The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  ‘No.’

  ‘Oh,’ she says. Her scarlet mouth puckers into disapproval. ‘Well, in that case I’m sorry, but Mr Ainsworth is busy. If you’d like to—’

  He doesn’t wait for the rest of the brush-off. ‘Tell him Johnny Frank’s here.’

  Her expression, if it’s possible, slides into something even less friendly. A touch of frost enters her tone. ‘I’m sorry but I’m afraid—’

  ‘Johnny Frank,’ he repeats. He nods towards the nearest sofa. ‘There’s no rush. I can wait.’

  She gives him a hard stare but it’s wasted. He’s already turned his back. She watches, unsure, as he strolls confidently away. He’s either important or a chancer – she can’t make up her mind which. Eventually she turns her belligerent attention to me. In five seconds flat her gaze has rolled from my head to my toes, making an assessment so dismissive that it would rock even the most confident of females. Following Johnny’s lead, I do the only thing I can – retreat.

  It’s only as I’m walking away that I realize the place is full of mirrors. From every angle, I’m faced with a multitude of less than gratifying images. My hair, a victim of the snow and rain, looks like it hasn’t been combed for a year. There are definite bags under my eyes, a pair of dull mauve shadows. Even my skin looks grey. I shudder and slump down beside Johnny on the plush velvet cushions.

  There’s a pile of magazines on the coffee table in front of us, all the latest editions. GQ, Esquire, Golfing Weekly, even Playboy. Ted Ainsworth clearly isn’t intent on attracting a female clientele. I look at Johnny. He glances back, shrugs, almost smiles. I look at the receptionist. She’s on the phone, whispering furtively into the receiver. I get the feeling we’re about to be thrown out.

  But I’m wrong. Within a couple of minutes the lift doors open and a suave thirty-something male sweeps into the foyer. He’s so good-looking, so dazzlingly handsome, that my jaw drops. Is everyone who works here obliged to be beautiful? Perhaps it’s in the job description. He walks in a straight line, as if he’s heading for the exit, but just as I think he’s about to pass by he stops and turns to face us.

  ‘Johnny Frank?’

  Johnny, with a lifetime of never voluntarily admitting to anything he doesn’t need to, gazes silently back. Whoever this man is, he clearly isn’t Ted Ainsworth.

  The Adonis pauses for a moment and then smiles, his mouth opening to reveal two rows of perfect white teeth. ‘You don’t remember me.’

  Now Johnny’s eyes narrow, his head tilting up a little to examine the stranger. His frown makes its customary appearance. But he still doesn’t speak.

  The wonderful mouth gives a low harmonious laugh. ‘Well, you haven’t changed much, mate. Still as talkative as ever. I take it you wanted to see my old man?’

  Johnny finally shifts off his seat and stands up. ‘Dean?’

  ‘You’ve got it.’

  ‘My God,’ he says, staring at him. And a look I haven’t seen before spreads over his face, a mixture of incredulity and what might almost be pain. As if the ghost of Christmas Past has just entered his line of vision, a reminder of all the years he has lost, he slowly shakes his head.

  Dean laughs again. ‘I guess it has been a while. How are you doing? I heard you were out.’ He extends a hand, grinning. ‘It’s good to see you again. I hope you’re not after a brief already.’

  ‘Not yet,’ Johnny replies, in what I hope is a joke.

  ‘Thing is,’ Dean continues, ‘you obviously haven’t heard but . . . well, Dad’s not around any more.’

  I hear the sharp intake of Johnny’s breath. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t—’

  Seeing his expression, Dean quickly jumps in again. ‘Hell no, I didn’t mean . . . No, the old bugger’s still alive and kicking. Even the devil isn’t clamouring for his soul. He just doesn’t work here now. He’s retired – or so he claims. Although that doesn’t stop him constantly interfering. You should give him a call.’

  ‘I was hoping to see him.’

  ‘Not today,’ Dean replies, emphatically. ‘Well, not unless you’ve brought your passport with you. He’s living in Spain.’

  And just the mention of that country reminds me of Marc again. Spain, bloody Spain – what is it with that place?

  A despondent sigh escapes from Johnny’s throat.

  ‘Maybe I can help,’ Dean says.

