by Roberta Kray
His eyes narrow, the way they always do when her name is mentioned. His forehead furrows into creases. But he doesn’t hesitate in his reply, not even for a moment. ‘Well, for starters, I wouldn’t be sitting here talking about it.’
‘Exactly,’ I agree, rising quickly to my feet.
Surprised, he looks up at me.
I force a smile. ‘So what are we waiting for?’
Chapter Twenty
Johnny
So much for a quick escape: I knew I was fucked as soon as I clocked that flashing red light but I didn’t realize how badly until I turned around and saw her. That flimsy shirt, those long legs, that whole semi-naked business didn’t do much for my resolve. It’s hard to stay focused when there’s only a thin layer of cotton between you and your imagination. Even in the dark, in the moonlit shadows of the kitchen, I spent more time searching the outline of her curves than in listening to what she had to say.
Which is probably why I’ve ended up doing the exact opposite of what I intended.
We’ve barely talked since we left. She went upstairs to get dressed, retrieved her bag, came down and got into the car. And ever since we’ve been driving towards the dawn. The radio’s on low, some doleful tune to match the early-morning mood.
How much of what I told her was for real? Some, certainly. I don’t want the filth on my back. I don’t need that kind of grief. Of course, once I’ve disappeared even Dee will give in and agree to call them but I’m gambling on the fact that when this happens she’ll have the sense – bearing in mind what I know about Carl – to keep my name out of it. But will she? And what about Simone? How will she be persuaded to keep her mouth shut?
I glance across at her. Grim-faced and determined, she’s staring straight ahead at the road. All in all, as she’s driving, this is probably a good thing, but I get the impression she’s got as many crazy thoughts running through her mind as I have.
And I’m cursing, yet again, that I didn’t clear off when I heard about Eddie. I should have let go, cut my losses and run. What was I thinking? Prison must have mashed my brains. Now, to add to all my other problems, I’ve developed this shitty guilt complex, this insane notion that I might owe her something. But I don’t. I don’t. No, I got all that sorted hours ago.
So why has it crept back inside my head again?
Because she gets under my skin. There’s no denying it. She always has. From the moment we met, I knew she’d be a thorn in my flesh, a fucking pain. Everything was going fine that first day at the Buckleys’ until she walked in. I only had to look across the room to see the scrutiny in her eyes, the coolness, to know that she’d be trouble.
Just like Sarah.
Jesus, what makes me keep thinking that? She’s really nothing like Sarah, nothing at all. Well, superficially perhaps, same colour hair and eyes – but so have ten million other women. And yeah, I always liked sparky brunettes, but it was only ever a preference. When it came to opportunity, I never let prejudice stand in my way.
So I guess the only thing they have in common is their ability to make me feel guilty.
I get out my tobacco and start to roll a cigarette. Okay, fine, I’ll make a private deal, something to salve my whimpering conscience: I’ll pick up the diamonds this morning and spend the afternoon pulling in some favours. I’ll ask around, look up those old faces again, and see if anyone can come up with a name, any lead, any hint as to who could be holding Marc. I’ll give her a fighting chance before I leave. You can’t say fairer than that.
A weird persistent squeak interrupts my train of thought. It takes a second to realize it’s the sound of the wipers scraping across the windscreen. I glance up at the glass. A storm of white flakes are floating down from the sky.
It’s snowing!
And I can’t help smiling. I wind down the window and put out my hand. The flakes fall and melt against my fingers.
Simone gives an exaggerated shiver. ‘What’s the matter,’ she snaps, ‘you never seen snow before?’
For a second I feel almost embarrassed. What am I doing, acting like a wide-eyed kid? It was just an instinct, a step back into the past. Quickly I withdraw my hand. And then, to restore some pride, I retort softly, ‘Yeah, I’ve seen it before – it’s just been a few years since I actually touched it.’
She gets the message, and her cheeks go that satisfying shade of pink. What’s she thinking about – my eighteen years, my eighteen years of fucking nothing? I hope so but I doubt it. My world’s a thousand miles away from hers.
