And left.
Liz Owlett carried two cups of lemon tea into the bedroom, laying them on the pine dresser before moving to sit on the bed. Pam Edgerley was asleep and Liz hesitated before waking her, staring at the angular face. It was a beautiful face, thought Liz, the face of a fighter, strong and yet caring, the strength coming from a combination of self mockery and an ability to understand the funny side of life’s tragedies. Leaning forward, she kissed Pam’s cheek.
As always, Pam awoke with a smile. She rubbed at her eyes, yawned and stretched. ‘You spoil me,’ she said, reaching for the tea.
‘You’re worth spoiling. What do you want to do today?’
‘Nothing. And everything. Let’s just wander.’
‘You don’t fancy window shopping in Ealing?’
‘God, no!’ said Pam. ‘Let’s go to the park and feed the ducks.’
‘It’s raining,’ said Liz.
‘All the better. We’ll be on our own.’
‘You have the weirdest idea of a good time. I think I’d sooner stay in bed.’
Pam chuckled and sat up. ‘Not the greatest testimony to my lovemaking. Given a choice between being drenched and making love to Pam Edgerley, Ms Owlett chose the latter … eventually.’
‘Okay, you talked me into it – we’ll feed the ducks.’
The clouds were breaking up and the rain had eased to a fine drizzle when the two women entered the park at the western end, past the boating pond and the white war memorial. Pam was wearing a bright red anorak with the hood up, while Liz was dressed in a leather coat and jeans. They walked arm in arm for a while, until Pam leaned over and kissed the younger woman on the cheek. Liz blushed and pulled away.
‘Still yearning for the closet?’ asked Pam, masking the hurt.
‘I’m sorry.’
‘It doesn’t matter. It’s a big step. But it’s not irrevocable. Mr Right need never know – if you find him.’
‘It’s not that,’ Liz told her, forcing herself to link arms.
‘Then what?’
‘It’s my mother. She’s so old fashioned. You know, “Where are my grandchildren?” sort of thing. I really want to tell her about us …’
‘Don’t!’ said Pam. ‘Not ever!’
‘But why? I’m not ashamed of what I am.’
‘It has nothing to do with shame. It has everything to do with strength. Sometimes you have to be strong enough to be weak. When I first realised that I was gay I had this urge to confess it to the world. If possible I would have stood on the stage at the Royal Albert Hall and shouted it out. But it’s not worth it. I know what I am. I am proud of what I am. And what I do. Pam Edgerley has finally become a person I like. But I should never have rammed it down my parents’ throats. You understand? We can accept what we are. Sometimes they can’t. So leave them with their fantasies.’
‘And live a lie?’ asked Liz.
‘What sort of crap is that? Live a lie. You don’t walk to work in the morning and say, “Hi, I was a bit down last night, so I played with myself. It was lovely.” Privacy has nothing to do with lying. And what if it did? How many times have you told a lie to avoid hurting someone’s feelings? “What do you think of my new coat?” “It’s very unusual.” When what you might say is, “It makes you look three times fatter than you are.”’
‘It’s not the same thing.’
‘It’s exactly the same thing,’ said Pam.
‘Oh no!’ whispered Liz, stopping in her tracks.
‘What is it?’
Liz pointed to the bench by the duck pond. Bimbo Jardine was sitting there, hurling lumps of bread to the water where a black swan was feeding.
‘Do you want to go back?’ asked Pam. Liz nodded, but at that moment Bimbo turned. He waved. The black swan glided back to her island and Bimbo stood. The two women approached.
‘Mornin’,’ said Bimbo. ‘Come to ’ave a look at the princess, did ya?’
‘Yes,’ said Pam, swiftly. ‘Nice to see you again, Mr Jardine. Are you well?’
‘Yeah. You?’
There was something uneasy about the big man, a tension in his face. Pam looked into his eyes, read the hurt.
‘She’s very lovely,’ said Pam, pointing to the swan. ‘I’ve been reading up on them. They have quite a few black swans at Leeds Castle in Kent. Might be worth approaching them for a mate.’
‘Guess so,’ said Bimbo.
