Maybe Connie’s touch had broken the spell, or else Socks recalled a primeval urge warning her to avoid humans, because she suddenly shot away, disappearing through the hidden part of the garden.
Connie followed, but stopped abruptly. A man was shovelling earth into a hole. Victor. He had taken off his jacket and it lay on the ground next to a duffle bag.
‘Oh,’ she said, before she could stop herself.
His head snapped up. ‘My God. What are you doing here?’
She backed away. There was a flash of fur as Socks disappeared behind the shed. ‘I was looking for the cat.’
‘What?’ He got to his feet.
‘Socks. The cat we used to feed.’
‘You nearly gave me a heart attack.’ He threw down the spade and advanced.
Frozen to the spot, she babbled about not being able to sleep, but he wasn’t listening. He stood before her and rested his hands on her shoulders like weights. The baby moved. Thank God for the darkness. It veiled the heat of her face and the shape of her body beneath her coat.
‘Were you spying?’ he said, his face inches from hers.
His breath was cold. It smelled of stale whisky and smoke. But she held still, willing him not to move his hands. If he grabbed her anywhere else, he would surely guess the truth.
‘I’m not,’ she said. ‘I told you. I came to find Socks.’
The animal cried again. Victor jumped and let her go. ‘Are you sure?’
She nodded.
‘Fine. I want you to forget what you’ve seen. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
He leaned towards her. ‘Say it.’
‘I’ve forgotten what I’ve seen.’
‘Good girl.’ He straightened, satisfied. ‘Because if you tell anyone, it could be life or death.’
He spoke dramatically. Wiping his hands on his trousers, he stepped away, back to the patch he’d been digging. He stamped on the loosened soil and when he’d finished, grabbed the duffle bag. Reaching inside, he pulled out a wad of money, peeled off several notes and held them out. ‘For your silence,’ he said.
Connie curled her fists. ‘No thanks.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I don’t know where it’s come from.’
He batted a rose bush. ‘Right here. Kenneth thinks nobody knows about his buried stash, but it’s so obvious. He’s such a fool.’
He laughed unpleasantly and Connie thought about Frank Dennis. Victor was playing a dangerous game. ‘Why are you taking it?’
‘Let’s just say I need it more than Kenneth does.’
‘What do you mean?’
Victor hesitated. ‘Let’s also say that I won’t be knocking on your door for a while. I’m otherwise engaged. Literally.’
‘I don’t understand.’
‘For God’s sake, Connie. It isn’t difficult. I’m engaged to be married.’
‘Who to?’
‘My former landlady’s daughter. She’s pregnant and doesn’t want to get rid of the baby, or leave me alone for that matter. Haven’t you seen her hanging about the house?’
The woman in the emerald coat. Of course. ‘Don’t you want to marry her?’
He shrugged. ‘I’m getting used to the idea.’ He indicated the money. ‘And extra cash may not give me a happy journey, but it will certainly oil the wheels. Come on. Take a share. You know you want to.’
‘But, it’s . . .’
‘What? Stealing?’
Connie nodded, but her resolve was weakening. How much could she buy for the baby?
‘How do you think Kenneth and his pals got it in the first place? And how many people did Kenneth betray to keep it all for himself?’
Connie had a vision of Frank Dennis flailing in the lake.
‘Come on,’ said Victor, shaking the notes, ‘I haven’t got all day.’
Heart thumping, she took the money and walked as fast as she could to the house. Climbing the steps at the front, she felt a stab of pain. It must be a stitch. She waited for it to pass. Breathing heavily, she pressed on, closing the door behind her and returning to the flat.
Later, her dreams were full of random images: Socks’s belly, heaving with kittens; Frank Dennis’s body being pulled from the water; Kenneth’s roses blossoming but with banknotes instead of petals.
25
Marina
January 1992
Victor lives in a sixties block of flats, ten minutes from the High Road. Marina presses the buzzer on the intercom and he opens the door without checking who is there. She had called him again and, this time, when he suggested she come to his home, she agreed.