  Johnny doesn’t look convinced. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘Complicated is what I do.’ He glances around the opulent foyer. ‘Complicated is what I get paid for.’ Putting a hand on Johnny’s shoulder he insists, ‘Come on, come upstairs. We’ll talk about it there.’

  For the first time, Dean’s gaze shifts over to me. His eyes are a strong clear blue, his lashes almost too prettily dark. I try not to swoon.

  ‘Oh, this is Simone,’ Johnny admits reluctantly. He utters my name as he might describe some minor ailment, an embarrassing rash or irritation.

  Dean’s perfectly manicured hand is already reaching out for mine.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says.

  I’d like to reply ‘likewise’ but as his warm fingers fold around mine, I have the ominous feeling that any response might emerge as an embarrassing squeak. I smile and nod.

  We go up in the lift, a miniature reproduction of the luxury foyer. There’s something that feels distinctly like velvet on the walls. Everything metallic shines. Even the rows of floor buttons are bright as silver. No fingerprints here. For the brief time it takes to ascend, everyone is silent.

  The doors swish open into the cool sea-blue of Dean’s spacious office. It’s dark outside and the windows, floor to ceiling, reveal an illuminated view across the city. It’s panoramic, amazing. I try not to gawp. This, of course, is only the next reception area.

  Dean turns his blue gaze on me. ‘Would you like a drink?’

  I nod again. I’m beginning to feel like a silent witness. Clearing my throat, I open my mouth and finally manage to say, ‘Thank you. Coffee would be nice.’

  He glances towards the blonde behind the desk. ‘Alison. Three coffees, please.’

  As he and Johnny disappear into the inner sanctum, I’m left to my own devices again. The blonde, this one a touch less frosty than the last, smiles at me. I wonder how she feels, being treated like a waitress. When she emerges from her prison, click-clacking across the wooden floor, I catch a glimpse of her Jimmy Choo shoes. No, if she’s paid enough to be able to afford those particular high heels, I’m sure it doesn’t bother her at all.

  In her absence, I gaze around the room. Who says crime doesn’t pay? This space alone must have cost more than a few high-profile trials to decorate. It’s only as I glance down at the coffee table, as I start to idly peruse the glossy brochures, that I realize Ainsworth, Jolly & Co. are more involved with the corporate side of law than the criminal. Business takeovers, sales and mergers are clearly more in their line of work than the shady misdemeanours of the underworld.

  So what the hell is Johnny doing here?

  It would make sense that a lawyer, or at least a certain kind of lawyer, might be holding the diamonds. But Johnny didn’t even know this address until half an hour ago. And if the gems were here all along then why have we been trudging all over London? No, I don’t think Dean Ainsworth, or his father, has any connection to Johnny’s diamonds – well, not unless they used them to buy the building. And why am I calling them Johnny’s diamonds? Whoever they belong to, it certainly isn’t him.

  Alison deposits a china cup and saucer on the table. The aroma of freshly ground coffee beans rises up. ‘Thank you.’

  She bestows another small smile.

  ‘Busy?’ I ask sweetly. The smartest detectives always engage the staff in conversation.

  ‘Very,’ she replies bluntly, before returning to the computer. Her fingers fly swiftly, expertly across the keys, with a touch so soft it’s barely audible. The smartest detectives, I recall too late, never ask questions that can be answered with a single word.

>   The minutes tick by. I wonder which of his many ‘complications’ Johnny is sharing with Dean – his lost property, the unfortunate death of Eddie Tate, or perhaps his recent and unwelcome encounter with the Fosters. Maybe Mr Ainsworth Jnr runs a lucrative sideline in one-way tickets to Bolivia.

  At regular intervals, Alison peers at me over the rims of her designer glasses. She’s clearly worried that I might purloin the silver teaspoons. It’s hardly surprising. Neither Johnny nor I look exactly reputable, he with his bruised face and I with my mud-spattered clothes. To say we lower the tone is an understatement.

  Exhaustion is catching up. It’s warm in the room and the sofa, soft as a bed, is enticingly comfortable. I can feel my eyes beginning to close. I’ve been without sleep for too many hours, driven purely by adrenaline and coffee. Just forty winks perhaps, a catnap, something to refresh the brain.

