by Rae Shaw
‘My brother and Sophia are staying with us at Fasleigh tonight. Luke will be late.’
‘I'm on call for the whole weekend.’ It meant she couldn't drink.
‘Then hopefully you'll have a quiet weekend too, because I’ve nothing planned.’
The opportunity was there then to make her case for going forward together in partnership. Mark had a right to know what Jackson had contrived, and how that meddling had benefited them both.
‘Quietish.’ She winked at Mark and he blushed.
22
Mark
FRIDAY LUNCHTIME
Since he was owed for the extra hours worked, Mark clocked off at lunchtime and headed home to a chilled bottle of beer. The door to his apartment was ajar. He stuck his head through the gap and listened. He held his breath, wondering if this was how it might happen – accosted in his flat and murdered. Retribution was close on his heels, and, one day, it would catch up with him. He was grateful to Jackson for the introduction to Julianna, and whether it was engineered or not, he no longer cared to worry about the distinction. He hoped Jackson’s contrivances hadn’t insulted Julianna’s intelligence to the point she might reject him. There were companionable benefits beyond the obvious sexual ones; if Julianna had been with him, she would be armed with a karate chop. Unfortunately, she was on route to pick up Sophia.
Whoever was in his flat, they weren't quiet. There was a heavy thump accompanied by a high-pitched girlish squeal. With a sigh of relief, he opened the door wider.
‘Ellen? Is that you dropping off things?’ He had forgotten she was making her last delivery.
She came out of the spare room with the tip of her thumb between her lips. ‘I dropped a box on it,’ she mumbled through the sucks.
He slipped his overcoat off his shoulders and left it hanging off the back of a dining chair, keeping his back to her. He wasn't keen on having Ellen in his flat – his embattled feelings skewered by her ill-timed conversation with their mother.
His resolve shattered when he turned to face her smug features. ‘You know who I spoke to this morning?’
‘Mum.’ She snorted. ‘If you wanted to tell her, you should have.’
He planted his hands on his hips. ‘Did you enjoy it? Rubbing her nose in it rather than letting her down gently?’
She crossed the room and clicked her fingers inches from his nose. ‘I dropped it like a bomb. It was wonderful. I'm sorry you didn't get to enjoy it for yourself.’
Mark wanted to slap her face. ‘Why do you hate her so much?’
A frisson of disgust traversed her face. ‘Oh, you're such the good son, aren't you? And a hypocrite. Dashing off to uni, finding work, giving her money. Me, the little sister, forcing her to be a mother by slicing myself. Bad girl. Terrible daughter. I bet you answered Dad's letters. I burnt every single one he sent me or returned them to sender, unread. ‘
He had never witnessed the bleeding cuts, only the scars. He thought he had seen all her scars. ‘You're no different to her. You wanted the attention. You deny it, like she does. You're a perfect pair. Why wonder you never got on, you're too alike.’ The tussle grew uglier and nothing like those they had as kids.
‘Oh, you imbecile. You don’t have a clue, do you? She despises the power I had over her. All I had to do was open my mouth and destroy her, and him. She only cared about me because one little squeal on my part to somebody in authority and the secret was out.’
‘What are you talking about?’ Secrets come at a cost. He was starting to appreciate what that cost was to Ellen. She pleaded emotional poverty when it came to demonstrating love, but happily became a glutton when somebody else offered her affection.
She dragged his coat off the back of the chair and stretched it open, exposing the inner lining. He went to grab it off her, but she scuttled backwards. ‘Mum was good at sewing. She made me a dress once, when I was small and sweet enough for her. She also stitched things into Dad's coats for him. Pockets at the back for the little packages of coke or heroin, then ones up his sleeve for the notes. The best two, one on either side, were long and thin. Perfect for knives.’
Mark leapt forward and snatched the coat out of her hands. He bundled it into a ball and threw it across the room. That was her secret? Those bright little eyes of hers had dazzled back then, and again as she revealed her complicity in hiding Bill's guilt and Deidre's malign involvement.
‘Get out!’
