by Roberta Kray
‘Hello, Frank,’ she said.
A flicker of confusion passed across his face before her features finally registered with him. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Mouse. Where the hell did you spring from?’
‘Not so far away,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light as old emotions rose to the surface. It was the first time anyone had called her Mouse in years. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
‘Sure,’ he said, standing back and waving her inside. ‘Come on in. Welcome to the palace.’
As Helen stepped inside the hall, the first thing she noticed was the overwhelming smell of damp. She wrinkled her nose, trying not to breathe too deeply. Frank closed the door and ushered her through to the living room. The smell was just as bad in there, and her gaze quickly took in the torn black-speckled wallpaper, the grubby carpet and flimsy curtains. There was hardly any furniture; only an old cream sofa with worn-out arms, and a small table. A bottle of Scotch stood on the table, along with a half-full ashtray.
Frank, seeing her expression, pulled a face. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ he said. ‘It’s somewhere to live until I get myself sorted.’
‘Oh, I wasn’t… Yes, I’m sure it’ll be fine. A lick of paint and—’
‘And it’ll still be a dump. Don’t worry, I’m not planning on staying here any longer than I have to.’ He put his hands on his hips and stared at her. ‘Well, you’ve grown up since I last saw you.’
‘It’s been a while.’
‘A lot of water under the bridge, huh?’ He gestured towards the sofa. ‘Grab a seat. Let me get you a drink. What would you like? I can do Scotch or Scotch. Or black coffee if you don’t fancy that. There’s no milk, I’m afraid.’
‘Scotch, then,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’
While Frank went into the kitchen to fetch another glass, Helen perched on the edge of the sofa. She wasn’t sorry that she’d come, but she wondered if it was wrong to try and involve him in her troubles. ‘How have you been?’ she asked as he came back into the room.
‘Not bad. Yourself?’
Helen nodded. ‘Surviving.’
Frank sat down beside her, poured her a drink and passed her the glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’
‘Thanks. And you.’ She took a sip of the whisky. ‘So how long have you been out?’
‘About a week. Just under.’
‘And was it… I mean… God, I don’t suppose you want to talk about it, do you? Sorry.’ She frowned and buried her nose in the glass again.
Frank gave a shrug of his heavy shoulders. ‘It’s over. That’s all that matters. Finished, done with.’
Helen looked at him closely, trying to read his face. She wasn’t sure what she saw there: relief, bitterness, despair, anger? Maybe all of them. Or none. It was hard to tell with Frank Meyer. She glanced around the room again, remembering his old flat overlooking the Green.
‘You can’t stay here,’ she suddenly blurted out. ‘You can’t.’
Frank gave a low laugh. ‘I’ve seen worse. And believe me, I’d rather be here than where I was last week.’
‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s not right. It’s not fair. Nothing that happened was your fault, but you lost everything because of it.’
Frank’s eyes met hers for a second before he looked away. ‘It’s in the past, Mouse. There’s no point dwelling on it.’
She left a short pause before saying, ‘These days most people call me Helen.’ She didn’t want him to think of her as the kid he’d known in the Fox. Those times were gone. She was a woman now, although she doubted if he saw her as one.
‘Do they? I’ll have to try and remember that.’
And then, on impulse, Helen said, ‘You can come and stay with me in Camden. You know, just until you get sorted. It’s not much, just a sofa bed, but it’s comfortable enough.’
Frank smiled. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I couldn’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because you don’t owe me anything, love. I’m not your responsibility.’
Helen frowned at him, realising that he thought she was there out of duty, or pity. ‘That’s not why I’m offering, not at all.’
‘So why, then?’
Helen felt the old familiar blush creep on to her cheeks. Suddenly, she felt as awkward and self-conscious as that teenage girl who had furtively watched the door of the Fox waiting for him to come into the pub. She took a large gulp of whisky and put the glass down on the table. ‘To be honest, you’d be doing me a favour.’
‘And how do you figure that one out?’
‘It’s a long story, but let’s just say that I’d feel a damn sight safer at the moment if there was someone else around.’
