by Martina Cole
Most of the plainclothes police had had associations with villains’ female relations. There was nothing like a twelve stretch to bring the Casanovas out of the woodwork, especially if the villain’s wife was a nice-looking sort, and the majority of them were. He felt sorry for the boy in front of him.
‘Seen much of your girlfriend, Petherick?’ The Chief’s voice dripped with sarcasm and innuendo.
‘I saw her last night, sir.’ Dobin closed his eyes. He couldn’t look! The Chief linked his fingers together and leant on his desk.
‘How long have you been seeing this Miss “Ryan”?’ He stressed the ‘Ryan’ and suddenly Terry had a terrible sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. His mind was screaming ‘No’ but it was all becoming frighteningly clear.
Ryan . . . Ryan . . . Ryan . . . seemed to be swimming around in his head, like a rogue shark waiting to pounce on him.
He licked his lips.
‘I have been seeing her for about nine months, sir.’
‘Nine months. How thrilling for you. Taken you home to meet Mummy and Daddy and the boys, has she? Especially her brother Michael . . . I bet he just loved you, didn’t he?’
‘No, sir, she has not.’ He stared at the men defiantly. He was in a kind of limbo now. The officers in front of him had already tried and convicted him in their minds and he was quietly furious.
The Chief’s voice rose a few octaves at the tone of Terry’s voice.
‘Well, young fellow me lad, you have a decision to make. I suppose you realise that her family between them have done more time than bloody, Big Ben?’
‘NO! No, sir . . . I didn’t.’
The Chief’s voice seemed to thunder from him. Terry and Dobin were aware that everyone outside had gone quiet and were listening to all that was taking place.
‘Don’t you take the piss out of me, sonny. I was doing this job when you were just a drunken twinkle in your father’s eye!’
Suddenly it was all too much for Terry. The enormity of what he had found out, coupled with the humiliation of being bawled out in full earshot of his colleagues, took its toll. He lost his temper. He stood up and, putting his hands on the desk in front of him, palms flat, shouted in the Chief Inspector’s face.
‘I’m not taking the piss out of you . . . you can’t take the piss out of shit! Surely you know that? You seem to know everything else. As for Maura Ryan, it never occurred to me to run her through Interpol. Let’s face it, if every bit of skirt that got pulled around this place was checked out for credibility, there wouldn’t be any time to catch criminals. And another thing: Maura Ryan is a decent law-abiding girl who never mentioned her family. Now, I might add, I bloody well know why!’
He stood staring at his boss, flecks of spittle at the corners of his mouth. Somewhere in the distance he heard the sound of clapping. He guessed, rightly, that it was his partner, Jones. Obviously the whole of their slanging match had been witnessed. He felt his heart sink. He had just thrown away his career, all that he had worked for. He felt an insane urge to bang his head repeatedly on the desk in front of him.
DI Dobin was having trouble keeping his face straight. He wished he had the nerve to clap the boy. It was about time someone gave the sanctimonious old bastard a taste of his own medicine. Then, to the amazement of everyone, the Chief Inspector actually smiled. His large moustaches seemed to crawl upwards towards his eyelids and he was showing small, even white teeth.
‘Good lad! The fact that you lost your rag shows me that you’re not guilty of anything. You must understand that the last thing we need here is a bent copper. I know they exist, but please God not in my division.’
He sat back in his chair, placing his fingers together and resting his elbows on the arms of his chair. He stared at Terry for a while before he continued speaking. Then his voice was low and adamant.
‘It’s either her or the force. You realise that, don’t you? I can’t have one of my men running around with the sister of the biggest villain London’s ever known. It would cast doubt, not only on your integrity but on the integrity of your colleagues. You can understand that, surely?’
All the fight had left Terry and he dropped into his chair, defeated. He nodded. Dobin handed him a cigarette and he took it gratefully. Taking his matches from his pocket he lit up, aware that his hands were shaking.
Dobin spoke for the first time. His gravelly voice was quiet. ‘Has she ever asked you about your work, Terry?’
‘Never, sir. In fact, she hated me even mentioning it. Now I know why. It’s all falling into place. Why I could never pick her up from her house . . . never phone her there . . . Oh, lots of things.’
