The Edge

by Jessie Keane

  Daisy had a horrible vision of Leon, eyes wild with fear, falling through the rotting boards in the bell tower.

  ‘Kit’s no fool. If the police don’t work this out, he will.’

  ‘But he’s stepping into dangerous territory. If only Rob was here . . .’ she stopped speaking. ‘Sorry,’ she said.

  Daisy’s innards were creased with pain as she thought of Rob. Her love, lost to her forever. And . . . it hurt, that she hadn’t really known him. Understood him. Seen the pressures he was under.

  ‘The shooter’s still out there,’ said Ruby. ‘He’s still after Kit. He still hasn’t fulfilled his contract.’

  ‘It’ll be all right,’ said Daisy, taking her mother’s hand.

  ‘Do you believe that?’ Ruby shook her head. ‘Because you know what? I don’t.’

  122

  That evening, Ruby was meeting Thomas at the Savoy, their usual place. Monday night. She wasn’t really in the mood. There would be dinner, followed by sex in a suite of rooms he would have booked in advance. This was the way it always went, for them. Here she was, fulfilling her usual role of mistress. She’d never – unlike Big Tits – been accorded the status of wife.

  No one had ever asked her to marry them. She was clearly mistress material, and the men in her life had always seen her that way. Now . . . frankly, it grated. What was wrong with her, that no one had so much as asked her to be their missus? Other women had to beat marriage proposals off with a stick. Why not her?

  ‘You’re not up for this tonight, are you?’ asked Thomas over dinner.

  Ruby had been quiet, saying little. She put down her knife and fork – the steak was fine, but tonight it almost choked her. ‘Worried about Kit,’ she shrugged. And thinking that this is going nowhere.

  ‘He’s a big boy,’ said Thomas.

  ‘Rob Hinton was a big boy too. He’s dead.’

  ‘Anything I can do?’

  ‘Nothing.’ Ruby started eating again. Soon, she put her knife and fork together, drank some champagne. Let out a sigh.

  Thomas put his knife and fork down too. His dinner was only half-eaten.

  ‘Not you too?’ said Ruby.

  ‘Fact is . . .’ said Thomas.

  ‘Fact is, what?’

  ‘I have some news. And I thought I ought to tell you. I wouldn’t have told you tonight had I thought we were going anywhere this evening, but clearly we’re not.’

  ‘What news?’

  ‘Chloe’s pregnant. I went out yesterday and bought her the Mercedes she’d always wanted, to celebrate.’

  Ruby put down her glass. ‘Oh. Right.’ Pregnant! And he’d bought her a car. Lovely, she thought sourly. Then she had a vision of the car speeding through the crem grounds, heading for Kit and the detective inspector. But . . . she had been walking right behind them. And Big Tits was a demented cow.

  ‘What was her old car?’ she asked.

  ‘Vauxhall Cavalier. She hated the thing.’ The car at the crem was a BMW.

  Ruby sat back, her dinner forgotten, staring at his face. Once, she had almost believed herself in love with him. But that was the past, and now . . . things were different. Much as she disliked the bumptious tart, how could she go on with this if Chloe was expecting a child? She’d been treated badly as a pregnant mother, and there was no way she could inflict that on someone else. Not even Big Tits.

  ‘So . . . I don’t want her upset,’ he said.

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘I think we should maybe cool things off a bit.’

  ‘What, until after the baby’s born? Then it’s game on again?’ asked Ruby.

  ‘Rubes . . .’ he said, shaking his head, catching the sarcasm in her voice.

  Ruby placed both hands, palms down, on the tabletop. ‘Of course that’s not a problem you have with me, is it? I’m right in the menopause, no chance of a pregnancy with this lady.’

  ‘Come on, Ruby . . .’

  ‘No, I appreciate what you’re telling me. She’s your wife. That’s something special. Although, at your age? A kid’s going to run you ragged.’

  ‘We can still be friends.’

  ‘I’m not interested in being your friend, Thomas. In fact, I’m not even interested in being your mistress any more.’ Ruby gathered up her bag, pushed back her chair, stood up. ‘It’s been fun, revisiting this thing of ours. But truthfully? It’s been over for a while. And now? It’s really over.’