‘A long story,’ he said. ‘Well, you’d better get started, then.’
52
It only took Frank a few minutes to gather his belongings together, and half an hour later they were back in Camden. Helen made some food – a quick bowl of pasta, to mop up the Scotch – and while they ate in the kitchen, she told him about everything that had happened since the trial. The only part she glossed over was her time with Lily. Although she trusted Frank, she didn’t want him to pity her or to think of her as damaged.
‘So,’ he said. ‘Terry Street owns the Fox now.’
‘Yeah, Yvonne couldn’t wait to get rid of it. She was on that plane before the ink was dry on the contract. Do you think Tommy might be able to buy it back?’
‘If he can get the cash together… and if Terry’s prepared to sell.’
‘Big ifs.’ She paused. ‘What about Dagenham? Couldn’t he raise some money from there?’
Frank, surprised, narrowed his grey eyes. ‘How do you know about Dagenham?’
Helen had been aware of both of the long-firm frauds. ‘Because you and Tommy used to talk about it when I was around. I guess you thought I was too young to understand.’
Frank laughed. ‘We thought wrong then, huh?’
‘I never said anything to anyone. I wouldn’t.’
‘The keeper of secrets,’ he said.
Helen could feel his eyes on her, and blushed again. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly.’ She reached out for her glass of whisky, even though she knew she’d drunk too much already. ‘If the job was never finished off, couldn’t you—’
‘It’s too late,’ Frank said, shaking his head. ‘The minute we got sent down, Alfie would have cleared the stock, grabbed the money and got the hell out.’
‘But you haven’t been there, you haven’t tried to contact him?’
‘Waste of time,’ he said.
‘You don’t know that. We could go over there tomorrow. I’m sure Moira would lend us the car.’ But she could see that Frank thought it was pointless. ‘Or you could start another one, begin again. Couldn’t you do that?’
‘If I had the money,’ Frank said. ‘These things cost to set up.’
‘I have some. Maybe I could help out.’
Frank put down his fork and pushed his bowl aside. ‘I don’t think so.’
Helen, hoping that she hadn’t offended his pride, stood up and put the dishes in the sink. ‘Well, the offer’s there.’ She sloshed some water into the bowl and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Do you want to go through to the living room?’
Frank took the bottle of Scotch with him and sat down on the sofa. Helen followed him through and curled up in the armchair. There were so many things she wanted to ask, but she wasn’t sure where to start. After a short silence she said, ‘So what made you come back to Kellston?’
‘Isn’t that what criminals do?’ he replied drily. ‘Return to the scene of the crime?’
‘Except it wasn’t your crime.’
Frank gave a shrug. ‘Hell, we’re all guilty of something.’
Helen couldn’t understand how he could be so blasé about it. If she’d been sent down for something she hadn’t done, she’d be awash with rage and bitterness. However, if it hadn’t been for the whi
sky loosening her tongue, she would never have asked the next question. ‘So what are you so guilty of?’
Frank’s face immediately darkened. He fumbled for his cigarettes and lit one quickly. ‘You don’t want to know.’
‘You mean that you don’t want to tell me.’
He glanced across at her, breathing out a long, thin stream of smoke. ‘Yeah, that too.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘I didn’t mean to pry.’ She took another sip of her drink before changing the subject. ‘Did Tommy ever talk to you about my mum?’
‘Not really. I didn’t even know he had a sister until…’ He shifted on the sofa, leaning forward to tap the cigarette against the edge of the ashtray. ‘So what’s the plan, Mouse? Sorry, Helen. I’ll get used to it eventually. What are you planning to do about Eddie Chapelle?’
‘Talk to him, I suppose, try and find out what he knows.’
‘And if he was involved, do you really think he’s going to tell you?’
‘I guess not.’
‘And what are you going to do then?’
Helen gave a shrug.
‘Not much of a plan,’ he said, grinning.
She smiled weakly back. ‘You got a better one?’
