by Martina Cole
George Markham came into her mind then, his face. His little smile.
She had been on CID ten years then and she had learned so much since then that, these days, she could make sense of Patrick Kelly and his life. He was bad, she knew that. But he lived by a different set of rules and Kate had to admit that, against her better judgement, those rules worked for him. In fact, her boss Ratchette was in league with him.
But no matter what she had found out about him - she had known he was a villain from the off - his personality and his innate sense of right and wrong, however twisted it seemed to her, had drawn them together. She had forgiven him so much, had chosen to believe in him and in the fact that he had changed for her.
He had given up his various nefarious businesses. He had become legit for her. That was all the proof she needed to fall even deeper into his life and allow the natural love inside her to encompass them both.
For a man like Patrick to turn his back on his whole way of life spoke volumes.
Finally she had a man she could love and respect properly. And God Himself knew, she loved him with every ounce of her being.
Patrick sat in the conservatory listening to Willy in amazement.
‘It seems, Pat, that Micky was dabbling with Joey Partridge and Jacky Gunner.’
‘Who told you this?’
Willy shrugged. ‘I hear a few beats off the street still, Pat. I ain’t bleeding dead.’
‘So it would seem. What business was he in with them, then? Christ knows, he was into enough of them.’
Willy grinned. ‘The oldest profession. Be fair, Pat, it was always Wanker’s forte, weren’t it?’
Pat felt a sickening lurch in his stomach. ‘Not European birds? Not that?’
Willy nodded.
‘How did you come by this information?’
‘A little bird told me.’
Patrick laughed at Willy’s smug expression. ‘Lived up to his name, didn’t he? All this hag. I mean, the chances are Partridge or Gunner’s done him then?’
Willy shrugged. ‘Someone done him, Pat, and let’s face it, Micky could be a ponce when the fancy took him. Even I’ve felt like cracking him one before now.’
‘Everyone in recorded history has felt like giving Micky a dig before now. So where are they running the birds from?’
‘Paddington as usual. They have a couple of flats there and other places all over the smoke and the South East. Right ropey some of them birds are, and all. Dosed up to the eyebrows a lot of them and that’s not counting the HIV-positive ones. Micky offers them the earth, see. They pay up to a grand to get out of their country, he sorts it for them and then takes their passports and papers and tells them they have to work off the excess money they owe. It’s a doddle really. He was earning off them all over the place. If they got a bit lairy like, they’d get a right fucking hiding to sort them out. I always said Wanker was a scummy bastard.’
Patrick sighed. ‘So if he’s out of the game, who’ll be sorting it from now on?’
‘Well, Partridge and Gunner will be looking for someone else to bring in, won’t they? I reckon they’ll want to see you.’
‘Unless I see them first, eh?’ Patrick said thoughtfully. ‘Get the car ready, Willy. Me and you are going on a pussy hunt.’
Willy left the room and Patrick felt a hand tighten around his heart. Kate would have his balls and nail them to the dining-room wall if she got wind of any of this.
He knew that everyone thought he was off his trolley to take up with an Old Bill, even if she had found the murderer of his daughter. The daughter he worshipped, adored, who had been his whole life. He knew that people thought he was soft, losing it, that Mandy’s death had left him lacking the natural aggression he needed to be a hard man. He was aware of all that, but over the last couple of years he and Kate had proved themselves to be a good partnership.
The only bugbear was, Kate really thought he was straight now. He had been in every kind of business under the sun, anything from massage parlours to debt collecting. She thought he had given it all up. She thought he was straight now.
He closed his eyes in distress. The moment she heard about this latest piece of skulduggery she was going to go ballistic - and who could blame her? He knew he was a lying toe-rag.
The day she had moved in with him he had promised her that he would be straighter than a Catholic nun having a vision. He had not kept his side of the bargain. In fact, he had never had any intention of keeping his side of the bargain. Not for a good while anyway.