  123

  Romilly had a trip to make. En route, she detoured to her local pub, took a little nosey around the car park at the back, then resumed her journey. She drove through nose-to-tail traffic until she was out past Barking and Rainham on the A13. At last the countryside opened up in front of her, green and lush. She kept her foot to the floor until she reached Southend-on-Sea, then she turned in when she reached a row of Victorian semis. She got out of the car, opened a squeaky little gate, hearing the screaming of seagulls and smelling the ozone-fresh tang of the ocean. She walked over tan and black tiles up to a blue-painted front door, and rang the bell.

  A young man with a black beard opened the door. Romilly flashed her warrant card at him, and he ushered her inside. She followed him along a short passageway and then left into a lounge decked out in black leather sofas with red cushions to match the curtains at the big sash window that looked out onto a fence at the side of the property.

  A tall, dark and broad-shouldered man in white shirt and faded jeans was standing in front of the window, sunlight streaming in on him, making his black hair gleam. He half-turned when she entered the room. The younger man withdrew, pulling the door closed behind him.

  ‘Well,’ said Romilly. ‘You look pretty bloody lively. Considering you were supposed to be a corpse by now.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Kit. He glanced around the room. ‘Have to say, your safe house ain’t all that.’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s a safe house. We’re not entering it for the Home of the Year. Sorry if it’s not up to your usual high standards. How are you?’

  ‘Bored,’ said Kit, coming over to where she stood. ‘He got away again. He was right there.’

  Within a quarter of an hour of her phoning in to the incident room, police had been swarming all over the restaurant and the streets outside and the buildings across the road. They’d found where John Dowling had almost certainly been firing from, but he’d left no casings this time. The bullet that hit the plate-glass window had buried itself in the carpet about five inches from where Kit had been standing when he opened the door. If he hadn’t turned back to look at Romilly at that instant, he’d have been toast.

  ‘Good news is, John Dowling isn’t certain whether he hit his mark or not. Hopefully, he thinks you’re dead. We’re certainly not going to disabuse him of that notion. The heat should be off, but the safe house is prudent,’ said Romilly.

  ‘I’m doing this under protest,’ said Kit.

  ‘Noted. But by being here you’re not only protecting yourself, you’re protecting all those people around you.’

  ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘We wait.’

  Kit sighed. ‘Oh, great.’ He wanted to get his hands on that fucker so badly he could almost taste it now.

  ‘Not for long,’ said Romilly. ‘Just over a week, that’s all.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘Let’s take a stroll,’ she said.

  124

  They walked along the beach, with the funfair in the distance, Ashok following twenty feet behind them. There were other people down this end, but not many. The wind was beyond bracing, it was bloody cold. The sea tossed and churned, gulls shrieking as they hovered above the crashing waves, riding the foam-flecked wind.

  ‘You’re quiet,’ said Kit, picking up a stone and throwing it into the sea.

  ‘Hm? Yeah.’ Romilly was watching him. Alive and well, and bent as a hairpin. His minder strolling along at a distance behind them, stopping when they stopped, walking when they walked. ‘Shook me up, that business at the restau
rant. Never been actually fired on before. And I thought he’d got you. I really did.’

  ‘Were you sorry about it? Devastated? Cut to the quick?’

  Romilly had to smile at that.

  ‘You’re pretty when you smile.’

  ‘Where’d you find that chat-up line? In a Christmas cracker?’

  ‘Detective.’ Kit caught her arm and pulled her in closer, shielding her from the ferocious wind with his body. They were face to face suddenly, his eyes locked with hers. ‘God’s sake, Romilly . . .’

  ‘Don’t you fucking dare kiss me again,’ she said.

  Kit grinned. ‘Why? What you going to do about it?’

  ‘I told you the first time. I don’t forget, and I don’t forgive. Remember?’ Behind them, she could see Ashok standing still, looking around. Watching Kit’s back.

  ‘Yeah? Well maybe I’ll risk it,’ he said, and did.

  When he drew away from her, Romilly’s eyes were closed.

  ‘Not so bad, eh?’ he whispered against her mouth.

  ‘Shut up,’ she said, and he kissed her again.

  Finally, Kit drew back. He carried on walking. So did Ashok. After a moment’s hesitation, Romilly followed in Kit’s footsteps, thinking of her dad’s words. A real man. Tough as bullets.

