Alex gave a stiff nod, and Braun rose and walked out.
He was pleased with his solution. Delegation was the mark of a good manager, and surely Kairouz could control Dugan for a week or two. After that, it wouldn’t matter.
Anna Walsh’s Apartment Building
Anna awakened and lifted her head from Dugan’s chest to peer at the lighted alarm clock. Dugan stirred, his soft snoring interrupted as he shifted in his sleep. Anna smiled down at his sleeping face, barely visible in the light of the clock. She had never before mixed her professional and personal lives. She knew she should regret it. She didn’t.
She shook his shoulder.
“Wh… time is it?” Dugan’s voice was thick with sleep.
“Ten thirty. Almost bedtime.”
He smiled. “Again?”
Anna poked him in the ribs. “Separate bedtimes, I mean. Come on. Get up. We need to go over a few things before I go back my place.”
Dugan pulled her close. “What’s wrong with staying right here? We seem to communicate just fine.”
Anna laughed and pulled away. “You’re too easily distracted. Up.”
Dugan sighed and sat up to grope for his boxer shorts.
“I’m gonna grab a beer. Get you anything?”
“Just a glass of wine,” Anna said. “I’ll be out after I visit the loo.”
***
Anna came in, wrapped in a silk robe, and joined him on the sofa. Dugan was staring at his beer bottle, lost in thought.
“It’s not your fault, you know,” she said.
He shook his head. “Yeah, it is. Ibrahim trusted me, and it got him killed. I should have left it to you guys.”
“Tom, you have no idea what tipped Braun off or even if Braun killed him. It could have been a common robbery/homicide, just like it appears.”
“You don’t really believe that?”
Anna sighed. “Actually I don’t, but what I do believe is that you can’t second-guess yourself in this business. Otherwise you’ll go loopy.”
“’Loopy’?”
Anna smiled. “I believe that’s ‘nuts’ in Yank speak.”
“I’m not too far from that now,” Dugan said, “and Alex is closer. Did you see him when he came into my office today?”
“He looked horrible,” Anna agreed. “What did you two talk about?”
“Ibrahim mostly,” Dugan said. “Alex is really taking it hard, but in a crazy sort of way, he’s more like the old Alex. He asked us to dinner on Wednesday. I put him off until we could discuss it. What do you think?”
“We should go. Reestablishing closer contact can only help.”
“Yeah, well, it’s likely to be strained,” Dugan said. “Apparently all the ladies of the house except Cassie are convinced I’m a lecherous toad.”
Anna smiled. “Just shows what remarkable instincts they have.”
Kairouz Residence
15 June
“Oh. I’m ever so sorry, Mrs. Hogan,” Gillian Farnsworth said as she bumped into Mrs. Hogan bustling out of the pantry.
The cook smiled. “No harm done. Did you see Cassie safe to school?”
Mrs. Farnsworth shook her head. “Barely. That Farley is a menace.”
“Aye, he’s a bad ‘un. I’d like to poison his bloody tea and bury him in the back garden.”
Mrs. Farnsworth smiled at the image of portly Mrs. Hogan dragging Farley across the lawn; thoughts of Farley rarely brought a smile. His hulking presence upset their routine, and his driving was deliberately reckless, provoking tirades from Gillian to which he responded with insincere “Sorry, ma’ams” and smirks in the mirror.
The women fell quiet as Farley came in the back door.
“Hello, luv,” he said to the cook, ignoring Mrs. Farnsworth. “How ‘bout a cuppa?”
“You’ve a kitchen in your quarters, Farley. Take your tea there,” Mrs. Farnsworth said.
“Well, ain’t we all high and mighty? The old kike took his tea here.”
“You aren’t Daniel,” Mrs. Farnsworth said. “And do not call him that. It’s not teatime, in any event. Stop loafing. Wash the car.”
“I did it yesterday,” Farley said.
“Then do it again.”
He glared at her, barely under control, and a chill ran through her before he slammed out. She felt Mrs. Hogan’s arm on her shoulders.
“Don’t you worry, dearie,” the cook said. “He lays a hand to you or Cassie, I’ll gut ‘im like a pig, I will.” She held open a capacious apron pocket to display the handle of a kitchen knife. Suddenly, burying Farley in the lawn didn’t seem so far-fetched.
