by Martina Cole
When he heard the front door slam he felt faint with relief, listening with joy to the sound of her heels on the stairs. As she burst through the bedroom door he was smiling widely, so pleased to see her he felt his whole body would burst.
Then she stopped dead and stared at him coldly.
‘You have some explaining to do, Patrick Kelly, and believe me when I say it had better be fucking good!’
Chapter Four
Kate’s eyes were hard. Patrick had made a fool of her and she was not going to forgive him.
‘Listen, Kate . . .’
She shook her head angrily. ‘No, you bloody listen. I had to sit there like a right lemon while Ratchette told me in no uncertain terms that I was compromised by the man I lived with. He told me about your bloody lap-dancing club . . . he told me everything. I have broken bread apparently, in this very house, with a man who has recently been murdered - murdered in the club you owned with him. A club run for scum, by scum. So you had better have a good excuse, Pat, a damn good excuse. I also understand that you’re a suspect in the murder enquiry, though no one has actually come out with that gem yet. But I know they would have to have you bang to rights before attempting that one. You’d better get all your Masonic friends around you like a cloak, boy. They want you bad. Even Ratchette was expecting me to enlighten him about you and what you’re up to nowadays.’ She looked demented. Even her hair bristled with fury. He had never wanted her more than at this moment.
‘Do you know something, I could cheerfully murder you right now,’ she burst out. ‘I have a dead child and the possible attempted murder of other children to contend with and now I find that I have been sharing a bed with a lying, scheming bastard. You promised me, Pat, you swore that your days of ducking and diving were over. I must have been bloody mad to have ever believed one word that came out of your mouth. You said that the sex game was over, remember? Over and done with. Now I find out you’re involved with murderers and whores as usual . . .’
‘The lap-dancing club is perfectly legal,’ he said lamely.
She nodded furiously. ‘Oh, I’m aware of that. Don’t try and tell me the law, arsehole. I know the bloody law, boy. But it is morally wrong and you know it. You know I constantly have to deal with the fallout of what people like you do in their legal businesses. I’ve got a prostitute in a cell in Grantley nick, thanks to people like you. After Mandy, and that murdering bastard Markham’s taste for porn and easy sex, I thought you might have finally learned something about the so-called legal business of whoring, but no. Money’s at the root of everything with you, isn’t it? Bloody money.’
She paused and took a painful breath. Then: ‘Try the girls out first, did you? I understand that was Duggan’s forte. A bit of strange, as you call it. Too strange to sit in on business dinners - you had me for that, I assume. Nice to have someone who didn’t look like a grandchild sitting beside you, eh?’
He winced at the vitriol in her words.
‘Once more you have made a blasted fool of me, Pat. I had to forgive and forget, even when you were going to murder George Markham. I actually understood where you were coming from and I went against every belief I had ever held to hang on to you, to keep you in my life. Well, I have finally had enough of it, of all you believe in and all you seem to think you can do without even considering how it affects me. You’ve blown it, boy. Better dust off the phone book, but then again maybe not. They’ll all be too old for you by now, eh?’
‘Don’t, Kate. Don’t say things you will regret.’
She looked into his face, and shaking her head slowly she said quietly, ‘I don’t need you, Pat, not like you think I do. I’ve learned so much from you over the last few years, and do you know what the main thing is? Cover your own arse. And that, Patrick, is exactly what I intend to do.’
She pushed past him and started pulling clothes from drawers, piling them on the bed.
He watched her in distress. ‘Please, Kate, listen to me. I never thought you’d need to know.’
She faced him, her anger mounting as she looked at his handsome face.
‘You never thought, period. Good old Kate, eh? The Filth, the Old Bill. Mrs Respectable hanging on your arm. Maybe you thought I was a bit of added protection, eh?’
He grabbed her hand and dragged her round to face him, his own anger surfacing then.
‘I didn’t tell you because I knew you would act this way. I knew you hated what I did. But if I don’t do it, someone else will.’
Kate laughed nastily and shook her head mockingly, a gesture she knew would infuriate him.
‘Remember when that girl died in your scummy, shitty massage parlour? Remember what you said then? You felt responsible for her. You couldn’t protect Mandy, and you couldn’t protect her. I bet you don’t even remember her name now, do you? Be honest with me. What the fuck was her name, eh?’
She could see the confusion on his face and pushed him away from her.
‘I thought so. Crocodile tears then, and crocodile tears now. You really are a piece of work, Kelly. But then, I expect you know that.’
She pulled a couple of suits from the wardrobe and, bundling everything in her arms, she stalked from the room. Patrick followed her, nonplussed, unable to talk because he knew she was really going to explode at some point and what she needed now was a cooling-off period. He followed her down the stairs and into the hallway. She dragged the front door open and stormed across the drive, knickers and bras dropping on to the gravel at regular intervals.
As she opened the car door and threw her clothes inside she shouted over her shoulder: ‘By the way, Pat, her name was Gillian Enderby. A pretty girl, a drug addict. Remember her now?’ Slamming the car door, she wheelspinned off the drive and was gone.