  Shit, this was bad.

  It was also the most excitement she’d had in about a zillion years.

  ‘You ever see that old film, Get Carter? They shot him on a beach, right at the end,’ said Kit.

  ‘That was a head shot.’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘No one besides my DCI and me – and laughing boy back there – knows you’re here. And no one followed me here.’

  ‘We could go back to the house,’ said Kit. ‘The bed’s pretty comfy.’

  ‘I came down to touch base with you, that’s all, not to jump your bones.’

  ‘Shame.’

  ‘And to say it’s on for Saturday at Grandma Dowling’s place.’

  ‘He always shows up there on her birthday? You’re sure?’

  ‘Always, according to Patrick Dowling.’

  ‘Good luck with that then. Oh – and I’ve got something for you,’ said Kit.

  He dug in his jacket pocket, pulled out a 7.62 spent shell casing and dropped it into her hand.

  ‘You did take it. I knew it,’ she said.

  ‘Guilty,’ said Kit with a grin. ‘Now, about the bed . . .’

  125

  ‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ said Romilly.

  ‘No, you shouldn’t,’ Kit agreed. He bit her ear, quite hard. ‘You are a very, very bad girl.’

  ‘Ow,’ Romilly complained, smiling and rolling over to snuggle in to his chest.

  Kit had sent Ashok out so they’d have the place to themselves. Then they’d gone upstairs and Romilly had suddenly felt as shy, as uncertain, as a teenager.

  ‘What am I doing?’ she asked him.

  ‘You want to change your mind? The door’s right there. No pressure.’

  She didn’t want to change her mind. This had been building between them for weeks, and it was at boiling point now. Desire had wrestled with sense for too long. Romilly shook her head. Kit kissed her, and before long they were tearing at each other’s clothes, and then they were both naked, devouring each other with a passion that took them both by surprise. Sex with Kit Miller was nothing like it had been with lazy, laid-back, soft-bodied Hugh; sex with Kit was like being put into a washing machine on fast spin. The man was an animal in bed, cheerfully lustful and yet at the same time oddly tender.

  Now they lay together, exhausted.

  Romilly propped herself up on one elbow and stared down at him, when she finally got her breath back.

  ‘You’re too damned good-looking for your own good,’ she pointed out.

  ‘You’re a hard cow.’

  ‘Also, you’re a bastard.’

  ‘Yeah, I think we’re quits,’ said Kit, smiling and pulling her in for another kiss.

  ‘I can’t believe I’m doing this,’ she breathed.

  She’d fantasized about this, but really? She’d never believed that it would actually happen, never believed that she would ever let it. Yes, she’d fancied him like crazy almost since their first meeting. They’d been flirting, both enjoying the thrill of the chase, the forbidden nature of what was threatening to happen, but had either one of them ever truly believed that this was a viable relationship?

  Romilly winced as she thought of his file down the nick. The list of his possible failings as a model citizen was lengthy. Racketeering, money laundering, intimidation, sale of stolen goods, income tax evasion, failure to report offshore accounts and holdings. Oh, and the possible murder of Tito Danieri – which, granted, had never been proved. Kit was a very bad man, and hadn’t she always been a straight-down-the-line copper? Hadn’t she always been unshakable in her honesty and her devotion to her job, delighting in bringing criminals to justice?

  Yes, she had. Yet here she was now, naked in bed with a gangster.

  ‘I ought to go,’ she said, drawing back from him.

  ‘Mm,’ said Kit, kissing her again. He slapped her bare arse, hard, and sat up. ‘Come on, detective, let’s grab a shower if all this is still tormenting you so much. Shame. I was hoping for round two.’

  He’d picked up on her thought processes again. Romilly sat up too, ran a hand down his hard-muscled arm, kissed his shoulder. He smelled so good. And he was so dangerously appealing.

  ‘Kit . . .’ she started.

  ‘What? You going to tell me this can’t go anywhere? I already got the message.’

  ‘I’m a copper.’

  ‘I got that too.’

  ‘In any other circumstances . . .’

  ‘I know.’ He turned his head, kissed her very gently. ‘Don’t stress over it. Come on. Shower.’

