by Jessie Keane
77
It would all have gone like clockwork, but when Kit was getting into the car with Ruby – Fats was with Daisy – DI Kane came up to him again and said: ‘A word, please.’
Kit looked at her in exasperation. ‘Seriously? Today of all fucking days?’
‘Any day at all, Mr Miller,’ she said flatly. ‘Or we can talk down the station, it’s up to you.’
Kit stared at her. She meant it. ‘Give me a moment,’ he said to Ruby. Everyone was getting into their cars, heading off to the wake at Rob’s mum’s house. He hated these bloody shindigs, sitting around eating cucumber sandwiches and saying what a great bloke the deceased was. What did any of it matter? Rob was gone. It was as simple as that.
‘Right,’ he said to Romilly, and they walked away from the milling crowds by the gate, back up toward the empty church porch.
As they walked, Kit glanced over to the still-open grave, feeling his innards crease with grief all over again. ‘So what d’you want?’ he asked, turning his attention back to the detective.
‘To clarify a couple of things, that’s all,’ she said as they stood alone in the porch. ‘One: you don’t get to talk to me like I’m one of your fucking lackeys. And two . . .’ She shook her head. ‘No, scrub that. There is no two. You don’t talk to me that way. You being upset over your friend’s death, that’s fine. But don’t ever think you can take it out on me.’
‘You what?’ snapped Kit.
‘Watch your step, Mr Miller. I am this close to hauling your arse down the station on any trumped-up charge I can dream up. Don’t push me. Because I won’t bloody stand for it.’
‘Oh. You won’t?’ Kit stared into her eyes. Fucking cheek of this girl. He moved in close to her and Romilly stepped back.
‘And don’t give me the attitude,’ she said. ‘I’m not impressed.’
‘Right.’ Kit eased in, closer still. Cheeky mare. But, Christ, he sort of liked her. And he liked the fact that she spat back at him. It was a long, long time since any woman had dared do that. He saw her pupils dilate, a tell-tale sign. ‘Well, detective, let me impress you.’ He shoved her back again the church wall.
‘What the fuck d’you think you’re doing?’ she demanded.
‘Kissing you,’ he said, and did.
She struggled, but he was too strong. When he felt her start to respond, Kit drew back, staring into Romilly’s shocked eyes from inches away.
‘See? Not so bad, was it?’ he asked, his voice husky.
‘Get your hands off me,’ said Romilly.
Kit let her go. ‘Oh, don’t play the Victorian virgin. We both knew this was going to happen. And anytime you want to continue with it, just let me know,’ he said, and left her standing there.
78
Rob’s mum lived on a council estate, in a neat little semi-detached. Cars lined the street. Kit found a space, parked up, and went inside. Daniel and Leon were near the door, dishing out glasses of sherry from a table loaded with food and drink. Kit took a glass of the brown liquid from Leon, threw it back in one. Ew. Sickly sweet. Whisky would have been better. Then he said: ‘I want a word with you two.’
They went out into the back garden.
‘You know anything about Rob and a large stash of drugs money?’ he asked them, flat out.
Daniel and Leon both stared at him. Then glanced at each other.
‘You fucking what?’ said Daniel.
‘What the fuck you talking about? Christ, here comes Daisy,’ said Leon.
Kit turned. With an upsurge of annoyance, he saw Daisy coming through the crowds of mourners toward him. She’d taken off the hat with the veil, and her face had gone from pale to a greenish white. She’d heard him.
‘I’ve had enough of all this,’ she said, her voice shaking. ‘I thought Rob was straight, the straightest man I’d ever met. And now this drugs business? I don’t believe it.’
Kit heaved a sigh. ‘I knew it would hurt you. It’s bloody hurt me, I know that.’
‘Do you think it could be true? Was he really involved in that?’
Kit nodded. Daniel and Leon were both looking at the ground.
‘It’s true all right,’ said Kit. ‘And Lewis the photographer was shipping the product round the country. Daise . . .’ he started, reaching for her. She was right to be angry, disbelieving. Right to be shocked. This wasn’t the Rob they all knew. This was a stranger.
But Daisy twitched away from him. She walked off, back into the house.