‘Have you been coming here long?’
‘Coupla years. I never got to know her really until she was shot. Poxy vandals done it. Dunno why. She’s lucky to be alive. I keep waitin’ for the bastards to come back and finish her, you know?’
‘I do know. People can be very cruel.’
‘Yeah. Course you’d know that, wouldn’t you? The refuge and all.’
‘Yes. Would you like a coffee?’
‘Sure,’ said Bimbo. Pam felt Liz tense at her side, but ignored it, and the three strolled up the short hill to the snack bar. There were no other customers and a Calor gas fire was unlit. Bimbo carried three plastic cups of coffee to a window table. Liz was shivering. Bimbo swung in his chair.
‘Oi, pal!’ he called to the bearded man behind the counter. ‘Put the fire on.’
‘We don’t light it until eleven,’ replied the man.
‘Excuse me,’ Bimbo told the women. He stood and ambled to the counter. Pam watched the scene from the corner of her eye. The man listened as Bimbo spoke to him, then opened the counter flap and wheeled the fire to their table. Once it was lit he retired to his counter without a word.
‘God, that’s better,’ said Liz.
‘You must be a diplomat, Mr Jardine,’ said Pam. ‘How did you convince him about the fire?’
Bimbo smiled and shrugged. ‘Just told him you were cold, like. You work for the council?’
‘No. I’m unemployed.’
‘I thought you ran the refuge.’
‘I do, but it’s a voluntary scheme. We don’t get any grants. We rely on donations. Also I earn a little from freelance writing.’
‘How many women you got there?’
‘At the moment … seventeen. It’s far too many, but they’ve nowhere else to go. There are also twenty children.’
‘That’s a lotta sad people, innit?’
‘It is the tip of the iceberg, Mr Jardine.’
‘Call me Bimbo. So, what do you do for ’em?’
‘We counsel them. But there’s not much we can do – except be there. Give them a haven for a while.’
‘But they gotta go home eventually though, eh?’
‘Sadly yes. Are you married … Bimbo?’
‘Nah. Maybe one day. Who knows? You?’
‘l was once. Divorced.’
‘Knocked you around, did he?’
‘No. He was charming. But I married young and it was a mistake. We all make mistakes. I’m a lot happier now. More fulfilled.’
‘Yeah. Are you one of them lesbians?’ he asked.
‘Good Heavens, you are direct.’
‘No offence meant. It just slipped out,’ said Bimbo, reddening
‘None taken, Bimbo. Are you gay?’
‘Nah. Got a mate who is, though, and he don’t seem too happy with it. Just busted up with his boyfriend. Funny business really. He’s got this massage parlour, see, beautiful girls. And he’s bent. Odd innit?’
‘How did you get to be friends?’
‘We was in the Scrubs together … you know, prison? … I was doin’ two years, and he was in for a few months on some cheque fraud or somethin’. We was cell-mates.’
‘How did you feel about sharing a cell with a gay?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Did you feel threatened?’
‘Nah. He’s only a little bloke. And he aint violent.’
‘Why should it?’
‘Suppose he’d made a pass at you?’
‘He did, as a matter of fact. I just told him to leave it out.’
‘But you remained friends?’
‘Sure,’ said Bimbo. ‘Is she your girlfriend?’ he asked, nodding to Liz, who was now staring out of the window.
‘You are an unusual man, Bimbo. What do you do for a living?’
‘Not much at the minute. You know, between jobs. Not got a trade. Not much good with me ’ands.’
‘How do you get by?’
‘Odd jobs. Collectin’. Mindin’. Casual labour sometimes.’
Pam finished her coffee and smiled. ‘It was nice talking to you, Bimbo, but we have to go. Good luck with the swan.’
Liz stood and moved away without a farewell. Pam caught up with her outside. The sky had cleared to a glorious blue.
‘What’s the matter with you?’ asked Pam. ‘How could you be so rude?’
Liz swung on her. ‘Rude? Jesus Christ! How could you ask him for a coffee? It was so humiliating. Now he thinks I’m your girlfriend.’
‘I thought you were,’ said Pam, softly.
