Dangerous

by Jessie Keane

  The inspector gave her the same sceptical look he always did, and left. Then Jan came up to the office and told her Marcus Redmayne was downstairs waiting to see her.

  ‘You been speaking to the Bill?’ Clara asked her, more to distract herself than anything. Deeply though she grieved for Toby, when she’d heard Marcus’s name, her stomach had actually flipped.

  Jan shook her head firmly. ‘I wouldn’t speak to the Bill. Nobody on these streets would, that’s a thing you never do, turn grass.’ Jan looked disgusted at the very idea. ‘They still don’t know who done Sal then? Or Mr Cotton?’

  ‘No. They don’t.’ Clara thought of the coins on the floor in Sal’s pitiful little flat. ‘Probably a punter in Sal’s case, don’t you think? I suppose she was on the game a bit, on the quiet, was she?’

  Jan’s fleshy cheeks went pink. ‘No, course not.’

  Clara was staring at Jan’s face. ‘You’re a rotten liar, Jan.’

  ‘No, I . . . ’

  ‘Oh, come on. We both know the score. A lot of the girls turn tricks on the side, don’t they.’

  Jan said nothing. You had to admire her loyalty, and Clara did. ‘Who’s her landlord then? Do you know?’

  ‘Same as mine. That bastard Frate. You seen him around town?’

  Clara had seen more of Yasta Frate than she wanted to. ‘Did he . . . what about rent collections? Did he go and get it himself?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Jan with a frown. ‘He likes to play the bully, does Frate. Likes to frighten people. He still collects mine now, gives me the creeps, think he’s goin’ to put a ruddy hoodoo on me or something.’

  Clara stared ahead, thinking. ‘He must have called, then, while she was lying there all that time. To get the rent. Had she fallen out with someone, Jan? Do you know?’

  Jan shrugged. ‘The filth asked me the same thing. And no, I don’t. She seemed a bit more flush with cash lately, I do know that. She bragged to me about it. And . . . ’ Jan’s voice wobbled . . . ‘The poor cow’s dead, ain’t she, regardless who did it.’

  There was a knock on the office door. Both women jumped.

  ‘Come in,’ called Clara.

  The door opened. It wasn’t Marcus and irritatingly Clara felt disappointed. Towering, square-shaped Fulton Sears stood there instead.

  ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Wanted a quick word.’

  ‘I’ll see you in a bit,’ said Jan to Clara, and she edged past him out the door.

  69

  ‘What is it?’ asked Clara. ‘Only I’m really busy, so make it quick.’ Clara looked pointedly at her bare wrist and frowned. Toby had bought her a Cartier Tank watch, engraved With Love. She’d adored that watch, treasured it, and she thought she’d put it down in the ladies’ loos, but she’d gone back an hour later and it wasn’t there. It had been like losing Toby all over again, losing that. She’d wept actual tears over it.

  ‘I just wanted to say . . . ’ Sears muttered.

  ‘Yes?’

  He gulped and managed to get the words out at last.

  ‘I . . . I want you to marry me,’ he said.

  Clara stared, transfixed. What?

  ‘I’ll look after you. I’ll make you happy. I’ll . . . ’

  ‘Wait a minute.’ Clara let out a gasping laugh of incredulity. ‘What on earth are you saying?’

  Fulton Sears cleared his throat. Stared at her. His Clara. She was so beautiful it hurt him to look at her sometimes. But that would pass, and they would be happy together, contented. They would have a fabulous life, own all these clubs, and he would run them for her, they would be a terrific team. He knew it.

  ‘I want you to marry me,’ he said again. He was clutching his fists together, wringing his hands. This wasn’t going the way he’d expected.

  In his mind, her response would be to fall into his arms, be grateful, be nice.

  But she was . . . oh fucking hell, she was laughing at him.

  He thought of all the keepsakes back at the flat. Her handkerchief, her comb, and the new addition, her watch. Engraved With Love by that fairy cotton. But he, Fulton, was a real man, he was what she needed, all he had to do was make her see that.

  ‘Are you off your head?’ Clara demanded. ‘What are you saying?’