Eunice Hinton seemed to have shrunk in stature since the day of her eldest son’s death. From an ebullient fiftyish blonde, flighty and flirty, she had degenerated into an old woman, her face haggard, her clothes black, her eyes dull.
She was sitting in the crowded living room, her daughters Trudy and Sarah on either side of her. Patrick Dowling was standing nearby, talking in low tones to one of the sons-in-law. He’d been a fixture since Rob’s father suffered a fatal coronary four years back; Eunice had wasted no time in scooping up an old boyfriend to fill the vacancy.
Seeing Daisy approaching, Eunice came to her feet, holding out her arms to her daughter-in-law. Her eyes filled with tears; her arms shook.
Daisy didn’t respond. Didn’t walk into that motherly embrace. She stood there, glaring, hard-eyed.
‘Did you know?’ she asked. ‘Eunice, did you know about Rob and the drugs money in the lock-up?’
‘What?’ Eunice’s face was blank. She looked at Leon, who’d followed Daisy in along with Kit and Daniel. Her mouth formed into a trembling smile and she reached out, rubbed his arm. ‘You all right, son?’ she said.
Leon twitched away from his mother’s touch and her smile died. She turned her attention to Daisy.
‘What did you say?’ she asked her.
‘Did you know?’
‘I don’t . . .’ Eunice started. She dropped her arms, startled by Daisy’s tone.
‘Did you know?’ shouted Daisy.
The hubbub of voices died away into sudden silence. Everyone turned and stared. Eunice looked as shocked as if Daisy had slapped her. Patrick turned and stepped closer.
‘Daisy . . .’ he said quietly.
‘Did you know?’ Daisy asked him.
‘What is all this rubbish?’ said Trudy, standing up and giving Daisy a hostile look.
‘Rob was running a drugs operation. The photographer was one of his mules, apparently. That’s why they were both shot at the church. That’s . . . he caused it. It was his fault it happened,’ said Daisy.
Kit appeared at Daisy’s shoulder, trailing Daniel behind him. He grabbed her arm.
‘Daise, not today. Come on. That’s enough,’ he said.
‘No, it isn’t,’ she said, shrugging him off. ‘I need to know. Are we the only ones who’ve been kept in ignorance? Or has he been laughing at all of you too? He’s not the man we thought he was. He’s deceived us. Taken us for fools.’
‘What are you talking about?’ asked Eunice, her face ashen now, her whole body trembling.
Trudy and Sarah stepped in, clasping their mother in a protective embrace.
‘You’d better go,’ said Trudy.
‘Yeah,’ said Sarah, eyes flashing a threat. ‘Right now, or I won’t be responsible for my actions.’
‘What is all this shit, Miller?’ asked Patrick.
The room was silent. Suddenly everyone was watching the two men. Kit smiled, very slightly. Twice, Patrick Dowling had spoken to him like this. There wouldn’t be a third time.
‘This is Rob’s day,’ he said quietly. ‘So I’m not going to kick your teeth straight down your throat, Patrick. You’re upset. We all are. But listen to me. You ever talk to me like that again and it will be a different story.’ He turned to Daisy and took her arm. ‘Come on, Daise. Time to go home.’
79
‘What the fuck you playing at?’ asked Leon, taking Patrick to one side when Kit and Daisy had departed.
Eunice was watching them uneasily as her daughters busied themse
lves doling out sandwiches and tea. Trudy and Sarah were bickering over which plates to use, and who had cut the corners off the bloody sandwiches most neatly, but that was them, they were always at it, tearing at each other. Had been almost since the cradle. Eunice was annoyed and embarrassed by that. They had guests here. The last thing she wanted, today of all days, was anyone having a kick-off. She’d lost Rob, and she was only glad that Harry hadn’t been here to see it. Poor old Harry. Of course, she hadn’t loved Harry, not for a lot of years, and she hadn’t been faithful to him either – there had been a few affairs, which he had never known about – but she had been comfortable with him and she had got used to having him around.