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Then what is? Before we met him you were talking about living a lie. Now you’re angry because someone knows the truth. Make your mind up, Liz.’
‘I just don’t like sitting around with the likes of him.’
‘The likes … ? I think you have the wrong idea about him. He’s not wife-beater material. Not by a long way.’
‘Oh yes?’ snapped Liz. ‘I was talking to Sue Cater a few days ago. She told me all about Bimbo Jardine. Collecting? Indeed he does. Protection rackets, leg breaking. He’s a thug, Pam! He works for Frank Reardon.’
‘Small world,’ said Pam. ‘We had Reardon’s wife in last week. And I still think you’re wrong about Bimbo. You take the car. l want to be on my own for a while.’
‘I didn’t mean to upset you,’ said Liz swiftly, her eyes wide.
‘You didn’t,’ Pam assured her. ‘I’ll see you later.’
Liz looked around then tentatively kissed Pam’s cheek. The older woman watched as Liz walked from the park.
‘Will you ever learn?’ whispered Pam, when Liz was out of earshot.
Stepney sat in the narrow office watching Dr Matthew Adams reading his notes. Adams’ bald head was gleaming with sweat and his glasses had slipped to the tip of his nose. It seemed odd to Stepney that he should be sitting here so calmly while a man he hardly knew was reading about his death. Adams looked up and fixed his gaze on a point somewhere to Stepney’s right.
‘We are not achieving the result we hoped for,’ said Adams, his speech clipped and formal to the point of coldness.
‘Speak plainly, doctor, and look at me when you speak.’
Adams jerked and gave a nervous smile. ‘I am sorry, Mr Stepney. These conversations are never easy. I pray they never will be.’ His watery eyes met the old man’s gaze, then swung away. ‘The radiation, as you know, did not shrink the tumour in your lungs, and we now have a cerebral metastis to deal with at the base of the brain.’
‘And what is that?’ asked Stepney.
‘It is a secondary tumour. It explains the numbness in the fingers of your right hand. I think it is time you agreed to come into hospital.’
‘For what purpose?’
‘l think you understand the purpose very well, sir. The paralysis will continue, and also cause disfunction in your thinking. Have you noticed any difficulty remembering words?’
‘A little,’ admitted the old man.
‘Anything else?’
‘Memory lapses. Some chess moves I cannot recall. And yesterday …’ Stepney’s voice faded to silence.
‘What happened yesterday?’
‘I forgot how to move the knight. And you say this will get worse?’
‘I am afraid so, Mr Stepney. As the growth continues to expand these disfunctions will become more severe. For your own sake you should come in today.’
‘Stolz.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Stolz. My name. Henry Stepney is a … business name. My real name is Stolz. Heinrich Stolz. It is important to me that you use my name.’
‘Of course, Mr … Stolz? Can you come in today?’
‘No. I shall go home. I shall die there. It is what I want. I wish to see the things I love around me. You understand this?’
‘Yes,’ said the doctor, sadly. ‘Your family. Are you Jewish, Mr Stolz?’
‘No. Why do you ask?’
‘You have a number tattooed on your right armpit. I thought perhaps you were a survivor of the camps.’
‘No, I am not a Jew. My tattoo is from my regiment.’
‘I see.’
‘Be assured that you do not, Herr Doktor. Good day to you.’
Adrian left the massage parlour a little after 9 p.m. and entered the multi-storey car park some ten minutes later. His Jag was on level four and he took the steps at a run. Life was beginning to look up. On Thursday he had met a young man at the club and they had struck an instant rapport. Tonight, he had arranged to meet him at a small pub in Shaftesbury Avenue. The car park was deserted as Adrian pushed open the swing doors on level four. His footsteps echoed in the concrete chamber. A man moved from the shadows. Then another.
Adrian turned and sprinted for the doorway. Two more men came into sight. He swerved and ran down the incline towards level three, his pursuers close behind. A large man in a donkey jacket stepped into his path. He was carrying what looked like a pickaxe handle. Adrian leapt feet first, hammering the man from his feet. Hitting the ground hard, Adrian rolled and sprang upright, continuing his flight. He had always been swift and he thanked God that he’d stayed fit. He didn’t recognise any of the men, and had no idea why they should be chasing him. But their reasons were immaterial. Their intent was obvious.
