Malice (Rina Walker Book 3)

by Hugh Fraser

  ‘So how was Dubai?’ I ask.

  ‘Great. Money for nothing.’

  ‘How come?’

  ‘I was a beard.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘He’s a woofter, but he can’t let on to his banking friends and his family, and Arab society and that, so he’s got me out there as his girlfriend from London. A bit of hand holding and a few pecks on the cheek in public and that was it.’

  ‘Nice one.’

  ‘I had to go to bed with him, for the look of it, and then move to the sofa when he called for his boot boy and shagged the arse off him.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘I spent the days by the pool soaking up some rays.’

  ‘I can see.’

  I slide my foot along the inside of Lizzie’s thigh and she smiles and half closes her eyes. A few moments pass before she asks,

  ‘Where have you been tonight?’

  ‘Just a bit of work,’ I reply.

  ‘Go all right?’

  ‘I reckon.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  She’s well aware of what I do and I know she worries about the danger I’m in sometimes, but we’re agreed that the less detail she knows, the safer she is.

  Lizzie finishes her whisky, pulls out the plug and we get out of the bath, wrap ourselves in big fluffy towels and go into the bedroom. We slowly dry each other off and then slide between the sheets.

  • • •

  We wake early in the afternoon and go and have coffee and croissants at the French café in Clifton Road. I leave Lizzie for a minute while I go to the phone box on the corner, phone Tommy Gaynor at the breakers yard, tell him to get my Mini from the City and put it in the crusher. He says he’ll send his truck over there now and I tell him I’ll go by the yard in the morning and see him right.

  It’s a nice sunny day so we take a cab to the Kings Road. We walk along past the Markham Arms to Bazaar and have a look at Mary Quant’s latest. I find a dark red mini dress with off-white collar and cuffs, take it into the fitting room and put it on. I come out and find Lizzie fastening the belt of a shiny black PVC trench coat with matching hat and boots.

  ‘I thought you’d packed in the mistressing?’ I say.

  ‘Good look though, eh?’

  ‘If you want to join the SS.’

  ‘I was always too tall.’

  I take a white trouser suit off the rail, that looks about her size. ‘Do me a favour and try this on.’

  ‘Spoilsport,’ she says, as she takes off the coat and hat and goes into a fitting room.

  I try on a couple of wide brim hats, decide they’re not quite me and settle for a John Lennon style cap. Lizzie floats out of the fitting room and gives me a twirl in her wide trousers and short jacket. She looks lovely and she knows it.

  ‘What would I do without you?’ she says.

  She slips her arm round me and we look at ourselves in the mirror. I reach for a white hat off the stand beside us and put it on her head.

  ‘Perfect,’ she says.

  We tell the assistant that we want to wear the clothes we’re buying, and she comes out from behind the till, snips off the labels and then puts our other stuff in bags for us. I pay out of George’s money and we leave the shop and hail a cab. When we get to Maida Vale, Lizzie says she needs to get ready for work and tells me to drop by the club later, if I feel like it. We kiss goodbye, she gets out of the cab and I tell the driver to take me to Lancaster Road.

  George Preston’s in the back room with his barbells and weights when I get there, so Bert gives me a cup of tea and tells me about a blag that happened in the week, at a bank in the City, and how the blaggers wore Batman and Robin masks and got away with a prize of half a million. George comes in wearing a tracksuit.

  ‘Fucking good job Rina,’ he says.

  ‘Cheers.’

  ‘Your dad would have liked that one.’

  He lights a cigarette and sits in an armchair.

  ‘You done a fucking blinder.’

  ‘Who found him?’ I ask.

  ‘Cleaning woman. Called the Old Bill and they swallowed the dog fight, had the bodies away, snuffed the Pit Bull and the inquest’s in the bag. You not only done him double quick, you made him look a cunt as well. Killed by his own dogs? What a fucking Mary. Give the lady a drink Bert.’

  Bert pours whiskies, gives one to me and the other to George, who’s sitting back in his chair, looking smug because he knows he can claim the job as his own and get the respect.

  ‘How’s it going with Dawn?’ he asks.

  ‘Give us a chance,’ I say.

