by Martina Cole
‘Then of course that would be fine by us. The girl has something about her ... youth, talent. My God, such talent! She also has a presence lacking in so many artists today. I have watched her, seen how she plays to her audience. The girl’s a natural.’
Briony nodded in agreement. Her eyes were burning with ambition for her sister, with the knowledge that this little man with the bad breath and cocky manner could make Kerry into a star.
‘Tell your lawyers to contact mine with the contracts. We’ll talk again next week. How’s that?’
Pieter smiled.
‘That suits me down to the ground, my dear.’ He stood up. ‘I will leave you now. Thank you for the coffee, and I look forward to seeing you one week from today.’ Clicking his heels together, he left the room.
Briony relaxed into her chair. She would get Kerry signed, sealed and delivered then they would drop the bombshell about little junior. If she went into recording, they could keep her from the public gaze for a few months, once the pregnancy became noticeable. Then, once the child arrived, they could get someone to mind it. It was the only solution. She knew through Jonathan that a lot of the stars in movies these days were hiding a multitude of sins. He was one of the few outsiders to be told about Kerry’s child, and had been very supportive, telling Briony that he would do anything he could to help.
It seemed that his first legitimate acting part had made him overnight. He photographed well and looked the part of the movie star, even though he was far from being one yet. She would do the same thing with Kerry. Let her sign the contracts, get a few records under her belt. Become a known name and face. Then once the child was born, they would go on from there.
She had promised Jonathan that once Berwick Manor was underway, she would allow him to hold a big party there, a great big madhouse party, with her girls and his friends. Female as well as male. It would be a wonderful advertisement. The rich and famous gravitated towards one another.
Marcus Dowling, now her number two, walked into the office and Briony jumped. She’d been so deep in thought she hadn’t heard him knock.
‘Marcus! You made me jump!’
He smiled. He was big, blond and devastatingly handsome. He sat down opposite her and grinned, showing perfect white teeth.
‘I’m sorry to barge in like this, Miss Cavanagh, but I needed to talk to you.’
Briony poured them both a drink.
‘Go on.’
‘Well, it’s about the men you intend to employ at the Berwick.’
‘What about them? I picked them all myself.’
Marcus smiled.
‘Well, going over the lists, I found some of them were well-known nancies.’
Briony giggled. This man was so finicky it made her want to roar with laughter.
‘Listen, Marcus, those men are part of my staff, not yours, love. They’ll be working there just like the girls. You just worry about the heavies. Anyone else is my business, OK?’
Marcus relaxed visibly.
‘Thank Gawd for that! I didn’t really fancy keeping them in order. Give me a big burly docker any day of the week. Every place I’ve worked with them, they’re murder.’
‘Not all of them, love. Most are no different to me and you. They just have a different outlook on life, that’s all.’
Marcus raised his eyebrows saucily and said, ‘Well, I agree with you there anyway. Everything’s running smoothly, I saw Mariah earlier, the work is nearly done. Another week or two at the most. The plasterers are finished. Soon it’ll be ready for the redecoration.’
Briony nodded.
‘Me and Mariah have that all in hand. By the way, I wanted to ask you something personal.’
Marcus scowled.
‘What’s that, Miss Cavanagh?’
‘Next time you give my sister Bernadette a lift home, turn your engine off, would you? Only you kept half the bleeding street awake last night, and the night before.’
Marcus reddened and Briony laughed gently.
‘Surely you didn’t think you could keep that a secret, did you? Everyone knows. I was told about you and her within minutes of you being seen together. I look out for my sisters, you see, I take a deep interest in what they’re doing.’
It was a veiled threat and he knew it.
‘I happen to have a very high regard for Bernadette, but we’ve only been seeing each other a week. So it’s early days yet. We’re friends, that’s all.’
Briony nodded.
‘Well, she’s a big girl now. How’s the recruiting going for the bar staff at the Manor?’
Marcus relaxed, back on his own territory once more.