The Chief was sorry for the boy.
‘Well, lad, I’ll give you twenty-four hours to make your choice. I hope you decide to stay with us.’ He held out his hand to show that the meeting was over. Terry shook hands with both men and left the office. In the main office, the hubbub of conversation had begun again. A few of his friends smiled at him and patted his back. WPC Lomax, who had brought him his summons, winked at him saucily. Terry ignored everyone and went to his desk. He picked up his jacket.
‘I’m going home, Jonesy. I don’t feel very well.’
‘Go home, lad, and come in tomorrow. He’s given you an ultimatum then, has he?’
‘Yeah.’ Terry’s voice was tired. He needed time to think. Away from this place.
‘Well, if it’s any consolation, son, I think you have the makings of a good copper. Don’t throw away a perfectly good career for a piece of skirt. They’re not worth it.’ Jones’s wife had been one of an army of long-suffering women who, faced with the loneliness of being a policeman’s wife, had got herself an alternative wage packet. Jonesy still carried a torch for her though he would never admit it.
‘Thanks for the vote of confidence. God knows I need it at the moment.’
‘That slag Murphy had told everyone before he saw the old man. Never could stomach the bastard. There was talk once . . . a few years ago now . . . that he was in on the Train Robbery. Nothing was ever proven against him, mind, but he’s had a hard job living it down, I can tell you. What’s this Maura Ryan like?’
‘She is one of the sweetest girls you are ever likely to meet. I just can’t believe that she is in any way related to that shower.’
‘Well, you know what they say, son. You can pick your friends, but not your relatives. I reckon the bloke who said that had never been in the police force.’
Terry tried to smile. ‘See you tomorrow.’ He slipped on his jacket and left the building. He sat outside in his car for ten minutes before pulling away, his mind screaming one question: Why?
Margaret and Maura walked into the little chemist’s. They had both had the day off work and had spent the morning walking aimlessly around the shops. It was twenty minutes before they plucked up the courage to enter the chemist’s shop, standing outside waiting for it to empty of people. Now they were finally inside, Maura felt as if she wanted to scream. An Asian man stood behind the counter.
‘I . . . I would like the result of my test, please.’
The little man smiled, showing decaying teeth. ‘Surely you would, madam. And the name?’ He spoke with the inbred politeness particular to the Pakistani race.
‘Miss . . . I mean, Mrs Ryan.’
He grinned at her. Oh, they were all Mrs in this country, he thought. Even those who were not. He went into the back of the shop and looked through the test results that had arrived that morning. He walked back into the shop and looked at Maura pityingly before he said, ‘I am pleased to tell you that the test was positive.’
It was the standard reply that was hardly ever what the woman wanted to hear. ‘You are three months pregnant.’
Maura’s face dropped. Under normal circumstances she and Margaret would have had a laugh at this man’s expense. Mimicked his voice to each other and remarked on his rotten teeth, saying he had a mouth full of dogends, the standard expression for tooth decay. Now she very m
uch doubted if she would ever laugh again. She had a terrible feeling, as if her head was filling up with hot air. She felt much too hot, and prickles of warmth crept up her back to her neck. She was having trouble breathing. She put her hand up to pull her blouse away from her throat . . . As she fainted away on to the floor the last thing she heard was Marge’s voice, coming from somewhere in the distance, high and croaky.
‘Oh my Gawd! The bleeding shock’s killed her! She’s dropped down dead!’
Maura woke up on a little couch in the back of the chemist’s shop. As she opened her eyes and took a deep breath she vaguely wondered how on earth the two tiny people looking at her anxiously had managed to carry her in there. Margaret’s face had tears and mascara running down it.
‘Oh, Maws, you gave me such a fright . . . I thought you’d copped it.’
The little chemist pointed at a cup of hot sweet tea beside her. ‘Come along, madam. Be drinking it up, it will make you feel much better. It’s the best thing for shock. And it’s a terrible shock you had, I am thinking.’ He looked at the two girls closely.