Before she’s fully recovered her self-possession I go back on the attack and ask, ‘So, when you called the cops, what exactly were you going to tell them?’
She frowns. ‘The truth, of course. What else?’
‘Well, it would have been a bit awkward trying to explain away the ransom note without landing Jim and Dee right in it. There’d be some probing questions about those diamonds. It wouldn’t have looked too good for them.’
A tiny growl emerges from the back of her throat. ‘You mean, it wouldn’t have looked too good for you. They didn’t have anything to do with the actual robbery.’
This is the opening I’ve been waiting for. ‘Ah,’ I say softly, producing a nicely timed wince.
I can feel her eyes on me, a series of quick assessing glances. Then she barks out a laugh. ‘Oh come on, you can’t expect me to believe that!’
‘I’m not saying he was actually on the job – God, Jim couldn’t nick his own socks – but these things take planning, information, investment. You don’t just roll along in a van one night and help yourself.’
Still she’s insistent. ‘No way!’
‘Okay.’ I shrug, watching the whitening road for a few seconds. Then I deliver the master blow. ‘So if he wasn’t involved what do you think I gave him five grand for – two weeks’ bed and breakfast?’
That clearly rattles her. I can hear the sharp intake of her breath.
‘Because I owed him,’ I continue calmly. ‘I didn’t like him, I never have, but I’m not the type of man who forgets to pay his debts.’
‘Or because he was going to help you,’ she argues, but the confidence is drifting from her voice. ‘He was going to help you get the diamonds back.’
‘And why on earth would I pick a stupid bloody drunk to do that?’ I shake my head. ‘No, I didn’t choose Jim, I owed him. There’s a difference. He came to see me a few weeks before I got out and – how does it go? – he made me an offer I couldn’t refuse. He’s been waiting eighteen years to get his share. I’d have done the same thing in his shoes.’
Even if I say so myself this whole story, virtually off the cuff, is inspired, a pure stroke of genius. She’s been searching for an explanation as to why I ever went to stay with the Buckleys – that whole loyalty shit never quite rang true – and I’ve just come up with a top-grade Class A reason. Now, when she calls the cops, she’s going to have to think twice about how much she tells them. If she drags me into it, she’ll be running the risk of exposing Jim too.
But Simone’s no pushover. After pondering this news for a street and a half, she asks, ‘So you’re claiming that Jim came to the prison and threatened you.’
Now put like that it clearly sounds ridiculous. So I counter the statement with an amused semi-laugh. ‘Threatened me? Of course not. He’s hardly Mr Mafia. No, let’s just say that he reminded me of where my obligations lay. And offered me a fair and reasonable deal. It didn’t seem too bad a proposition: I got somewhere to stay, a few home comforts, a chance to get my head together – and he got to keep an eye on his investment. Not ideal, maybe, but an acceptable compromise.’
The snow’s coming down harder now, blanketing the pavement and the bonnets of cars. Does she believe me? I know she doesn’t want to but it all adds up in the way that wrong things often do. And it helps that Jim and Dee have already lied to her – she can no more trust them than she can me.
‘I still don’t get it,’ she says, annoyingly.
&
nbsp; I try not to sigh. ‘What don’t you get?’
She purses her lips. ‘I don’t get why Jim was ever involved in the first place. I mean with the job or with you. You’ve already told me that you and Dee had . . .’ She hesitates, maybe looking for a respectable description. ‘Had a relationship, so why would he even consider—’
‘Because he didn’t know,’ I interrupt, attempting a slightly shame-faced expression, ‘not then and not now. Oh, he knew there’d been someone, he knew she’d been playing around, and I may well have been one of his major suspects, but he was never sure.’
She throws me a look of undisguised contempt.
I take it on the chin. ‘Hey, I’m not proud of it. It was just something that happened. We’ve all done things we regret.’
She gives me another filthy glance. Shit, I hope they haven’t had one of those heart-to-hearts that women love to indulge in, one of those drunken, intimate, sharing caring sessions where Dee told her everything.