‘I’ve decided on the men. I thought the heavies could be incorporated better as barmen, etcetera. Then, they’ll be there all the time, should any trouble arise. I’ll suit and boot them up, give them a good talking to beforehand, and hopefully they’ll blend in with the wallpaper.’
Briony grinned.
‘I can’t see Big Denny Callaghan blending in with pale grey walls somehow, can you?’
Marcus also laughed.
‘Big Denny is on the door, Briony. It’s the only place for him!’
‘Good. Well, you seem to have everything in hand. I want you to take over a lot from me, Marcus, as you know. I want you to run the Manor, do all the heavying so to speak. But any major decisions will be mine.’
Marcus Dowling smiled.
‘Of course.’
‘And Mariah’s. Who could forget Mariah!’
Marcus relaxed in his chair, crossing his legs.
‘But, one day, I take over everything properly?’
Briony took a pull on her cigarette before she answered.
‘Providing me and you don’t have any major falling outs, that’s about the strength of it, yes.’
‘I’ll go a good job, Briony. In fact, I’ll work like a nigger for you!’
The smile faded from his handsome face at the look Briony gave him.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Tommy Lane was tired out. His face was aching with the cold and his hands were frozen. He turned to face the wind, his eyes immediately stinging with tears. He sank his hands deep into the pockets of his coat, wishing now he had put on his gloves. He saw a car coming towards him, its headlights bright in the darkness. He could see his own breath as he exhaled in relief. The car slowed and he walked to the passenger side and slipped inside.
‘You’re late.’
Marcus Dowling looked at him, a cigarette dangling from his bottom lip.
‘Sorry, Tommy mate, but Briony kept me late then I had to take Bernadette home.’
Tommy nodded in the dimness of the car. He lit himself a cigarette and said seriously, ‘I’ve had word that there’s trouble brewing for Briony with the Ricardos, the Maltese ponces.’
Marcus scowled, his usually open face troubled.
‘They’ve been in The Windjammer a few times, haven’t said a word to anyone that I know of.’
‘They think that now me and Briony are history, they can have a crack at her. Well, me and you are going to pop round and visit the old man, let him see a show of solidarity. He should be at his gambling rooms in Soho about now. So let’s get going, me balls are nearly frozen solid.’
Marcus drove towards the West End. He was quiet for a while. Then: ‘They’ve got a fucking nerve’ain’t they?’ He spoke incredulously. ‘I mean, Tommy, even if you’re off the scene as far as they know, Briony’s no pushover and she’s got me as her number two now. Her workforce are hardly bumboys, are they?’
Tommy laughed gently. His taut face relaxed. ‘Listen, Marcus me old mate, I never met a Maltese yet who had an ounce of brain in their thick skull. She’s a bint, so she’s a prime target. As far as they’re concerned she’s got above herself, see. And if they think so, everyone else will, so tonight me and you put them all out of the ball game. I’ve got a shooter in me coat. You came tooled up, I take it?’
Marcus nodded. ‘Of course.’
&n
bsp; ‘Good. How is Briony?’
Marcus shrugged lightly.
‘All right. Eileen’s still bad, they’ve got to go and see her tomorrow. Kerry’s getting heavier, but she don’t look pregnant. Briony still ain’t having none of it with her old woman, and Rosalee ... well, Rosie’s Rosie, if you know what I mean.’
‘And how’s Bernadette?’ Tommy’s voice was full to the brim with innuendo.
‘Bernie’s doing all right, thank you very much.’
Tommy laughed heartily.
‘Touchy, ain’t we?’
Marcus swerved round a corner fast, and Tommy held on to the dashboard to keep himself upright.
‘All right, Marcus, I can take the hint.’
Marcus slowed down, his face grim now in the dimness.
‘I don’t know why you don’t just keep in touch with Briony. I mean, you’ve me and Kevin Carter watching out for her, and reporting back to you. Wouldn’t it be easier if you just kept up a full-time partnership?’
Tommy shook his head.
‘No. It wouldn’t.’
Marcus heard the hard edge to Tommy’s voice and dropped the subject.