She avoids the lift and climbs the concrete stairs to the third floor where she finds the door to his flat is ajar. She steps inside and calls out his name.
‘In the living room,’ he shouts back.
The corridor is narrow with parquet flooring which is shabby but well-swept. Glancing through the first open door on the left, she sees a small and tidy kitchen. The next room must be Victor’s bedroom. The curtains are closed and she makes out the shape of a bed and a wardrobe. There is a further closed door which she guesses is the bathroom and, at the far end, the living room.
Victor is less well-groomed than before. He wears a white shirt, but there’s a stain on the front and he needs a shave. His eyes are bloodshot and Marina suspects he has either started drinking early or has kept it up extremely late. In contrast, she has gone for a no-nonsense image again. Her hair is scraped back and she wears jeans, a jumper and her thick furry coat. She is well and truly covered.
He gestures for her to sit in the armchair and offers tea, insisting when she refuses. While he is gone, she looks about the room. There is a single armchair, a bulky TV, a plain table and two hard-backed chairs. The colour scheme is bland – brown carpet and curtains, beige walls and a yellow lampshade, although one wall is covered in a glamorous array of black and white photos of women with chandelier earrings and mini-dresses and men in suits. It’s a shrine to the sixties. She recognises Diana Ross and Cilla Black. There are a couple of men who resemble gangsters.
Victor returns with one cup and saucer which he hands to Marina before fetching a chair from the table and setting it in front of her, too close for comfort. He sits and folds his arms.
‘So,’ he says, ‘to what do I owe this pleasure?’
‘I wanted to ask you about Thomas Littleton. I know that you worked with him, so I wondered if you could help me with some details.’
He leans back in his chair and takes out a cigarette. ‘What about him?’
‘Was he married?’
‘He was when I met him.’
‘What happened?’
‘His wife died. Cancer.’ He lights his cigarette.
‘When?’
He shrugs. ‘I can’t remember exactly, early sixties.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Sarah.’
Marina blinks. Where has she heard that name before? ‘Did they have a child?’
In an instant, Victor’s expression closes. He produces the hip flask from his pocket and takes a swig.
‘Ah yes. Connie.’
Marina feels a shot of excitement. She was right. There had been a girl living in that flat, hiding her treasures beneath the floorboards – a girl called Connie. She lets the revelation settle and drinks her tea, which is strong and surprisingly good.
‘You knew her,’ she says, setting down her cup.
‘You could say that.’ Victor’s manner has definitely changed. He is guarded, looking at her with lidded eyes as he smokes.
‘Was she away when they found the baby?’
He frowns. ‘Yes, she was. You really are interested in this case, aren’t you?’
She regards him steadily. ‘I’m interested in writing an article.’
He nods slowly, raising his eyebrows as if he doesn’t believe her.
She swallows and continues. ‘So, where was she?’
Victor
waits a beat. ‘Paris.’
It’s her turn to frown. ‘Didn’t you say Dorothy’s son, Johnny, went to Paris?’
‘Yep.’ Dislike creeps across his face.
Now she understands. Connie must have run off with this boy and Victor was jealous. ‘How old was she?’
‘Seventeen.’
‘And when did you say she left?’
‘I didn’t.’
She blinks. ‘All right. When did she leave? How long was it before the baby was discovered?’
‘I don’t know exactly. Days, maybe.’
Marina stares at him. ‘In that case . . .’
‘I know what you’re thinking and no, Connie wasn’t pregnant. Definitely not.’
She continues to look at him. How can he be sure?
‘I saw her just before she went. I was this close to her.’ He indicates the distance between them. ‘She wasn’t pregnant. Impossible.’
Nothing is impossible, but Marina focuses on the facts. ‘So, Johnny was waiting for Connie to join him.’
‘I suppose.’ He gets up and walks to the table to use the ashtray. ‘Why are you so interested in this story? It strikes me that people aren’t interested in much unless there’s something in it for them.’
‘I told you. I’m writing an article.’