  Fulton couldn’t bring himself to repeat the words. She was looking at him like he was mad. He stood there, choking on emotion, unable to proceed, unable to take the words back.

  ‘Look . . . ’ Clara was clutching at her head. ‘Look, I’m terribly flattered. Really. But . . . I had no idea. And of course I can’t marry you. In fact . . . I’m sorry, but in view of this I think it’s best you go, don’t you? Look for work elsewhere. I’ll give you a good reference, of course. That goes without saying.’

  What?

  She was sacking him.

  He wouldn’t see her any more.

  This was a disaster.

  This was . . .

  Someone was knocking on the door.

  Go away, thought Sears. My life is ending here, just fuck off!

  It opened and Jan put her head round it. She looked at him, at Clara.

  ‘Marcus Redmayne’s still waiting,’ she said, and then she pushed the door wider, and Marcus stepped in.

  And Fulton saw it then. He saw the whole picture, straight away. He pushed past Marcus, and nearly fell out of the room.

  70

  Clara braced herself to confront Marcus again. He always put her on edge. His masculine arrogance annoyed her. She was so miserable over Toby. And she was still reeling from that ridiculous thing that nutter Sears had said. Marry me! What the fuck was he on?

  But then, maybe it was just as well he’d finally come out and said something stupid; she’d been unhappy having him around, staring at her, giving her that wounded puppy-dog look, for a long time, and that was the final straw, the perfect excuse to fire his arse.

  As Marcus came into the office, she watched him warily. Uninvited, he sat down across the desk from her and said: ‘Mrs Cotton.’

  ‘Mr Redmayne,’ she returned coolly.

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Do you care?’

  He smiled at that. ‘How are things?’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Oh, business, that sort of thing.’

  ‘All fine,’ she said.

  ‘You must miss Toby’s input.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Coping OK?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘No trouble then?’

  ‘Trouble?’

  ‘Nobody trying to muscle in . . . ?’

  ‘Nobody.’

  He pursed his lips. ‘Well, that won’t last. Things can only get worse now.’

  ‘Worse?’ She stared at him like he’d gone mad. ‘Would you mind explaining to me how the hell things could get any worse? Someone gutted one of my staff and the Bill have been sniffing around here ever since. Someone has killed my husband and the insurance people have said that he must have started the fire himself, which is a damned lie. I told them Toby was financially sound, he didn’t need a cash payout from the house fire, but then they said he must have wanted to expand, buy more clubs or a yacht in the Med or some bloody thing, who knew? And so they won’t pay out.’

  ‘You don’t think Toby could have started the fire himself?’

  ‘I just told you. There was no reason.’

  ‘Maybe he had a reason you didn’t know about.’

  Clara shook her head. ‘No. I don’t think so. And anyway, if Toby burned the house down – and he loved that bloody house as much as I did, so why would he do that? – then he’d have been a bit too clever to burn himself to death in the process, don’t you think?’

  Marcus leaned back in the chair, clasped his hands behind his head and stared at her face. ‘You’ve thought a lot about all this.’

  ‘Of course I have.’ Her voice wobbled as she thought of Toby lying there, burned and dying. If someone had done that deliberately, she wanted them to suffer – just as he had. ‘I’ve t
hought of nothing else.’

  ‘Then let me give you something else to think about. Things could get worse, Mrs Cotton. Far worse than you know.’

  ‘Is that a threat?’

  ‘It’s a warning.’

  ‘What, you think now Toby’s gone the time is right for you to walk right through here, take over my clubs, offer me a pittance for them? Is that it?’

  He shook his head slowly. ‘I’m not talking about me. There are others. You’re a sitting duck. So why not make it easy on yourself?’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Admit that running these clubs is a man’s game. Accept that and hand the reins over to someone who can handle the situation.’

  ‘Oh – like you, you mean?’

  ‘I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, Clara – it’s too dangerous. I can see that you want to carry on with it because it’s making you money, but I’m telling you now, that won’t be the case for much longer. You’ve already lost your house, why wait until you lose more?’

  Clara sat back and studied him. ‘It could have been you who set fire to our house, couldn’t it? Or any other hustler with gang money behind them, come to that.’