Like the man crying in the courtroom, he wasn’t sorry for what he had done, he was sorry he had been caught. Even he admitted there was a big difference between the two.
Harris Jenkins was a small man with large teeth and thick lips. His job was unhealthy but he loved it. Emptying bins was his life. He said he could tell what type of person lived in a house simply by the rubbish they threw out. And with his eagle eyes he readily saw things he could take away and sell on. A walking car boot sale, was Harris. A true believer that one man’s crap was another man’s treasure.
At the moment he was sorting through a pile of rubbish left by the bins at a small block of flats for old people. They threw out some great stuff. As he picked through the cardboard boxes he smiled happily. Let his colleagues wait. He needed to sift through this stuff carefully. Some of it was crockery and that could be worth a few quid.
Meanwhile Denny Gardener and John Piles were sitting in the bin van talking. They were used to Harris and his treasure-seeking. In fact, they welcomed it as an excuse for a break.
‘Here, Denny, how do you make an Essex girl’s eyes light up? Shine a torch in her ear!’
Both men cracked up with laughter.
Denny carried on rolling himself a cigarette. He placed a bit of skunk in it and John automatically opened the window.
‘You get caught smoking that and you will be well up Shit Street.’
Denny shrugged. ‘Who cares? What kind of job is this anyway? They call me a champion shit-shifter down the pub.’
‘It’s a job, son, remember that.’
Denny didn’t answer. In the side window he watched a woman hurrying down the street, a small boy beside her. Then, lighting up, he took a deep drag.
‘Fucking boring job and a boring life. That’s me.’
They both laughed.
John grinned. ‘Don’t knock boring, boy. The sun’s out and life is sweet enough if you think about it.’
Jason Harper was sitting in his brand new BMW looking through his Filofax. He had fucked up two meetings in an hour. He knew he should be more organised but it was hard. The glare of the sun was blinding him through the windscreen and he slipped on his Ray-Bans. A bin van was parked in front of him; it had been there for about five minutes. He watched as a woman with a small child walked across the road. She was nothing spectacular, and he only glanced out of habit. She was tallish with blonde hair but a very average face.
It was only when she stopped and glanced up and down the road that he looked again. Then, in pure disbelief, he saw her pick up the small child and tip him quickly into the crusher. For a few seconds Jason wondered if he was going mad. As he saw the woman striding off alone he catapulted himself from the driver’s seat.
Harris heard the commotion just as he was carefully looking over a china fruit bowl. It was a good one or he would eat his binman’s gloves.
A resounding shout made him fumble with the bowl and nearly drop it. Striding out of the alley he was amazed to be confronted by his two workmates and a bloke in a suit trying to climb into the back of the crusher.
‘What the fucking hell are you lot doing?’ He thought they had all gone mad. Carefully placing the bowl on the grass verge, he walked over to the men. ‘What’s going on, Den?’
‘Christ knows, Harris. Do us a favour - go in the flats and phone Old Bill and an ambulance, will you? We have a kid in here somewhere.’
‘A what?’ Then he heard a faint cry and it spurred
him into action. Running back to the flats he trod on the fruit bowl. The sound and feel of the fragile object crunching under his feet lent added speed.
His stars in the Sun had said he would receive a surprise today and they were right!
Jason was in shock and Kate realised that. She took him by the elbow and sat him down on the kerb. He put his head in his hands.
‘I can’t believe it,’ he mumbled. ‘What woman would do something like that to a child? I mean, suppose I hadn’t been there? They would have crushed the poor little sod.’
He started crying and Kate put an understanding arm around his shoulders. He could smell Joy perfume and cigarettes, and in some strange way, was comforted by it.
‘But you were there, Jason, and you saved his life,’ she said gently. ‘Without you he would have been crushed and so I think you should pat yourself on the back.’
He hastily wiped away his tears, suddenly aware of all the bystanders watching him. One of the residents of the street had phoned the local paper and Jason saw a scruffy young man with a beard taking a photo of him.
