey had said about Jack. About him liking them fresh. All this was just a fucking illusion. Just gangster shit, all covered in gloss.
Another swish of beads, this time from his right.
‘Good to see you’re making yourself comfortable,’ Tommy Riley said. ‘And thanks for coming in.’
28
It’s not how it looks, Frankie wanted to say. But how was it, exactly? He was here, wasn’t he? Sitting with them. He pushed the girl’s hand away, ignoring her pouting look, as she sat back away from him and sparked up a cigarette.
The Latina girl walked over to Riley and snaked her arms round his neck.
‘Maybe later, love,’ he said. ‘Me and young Frankie here have got some business to discuss first.’
‘Why can’t you both stay here with us?’ she said.
‘Patience, patience,’ he told her. ‘I’m sure Frankie’s looking forward to spending some more time with you afterwards too.’
‘Probably not, in fact,’ said Frankie, getting up.
‘Oh?’
‘There’s things I need to be doing. As soon as we’re finished talking, I’ll have to be off.’
‘And there was me thinking you were having a bit of fun.’ He shot the Asian girl on the sofa a sour look.
‘This way,’ he told Frankie, setting off back through the archway he’d just come through.
Frankie followed him, down a long corridor covered with dark wallpaper and a series of closed, numbered doors.
‘You own this place?’ he asked.
‘Let’s just say I’m a shareholder.’
‘The lap dance club not big enough for you?’
‘Different kind of business. That’s public. All about looking. This is different. About doing.’
‘A brothel,’ Frankie said.
Riley wagged his finger, continuing to walk. ‘Ah-ah. That would be illegal. The girls who live here, they’re just renting rooms . . . like in a nice big house share, as far as I know . . .’
No doubt as far as the law knew too. Not that they’d stick their noses in round here anyway. Apart from for fringe benefits. Riley had probably paid the bastards off handsomely to keep officially away.
‘They certainly all seem to enjoy being here,’ Riley said. ‘Right from the reception up . . .’
The way he said it. Had it been him looking down that cctv lens at Frankie in reception just now?
‘Them two back there not to your liking, then?’ Riley asked, pushing through another beaded curtain at the end of the corridor.
‘No, it’s not that . . .’ Frankie joined him in another lounge area, much smaller than the first, with two sofas either side of a brass pole running from the floor to the ceiling. ‘I just don’t. With them.’
‘With who? With ladies?’ A note of surprise in Riley’s voice.
‘No, with hookers.’
‘Careful, son,’ Riley warned, sitting down on one of the sofas and pointing at the other where Frankie should sit. ‘The girls here are escorts, not hookers. Hookers are what you get sucking off blokes round the backs of pubs for a fix. Don’t let any of these girls here catch you calling them that, or they’ll scratch your fucking eyes out.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘You’ve never been with a pro before then?’
‘Never needed to,’ Frankie said.
‘Needed to what?’ Riley asked.
Frankie drained the last of the whiskey from the glass he’d brought with him. ‘Pay.’
‘It’s not about need, son,’ Riley said. ‘More want. I don’t need to pay for skirt. There’s plenty of women out there who’d let me do God only knows what to them simply for the pleasure of my company, because of who I am and what they think being close to me might get them. No, this,’ he waved his hand, ‘is about wanting, wanting something you can’t get just anywhere, off just anyone, skills of a professional nature, with the kind of women you normally only see in glossy fucking mags. And I promise you this,’ he said, ‘once you get a taste for it, you never look back. But who knows? Perhaps we’ll yet find something to tickle your fancy after all . . .’
Frankie let the comment go. He hadn’t come here for a moral debate. Riley finished his drink and pressed a brass button on the table.
‘Hello?’ A female voice came through the speaker.
‘A bottle of whiskey and some ice for the red room. Oh, and some gear as well. I fancy a toot.’ He looked up at Frankie. ‘Tell Chloe to bring it up.’
The girl from reception.
‘Chloe?’ the voice checked.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’ Riley sniffed. He sat back.
‘So why did you want to see me?’ Frankie said. No point yet in giving away how desperate he was and that he’d been planning on seeing Riley anyway.
‘To find how everything’s progressing,’ Riley said.
Help: the magic word. It worked like a spell on Riley. A spark of satisfaction flashed inside his dark eyes.
‘There’s a witness.’ Frankie said.
‘So I hear.’
Frankie wondered again about Snaresby, about the make and model of his watch. Was he in Riley’s pocket? Was that how Riley knew? But if he was, then why was he pursuing nailing Jack so hard? Because he had no choice? Because the evidence against him was already so fucking well sewn up?
‘A solid one, an’ all,’ Riley said.
‘That’s what they say, but I don’t fucking believe it.’
‘The cops are taking him seriously enough.’
‘Him?’ Did Riley know that for sure? That the witness was a bloke?
Riley smiled, reading Frankie’s mind. ‘Her. It. No way of knowing, they’ve got them wrapped up so tight.’
Was he telling the truth? If he had a source close enough to the police investigation to know that there was a witness, perhaps they were embedded deep enough to be able to identify who that witness was, too.
‘I need to know,’ Frankie said.
‘Just know?’
‘To find them.’
A hiss of beads. Frankie turned to see Chloe walking in carrying a silver tray loaded with fresh glasses, a silver ice bucket and a bottle of whiskey, uncapped. She smiled warmly at Riley, but not at Frankie at all. She fixed them both a drink in silence. Then turned to go.
‘Wait,’ Riley said.
Chloe turned and waited.
‘Put on some music,’ he said. ‘Something nice and mellow.’
She walked over to a stereo system in the corner and put on a CD. Chill-out music. Ibiza style. Elevator jams.
‘Now rack us both up a nice fat line, will you?’ Riley said.
She picked up the wrap that had been placed discreetly beside the ice bucket and unfolded it.
‘Not for me,’ Frankie said. ‘I don’t.’
‘Don’t any more, more like,’ Riley said. ‘At least that’s what I’ve heard.’
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