by Jessie Keane
‘That I’d be fucking mad to announce it?’ he suggested.
Ruby narrowed her eyes and stared at his face. After their affair had ended, she’d heard on the grapevine that he’d married Chloe, a glamorous and much younger woman. She’d seen them around town a few times. Chloe Knox was big-breasted and blonde – a real-life Barbie doll. Ruby sometimes thought that she should have been Mrs Knox; but somehow the moment had never seemed right, and it had passed them by.
‘I’ll see you later,’ she said, and opened the front door and was gone.
‘Right,’ said Thomas to empty air, staring after her as he sagged against the wall. Mad bitch! He was wondering if she really would have slit his throat. Probably yes, if push came to shove.
She was hot as hell though.
Crazy as fuck, true – but still red hot.
That afternoon, Ruby was in the sitting room at the front of her Marlow house with Kit, watching copies of the CCTV tapes from the warehouse.
‘I’ve spoken to Thomas,’ said Ruby, as they saw the robbery unfold on the screen.
‘And?’ said Kit.
‘And he says, on his life, this had nothing to do with him.
Someone’s mixing it.’
‘Assuming he’s telling the truth.’
‘I think he is.’ On the screen, Tezzer was being hit with the shotgun.
‘Yeah, you think.’ Kit looked at his mum. He knew her and Thomas Knox had been close. And now, this. Was Knox playing them? Or getting some sort of twisted revenge on Ruby? He couldn’t be sure. ‘Did you dump him? Or did he dump you? You never said.’
‘Does it matter?’
‘It might.’
Ruby paused, then said: ‘I dumped him, OK? After I realized that he had a whole stableful of whores besides me. His new young wife, Chloe? She was one of them, and I guess she played the game smarter than the rest, because he upped and married her.’
‘OK. Look – there’s the bloke.’ Kit froze the image. Blond hair. Scrawny. Bad teeth. Gold chains. ‘Don’t recognize him.’
Kit started the thing running again. There was the black man, dreads down his back. A flash of gold when he grinned as he rammed the wages van.
‘I’ll show this to Thomas, maybe he knows them,’ said Ruby.
‘Yeah,’ said Kit, standing up. ‘And maybe, even if he does, he’ll say he don’t. Listen, I want a sit-down with Knox, soonest.’
Ruby eyed her son. In this mood, he was capable of a wrong move. ‘No,’ she said. ‘I’ll handle it.’
‘The fuck you will.’
‘I will.’ Ruby stood up and looked him in the eye. ‘Kit. If there’s a moment, a single frigging moment when I doubt what he’s saying, then he’s yours. I promise you.’
Kit met her gaze, unblinking. Finally he nodded.
‘Do it,’ he said.
7
Barry Jones came into his DI’s office in high excitement. Romilly and Harman were in there, talking over the case. Romilly was wondering if they’d missed anything.
‘I just got off the phone with bomb disposal,’ said Barry, hefting one heavy arse cheek on to the edge of Romilly’s desk.
‘Go on,’ she said. This sounded promising. Barry was a big man, running to flab, his hair starting to go grey; he looked like a cosy house husband with his beige cardigans and ill-fitting trousers, but appearances were deceptive: Barry had an extremely agile brain.
‘Clever really.’ Barry was shaking his head in admiration. ‘You know what those limpet mines were?’
‘No. Tell me.’
Barry paused for dramatic effect, then said: ‘Meat pies.’
Romilly squinted up at him. What?
‘Yep.’ He nodded. ‘Tinned meat pies. Fitted with magnets and flashing lights. Painted green so they looked military. Only dangerous if you eat ’em. You ever had one of those bloody things? No meat. Pastry like lino.’
‘You’re kidding.’
He made the sign of the cross on his chest. ‘God’s truth.’
Romilly let that sink in. Fucking meat pie tins. Barry hauled his bulk off her desk and made his farewells with a grin.
‘Cheeky bastards,’ said Harman.
‘Clever too.’ Romilly looked at the clock on the wall. Six. Christ! She wasn’t looking forward to this. But she stood, gathered up her things.
‘There’s something I have to do at home,’ she told Harman. ‘I’ll come straight back when I’ve finished.’
