Candice is sitting at the table, fully dressed, drinking coffee.
Marta’s phone is in her locker. She checks her text messages: one from her mother. Tweets from two friends who know nothing about what she does for money, sent at one in the morning from a club in the city. She follows a link to ‘yfrog’ and finds a picture of them dancing, laughing. They look very drunk, and very happy.
Candice sniffs every few seconds, like she has a cold, and sits hunched over, both hands wrapped around her cup, although the place is always overheated. As she bends to take a sip of her drink, she shows a half-inch of dark brown grow-back at the roots. Her make-up is three shades too dark for her complexion, and completely fails to hide the heroin sickness underneath.
Marta’s phone jingles – another text. She feels a shiver of excitement – it’s from Gary. ‘Ready for a F2F?’ – a face to face – for the first time.
Candice finally realizes there’s someone else in the room. ‘Oh,’ she says. ‘Hiya.’ Her eyes go to Marta’s phone. ‘Boyfriend?’
Marta shakes her head, smiling.
‘Oh,’ Candice says again. ‘Business.’
‘I suppose,’ Marta agrees, although it’s a very different kind from the usual. It’s a professional relationship, sure, but one which does not make her feel ashamed, one that she is proud of. A face-to-face meeting? Yes, she thinks she is ready. She smiles to herself, texts back. ‘Will call U.’
Candice sets her cup down and twirls a lock of hair between her fingers, squinting at the ends. Her hair has been bleached so many times that it has started to break around the hairline.
‘Marta, love.’ She talks in the singsong voice which means she’s about to ask for something. ‘Couldn’t borrow us a tenner, could you – for the kids – buy them breakfast?’
For the kids – it’s always for the kids. Candice has three and, if you believe her, the whole Chinese economy couldn’t generate enough money to keep them fed and clothed and happy.
‘What about what you just earned?’ It’s a rude question, and Marta already knows the answer, but she doesn’t want to be seen as a pushover.
Candice shrugs, embarrassed. ‘Still paying Frank back on last week’s advance. You know how it is with kids.’ Under the table, her foot starts a rhythmic tapping. ‘Don’t get me wrong, I love them, and all that, but I swear, if it isn’t food, it’s coats, or uniforms or school trips, or shoes.’
Unthinking, she pulls at the brittle hairs at the rim of her hairline, plucks out a tuft. She stares at the stubs of broken hair for a moment, then rubs her fingers together, watching them fall to the table. ‘See that? Know what does that to you? Having kids does that to you.’
Marta shakes her head. It is heroin, and working double shifts, and alcohol substitutes when she couldn’t get a proper fix that did this to her, but Candice is strung out, her brain screaming for a fix, and she can’t admit the truth. She wipes her nose with the heel of her hand, turns her pink-eyed gaze on Marta. ‘Don’t ever have kids, love. First they ruin your figure. Then they ruin your life. It’s not like them babies in the Cow & Gate ad, laughing their little socks off.’
Marta thinks again of her nephew, and how he seems to carry the sun in his smile, and the way his laugh can make her heart swell with so much joy that she has to put her hand to her chest to stop it from bursting.
Candice’s foot-tapping becomes a frantic, angry rattle, like a resentful child intent on annoying. She flicks her thumbnail against the mug handle, setting up a constant pingpingping in time with the nervous tapping of her foot. ‘Take, take, take – that’s all it is with kids. Always wanting something. I swear, I stick my nose round the front door, the first words out their mouths: “I want”.’
‘Candice.’
‘I mean – what about what I want?’
‘Candice.’
‘What?’
‘It won’t help,’ Marta says.
‘What? A tenner to buy my kids breakfast won’t help? If it shuts them up for five minutes, believe me, kiddo, it’ll help.’
A shadow falls across the doorway, and Marta sees it’s Amy; she looks from Marta to Candice, a sardonic smile on her face.
‘Forget it, Candice. She thinks you’ll spend her tenner on smack.’
Candice looks at Marta like she had snatched her cup and poured her coffee over her head.
Marta says, ‘I didn’t say that—’
‘We all know she’s been working double shifts, moonlighting at the new place,’ Amy says, talking over Candice’s head.
