IT WAS SEVEN o’clock on Saturday night, and when David drove up to collect her, Angie had been standing on the corner of Tite Street in Chelsea since five to six. She had been too nervous about being late to let a little thing like an hour-long wait bother her.
She smiled hesitantly as he leaned across from the driver’s seat and opened the passenger door.
‘You look terrific, Angel,’ he said, appraising her slowly, taking in every part of her. ‘Pretty as a picture. But sophisticated with it.’
And possibly young enough to get me sent to jail, if that quack at the clinic was even close about your age.
Angie’s smile broadened. She’d been right: the simple, black chiffon minidress, with its doll-like elasticated bodice, had been exactly the right choice. She’d felt rotten at first, asking Jackie to help her decide what to wear, especially as it was her birthday, and all she was doing for her Saturday night was going to the Lotus, a fading dance hall over the shops in Forest Gate, hoping to be sized up by the local yobs. But it wasn’t all bad. When Angie had given her her present – a tiny pink handbag, covered in shilling-sized sequins – and explained she was going to a party in Chelsea, Jackie had become almost as excited as Angie. That really was Swinging London. No more messing about like a kid. Angie was part of the real thing.
*
‘Whose flat is it?’ Angie took David’s hand as he helped her from the car.
‘Mine.’
‘But don’t you live in that place in Mayfair?’
‘I’ve got a few places.’ He said it simply, not bragging, just fact.
The old girl in Burton Street can stay. I’ve got a few places. This was all getting a bit overwhelming. ‘Is it going to be a big party?’
‘Not really. About fifty, sixty people. Few more maybe.’
Angie hoped David didn’t notice her gulp back her fear.
Once they had entered the flat, Angie was placed in the care of a bulky, shaven-headed man called Bobby, with a glass of champagne and a smiling ‘Won’t be a minute’ from David. But she didn’t mind. As she watched him working his way round the room, greeting his diverse collection of guests, she felt relieved that she didn’t have to accompany him. But, unused to events anything like as smart as what she was witnessing, Angie found herself nervously compelled to make conversation.
‘What’s going on at the table over there?’ She had been introduced to Bobby by name, but couldn’t bring herself to use it. Using such familiarity with a man of his age would have felt impudent.
Bobby ran his finger round his thick, bull neck, loosening his collar. This was all he needed, a bird bloody chatting to him. ‘Scalectrix.’
‘What? The kids’ game?’
‘Mmmm … Scalectrix …’ he began again.
As if on cue, David appeared at their side, flashing another of his smiles and saving them both.
‘With a bit of a difference, eh, Bob?’
Bobby nodded. Thank gawd for that.
‘Fancy a go, Angel?’
Angie smiled back at him, still apprehensive about all the people, yet captivated to be back in his orbit, the orbit of the most handsome man in the room, the Michael Caine look-alike, who seemed almost telepathic in understanding her fears, and who knew how to sort everything out.
‘Yes, please.’
She took David’s offered hand and walked off with him as if Bobby no longer existed. Even with her lack of experience in such matters, Angie had grasped the pecking order in the room, having placed David very near the top and Bobby a very long way below him. And that, as host of the evening, David was important, but maybe not as important as several of his slightly older, male guests – if his attitude to them was anything to go by.
As David led her to the whooping, laughing, crowd huddled round the table, anyone who looked over their shoulder to see who was trying to squeeze to a place at the front of the action automatically made room for him.
And Angie.
With their position secured, Angie, finally, could see what was going on, and it wasn’t like any Scalectrix game she had ever seen.
At one end of the table stood a beautiful blonde woman, who, Angie guessed, was around her mother’s age. She was wearing an elegant, black velvet cocktail dress and was taking bets, very professionally, from the men and their young female companions; big bets, that were being placed on which of the two little cars would cross the line first. But, instead of the toys being steered by eager ten-year-olds – like Jackie’s spoiled, squabbling cousins had done last Christmas on the Murrays’ front-room floor – these ones were being operated by two girls, who were equally as beautiful as the croupier but who were a good fifteen years younger, much closer to her own age, in fact.
Even more incongruously, they were wearing PVC Artful Dodger-style caps and minute PVC bikinis, all colour co-ordinated to match the cars they were operating, and, tucked inside their skimpy bras and pants were fans of bank notes.
