Survivor: Only the strongest will remain standing . . .

by Roberta Kray

  ‘Did you hear that, Vinnie? Stan here says it weren’t deliberate.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  ‘Guess he must be the careless type, huh?’

  ‘Looks that way, guv.’

  Quinn continued to glare across the desk. ‘Be a shame for us to fall out so soon. Here we are, we’ve only just met and already you’re pissing me off. Now I’m a busy man, a very busy man, and I can’t afford to waste time on some cheap private dick who doesn’t know his arse from his elbow. So let’s make this easy. Just tell me who you’re working for and we can both get on with our day.’

  Stanley shook his head. ‘I’m afraid I can’t do that.’

  ‘Sure you can. It’s easy. Just open your mouth and tell me his fuckin’ name. Now I’m the reasonable sort, always happy to talk things over, but Vinnie… well, Vinnie’s not so understanding. He has a short fuse if you know what I mean.’

  It was a long time since anyone had tried to intimidate Stanley and he felt, perversely, rather flattered. Which wasn’t to say he didn’t take the threat seriously. He looked over at the goon who, he imagined, rarely had to raise a finger; his size was enough to make the toughest man compliant. Transferring his gaze back to Quinn, he gave a nod. ‘What I can tell you is that the case I’m working on has nothing to do with you. If I’ve inadvertently crossed a line, then I apologise.’

  Quinn seemed less than satisfied with the answer. His eyes flashed with irritation. ‘There are three things I can’t stand, Stan: pigs, queers and bleedin’ liars. They turn my stomach. I can hardly bear to be in the same room as them. You understand?’

  What Stanley understood, loud and clear, was that Quinn had been doing his homework. And that meant he was worried. But why? It was either down to Angela Bruce’s death or to Billy Martin’s abrupt disappearance. Probably the latter. Pym must have tipped him the wink about Stanley’s interest in the matter. ‘Yes.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘So I’m not a liar,’ Stanley said. ‘The case in question concerns a child’s paternity. Who’s the daddy, if you like. I was simply making the necessary enquiries. There was nothing more to it than that.’

  Joe Quinn curled his lip. ‘You don’t seem to be listening to me, Stan. I need a name.’ He glanced down at his watch. ‘You’ve got thirty seconds before my patience runs out.’

  Vinnie shifted his weight, inching forward as if in preparation.

  Stanley’s palms were starting to sweat. He was not prepared to reveal Mal’s identity, but was aware he had to offer up something credible. He also had to figure out what Quinn already knew. ‘Okay, I don’t want any trouble. All I’m trying to do is to track down some family for Angela Bruce’s daughter. I believe Angela used to work for you. Brenda Cecil is taking care of Lolly at the moment, but it would obviously make more sense if we could trace the kid’s father. Even if he’s not prepared to take her on, there could be other relatives we don’t know about.’

  ‘Well, it ain’t me if that’s what you’re thinking. I never touched the mad cow.’

  ‘I wasn’t.’

  Quinn smirked and looked over his shoulder. ‘What about you, Vinnie? You ever find your way into Angela’s panties?’

  ‘No, guv.’

  ‘So there you go,’ Quinn said to Stanley. ‘End of story. Time for you to start looking some place else.’

  ‘I’ll do that,’ Stanley said.

  Stanley’s heart was in his mouth as Quinn lumbered to his feet. By implying that Brenda was his client he was, at least temporarily, off the hook. But what if the old bastard went to see her or called her up? Well, it was a risk he had to take. And he had the suspicion that Brenda would be less than open. If she came clean about Mal Fury, about the distant chance he could be Lolly’s father, then Quinn might try to muscle in on the reward.

  Joe Quinn was the type who never liked to leave without one last dramatic flourish. He stared hard at Stanley, raised his hand and pointed a finger at him. ‘Don’t make me come back,’ he said. ‘I won’t be fuckin’ happy.’

  Stanley nodded, thinking it wise to keep his mouth shut. He watched the two men leave the room. When the outer door closed he released his breath in a long sigh of relief. ‘Shit,’ he muttered. Then he quickly got up, went into the waiting area and pressed his ear against the door. He could hear his visitors retreating along the corridor, the heavy tread of their boots clearly audible on the lino.

  Stanley went back to his desk, removed the bottle from the bottom drawer and poured a stiff shot into a mug. He knocked it back in one and immediately poured out another before putting the bottle away again. Christ, he was getting too old for this kind of aggro. As a young man he’d have taken it in his stride but now, at fifty-three, he didn’t have the energy or the inclination to go up against the likes of Joe Quinn.

  The Fury file was still open in front of him. On reflection, he didn’t think there was any connection between Quinn and the abduction of Kay. No, the visit had been all about Billy Martin – even if his name hadn’t been mentioned. Stanley had only tried to trace the guy in the hope he might know who Lolly’s father was, but in the process he’d opened a whole can of worms. From now on he’d steer clear of anything to do with him. It was none of his business and he preferred to keep it that way.