He stood watching her, bereft, angry and chastened. Gillian Enderby’s mother came back to mind then: her hatred of him and subsequent attack. Sighing heavily, he walked back into the house.
Willy had a large Scotch waiting in the den and Patrick took it without a word.
‘I had a feeling she might have the hump, Pat. It’ll pass, she’s a sensible girl.’
Kate drove back to the station at speed. Her temper was so acute she could taste it. It was a metallic taste, reminiscent of sucking a penny when she was a child. That Patrick could have been a part of all that without telling her spoke volumes. Now Duggan was dead, and Pat was going to be questioned at some point. In fact, Ratchette had insinuated that he had to have been involved. Those were his words exactly. Off the record, of course. Ratchette would never actually admit to his own name unless it was on a sworn affidavit, and Kate had her doubts about that even.
Sweet Jesus, she was so upset that she could have hurt Pat physically. How could you live with, sleep and talk with a man, and yet know absolutely nothing about him? She saw now that all his talk of turning over a new leaf was just that - talk, plain and simple. He had bought into Girlie Girls almost immediately, it seemed. But it had been a strip club first, a few hostesses and a late drinking licence.
The metallic taste was back and she opened a pack of Juicy Fruit chewing gum she kept in the ashtray of her car. As she chewed, the sweet taste brought tears to her eyes, but she knew they hadn’t been far away. All afternoon she had felt like crying. She let them flow now, needing the release.
Her mobile rang and she looked at it. Patrick’s number flashed up. She ignored it, driving faster.
He was old news now. She had to accept that fact and get on with what she was doing. Concentrate on finding out what had happened to the children. Put him on the backburner.
He had humiliated her in front of her boss and for that she would never forgive him. When Ratchette had explained that if and when Patrick was interviewed, the chances were she would be too, Kate had felt an animal strength surge into her body that had frightened her. The urge to swing back her arm and fell her sanctimonious boss to the floor with one punch had been almost overpowering. He knew that she was well aware of his clo
se personal friendship and even business dealings with Patrick Kelly.
Between them she was pushed to her limit.
Well, Ratchette she must live with, he was her superior, but Patrick Kelly was her lover and as such was dispensable.
She would make sure of that.
DC Golding listened to the phone message three times. He was smiling with glee. Wait until he put this one round the canteen! Wait until Kate Burrows found out that he had listened to her voicemail.
No, damn it. As soon as he opened his mouth she would know where the rumour came from. But he would store it up for future reference. Ratchette was interested in all her doings and would be kept up to date. For a price, of course. It would do that uppity bitch good to be knocked down a peg or two, and Golding was just the man to do it.
As he lit a cigarette Kate’s voice reached him from behind.
‘Comfortable, are we? Can I get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Or how about a verbal warning?’
He jumped up fast, nearly unbalancing a pile of papers on her desk.
‘Sorry, ma’am. I was just taking five minutes off . . .’
‘That’s what the canteen is for. Remember that in future.’
She held the door open for him and he walked sheepishly from the room. She had needed an outlet for her anger and Golding, being the two-faced rat he was, had given it to her. The thought pleased her and she smiled. Her first real smile for hours.
She listened to Patrick’s message twice before deleting it. If he loved her so much, he should have thought long and hard before taking on Girlie Girls. Even the name of the club made her cringe. She wondered how often he had visited the place. It just did not bear thinking about.
What she needed now was work, and plenty of it. And that was exactly what she had. She only wished it was a common or garden murder instead of a child’s. She had enough heartache as it was.
As she turned on her computer she sighed. She would have laid money that Patrick was above board with her, but she should have learned her lesson from her ex-husband Dan. Men could not be faithful, honest or true. It just wasn’t in their natures.
But she would miss Patrick Kelly. Christ Himself knew, she would miss him.
Willy followed as Patrick walked into his solicitor’s office. Kate was gone and Willy had a feeling that she was not coming back, whatever he’d said to his boss. He had warned Pat as much when he’d started up Girlie Girls, and Pat being Pat had told him to keep out of it. Unlike Renée, Pat’s late wife, Kate wouldn’t stand for crooked business dealings. How could she, when she spent her whole working life trying to put them to rights? He could not for the life of him see how Patrick Kelly had believed he would get away with it all.
Willy nodded to himself sagely. Yes, Pat was a mug and no mistake. If Willy himself had been lucky enough to get someone like Kate he would never have ballsed it up for money, especially money he didn’t need.
As Patrick outlined his current problems to his solicitor, James Spalding, Willy’s thoughts started to wander and he had difficulty keeping his mind on what was being said. It was only when he heard Patrick say that he had been with Kate the night Duggan died that he was brought sharply back to the present.
Because he knew that his boss had just lied.
Patrick Kelly had been in negotiation with a known face about distributing certain videos of the more exotic nature. In fact, they were so hot they were burning the hands of the two blokes who wanted to get rid of them. Another worry for Patrick was that one of the men was Lucas Browning. Someone Pat didn’t like much and had no intention of working with. It was a lucrative offer, but Patrick had shied off - and Kate had been foremost in his mind when he had declined to get involved.