Maura pushed herself upright on the little couch and picked up the cup of tea. Her dress had somehow risen up over her thighs and she noticed the chemist staring at her legs. Hastily she tried to pull her dress back down, spilling her tea as she did so.
‘I am having a friend who can help ladies like yourself . . . young ladies who cannot tell their mummies and daddies what has befallen them. I will write his name and address down and give it to you. Tell the man that Mr Patel sent you. It will cost you only eighty-five pounds. That is very cheap price.’
He hurried back into the shop. The two girls stared at his retreating back. Maura felt as if she was trapped in some kind of nightmare that would never end. She glanced around the room. It was chock-a-block with boxes and packs of shampoo, disinfectant, bleach, and all manner of weird-looking instruments. The only nice thing about it was that it smelt lovely . . . of pine-scented bath cubes and perfume.
The little man rushed back in with a piece of paper. ‘This man is very very good, madam. A very nice man indeed.’
Maura took the piece of paper, because she didn’t know what else to do, and placed it in her shoulderbag.
The man kept chattering on until finally Maura put down the tea and stood up. She felt absolutely terrible and as if he read her mind he pointed to a small door in the corner of the room. Entering the tiny toilet, Maura retched for what seemed like ages, the dank and musty smell of the carpet tiles mingled with the overpowering smell of urine seeming to spur her on. Cold droplets of perspiration were standing out on her forehead and she wiped them away with the back of her hand. She staggered out to the smell of the pine bath cubes.
‘Come on, Maws, we better make a move.’ Margaret took her arm and, thanking the little man, they left the shop. They walked for a while in silence before Margaret said: ‘You should have seen that skinny little sod trying to lift you on to that couch . . . If I hadn’t have been so worried. I’d have pissed myself laughing!’
Maura, seeing in her mind’s eye the incongruousness of the situation, started to laugh. Margaret laughed with her, and soon the two girls began to scream with laughter. Passersby paused to stare at them, smiling themselves and thinking it must be a great joke. Maura’s laughter was tinged with hysteria. They held on to one another, screeching, until Maura’s laughter turned to deep racking sobs.
‘What am I gonna do, Marge?’
Margaret led her into a small coffee shop and sat her down. She ordered a pot of coffee from a fat bored waitress and went back to her friend. When she was seated Maura repeated her question.
‘What the hell am I gonna do? There’s gonna be murders committed over this.’
‘There’s not a lot you can do, Maws, except tell everyone. People are funny like that. Remember Gina Blenkinsop? She got in the club by some bloke who had it on his toes. Well, she had her baby and now her mum and dad absolutely dote on the poor little thing.’
Maura snapped at her friend, ‘Oh, yeah? I can just see Mickey, can’t you? Holding the baby at the christening . . . every villain in London on one side of the Church and the best part of Vine Street nick on the other. Use your bloody head, Marge. This baby will be as welcome as a pork chop in a synagogue.’
The waitress brought over their pot of coffee. She laid out the cups and saucers and the two girls sat quietly until she had finished. When she went Margaret tried again. ‘I still can’t understand why you never went on the pill.’
Maura sipped her coffee and banged the cup back in the saucer.
‘Oh, don’t be so bloody ridiculous! How could I go to O’Reilly? He would have been straight round my mother’s!’
Margaret swallowed her temper. Maura was in one of her moods and in fairness, Marge admitted, she would be the same if the boot was on the other foot. She took a deep breath.
‘I told you to go to that doctor in Hampstead where I go. He’ll give you slimming pills . . . anything you want, as long as you can pay.’
Maura screwed up her eyes and stared at Margaret. Her weight was a touchy subject. ‘Are you being bleeding funny?’
‘Of course not! Anyway, slimming pills would be a bit of a waste of time now, don’t you think?’