Romilly left her office, pausing at the door of the big main office where her team were still hard at work. It was all hands on deck over the warehouse job, the nick was a madhouse of action, ringing telephones and shouted conversations as the large team of detectives worked on it. Surveillance operations had been set up on six known criminals – including Knox – who could have been involved.
So far – nothing.
That bugged her. Seriously.
She was hoping the van used to ferry the money away from the scene would be found somewhere, dumped; but no. So there were rafts of coppers out now checking through all the car sales places, breakers’ yards, anywhere a hot motor could be easily disposed of.
And they were hauling suspects in. People who were in this line of work, and were always on the police radar. For months her team had been covertly watching a scrap-metal merchant called Finlay who’d long been suspected of large-scale auto theft and armed robberies. It had turned up nothing; County had been bellyaching about the cost. Now the warehouse thing had kicked off, the police were all over Finlay like a rash, combing every yard he operated and all around his home, too, fully expecting to discover the get-away van.
So far – nothing.
They’d turned over all Thomas Knox’s businesses, and drawn a big fat blank there, also.
Romilly was almost glad to get out of the building for a while. As she headed for the door, Bev Appleton, a DS and a friend of Romilly’s for years, caught her arm. Bev was big, blonde and pretty, a married mother of two lively kids.
‘You OK?’ she asked.
‘What?’ Romilly jerked to a halt. ‘Oh! Yeah. Fine.’
‘Only you look like shit.’
‘Thank you very much.’
‘Just saying. Bad deal over the warehouse business,’ said Bev. ‘You sure you’re OK?’
‘Oh, the usual. That’s all. Men. You know.’
‘Maybe we can catch up later?’ Bev’s sharp eyes were still resting on Romilly’s face.
‘Sure, yeah,’ said Romilly, and surged onwards.
She felt faintly sick. She’d set this up, no one had forced her hand. This was the decision she’d made, and now . . . now it was time.
She let herself in the front door quietly. Not creeping in, exactly, but she wasn’t announcing her entry with trumpets and fanfares. And she heard them almost straight away. Noises upstairs. She put down her bag and went up there, pausing when she reached the top stair. Am I sure I want to do this?
Right now, she felt she was out of choices.
She moved along the landing, pushed open the master bedroom door.
And there they were.
Romilly stood in the doorway and watched her husband’s bare arse pumping up and down between the legs of Sally, the barmaid from the Nag’s Head. That sick feeling washed over her again. Her stomach churned and clenched. Well, she’d known, hadn’t she? Really, she had. In her gut. She folded her arms and watched them for several seconds, until Sally’s eyes flickered open and looked over Hugh’s shoulder – and straight at her.
‘Jesus! Hugh!’ Sally yelped.
It should almost have been funny. But to Romilly it felt sad. Yes, she’d known at some subliminal level what was going on. But here it was, confirmed. Hugh sprang up like a startled deer, clutching the sheets around him. Sally lay there, spreadeagled, before she too grabbed for cover. Romilly stared at her. Then she said: ‘Well don’t just fucking lie there, Sal. Pour me a pint or something.’
‘I . . . I . . .’ Sally stammered, red-faced
.
Romilly turned her attention to her husband. ‘I’ll be downstairs,’ she said. ‘When you’re ready.’
Romilly waited in the kitchen, scanning the day’s paper without taking much in. The strike was worsening, British Steel was talking about axing over eleven thousand jobs in Wales by the end of March. In Belgrade Tito’s left leg had been amputated to stop the spread of gangrene. She shuddered and dumped the paper in the kitchen bin.
Finally, Hugh came down dressed in his bathrobe. She could hear Sally up there, scrabbling into her clothes. All a bit undignified.
Hugh’s face was like thunder. ‘You said you were going to be late again,’ he said. ‘Ten, you said.’
Romilly gave him a look. ‘You what? Listen, Hugh. News alert. I’m a detective inspector. I catch criminals for a living. I set a simple trap, and you fell right into it.’
‘Clever bitch, aren’t you,’ he sneered.
‘Blimey, Hugh,’ said Romilly, shaking her head. ‘Whatever happened to the caring, compassionate social worker guy I married, eh? I never thought you’d turn out to be such a walking ruddy cliché, bonking the local bike because your wife doesn’t understand you.’
