Fifteen

The flat overlooked the River Mersey and from close range, if you squinted, gave a view of smudged Welsh hills. Penthouse, actually, Françoise Rickman thought, and she surveyed the interior with the critical eye of a woman accustomed to living a life of leisure on a luxury yacht, which for most of every year was bathed in hot sunshine beating down out of the clear blue skies over Gibraltar. And when life afloat with Bernie became … tiresome … then their nearby apartment was a welcome change, and was just as luxurious as Sea Wind. Top floor – so, penthouse – of a tall block that was dazzling white in the sun, and overlooked the flat blue waters of Marina Quay, the sports boats with their deep sea rods swaying and the huge, floating gin palaces. Which, when she was gazing out of those panoramic top-floor windows, Françoise decided, made her the highest of the low – and her chuckle was a deep gurgle of merriment.

As far as location and climate went, this Liverpool penthouse fell short of the required standard, but it was certainly a classy joint. And at that her chuckle became rich and smoky. She remembered asking Jack Scott if he thought she looked like a femme fatale, a gun moll, and here she was thinking like one. A classy joint indeed – but why not? If the Yanks coined a fittingly descriptive phrase, then use it, and this place with its flat smoked-glass occasional tables, white Astrakhan rugs, original watercolours and a cocktail cabinet to die for – again the dirty chuckle – was certainly of a class. And hers for a couple of weeks if she wanted it – free, gratis, courtesy of a mysterious friend of a photographer called Penny Lane. Ryan Sharkey. Gambler, dilettante, whatever – but a man who certainly knew how to choose property.

And could afford the very best. In fact, the only jarring note with the place, Françoise decided, was the company she was keeping.

Clontarf, the Australian, had his dirty boots – caked in Welsh mud – up on one of the smoked-glass tables. Blonde hair as unruly as a wet haystack, he was drinking from a stubby bottle of French lager and watching Françoise with amused blue eyes. Across from him, Ebenholz was a muscular shape, his glistening head wreathed in the blue smoke from a thin cigar. A glass of whisky rested on the arm of his chair. He was as motionless as a stone carving.

‘So what was the point of that car business?’ Clontarf drawled. ‘Registering that blue Vauxhall in the Sheila’s name, what was all that about? Anything? Nothing?’

‘Nuisance value,’ Françoise said. ‘Wouldn’t stick, obviously, but putting a body in the boot of what appeared to be her car showed what we were capable of. It was turning the screw, because at the time we were pressuring Scott and Laidlaw. They were useful then, now they’re not.’ She shrugged.

‘Because of one phone call?’

Françoise jumped, startled as always on those rare occasions when Ebenholz opened his mouth to speak. His voice was deep – Arthur Prysock always sprang to mind, a jazz singer whose voice seemed to come from the soles of his boots.

‘Yes,’ she said, licking spilled gin from the back of her hand with the tip of her tongue.

‘Which you’re still keeping close to your … chest?’ Ebenholz said, watching her.

Clontarf chuckled.

‘Fuck off, both of you,’ Françoise said, and smiled sweetly.

‘I wasn’t being suggestive,’ Ebenholz said.

‘I wasn’t suggesting you were, merely that you’re both working for me, not the other way around.’