by Roberta Kray
‘You don’t need to worry,’ he continues, interrupting my thoughts. ‘Trust me.’
Easy for him to say. But I force a smile and make a determined effort to wipe the frown from between my eyes. ‘Sure,’ I reply, in what’s intended to be a comfortable easy tone but which emerges as more of a squeak.
He grins as I sneak a glance at him. I quickly look away.
It’s only as we’re approaching Old Street that I finally register the congestion charge signs. ‘Damn!’ I mutter under my breath. I should have remembered we’d be entering the pay-for-the-privilege zone but it’s been so long since I was in central London it’s gone clean out of my head. I pull in at a garage, fill up with petrol and pay my dues.
As we move back out on to the street he says, ‘They should charge to get out rather than in.’
It takes me a moment to pick up on the joke. Surprised, I reply, ‘I thought you liked London.’
‘Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘I don’t know.’ Now it’s my turn to shrug. ‘I guess I just presumed. I mean, you used to work here, didn’t you? You used to live here.’
He expels one of his long world-weary sighs. ‘Well, perhaps that’s the trouble with presumptions, love – they’re often a fair distance from the truth.’
Now there are plenty of people who can call me love, dear, sweetheart or any of those meaningless endearments and I won’t get the slightest bit bothered by it. But there are others – like Johnny for example – who can imbue those words with such stunning condescension that it makes my blood boil. Hackles raised, I’m about to snap back, to say something I may later regret, when—
‘The next right,’ he urgently instructs. He points a finger in front of my face. ‘Here, quick, this one.’
For God’s sake, he could have given me more warning! Veering dangerously across the street, indicating too late, I provoke the predictable road-rage of at least three other motorists. And with the window still wound down I get the full force of their horns and their unrestrained Anglo-Saxon vocabulary. Hunching lower in my seat, I try to pretend I’m invisible.
Once I’ve gained access, narrowly avoiding those pearly gates of heaven, I turn to glare at him. It’s the second time today I’ve almost met my maker.
‘It’s okay,’ he says, ‘you don’t need to apologize. I’m getting used to your driving.’
Too angry to speak, I grind my teeth and slowly count to ten.
He doesn’t seem to notice – or maybe he just doesn’t care. ‘You can park anywhere round here.’
I pull in at a meter near the swimming baths, still seething. ‘You know, I hate to be fussy but a bit of notice would have been useful, a hint that you wanted to turn right.’
‘I told you,’ he says, shaking his head. ‘It’s not my fault if you’ve got slow reactions.’
What? I take a few deep breaths. I know he’s deliberately winding me up and I’m determined not to rise to it – at least no more than I already have. I simply ask, ‘So where to now?’
He nods towards the end of the road. ‘I’ve got a meet in the caff. I’ll see you back here in . . .’ He examines his watch. ‘What? Shall we say about thirty minutes?’
I laugh. What does he think – that I was born yesterday? I might not be an expert but I know a simple con when I hear it. Slipping off my seatbelt I say, ‘Great, I’m starving. I could do with some breakfast myself.’
And that stops him short.
‘To be honest,’ he replies, ‘I’d rather go on my own.’
I bet he would. A quick hike around the corner and he’ll be back on Old Street, straight on the tube or in a passing cab, and gone before the dust has even settled.
I don’t think so.
‘That’s okay,’ I agree, sliding quickly out of the car. ‘I won’t get in your way.’ I slam the door closed before he can argue the point, then walk to the meter and feed it with enough small change for an hour.
When I turn around he’s standing behind me.
‘Look,’ he explains, ‘I’ve got a meeting, an important meeting – you know how important. It’s a one-to-one, it’s been arranged, and if I suddenly turn up with a stranger then—’
‘You won’t,’ I interrupt. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll keep my distance. I won’t sit anywhere near you.’
Johnny blinks his cold grey eyes. ‘It’s not a good idea.’
I know exactly what he thinks, that he can lose me in a second, that he can spit me out as easily as a piece of chewed-up gum. But I’m not going to make it that simple. Strolling back, I lock the car doors, and turn to smile at him again. ‘I promise. They won’t even know I’m there.’