The colour drained from her face. What did she expect him to say? ‘Mark... I didn't tell you because—’
‘I spent eight fucking years chasing after false leads. Wasting money on expensive lawyers. I paid to have independent forensics go over the fingerprints. And you, you selfish bitch, knew he carried knives around with him. Did you know he took them on the day?’
A tiny nod. Her eyes filled with tears. ‘Please, Mark. I was dependent on them. I was torn in two. I hoped Dad would plead guilty to murder so I didn't have to speak up. For God's sake, I was eleven years old. A child.’
‘Back then, yes. But you grew up. You thrived on the attention back then and I bet you still do. This whole trip to Ireland is about you, your escape. You don't even know who you're meeting, do you? Well, go ahead. Find yourself in Ireland amongst the bogs and limericks and dance a jig while I carry on picking up the pieces.’
‘Shut up!’ She backed away from him. ‘Just, shut up. I wanted to, I so wanted to tell you. But where were you? And as for our parents. She, that useless mother of ours, bullied him. Did you know that? Nagged him. Told him to steal more, buy more. She snorted coke off the coffee table with him. She pushed him to go higher, bigger. When he whispered that they needed little girls, innocent ones, she shrugged it off. Said he should do it if it brought in more cash.’
The blow when it came wasn't physical. Mark had waited years for somebody to knock him out or shoot him, perhaps as he walked down a quiet back street – a motorcyclist, or a jogger, somebody would make his hit and bam, Mark Clewer, gone, the victim of a vengeful gangland killing orchestrated by a nameless boss. He was wrong. His sister had landed it; she had assassinated him.
The adrenaline crippled. If it came with excitement, he swam in its power, but not this painful drench. He doubled over and his elbow knocked against the table’s edge. ‘How did you—’
‘I listened whenever I could. You'd be out playing football or chatting up Mrs Asani's brown-eyed daughter. You were rarely home. Then one night, I woke with a belly ache and stood outside their room and listened to that conversation. I never cuddled up in bed with them again.’ The spite had gone from her voice. Her culpability had failed to span the chasm that had always been between brother and sister, and now it stretched them further apart.
‘You could have said something,’ he said bitterly. Gullible, weak-minded, pathetic: the words would be Mark’s epitaph.
She crept towards him and her shoes squeaked on the hard floor. ‘Who would have believed me? Dad was this big bad guy and met other bad guys. I was scared, Mark. He took you to watch football. Such a bright kid and never once did you question why he spoilt you rotten, kept you occupied and blind. He overlooked me. I’m just a girl.’
He felt dizzy. Sick to the pit of his stomach. Stunned, he couldn't think or speak.
‘And yes.’ Ellen sneered. ‘I told her, bloody right I did. It's called revenge. Sweet, isn't it?’
‘Go. Just go.’ He waved toward the door. ‘I don't care what you do. It's your choice. I'm not going to pretend I'm interested. I'm not the grown up in your life. You are.’
‘I'm flying out this evening. My things—’ Now, she had the gall to ask him.
‘If they're still here when you get back, you'll be grateful.’ Her things wouldn't be a hindrance, only a reminder of this lasting fallout.
‘I will, honestly. I'm not angry with you.’ She scooped up his jacket and straightened it out, folding it over the back of the chair. A small act of mitigation and a pointless one.
‘How nice for you
,’ he said. ‘You didn’t think of me at all. Well, I won’t think of you. I wish I’d never laid eyes on you.’
She picked up her handbag and fished out a piece of paper. She left it on the table. ‘You don't care, but this is where I'm going. His name is Freddie Zustaller, and I do know him. I've a taxi waiting below to take me to Heathrow.’ She hurried past Mark.
Just before she reached the door, he spun on his heels. ‘Did you ever love them?’
‘Of course I love them. But what do you think it costs to keep a secret like that? School was hell. I was the butt of jokes, constant teasing – the daughter of scum. The boys leered and expected me to drop my knickers. Nobody was a good role model. So love? No, I didn't stop loving, or even hoping. But respect and admiration? I have neither of those for Mum or Dad. I'm sorry you see things differently.’
The door shut behind her, quietly. Ellen was gone, possibly indefinitely and he wanted to mourn the breakup but it wasn't happening; the feeling of loss wasn't forthcoming.
