by Roberta Kray
‘China, for example,’ Frank continued. ‘Now I’ve heard that’s a very interesting country. Or how about Peru?’
Helen pursed her lips and frowned. ‘Stop making fun of me.’
Frank Meyer’s mouth crept into a smile. ‘As if. You know, Kellston might not be perfect, but there are worse places to live. And you’ve got people who care about you here.’
‘No one cares about me.’
‘Sure they do. Tommy cares. Moira cares. I care.’
But not Joe Quinn, she thought. Or Yvonne. Or her two cousins. The girls, although never cruel, were not especially friendly either. After the initial burst of curiosity had worn off, they had ceased to take much notice of her. Helen picked at the grass, carelessly pulling out clumps with her fingers. She stopped abruptly as it suddenly occurred to her that maybe it was her fault. Perhaps when push came to shove, she simply wasn’t a likeable kind of person.
Frank lifted one knee and leaned his elbow on it. ‘What’s on your mind?’
‘Nothing.’
‘You’re looking mighty thoughtful for someone with an empty head.’
Helen gave another shrug. She glanced towards the headstone and then back at Frank. He was wearing light grey trousers and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up. His face, lightly tanned, wasn’t exactly handsome, but it wasn’t ugly either. It was a pleasant face, the eyes grey and clear, the full mouth curled up slightly at the corners. He looked completely at ease, as if tracking down runaways was all part of his daily routine.
‘Did you know my mum?’ she asked.
Frank shook his head. ‘Sorry, love.’
‘What about my dad?’
‘No, I didn’t know him either.’
‘He was a policeman,’ Helen said. ‘Joe says he was bent.’
‘Joe says a lot of things. Doesn’t mean they’re true.’
‘What does Tommy say?’ she asked. ‘He must have talked about it.’
Frank hesitated, and then glanced away. ‘You’d have to ask him.’
But that glance was enough to give her the answer she wanted. Or rather didn’t want. ‘I’m asking you,’ she persisted. ‘I want to know the truth.’
‘What for? Will it make a difference to the way you feel about him?’
Helen gnawed on one of her knuckles, watching him over the edge of her hand. She thought about the photograph of her dad in uniform, the one that had pride of place in her grandmother’s living room. ‘Policeman aren’t supposed to be bad.’
‘No,’ he said. ‘I guess not. But some of them are. And for all sorts of reasons. They do it because they’re greedy, because they see the villains with the big houses and the flash cars and they think, I want a piece of that. Or they do it because they’re disillusioned and don’t care any more. Others bend the rules because they see it as a battle, the good guys against the bad, and in their eyes the end always justifies the means.’
‘And what kind was my dad?’
‘I don’t know, and that’s the honest truth. Perhaps he’s the only one who could really answer that question.’
Frank reached into the pocket of his shirt for a pack of cigarettes. He lit one and inhaled deeply. Helen watched him blow out the smoke in a long, fine stream. Everyone at the Fox smoked. Well, all the adults, at least. There were ashtrays scattered all over the flat. She had hated the smell at first, but now she was growing used to it.
‘The thing is, Mouse, you can’t choose your parents. You get what you’re given and you have to make the best of it. Take mine, for example. When I was a baby, they put me in an overnight bag and dumped me at the railway station.’
‘The station,’ she repeated, astounded. ‘What station?’
‘Waterloo,’ he said.
Helen’s mouth had fallen open. She had an image in her head of a tiny baby abandoned in the centre of a bustling forecourt, hungry perhaps, lonely and cold. She could imagine the sound of the trains, of the travellers hurrying past. ‘But that’s terrible. That’s—’ She stopped suddenly, and frowned again. The corners of his mouth were twitching. ‘You’re making it up.’
‘Maybe,’ he said, leaning back and laughing.
She glared at him. ‘Why would you do that?’
‘Well, it made you think about something else for thirty seconds.’
This was true, although she wasn’t about to admit it. ‘I’m still not going back to the Fox,’ she said stubbornly.
‘Okay, how about if we make a deal?’
Helen stared at him suspiciously. ‘What kind of a deal?’