Her eyes strayed to her guests, then back to Leon and Patrick. Rob had been the strong one, the dominant force. He’d never liked Patrick and made no secret of the fact. Leon was the mouthy son, but he seemed to get on pretty much OK with Patrick, which surprised her. She had thought they’d clash, but no; they were usually fine. She knew that Daniel – like Rob – had never taken to Patrick. But then, Eunice thought, Patrick was her choice, not theirs. They’d been childhood sweethearts, but after they’d drifted apart, she’d met sweet, malleable Harry and made a life with him. Five kids – and a cunt like a bill poster’s bucket to show for it, according to Patrick, who wasn’t one to mince his words.
Eunice thought that Patrick sometimes wasn’t very nice.
‘What you on about?’ Patrick was asking Leon.
‘Talking to him like that,’ said Leon. ‘Don’t be bloody stupid.’
Patrick puffed himself up. He could do that, thought Eunice. Like a toad. ‘Me, talk to him? What about the way the cocksucker talked to me? I see him in this house again, I’ll kick his arse out the door, that’s a promise.’
‘Don’t push it,’ advised Leon. ‘Not yet, anyway. Not until things cool down.’
‘I speak as I find,’ said Patrick. He stabbed a finger at Leon’s chest. ‘And I speak as I want, sonny. That clear?’
Eunice watched them, her son and her partner. Christ, men!
When Harry died, she found that she didn’t like being alone in the house at night, not at all. Trudy and Sarah had encouraged her to go out and meet new people, and she had, a few, enjoying the one-night stands, enjoying her freedom. But always coming home to evenings alone.
Then Trudy got a job in Patrick’s car dealership, and it turned out he’d known her mother when they were at school, and he was freshly divorced. The stars aligned, Cupid fired his arrow, and Eunice was in a relationship again, and a lot steadier with a man about the house. Despite the crack about her cunt. He was a rough diamond, Patrick, you had to make allowances for that. And she did. Lots of them. She was getting a bit tired of doing it, truth be told.
And what was he talking about, not allowing Kit back in this house? Her name was on the rent book. She lived here, not him. Her, Mrs Eunice Hinton. Harry hadn’t been good with money – not at earning it, or managing it. She had controlled the household bills, made sure the rent was paid, worked her arse off with cleaning jobs while the two girls had picked up the slack on the housework at home. Now, Patrick had his feet well and truly under the table and seemed to want to take charge of everything – and she wasn’t sure she liked it. She was beginning to think that Harry had been a sweetheart, compared to Patrick Dowling.
‘You want to tone it down a bit,’ said Leon to Patrick, shaking his head.
‘You might arse-lick your way around that big-headed turd, I’m not about to do it,’ said Patrick.
‘Christ,’ said Leon, and left.
80
‘How’s it going?’ the man asked the killer, over the phone.
‘It’s going,’ said the killer.
‘What the fuck does that mean? Now come on, play straight with me. Have you set it up yet?’
‘Set up what?’
‘Don’t arse me about, you cheeky little cunt. Miller. You got Hinton, you got that pipsqueak Lewis. Now get the main man, like we agreed.’
‘I’m working on it.’
‘In what way?’
‘Looking for the perfect site. I don’t intend to miss. Not this time. Picking the right place and time is not something to be rushed.’
‘Just make sure you finish the bloody job this time. No more arse-ups. All right?’
‘Right,’ said the killer, and hung up.
Romilly was down the station the day after the Hinton funeral when Harman dropped a sheet of paper on her desk.
‘Few more gun clubs,’ he said.
Romilly nodded, glancing at the list. It was long. She sighed. They’d already trawled through a load of them, and got nothing.
‘I’ve been thinking about Crystal Rose and the wedding shooting. Same perp.’ She pressed her fingers to her temples. ‘He could have been in the club before. Maybe not his first visit. Some men are like that, aren’t they?’ She threw him a questioning look. ‘Like tomcats, always sniffing around the same back door. Wouldn’t you say?’
‘Wouldn’t know,’ said Harman, who was married to a woman you wouldn’t dare cheat on.
Romilly had met Harman’s wife Julia at the Christmas party. Julia was a hard-eyed bitch, packed with fat across the shoulders and stomach, her hips weirdly narrow and her legs short but well shaped.