Candice slides lower in her chair and Amy bends to catch her eye, talking loudly, as if she is deaf. ‘You should be rolling in cash, sweetheart. But you’re not, because it’s all going in your saggy veins. And if working double shifts isn’t enough to keep the monkey off your back, an extra tenner isn’t going to help. Now, is it?’
Candice blinks back tears, wipes her nose with the heel of her hand again.
‘Leave her alone.’ Marta takes a card from her purse and places it in front of Candice.
‘What’s this?’ Amy says, picking it up to read it. ‘A drop-in centre?’
‘It is for Candice,’ Marta says, plucking it from her fingers and placing it in the other girl’s hands.
Candice stares from the card to Marta as though she has suggested taking up embroidery to curb her cravings.
‘I’ll pay for cab, go with you, if you like?’ Marta says.
Candice licks her lips, shoots a look at Amy, her eyes pleading for a way out.
Amy laughs. ‘Go on. Ask nice, she might stop off at your dealer’s on the way.’
Frank and Sol don’t allow drug deals on the premises.
‘And when you’re all smoothed out, you can go and get a sausage and egg McMuffin “for the kids”.’
Candice stares down at her hands and a tear falls into her coffee cup.
Marta looks into Amy’s face, trying to understand why she would want to make someone as pathetic as Candice cry. Suddenly, she sees it. Amy’s eyes are bloodshot, pupils way too big. ‘Hypocrite.’
‘Wh—?’ Amy knows what she means before the question is fully formed. She’s been sussed. ‘Oh, right,’ she says, folding her arms. ‘I forgot. You’re Saint Marta of Just Say No. You don’t need nothing to see you through, do you, Marta?’
Grateful that she’s no longer the butt of Amy’s sarcasm, Candice joins in. ‘Yeah. Why don’t you fuck off, Miss I’m-too-good-to-get-high? You think I should try rehab? Been there, done that, got the fucking cavities to prove it. I mean, do you know what methadone does to your teeth?’
Marta closes her eyes, trying not to remember. ‘Yes, Candice, I know.’
‘Well, don’t talk to me about rehab then. And anyway, you need something to get you through double shifts sucking men’s knobs sixteen hours a day. Right, Amy?’
Amy is offended. ‘What you asking me for? I’m not the smackhead skank, working double shifts to feed a habit.’
Candice wraps her arms tight around her middle like she’s just been punched. ‘Fuck off,’ she whispers. ‘Just fuck off, Amy.’
Marta turns to Amy. ‘Shouldn’t you be in reception?’
‘I came on a message,’ she says. ‘Frank wants you.’
Amy must see her hesitation because she says, ‘Go on, she’ll be all right with me.’
‘No, I won’t. Make her go away,’ Candice sobs.
‘You heard her.’
But Amy stays where she is. ‘You got it wrong. We’re best mates, me and her.’
‘I fucking hate you.’ Candice is red with humiliation and rage. ‘You’re a fucking bitch, Amy.’
Amy smirks. ‘Watch this.’ She takes two ten-pound notes from the tiny handbag she carries to stash her tips, places them on the table. ‘There you are, Candy – for the kids,’ she says imitating her high-pitched singsong voice.
Candice wipes her hands over her face, dries them on her jeans, stares at the money as if she’s afraid this is part of Amy’s c
ruel game.
‘Go on then, if you want it.’
Candice’s hand is shaking as she reaches for the cash. ‘Cheers, Amy,’ she says, her voice bright, but she can’t disguise the crack in it. ‘I’ll pay you back. Next week.’
‘Sure you will.’ Amy keeps her eyes on Marta. ‘See? Best mates.’ She waits a moment, relishing Candice’s humiliation.
Then, satisfied, Amy turns her back on them and saunters out, heading back to reception.
A second later, she’s stumbling backwards through the door, wild alarm in her eyes.
Frank comes in after her. She’s brought up short against the kitchen table and her ankle gives way. She lurches sideways, grabs the table edge to steady herself, and he moves in close, bends her backwards over the table, plants his hands either side of her. They are strongly muscled and the index and middle knuckles enlarged from heavy punch bag training.
‘I told you to fetch Marta.’
‘I did, Frank.’ Her voice is a breathless squeak. ‘I told her she was wanted.’
