Terry didn’t like this. That consignment falling prey to Customs down in Southampton? All right, if one was stopped there were still a hundred more that would get through. He knew it wasn’t a big deal. But it gave him an uneasy feeling because he had never traced it back to anyone. Someone had blown the whistle on them, and if they’d done it once, and gone undiscovered, then they could certainly do it again and possibly with greater consequences to the whole Stone operation.
No shit had stuck to them that time. They’d been lucky. But he didn’t want to risk the same thing ever happening again.
Then it did.
It ate at him, his failure to track down the culprit. Charlie had already poked around, seen what was going on, but drawn a blank so he’d asked Terry to go over the whole thing again. But still – nothing. Terry arrived home at the gatehouse day after day, wrung out, frustrated, to tell Jill that he’d questioned dockers, talked to their insiders in the port authorities, done everything he damned well could, and still come up with a big fat zero. This was his job, covering Charlie Stone’s back. He’d sworn to do it, right from when they were kids, and he was going to go on doing it while he still had breath left in his body. So to fail in this task was monumental for him. It killed him.
They were sitting at the kitchen table. Dusk was coming down and the lights were on. They were eating stew. Nothing fancy. Terry had never developed a taste for posh food like Charlie. He was telling Jill, not for the first time, how frustrating he found it, that he wanted to track the bastard down who’d done it, shopped them once again, caused them such trouble.
Suddenly Jill put down her knife and fork and looked him dead in the eye.
‘It was me,’ she said.
Terry’s fork was halfway to his mouth. His hand froze, mid-air. He stared at his wife.
‘You what?’ he said, thinking he must have misheard her.
‘I did it from a phone box in town. I told the police that the consignment was coming in and that there would be drugs in it. I did it the first time, too.’
Terry put the fork down. His eyes were fixed on her face. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He felt like he’d been gut-punched.
‘For God’s sake, why?’ he managed to get out at last.
Jill picked up her glass and took a long pull of wine. Then she said: ‘Come on, Terry. This business. You don’t like it any more than I do.’
That much was true. He’d known and understood the heavy game on the rob. This was something very different. But for fuck’s sake!
‘You grassed Charlie up?’ he gasped out. ‘You mad, girl?’
‘People die on this stuff he brings in. You know that, don’t you. And we live well on the back of that. We’re dealing in death. It’s wicked. There’s no other word for it. It was playing on my mind. So I . . . I did it.’
That wasn’t the full story – not by a long shot – but it was as much as she could bear to tell him.
‘We could have gone down. The whole fucking lot of us, did you think of that?’ Terry burst out. ‘If they’d traced it back to us, the shit would have hit the fan big time. What the hell’s been coming over you?’
Jill looked at her half-eaten meal and abruptly stood up. ‘Look, keep your voice down. Belle will hear.’
Belle was up in her room, doing homework. It was the unwritten rule between them; Belle must never know the true nature of the trade they were all wrapped up in. She was an innocent child, and – like Milly up at the big house – she would stay that way. None of Charlie Stone’s dirt would ever be allowed to touch the girls. They’d all agreed on that, long ago.
‘I’m not talking about this any more,’ said Jill, and left the room.
Him and his fucking mate Charlie. It hurt her, how strong the bond was between the two men. She knew that, for both of them, friends came first; wives, second. It devastated her, every day, that Terry was so up Charlie’s arse, but she had no choice but to soak it up – when Charlie had done such a dreadful thing to her, right here in Terry’s home.
Later, in bed, Terry held her. In the darkness he squeezed her tight and whispered: ‘Why’d you do it?’
‘I told you,’ she murmured.
‘There’s nothing else?’ he asked.
‘Like what?’
‘It wasn’t because of what I told you about that daft cow Nula? Not to spite her, to spite both of them?’
‘No. It wasn’t that.’
‘There was nothing in it. Truly.’
‘I know that,’ said Jill, and for a moment she was on the point of saying it, out loud: Charlie Stone raped me. So what the hell else does that rotten bastard deserve but treachery? Why do I have to spend every day here, seeing him, living in fear, wondering if he’ll do it again when he sends you away on ‘business’ to Christ knows where?
She couldn’t say it. Terry’s whole world would collapse if she did.
‘There’s nothing else,’ she whispered, and kissed his cheek.
‘You’ll never do it again?’ he asked. ‘Swear to me.’
‘Never,’ said Jill.
She wouldn’t. Minutes after making the calls, she’d been shaking with fear. She knew Terry was right. It could be the end of everything, what she’d done. Years in jail for Charlie and Nula, Terry and her. Belle and Milly and Harlan left, taken into care, their lives ruined.
‘I swear on Belle’s life,’ said Jill. ‘I will never do it again.’
‘Good,’ said Terry, and finally he turned away from her and slept.