‘It’s really not—’
I drop the keys in my pocket. Leaning towards him, I lower my voice. ‘I’m coming with you, okay? We can argue about it here, along the street, or in the cafe – it’s your choice how public we make it – but I’m still going to be there.’
The expression in his eyes doesn’t waver – but my courage does. What am I doing? Threatening a man like Johnny Frank, a convicted killer, isn’t the smartest move in the world. If I wasn’t in danger before, then . . .
But suddenly he looks away. ‘Okay,’ he agrees, ‘but you don’t sit anywhere near me, right?’
I nod, relieved. ‘It’s a deal.’
We walk together towards the end of the road. It’s all a pack of lies, I’m sure it is. There won’t be anyone in the cafe, there won’t be any meeting and there won’t be any reason to keep my distance. What will I do then? What will I do when we’ve been sitting for fifteen minutes waiting for his invisible friend to arrive?
We enter a small square lined with shops. ‘Over there,’ he says. ‘You want to go in first?’
‘No.’ I spot the place he means, more a sandwich bar than a cafe. There’s a short line of people queuing for takeaway coffee and rolls. Once he’s inside, there’s nothing to stop him from clearing off, creeping out the back door, or going to the Gents and sliding through a window. I can’t always be by his side. But whatever those escape routes, I can’t let him take the most obvious one – if I go in first then the minute I turn my back he could scoot off down the street. ‘No, you go on. I’ll give you a couple of minutes.’
Even as he starts to walk, I’m reluctant to let him get too far ahead. He looks over his shoulder and glares at me. I fall back a few paces.
But as he passes through the door, I’m not so far behind; like a shadow I’m sticking to his heels. Scuttling past the queue, I’m still convinced I’m right, that he’s playing some perverse unholy game that’s finally about to unravel.
So it’s something of a shock, as I follow him through to the back, to see the man rise suddenly from his chair. He’s as tall as Johnny but older and with hair as white as snow. The stranger rushes over to embrace him with one arm and pump his hand with the other. ‘How are you? How are you? It’s good to see you again.’
I slide into the nearest seat and try not to gawp.
I’m more than surprised. I’m shocked. But for the first time in what feels like forever there’s a tiny spark of hope.
Chapter Fourteen
Johnny
It’s true I meant to take off as soon as we got here but some opportunities are too good to miss. Anyway, what’s the rush? We’ve got six days until the deadline, plenty of time to have a little fun.
And I can’t deny that it’s been one hell of a day. We’ve done Old Street, Spitalfields and Soho: a nostalgic tour round all the old haunts and a chance to catch up with a few pals. Mind, the highlight’s got to be this morning when she walked into that caff and saw Patrick standing there. Christ, the look on her face was bloody priceless.
So Simone’s dropped the attitude, at least temporarily. She’s doing her best to be nice to me. It’s an effort, I can tell, but you’ve got to give her points for trying. Although if we’re being honest, I am her only hope of saving Marc so she can’t afford to piss me off. And her trust levels haven’t risen
that spectacularly – as I found to my advantage when we booked into the hotel.
‘Two single rooms,’ I told the guy at the desk.
‘No, one room,’ she insisted, adding promptly, ‘with twin beds.’
The guy raised his head and threw me a surreptitious Seems-like-you-just-got-lucky kind of glance which, being the gentleman I am, I naturally ignored. Anyway, it’s surveillance she’s got on her mind, not seduction.
So here we are, within spitting distance of King’s Cross, which I have to say hasn’t vastly improved since I was last in the vicinity. We could easily have driven to Essex, been back at the Buckleys’ in less than an hour, but I swear I’m never returning there. No, now I’ve got Simone to myself I may as well make the most of it. So I told her I had to stay over, that I might need to go out later this evening.
‘How long is this going to take?’ she asks, throwing her bag on the bed nearest to the door. She’s not taking any chances. If I’m planning on sneaking out in the dead of the night, I’ll have to get past her first.
‘Three or four days.’
She doesn’t look best pleased.
I try not to feel too heartbroken about it. ‘These things take time,’ I explain, ‘they need to be arranged. What did you imagine – that I’d dumped the diamonds in a left luggage locker at Paddington?’