‘Yeah? ’Cos I heard a lot of screeching and namecalling, but I didn’t hear my name.’ Frank is taller than his brother and, unlike Sol, he’s proud of his hair, which he wears long and curling, tied loosely in a ponytail. He’s suited and newly shaved, but he looks like a roadie from a rock band – which apparently he was, back in the nineties. His eyes are so near black you can’t tell the iris from the pupil.
Amy tries to avoid Frank’s eye, but his face is inches from hers and he keeps moving, so that unless she shuts her eyes, she can’t escape him.
Marta quietly slips her phone back into her bag and replaces it in her locker. The discreet click of the lock distracts him for a second, and the danger passes.
‘Get out front and earn your keep,’ he says. He keeps his hands on the tabletop so Amy has to squirm and duck beneath his arms to get past him. Now there is nothing between him and Candice. She flinches under his gaze, clasping the money between her two hands, hiding it like a guilty secret.
‘You – go home – and get yourself straight before you come back for tonight’s shift.’ Candice jerks to her feet.
‘Marta – if you wouldn’t mind?’
Marta sees a flash of surprise and envy in Candice’s eyes: she’d heard the respect in his tone. Marta straightens her shoulders and smiles. ‘Of course.’
The corridor to the office is narrow, and he walks slightly behind her. She can feel the pulse in her throat; there is no way out except back the way they came, and she doesn’t think Frank is in the mood to give way.
‘Just curious,’ he says. ‘Most of the girls dabble a bit. But you never touch the stuff – why is that?’
‘I have … reaction,’ she says.
‘What – like an allergy?’
‘Sort of …’ She smiles crookedly. ‘Kind of a lockjaw? Makes me want to bite down.’ She snaps her teeth to demonstrate, and he chuckles.
They’re outside the office, and he grips the doorknob, but holds the door closed and looks down at her. ‘You got your reasons, and you don’t want to say. That’s okay, I respect that. But don’t be causing me grief with the other girls. We clear?’
She holds his gaze, but only for a second. ‘Clear, Frank.’
Sol and Rob are in the office. Rob turns as Marta comes in, gives her the once-over. The dressing gown she threw on so that she could see Trevor out is very short and cut very low, yet it’s only Rob’s gaze that makes her feel dirty.
Sol eyes her appreciatively and Frank gives him a sharp look. Then he closes the door, and for a moment all of the men regard her.
‘Can I do anything for you, gentlemen?’ The innuendo is intentional, automatic, and – importantly – it’s what they expect.
‘Maybe.’
Frank sits behind the desk, and Rob positions himself by the filing cabinet to her left, props one elbow on it and rests his chin on his fist. Sol remains standing. The brothers have an instinct, like wolves: they know at any moment in a situation which of them should take the lead. This time, it’s Sol’s turn.
‘There’s a new parlour down the road. Some of the girls have been moonlighting.’
Marta looks from Sol to Frank. ‘Not me.’
‘Woof !’ Rob laughs. ‘Defensive.’
‘We’ve heard the girls like it there,’ Frank says. ‘Giselle has missed her Wednesday session here …’ He checks the rota in front of him. ‘Three weeks in a row, and the other girls … well, they seem restless.’
This is what they do, she thinks: they call you in and make observations, instead of asking a direct question or making an accusation you can easily deny. So you end up guessing what they know, sweating over the lies you’ve already told, in case they’ve found you out, and of course you say the wrong thing, prove yourself a liar. She keeps her head up, but avoids his gaze.
Sol sits on the edge of the desk, his legs stretched out in front of him. ‘I’ll be straight with you, Marta – we’re losing custom. Now, normally Rob would take care of that. Rob’s got contacts, connections. He knows people who can make problems go away.’
Rob-the-fixer smiles to himself, looks into her face to see if she’s impressed, but his eyes keep drifting to her breasts. She wants to know more about Rob’s contacts, and what he’s going to fix for the boys, but Sol and Frank are suspicious of people who ask questions. That’s all right – she’s patient; she can wait – it’s not by accident that they have given her this new information; it’s a sign that they trust her.
‘The owner, George Howard, is an accountant,’ Sol goes on, as if he’s addressing a seminar. ‘In the Audit Commission, or was, before he got restructured in the bonfire of the quangos, and you know what that means.’