  ‘Fair enough, only his mum’s giving me such an earache about it you’d think Princess Margaret had gone missing.’

  ‘She’s a busy old bird.’

  ‘Pain in the fucking arse.’

  ‘Brindle’s in a game tonight,’ says Bert.

  ‘Where?’ I ask.

  ‘I can find out.’

  ‘Give us a call.’

  I finish my drink and stand up. George is looking at my legs.

  ‘Are you sure that dress is short enough?’ he says.

  ‘Go and lift your weights.’

  ‘I’d rather lift you.’

  ‘Get stuffed.’

  He laughs. ‘Give her a monkey expenses,’ he says, as Bert moves to the door.

  ‘Cheers George. If you weren’t such an old lech, I’d call you a gentleman.’

  Bert goes out of the room, comes back a moment later and hands me a wad of notes. I put them in my pocket and remind myself that I need to pay Georgie’s school fees for the extra term she’s doing, to take the Cambridge exam.

  ‘Do you want a lift?’ asks Bert.

  ‘You could drop me in Harlesden,’ I reply.

  I say goodbye to George and follow Bert to the car.

  When we get to Harlesden I get out of the car just past the Mitre Bridge and walk up Scrubs Lane to a second hand car lot on the left, past where my lock-up is. I’m looking along the front row of cars when a leery looking bloke in a brown suit and a trilby hat comes out of a shed at the back of the lot.

  ‘Lovely day for a new motor, eh Miss?’ he says, as he approaches me.

  I ignore him and walk among the cars until I spot a dark blue Cortina, with a £150 ticket that looks as if it might do me. Trilby sidles up beside me.

  ‘Now how did you know to go for the best car I’ve got, eh? This one’s a beaut. One year old, belonged to a dear old lady, drove it like a kitten, serviced from new. You won’t go wrong with this one, love.’

  ‘Give us a drive then,’ I say.

  He takes a chain out of his pocket, with about fifty keys on it, searches through it until he finds one with a Ford tag and takes it off the chain. He opens the door for me and puts the key in the ignition. I get in and start it up while he walks round the car and slides into the passenger seat.

  I drive up Scrubs Lane and turn on to the North Circular, where I can get up a bit of speed while Trilby blathers on about how the Cortina’s the best car Ford have made since the Model T and the rest of it. The car seems good and fast and once I’ve tried the brakes and nearly tipped him through the windscreen, I motor back to the forecourt, park it and offer him a ton. He says it’s not enough, so I get out of the car and walk away. He follows me and after a bit of haggling he settles for £120. We go into his office and he gives me the log book and a receipt. When I open the log book I notice that the dear old lady’s name was Graham Smith.

  On the way to Maida Vale, I drive down Abbey Road and see that the Triumph Herald’s gone from where I left it and I hope it’s made its way back to the owner. I park the Cortina in Hall Road and dump the log book in a bin on the way to the flat.

  I let myself in, go into the kitchen and put the kettle on. I open the cabinet and find a tin of spaghetti hoops and a bit of Cheddar cheese that’s not quite mouldy. I open the tin, put the contents in a pan, light the gas under it and grate some cheese. The kettle boils and while I’m filling th
e teapot the phone rings. I turn the gas down under the spaghetti, go into the hall and answer it. It’s Bert with the address of a spieler off Caledonian Road where Brindle’s going to be playing cards later. He reckons it’s an all-nighter with some big money involved.

  I go back into the kitchen, pour myself a cup of tea, dish up the spaghetti, add the grated cheese and take it through to the lounge on a tray. I turn on the TV, sit on the sofa and watch ‘Dixon of Dock Green’ while I eat my tea. It’s all about a bent copper called PC Carr that Jack Warner suspects and when Jack finds some snide gear at the copper’s house, he’s so outraged that he makes him take off the police uniform that he’s disgraced before he escorts him to the nick to be charged. Jack does his nice little chat at the end and when he says that Carr was the only bent one he’s ever come across, I laugh out loud and nearly spill my tea. He’d be spoilt for choice at Paddington Green nick these days, that’s for sure.