It’s great to be able to wind her up and know that she can’t say anything back. She’ll have to keep that smart mouth of hers in check if she wants me to cooperate. Still, it doesn’t stop her narrowing her eyes and giving me a condescending glare. I take it on the chin. After all, a completely docile Simone wouldn’t be much of a challenge.
She disappears into the bathroom, hesitating before she finally closes the door. Clearly the choice between risking my doing a runner or having me listen to her pee is a close one but dignity wins out in the end.
While she’s gone I take the opportunity to look around the room. It’s clean for sure, the surfaces pristine, but they haven’t been too generous with the space. Not that I’m complaining. No, the very opposite; I’m used to living in a box and at this present moment, cosy suits me just fine.
There’s a TV, radio and a kettle, with teabags, sachets of coffee and several tiny containers of long-life milk. A nice cup of tea is exactly what we need.
When she comes back I’m busy emptying the contents of my bag. She gives me another of her suspicious looks, not sure if this is evidence of my intention to stay or just a clever ruse. Trust, as I’m rapidly discovering, doesn’t figure large in Simone’s vocabulary. Maybe I should have a little more sympathy – she has more reason than most for being cautious – but I don’t. She’s old enough and smart enough to take care of herself.
‘Tea?’ I ask, all wide-eyed innocence.
As if I’ve offered hemlock, her nose wrinkles at the prospect. ‘No thanks.’ She sits down on the bed, rummages in her bag, and gets out the A–Z. ‘So where are we going tomorrow?’
Ah. Now I haven’t exactly worked that one out. Another day in London perhaps or should we go further afield? Come to think of it, I wouldn’t mind a trip to the coast. It’s been bloody years since I saw the sea. Not the perfect month for it perhaps but a breath of fresh air wouldn’t go amiss. And the further we get from the Buckleys the better. I don’t want Dee suddenly deciding that she’s going to join us.
‘Norfolk,’ I reply.
She stares at me as if I’ve just said Tibet. ‘What?’
‘It’s not that far. Only a few hours.’
‘Why do we need to—’
I shake my head indulgently. ‘That’s okay, love, I understand. If you don’t think you can manage it, I can always get the train.’
I watch her face turn slowly pink.
God, she hates it when I call her love. And she hates it even more when I question her driving ability. Combining the two is like mixing dynamite with a particularly vicious Molotov cocktail. Under any other circumstances it would be a case of stand back and watch the fireworks – but she can’t afford to light that fuse. She can’t afford to burn her bridges.
‘The north coast,’ I say casually. ‘I’ve got to meet someone.’
Simone takes out her frustration on the bedcover, twisting it tightly between her fingers. ‘The north coast?’ She chews it over for a minute, clearly horrified, but eventually forces her mouth into a small tight smile. ‘Okay, if that’s what it takes.’
You’ve got to give her credit. She’s doing everything she can to help that loser of a husband. Although why she ever married him is a mystery to me.
‘I’m sorry,’ I sigh, in my most apologetic tone, ‘but I never said this was going to be easy.’
Simone raises her eyes and stares at me.
Well, okay, maybe that is pushing it a bit. Sarah always claimed that I overplayed the drama. ‘Don’t go to town, honey,’ she used to say, ‘have the sense to quit when you’re ahead.’
So I do.
I fill the kettle, make myself a cup of tea and then sit down on the bed. It’s quiet in the room, just the distant sound of traffic buzzing gently in the background. I roll a cigarette and wait for her to fill the silence.
It doesn’t take too long.
‘I’ll need to get the road atlas, check out the route. It’s in the car.’
‘Would you like me to get it?’
‘No!’ she retorts, as if I’m about to embark on the second step of the Great Escape. ‘No, really, it’s okay.’ She glances at her watch. ‘It’s almost seven. Why don’t we go and get something to eat. I can pick it up on the way back.’
I’d like to feel flattered. I mean it’s been a while since a woman wouldn’t let me out of her sight but hey, let’s get real, lovely as she is she’s only got one thing on her mind and it has nothing to do with my masculine charm. ‘You want to try one of those fancy restaurants in Islington?’