Mrs. Farnsworth smiled. “An appealing thought, Mrs. Hogan, but if you’re arrested, where ever would we find a cook as good?”
“Hah. Nowhere, that’s where, me girl.”
“Right you are.” Mrs. Farnsworth composed herself. “Now, where were we?”
“Oh, I almost forgot. Mr. Kairouz rang to—”
“He did? Is anything wrong? He’s been very upset about Mr. Ibrahim.”
“Aye, that he has,” Mrs. Hogan said, “but he seemed a bit better just now. In fact, he rang to tell me we’ll have guests tonight.”
“Who?”
Mrs. Hogan made a face. “Mr. Dugan and his tart.”
“Her name is Anna Walsh, Mrs. Hogan, and Alice Coutts tells me she’s a lovely girl.”
“Aye,” the cook said, “and what else do you call a ‘girl’ fancyin’ a rich gent old enough to be her father? She’s a tart, right enough.” She sighed. “But it’s him that’s the letdown. Men. Even the best of ‘em thinks with the wee head down below. Mr. Kairouz excepted, o’course.”
Mrs. Farnsworth stifled a smile. “Mr. Dugan isn’t quite old enough to have sired Ms. Walsh. Do try to keep an open mind.”
“Oh, aye. I’ll give the little tart every benefit of the doubt, I will.”
Hiding her amusement, Mrs. Farnsworth moved down the hall to sit in her tiny office under the stairs. She’d turned the former closet into a neat and efficient workspace, with a small desk and chair. A corkboard was covered with schedules and “to do” lists, and an under-desk computer fed a flat monitor and keyboard. A photo collage of Cassie filled the opposite wall.
As always, the photos brought a smile, one that faded a bit at her tired reflection in the monitor. She had fine features and soft brown eyes, but her hair was as much salt as pepper now, and there were lines that hadn’t existed even weeks ago. Not that she cared. Physical beauty had only brought her pain. Her plain, matronly image and the “proper” world she created was a safe haven, not only for her, but for Cassie as well.
She smiled at the photos again. Cassie—her great treasure—bequeathed by a dying woman who had seen through her lies and trusted her anyway. A woman who squeezed her hands and extracted a promise. A promise Gillian fully intended to keep. Progress was uneven and success unsure, but Cassie would have a good life. Gillian would see to it.
Twenty-Seven Years Earlier
Her Majesty’s Prison Holloway
North London
When the prison gates clanged shut behind Daisy Tatum, she was terrified. Not of freedom, but of failure and slipping back into her old life. She was twenty-two and had never had a job or a bank account or a credit card. She’d taken every course prison offered but knew it wasn’t the same. A charity had gotten her a job, but she’d never waited tables.
The first day was bad. She mixed up every order and dropped a tray. But the café owner, an ex-con himself, was patient. Two weeks later she walked home to her tiny apartment, her first ever paycheck in her pocket. She was unlocking the door when strong arms encircled her.
“Hullo, luv. Don’t we look smart? A regular stunner,” Tommy’s beery breath wafted over her as he pushed her inside into the tiny kitchenette.
“Right hurtful it was, you not comin’ round to see dear ole Dad. But I kept tabs on ya. She’s busy, I sez to me self, so I’ll just pop round and see her.” He glared. “So ‘ere I am.”
> Daisy stared, mute, tears streaking her cheeks.
“There, there now,” Tommy said. “No need to carry on, though I’m a bit misty me self. Prison suited you, I see. You ain’t near the washed-out hag you was. Do a fair business among the lads what fancies older birds, I’ll wager. Matter of fact, we’ll have our own little family reunion in a bit, but first you can say hello to an old friend.”
He put the drug paraphernalia on the kitchen bar, and Daisy’s terror turned to rage as he ignored her to melt heroin in a spoon, humming a tune to himself, her own aspirations irrelevant. Memories came flooding back: the nightmare of being strapped spread-eagle on a filthy mattress when Tommy sold her virginity to a fat pedophile with halitosis; of turning tricks for “special clients” in the back of Tommy’s “gentleman’s club” until she looked old enough to be put on the streets. She remembered rebellion and attempted escapes and beatings. And more beatings when she failed to make enough or to induce miscarriages or just because Tommy bloody well felt like it. Beatings until all the fight was out of her and the pain dissolved into a dull blur of the drugs, Tommy’s “little pick-me-ups” to keep her ambulatory and producing. She remembered his sneer when he visited her in jail to tell her she was worth neither bail nor a lawyer and to warn her to keep her bloody mouth shut and do the time.