‘You are a hero,’ Kate said kindly. ‘Now let’s get you into the ambulance so they can have a look at you, eh? I think you’re in shock, love.’
Jason’s eyes were dark brown and Kate smiled into them. He tried to smile back but couldn’t. She helped him get up and walked him slowly to the ambulance. Then she turned to PC Black and sighed.
‘This is weird. Two cases like this in three days - what on earth is going on?’
‘Beats me, Guv,’ he shrugged. ‘Weird’s the word all right.’
All Kate could think about was the child’s frightened eyes. If Jason hadn’t been parked there it would have been a murder case. She hoped they found out who the child was soon. Bless his heart, he was well dressed and fed, they knew that much. A woman with long blond hair, tallish . . . but that could have been because she was wearing heels. None of the men had looked hard enough. Which meant she wasn’t all that special. One thing they were all sure about was the fact that she’d been in a hurry. But she would have been, wouldn’t she? If she was dumping a child in a crusher she would have been as quick as she ruddy well could.
Kate looked at Jason’s BMW and realised why the woman had not spotted him. The reflected glare of the sun on the windscreen made the inside of the car look dark and empty. So she had obviously thought herself unobserved.
Whoever she was, she had meant to kill the little lad. The knowledge left Kate feeling deeply depressed.
Caroline Anderson walked unsteadily into her small terraced house. She was still half drunk from the night before. Going straight to the bathroom, she had a long satisfying wee. As the strong-odoured water came out of her body she felt herself relaxing. She hated that smell. It was the smell of men. Strange men. It was bitter and acrid. The smell of her own degradation and the complete fuck-up her daily life had become.
After wiping herself, she ran a bath. She poured in half a bottle of Ralgex and watched the bubbles mounting, smiling in anticipation. A good scrub and she would let the kids out.
Stripping off, she stepped into the steaming water and lay back. She glanced at her watch. She was later than ever today. She had had an overnighter - and Christ, she had worked for the money! Three blokes and enough ‘toys’ to set up an Ann Summers shop.
She was sore everywhere.
Closing her eyes, she let the hot water do its work.
Kate watched as the little boy wolfed down another hot dog. He was obviously starving. A good-looking, golden-skinned Anglo-Caribbean child, he was bright and alert, with a fabulous smile. He seemed happy enough in the canteen with everyone making a big fuss of him. His big brown eyes were merry, and he had a sturdy little body. He was obviously well cared for, too, in his expensive clothes. A real little designer babe. But what was his name?
The child was no more than eighteen months old, though large for his age. The doctor had said he was in perfect health and none the worse for his ordeal. But he was a quiet child and would not or could not answer any questions. Kate found herself smiling at him again. He beamed across at her and shoved another large bite of hot dog into his mouth.
‘Quiet, ain’t he?’
Kate nodded at Black’s observation. ‘But someone knows who he is. Has Social Services arrived yet?’
‘Nope. Handsome little lad, though.’
‘Probably another poor little git with a waster for a mother,’ Kate said quietly. ‘I don’t know. Why do people go through all the hag of childbearing and then not bother to care for the poor little fuckers?’
The little boy sipped at his orange juice and Kate felt tears prick her eyes. He looked so helpless, so vulnerable. So bloody small. She swallowed down her anger and her pity.
It was all she could do.
Caroline was sleepy; the heat of the water and the night’s exertions had tired her out. She pulled herself reluctantly from the bath and wrapped a big towel around her body as she walked through to her lounge. It was as always pristine.
Lighting a Rothman’s, she pulled on it deeply and absent-mindedly straightened a cushion that was already perfectly aligned. Opening her handbag, she pulled out £300 in twenties and another £150 in tens. She had the money for that coffee-table she fancied and for Christian’s new trainers.
Caroline felt a glow inside. The night before had been worth it, after all. Something to put out of her head, like all the other nights she had so conveniently forgotten.