  I’m sliding into that blessed state of oblivion, limbs relaxing, all thoughts dissolving, when the door to the inner office suddenly clicks open. In the silence of my head it sounds like a gunshot. Startled, I spring back to reality.

  Johnny’s the first to emerge, looking – what? Certainly not pleased but not unhappy either. More puzzled than anything. Dean glides out behind him, his expression entirely neutral. I stand up to join them as they stroll towards the lift.

  ‘Don’t be a stranger,’ Dean says, shaking his hand. ‘And if there’s anything else – you know where I am.’

  Johnny nods. ‘I appreciate it.’

  Finally registering my presence, Dean turns and graciously extends his hand again. I expect him to repeat the courtesies of earlier, ‘Nice to meet you,’ or something of the like. Instead, he smiles enigmatically and says, ‘Good luck.’

  ‘You too,’ I reply automatically.

  It’s only as I step into the lift that the inanity of my response begins to register. Judging from the evidence to date, luck’s the last thing Mr Ainsworth is in need of. I stare down at my boots until the doors have closed. Whatever happened to my confidence and charm? I swear I had some once.

  Johnny doesn’t seem eager to share whatever news he may have. When we reach the ground floor he walks swiftly through the foyer. I follow in his wake. The Ice Queen raises her head and stares after us. She’s probably memorizing our descriptions in case she needs to call the cops.

  ‘Damn it,’ Johnny mutters, as he climbs into the passenger seat. And that isn’t encouraging. I’ve got no idea what particular aspect of the whole God-awful mess he’s referring to. I get in, fasten my seatbelt, start the engine, reverse out and manoeuvre the car towards the exit.

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘I need a drink,’ he says. ‘That hotel, the one we stayed in before. Take a right. It’s only down the road.’

  I slide back into the traffic. For the next five minutes, we don’t speak. From one set of lights to the next, we edge slowly forward. I glance at my watch: five thirty, the time I’d usually be starting to shut up shop, to bring in the flowers. I wonder what Kerry Anne’s doing now. Does she wonder where I am? God, I wish I was there, that I had nothing more to worry about than cashing up and sorting out the roses. Is Dee with her? Perhaps she is, trying to occupy the time, to lose herself. I miss her. I even miss the aimless bickering. That was preferable to this. Although, let’s face it, almost anything would be better than this.

  ‘Simone.’

  What now?

  ‘The lights,’ he says.

  I look up. They’re on green. And he’s not the only one complaining. There’s a queue behind me getting ever more restless. Someone starts hooting. I take off more quickly than I should, stopping only inches from the car in front as the queue grinds suddenly to a halt again. What’s the point in rushing? No one’s going anywhere.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asks.

  It’s Monday evening. The deadline runs out on Thursday, the deadline on my husband’s life, and there’s still no evidence, not even a hint, that Johnny has either got the diamonds or would be willing to hand them over if he had. Just how okay, how perfectly calm, does he expect me to feel?

  Ignoring his question, I stare straight ahead.

  ‘Simone?’

  ‘I can’t do this any more. You’ve got to talk to me, I need to know what’s going on.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘For God’s sake, don’t I have the right to know?’

  He hesitates. ‘I mean I’m not sure what’s going on.’

  ‘What?’ I feel a chill slide down my spine. If Johnny’s in the dark, if things aren’t working out, then what chance has Marc got? ‘You can’t get the diamonds. Is that what you’re saying?’ I lower my face over the steering wheel. ‘Jesus!’

  ‘Fuck it, Simone, keep your eyes on the road! We’re no use to him dead.’

  ‘Or alive either, the way things are looking.’

  ‘Don’t be so hysterical. Did I say I couldn’t get the diamonds?’ He leans back in the seat, expelling one of his anti-female sighs.

  I take a second to absorb the information. Then I ask quietly, ‘So what’s the problem then?’

  ‘The problem is that I don’t know who we’re dealing with.’

  ‘And that matters because?’

  He looks at me like I’m an imbecile. ‘That matters, sweetheart, because if we don’t know who they are, then we don’t know whether we can trust them or not.’

  And now he’s introduced a whole new element of fear into the equation. ‘You mean, we could give them the diamonds and they could still . . .’ I don’t need to finish the sentence. I don’t think I could even if I wanted to. A vice has started to tighten in my chest, squeezing at my heart and lungs.

