by Roberta Kray
Johnny says, ‘It’s okay, you’re okay. You’re safe.’
I turn and gaze into his eyes. I want to believe him but it isn’t true. We’re not safe at all. Can’t he see? The attacker is only a few feet away from us, groaning, swearing, a rich tirade of abuse spilling from his mouth. And he’s getting to his feet again, standing up, another minute and he’ll be . . . Pushing aside Johnny’s hands, I try to raise myself too. He takes hold of my elbows and pulls me back down.
‘Simone!’
Why doesn’t he understand? ‘He had a knife,’ I whisper, grabbing hold of his arm.
But now our assailant is making a retreat. He staggers back a step, still cursing.
‘It’s okay,’ Johnny repeats. But he isn’t talking to me. He’s talking to him.
The man in black turns his head.
‘It’s okay, mate, it’s just a misunderstanding.’ Johnny sounds reassuring.
What’s going on? I dig my nails into his flesh. ‘He had a knife,’ I insist.
Johnny flinches, reaches behind and picks up an object from the ground. He drops it into my lap. It’s not a knife, nothing like a knife. It’s only a lightweight torch with a thin metallic ring around the lens. I stare at it, confounded. A slow sick feeling rises up from my guts.
‘I don’t understand. I don’t . . .’
He pulls me slowly to my feet. Although I couldn’t stand without him, I resent his help. As soon as I’m upright, I struggle out of his grasp, shrugging free. I glance from him, to the torch and back again. Now he’s starting to smile – and his expression is so smug, so utterly unbearable, that I know I’ve done something irretrievably stupid . . .
I glance towards the man in black. He’s still limping, nursing his injury. As he sees me looking, he raises a shaky hand and points.
‘Just keep that crazy bitch away from me!’
Chapter Twenty-Two
Johnny
So now I’ve got two head cases to deal with. Jesus, and I thought I was in need of therapy. Simone looks like she’s about to be sick and he’s still whining like a bloody kid. And okay, now probably isn’t the most propitious time for introductions, but I suppose they have to be made before they try to kill each other again.
‘Simone,’ I say, holding on to her elbow. ‘This is Brian Quigley, a friend of Eddie Tate’s. I arranged to meet him here tonight.’
I feel her slowly deflate as if someone has stuck a pin in her. ‘What?’ she asks in a tiny voice.
Quigley’s still brushing himself down. He glances up anxiously as if she might be about to launch another attack. ‘Arranged to meet,’ he repeats resentfully, ‘not get mauled by some fucking witch.’
Arranged to meet in the bar,’ I retort. ‘What do you expect if you creep up on women in deserted car parks?’
‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ Simone asks. ‘For God’s sake, if I’d known you were meeting someone then . . .’
I pick up the bags and start towards the entrance to the hotel. If I don’t go now we’ll be arguing the toss all night and I’ve got more important things to do, a strong drink being top of the list. They stare after me, annoyed, bemused, but after a moment, unwilling to be left in each other’s company, they reluctantly follow.
But it doesn’t stop the recriminations.
Quigley mutters under his breath. ‘. . . fucking liability. You should keep her on a leash.’
‘Bloody idiot!’
‘Psycho!’
Shit, I’ve had enough of this. I stop under a lamp and put the bags down again. Turning to Simone, I ask, ‘Are you hurt?’
She rubs at her elbows, glances down at her grazed palms. Eventually she shrugs. ‘Not really.’
‘And you?’
Quigley gazes resentfully down at his foot but isn’t about to admit to being damaged by a girl. ‘I’ll live,’ he replies sulkily, ‘no thanks to her.’
‘Well then. No harm done. So perhaps we can drop the sweet talk and get on.’
Simone gives me a look. I think she’s starting to suspect – quite rightly as it happens – that I could have been a little faster in my intervention. But it’s not every day you get to see a panting wildcat rolling on the ground with a piece of low-life. Some moments have to be savoured.
But before she can set the whole damn argument off again, I say, ‘You’d better get cleaned up before we go inside. There’s mud on your face.’
She dabs at it, ineffectually, with a piece of tissue. ‘What’s the problem,’ she asks bitterly, glancing from Quigley to me, ‘scared I’ll lower the tone?’