‘But that’s the trouble,’ said Hugh angrily. ‘You don’t.’
‘Oh, I think I do. You’re dancing the horizontal tango with Sally in my bed, in our bed. Why didn’t you take her back to that cosy little hovel of yours?’
‘I . . .’ he started.
‘I’ll tell you why. It was to give me the finger, wasn’t it? To say, “Fuck you, Romilly, what would you make of this?” ’
‘Is it any wonder that I’ve got to look somewhere else for affection?’ he demanded. ‘Fuck’s sake! You’re married to your sodding job, not to me. It’s fucking boring. You are boring.’
‘I see.’ Romilly nodded, taking it in. She was a workaholic bore. Nice. ‘Oh look, here comes your little playmate.’
Sally came thundering down the stairs. She cast a look in their direction as she passed the open kitchen doorway, then she scuttled out the front door and was gone. ‘Bye, Sal!’ shouted Romilly after her.
‘So what now?’ asked Hugh.
He looked, thought Romilly, like a sulky kid caught scrumping apples. Pathetic.
‘Get any stuff you need together,’ she said, going through to the hallway and picking up her bag. ‘I want you out of here by the time I get back tonight.’
There! It was done. She walked out of the house and over to her car. The sick feeling had abated, a little. She tried to pinpoint how she felt right now. Down the road, she could hear Sally’s heels clacking on the pavement as she made her escape. Maybe I’ve just escaped too, she thought. As she climbed into the driver’s seat she turned this over in her mind, analysing it. She was good at analysing things. How did she feel? And it popped into her head, straight away.
She felt relieved.
8
The killer was a perfectionist, with a tidy mind; he was the sort of man who would feel compelled to straighten the tins in a food cupboard – supposing he ever had one, which he didn’t. But if he did, he’d have them all facing neatly to the front, and arranged in date order. He was even neat in his personal appearance, always beautifully turned out; clothes clean and pressed, hair trimmed, shoes polished. Mess, disorder of any kind, upset him. Which was why he was looking in disgust around the room he was currently sitting in.
He was in a big, red-brick house in central London. It had huge bay windows and high-ceilinged rooms, so the actual proportions of the place were delightful; but inside, in this vast living room, years of dust and dirt had accumulated. The furniture looked tired, threadbare. Three yappy little dogs were hurling themselves around the room, snapping at each other in a game of chase, snarling and barking.
The killer hated dogs. Dirty, snivelling things.
Sometimes, when he was practising for a job, he used stray dogs as targets. Tidied them away afterwards, of course; he couldn’t leave a mess.
He could smell the dogs in here. A pungent, eggy smell; raw and canine. He was trying to hold his breath, and failing. He could see a small brown deposit over in the far corner of the room. Jesus. How could anyone live like this?
‘That’s hardly mates’ rates,’ the man seated opposite him was saying. ‘What, no discount for rellies?’ he complained.
‘Twenty grand now, twenty when the job’s done. I think that’s fair. You haven’t told me the target yet. I’ve never liked the idea of flying blind.’
‘These are the details.’ The man handed over a folded scrap of paper and a small stack of photographs. The killer unfolded the paper and looked at it. Scanned the photos. Then he tucked them all in his pocket.
The dogs were still rushing around, panting, tongues lolling. One brushed against the killer’s ankles, and he moved his legs quickly to one side. Filthy things.
‘All right?’ said the man.
‘The date’s fine. Gives me plenty of time to get things straight.’
‘Good. I’ll need to go to the bank,’ said the killer’s uncle.
He was thinking that his nephew – his brother Bill’s boy – was weird as ninepence, wandering the country on his own, rootless. Jobless, too, except for these ‘removals’ he did now and again. You couldn’t reach him when you wanted to. No address. No phone. Nothing. So he’d had to contact his brother, tell him he wanted a word with the peculiar bastard. His brother hadn’t had a clue where his own son was. So he’d phoned his mother, the killer’s grandma. The killer had stayed with her as a nipper after his mother – Bill’s wife – had scarpered, and he still dropped in on special occasions – birthdays and so on – to see the old girl. Finally, weeks later, contact was made.