‘Not yet,’ he said. ‘But if Mr Chapelle’s got something to hide, I suggest we tread carefully.’
Helen felt a flutter in her chest as he said we. It was like an acknowledgement that she was no longer alone and that they were in this together. ‘Are you sure you want to get involved? I’ll understand if you don’t. You’ve only just got out of jail.’
‘Which means I’ve got nothing else to do.’
‘Thanks,’ she said. ‘I appreciate it. I suppose you think I’m crazy doing this.’
‘Does it matter what I think?’
‘Yes,’ she said.
‘Then no, I don’t think so. Sometimes, when you have loose ends, you have to find a way of tying them up. It’s not doing that that drives you crazy.’
Helen gave a nod. ‘And what about your loose ends? Connor let you go down for a crime you didn’t commit. How do you come to terms with that?’
Frank hesitated for a moment, turning the glass around in his hand. ‘I’m not sure that he did.’
‘What?’
‘I’m not sure that Connor killed Joe Quinn.’
Helen’s brow creased into a frown. ‘But he must have done.’
‘Just like I must have known that the body was in the boot of the Jag.’
‘It’s not the same.’
Frank looked up at her. ‘It might be.’
Helen didn’t think so. She remembered Shirley tottering across the car park with the bottle of vodka in her hand. She remembered Connor coming up behind her, grabbing her arm and whirling her around, punching her hard in the face. He was capable, more than capable, of murdering Joe. ‘They were always fighting. Connor threatened to kill him.’
‘Threatened, yeah, but that’s not the same as actually doing it.’
‘But if he didn’t, then who did?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Someone who wanted Joe Quinn out of the way. Someone who needed a scapegoat. Connor was the obvious choice.’
‘And what about you and Tommy?’
‘Collateral damage,’ said Frank. ‘No one could have anticipated that Tommy would take the keys off him, refuse to let him drive. And I was just in the wrong place at the wrong time. That’s the way it is sometimes.’
‘So have you got any ideas?’
Frank smiled. ‘Lots of ideas, but not a shred of evidence. There are plenty of firms who’d have liked to see the back of Joe Quinn, the Gissing brothers being right at the top of the list.’
The mention of the Gissings prompted another memory for Helen. ‘Wasn’t there a rumour that Lazenby was connected to them?’ She wondered now if she’d made a mistake in going to see the chief inspector. But if she hadn’t, then she’d never have found out about Eddie Chapelle.
Frank knocked back his whisky. ‘Plenty of rumours about pretty much everything. Doesn’t mean that they’re true – or that they’re not.’
There was another silence. Helen wondered if she should put some music on, but then worried that it might seem too… Too what? Too much like a date, perhaps. Instead she said, ‘So what happened to all your things, the stuff you had in Barley Road?’
‘It’s in Tommy’s lock-up.’
Helen, who’d thought she knew pretty much everything about Tommy, hadn’t known about this. ‘A lock-up?’
‘In Dalston,’ Frank said. ‘I got a mate to clear out the flat and store everything there. I should go over sometime and pick up my clothes. I’ve been wearing the same shirt for the last three days.’ He bent his face towards his shoulder and sniffed loudly. ‘Can you tell?’
‘Would you like the polite answer to that?’
‘Sorry,’ he said.
‘It doesn’t matter. Look, we could go to the lock-up tomorrow. And then go up to Dagenham, see if Alfie Blunt’s still around.’
Frank laughed. ‘You’re not giving up on that one, are you? But yeah, it sounds like a plan.’
They carried on talking until midnight, when Helen helped him to pull out the sofa bed and then fetched some blankets and a pillow from the cupboard in the hall. ‘There’s plenty of hot water if you want a shower. And there’s clean towels in the bathroom.’ Her hand flew up to her mouth. ‘Oh, I wasn’t hinting. I just meant…’
‘It’s okay, I know what you meant. And thanks.’
‘Good night then.’
‘Sleep well,’ Frank said.
Helen froze in the doorway, recalling with a tremble that those were the last words he’d said to her before he’d been arrested.