Yawning, she walked through to the kids’ bedroom. After pulling back the big bolt on the door, she pushed it open, smiling in readiness. But it was empty. The small, designer-decorated room was completely empty!
Caroline felt her heart stop in her chest. Rushing inside, she pulled back the covers on the beds and even looked under them. Her eyes were darting around the room, expecting at any minute to see her children standing in front of her.
The plate of sandwiches she had left was still on the night table. The bottle of orange was still there too. So they had not had their breakfast or anything.
Then she tore from the room and searched the house from top to bottom, panic mounting in her breast. Finally she collapsed on the sofa. Picking up her mobile, she dialled a number and waited for it to be answered.
As soon as the connection was made she screamed into the phone: ‘How dare you take my children, you rotten bastard?’
Her face drained of colour as she listened to Jiggsy Gaston explaining that he was currently in Liverpool with his sister and had not been anywhere near the kids. He sounded alarmed.
Realising that this was even more serious than she’d thought, Caroline broke the connection and phoned the police. Her heart was beating so loudly she could hear a crashing in her ears.
Where the hell were her two little boys? Where were Christian and Ivor?
Patrick walked into a small spieler in Custom House. It was practically empty except for two elderly men and a young woman who worked behind the bar. The girl was Lesley Partridge and as Patrick walked towards her she smiled to see him.
‘Hello, Pat. Long time no see.’
He grinned at her. ‘You look well, Les. Is the old man about?’
She shook her head. ‘Dad’s on the missing list again, I ain’t seen him for three days. You know what he’s like.’
‘Joey’s a lad all right. Give me a Beck’s, love.’
She opened the bottle of beer and placed it on the counter with a glass.
‘Me dad makes me sick, Pat. Still chasing strange at his age. But that’s him all over. I expect he’s still shagging some sort and will emerge eventually. He always does.’
Willy came into the small room and nodded at the two older men as he made his way to the bar. Lesley automatically poured him a Britvic orange.
‘Hello, Willy. Me mum was asking after you the other day. How’s things?’
He shrugged. ‘OK, love. Kicking, as they say nowadays.’
She laughed. ‘I’ll see if I c
an track me dad down on his bent mobile, eh?’
Patrick nodded and she walked from the bar, her large behind swaying suggestively.
‘He’s gone walkabout, Willy.’
‘He will, won’t he, Pat? He don’t want no one seeing him for a while. Wouldn’t surprise me if he was abroad like. Tenerife or Marbella would be my guess.’
They drank peacefully for a few moments until the girl returned to the bar, shaking her head.
‘Can’t get him, he ain’t answering.’
Patrick swallowed down the last of his beer. ‘When you do hear from him, tell him I need a word, will you?’
She nodded and cleared away. As they walked out into the light and air, one of the old lags stopped them.
‘Listen, Pat. I don’t know what’s going down but some foreigners were looking for Joey a couple of days ago. They were likely lads and all. No please or thank you. One of them was Frankie Oberzaki - and that is one dangerous cunt. He wasn’t looking too thrilled either.’
Patrick nodded solemnly. ‘You think Joey might have had a capture?’
The man shrugged theatrically. ‘Who knows? But he’s been ducking and diving a lot recently. Had a tear-up in Epping Country Club a week ago. Honestly, it’s like he’s going through a second childhood, the dozy twat. He was rowing with Dickey Dalton - the younger that is. Slapped him all over the place. Even the bouncers gave it a wide one. I mean, no one wants to be caught up in all that, do they?’
Patrick looked at him in amazement. ‘He had a tear-up with a little nonce like Dalton, at his age? Has he finally fell out of his shopping trolley?’
The man sighed. ‘It’s the okey doke, ain’t it? More goes up his hooter than on a dental association outing. Makes him paranoid. He’s rowing with everyone, and let’s face it, Pat, Mr Amenable he never was. One awkward ponce is Partridge.’