Marta is not even sure what a quango is, but thankfully, he doesn’t wait for an answer.
‘He’s a bean-counter. Worse, he’s a government bean-counter. He just doesn’t have the kind of history that Rob can use. He’s getting annoying,’ Sol says. ‘And he won’t agree to a private sit-down to sort it. So we’ve negotiated a compromise: we meet in public, at a bar of his choosing in the city centre. We talk, you join us, you leave with him, work your Mata Hari magic.’ He grins, spreading his hands, as if to say, What could be simpler?
She feels a stab of alarm, seeing where this is going. ‘But I like it here,’ she says.
‘Very heart-warming,’ Frank says. ‘But he didn’t say you’d have to work for Howard exclusive, did he?’ It’s a reprimand. Not a warning, so far, but a reminder that Frank hates interruptions.
She arches an eyebrow and folds her arms, because he also despises weakness, and a fearful woman is weak. ‘Okay …’
‘It’ll take a while,’ Sol says. ‘Don’t worry about that. Take your time, get it right. We just want some inside info so we can persuade him not to expand into other areas of supply. You can carry on working here, see him on your evenings off.’ They can’t know that her evenings off are fully occupied.
‘You think of everything,’ she says. ‘Except how I can get paid – I mean, if I’m working in his parlour, I can’t ask this George Howard to pay me for … um … entertaining him. And this is business.’
Sol laughs softly, and he and Frank exchange a look; she knows they will already have considered this. ‘How does standard hourly rate sound?’ Sol asks.
She purses her lips. ‘This is not standard work.’
Rob works his tongue around his front teeth, but he doesn’t speak.
Sol cocks an eyebrow at her. ‘You’re a cheeky mare.’ He looks at his brother like he’s asking for confirmation. She doesn’t see a nod or even a flicker of the eyelids – maybe it’s the wolf-pack telepathy – but something passes between them, and Sol says, ‘Fifteen per cent over the odds.’
‘And a bonus for any useful information of course,’ Frank adds smoothly.
‘Let me think about it,’ she says, although she is already rearranging her schedule in her head.
Frank’s eyes begin to
harden, but he seems to decide to give her some leeway. ‘Well, don’t take too long over it, eh? We’re losing money.’
7
‘It is the nature of an hypothesis, when once a man has conceived it, that it assimilates every thing to itself, as proper nourishment; and, from the first moment of your begetting it, it generally grows the stronger by every thing you see, hear, read, or understand.’
LAURENCE STERNE, TRISTRAM SHANDY
Fennimore set up a link in the video-conferencing centre in the computer suite. The facility was housed in a windowless room which had Skype access via a webcam: a smooth black egg-shaped device above the digital projector screen with a lens wide enough to accommodate up to ten around the conference table which ran the length of the room. Fennimore sat at the head with Josh Brown seated to his right. The room smelled of new wood and warm electronics.
Fennimore clicked the Skype link and seconds later Kate Simms’s face appeared on the screen.
Four years ago, Simms’s brown hair was straight and glossy and hung to her shoulders. Now, it was almost as short as Josh’s – though she was anything but androgynous. Her eyes were light brown and long-lashed, and she had a face that most women would remortgage the house for. Fennimore shifted his gaze from her face to the webcam. ‘Kate – you cut your hair.’
‘Hello, Nick,’ she said, her voice warm, amused, gently chiding. ‘Who’s your friend?’
He had forgotten Josh in his shock at seeing her. ‘Josh, this is Detective Chief Inspector Simms. Kate, this is Josh Brown. He’s not a friend – he’s a PhD student. I’ve enlisted his help.’
‘You’ll learn to forgive his rudeness,’ she said, smiling in the general direction of the student, not quite finding the line of sight. ‘The professor’s social graces got stunted by his passion for scientific accuracy.’
Josh sat side-on to the webcam, frowning at the blank screen of his laptop, which stood open on the table in front of him. ‘Not a problem,’ he said.
She maintained her focus on the student. Fennimore had spent an hour going over the stats with Josh again; the student had argued, challenged, disputed and recalculated every step. Now, watching him shift uncomfortably, avoiding the blind gaze of a woman 350 miles away, Fennimore was reminded again of the student’s almost pathological reserve.
Everyone Lies Page 5