But it would appear not. Unless she’s the actress of the century, Simone appears genuinely bemused. Her teeth are biting down, chewing on her lower lip. I try to objectively assess the evidence she has, to put myself in her position, and yeah, the ‘facts’ I’ve given her add up. It all makes a distorted kind of sense.
Well, apart from one obvious anomaly. And she picks up on that. ‘But Jim wasn’t like you. He was never a . . .’
I stare at her. Thief, robber and gangster are probably the words she’s trying to avoid. Perhaps she thinks I’ll take offence. And quite right too. I like to think I approached my career with a certain degree of professionalism. I was a villain, yes, but never some sordid piece of low-life.
She swallows hard and draws another breath. ‘I know he’s no angel but he doesn’t go looking for trouble.’
‘No,’ I agree, ‘but he was always up for business – Jim knew a good deal when he saw it.’ I smile. ‘We can all be tempted, love. Just look at Marc.’
There’s not much she can say to that.
She takes a fast right-hand turn, cutting across the oncoming traffic with the minimum of care. The tyres slide a little on the ice. ‘So you’re saying Jim was owed?’
I nod encouragingly. She finally seems to be getting the gist.
‘Okay.’ She pauses. ‘So does that mean that Eddie Tate was owed as well?’
Fuck, I didn’t see that one coming. Still, at least I don’t need to lie. ‘No, Eddie wasn’t owed anything. He was paid fair and square on the night of the job.’
‘But Jim wasn’t?’
‘Obviously.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because . . . because it was complicated.’
She gives me one of her sneering smiles. ‘I can do complicated,’ she says. ‘Try me.’
‘It’s better that you don’t know.’
‘What I don’t know can’t hurt me, right?’
‘No,’ I reply swiftly, ‘what you don’t know can’t hurt me.’
Which shuts her up for a moment.
But not for long enough. She’s off again a few seconds later. ‘So, let’s get this clear. Without going into incriminating detail, Eddie was paid but he still thought he was owed – why exactly was that?’
Christ, it’s like facing the Gestapo.
I could refuse to answer but that would just mean prolonging the interrogation. She isn’t going to give up in a hurry. ‘Because he was a greedy little bastard.’
As if bad-mouthing the dead offends her, she flinches.
‘Just like Foster,’ I add bitterly.
Simone quickly turns. ‘Roy Foster was on the job too?’
There’s shock in her voice, and alarm. I presumed she was already aware of that although, come to think of it, there’s no reason why she should be. Perhaps I imagined that Dee had told her or that she’d simply put the pieces together.
I should have kept my stupid mouth shut.
Now she’s gone ominously quiet. And I suddenly understand where her logic is taking her: three thieves on a major diamond heist and now two of them are dead. Which leaves me, the sole survivor, as convenient heir to a fortune. I can see how it’s all adding up: first I kill Foster, then Eddie, then . . . God, if it wasn’t so mad it might almost be funny. And if she knew there was a fourth, if she knew about Dixie, she’d really be crapping herself!
‘What’s the matter?’ I ask as if I haven’t got a clue what’s going through her mind.
She shakes her head, trying not to frown.
And I know it’s bad, bloody sick, but I can’t resist the temptation of playing on her fears. Most of it’s down to indignation – she’s already got me pegged as some fucking self-serving serial killer – and the rest is just an excuse to regain some control. I’ve been on the back foot ever since she caught me creeping out of the house.
I take a long slow drag of my cigarette. ‘Some people just push their luck too far.’
I watch her hands tighten round the wheel. She doesn’t reply. Of course she doesn’t. She’s too busy wondering what the hell to do next. It’s no great shakes being trapped in a car with a possible psychopath.
I avert my face to grin furtively out of the window.
But then, as she puts her foot down and rapidly picks up speed, I can’t help acknowledging that it’s no great shakes either to be trapped in a car with a woman who thinks she’s with a psychopath. I can almost smell her dread. Her mouth twists and falls. And maybe I’ve pushed her too far because we’re definitely going quicker than we should. It’s early morning but that isn’t to say the roads are empty. Far from it. She’s suddenly swinging in and out, indicating late, if at all, skidding round corners and driving like a nutter. And as the road flashes by, faster and faster, there seems every chance that we’ll end up wrapped securely round a lamp post.