‘I’ll come back tonight,’ said the killer, standing up. ‘Say, seven o’clock?’
‘Fine,’ said the man, and his nephew left the room. The man breathed a sigh of relief. The bloke might be useful, and he might be his own flesh and blood, but still – he gave him the fucking creeps.
Catching the Tube, the killer went straight to a lock-up he kept under a false name over in Peckham. He opened up, collected his bag, relocked the door, and went to the hotel he’d checked into the day before. He changed his trousers because the dog had brushed up against the ones he’d been wearing, and put the dirty pair in another bag. When that was done he had a cup of tea, washed up the dirty cup, saucer and spoon, wiped down the tea tray. Taking a third bag with him, he headed back over to his uncle’s place to collect his first payment. No dogs in evidence this time, and thank God for it.
Having done all that, he was suddenly in the mood to celebrate. Why not? He’d get dinner at one of the local restaurants, and then he’d start researching his target. No time like the present. He felt quite excited now. He always enjoyed the prospect of a kill. Dinner first – and after that he’d go to Soho to have a look at Ruby Darke’s club, see if he could spot her there.
9
Crystal Rose was sitting in a giant champagne glass in Ruby’s Soho burlesque club. The glass was overflowing with bubbles that glittered with rainbows as they drifted down onto the stage. Crystal, a tiny and beautiful brunette, appeared to be naked in the bubbles except for one ornate diamond necklace. She was lifting one leg provocatively, then the other, stroking her hands down over her own shapely limbs and smiling coyly at the audience.
To the background track of ‘Diamonds Are a Girl’s Best Friend’ sung by Marilyn Monroe, Crystal twisted and writhed, then finished her routine with a flourish, standing up in the glass, bubbles lightly – suggestively – coating her nudity.
The lights winked out.
When they came back on again, two sequin-covered acolytes – Crystal’s ‘Rosettes’ – had appeared and a set of steps had been placed in front of the huge glass. As Crystal Rose descended to stage level to rapturous applause, waving left and right, her two assistants covered her with giant white-feather fans tinted pink by the lights. She was ushered off the stage, blowing kisses to he
r audience.
Ruby Darke watched it all with interest. Crystal was good but God she was a pain in the arse. Ruby ran this single club as she had once run a countrywide retail business – with an iron fist in a velvet glove. She surrounded herself with a good team but sadly also had to contend with very young and gorgeous girls like Crystal, who were hell to handle. Capricious. Demanding. But necessary, drawing in the punters like bees to honey.
One of these days, Ruby thought, burlesque was going to go mainstream like it had back in the day when she had been onstage at the Windmill. After selling her business, she’d visited strip clubs and lap-dancing clubs, wondering if she might take one of those over and expand it, but she hadn’t really wanted involvement in them; it wasn’t her thing. And then she’d seen current-day burlesque being performed, and instantly she was sold. It was teasing, artistic, sexy but not lewd. It was very like what she’d done when she’d been young and foolish and in love with that rat Cornelius Bray. Of course, Cornelius had turned out to be a son-of-a-bitch bastard, and it had all ended badly, but still – the burlesque had triggered a nostalgia in her. She loved it, and it seemed the punters did too.
‘She’s good,’ said Laura, the club manageress, a six-foot redhead with huge, shrewd blue eyes, who was sitting beside Ruby at her table near the stage. ‘And Christ, don’t she know it.’
‘She’s better than good, she’s terrific,’ said Ruby. ‘Draws the punters like no one else.’
Crystal was a hit, there was no doubt about that. Ruby looked around with satisfaction. The club was packed tonight. Every night Crystal appeared, there were people queuing fifty-deep at the door. Ruby was pleased. She’d started this club mostly to give herself an interest after she’d sold the Darkes chain of stores, and to help launder some of Kit’s cash through the tills, but it was making a pretty healthy profit in its own right.
‘Trouble is, she only wants three nights a week,’ Laura sneered. ‘Family commitments, my arse. She’s making enough out of us on those three nights not to bother herself with working too hard the rest of the week. Lying at home painting her toenails is my best guess, while watching TV. Which leaves us short of acts,’ said Laura.