‘Tips from grateful punters,’ explained David, as a puce-faced man slapped his victorious driver hard on the backside before rewarding her with a couple of notes stuffed firmly down her heaving cleavage. ‘How about you having a go at driving?’
Angie looked horrified.
‘Don’t worry, Angel, you haven’t got to strip off. They only have to, because they’re …’ He thought for a moment then laughed. ‘The pros.’
‘I’d rather watch.’
‘Fine.’ He took some money from his inside pocket and handed it to her. ‘Here. Bring me luck. What colour do you fancy?’
‘I think I’ll try the red car this time.’ Angie, excited by her beginner’s luck, handed over five pounds to the blonde woman at the end of the table.
‘I’ll have a pony on that as well, darling,’ said a short, squat man standing by Angie’s side. ‘Your little lady’s got luck on her side tonight, Dave.’
‘Course she has,’ he grinned. ‘She’s with me. She’s—’ Suddenly distracted, David’s expression hardened, then, having scanned the crowd, he began to ease away from the table. ‘You all right here a minute, Angel? I won’t be long.’
‘Yeah. I’m fine.’ Angie, absorbed in the fate of her five pounds, was happy to keep watching the little cars whizzing round.
He made his way, with copious nods and smiles for his guests, over to Bobby, who was standing in the corner, with his hands clasped in front of him, apparently silently observing the goings-on in the room. Only David had noticed him signalling to him.
‘What is it, Bob?’
Bobby stretched his lips wide over his strong, even teeth. How best to put it? ‘It’s Marshall, Dave. He was keen to get off. Wanted one of his, you know, special treats. Terry took him to get fixed up.’
‘Where to? One of the flats?’
‘No. Said he fancied going over to the Missy Me.’ Bobby stared down at his highly polished shoes. ‘You know how he likes being seen.’
‘Shit, Bob. He was pissed as a pudden when he got here. Never mind all the gear he’s taken since.’
Bobby looked sheepish. ‘He was mouthing off a bit.’
David ran his fingers wearily through his hair. ‘Tell me.’
‘About being untouchable. About how rich he’s gonna be when he retires. And something about how he’s gonna be the first copper ever to need a Swiss bank account.’
‘Bloody hell, Bob. Let’s hope Terry keeps him a bit quieter in the Missy Me.’
‘Shall I go after them? Make sure?’
‘Yeah, maybe you should. That club’s got itself a name already. Gawd alone knows who might be in there. How long they been gone?’
‘About half an hour.’
‘Fucking hell, Bob!’
‘I tried to tell you. But you were busy.’
‘Just get moving.’
*
‘That damned train. Now we’re going to be late for supper.’ Jill Walker checked her watch. ‘Daddy hates being kept waiting. And I know Mummy will have made something special.’
‘Will we be sharing a room?’ Martin was speaking to Jill, but he had his head ducked down so that he could get a full view of the big Georgian house as the taxi made its way along the tree-lined gravel drive.
Jill caught the taxi driver’s eye in the rear-view mirror and giggled girlishly; it was a small village and she had known the man all her life, and she knew what a gossip he was. ‘You are funny, Martin. Always joking.’ Jill pecked Martin on the cheek and said softly into his ear, ‘You’ll just have to creep along the corridor when everyone’s asleep.’
Martin smiled with his lips pressed close together. He was as nervous as a kitten, as nervous as he had been on the first day at university. No, far more nervous than that. At least when he had started his course, he’d known there would be a few students he could relate to, students who, like him, had gone to their local grammar. Coming here, to Sussex, to spend the weekend with Jill’s family, Martin knew he would be out of place, no matter how Jill tried to persuade him otherwise. But he had still agreed to come. Jill was the best thing that had ever happened to him – it was miraculous, she was actually as keen on having sex as he was – so if spending a few nights with her family was the cost of keeping her happy, then Martin thought it a small price to pay. That’s what he was telling himself, anyway. Actually he would have been happier, and more at ease, standing naked on the college steps, balancing his text books on his head.
As the taxi scrunched to a halt by a sweep of stone steps leading up to a blood-red front door, Jill squeezed Martin’s hand excitedly. ‘You’ll love Mummy and Daddy,’ she said, ‘and I know they’re going to adore you.’
