by J M Gregson
She stopped so abruptly that he almost lost his balance beside her. ‘What do you want?’
‘Just a little chat. A little chat about your old life. And your new one. Bit of a contrast there.’
She looked with rising horror at the wolfish smile, at the sly malice in the sharp blue eyes. She knew this face, though it was thinner and paler than she remembered it. A user, her experienced eye told her; maybe not yet an addict. It took a second or two longer for the name to come back to her. ‘I’m Karen Lynch now. And you’re Darren Chivers.’
He raised his hands and brought them together in silent, mocking applause. ‘Very good, that. Very well remembered. You sold me my first drugs. Five years ago.’
She had no idea now whether that was right. ‘In that case, I apologize to you. I was selling to feed the habit. I wasn’t responsible for my actions, by that time.’
He went on as if she had not responded. ‘You introduced me to the habit. Provided me with my first supplier, when I decided to deal.’
‘I doubt if that’s true, but I apologize again.’ She glanced down at the thin arm which his anorak concealed. There would be needle marks on the flesh there, probably the damage to the vein which repeated injections produced. ‘You can be rid of it, you know. If you take rehabilitation now, before you’re really hooked, it will be much easier. I can give you an address and a phone number, if you want it.’ She glanced instinctively back towards the now invisible hostel where Lisa was preparing to fight her demons.
‘I don’t want your addresses or your telephone numbers. I’m a user, not an addict.’
The old protest, the old self-deception, she had heard in so many, including herself. ‘Don’t kid yourself, Darren. Get out while you still can.’
But now the voice which had been wheedling was suddenly full of malice. He took a long, shuddering breath, enjoying the fear on her face. ‘I want money, Karen Burton.’
She startled herself with a sudden laugh. It made her realize how near she was to hysteria. ‘You’ve come to the wrong place, then. I haven’t got money, Darren. I’m a vicar’s wife now. We can’t even work out how we’re going to support children, if they come along.’ She regretted saying that immediately because it allowed him a glimpse of that precious, intimate life with Peter, the life she certainly did not wish to share with this strange and menacing figure from her past.
His smile became a snarl. ‘You’ll find the money! People always do, when they have enough at stake.’
‘I won’t, because I can’t. There just isn’t money available.’
‘You will, because there’s no alternative, Mrs Lynch. Nee Karen Burton. Addict, prostitute and drug dealer. I’m sure your husband’s superiors and the elders of his parish would be pleased to hear a full account of your former life. A very full, well-documented account.’
Karen tried to keep calm. There must be a method of dealing with this. It was just that she couldn’t see one at the moment.
She realized with this spectre of her past leering beside her that this was what she had always feared, the reason why she had resisted Peter’s marriage proposal for so long. In the environment in which he worked, her past would always be a threat, a nightmare waiting to burst into lurid reality. It was easy for the people she lived among now to preach tolerance, easy for them to believe that they practised it. But the revelation of this other Karen as the vicar’s wife would make her a target for at best prurient curiosity, at worst revulsion and rejection. It would ruin Peter’s ministry, which had made such a promising beginning.
‘How do you expect me to raise money for you?’
‘You’ll find a way. I’m not asking for millions. A paltry five hundred pounds will get you off the hook.’
For the moment. People like this always came back for more. ‘You might as well say five thousand.’
‘Oh, you’ll find a way, Karen Burton. I find people can always find a way. I’ll give you a week. I’m not an unreasonable man.’
‘You’re a dealer. You don’t need to make money like this.’
‘Oh, encouraging me to deal now, are you? Makes you a hypocrite that, wouldn’t you say, in view of the work you’re doing at St Mary’s?’
That gloating face was going to figure in her dreams in the nights to come, growing ever larger, leering down at her like an outsize billboard poster for a horror film. He knew about her visits to the hostel, had learned God knew what else about her life. But it was what he knew about the life that was gone, the life which belonged to that other Karen, which she could not escape.
She said dully, ‘I can help you, Darren. You’re right, you must stop dealing and stop using. I can help you to do that, help you to get a proper job. You were a bright lad, in the old days. You could have gone to university - you still could. You can do everything I’ve done and more, if you want to.’
‘But I don’t want to, you see. I’ve got this interesting new business which I’m developing. You’re going to be part of that, Karen Burton. So you will be helping me after all, won’t you?’
He gave her that awful, insidious smile again, driving all thought, all reasoned argument out of her mind. She repeated the logic of the situation dully, knowing now that it was going to have no effect.
‘You’ve come to the wrong person, Darren. We’re struggling to make ends meet as it is. How do you think I’m going to raise money like this?’
Darren Chivers felt a sudden, startling shaft of pity for this woman who had hauled herself out of addiction and into respectability. He had been enjoying the feeling of power over another person which his knowledge gave him. But this one had been worse than himself, much worse, and yet she had beaten all the odds.
Then envy thrust aside the pity. He could never do what she had done; never climb back into respectability like her. What did she think she was doing, this jumped-up junkie? What right had this whited sepulchre to lord it over Darren Chivers, to remind him through her work at the hostel of the lives he had ruined by his dealing? He had a hold over her, for all her present airs and graces, and he was going to use that hold.