  Johnny turns his grey face to the window.

  It takes me a moment to get my breath back. ‘So why would Dean Ainsworth know anything?’

  ‘He wouldn’t . . . but his old man might. He moves in rather less desirable circles. Ted always has his ear to the ground.’

  ‘Very useful,’ I say caustically, ‘if he wasn’t sunning himself on a beach in Spain.’

  ‘They do have phones in the Mediterranean.’

  Perhaps I shouldn’t have been so dismissive. A brief surge of optimism quells the shaking in my hands. ‘You managed to talk to him?’

  ‘Briefly.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And he’ll get back to me.’

  I bite my lip in disappointment. This is another dead end, I’m sure of it, nothing worth getting excited about. ‘Is he a friend of yours?’

  ‘More of an associate.’

  ‘A villain then,’ I say, with a certain edge.

  Johnny grins. ‘Takes one to catch one.’

  I swing a left and then a right, slipping into the forecourt of the hotel. I want to park near the entrance but there are no free slots so I do a further circuit and choose the first available space. I stand shivering in the rain while he gets the bags out of the boot. I’m relieved we’re staying here; I couldn’t take another night of Dee’s terror. It’s all right for him – he just yawns and clears off to bed – but I’m left with all the questions, the tears, the trauma. It tears me apart. And although I know it must be worse for her, at least I’m out here doing something, I can’t cope with all that endless grief. She may crave comfort but I’m suffering too.

  It’s dark where I’ve parked. The overhead lamp isn’t working. If I hadn’t been so preoccupied, I’d have noticed it. Perhaps I should move the car to somewhere more visible, but I can’t be bothered. I’m tired and hungry and I need a hot shower.

  Johnny slams the boot shut and comes to join me. He doesn’t speak. His face has assumed that familiar blank expression. I can’t tell if he’s angry or thoughtful – or neither. Perhaps all he’s contemplating is a hot meal and a chance to get his head down.

  We’ve only taken a few steps when I hear the noise behind me, a faint sound like the scuff of a shoe against concrete. I glance over my shoulder, nervously, but there’s no one there. Just my over-active i
magination playing tricks. Still, there’s safety in numbers. I edge a little closer to him. But we’ve barely covered another yard when it comes again, more distinct this time. The hairs on the back of my neck stand on end. And now I know, I know for certain that we’re not alone. ‘Johnny,’ I whisper urgently, but it’s already too late.

  I turn, horrified, as someone emerges from the shadows, a black-clad figure. I want to scream but I can’t; fright has paralysed my throat. He lunges towards us. I can hear his ragged breath, can almost smell his malice, and then I see it – the deadly flash of metal as he raises his hand . . .

  And suddenly instinct takes over. I’m too bloody young to die. With a desperate leap, I hurl myself at him, my shoulder making heavy contact with his upper arm. He gives a small muffled grunt of surprise, and there’s a reassuring clatter as the weapon slips from his fingers and falls to the ground. Still standing sideways, I lift my boot, run it the length of his shin and stamp down with all my strength on the top of his foot. This time he squeals like a pig and doubles over. I raise my knee to try and catch his chin but he topples sideways, grabbing my coat and dragging me with him.

  The next few seconds are a blur of grasping hands and curses. I scratch and kick. He tries to punch. Then we’re rolling together, a mass of thrashing limbs. I reach out and grab his hair – he grunts. He hits my ribs – I moan. My heart’s pumping, my brain in a fever . . . but somewhere, distantly, in the back of my mind, I’m aware of Johnny’s absence. I’m aware of him doing precisely nothing.

  Then suddenly his arms are around me, too strong to resist, wrenching me off, pulling me away. What? What the hell is he doing now? He’s got it wrong. It’s not me he should be—

  ‘Simone! Leave it, leave him!’

  He drags me unceremoniously across the concrete. I struggle, confused, but he doesn’t let go until my body goes limp and I finally stop fighting.

  At first there only seems to be silence but I gradually become aware of a panting, whimpering sound. It takes a moment to realize this is coming from me. A faint stinging pain drifts into my consciousness. I lift my bleeding palms and stare at them.