  126

  On Thursday, Romilly phoned the shooter’s grandmother to ask if she could drop in. On Friday, Romilly and DC Phillips called on her. Romilly flashed her warrant card and asked to come in. Phillips followed suit. Looking bewildered, the old lady led them through to a richly ornamented front room, stuffed with seaside memorabilia, old tea sets in display cabinets, and piles of old newspapers. On the mantelpiece there was a pile of brightly coloured envelopes. Birthday cards, Romilly thought. For tomorrow.

  The old lady cleared a space on an Ercol sofa for them to sit, and took her blanket-covered chair by the gas fire. The very first thing out of her mouth stopped both Romilly and DC Phillips in their tracks.

  ‘This isn’t about that girl on the news, is it? The dancer?’ she asked, frowning at them with anxious eyes.

  Romilly and Phillips exchanged a glance.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ asked Romilly.

  ‘You said you wanted to talk about my grandson John. His dad’s a nutter, you know. I won’t even let him over the threshold. Haven’t for years. Is it about the girl?’

  Romilly chose her words carefully. ‘Would you please explain why you would say that?’ The woman puffed out her cheeks in a sigh. ‘Oh God,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry about this,’ said Romilly, and she truly was.

  Poor old girl, not much in her life except the occasional family visit, and after tomorrow there wouldn’t even be that to look forward to. But appearances could be deceptive. The woman could be covering for her grandson. John Dowling could be upstairs right now, listening to them down here talking. Who knew? Romilly wanted to look around the place. Suss it out. ‘Do you have a bathroom I could use?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. Upstairs, first on the landing,’ said the old lady.

  Romilly shot DC Phillips a glance. Keep her talking.

  She went up the stairs and pushed open the loo door, closing it loudly. Quietly, she moved along the landing, opened another door, then another. Down below, she could hear Phillips making conversation with the old lady, keeping her busy. She walked into what looked like the master bedroom, taking it all in. A single be
d, a dressing table. Everything old, dusty, out of fashion by thirty years. She crossed to the window and looked out. Someone was keeping the back lawn cut, anyway. A neighbour perhaps. It looked neat enough but for a depression or two in the grass, and the flower borders were weed-free.

  Romilly went out of the master bedroom, and into the loo. She flushed the chain, rinsed her hands before returning downstairs. She smiled at the old lady and sat down again beside DC Phillips.

  ‘Your garden looks nice,’ she said. ‘Who does it for you?’

  ‘My son Bill used to. But since I won’t have him in the place now, the council send blokes round. Ex-offenders or something. Never the same lot twice.’

  ‘Mrs Dowling, if you can tell us what you mean about your son Bill, that would help. You’re saying he – John’s father – is a nutter? What do you mean by that?’ she said.

  ‘He’s not right in the head.’ The woman stood up shakily, took a couple of steps to the mantelpiece and took down a framed photograph. She handed it to Romilly. It was a picture of a smiling red-haired woman holding a tiny sand-coloured dog in her arms. There was a big man, surly faced, standing beside her, and in front of them was a young boy.

  John, thought Romilly. There was something in his eyes, something feral, something wrong.

  ‘John’s dad used to get drunk, raging drunk, and beat up his wife. My son! He’s a bastard, and it was a nasty business.’ The old woman’s mouth trembled. ‘I liked Abigail. She was all right. Used to have a cute little dog – a lapdog they call them, don’t they? A chihuahua. There she is. Kiki, Abi named her. Sweet little thing. She doted on that dog. Then one day he said she’d left, run away. John was only young at the time. About nine, I suppose. Left, my arse. I knew the truth. I still do.’

  ‘What is the truth, Mrs Dowling?’

  ‘We were friendly, me and Abi, very close. She wouldn’t have just run off and not told me where she was going. I think . . . I think he killed her.’

  Christ, thought Romilly. ‘So he was violent in the relationship?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes, he was. Poor little cow’d be black and blue, time and again. Don’t know how she stuck it. Maybe because she had the kid. But I’m telling you, he ain’t right either. He’s like his dad, dead behind the eyes. After Abi went, John used to stay over here with me, a lot. I practically raised him. But I knew John wasn’t the full shilling. When I saw that about the missing girl on the news, and they showed a picture of that man walking through the club with her, I knew it was him. I just knew. I couldn’t tell on him though, could I? He’s family.’