He stays standing, regarding her coolly. He’s a big man, powerful, far too large for the small room. Marina wishes he would sit down.
‘And there’s money in that?’
She guesses what he wants. ‘There might be.’
‘So, you won’t forget your informers.’
‘You mean contributors. Yes. I’ll pay you if the article gets published.’
He grins knowingly. ‘I’m kidding.’
She doesn’t believe him. She tries again. ‘Thomas Littleton was away at the time, wasn’t he?’
‘That’s right. Visiting his sister in Whitby. I remember because I took him to the station.’
‘So, Flat 4 was empty.’
‘Bloody hell, you have done your homework.’
She ignores his comment, speaks slowly, piecing events together. ‘So . . . Connie was abroad. Did her father know, or did she run away?’
‘She told a couple of people, but not Thomas. He got home from his trip and she was gone. It was cruel of her. He died not long after that and she didn’t even come back then.’
‘Is that what she was like?’
He is quiet for a moment. ‘No, actually. She wasn’t like that.’
There’s a sad note to his voice. Has she misjudged him? Maybe he cared a lot about Connie.
She considers this and then says, ‘If she was in Paris, she might not have heard about her father’s death.’
Victor doesn’t seem convinced. He takes the hip flask from the table and polishes it on his sleeve before untwisting the cap and taking a swig.
Marina carries on. ‘Connie must have been pretty young when her mother died.’
‘Sarah. Yes, she was.’
Sarah. Suddenly Marina remembers where she has heard the name. Eva’s doll. It must be a coincidence, though: Sarah is a common name.
‘What was Connie like?’
He fiddles with the cap from the hip flask, taking his time, before he answers. ‘She was a good person.’
Again, Marina sees the heart beneath Victor’s bluster.
‘How did she cope with her mother’s death?’
He shrugs and looks away. ‘She had friends, I suppose.’
‘Do you remember any of their names?’
He takes another furtive swig and closes one eye. Marina realises that he’s actually quite drunk.
‘There was a boy called Harry.’
‘Harry?’ Her heart thuds. It’s another name she hasn’t heard before.
‘Yep. Skinny boy that had a crush on her.’
‘How old was he?’
Victor shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Her age, maybe.’
‘And they were friends, not lovers?’
‘Definitely not lovers.’
‘Where did he live?’
‘Above a grocer’s shop.’
‘Where exactly?’
Now Victor grins. He’s back to his old self, enjoying the fact that he has information she wants. ‘Near Thomas Littleton’s bookshop,’ he tells her finally.
‘Is the grocer’s still there?’
‘Yes, but he isn’t. That shop must have changed hands at least three times since then.’
‘Oh.’ Marina tries to hide her disappointment.
He is looking at her shrewdly. Marina detects an intelligence in his eyes. She is rapidly changing her opinion of Victor. There is more to him than she first thought.
‘How long do you plan to stay in the house?’ he asks suddenly.
‘I don’t know. It depends.’
‘On what?’
He has turned the tables and is questioning her. She keeps her voice neutral. ‘Work. Money. I’m applying for jobs. I might do a bit of teaching.’
‘You’re hoping to sell this article,’ he says directly.
She flushes. ‘Yes, well. I’m going to try.’ Moving away from the topic, she talks about renting a different flat. ‘The house isn’t the most . . .’ She stops. Is it prudent to be critical when Victor knows Kenneth?
He understands. ‘I get you. Kenneth is a lazy bugger.’
She looks at him. ‘You were friends back then?’
He shrugs. ‘Not particularly.’
‘Tell me something. What did you mean last time when you said he didn’t notice what went on under his nose?’
He observes her as if weighing her up, and has another drink. ‘Money.’
‘What about it?’
‘He had a whole load of money that he’d stolen. I mean stolen twice. Once in a raid and once from his gang.’
‘And?’
Victor grins. ‘Actually, I should say it was stolen three times.’
‘Three?’ Now she guesses. ‘You mean you stole it?’