Willy understood that he would not be asked to alibi his mate, because he wasn’t exactly an upstanding member of the community himself. Whereas Kate was beyond reproach. But how she would react to being used like this was debatable. Especially after the shock of the clubs. Patrick Kelly was digging himself in deeper and deeper.
Willy wondered if the man was having a mid-life crisis. He had read about them in Woman’s Own the last time he was at the doctor’s. They sounded serious. Worse than a woman’s change, by all accounts. Or so the article had said.
Whatever was wrong with Pat, Willy wished he would sort it out so they could all get back to normal. When he was more on the ball than his boss, times were definitely dangerous.
Even Willy Gabney knew that much.
Kate looked at the photograph of the dead child’s shoe and felt an urge to cry. There were no local children missing of the same age and size. But how on earth could a small child be dead and no one have reported them missing? What on earth could lie behind all this?
The mother had to be missing her child, or was she dead too? That seemed the most likely explanation. But if so, where the hell was her body? And how had the child and the woman not been reported missing?
That was easier to explain, Kate conceded with a sigh. So many people remained anonymous nowadays. A true sign of the times. You only had to read the papers - people dead for weeks before the neighbours noticed a rancid smell. But they were usually old people who had always kept themselves to themselves. How could you do that with a toddler?
Small children were hard work. They needed food, nappies and trips to the park on a regular basis. But that was for normal people and Kate knew that they were soon going to be the minority. Or at least that’s how it seemed to her. Some of the characters she dealt with would blow the average person’s mind. Scummy types, people who saw their own children as nothing. Who used and abused them without a second’s thought.
Look at Caroline and Regina.
Both mothers, both unable to distinguish between right and wrong. Though in fairness to Caroline she at least seemed to do what she did for her kids’ sake. Regina seemed to see hers merely as things that just happened to be there, something she had done. She had produced three good-looking and completely uncared-for kids and no one, including Social Services, seemed to think this was in any way abnormal, or that the way such families lived was totally and utterly wrong. That kids were entitled to be treated well, fed well and loved well. That they had the right to be educated from birth to become regular people.
Kate frequently visited homes where the sons and daughters were already parents, yet still at school. Dirty, filthy people who reproduced at an alarming rate then dumped their kids on the streets to get them out of their hair. Three and four year olds playing out all day and into the night. No one checking on them, no one worried they might be taken away.
She wiped a hand across her face and sighed. This was just her anger, manifesting itself against other people instead of against Patrick. It was he who was making her feel like this. Making her feel that all her efforts were futile. She had to pull herself together. But she was hurting so much, it was a physical pain.
Who did the tiny trainer belong to? What was his sad little story, and would she ever be able to piece it together so that at least, for once in his short life, someone cared enough to find out what had happened to him?
Lucas Browning was not the usual sort of pimp. In fact he was as unlike a pimp as anyone could imagine. For a start he was grotesquely fat, so big he had trouble walking and breathing and spent most of his time in his flat in Hoxton ensconced in a large armchair. He slept there, he ate there, he even had sex there - not an easy feat by anyone’s standards.
But he scared the girls easily.
He obtained them from an ad in the local papers, recruiting for escort services and promising big gains financially. They came running. Then he talked them through what he expected from them, and gave them a large drink of whatever took their fancy. This he laced with Valium or sometimes Norval, depending on how he felt.
Two friends would then give them the business while Lucas watched, and while he videoed it. Most of the girls were from nice homes, at school or college, looking for a bit of escort work to tide them over.
He dragged them deep into a pit of despair and then used them. Threatened them with exposure, with violence, and worst of all - with a repeat performance. Once they saw the video, he had them and he knew it. He also had their address, their phone number; he even knew what school they went to and what their siblings’ names were. He came over like a big fat puppy at first, and they warmed to him. He was such a nice man. They confided in him. Told him their little wants and dreams. And Lucas let them believe their dreams were within their grasp.
At first, that is.
After a year or two he let the clubs or the pimps have them. They were too jaded now for his clientèle who liked them young and fresh. Liked them when they were still nervous, still new to it.
All in all Lucas had a good little earner without even getting out of his chair. This appealed to his lazy nature. And once they had done the delights for him, with his disgusting body, they would do it for anyone. It was all about breaking down taboos, breaking down spirits, and Lucas was an undisputed master of that.
Such was the mind of Lucas Browning.
Now he had a little problem and was wondering how to solve it without getting into too much trouble.
A plump young girl with thick red hair and fat thighs was sitting opposite him, smiling. But he wasn’t seeing her, he was seeing Micky Duggan. A dead Micky Duggan.
‘Has Kelly been into the club, do you know?’
Clarissa Shelly shook her head. ‘Not that I know of, but they ain’t going to tell me, are they?’ She lit a cigarette and he saw that her fingers were stained with nicotine. ‘Can I go now, please?’
‘No, you can’t fucking go yet.’
She sat back in her chair and smoked nervously, taking little puffs and inhaling loudly.