I don’t bother responding. Instead, taking her chin in my hand I lift her head up towards the light. She resists but only for a second. She’s too tired for another fight. I remove the tissue from her fingers and place it in front of her mouth. ‘Here, spit on this.’
As if I’ve just asked her for a blow-job, rather than a sample of saliva, her face creases into disgust.
I shrug. ‘Suit yourself.’ I spit on the tissue, and with a few quick swipes clean away the dirt. ‘That’s better.’
She doesn’t say thank you. Instead, she instantly wipes the palm of her hand across her face. Some people have no manners.
The bar has just the right level of activity, not so quiet that we might be overheard but not too busy either. A selection of swing tunes, easy listening for sales reps, bounces through the speakers. We find a table in a corner and squeeze round it. I’ve bought three large whiskies, enough alcohol, hopefully, to set us on the road to appeasement.
I’d rather Simone wasn’t here but I don’t have a choice. After everything that’s happened, I’m not prepared to leave her on her own. She might get to thinking – especially about the cops – and fuck knows what she might do then. No, best to keep her occupied. And close.
Quigley, acting the hard man, empties half his glass and narrows his eyes. ‘So?’
This is as much for Simone’s benefit as mine. I understand that he’s got his pride to restore – it’s hardly macho, scrapping with a girl – but I haven’t got all night. I lift an eyebrow and stare silently back.
It doesn’t take him long to lose his cool. ‘So what do you want?’ he asks defensively. ‘Why d’you ask me here? I don’t know nothing about Eddie.’
‘Sure you do. You were his mate, weren’t you?’
As if it might be a trick question, he lifts his skinny shoulders and shrugs. He glances evasively around the bar.
‘And you want to know who killed him.’
That gets his attention. Like a vengeful little goblin, his ears prick up. He puts his elbows on the table and shifts forward.
I pause. Then, leaning towards him, I whisper softly, ‘Well, so do I.’
He sits back, disappointment curling the corners of his mouth. He was hoping for a revelation, an opportunity for revenge, but I’ve provided him with neither. ‘And why the fuck should you care?’
‘Let’s just say, it’s getting in the way of business.’
Now he’s suddenly interested again. ‘Business?’
Money. That’s what he’s smelling, a chance to grab an earner. ‘So you tell me what you know, who he was seeing, what he was involved in – and I’ll make sure you haven’t had a wasted journey.’
His sleazy eyes roll from me to Simone.
‘Don’t worry about her, she’s very discreet.’
His gaze slips from her face to her tits but doesn’t get any further. ‘Yeah, I bet she is.’
Simone opens her mouth to protest. I give her a kick under the table. She flinches, glares, but draws her lips back together in a sulky pout. I wonder why that turns me on so much.
‘But don’t provoke her,’ I say to him, ‘she’s not what you’d call exactly stable.’
Now it’s her turn to kick and she doesn’t hold back. Her boot slams hard into the side of my calf – and I’ve some idea of what Quigley just experienced. I grunt. I twist my head and stare at her.
‘You okay?’ she asks, all sweetness
and light.
I rub my hand down my leg. There’ll be a bruise the size of the Bahamas there tomorrow.
Quigley peers at us both. ‘What’s going on?’
‘Nothing.’ I throw him a packet of fags. ‘Help yourself.’
He does. He takes three out, lights one and slips the other two into his pocket. All the time he’s watching us, wary, suspicious. For a second I wonder if he might do a runner but no, he’s too wily for that.
‘So what can you tell me?’
‘Depends,’ he replies cautiously. He’s still trying to figure out what his information may be worth. ‘You saw more of him than me. He was camped outside your fucking house for a fortnight.’
I ask softly, ‘You think I killed him, Brian?’
He snorts into his whisky. ‘You think I’d be here if I did?’
Good. I wanted him to say it, for Simone to hear. I shrug. ‘I don’t know what to think.’ I stare at him; it’s a cold, expressionless stare. ‘For all I know, you may have come to try and shake me down.’