Tommy’s tune ended abruptly as the kitchen knife entered his chest to the hilt, propelled by 120 pounds of hatred fueled by thirteen years of rage. He died surprised, unable to believe his kindness was so unappreciated.
Daisy panicked. She gathered her meager belongings and fled, stopping to make a call from a pay phone. A short bus ride later, she sat on Gloria’s sofa.
***
“Served the bastard right,” Gloria said, “but Daisy’s history. We have to reinvent you. And you can’t stay here, luv. They know we were cell mates. This is the first place they’ll look. But not to worry. Auntie Gloria’s on top of it.”
Gloria found Daisy a place to hide with a trusted friend of a friend and reappeared two weeks later, in disguise and carrying a shopping bag.
“Sorry, luv,” she said, hugging Daisy. “The coppers were all over me for a while, but I think they’ve given up. Just to be safe, I came here by tube and transferred a half-dozen times.” She grinned and led Daisy to the sofa. “I wanted to deliver your new life in person.”
Daisy looked on, confused, as Gloria fished a newspaper from the shopping bag. She saw a photo of a woman resembling herself above a story titled “War Widow Dead in Car Crash.”
“Wh… what is this?” Daisy asked.
“Your new life, luv,” Gloria said. “Gillian Farnsworth, age twenty-four. Died three weeks ago in a crash. Widow of Leading Seaman John Farnsworth, Royal Navy. Poor sod. Died in the Falklands when the Argies sank his ship. No kids and both John and Gillian are only children of dead parents.” Gloria smiled. “It’s bloody perfect.”
“I… I don’t know Gloria. How can I—”
“Daisy. Luv,” Gloria said. “We couldn’t ask for more. Widow of some poor enlisted sod blown up by an Argie bomb. Anyone asks, you tear up. It’s too painful to discuss. It’s perfect.”
“But… but how can I pretend? I don’t know anyth—”
“You don’t pretend, luv,” Gloria said, “you become.”
She pulled a thick file from her bag.
“It’s all here. Parents’ names, important dates, schools, teachers, everything. With that mind of yours, in two weeks you’ll know Gillian better than she knew herself.”
“But surely there’s a record of her death.”
Gloria nodded. “In Oxford, where she died in a crash while passing through, and which is not at all cross-referenced to Reading, where she was born and lived her whole life. Only a search at Oxford will turn up Gillian’s death certificate, but someone would need to know first, that she was dead, and second, that she died in Oxford. But no one is likely to be looking. She has no family, and all her friends live in Reading. If they should cross your path in London at some point, they’ll just assume it’s a coincidence. Many people share names.”
“But how will I live? I’m not even a very good waitress, and I’m sure she worked at something I couldn’t possibly do.”
Gloria smiled. “Perfect again. She worked as a nanny to a family that returned to the US just before her death. She was between jobs. I phoned the American family, pretending to be a prospective employer. They didn’t know of her death and gave a glowing reference.”
“I don’t even know what a nanny does.”
“She wipes noses and bums and says ‘there, there’ a lot,” Gloria said. “You’ll pick it up. We’ll position you with an arriving American family. They’ll likely be clueless and over-the-top with the whole idea of having a ‘real British’ nanny. That’ll give you a chance to get Kings Cross out of your speech. Most of the Yanks can’t seem to tell a Yorkshireman from an Aussie anyway. Anyone who isn’t North American sounds like Sir Lawrence Olivier to them.” Gloria patted her hand. “You’ll do fine, luv.”
And so she had, finding she’d a real aptitude for the work. She worked for a succession of families, receiving glowing references from them all. Twelve years later, there was no better nanny in London than Gillian Farnsworth.
Kathleen Kairouz had hired her on the spot, and Gillian soon fell in love with the gentle woman and flawed child. When Kathleen was diagnosed with cancer, Gillian took on Kathleen’s care without a second thought but began to have misgivings. She’d grown to love Cassie and worried about the impact on the child if she were found out and arrested.