‘You agree to give it another try for a while, see how things work out, and then if you’re still determined to leave, I’ll drive you to wherever you want to go.’
‘How long is a while?’
Frank scratched his head. ‘Say… a month? That’s not so long.’
‘Two weeks,’ she said.
‘Okay, we’ll split the difference. Let’s make it three.’
‘And you’ll take me anywhere?’
‘Anywhere.’
‘But Joe doesn’t want me at the Fox. He hates me.’
‘He hates everyone, love. And I’ve told you, Tommy’s sorting it. There won’t be any more trouble.’ Frank rose to his feet and stretched out a hand towards her. ‘Come on, let’s go.’
Helen glanced at the ground in front of the headstone. What would her mother tell her to do? Not go cap in hand to Janet, that was for sure. But she wouldn’t want her in the same flat as Joe, either. Three weeks, she thought, rolling the deal around in her head. Maybe she could manage that. Finally she took Frank’s hand and allowed him to pull her up. His fingers were strong and warm and slightly callused. Was she making the right decision? There was no way of knowing.
13
Tommy put the phone down, then heaved a sigh of relief and walked through to the kitchen, where Yvonne was sitting at the table flicking through a magazine. ‘It’s okay, Frank’s found her. She’s fine. She ain’t hurt or nothing. He’s taking her over to Moira’s for a while.’
‘Mm.’
He frowned at his wife. ‘You could at least try and look interested. Anything could have happened to the poor kid.’
Yvonne glanced up at him, her expression one of exasperation. ‘God, she’s only been gone an hour. What was all the panic for? It’s not as though she’s been missing for days. She’d have come back in her own good time.’
But Tommy wasn’t so sure. Mouse had fled from the cellar like her heels were on fire. ‘Come on, the old man had a real go. He must have scared the living daylights out of her.’
‘I don’t get what she was doing down there in the first place.’
‘Does it matter?’ he said. ‘She was probably just messing about.’
‘Well, I told you it was a bad idea to bring her here. You know how Joe feels about Lynsey. He was hardly going to welcome her sprog with open arms, was he?’
‘The old bastard’s a bully, always was and always will be.’
Yvonne closed the magazine, pushed it away and folded her arms. ‘Right,’ she said. ‘But you still think it was a good idea bringing our kids to live here with a man like that.’
Tommy might have guessed that she’d bring it round to this again. She hated living in the pub and couldn’t stop herself from reminding him of the fact twenty times a day. She’d use any excuse to try to get him to move out again. ‘He’d never touch them. You know that.’
Yvonne gave a light shrug, as if to say that you could never be certain of anything. Tommy briefly raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘He dotes on those girls. He spoils them rotten.’ And it was true that Joe seemed to possess an affection for his two granddaughters that he’d never been able to feel for his actual daughter. Going over to stand by the window, Tommy gazed down on the street and watched the women passing by. He absent-mindedly bemoaned the decline of the miniskirt, which was rapidly being overtaken by longer and less revealing styles. Then his thoughts shifted back to Lynsey, to the times they�
�d spent together here in this room and how in the end everything had gone so horribly wrong.
‘Where did Frank find her, then?’
Tommy glanced over his shoulder. ‘Huh?’
‘Mouse,’ she said. ‘Where did he find her?’
‘Oh, in the cemetery.’
Yvonne gave an exaggerated shudder, her mouth twisting into a moue of distaste. ‘What the hell was she doing there?’
‘I dunno,’ he said, although that wasn’t strictly true. He was, however, unwilling to share the vital piece of information about where they’d scattered Lynsey’s ashes. Yvonne wouldn’t be able to keep it to herself. She might not tell Joe, but she would tell that Carol Gatesby, which was pretty much the equivalent of splashing it over the front page of a newspaper. ‘It was somewhere to hide, I suppose.’
‘That kid’s got a screw loose, I’m telling you.’
‘Ah, don’t say that. She’s just upset. She’s been through a lot lately.’
Yvonne’s eyes narrowed slightly. ‘And I don’t suppose you’ve heard from that Janet Beck, have you?’
‘It’s Janet Simms. She’s married. And no, I ain’t heard from her, not for a couple of weeks.’