He laughs but only for a second. ‘What?’ A gleam of fear enters his eyes. He takes another gulp of whisky and licks his cracked lips. He squirms in his seat, drawing deeply on his fag as if it’s some kind of inhaler. The ash drops down the front of his shirt. He’s getting worried now, scared that I’m accusing him of something that he hasn’t done. His voice rises a fraction. ‘I never said . . . I never . . . What would you kill him for? You never had nothing against Eddie. You go way back.’
‘We had our differences.’
‘Yeah,’ he agrees nervously, ‘but everyone knew that was just Eddie. No one ever thought, I never thought . . .’
Now I’ve got him on the defensive, it’s time to put the knife in. ‘And there was Mr Ainsworth claiming you were just the guy to help us out.’ I stand up as if I’m about to leave. ‘Looks like he was wrong.’
At the mention of the name, Quigley starts. The blood drains from his face. He leans forward, grabbing hold of my arm. ‘I am,’ he says almost pleadingly. ‘I want to help.’
Funny how Ted has that effect on people.
I hesitate. ‘You sure?’
Like one of those nodding dogs, his head starts to bounce. He may have temporarily lost the power of speech but his will to live is unimpaired.
‘Good.’ I shake off his hand, sit down again and smile.
He tries to return the gesture but his mouth seems caught in a rictus of dismay. Still, I won’t take it personally. When it comes to the humble art of courtesy, he’s not had much practice.
Eventually he finds his voice again and now he’s desperate to tell me everything. ‘You know what he was like about them diamonds, Johnny. They was all he thought about. He couldn’t let go, couldn’t stop himself. Talking about them, that’s all he ever did, always—’
I slam my fist down on the table. ‘Christ!’
He instantly shuts up, his scared eyes darting from my hand to my face.
I raise my own eyes towards the ceiling before lowering them, slowly, to meet his again. ‘I need names, for fuck’s sake, people he was talking to, leads – not some bloody history lesson.’ I expel my breath in a long despairing sigh. ‘We all know about Eddie’s obsessions. We don’t need a fucking inquest on them.’ I wait a moment before leaning forward again and pushing my face invasively into his. ‘You see, we’re looking for someone, Brian, someone else who’s disappeared. Marc Buckley. He’s in trouble and we need to find him – fast.’
He shrinks back. ‘You think he’s been snuffed too?’
I feel Simone flinch beside me.
‘No,’ I insist. I’m about to add not yet but think better of it. An edgy Simone is one thing, a hysterical one quite another. ‘No . . . just tell me who Eddie was seeing, who he was talking to. Just tell me that and we can all go home.’
I’m not even sure if I’m on the right track. Quigley may have been close to him, a mate, but that doesn’t mean anything. Criminals and confidences rarely go together. Lies and secrets are wrapped around a villain’s life like clingfilm. I don’t press him. He needs time to think about the best course of action. And that, of course, is self-preservation.
I sit back and sip my drink.
Quigley gazes silently into his.
Another few seconds and . . .
‘Marc Buckley?’ he eventually repeats.
And I’m just beginning to think that we might be getting somewhere, might finally be making some progress, when Simone goes and fucks it all up.
‘Yes,’ she responds too eagerly. She sits forward, almost sending her glass flying. ‘Do you know anything? Do you know where he is?’
He scowls. ‘What’s it to you?’
‘I’m his wife,’ she says, before I can stop her. ‘That’s what it is to me.’
It’s obvious what’s going to happen next. The likes of Quigley, no matter what the circumstances, won’t resist a chance to get their own back. It’s not been the best day of his life. He’s been taken by surprise, attacked and humiliated. Add a little intimidation to the mix and he’s hardly likely to be in the mood for holy forgiveness.
‘His wife, eh?’ he sneers. ‘Well, maybe he ain’t gone missing at all, love. Maybe he just found someone new to play with.’
Simone looks as if she’s about to launch herself across the table. She half rises and leans forward, her eyes blazing. ‘If you’ve got nothing useful to say,’ she hisses, ‘then just shut your stupid mouth. We haven’t got time for wasters. It’s information we need, not a bloody agony aunt.’