Tommy stared out of the window in silence, thinking of Briony. He had had to leave her, to save himself. Briony was just too much, she had too many complications in her life. But that alone would not have been enough for him to have left her. He had left because, much as he loved her - and he did love her, deeply - she could never give him more than she had already.
But that didn’t mean he couldn’t look out for her, and he always would. No matter who he married, or who was the mother of his children, Briony would always occupy a big place in his affections. Without her, he would have had a much harder road. He owed her, and Tommy Lane always paid his debts.
Although he wouldn’t admit it to a soul, he missed her at times so much it was a physical pain. If only they could be friends. But their relationship was such that that would be impossible. He either had her, one hundred per cent, or he had nothing of her.
At this moment in time, nothing seemed the better choice.
Victor Ricardo was a Maltese immigrant. Born in Buggiba, a small fishing village, he had come to England in the late 1800s bringing his fifteen-year-old wife, Maria. He had settled in Stratford where his wife had given birth to six sons in quick succession - all big-nosed, with deep-set dark eyes and thick unruly black hair. He loved to look at them, they were like his doubles. His only daughter, Immaculata, was tiny, pretty, and had the same modest demeanour as his highly religious wife.
Immaculata went to Mass, she cooked, she kept her lovely hair covered, and never spoke unless spoken to. She would not marry until her brothers had left home, as she was a great help to her mother with all the cooking and cleaning for the seven men of the household. Victor already had his eye on a husband for her, a Maltese baker who ran a bookie’s on the side and had buried his wife a year before. He was older than Immaculata, but that was good. A man should be older than his wife. Women needed to be looked after. They had no right to opinions other than their husband’s, and needed a man to guide them and their children. He himself was twenty years older than his wife and it had been a satisfactory arrangement.
He watched his eldest son Mario eject a troublesome man from the club, and smiled to himself. Mario was a good boy. Big and strong, he was not the most intelligent of Victor’s sons, but his physical prowess was legendary around the East End.
Victor’s little Soho club was in Greek Street. It was a basement really, but he had made it into a gambling house ten years before. He also allowed certain girls to work his place for a small percentage of their earnings. He treated the toms with contempt, not being a great lover of the female sex.
Tonight his eyes scanned the basement room with interest. The smoky atmosphere and constant buzz of conversation gave him a thrill every night of his life.
Victor poured himself a small medicinal brandy, staring at his bulbous hands which were becoming stiff with arthritis. Sighing, he went to his office and sat behind his desk. In front of him were the ledgers, telling him who owed what, and how long the debt had been outstanding. He would go through them tonight, then in the morning one or another of his sons would chase up the late payers. It was a good arrangement. He was toying with the idea of starting a protection racket in the West End. Now Tommy Lane was seriously East End, and his relationship with Briony Cavanagh was over with, Victor felt the time was right to make his own mark. He already collected from Maltese and Italian businesses in Soho. Now he felt he could extend his operation to the clubs. If he could get a madam like Briony Cavanagh to pay up, the others would rapidly follow. She was a woman without the guidance of a man, and no matter what anyone said about her, she was only a woman. He would prove that she was not indestructible, he and his sons would be the men to make her pay what she should have been paying for years - protection money.
Victor smiled to himself as he thought about it. The Irish were scared of her, the Jews were scared of her, even the German and Russian immigrants were scared of her. The Italians paid whoever asked them, so it was down to the Maltese or the Arabs to take advantage of this situation. It seemed the Arabs weren’t going to, so that left the door open for him.
Victor sipped his brandy slowly, savouring the taste as it slipped down his throat and warmed his belly. He looked up as the door of his office opened, and swallowed heavily as he saw who was standing there with his son Mario. A very subdued Mario.
‘Hello, Victor, how are you?’ Tommy’s voice was friendly and calm. ‘Do you know Marcus Dowling at all?’
Victor stood up slowly and nodded at Mario who shut the door and stood in front of it, trying to look menacing. Tommy turned and faced him, saying loudly, ‘Fucking hell, you two are so ugly you even look alike! Sit down, Mario, before I box you down. I ain’t in the mood tonight for anyone trying to annoy me.’