‘No,’ she snaps again, like an irritable wife. ‘I’m tired. I’m not in the mood.’ Then, recalling her obligation to keep me happy, she sighs and adds reluctantly, ‘Well, not unless you really want to.’
Just for the hell of it, I’m tempted to insist, but there’s time enough to see how far I can push her. Maybe tonight I’ll start muddying the waters, introducing a little sympathy and understanding into the mix. Not too much though; I wouldn’t want her to die of shock.
‘Sorry,’ I say apologetically, ‘I should have thought. I guess you’ve got more important things on your mind.’
She’s not sure how to respond to that. After a second’s thought her mouth stretches into a small pained smile.
There’s only a scattering of guests in the hotel restaurant. It’s seven o’clock, too early for most people, but I’m still trying to get used to eating so late – and in company. Inside, I mainly ate my meals alone so God knows how badly my table manners have deteriorated.
When the waiter arrives, she’s still frowning at the menu. ‘Simone?’
‘Erm . . .’ She stares down at the words as if they’re in a foreign language. ‘Okay, I’ll just have an omelette, thanks. Mushroom.’
I order the Beef Wellington and a beer. ‘You want anything to drink?’
She opts for a slimline tonic, ice and a slice.
We sit by the window and gaze silently down at the street. It’s prettier by night, the glittering lights disguising the dinginess. But I still can’t wait to get away. No, I’ve fallen out of love with London. Once it was the only place I wanted to be but now I feel like a stranger. Has it changed or have I? Hard to tell. A bit of both, maybe.
I glance at Simone. She’s got a distant anxious look on her face. She might be staring at the street but that isn’t what she’s seeing.
‘Don’t worry,’ I say, reassuringly, ‘he’ll be okay.’
She shakes her head. ‘Will he? You can’t know that for sure.’
Despite the fact there’s no one sitting near, I lean over the table and lower my voice. ‘What do you think matters more to them, a thirty-fi
ve-year-old accountant with a bad gambling habit and a roving eye, or a glorious fistful of diamonds?’
Her mouth clamps shut. She gets the gist but doesn’t like the references. Or maybe she’s just shocked that I’m aware of her husband’s weaknesses. She’s probably already embarked on that idealization nonsense, rewriting his character, and seeing the past through rose-coloured glasses. Women are good at that kind of thing.
I raise my hands. ‘Sorry. I wasn’t having a go, just trying to put things in perspective.’
‘What about Eddie Tate?’ she retorts. ‘How’s his perspective doing these days?’
Fair point.
‘Look, all I’m saying is that we shouldn’t jump to conclusions. Anyone could have . . .’ I pause as the waiter brings the drinks. Before I start speaking again, I take a few welcome sips. After all that crap I drank inside, fermented piss the most of it, it’s such a pleasure to taste real alcohol. ‘They might not be connected. Eddie was a villain and villains always have enemies. He could have been killed for any number of reasons.’
But she isn’t letting go that easily. ‘So why is he mentioned in the note?’
‘Someone taking advantage, someone spotting a useful opportunity?’ I shrug. ‘Eddie could have talked to anyone.’
She turns her glass slowly around in her fingers. I can almost hear her brain ticking over. She hesitates, weighing up the options, and then comes straight out and says it. ‘Do you know who killed him, Johnny?’
Her eyes are boring into me. But I do that thing that good liars always do – I stare straight back. In my experience, it’s usually a sign that someone’s got something to hide but common understanding is quite the opposite. ‘No,’ I reply firmly, with just the right level of aggrieved resentment. ‘You think I wouldn’t tell you if I did?’ There’s not even a hint of a quaver. But then lying is second nature to me now; I can do it in my sleep.
Our eyes remain locked tight.
She’s the first to look away.
And then the food arrives. Christ, I didn’t realize how ravenous I was; deception’s a drain on the energy. I dig in with all the gusto of a guilty man’s last meal. I’ve cleared almost a third of my plate before I glance up again. She’s toying with her omelette, moving it around like a piece of toxic waste. And while she plays with her own food, she’s watching me eat mine, her gaze absorbing every mouthful, my appetite clearly providing irrefutable proof of my moral turpitude.