Bad Girl

by Roberta Kray

  Fat Pete and Vinnie jumped to their feet too, at which point Connor swung the bat in the general direction of the three of them. He missed his target, but the bat landed with a thwack on the table, shattering several glasses and showering the men with a mix of glass and lager. ‘I’ll kill you! I’ll fuckin’ kill you all!’

  The next thing Helen knew, Tommy had rushed out from behind the bar. She went to go too, but Frank laid a restraining hand on her shoulder. ‘Stay here,’ he ordered, before following his mate. But Terry Street acted before either of them had even got within yards of the table. With one swift movement, he turned, grabbed the wide end of the bat and flipped it neatly out of Connor’s hand. Connor, in a vain attempt to wrestle it back, stumbled and fell in a heap to the floor. For a while, he gazed up at the ceiling with a glazed expression in his eyes, then he twisted his head, saw his father looking down at him and burst out laughing. ‘Your face! Your fuckin’ face! You’re finished, man, and you know it!’

  A ripple of anticipation ran through the crowd. The Saturday night entertainment had never been so good. Joe Quinn, one of the biggest villains in the East End, attacked and then mocked by his own son in public. Open-mouthed, everyone waited to see what would happen next.

  But Joe wasn’t prepared to give them the satisfaction. As if he’d discovered something unpleasant lying on the floor, he walked around the table and nudged his son’s chest with the toe of his boot. Then he glanced up at Tommy. ‘Get the stupid bastard out of here.’

  With Tommy taking one arm and Frank the other, the two of them finally managed to haul Connor to his feet.

  ‘Upstairs,’ Tommy said. ‘Let’s get him up to the flat.’

  Helen watched as the two men dragged him towards the hall. As they passed by the bar, Connor grinned at her.

  ‘Hey there, Mouse, little Mouse. Aren’t you gonna give your uncle Connor a good night kiss?’

  ‘Just shut the fuck up,’ Frank said. ‘Haven’t you done enough damage for one night?’

  ‘Just shut the fuck up, just shut the fuck up,’ Connor mimicked. Then he burst out laughing again. ‘His face. Did you see his bleedin’ face?’

  Helen looked towards the corner, where Vinnie and Terry were picking up the broken glass. Joe was standing with his hands on his hips, still glaring after his older son. Then, becoming aware of the attention still on him, he suddenly turned and addressed the audience. ‘Show’s over,’ he said roughly. ‘You can all get back to your drinks.’

  But Helen only had to look in his eyes to know that nothing was over yet.

  27

  Terry Street made one complete circuit of the Inner Circle before stopping the car and switching off the engine. He sat and waited for another five minutes until he was certain that he hadn’t been followed. There was no reason why he should have been, but the stakes were high and it was better to be safe than sorry.

  The sky was low and grey and filled with clouds as he made his way along York Bridge to the Regent’s Park tennis courts. It was, he thought, the perfect place for a meeting, with the chances of him bumping into anyone he knew virtually zero. As he walked, he turned up the collar of his overcoat. It was a chilly morning, and that was all to the good. The fewer people around, the better.

  All of the tennis courts were empty apart from one at the far end, where a middle-aged man and a boy of about twelve were knocking balls across the net. The guy seemed more enthusiastic than the kid, running back and forth and barking out orders. The kid looked like he’d rather be in bed.

  Terry checked out the first bench he came to, saw that it was dry and sat down. He checked his watch and then opened his copy of the News of the World. He liked to keep abreast of the latest scandals. It was another ten minutes before he heard the sound of footsteps on the path and glanced up to see DI Tony Lazenby approaching.

  ‘All right?’ Terry said.

  Lazenby gave a nod, sat down beside him and crossed his legs. ‘Interesting choice of venue. You thinking of taking up the game?’

  ‘Not right away. I’m kind of busy these days.’

  ‘Other games to play, huh?’

  ‘Something like that.’

  There was a brief silence while the DI took out a pack of cigarettes, prised one from the carton and lit it with a fancy gold lighter. He didn’t offer the pack to Terry. ‘I hear there was trouble at the Fox last night.’

  ‘News travels fast.’