  I wash up the dishes, go into the hall and dial the number on the beer mat that I left by the phone. A woman answers and I ask for Ray. He comes on the phone and gives me an address for Brindle in Holloway. I go into the bathroom, use my blade to unscrew the panel at the end of the bath and take out my spare gun. I release the cylinder and see that it’s full, then I go into the bedroom and change into jeans, ankle boots and a leather jacket. I put the gun in my belt and the leather wallet with my lock picks in my jacket pocket, along with a knuckle duster and a pencil torch. I pick up Rebecca off the bedside table and head for the door.

  I drive along Marylebone Road, past King’s Cross, turn into York Way then do a right and turn south on to Caledonian Road. The door to the spieler is in an alleyway off the Cally just before it meets Pentonville Road. I park where I can see the door and wait. The clock on the dashboard is showing just gone nine-thirty. After a while a group of four heavy-looking blokes walk past the car, go into the alley and knock on the door. It’s opened by a Ted in a drape suit and a bootlace tie. As they go inside, I can see that Brindle’s not among them.

  I sit back and open Rebecca. I put the book up on the steering wheel so I can keep an eye on the spieler while I read on through her dream, as she wafts like a ghost through the grounds of Manderley, which are now neglected and overgrown by sinister and vicious plants that are strangling the trees. Just as she’s catching sight of the great house, where she’s lived herself at some time, I see Brindle walk past the car. I close the book and lower my head as he turns into the alley. He knocks on the door of the spieler and the Ted lets him in. I put the book on the seat beside me, wait for a bit until I’m sure he’s not coming out again, then I start the car and head for Holloway.

  4

  Brindle’s place is a terraced house in a street off Parkhurst Road with an entry between it and the house next door. There are no lights on so I knock on the door, duck into the entry and wait. When there’s no response I go round to the back, climb over the garden wall, pick my way over a pile of rubbish and get to the back door. I kneel down in front of it, turn on the torch and have a look at the lock. It’s an old mortice, so I hold the torch in my mouth and take out my lock picks. I put the cut down key in the lock and slide a wire pick in above it. I feel for the levers with the pick, lift them one by one and then turn the key.

  I creep through the kitchen and into the front room. I shine the torch over a sofa and two armchairs, a low table and a TV in the corner with a record player and a pile of LPs and 45s next to it. I go into the hall and up the stairs. The two bedrooms are empty and there’s no sign of a woman’s presence, either there or in the bathroom. The front bedroom has a double bed and a wardrobe that’s full of men’s clothes and shoes. The back bedroom’s empty apart from a desk and chair. I open the desk drawers and find a pile of papers in one, and a Walther 9mm pistol, a butcher’s knife and a cut throat razor in the other. I pick up the Walther and it feels good in my hand. I release the clip, see that it’s missing two bullets and wonder who copped them. The razor is sharp as fuck and may well have striped a few unlucky ones. I close the weapons drawer, open the other one and have a look through the sheaf of papers. It’s mostly bills for the house, car insurance and the like, and I’m about to close the drawer when I notice a letter from Bedford Borough Council addressed to J. R. Brindle. It’s a demand for the rates on a house called Keepers Cottage in Leighton Buzzard and it’s dated a couple of weeks ago. I memorise the address, close the drawer and go downstairs. I lock the back door behind me, hop over the wall and go back along the alleyway to where I’ve left the car.

  I know I’ve heard of Leighton Buzzard but I can’t think why. I’ve a vague idea that it’s north or west of London somewhere. The clock on the dash says it’s midnight and I really want to go to the Kazuko and have a few drinks and a laugh with Lizzie and the girls, but I decide that the sooner I sort this business with Dawn the better. It’s not going to go away and Brindle’s taken a dire liberty. I head for the North Circular, stop at a garage, fill the Cortina up with petrol and buy a road map. Leighton Buzzard is about forty odd miles away and off the A5.

  An hour later I’m driving through the town centre and when I pass the station I remember why I’ve heard of the place. Ronnie Biggs and the boys lifted two and a half million quid off the Glasgow Mail Train a couple of miles down the track from here. They might have got away with it as well, if Mike Field had torched the farmhouse that they used as a flop, like he was paid to, instead of doing a runner, although I heard they were grassed up by some weasel as well.