‘Some of it.’ He looks pleased with himself. ‘Kenneth didn’t miss it. Well, if he did, he never suspected it was me. I had personal problems. Things needed paying for.’
He is rambling, justifying himself, drinking again. She thinks that if she keeps quiet he’ll explain. She is right. He talks about his girlfriend – the daughter of his landlady, who he’d got pregnant. ‘I had to marry her. I didn’t have a choice.’
Marina pricks up her ears at the mention of a baby. Do the dates work? She thinks they might – although her excitement is tempered by the thought that this man could be her father. Surely not. She regards him beneath lowered lids. They have nothing in common, physically or personality wise. Besides, he hasn’t finished his story.
She wants to press him further, but suspects he’ll either clam up or become suspicious. She’ll bide her time, try a roundabout route. ‘And the money?’
‘I needed to support her, didn’t I? I remember giving a few pounds to Connie.’ He frowns. ‘I guess she used it to fund her escape to Paris.’
‘Why are you telling me this?’ says Marina suddenly. ‘Aren’t you worried Kenneth will come after you?’
He gives a laugh. ‘You are joking? Kenneth couldn’t go after anyone. He might have done then, true, but not now. He’s . . .’ He pauses thinking of the right word. ‘Diminished.’
Marina remembers the frail old man she met in the garden. ‘Maybe it’s guilt,’ she says.
She expects Victor to laugh at her, but instead he looks serious. ‘I’d hazard a guess his mind is full of scorpions.’
‘Pardon?’
‘Shakespeare, my dear. The mind of guilt is full of scorpions. Kenneth must see them everywhere, which can’t be good for the soul.’ He takes yet another drink. ‘Whereas I’m more inclined to see pink elephants.’ He laughs again as if to cover the cleverness of his remark.
It doesn’t work. Marina is impressed. Victor has surprised her again.
He lifts his flask in a
gesture of cheers, stops with it halfway to his lips and says, ‘Mind you . . . It’s always best to be careful. I assume I can rely on your discretion.’
‘Of course,’ says Marina. ‘I never reveal my sources.’
He smiles with a touch of uncertainty. Takes out another cigarette, eyes her and then says, ‘Actually, I know where Harry has gone.’
‘Oh yes?’ Marina feigns nonchalance, but her heart is beating rapidly. First the mention of the pregnant girlfriend; now this. ‘Where?’
‘He crossed the river. I heard he had a rather bijou shop in Angel. Did well for himself in the end, it turns out.’
‘A grocer’s?’
‘Hats.’
‘You kept in touch.’
‘No. My wife – ex-wife that is – her mother knew his mother or something. Sent Christmas cards every year.’
She thinks again about the baby Victor’s wife was expecting, tries to calculate the dates. It must have been born around the same time as her. ‘Does your ex-wife still live in this part of London?’
Victor grimaces and looks down at the carpet. ‘She moved to Liverpool with the bloke she met after me.’
‘That must have been difficult for you, not seeing your son or daughter.’
‘Didn’t make it.’ He raises his head and his eyes shine.
Marina understands. ‘Oh God. I’m sorry.’
He clears his throat. ‘The irony was that at first I wanted her to get rid of it. When she told me she was pregnant, I tried to persuade her to have an abortion, even encouraged her to go to a backstreet clinic. Terrible place it was.’
There is a pause. Marina speaks gently. ‘But she wanted to keep the baby?’
‘Yep. Persuaded me and I married her. Got used to the idea. Five months in and she lost it.’
‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Yeah. I was too – by then.’ His eyes glisten again. ‘Funny how things end up,’ he says, grinding his cigarette in the ashtray.
His loss seems almost tangible to Marina; she feels it too, but isn’t sure whether she’s relieved or otherwise to learn that Victor isn’t her father.
26
Connie
3 August 1964
In the morning, it was as if the scene in the garden with Victor had never happened. Normality had been restored. Tea towels and aprons flapped on the line, flowers bloomed, light sparkled on the windows of the church.
The Hiding Place Page 18