‘What did I tell you? They’ve got no intention of taking that kid back. She’s been dumped on us good and proper.’
Tommy gave a sigh. ‘For God’s sake, woman, the grandma had a stroke. What do you expect them to do?’
‘That’s what they say. I reckon they just wanted to get rid.’
‘Yeah? And what do you base that theory on, then?’
‘Doesn’t take a genius,’ Yvonne said. ‘You’re the only one who can’t see it.’
Tommy gave a snort. ‘Well, I don’t give a damn whether she’s been dumped on us or not. I like having her here.’ And it was true that he’d grown fond of Mouse over the past couple of months. She was a quiet little thing, but there was no harm in her. Given time, she’d probably become as noisy as his own two girls. ‘Anyway, I’d better get on or I’ll never open up on time. Don’t suppose you want to give me a hand?’
‘Isn’t Fiona coming in?’
‘Yeah, in half an hour or so.’
Yvonne pulled the magazine back towards her and started flicking through the pages again. ‘You’ll be all right, then.’
Tommy didn’t bother pressing her. He’d rather get stuck in on his own than have to listen to her moan about chipping her nails or working as a drudge in an East End pub. The lazy cow didn’t know when she was well off. She might not be rolling in diamonds, but she didn’t go short. She had a roof over her head, more clothes than any woman could wear in a lifetime, and cash in her pocket. There were plenty who’d be grateful for half of what she had.
He trotted downstairs and into the bar. Most of the clearing up had been done last night, but there were still the tables to be wiped down and the bar to be restocked. Usually Mouse helped if she wasn’t at school, but of course his dad had put the kibosh on that this morning. Unsurprisingly, there was no sign of him either. Not that Joe Quinn ever contributed much even when he was on the premises. The old man hadn’t done a hard day’s work in his life.
As Tommy picked up a cloth and got started on the tables, he went over the stand-up row they’d had earlier. He’d come seriously close to thumping the bastard. What kind of scumbag picked on a kid like that? It was beyond the bloody pale.
‘Shithead,’ he murmured.
Tommy had threatened to leave if his father ever lifted a finger against Mouse again. If Connor hadn’t been banged up, the threat would have been an empty one, but he knew that he was needed at the moment. Joe Quinn had no interest in actually running the pub. The profits, yeah, he liked those well enough, but he couldn’t be arsed with dealing with deliveries, pulling pints or any of the other day-to-day necessities. And he wouldn’t fancy getting a manager in either; managers had eyes and ears, and there were things that went on at the Fox that Joe wouldn’t want a stranger to know about.
Tommy went behind the bar, wondering where his dad was now. At Connolly’s, probably, having a brew while he slagged off his younger son to his cronies. He leaned forward with his elbows on the counter and took a good look around. He loved this pub, but it needed smartening up a bit, a fresh coat of paint and some new upholstery. Joe never spent a penny on the place.
In his mind, Tommy could see what the Fox could be like with a cash injection and a bit of TLC. He had a plan that he hadn’t shared with anyone yet – he wanted to buy the pub off Joe. Just the thought of it brought a smile to his face. Eventually, when his father kicked the bucket, the place would come to him and Connor anyway, but he didn’t want to wait that long. The old man could hang on for another twenty years. If Tommy could get his hands on it now, he could improve it before it got too shabby. Connor wouldn’t mind – he’d be only too happy to take his share of the cash and run – but Yvonne would take some persuading.
The thought of his wife brought a frown to Tommy’s brow, so he instantly stopped thinking about her. Instead he turned his attention to the long-firm fraud he had going with Frank Meyer. Everything was running smoothly at the moment. They’d set up an electrical goods outlet in Romford and were doing a brisk trade. In another ten months or so they’d have built up enough credit to stock the place to the ceiling and have one mighty final closing-down sale. And if it all went according to plan, that was when Tommy would have the cash to buy the Fox.
He glanced across the pub again. Owning the Fox would give him and his loved ones some security for the future. Although he’d been raised in a criminal family, Tommy wanted to be free of his father’s dealings. He was sick of always having to look over his shoulder. If it wasn’t the filth giving them hassle, it was one of the other East End firms trying to muscle in. There would always be money in protection and tarts, but the business was beginning to revolve more and more around drugs. It was a profitable trade but a risky one too. One bad deal and they’d all end up in the slammer.