  The address I’m looking for is on the far side of the town. I find the road and follow it as it goes into the country. It’s difficult to see any houses in the dark but I catch sight of a sign on a five bar gate and when I stop and reverse back to have a look, it says Keepers Cottage. On the other side of the gate is a small stone house at the end of a short track.

  I drive on for some way until I get to a sharp bend in the road. I go on round it and leave the car with two wheels on the grass bank. I walk the distance back to the cottage, climb over the gate, go sideways along the hedge for a bit and then curve round towards the back of the house. As I’m creeping along the wall towards the back door and feeling for my lock picks, I trip over something, stagger forward and send a rake clattering across some flagstones. I hear a woman’s voice.

  ‘Johnny?’

  A light goes on above me and I flatten myself against the wall. Moments later a window opens.

  ‘Johnny, is that you?’

  I stop breathing and wait until the window shuts. After a moment, I hear what sounds like someone coming down some stairs and I slip round to the side of the house as an outside light goes on and the back door opens. I peer round the corner and see the slight figure of Dawn looking out into the night. She sees the rake on the floor and picks it up. As she goes to lean it against the wall I take a step forward.

  ‘Hello Dawn,’ I say.

  She goes rigid with fright and holds the rake in front of her.

  ‘Who the fuck are you?’

  ‘I’m a friend of Danny’s. I’ve come to take you home.’

  ‘Fuck off. Now!’

  She swings the rake at me. I step forward, grab the shaft, rip it out of her hand and slap her across the face. She staggers sideways and I drop the rake, take her by the shoulders, turn her round and push her through the back door. She twists towards me and swings a fist at my head. I duck the punch, grab her round the throat, force her onto a chair and back off. As she gets up again, I take the gun out of my belt and point it at her head.

  ‘Sit down Dawn.’

  The fight goes out of her and she sinks onto the chair. I wait for a moment then I sit opposite her at the kitchen table.

  ‘I’ve not come here to hurt you,’ I say.

  ‘Then why the fuck are you pointing a shooter at me?’

  ‘In case you try to deck me again.’

  I smile and lay the gun on the table. She looks at me for a moment.

  ‘Who are you?’ she asks.
/>   ‘Like I said, I’m a friend of Danny’s.’

  ‘Well you can fuck off out of it and tell that evil bastard I’m never coming back. I’ve had enough of his beating and slagging and his nasty little witch of a mother.’

  I’m not sure why I’d got Dawn pegged as a timid little thing but I certainly wasn’t expecting this mouthy bit of work I’m looking at. She takes a cigarette out of a packet on the table and lights it. After a couple of drags she seems to relax.

  ‘I know you from somewhere, don’t I?’ she asks.

  ‘Maybe.’

  ‘Why are you here?’

  ‘Danny said you’d been captured by Brindle.’

  ‘He would, wouldn’t he?’

  ‘So what did happen?’

  She looks as if she’s trying to decide about something, then she says, ‘We only made it look like that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I’ve been seeing Johnny for a while. He’s shown me what a mug I’ve been, taking Danny’s dogshit for two years, and I love him for it. Danny knocked me about something terrible and when I wasn’t locked in a cupboard, or cooking his meals, his mother had me out hoisting from shops.’

  ‘Why did you stay?’ I ask.

  ‘They had me crushed and scared of my own shadow. I felt like nothing, until I met Johnny. He saw me getting caught in Selfridges, doing the bag switch with a girl who legged it, and he stepped in, showed the shop walker his piece and made him let me go. He took me home and he was kind to me and made me feel like a person. I went back to Danny but I started seeing Johnny when I was supposed to be out hoisting and he gave me clothes and that to take back to the old cow to keep her happy and now I’m having his baby, although Danny thinks it’s his.’

  ‘Why didn’t you just leave Danny?’

  ‘We knew that if I did, I’d be marked for going with someone from a rival firm and Danny’s such a mad fucker he’d probably try to kill me, so Johnny made it look like he’d captured me.’

  ‘He’s asked for two large to give you back.’