  Lazenby’s mouth slid into a sly smile. ‘Didn’t I tell you? Nothing happens that I don’t get to hear about. You fart in your sleep, Terry, and I’ll know about it before you do.’

  Terry grinned. ‘Anyone ever tell you that too much knowledge can be a bad thing?’ Lazenby was just flexing his muscles, letting him know who was boss, and he was perfectly happy to go along with it – for now. ‘I told you I’d deliver, and I will.’

  ‘One row in a pub doesn’t add up to much.’

  ‘You had to be there,’ Terry said. ‘And anyway, this is just the start. Believe me, everything’s going exactly to plan.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  But Terry knew so. He’d been dripping poison into Connor’s ear ever since he’d got out of the slammer: how Joe didn’t rate him, how he was cutting him out of deals, how he had plans for the business that didn’t include his older son. Oh yes, he and Connor had become best buddies over the past few weeks.

  ‘And how do I know I can trust you?’

  ‘You can’t,’ Terry said. ‘Any more than I can trust you. But ask yourself this: who would you prefer to be running Kellston – Joe Quinn or me?’

  Lazenby gave him his hardest cop look. ‘You try and screw me over and I’ll make you pay.’

  ‘Why would I? I need you as much as you need me.’ And it was true. As soon as he got rid of certain obstacles, he’d be able to push into the West End, where the real money was. Once there, he’d need a friendly copper to watch his back. ‘Joe’s past it. He’s pissed as a newt most days, and Connor’s the same. I’m virtually running the show as it is.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘I do say so.’ For the last four years Terry had fetched and carried, planned and schemed until he had made himself indispensable to Joe. Throughout his steady rise to power he had always showed due deference to the ageing villain and been careful to hide the full extent of his own ambitions. But now the time had come to act before Joe Quinn completely lost the plot and threw away everything he’d helped to establish.

  ‘What about Tommy?’

  Terry gave a shrug. ‘What about him? He won’t be any trouble. The only thing he’s interested in is that fuckin’ pub. And the others – well, they ain’t gonna complain when the cash starts rolling in.’

  Lazenby stared over at the tennis players for a while. The middle-aged guy had given up yelling, and only the pock-pock of the balls broke the silence. Slowly he turned to face Terry again. ‘When are you thinking?’

  ‘A couple of months, three maybe.’

  ‘That long?’

  ‘You can’t rush a good thing. One row in a pub isn’t enough. I need the two of them at each other’s throats – and everybody knowing about it.’

  Lazenby rose to his feet, dropped the cigarette butt on the gravel and ground it in with the heel of his shoe. He pushed his hands deep into his pockets. ‘Let me know when you’re ready.’

  ‘Don’t let me down, because if you do…’

  ‘Don’t threaten me, Terry.’

  ‘I’m just saying. You stick to your side of the bargain and I’ll stick to mine. That way we’ll both be happy.’

  ‘Happiness?’ Lazenby snorted. ‘Is that what you think this is about?’ Then, without another word, he turned and headed for the gate.

  Terry stared contemptuously after the departing figure. He was making a deal with the devil, but that was the way it had to be. He waited a while, until he was sure the inspector had gone, and then got up and strolled along the path. His thoughts slid back to last night, to how he had hid
den the baseball bat under the bench while everyone else had their eyes fixed firmly on the action. Now it was in a safe place, complete with a perfect set of Connor’s prints, ready and waiting for when the moment came to act.

  Terry had never killed a man before, but he wasn’t losing any sleep over it. What choice did he have? He hadn’t come this far to back down at the final hurdle. Joe Quinn had become a liability – it was time to get rid.

  28

  Helen took the stairs two at a time, before pausing on the first-floor landing to look towards the living room. The only noise came from the bar, where the midday shift was still in full swing. In the past, she had spent an unnatural amount of time trying to avoid Joe, and now she was doing the same with Connor. Since the row with his father, three days ago, he’d been staying at the flat and kipping on the sofa.

  ‘Just until the dust settles,’ Tommy had said.

  But there wasn’t any sign of that yet. In fact, the very opposite was true. Relations between Connor and Joe were getting worse rather than better. Helen hated having him around. It had been bad enough when he’d come into the pub, but now he had extra opportunities to taunt and torment her.