‘You’ve got a week, Jezebel! Bring me the money by then, or let the world see what you really are!’
Nine
Detective Inspector Rushton studied Anne Jackson across his breakfast table and thoroughly approved of what he saw. Not many women looked good in a towelling robe, but Anne did. Her face was flushed from the warmth of the shower, her dark gold hair tumbled pleasingly around her ears. There was an enticing suggestion of cleavage where the robe fell away from her throat.
‘We should think about a date for our marriage,’ he said. Normally, when he was interviewing suspects, he measured everything he was going to say before he spoke. Now the words had emerged as the thought was formed, surprising him as well as her.
‘No hurry, is there?’ said Anne with a smile. ‘We’re both busy people.’
‘Perhaps that’s why we should get on with it. There’ll always be that excuse for putting it off. And it’s all right for you, but I’m not getting any younger.’
‘And I am?’
‘You know what I mean. I want to wed you before I’m ready for the scrap heap.’
‘You didn’t seem ready for it last night. Well, not when we started, anyway. If you were eventually exhausted, I take some credit for that.’
The difference of almost ten years in their ages was a perpetual source of worry for him and teasing for her. Chris tried to tease her back, because he enjoyed her joking about sex; his first wife had never done that. ‘I was thinking of enrolling at a gym, to keep up with a twenty-three-year-old. But now I find you’re giving me all the exercise I can take! And I don’t want to be an old man when we have our children.’ As usual, he had quickly become serious, voicing his worries about their future when he had meant to keep it light.
Her brow furrowed into the little frown he found so winning. ‘I’m a career girl, don’t forget. I want to make some impact before you confine me to th
e nursery.’
‘Marriage doesn’t mean the end of a career, does it? Make you an even better teacher, having kids of your own.’
‘Perhaps.’ She thought of a method of diverting the flow of the breakfast conversation. ‘I saw that man again on Monday morning. The one you said was a drug dealer.’
‘The one you saw last week in the supermarket car park. Darren Chivers.’
She was pleased that he remembered her previous mention of the man; sometimes she thought Chris was merely polite about her references to his work. ‘That’s the one. He was hanging about at the school gates.’
‘What time was this?’
‘Just before nine. The road was quite busy with children and parents. I had difficulty following his movements, with all the cars stopping and starting outside the gates.’
‘He wasn’t trying to deal, was he?’ Chris was suddenly professionally alert.
‘No, he certainly wasn’t doing that.’
‘He hasn’t any record as a paedophile.’
‘And he still hasn’t. I confess that’s what worried me at first, but whatever he was interested in on Monday morning, it wasn’t children.’
‘So what was he doing?’
‘I can’t tell you that. I haven’t worked it out for myself. He seemed to be looking for a house. When he found it, he made a written note of something - possibly the name and the number. Then he went back to his bike and rode away.’
‘You should be CID!’ said Chris Rushton happily.
As recession began to bite and men like Mark Rogers at BT fought for their livelihoods, the clothes sections of the big supermarkets were busier than ever. Customers here sought value for money in what they put on their backs as well as into their bellies. With less money in their purses, the young mothers of Britain sought cheap clothes for themselves and their offspring.
Haute couture is not ruled by the demands of the rag trade. Nevertheless, Wednesday morning was quiet in Michelle de Vries’s shop. Trade was so slack at Boutique Chantelle that she was glad her assistant was not working today. She studied the window display she always designed herself and made a couple of minor adjustments. Then she settled down to complete the details of her tax return for the accountant, and tried not to think too often of Guy Dawson.
The man slid into the shop as if apologetic for his own arrival; even the bell on the door seemed to have a more muted ring as he opened the door the minimum distance to permit the access of his slight frame. He was not at all the sort of customer Michelle wanted to attract. He wore threadbare jeans and the sleeves of his anorak were pulled down over his wrists, reaching to the palms of his hands. But you never knew who had money these days, Michelle told herself firmly. This might be an eccentric millionaire. If it wasn’t, she would send him on his way quickly. It wasn’t good for business having a specimen like this on the premises.
‘Was it something for the wife, sir?’ You always began like that, even if you were certain it was sometning for a mistress; you mustn’t embarrass the clientele, if they had come here to spend.
‘No.’
‘We do an excellent range, but our clothes are rather exclusive. I think I can guarantee that the lady won’t find anyone else wearing one of our dresses.’
‘I’m not here to buy.’
It was as she had expected. And the more she saw of this interloper, the less she liked him. She’d have him on his way quickly, before he could discourage more promising patrons from coming in. Michelle hardened her voice. ‘Then you shouldn’t be here at all. I’ve no idea what you’re trying to sell, but I can tell you here and now that I’m not interested.’
‘I’m not selling anything either.’ He looked her full in the face for the first time. She saw lank hair, sallow skin, irregular teeth, eyes which flashed dark and menacing as he stepped forward to the counter and they caught the light.