He ignored the beer bottles and poured a large measure of whiskey out of the decanter. His hand shook as he swallowed. It burnt a line down his throat and he spluttered. He picked up the piece of paper, scrunched it into a ball and threw it in the bin in the kitchen. If Julianna contacted him, he would blow her off. He would rather be alone for the weekend. She couldn't contact him anyway. Nobody could – his mobile phone was bust, he had no landline and his laptop was in a drawer at work.
He laughed and laughed until tears poured down his cheeks.
23
Julianna
The last place Julianna wanted to be on a wet afternoon was stuck inside a car. Even though it was a luxury vehicle, she wasn't comfortable being cooped up. Her twitchy legs needed exercising. There were other drawbacks: when she drove, she didn't get to choose the radio station. She was a taxi driver without any perks.
Her first pick up at 4 p.m. was Sophia Crawford, long term girlfriend of Luke Haynes, and close friend of Hettie. Sophia's office was in Aldgate. A narrow building slotted amongst other equally unremarkable facades that stretched along the street. She waited outside at the appointed time. Hooting the horn was forbidden, as was texting to alert anyone of her arrival. Julianna couldn't demand a passenger hurry up. Her time wasn't precious; it was already paid for.
Sophia dashed out of the office under the cover of an umbrella. Julianna held the rear car door open for her. She didn't need to be told where to go, she had the itinerary printed on a sheet. Holland Park, then onto Fasleigh, far outside the city. The children had gone on ahead with the nanny in a car driven by Tess, hence the need for an extra driver. The family was gathering for the weekend.
Before collecting Hettie, she and Sophia had half an hour alone in the car. Julianna itched to ask Sophia about Mark's father, but it wasn't her place to initiate conversations. Her analytical mind buzzed with a barrage of questions, especially about the mysterious witness Sophia had successfully tracked down. The minutes ticked by, wasted minutes. She tried a smattering of random coughs and tapping her fingers on the steering wheel.
‘So,’ said Sophia, dropping her mobile out of sight, ‘done any more investigations?’
Julianna avoided a wandering cyclist with a gentle swerve before answering. ‘Yes, just finished one today with Mark. Dodgy investments, skimming profits and tax evasion.’
In the mirror, Julianna saw Sophia sweep her hand over her head in a mock gesture. ‘Beyond me.’
‘Your clients aren't into that kind of thing, I guess.’
‘Mine? Er, no. It's mainly petty, repeat offenders. Never their fault, of course. Always the police that stitched them up. I'm their agony aunt, a shoulder to cry on.’
‘Couldn't do that myself.’ Julianna was the tough arm of the law. The cynic in her would listen to those sob stories and pitiful excuses, and shrug them off.
‘Neither can I sometimes.’ The laugh was half-hearted. ‘Taking responsibility is sadly not part of a criminal's psyche. They feel forgotten by society, and will take what they can. To be honest, I can't blame some of them.’
‘Except the violent ones?’
‘Yes, except them.’ Sophia's voice drifted away behind the roar of a motorcycle.
Julianna decided to use the acknowledgement. ‘Mark's father must have been a disappointment?’
‘For Mark, naturally, but I wasn't the slightest bit surprised to confirm his guilt. The evidence Mark passed on to me was pretty damning.’
‘If you don't mind me asking, how did your find that witness? Eight, nine years, have passed, and nobody else managed.’ Julianna twisted her head for a fraction of a second, and caught hold of Sophia's blue eyes.
The rain had stopped. She switched off the wipers. The traffic outside went quiet, almost distant.
‘Oh.’ Sophia cleared her throat. ‘It's one of those things, you know. Who knows who.’
‘You know the witness?’
‘Me, personally? No. He moved south and disappeared for a long while. One of my clients knows him. As you can appreciate, these people, men mainly, are in and out of prison, and they build their networks. It's like a tangled web, interconnected through key people or events. So, you follow one name, you're led to another, then another.’
‘I understand.’ Julianna relied on a similar network of informants, private investigators and law enforcers to bridge the gaps, allowing her to ask questions without the keeper of the information ever knowing who was the actual originator of the question.