53
When Helen walked into the kitchen the following morning, it was to find Frank Meyer showered and shaved and wearing jeans with a clean, if slightly crumpled, grey T-shirt. He looked better than he had the night before, and none the worse for having consumed half a bottle of whisky. She, on the other hand, was suffering from a nagging headache and the feeling that she might have said too much.
‘I made coffee,’ he said, nodding towards the percolator.
‘Good.’ She smiled tentatively as she poured some into a mug. ‘Have you had any breakfast?’
‘I helped myself to toast. I hope that’s okay?’
‘Of course it is. Make yourself at home. Well, it is your home for as long as… Just ask if you need anything.’
‘You’ve got a nice place here,’ he said, as if he’d only just arrived and was noticing his surroundings for the first time.
‘I like it. You sleep all right?’
‘Like a baby.’
‘Good,’ she said again. She put a slice of bread into the toaster. ‘There’s cereal in the cupboard and eggs in the fridge. Are you sure you wouldn’t like some more toast?’ She knew that she was fussing, but she couldn’t help herself. It would take a while to get used to having him around.
‘I’m fine, thanks.’
While she was waiting for the toast to pop up, Helen went over to the window and looked down on the street. ‘Ah, Moira’s dropped the car off. I’ve got the spare keys. We can go over to Dalston and pick up your things.’
‘Are you sure she doesn’t mind?’
Helen turned around and went back to the counter. ‘No, of course not. I often borrow it.’
‘It’s good of her.’ He drank some coffee. ‘So are she and Tommy… Are they an item now?’
Helen took the piece of toast and her mug, then went over to the table and sat down opposite him. ‘An item? No, I don’t think so. They’re just friends.’ She spread a thin layer of butter over the toast while she considered it some more. ‘I think they’re just friends.’
‘You don’t sound too sure.’
‘She doesn’t visit or anything. She offered, but I don’t think Tommy wanted her to.’
‘Sometimes it’s easier that way.’
Helen took a bite of toast, chewed
it and looked at him. ‘Is it?’
‘You have to try and forget about the outside world. Your world is that prison, that cell, the day-to-day routine. You start yearning for more and it’ll drive you crazy. Acceptance, that’s the thing.’
‘And that’s how you got through it?’
‘More or less.’
Whenever Helen talked to him, she got the feeling that there were lines she should be reading between, things unspoken that she couldn’t quite grasp. She didn’t know Frank well enough, perhaps, to fully understand him. Quickly, she ate the toast and finished off her coffee. ‘You ready, then?’
The Sunday morning traffic was light, and twenty minutes later they were in Dalston. Frank guided her around the back streets until they reached a car repair shop with a row of lock-ups running along beside it. Helen stopped the Ford Fiesta and switched off the ignition. The garage was closed and there was no one else around.
‘How come I never knew about this?’ she asked as they got out of the car.
Frank grinned. ‘Well, I guess Tommy had his secrets like everyone else. And he probably didn’t want Yvonne to find out. We used to keep stock here if we ran out of room at the shop.’ He took a bunch of keys from his pocket and walked towards the lock-ups. ‘I know the guy who runs the place, Billy Kent. He was the one who cleared my flat out for me.’
‘What happened to the MG?’
Frank nodded towards the garage. ‘Billy flogged it. Not much point in having it sitting around for seven years. Plus, it helps to have a bit of extra cash when you’re inside.’
There were two large padlocks on the door. Frank unlocked them both and rolled up the metal shutter. The inside of the lock-up was about the same size as a regular residential garage, with boxes stacked along the left-hand side. To the right were four large wooden crates, a rusty lawnmower and various bits of junk. The place had a damp, musty kind of smell.
While Frank started rooting through the crates, pulling out the articles he wanted to take with him, Helen wandered over to the boxes. Most of them were sealed, but a couple at the end only had the flaps tucked under. Out of curiosity, she flipped open the first one and found a heap of Christmas decorations: long strands of tinsel, coloured baubles, even an angel with a single lacy wing.