I try not to look scared. I mean, shit, I’m a man, not some bloody girl. So I hang on to the side of my seat and grit my teeth. I’m not even sure where we are – an anonymous back street with nothing to recommend it, just two rows of neglected shabby houses with flaking paint and mean front gardens. A sad and ignominious place to die. Before my life dissolves in a flurry of snow and squealing brakes, I reach out to try to repair the damage.
I touch her on the arm and force a laugh. ‘Hey, come on, you know me better than that.’
She slows but only a fraction.
And for the second time today, I find myself almost begging. ‘Simone? Come on, you’ve got it wrong. I can explain.’
Now she’s finally communing with the brakes, thank God. We’re slowing, and turning left on to the forecourt of an overpriced twenty-four-hour chain restaurant. She pulls in by the entrance.
‘Okay,’ she says, glaring at me, ‘you want to explain, you can do it over breakfast.’
‘Sure,’ I agree, mentally counting the notes that are left in my wallet.
She gets out, slamming the door behind her.
That’s the trouble with women like Simone – they never come cheap.
She smiles sweetly at the waitress, ordering scrambled eggs, toast and coffee for two, before turning to scowl at me again. ‘So?’
So where to start? It would help if I wasn’t so goddamn tired, if I’d managed even a few hours’ sleep last night. I started this stupid game but I’m too exhausted to play it out. Now I just want to put things back on an even keel.
Through habit, I glance around, seeing if anyone’s close enough to hear. Considering it’s barely dawn, this place is busy, a yawning mass of salesmen and early-morning travellers, but apart from the scrape of knives against plates and the thin rustle of newspapers, there’s not much else to break the silence. I lean forward and lower my voice.
‘Look, I know what you’re thinking but why would I do anything to Eddie? Shit, I’ve just spent half my life inside. You think I want to go back? I didn’t even want to talk to him, never mind . . .’
She raises her brows and stares at me.
‘I didn’t kill him.’
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br /> ‘So what did you mean when you—’
I lift my hand in a dismissive flap. ‘It was just a comment. I wasn’t suggesting that I’d done it, just that he probably stepped on someone’s toes, pushed them too far. He was like that – sly, greedy, always on the lookout for the main chance.’
Do I feel bad about rubbishing Eddie when I know what actually happened? Not really. None of what I’m saying is a lie. Although he didn’t deserve to die the way he did. And I do feel uncomfortable, even faintly guilty, about keeping her in the dark over Carl. She’ll be going back to that house, living with him, seeing him every day . . .
She says very softly, ‘But you did kill Roy Foster.’ Pausing, she takes a breath. ‘Was that something to do with the diamonds? Is that why you argued with him?’
As if the suggestion is preposterous, I shake my head and laugh. ‘God no, it wasn’t anything to do with that.’
And thankfully, as I haven’t yet thought of what exactly it might have been to do with, the waitress arrives with our breakfast. She’s a skinny kid with long brown hair, pretty in an angular sort of way. Dumping the tray on the table, she gives us both a glance before she starts to unload it: plates, cups and saucers, cutlery. A few seconds later her gaze flickers back, lingering on my face for a good while longer than is conventionally polite. It could be my stunning good looks but I suspect it’s more connected to my ugly if glorious array of bruises.
‘Thank you,’ I say, smiling broadly.
She turns away, saving the full force of her smile for Simone. I try not to take it to heart.
There’s a silence after she leaves. We both stare down at our plates. Then, although I’m not especially hungry, I pick up my knife and fork and start to eat. For the next five minutes, as I plough through my overcooked scrambled eggs and toast, chewing with exaggerated enthusiasm, I’m temporarily free from uncomfortable questions.
It’s only when I finish that the danger levels start to rise again. It would help if I could have a cigarette but we’re stuck in another of those no-smoking joints. There are big red signs all over the walls. Since I’ve been away the world has apparently turned into a tyrannical health zone.