  She tiptoed along the landing and peered into the living room. It was empty, thank God. She walked through to the kitchen and put the kettle on. Karen and Debs were both at work, Tommy was downstairs and she had no idea where Yvonne was. Shopping, perhaps, or maybe she was down in the bar too. As for Connor – well, she didn’t care so long as he wasn’t anywhere near her.

  Helen had skipped the last couple of hours of school, unable to face double maths.

  Somehow the fact that the free time had been stolen made it feel more precious. She poured hot water over the tea bag, gave it a stir, added some milk, dumped the bag in the bin and then took the mug and went to stand by the window, where she could gaze down on the car park and watch the customers come and go. Already there was an inch of snow on the ground, and it was coming down again in gentle flurries. She watched as the tiny flakes hit the glass of the window pane, clinging on for a second before melting away.

  She drank the tea in quick little sips, feeling its warmth spread through her body. It was freezing outside, and her feet felt like two blocks of ice. She had sloshed triumphantly through the snow on her way back from school, and now her socks were soaking wet. She wriggled her toes, trying to get the circulation back. She’d just finish her drink and then she’d go upstairs and get changed.

  She was down to the dregs when she noticed the woman crossing the car park towards the Fox. She was walking unsteadily, weaving between the cars with a look of intense concentration on her face. Dressed in a red miniskirt, red stilettos and a fake fur jacket, she was holding what looked like a half-bottle of vodka in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Helen recognised her as one of the toms that worked the Albert Road, an older woman in her late forties with dyed blonde hair and skinny legs. What was she called? She couldn’t remember.

  A few seconds later, Connor appeared. He jogged through the snow, grabbed the tom’s shoulder and swung her roughly round to face him. Although Helen couldn’t hear what was being said, she could read his expression. It was cold and dark and angry. She felt a spasm of alarm for the woman. Connor had no self-control. He was a violent bully, like his father.

  For a while, the two of them had a heated discussion on the forecourt. Helen shifted to the side of the window, worried that Connor might look up and spot her. The woman – Shirley, that was her name – suddenly turned and started to walk away. Connor quickly grabbed her again. This time words weren’t enough. He gave two quick punches to her face and Shirley dropped to the ground like a stone. Helen jumped back in shock, her hand rising to her chest, her heart pounding. By the time she looked out of the window again, Connor was striding away towards Station Road.

  Helen gazed down at the prostrate woman. She wasn’t moving. She was either too badly injured or too drunk to get to her feet. Helen hesitated – what if Connor came back? – but then decided that she couldn’t leave her lying there. She might need an ambulance. At the very least she had to get her out of the cold. She rushed down the stairs, unlocked the back door and hurried out into the car park.

  Shirley was still lying on her back, the snow beginning to gather like white dust on her jacket. Both her eyes were closed, the left lid red and swollen. Her upper lip was split and a thin trickle of blood was running down her cheek.

  ‘Shirley?’ Helen crouched down beside her, gently shaking her shoulder. There was no response. ‘Shirley, can you hear me?’

  Eventually the woman moved her head, opened her right eye and gazed blearily up at her. ‘Huh?’

  ‘Are you okay?’ Helen asked. ‘Can you get up? Here, let me help you.’ She took hold of her arm and slowly managed to raise her to her feet. But as soon as she was upright, Shirley dropped to her knees again and started scrabbling around in the snow.

  ‘Where is it? Where is it?’

  It took Helen a moment to realise what she was talking about. Then her eyes alighted on the bottle of vodka lying in the snow by her feet. Quickly she bent down to retrieve it. ‘Here,’ she said, passing the bottle over.

  Shirley promptly sat down on the ground, unscrewed the cap with shaky hands and took a large swig, gasping as the alcohol touched her split upper lip. She took a few deep breaths, and then, as if the vodka had revitalised her, managed to stand up again without the need of any help.

  Helen leaned across and brushed the snow off her shoulders. ‘You’d better come inside. It’s cold out here.’

  ‘Don’t worry, love. I don’t feel the cold, me.’

  ‘Your lip’s bleeding,’ Helen said.