She’d overheard Julia talking to Harman there, and been shocked: Julia’s contemptuous tone of voice was one Romilly wouldn’t even use on a dog. No, you wouldn’t catch him going to nightclubs to chat up exotic dancers. He’d be too afraid of the backlash. Pussy-whipped as he was, Romilly suspected that Harman hated having a female boss both in the home and in the office. The poor sap had probably been dominated by females most of his life. Maybe that’s why the shifty bastard was on the take – he was trying to grab back some control.
‘We’ve questioned all the club staff but no one remembers seeing him before,’ said Harman.
‘Even so.’ Romilly frowned. ‘Get Ruby Darke to hand over the CCTVs going back another five months. Get DC Paddick to have a look through them.’
‘OK,’ he said, and left the room.
Romilly turned and stared at the board. Photos of a rapidly disintegrating Crystal Rose stared back at her. Then she took up the list of the remaining gun clubs, thinking of the wedding, the shooter picking off the photographer and the groom. Nasty business. Vicious on a wedding day. Maybe . . . vengeful? Maybe like, I have suffered, now it’s your turn? Maybe if Kit Miller was not the target, maybe it was a message to him?
But saying what?
She didn’t know.
Her thoughts turned again to Miller. Running toward an armed man with no thought for his own safety on the day of his sister’s wedding. So, brave. Obviously. Reckless? Probably. And sexy?
She thought about that kiss outside the church yesterday. To her intense irritation, she had been thinking about it, off and on, for most of last night. And again on waking this morning. When had she last had anything like that in her life? That passion he seemed to give off like sparks from a live wire, that raw, brooding power?
She looked back at the sad remnants of Crystal Rose. Once so pretty, so full of life. Nothing but dust and ashes now. For Crystal, there would be no more passion. No more of anything. She was gone, and all that was left was finding whoever did that to her, and bringing him to justice.
Romilly rubbed her temples. She was getting a headache. Needed some fresh air, needed a break from all this. She thought of hot beaches, warm breezes – and, annoyingly, again, Kit Miller.
He was out of bounds. A bad ’un through and through. Not the type of guy she ought to be associating with. And she wouldn’t.
She tucked the list of gun clubs along with a batch of photos of the mysterious ‘John’ into her bag, and left the building.
81
Ruby was in the club mid-afternoon, having a look-see at the accounts and feeling pretty pleased with them. It wasn’t the easiest thing in the world, running a club, but this one seemed to be thriv
ing, despite the death of its biggest star. She closed up the club ledgers, put them back in the safe.
Earlier today, she’d phoned through an order to Beirut for some large batches of foreign currency. Later, one of Kit’s people would meet the courier at the airport and swap the foreign notes for sterling made from the protection rackets. The couriers would deposit the money at a London bank branch as if it had come directly from Beirut, so that the money seemed to be coming from a legitimate source.
So things were going pretty good on the business front at least, if nowhere else. When she turned back round from the safe, Chloe Knox was standing there, staring at her.
Ruby straightened up fast, clutching at her chest. ‘Jesus, Chloe! You startled me.’
Where was Fats? Last she had seen of him, he had been right outside the office door. He wouldn’t have let Chloe in here without telling her first.
‘You wondering where your ugly-bug minder is? I came in through the front and stood out there in the foyer watching until he went to the bogs. Then I came in.’ Chloe closed the door behind her and leaned against it, eyeing Ruby through a forest of false lashes. She was wearing a fox-fur coat. ‘You and me, we need a chat.’
‘Don’t think we do,’ said Ruby.
‘I told you to stop it with Thomas, and now I am really telling you: don’t fuck around with him. I mean it.’
‘Right. Well, thanks for that. Close the door on your way out.’
‘You don’t get it, do you?’ Chloe was half-smiling. ‘He’s mine. I don’t share him. I got the ring on my finger and that means nobody else gets the privilege but me.’
‘OK. Now fuck off.’
The smile dropped from Chloe’s face. ‘You don’t want to talk to me like that.’
‘Chloe . . .’
‘Don’t talk down to me, you bitch!’ snapped Chloe, and pulled a knife out of her coat pocket and held it out towards Ruby. ‘I could cut you,’ she said, waving the knife around in the air.
Ruby smoothly reached into her bag on the desk and drew out the .22. ‘Sorry, Chloe. I think this,’ she waved the gun, ‘trumps that.’