  Another ten minutes passed before Mal Fury arrived at the office. He strode in, took one look at Stanley and asked, ‘What’s up? What’s the matter?’

  Stanley felt a small shift inside his head, a discomposure that always occurred when the two of them came face to face. Mal Fury was handsome and charming, but it wasn’t just that. Over the years something more than a basic working relationship had developed, a mutual trust, even a kind of friendship. Stanley was, he supposed, a little in love with the younger man, although he’d rather walk over red hot coals than openly admit to it.

  ‘I just had a visit from Joe Quinn and his pet gorilla. He’s an East End villain based in Kellston. He —’

  ‘Yes, I know who he is.’ Mal interrupted. ‘I’ve heard of him. What did he want?’

  ‘The name of the person I was working for.’

  Mal pulled out the chair and sat down. He crossed his long elegant legs and gazed across the desk at Stanley. ‘And did you tell him?’

  ‘Of course not. You don’t need the likes of Quinn on your back. Anyway, it’s none of his business. He doesn’t care for the fact I’ve been in Kellston asking questions. Something’s rattled him. I think it’s to do with Billy Martin. He didn’t come straight out and say but that’s the impression I got.’

  ‘Angela’s boyfriend?’

  Stanley nodded. ‘The guy who disappeared.’

  ‘What if Quinn knows something about Kay?’

  ‘I don’t think he does. Not unless he’s smarter than he acts.’ Stanley paused and gave a faint smile. ‘What are the odds?’

  Mal shrugged.

  ‘No,’ Stanley continued. ‘I reckon someone’s told him I’m looking for Billy and he’s got all jumpy about it. If this was to do with Kay then he wouldn’t need to ask who my client was. Even a moron like Quinn could take an educated guess at that one.’

  ‘You’ve got a point. I take it you’re not going to pursue the Billy Martin angle, then?’

  Stanley hesitated. He didn’t want to come across as a man who could be easily intimidated, but didn’t want to lie either. ‘I don’t think there’s much mileage in it, but I’ll keep my ear to the ground.’

  Mal opened his mouth as if about to speak but then closed it again and reached into the pocket of his overcoat. He took out a loosely folded A4 envelope, put it on the desk, smoothed it out and pushed it towards Stanley. ‘You’d better keep these. I don’t want them in the house. Esther might find them and…’

  Stanley knew what was inside: photos of Angela Bruce from the morgue, and the autopsy report. ‘Of course. Nothing useful, I take it?’

  Mal shook his head. ‘I don’t recognise her. I’ve never seen her before.’

  Stanley hadn
’t expected anything else. Even if Angela had mentioned the Furys in one of her less lucid moments – and he still suspected the story was pure concoction, invented by Brenda Cecil – it wasn’t proof of anything. Thirteen years ago the news of Kay’s abduction and her nanny’s murder had made the headlines, splashed across the front page of every paper. In her delusional state, Angela could easily have got confused, tangling up the memories of her own life with something she had read.

  Mal sighed. ‘It’s just another dead end, isn’t it?’

  ‘It would help if we knew Angela’s real identity. Where she came from, where she was living before she turned up in Kellston. At the moment all we have are questions. Someone has to know who she really is.’

  ‘Does it make a difference?’

  On balance Stanley thought the answer was probably no. The chance of Lolly being Mal’s lost daughter was less than slim. ‘Do you want me to drop it?’

  Mal gazed beyond Stanley, staring at the buildings of Whitechapel through the smeared panes of glass. Or maybe he wasn’t seeing the outside at all. His blue eyes had a glazed, distant look as if his mind was somewhere else. A few seconds passed before he spoke again.

  ‘Whatever you think best.’

  Stanley understood that he wasn’t capable of closing the door on any line of enquiry until there was definite proof one way or another. Although in his heart Mal didn’t believe Lolly was his, he could not entirely dismiss the possibility. ‘I’ll give it another week or two, see if anything comes to light.’

  Mal glanced down at the envelope. ‘A suicide, then? Why do you think she did it?’

  Stanley didn’t know the answer to that. ‘Why does anyone?’

  ‘Because they’ve had enough. Because they’ve run out of hope.’

  ‘There’s always hope,’ Stanley said quickly, alarmed by the despair in the other man’s voice. ‘You never know what’s round the corner.’

  Mal’s face tightened. ‘Sometimes you know exactly what’s round the corner.’ He rose to his feet, gave Stanley a nod and said, ‘Call me if anything changes.’

  Stanley didn’t like to see him leave in this frame of mind. What if he did something stupid? He racked his brains for words of encouragement but could find nothing but platitudes. ‘You know where I am if… I’ll stay in touch.’