  Shirley tentatively touched her mouth with her forefinger and winced. She gave a small, weary laugh. ‘Oh, I’ve known worse, hun.’

  Helen frowned, not wanting to imagine what was worse than Connor Quinn punching you in the face.

  ‘Ta for helping me up.’

  ‘That’s all right.’

  Shirley gazed towards the pub and then towards the street, as if trying to decide where to go next. In the end she settled for the street. She took a step in that direction and instantly stumbled.

  Helen grabbed hold of her elbow. ‘Watch out.’

  Shirley swayed a little, trying to get her one good eye to focus. ‘It’s just these heels, hun. They’re slippy on the ice.’

  Helen suspected it was more to do with the vodka or the after-effects of Connor’s assault. ‘Come inside. Please. Just for five minutes. I can make you a brew. You’ll feel better when you’ve had a sit-down.’ She doubted if this was entirely true but couldn’t bear the thought of the woman wandering off when she clearly wasn’t fit to do so. What if she collapsed somewhere out of the way and nobody came across her until it was too late? She could end up dead, and Helen didn’t want that on her conscience.

  Shirley tottered from one foot to the other while she considered the offer. ‘I dunno.’

  ‘Come on. We’ll both freeze to death if we stay out here.’ Helen took hold of her arm and started to gently propel her towards the back door. ‘There’s no one upstairs. It’ll only be you and me.’

  Shirley didn’t offer any further resistance, allowing herself to be led through the door and up the stairs to the living room. Helen prayed that no one had come in during the five minutes she’d been outside, and thankfully her prayers were answered. She could imagine Yvonne’s reaction if she came back to find one of the local toms sitting in her kitchen. But what she feared far more was the return of Connor. Wherever he had gone, she hoped he would stay there.

  ‘Grab a seat,’ Helen said, before switching on the kettle again. She took two clean mugs off the draining board and set them down on the counter. Then she opened a cupboard, looking for something to put on Shirley’s cuts and bruises. There was a first-aid box down in the bar, but she couldn’t see any way of smuggling it out without Tommy noticing. Of course, she could just tell him what had happened,
but then he was bound to come upstairs. She had a feeling, a gut instinct, that Shirley would do a runner if anyone else turned up on the scene.

  Eventually Helen found a fresh pack of J Cloths. She pulled one out of the plastic wrapper and ran it under the cold tap. ‘Here,’ she said, passing it over. ‘Put this on your eye.’ She was sure she had heard something about the usefulness of frozen peas when it came to black eyes, but she didn’t dare raid the freezer compartment of the fridge. There was no way she’d be able to explain that to Yvonne.

  While Shirley dabbed ineffectively at her face, Helen made two mugs of tea and brought them to the table. ‘Does it hurt?’

  ‘Nah, it’s nothin’ serious. I’ll live. Thanks for the brew, love.’

  ‘That’s okay.’

  Shirley took a large slurp, wincing again as the hot liquid ran over her lip. Then she unscrewed the vodka bottle and poured a generous measure into the mug. She took another noisy slurp and sighed. ‘Ah, that hits the spot. You got an ashtray, sweetheart?’

  ‘Sure.’ Helen walked through to the living room and found one balanced on the arm of the sofa. Back in the kitchen, she emptied the contents into the bin and put the ashtray on the table. Always alert to the dangers of fire, she suddenly wondered what had happened to the cigarette Shirley had been smoking when Connor had thumped her, but decided that it didn’t really matter. Even if it had still been burning when it fell to the ground, the snow would have extinguished it by now.

  She sat down on the opposite side of the table and picked up her tea. From over the rim of her mug, she gazed curiously at the woman. The baggy flesh under her closed eye was turning a blue-grey colour and her mouth looked painfully sore. Although Helen had estimated her age to be late forties, she realised now that she was probably older. There was a thick layer of make-up on her face, but it didn’t quite disguise the lines and wrinkles.

  Aware of her scrutiny, Shirley gave a wry smile. ‘Bet I look a freakin’ mess, don’t I?’ She put the J Cloth down and gave another sigh. ‘Course I do. That bastard never does anything by half measures. He’s a real fucker, if you’ll pardon my French.’