She took a step to her right, feeling for the under-counter alarm button which Gerald had insisted on when he knew that she would sometimes be alone in the shop. This man was no taller than she was, and very slight; she would back herself to overpower him, if it came to a fight. But he might have a knife, or even a gun, if he had come for the contents of her till. He wouldn’t get much at this hour of the day; there was only her float money in there. She wondered if that would annoy him and make him violent. She tried to sound calm, controlled, confident. ‘There is nothing for you here. You should leave now, please.’
‘I’m not leaving. But I needn’t be here very long, if you see sense. I haven’t come for your money, not now. I’m not interested in what you have in the till, Mrs de Vries.’
He knew her name. It wasn’t displayed anywhere on the outside of the shop. How had he got hold of her name? She mustn’t panic; he could have got it quite easily, in any number of ways. He could know some of the other traders in the street, he could have picked it up from the fulsome article about her in the Citizen when she began this new enterprise. She said firmly, ‘You had better state your business or leave.’
He gave her an unpleasant smile. He had grown more at ease as she had become more nervous. ‘Very well. I think that’s an excellent idea, Mrs de Vries. I’m sure Mr de Vries would as well. I’m not sure about Mr Guy Dawson, though.’
‘What do you know about Mr Dawson?’
‘Not a lot. But quite enough for my purposes, Mrs de Vries. I know that you have been regularly visiting his house on Tuesday evenings. I know that you were also there on Friday last, when you left at ten thirty-two precisely and walked to your car, which was parked discreetly as usual, some distance from his gate.’
Michelle put her hands on the counter. Her head swam and she felt she was about to collapse, but she wouldn’t give this creature the satisfaction of seeing her reaching for a seat. When she spoke, it was in a croak which seemed to come from someone else, ‘You're a private detective.’
‘Nothing so sinister or so threatening, Mrs de Vries. Your marriage is not at risk, if you behave sensibly.’
She sensed now where this was going. ‘I’ve done nothing against the law of the land.’
‘I’m sure you haven’t, Mrs de Vries. You’re a pillar of respectability in many respects, I’m sure. But adultery is still the easiest way to a divorce, even in this enlightened and promiscuous age of ours. And I don’t think you want a divorce, Mrs de Vries.’
‘And what do I have to do to avoid one?’
‘You have to stuff my mouth with gold, Mrs de Vries. Know who said that, do you?’
‘I don’t know and I don’t—’
‘Aneurin Bevan, Mrs de Vries. That’s what he did to the consultants, to establish the National Health Service in 1948. I saw that on the television last night. Always willing to learn, you see. And you can see now that I’ve learned interesting things about you.’
‘You want money from me.’
‘You put it in a nutshell, Mrs de Vries. I do, yes.’
‘How much?’
‘Let’s say two thousand. As a one-off payment, mind. Pay up quietly and you need never see me again.’ Darren Chivers glanced meaningfully round the shop. ‘I’m sure you’d like that.’
‘How do I know that you mean that?’
She hadn’t argued about the sum; perhaps he should have asked for even more. ‘You don’t, my love. You’ll have to rely on my word. I won’t say as an officer and a gentleman, because I’ve never been either of those.’ He was enjoying the feeling of power. This proud woman who had begun by treating him like something she had trodden in was now beginning to squirm. ‘Two grand will see me permanently out of your life. You can afford it. Or your husband can. Get the money from him.’
‘And how exactly do I do that?’
‘I haven’t a clue, my love. Your problem, not mine. But you’ll find a way. A woman who can meet a lover every week for months without her husband knowing anything about it will find a way.’
‘When?’ She knew with that word she had accepted his demand, but she couldn’t a
t the moment see any other way out of this.
‘I’ll give you a week. I’m a reasonable man, you see.’
He expected her to argue, but she didn’t. She said dully, ‘Be here at this time or a little earlier. I don’t want my customers to see you coming in here.’
‘Or your husband, eh? Well, neither of us wants that, do we? But just in case you get any funny ideas about doublecrossing me, I should tell you that all my information will be recorded in a letter clearly addressed to Mr Gerald de Vries I have in my flat. The only method of preserving your little secret will be to pay me off. I think you’ve got a bargain, really.’
‘I could pay this sum directly into your bank account.’
‘You could, but I don’t care to give you that information. I look forward to seeing you next week. It will be a pleasure to do business with you, Mrs de Vries. I shall recommend your clothes to my friends, but I don’t think you should hold your breath.’
With that parting jibe, he was gone. The bell seemed to ring more loudly and reverberate longer with his departure than it had with his entry.
Darren Chivers was still doing enough drugs to keep his hand in and satisfy his supplier. Later that day, he waited outside the back entrance of one of the city’s major solicitors’ offices for the last occupant to leave. He passed four hundred pounds’ worth of cocaine rocks across, with no debate about price and a minimum of fuss, and made an agreement to see the young man at the same time next week with double the amount.
He liked dealing with the professional classes, and lawyers were the best of all. They had money and they had a lot at stake. They dealt quickly and efficiently. They could no more risk being caught than he could. Many of them used the drugs for what they called ‘social purposes’ and took them as readily after dinner parties as the previous generation had taken brandies. That was all right by Darren, if it brought in the money as easily and with as little risk as it did.