  ‘Clara.’ Marcus dropped his hands onto the desk. He leaned forward and stared into her face. ‘Take some advice, for Christ’s sake. Give it up.’

  ‘And do what?’

  ‘I’ve told you what. You want money, I’ve got money. Let me take the strain, you just spend the loot.’

  Clara heard Bernie’s voice then, echoing in her brain: That’s all you care about, money!

  Marcus Redmayne thought that about her, too. And it wasn’t true. She’d done what she had to do to crawl out of the filthy trap of extreme poverty Dad had left them in. She’d married an old man to put a decent roof over her family’s head, even if the idea did make her skin creep. Then Toby, dear Toby, who had made her wealthy again, who’d become her best friend. Her only friend. She hadn’t cared that he preferred bedding boys. After marriage to Frank, the comfortable settlement that she had reached with her second husband had in the end proved a joy for them both.

  Now she looked up at Marcus with his intense brooding black eyes and knew that any liaison with him would be very different. Marcus wasn’t old. He wasn’t homosexual. And he was nobody’s idea of a gentleman. She’d heard about him around town with a woman, a party girl, heard the rumours that he kept her in a flat somewhere, nice and convenient. And he’d want the same with her. Tuck her away, use her for his pleasures, spoil her with mink and diamonds.

  Then she thought of all the work she had done on Toby’s clubs, how she had turned them around, made them pay: she had done that, no man had taken control. She had. And . . . she had relished it. Enjoyed the work, found it fascinating and satisfying.

  Because you’ve got nothing else in your life, said that voice in her head again.

  Well, that was true. Bernie wasn’t talking to her, and she didn’t even know where her brother Henry was. All she knew of Henry was what David had told her while he was drunk, that Henry was into gangland life, working for Sears out on the streets – and was that even true? Meanwhile, she was kipping upstairs in the Oak, because she was temporarily homeless. And now Marcus Redmayne was sitting there like God Almighty, saying she could lose more unless she played ball with him.

  ‘Well,’ said Clara at last. ‘Thanks for the kind offer. But I like running the clubs. And I have muscle if I need it.’ Well, she did. Sears might be gone, but there were others.

  He was shaking his head. ‘There’s no loyalty, particularly not now Toby’s gone. It’s survival of the fittest and toughest around here, Clara. I mean it.’

  Clara shrugged. ‘Frankly, I don’t give a shit what you think.’

  Marcus straightened and stood up. ‘That’s your final word?’

  ‘It is.’

  ‘In that case I’ll say goodnight –’ He went to the door, opened it, then he turned back. ‘– and good luck,’ he added, and went out and down the stairs.

  71

  Fulton Sears was trembling as he stood in front of the little altar to Clara Cotton. His boxer dog Charlie came nuzzling at his hand and he kicked him away. Charlie let out a whine and scooted off.

  ‘Fucking cunt,’ said Fulton under his breath. ‘Fucking, fucking, fucking cunt,’ he said, and he swiped an arm across the altar, then swiped again, back and forth, sending the watch flying, and the handkerchief, and the comb with her hair still attached.

  ‘Bitch!’ he yelled.

  Charlie whimpered from across the room.

  She’d laughed at him. And why wouldn’t she? He’d turned dumbstruck as a lovelorn teenager when it came to actually talking to her, actually coming out and saying it.

  Marry me.

  Sacred words, beautiful words, and she’d laughed in his face as he’d spoken them, thrown it all back at him.

  That cow.

  And Redmayne. Marcus fucking Redmayne, strolling in there like cock-of-the-walk, so bloody good-looking, dark and tall and like fucking Heathcliff or something out of a bloody book, and oh there it was, the thing that had been under Fulton’s nose all along, the thing he should have seen, if only he’d had the sense to look.

  The way she’d reacted to Redmayne. All the little signs that were there, clear as day. Her lips parting; her pupils dilating. The downward flutter of her lashes. The inrush of her breath.

  It was that bastard Redmayne she wanted. Not him. Never him.