Mario stayed put and Tommy shook his head at Marcus. At the signal, he pulled a gun from under his coat.
‘Sit, Mario, or I’ll blow your legs from under you.’
A white-faced Victor rushed around the desk.
‘Mario, for God’s sake, sit down!’
Tommy pushed Victor back towards his seat and, looking at the two men, said loudly, ‘Did I ever tell you that I had a run-in years ago with Maltese Jack? Do you remember Maltese Jack, Victor? A big ugly bastard, a bit like you actually. He had a big hooter and all. Well, he tried to tuck me up so I shot him. No kidding, I shot him in both his feet. Now in the East End, if you shoot someone in the plates, it means they’ve tried to run you out of your business. Trod on their toes, like. Do you get my point? So in a minute, I’m gonna shoot you both in the feet, then everyone will know you tried to take what was rightfully mine.’
Victor shook his head.
‘I swear, Tommy, I have tried to take nothing of yours ...’
Tommy laughed gently.
‘But you have. Because me and Briony Cavanagh are partners still. I’ve left the running of the businesses to her because I have other fish to fry. So if you go to her for protection money, indirectly you’re stepping on my patch. Now my Briony would have sorted you, because she isn’t as easygoing as I am. She would have got this young man here to blow up your club, or maybe even your house. Because she hasn’t got the patience I have. She’s much more quick to anger than I am. Which is why I trust her to run my places. But me and Marcus here, we thought to ourselves, we’d better go and see Victor before Briony does, because me and you have known each other a long time, haven’t we?’
Victor nodded slowly, his dreams and his hopes fading before his eyes.
‘So when we shoot you in your feet, you’d better thank us, because we saved your lives.’
Mario looked at his father in shock. He tried to raise himself from his chair and Tommy shot him at close range in his right foot, shattering the ankle bone and the shin.
Mario dropped back in his chair, his devastated foot hanging loosely on to
the floor.
All were aware that the hubbub in the club outside had dwindled into silence.
Tommy poked his finger in Mario’s face.
‘So, what do you say?’
Mario groaned with pain, and Tommy screamed at the top of his voice: ‘What’s that? I can’t hear you, Mario. Did you say, “Thank you, Mr Lane”?’
Victor saw his son’s face, the sweat standing out on his brow, the trickle of mucus running from his nose.
‘Thank him, Mario. For God’s sake, thank the man and get this over with!’
‘Th ... Thank you.’ Mario’s voice came out stronger than he’d expected.
‘Thank you, Mr Lane.’ Marcus’s voice was high-pitched, as if talking to a child.
‘Thank you, Mr Lane.’ Mario’s voice had tears in it now.
Tommy grinned. Then, shooting Mario in his other foot, he said, ‘You’re welcome, my old son. More than welcome in fact.’
Victor looked at his child, his first-born son, and a seething hatred for Tommy Lane swept over him. He swiftly opened his desk drawer. Marcus aimed his gun at the older man and shot him full in the chest.
Victor slumped over the desk, his body twitching uncontrollably in the throes of death.
Tommy tutted loudly. Walking to the man, he turned him over. In the desk was a small revolver. Tommy took it and slipped it into the pocket of his coat. Then Marcus and he walked slowly from the office, and through the hushed crowd outside in the club itself.
As they drove the few streets to The Windjammer, Tommy was humming to himself. Marcus, on the other hand, had not reached the point where the use of a gun didn’t bother him at all. But he was determined he would get there, in the end.
‘You really expect me to believe that?’ Briony stubbed her cigarette out with such force she pushed the ashtray across her desk. Only the quick action of the girl before her prevented it from crashing to the floor.
‘Honestly, Miss Cavanagh, it’s the truth.’
Briony walked around the desk and held up a finger. Pointing it into the girl’s face, she said slowly, ‘You ever try and muscle in on another girl’s customer in my club again, I’ll have your guts. Do you hear me?’