She looked meaningfully at Maura’s waist. The look brought Maura back to reality and she wailed: ‘Oh, Marge, what am I gonna do!’ Her voice held a plaintive note. She put her hands on her belly. She had a little life in there, and somewhere inside her she was pleased. She loved children. Her brother’s daughter Carla had always been like a little sister to her. She had never resented the amount of time she spent at the house. Maura was aware that Janine did not really like her only child, but it had never mattered because Carla was doted on by herself and her brothers. Now she had a child growing in her own body and knew that it would be hated, despised, because its father was a policeman. The biggest cloud on her horizon was not Terry’s reaction but Mickey’s. He would want to kill Terry stone dead just for sleeping with his sister, and when he found out that Terry was a policeman . . . she felt sick with fright. He would kill Terry, then herself - in that order. He would take it as a personal affront. She closed her eyes tightly to block out her brother’s image.
‘I tell you what I’m going to do, Marge. I’m going to go and see Terry and tell him everything. About the baby . . . the boys . . . everything. He loves me, I know he does. We could go away together somewhere. I know that he’ll stand by me. He’s got to!’ Her voice was full of panic. Margaret wondered who she was trying to convince with her talk about going away.
‘I hope he stands by you, Maws.’ Her voice sounded sceptical.
Maura wailed, ‘Oh, don’t put the mockers on me, Marge! As if I haven’t got enough troubles.’
Margaret stretched her hand across the table and held on to Maura’s. Squeezing it tightly, she smiled at her best friend. They had come a long way together since the fight outside their school. She just wished that she had as much faith in Terry Petherick. She liked him well enough, but couldn’t see him standing by Maura, somehow. She might not have any qualifications but she was cute enough to realise that Terry Petherick would not want relations like the Ryans in his job. She said a quick Hail Mary, as she used to when she was a child, and prayed that Maura would not come unstuck. Though another part of her mind said: She already has.
Terry was sitting in his flat in Islington. The chair he was sitting on had been a present from Maura. They had been strolling through Camden Market when they had seen it. It was large, high-backed, and upholstered in green leather. They had homed in on it together, both of the same mind. Instead of a settee they would have the chair, then they could cuddle up in it together. Something they had since done many times. They had bartered with the stall owner for it, laughing and joking until a compromise had been reached. For the grand total of six pounds they had got their ‘loveseat’. Maura had then bought some material, a riot of green and blue brocade, and had made the
curtains for the windows. He remembered thinking as he watched her sewing them: She’s a natural homemaker.
Over the months they had been together he had fallen deeply in love with her. Her smile, her cheeky quips, her long legs and incredible breasts . . . Now he had to decide whether that love was strong enough. All day a little voice had been nagging at him, telling him that if he really loved her he would have thrown in his job there and then . . . Oh, he had defended her, but not vehemently enough to tell his boss where to stick his job, and logic told him that’s what he would have done if he really, really loved her.
He stood up and went to the window. It was cold outside and a solitary little boy was kicking a football around the road. He turned abruptly from the window and walked into the bedroom. He stared at the bed. Maura had really abandoned herself there. She had shocked him at times with the intensity of her loving. She wasn’t a girl who would give herself lightly, he knew that. Was that why he was feeling such a bastard? Because deep inside he knew that there was no competition really. Maura Ryan was an also-ran.
He went back into the small living room and opened the bottle of Teacher’s he had bought on the way home from work. What he needed was a stiff drink. He poured himself a large Scotch. He needed something to numb his mind for what he was thinking of doing. He checked himself. What he was going to do. He had decided then, and not even realised it.
He took a large gulp of his Scotch, grateful for the burning sensation it created in his throat. All his life he had had one ambition: to be a policeman. He had studied long and hard with that one thought in mind. Now he had to choose between the job he loved and the woman he loved, and the woman had lost. He had to admit that to himself . . . Oh God!
If she had been anyone’s sister but Michael Ryan’s! The thought of Michael brought his heart leaping into his mouth. He took another long pull of his whisky and sat back in the armchair. Everyone knew about Michael Ryan and his brothers - they were notorious. There was talk of their being involved not just with drugs and whores, but arms too. Not just the odd sawn-off either, but high velocity rifles, rocket launchers, and anything else that the British Army wouldn’t miss. Jesus Christ, how did he ever get personally involved with all this! He was starting to sweat. He had before him the awesome task of giving Michael Ryan’s baby sister the Big E. He put the glass he was holding to his forehead. The enormity of it all was breaking into his consciousness.