  He went through to the bathroom and stood there looking at his great ugly moon face in the mirror. Well, why would she want that? Tears were coursing down his ruddy heavy-drinker’s mug now; he looked ridiculous, an overgrown baby crying for what it couldn’t have.

  I’ll give you a good reference, that goes without saying, she’d said.

  A reference!

  He wandered back into the living room and Charlie cowered in his basket, accurately judging his master’s mood. Fulton didn’t kick the dog again. Instead he went to the scattered altar and snatched up the Cartier Tank from the floor. With a snarl he smashed the watch against the wall. Then when it failed to break he flew through to the kitchen, took a meat mallet from the drawer and pounded the damned thing on the worktop. It smashed now. But he kept on hitting it, over and over again, sobbing all the while, until it was nothing, it was gone, it was beyond hope.

  And soon, she would be the same.

  Her and Marcus fucking Redmayne.

  72

  It happened on a Saturday night, not long after Marcus came into the Oak trying to scare the arse off her. She was at the Carmelo, in the office upstairs, when there was a commotion down in the body of the club and Mitch came running in looking shit-scared.

  ‘It’s fucking Sears!’ he shouted, then ran out again, leaving the door swinging behind him. From the club below she could hear glasses smashing, tables being overturned, screams and shouts.

  Cautiously she went out and down a couple of the stairs and peered over. There were fist fights going on, men hurling punches, women running, shrieking in fear. Clara’s heart seemed to stop in her chest. At the middle of the scene was a big bald man swinging left and right with brass knuckledusters, his hands red with blood right up to his wrists.

  Shit.

  It was Fulton Sears. He’d made that laughable proposal, and then vanished. She’d posted a glowing reference to his home address, and then heard no more.

  But now he was back. And he was wrecking her club.

  Limp with fear, Clara crept back up the stairs, trying to be invisible – but to her horror he looked up and saw her there. He was grinning, wallowing in this bloodbath like a hippo in the mud. Clara went back into the office and slammed the door closed. Instinctively she fumbled for a bolt or latch, but there was no lock on the inside of the door – why would there be?

  So instead she jammed one of the chairs up under the handle and stood there, watching it, panting with fright. Then she snatched up the phone and dialled 999, all
the while her eyes fastened to the handle, waiting for it to turn, for that monster to try to get in at her.

  She could hear Toby’s voice saying Whatever happens in the clubs, we don’t ever call the police. We never involve the Bill, not even the ones on the payroll. We sort things out ourselves.

  Clara paused for a long moment. Then she slammed the phone back onto its cradle. Looked around for a weapon, anything, to defend herself. Sears had gone crazy, there was no telling what he might do.

  There was nothing.

  Sweating, trembling, all she could do was stand there, listening to the chaos downstairs and waiting for the handle to turn. How long would a chair hold him? Not long. She stood there, staring, unable to look away.

  Oh God, please help me, she thought, her heart hammering in her chest.

  The noise downstairs seemed to be fading. She could hear only men’s voices now, shouting, no more screams. Groaning, did she hear groaning? She thought she did. And . . . oh sweet Jesus, she could hear someone coming up the stairs. She could hear him, moving stealthily, creeping up the stairs. Her eyes were riveted to the handle. To the door. To the chair. She couldn’t move, she couldn’t even breathe.

  The handle was turning.

  Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, it was starting to turn.

  With a desperate cry Clara flung herself forward, put her full weight against the flimsy barrier of the chair. Her chest was tight with fear. She was right up against the door, she could almost feel him there, right there, on the other side of it.

  The handle continued to turn. She could feel his weight go against it, felt it shuddering through the wood. The chair bucked beneath her. He was going to get in here. He was going to get her.

  She waited, sweat trickling down her temples, sliding down her back. She could smell her own fear. If he got in here . . .

  There was no if about it.

  He was going to.

  A faint, deep-throated chuckle. She had laughed at him and now he was laughing at her. He knew she was in here and he was mocking her. She waited, watched the handle; he would come in soon, he would burst in here and kill her or hurt her, do something horrible, something awful to her. She could picture him on the other side of that door, barrelchested, bloodstained, sadistic and out for revenge.