Apart from a few brief spells on remand, Tommy had never served a proper prison sentence, and that was how he wanted to keep it. Some villains viewed it as an occupational hazard, but he wasn’t one of them. He hated being locked up, being confined to a cell the size of a toilet. He hated having to breathe the same air as psychos and nonces. He hated being apart from his daughters. If he could buy the Fox, he could make his own money and put some distance between himself and his father.
Tommy caught sight of the clock and gave a quick shake of his head. If he didn’t get a move on, he wouldn’t be ready for opening time. For the next twenty minutes he flew up and down the steps of the cellar, replenishing the supplies of bottled beers and mixers, restocking the shelves of the bar. He put out clean ashtrays and beer mats and sorted the float. When he finally stopped again, it was ten to eleven.
There was a knock on the main door, and Tommy crossed the bar to open it. He pulled back the bolts to find Fiona Soames waiting there.
‘Hi,’ she said, breezing in. She brought with her a gust of summer air and a soft, musky scent of perfume. ‘You okay?’
‘I’ve had better mornings.’
Fiona went behind the counter and peeled off a cream mackintosh to reveal a calf-length red skirt and a thin cotton blouse. She went through to the hallway to hang her coat on a peg. ‘Problems?’
Tommy followed behind, his gaze fixed on her butt. Although he didn’t fancy her – he preferred his birds with more meat on them – he couldn’t resist checking her out. Fiona was a skinny mare with long legs and a neat backside but nothing much up top. ‘Oh, family stuff. The usual. It’s sorted now.’
‘Good,’ she said, flicking back a strand of long dark hair. ‘Is it just us today?’
Tommy gave a nod, quickly lifting his gaze as she turned around. ‘Yeah, just the two of us. Dad’s done his usual disappearing trick.’
‘Well, I’m sure we’ll survive.’
‘Doubt we’ll notice the difference.’
They exchanged
a quick conspiratorial glance. He knew that Fiona had about as much time for his father as he did. She was, however, too polite to say it out loud. Joe Quinn had wandering hands and a lewd mouth, and no self-respecting woman was safe within ten feet of him.
‘Term’s finished now,’ she said, ‘so if you’ve got any more shifts going…’
‘Sure. We’ll sort something out.’
She gave him a winning smile as she headed back into the bar. ‘Thanks. You’re an angel.’
Tommy still hadn’t figured out exactly why Fiona was working at the Fox, but reckoned it was something to do with paying her own way and proving a point to her rich Surrey family. She was a nineteen-year-old student, well-spoken and with nice manners – what the lads commonly referred to as ‘posh totty’. Personally, he preferred his women a little rougher around the edges, but the customers liked her and that was all that mattered.
A few minutes later the pub opened for business and the first punters of the day began drifting in. As Tommy served up drinks, chat and a sympathetic ear to anyone who needed it, his thoughts drifted off to his plans for the afternoon. At two o’clock, as soon as the shift was over, he was heading over to Hoxton to see Shelley Anne. The prospect of it caused a faint stirring in his groin.
It was six months now since Shelley Anne had first started working at the Fox, and the attraction between them had been instant. She was a real firecracker, a small, curvy blonde with wide blue eyes and a sulky mouth. Everything about her had set his blood racing, and sadly Yvonne hadn’t been slow to realise it. Three months ago she’d insisted that Tommy give Shelley Anne the sack.
‘What for?’ he’d asked, assuming his most innocent expression.
‘You know what for.’
‘She’s a good barmaid.’
‘Well, she can go and be a good barmaid somewhere else.’
And that had been that. Once Yvonne set her mind to something, there was no point in arguing. She’d nag and nag until she made his life a misery. It had, however, probably been for the best. Although Tommy still missed working with Shelley Anne, she had been a constant distraction; he’d spent more time thinking about shagging her than he had pulling pints. A few quick calls to his mates had secured her a job at a pub in Finsbury Park, and now he was free to see her whenever he could slip away.