She found Alex Kairouz in his study one evening, staring into the fire. He looked up and motioned her to a chair across from his desk.
“How is she?”
“Resting comfortably. They increased her dosage. I hope she’ll have an easy night.”
Alex nodded as Gillian went on. “Mr. Kairouz, when Mrs. Kairouz… no longer needs me, I will be tendering notice.”
“But why, Mrs. Farnsworth? Cassie needs you. I need you. If it’s money—”
“No, no, sir. That’s not it at all. There are… things. Personal reasons I can’t discuss.”
Alex persisted. “You can’t just leave us in our hour of greatest need. Please, tell me what’s wrong. We can work something out.”
“I can’t say, sir. But I will stay until you’ve found someone.”
Alex stared at her a long moment and then nodded, almost to himself, as if he’d made a decision. He unlocked a drawer and handed her a file.
“Does it concern this?”
The file held a photo of Daisy Tatum stapled to her arrest report. There was a copy of her prison record, an article about Tommy Tatum’s death, and a copy of Gillian Farnsworth’s death certificate.
“When did you know?” she whispered.
“The second week,” Alex said. “Kathleen was supposed to wait for the report before hiring.” He smiled. “I didn’t sack you because she wouldn’t have it. She’s an uncanny judge of people, you know. I often included her in business dinners for her opinion of potential clients or associates. She’s never wrong.
“Anyway,” he continued, “she made me reread the damned report line by line as she stood at my shoulder, pointing out you were victim, not villain. So I didn’t turn you in. A decision for which I’m most thankful.” He held out his hand, and she returned the folder.
“But I won’t compel you to stay, though our need is great.” He paused. “I’m not without connections. Two months ago, the body of a street person was fished from the Thames, a drowning victim. Her fingerprints were a match to Daisy Tatum, allowing the police to close that file.” He paused again. “I also understand that when the records office in Oxford moved last month, several death certificates were misfiled. Just simple clerical errors, but I doubt Gillian Farnsworth’s death certificate will be located in a hundred years.”
He walked to the fireplace and tossed the file into the flames. “So Daisy Tatum is dead
and Gillian Farnsworth very much alive. You’ve a place in my home as long as you wish, but the decision is yours. The file burning brightly is, I assure you, the only copy.”
Tears streaked her face as she watched her past disappear up the chimney.
“Thank you, sir. I should like very much to stay.”
“Then so you shall, Gillian. Welcome home.”
Kathleen passed ten days later. The death hung over the household, but Gillian refused to let Alex bury himself in work. “The child has lost her mother and shouldn’t lose her father as well,” she said, insisting he spend an hour with Cassie each morning and evening. He soon cherished his time with the laughing child and spent most of his free time with her.
Cassie was their salvation and their bond.
Chapter Eleven
Anna Walsh’s Apartment Building
15 June
“You’re sure the house isn’t bugged?” Dugan asked for the third time.
“Swept it myself after Anna alerted us to the dinner,” Harry said. “Showed up this afternoon as a meter reader while the cook was at market and the Farnsworth woman and driver were collecting the girl at school. I had time alone in the house. Things are unchanged; phone taps to a recorder in Farley’s quarters but no bugs in the house. Makes sense. Cuts out a lot of idle household chatter.”
“Not that it matters, Tom,” Lou said. “If Kairouz is under duress, he’ll assume he’s being monitored and say nothing. And if he’s a player, which seems likely, he’ll lie. The best you can hope for this evening is a return to a closer relationship that we can use to watch him for slipups. You may not like that, but it’s a fact.”
Dugan said nothing, frustrated he’d convinced no one of Alex’s innocence. His only partial convert was Anna, and her support was tepid at best.
“Tom. We best go if we’re to reach Alex’s by half seven,” Anna said.
Kairouz Residence
Dugan and Anna arrived shortly after Mrs. Farnsworth and Cassie had reached home from choir practice. Cassie was still in her school uniform. She hugged Dugan and smiled at Anna.
“You’re beautiful,” Cassie said, her sincerity evident.
Deadly Straits (Tom Dugan 1) Page 9