  As soon as the door closed Stanley lifted the mug to his lips and drained the last inch of brandy. He was worried. There had been something different about Mal today. Or was he just imagining it? Maybe he was the one who wasn’t thinking straight. The visit from Joe Quinn had rattled him.

  Stanley opened the envelope and spread the photos out on the desk. They didn’t make for pleasant viewing. He had looked at them before – there was another set in his files – but had that familiar feeling he was missing something. What had gone through Angela’s mind as she’d stood staring down at the Mansfield estate in the final seconds of her life? In the photos her face was waxy and expressionless. Part of her skull had caved in and the damage was ugly. He tried not to stare at it, and to concentrate on her features instead.

  ‘Who are you?’ Stanley murmured.

  He flicked through the file, removed the strip of photos of Lolly and laid them beside the pictures of Angela. So far as he could see there were no similarities, nothing to indicate they were mother and daughter. Even the colour of their eyes was different. But that didn’t mean anything. Lots of kids didn’t look like their mums. They might take after their dad or their grandparents. Genetics was a strange thing.

  There was nothing helpful in the autopsy report either. Stanley skimmed through it again. No evidence of an injury previous to the fall (although this could have been destroyed by the force of impact). No drugs in her system, and no alcohol either. Her stomach had been empty. Angela had gone to her death stone cold sober, influenced only by the demons in her mind.

  Stanley shuddered as if someone had just walked over his grave. He understood despair and loneliness, had himself swayed on the brink on more than one occasion, but had never had the courage to make that final fateful leap into the unknown.

  He gathered up the pictures and put them back in the envelope. What now? The woman deserved more, he thought, than to be filed away in a drawer and forgotten about. And Lolly deserved more too. He couldn’t give the kid a fairy-tale ending, couldn’t wave a magic wand and make everything all right, but perhaps he could try and make a difference. There must be family out there, people who would care for her. All he had to do was find them.

  Stanley tilted back his head and gazed up at the old cracked ceiling. There was another advantage to uncovering Lolly’s background in that he’d be one step closer to helping Mal draw a line under the faint possibility that she was his flesh and blood. But was that a good or a bad thing? So long as an element of doubt remained, no matter how small, there was still hope and he didn’t want to be the person to take that hope away. With these contradictions jostling in his mind, he decided there was only one thing to do – he put the file away, stood up and headed for the nearest pub.

  14

  It was over a week since Bonfire Night and Lolly still hadn’t mentioned the business of the guy to Brenda. There were two reasons for this: the first was that it wouldn’t make any difference – the cardigan was gone for ever – and the second was that she’d only make her own life worse by grassing up FJ and Tony to their mother. Not that Brenda would give a damn anyway. She would only raise her eyes to the ceiling and say something like, ‘For God’s sake, I’ve got more important things to worry about than some old cardi.’

  For Lolly it was a lesson learned. From now on she would take extra care of what little she had. She was saving up the money she got from Terry and already there were five one-pound notes hidden in her room. The idea for the hiding place had come from something she’d seen in a film: a tiny slit cut into the mattress near the seam, just big enough for her to slide the notes in. She was determined that the boys wouldn’t get their hands on her hard-earned cash.

  She loathed FJ and Tony, hated who they were and what they’d done. There was no place in her heart for forgiveness. And they weren’t even sorry. For them it was all one big joke. They smirked at her over the dinner table, their faces glowing with joyful spite.

  ‘You’ll be sorry,’ she muttered. ‘One day you’ll be sorry.’

  A cold wind was gusting along the high street and she pushed her hands deep into the pockets of her coat. She had just come from Albert Road but there hadn’t been much of a welcome today. Stella had grabbed the package and shooed her away.

  ‘You’d better scoot, hon. Terry just called and Joe’s on his way over from the Fox. He won’t like it if he finds you inside.’

  Lolly had been looking forward to getting into the warm for a while and being fussed over – it was the only bit of comfort she got these days – but she made sure it didn’t show on her face. ‘Okay. See you next week, then.’

  She turned and walked down the steps. Perhaps she hadn’t hidden her feelings quite as well as she thought because Stella called after her. ‘Lol? You all right, love?’

  ‘Yeah, yeah,’ Lolly said, painting on a smile and giving a breezy wave. ‘See you soon.’

  Stella frowned, gave her a searching look but then shrugged and retreated back inside.

  Lolly had only walked a few yards when she saw the black Jag approaching. Terry wasn’t driving. It was the big bloke, the one called Vinnie. She didn’t stare in case she drew attention to herself. Joe didn’t know about the errands she ran. In fact she had the feeling Joe didn’t know about a lot of things Terry did.

  Terry was smarter than his boss, but was careful not to show it. Men like Quinn didn’t like being overshadowed – they always had to think they were the best at everything. And Quinn wouldn’t have trusted her in the way Terry did. It would never have dawned on him how useful she was and how she could move around Kellston without arousing suspicion. Nobody took any notice of a kid, and especially not the law. />