The night after Belle’s visit to Milly, Harlan was in bed in the apartment overlooking Tower Bridge. The city lights winked alluringly through the big floor-to-ceiling windows and the girl he had with him had been most impressed by this whole set-up. All in all, things were fine. All was quiet and productive at the factories, all the street people were behaving themselves, product trade was brisk, fresh imports were due in the day after tomorrow and the day after that. Nothing too bad to demand his attention, and he was getting some very nice head from the petite blonde who – in the dark with the light behind her – could easily pass for Belle Barton.
Ah, Belle.
Such a fucking shame about Belle. But he’d had to put an end to her. That business about her knowing about Beezer, and Jake, well, what the Christ else could she have known? Anything. And that was a danger to him; he couldn’t risk letting her live.
There was still nothing but silence from Ludo and Nipper. He’d sent others to find them, but they’d found nothing.
He straightened, dislodging the girl lapping at his cock.
‘What’s up, hon?’ she asked, but the mood was gone. He felt himself deflating. She noticed and started working him with her hand. He slapped her away.
‘Ow! Babes!’ she complained.
‘Look, piss off, will you,’ he snapped. Actually her hair wasn’t the precise shade of blonde that Belle’s was. And her eyes were the wrong colour. This one’s were green like gooseberries, and round. Not dark and slanted, lush with promise, not like Belle’s.
Fuck that girl.
She wouldn’t cooperate. Wouldn’t play ball. She’d walked into one of the Stone offices uninvited and started making trouble. One of his people had told him all about it, they were sure it was her. That bitch. Then defying him like she did. So of course she’d had to go. But was she really gone? Until he heard back from that pair of useless bastards – or from one of the others he’d sent off down there – could he be one hundred per cent sure? No. He could not. She’d tormented him all his life. And even now, not knowing whether she was alive or dead, still she tormented him.
He couldn’t forget the way she’d stood there, right on the edge of the caimans’ pool, and defied him, actually having the nerve to speak about Jake, saying she’d known what he’d done when it was all in the past, all forgotten, wasn’t it?
It had been so easy. A pillow pressed over the little kid’s face, and it was soon over. And it had been entirely justifiable. He couldn’t ever be number two; he had to be number one, or nothing. But fucking Beezer, creeping about in the night! Harlan thought he’d managed to close the whole thing down, but Beezer must have talked before he shut him up for good.
‘Get the fuck out of it,’ he said coldly to the girl.
‘All right, I’m going, I’m going.’ She was grabbing her underwear and scrabbling around for her dress and shoes. ‘Christ Almighty, what a charmer you turned out to be!’
‘Go on, get out!’ yelled Harlan, chucking his boot at her head. It missed and went sailing on and knocked a priceless Jackson Pollock from the wall. The painting crashed to the floor, breaking the frame. The phone started to ring as the girl ran out of the flat door.
Harlan snatched it up. ‘Yes? What the fuck is it?’ he snarled.
‘Boss, you better get over here,’ said the voice of one of his lieutenants. ‘You are not going to believe this.’