A car screeched into his path, headlights blazing. He tried to stop, but he was running downhill. At the last second he leapt high on to the bonnet, crashing into the windscreen. The car doors opened and he felt himself dragged clear. A fist cannoned into his face, his head thundering against the car’s wing. The other men arrived.
And the nightmare began.
It was Melanie who brought the news to Bimbo early on Monday morning. They shared a cab to the hospital, where neither of them were allowed in to see the patient. Melanie found out that Adrian was on the critical list and unconscious. A policeman was sitting by his bed. He came out when a ward sister told him there were visitors.
Police Constable Ian Fletcher sighed as he recognised the giant. Ever since the night he and Field had interviewed the two men who had brought in the mugged woman he had wondered about John Jardine, and entertained the fond hope he would be arrested in the manor and brought to the cells resisting. Now the queer was in a coma and the concern on the giant’s face made Fletcher’s animosity vanish.
‘How bad is he?’ asked Bimbo.
‘Very bad. Fractured skull, both legs and arms busted. Broken ribs and a collapsed lung.’
‘He’ll make it though, won’t he?’ asked Melanie.
‘I have no idea, madam. I hope he does.’
‘Is he awake?’ asked Bimbo.
‘No. He’s groaned a couple of times. Look, I’ve got to get back in there. It’s not worth you waiting around. Believe me.’
‘I’ll wait anyway,’ said Melanie. ‘Is it all right to sit in with you?’
‘Are you family, miss?’
‘I’m his fiancée.’
Fletcher read the lie but ignored it. ‘All right. But not you, Mr Jardine. Sorry.’
‘Any idea who done it?’
‘Not yet, sir. There was a note pinned to his ch
est. Excuse me, miss,’ he said, pulling Bimbo out of Melanie’s earshot. ‘When I say pinned to his chest, that’s exactly what I mean. They used a staple gun. It didn’t make a lot of sense, but I have a feeling you might just understand it. It said “Does this look like a cold?”’ Bimbo stiffened. ‘I thought so,’ said Fletcher. ‘Would you mind explaining it?’
‘Sorry, pal. That’s not the way it’s done.’
‘Do I take it we’re going to find a lot more people busted up?’
‘I hope not,’ said Bimbo. ‘But you can never tell, can ya?’
‘Are you still at the same address, sir?’
‘Yeah. Why?’
‘We may need to talk again.’
Bimbo nodded and made for the stairs. Once out of sight he stopped and rammed his fist into a wall. He could still see Reilly in that dingy office behind the snooker hall, still hear his own threat ringing in the air.
‘If he so much as catches a piggin’ cold I’ll be back.’
Well they’d called his bluff. In spades!
For three days Reilly had extra men laid on at the Seagull, and he had taken to carrying a snub-nosed Colt Python in a hip holster under his jacket. Reilly had grown up in a tough area of Liverpool and was no stranger to violence. In his youth he had been as hard as any man, and had fought and suffered, won and lost, and taken his knocks. But now he was forty-seven years old, with a wife and four children. He was softer now, more aware of his mortality. A heart attack in ’82 and ulcer operation in ’84 brought that home to him. When Jackie Green had relayed Reardon’s instructions about hitting the queer he had looked for every reason to refuse. Green allowed him none; he’d even insisted on using two of his own men to back up Reilly’s team. Roache and Taggart. They had damn near killed the queer and Reilly had dragged Taggart away at the last, sickened beyond fear.
‘You’re a maniac!’ Reilly had screamed. Taggart had turned on him, his eyes glittering, the blood-drenched lead pipe raised! Two of Reilly’s men had stepped between them.
‘You’ve got to restore credibility,’ Green had said. Credibility? What they’d done was insane.
The door opened and a towering figure moved into the office. Reilly scrabbled under his coat, his hand hooking round the target grips of the pistol and swinging it clear. Jackie Green gave a mocking grin.
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