‘I have a client, let's call him John. A little speck when compared to the big players, but none the less, an ear to the ground type. He likes to lay it on thick about his importance. Frankly, he's a little dim, and unreliable. I've represented him several times and he’s often failed to turn up at court or pay his fines, so I got the blunt end of the magistrates' wrath and refused to represent him again.’
Julianna edged the car forward, listening intently, her eyes on the car in front, her ears directed to the passenger. Sophia's casual style of storytelling was effective. Whereas Luke was accustomed to commanding a courtroom, Sophia's job was to soften the magistrates before her clients reached the judge and jury.
‘He happens to be one of the guys who knows Mark's witness. Call him Reg. These two guys aren't friends, but they know each other. I offer to take John back as my client, because he likes me and I'm getting him lenient sentences, or so he thinks, and in return, he arranges a meeting between me, Luke, and Reg. Luke wouldn't let me go on my own.’
‘Wise man. I'm surprised, all that sounded easy.’ Julianna puffed out her cheeks. Eight years squandered because the previous solicitors had focused on the wrong city.
‘Oh, God, no. It took eight years because Reg is petrified. So was John because both of them know who Bill killed. It took lots of back and forth, firm reassurances, then a change of plans, and a new location.’
‘But Reg coughed up the information.’
‘He didn't want to. He was ready to walk out the door. I had to milk his sentimentality, which was obvious given his loyalty to Bill. You see, please don't tell Mark, but I convinced Reg that Bill would be hit, taken out, if he was released on bail or freed. Better in than out. Reg told us what had happened off the record; he would never say it in court. So we recorded him to be on the safe side.’
‘That is a possibility, about Bill's safety.’ Julianna suspected Bill had been kept safe in prison for a purpose. ‘He might decide to snitch, give up information, but not while he had a chance at getting out on appeal.’ Circumstances had changed, though.
‘Possibly. But my suspicions were right about Bill. He's guilty of murder, not manslaughter. He took out this big shot's cousin.’
‘He did?’ This was something new.
‘I plied Reg with beer. This cousin, the one who met Bill Clewer, was the negotiator. Bill's lot needed girls. Girls, meaning kids. These scumbags aren't fussy about age.’
Julianna knew this. ‘These scumbags have no names?’
>
‘They had aliases. It didn't help Bill’s case that he refused to give up any real names. According to Reg, from the moment the meeting was arranged, Bill intended to assassinate him. Reg tried to talk him out of it. Bill wouldn't say why; whether it was personal or something he had been told to do, but Reg thought that it had to do with it being young girls. Bill has a daughter, doesn't he?’
‘Yes,’ Julianna said quietly. A daughter who knew nothing about any of this. Nor Mark. More things to explain over a carefully crafted weekend of wine, sex and gentle soothing of his ruffled angst.
‘Reg doesn’t feel responsible for what Bill did; he was just the lookout. But now, he's worried again.’
‘Worried?’
‘I gather the murder caused a bit of a war amongst the syndicates. The big bad boss had to go into hiding abroad. He's back now, of course, and recruiting. Reg is keeping his head down.’
‘Don't blame him.’ Holland Park was a few streets away. She’d found out more than she’d expected.
‘He says they patrol the streets on bikes, these guys who work for him, picking up girls that way. The silly girls love the leathers, the tattoos. Boys, too, of course. They befriend them, make them their best mates and sweet talk them. It's grooming. Slow and leisurely, so as not to raise suspicions. Then, they encourage them to leave home, take them to houses and bring them men.’
‘Shit. Excuse me.’ Mark had mentioned bikers. But she couldn't remember the context of the conversation. It was one of those tiny snippets that passed between them when they ate together or chatted in bed. Life was full of them, things tossed around with little idea of their use until they came back later, stripped of detail.
Sophia laughed. ‘No, it's fine. I'm so used to the bad language. I have to roll it back when I'm with Luke. He's all upper crust. Jackson isn't. I think Jackson sees a different world because of Opportunitas. I like helping, especially the trafficked girls. They're the victims of this trafficker gang, this deliverer.’