Quigley shifts smartly back. He may be a man but he’s way past his prime, slight, skinny, almost old enough to be her father – no match at all for a woman on a mission. Although it’s been my experience that the small guys are the ones to watch, quick to take offence, over-sensitive, he doesn’t seem too keen to pursue the confrontation.
He gives her a bitter look but doesn’t retaliate.
She sits back, folds her arms and glares at him.
Eventually Quigley, outstared, turns his attention towards me. As if he’s finally had enough, he mumbles, ‘I don’t know nothing about this Marc, okay. I ain’t heard nothing. But you may want to talk to them Fosters.’
‘You think they’re involved?’
‘I told you,’ he says, frustration raising his voice a tone or two, ‘I don’t know nothing about that. All I know about is Eddie.’
‘Eddie was seeing the Fosters?’
‘That’s what I said, weren’t it? That Paul, Roy Foster’s son, and his nephew, Micky. I saw them down The Eagle.’
‘Once, twice, how often?’
He shrugs. ‘Couple of times.’
So maybe there is a connection between them and the ice. Perhaps Eddie decided he needed some younger blood, some muscle, to help him get what he wanted. But then why would the Fosters jump me in Norfolk? It doesn’t make sense.
‘Did he say why?’
‘You know Eddie,’ he replies, as if he’s still alive. He frowns. ‘Kept things close to his chest, didn’t he? Went his own way most of the time.’
He hesitates again and I wait, patiently, certain there’s something more.
Even Simone has the sense, for once, to keep it zipped.
After a few seconds he continues, ‘They was paying him though, I know that much. Flashing the cash he was. But don’t ask me for what. I dunno, okay?’
‘Okay.’
‘Or nothing else,’ he insists. He gathers his coat around him, preparing to leave.
I write down my mobile number on a piece of paper and hand it to him, along with three closely folded notes. Without looking, he palms them neatly into his pocket.
‘There’s plenty more where that came from. Ask around. You hear anything else, even a whisper, you give me a call.’
He stands up, takes a step, and then glances back. He looks me straight in the eye. ‘And when you find out who did Eddie – you give me a call.’
I nod. Perhaps one day I will.
I watch him as he walks stealthily out of the bar, head bowed, his gaze fixed firmly on the carpet. He looks like what he is, a small-time grubby villain, a liar and a thief. But even scumbags have feelings and loyalties . . . and the occasional friend.
‘So what do you think?’ Simone says. She tugs at my elbow.
I turn. Her eyes are shining, excited, ludicrously optimistic. She’s already got the Fosters in the frame. They’ve been tried, convicted and sentenced without even so much as a nod towards the evidence. If she had a piece of string, she’d probably hang Quigley by his scrawny neck too.
‘What do you think?’ she asks again.
I knock back my last inch of whisky. ‘Odds on? Well, another twenty seconds – and some work on that right hook – and I reckon you could have taken him.’
The room’s the same as the last one we had. Different floor but still identical. Same magnolia walls, same beige curtains, same kettle – and same happy atmosphere. Simone’s still pissed off by my flippancy. In fact she bloody hates me for it. But I don’t give a damn.
We’ve both had a shower, got clean, got changed, and now she’s sitting on her bed in a pair of pale blue pyjamas. Rosy-cheeked and fragrant, she’d be irresistible if it wasn’t for that vitriolic glint in her eye.
‘I don’t understand. You heard what he said. What’s the matter with you?’
‘What’s the matter with you?’ I retort, rubbing a towel through my hair. Shit, it’s almost like being married again, being accountable for every action, every single thought that runs through my head. ‘So Eddie saw the Fosters, so what? You think they’d have met him in a public place, talked to him, given him money, if they were planning on—’
‘No one’s saying they planned it,’ she interrupts. ‘Maybe it just . . . just got out of hand.’
‘No,’ I insist. ‘They didn’t kill Eddie. They couldn’t have. They wouldn’t.’
‘What makes you so certain?’
And it would be easier if I could tell her but I can’t. I’m stuck in this mess, this maze that I can’t find my way out of. Carl’s got a lot to answer for. I lift my shoulders. ‘Because it’s not their style, not their way. Okay, they’re not saints but they’re not . . .’