Missing the straight-through train from Victoria certainly had made Martin and Jill late, and Mr Walker, Jill’s father, was annoyed. He simply could not understand why Martin hadn’t planned better, why he had not insisted on them catching the earlier train and why he hadn’t consulted the timetables more closely. Jill seemed exempt from any criticism, and Martin was beginning to wish that instead of coming down to Sussex, he had come down with some horrible, possibly fatal, disease, which would at least have prevented him from travelling.
But eventually Mrs Walker came to the rescue, first showing Martin to his room – the most distant from Jill’s own, he noticed – and then smoothing everything over with kind words, excellent food and a steady supply of wine.
‘A little more duck, Martin?’
‘Thanks, Mrs Walker, I’d love some.’ Well-apprenticed in praising mothers and the food they produced, Martin had earlier said yes to a second helping of the rich, coarse pâté with which they had started the meal, and was now on to his third helping of duck. His experience of home-cooking might have been rather more prosaic than the dishes Jill’s mother was serving up, and the kitchen table in Becontree might have been about a tenth the size of the dining-table in Twycehurst, but the effects of an appreciative eater were just the same on the cook.
Jill smiled happily as her mother topped up Martin’s plate. ‘Mum’s a great cook, isn’t she?’
‘Terrific,’ said Martin. ‘I love this sauce.’
‘What? That? It’s nothing.’ Mrs Walker brushed away the compliments, but she was glowing with pleasure. ‘Just a few cherries, that’s all.’ She held up her glass to her husband. ‘Darling, how about some more wine? That one looks almost empty.’
Mr Walker grumped a grudging reply, but, Martin noticed, he seemed quick enough to go to fetch another bottle.
‘We’re so pleased you could come, Martin.’ Mrs Walker looked on admiringly as Martin worked his way through his duck. ‘And it’s such a pleasure to cook for someone who enjoys his food. Jill has always had the appetite of a bird, and Mr Walker doesn’t seem to notice what he’s eating.’
‘More interested in the wine, eh, Mummy?’
Jill’s mother shot her a warning look. ‘You’ll be giving Martin the wrong impression, dear.’
Martin carried on eating as though he hadn’t heard the slightly pointed exchange.
‘I hope you’ve brought something pretty to wear, Jill. We’re having people over tomorrow.’
‘Oh? Who’s coming?’
‘Everyone. You know the village. They’re all desperate to hear your news from London. And to meet Martin, of course. It’ll be such fun.’ She looked up as her husband came back into the dining-room. ‘You’ll have to keep an eye on him, Jill. Having a handsome young man like Martin around will turn a few Twycehurst heads.’
Jill giggled.
Mr Walker hurrumphed.
And Martin swallowed what was left in his glass of the wine that tasted to his unaccustomed palate as if it was just this side of paint stripper.
Everyone. Everyone from the village wanted to meet him. Martin felt his appetite shrivel like a plucked cherry left out in the summer sun.
‘Sorry I was so long, Angel. Bit of business to sort out.’
‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Those girls.’ Angie, who had drifted away from the table when the short, squat man who had placed twenty-five pounds on her choice of car had become a little too familiar, was standing where she had earlier been parked with Bobby.
‘What?’ David pointed with his whisky glass at one of the smart but scantily dressed young women who were circulating with trays laden with drinks and little silver bowls. ‘The hostesses?’
Angie nodded. ‘The stuff in those bowls. Is it …’ She tried to come up with a word that wouldn’t offend David, and that wouldn’t make her look like an inexperienced kid. ‘Pep pills?’
‘Some of it.’ He stopped a passing hostess and took a glass of champagne from her tray and gave it to Angie along with a lighted cigarette. ‘They give my guests whatever they fancy. Some go for speed. Others like a bit of pot. Amyl nitrate. One or two are going for acid. Me, I stick to a good malt, or a drop of fizz.’
‘How can you be so … easy-going about it?’ Angie was whispering, glancing nervously about her for eavesdroppers. ‘What if the police found out? You could go to prison.’
David smiled to himself at the thought of the amount, and variety, of gear that Chief Inspector Gerald Marshall had just consumed. ‘The police wouldn’t bother us, Angel. Private party, see. And they’re only having a laugh.’
‘But—’
‘Look, the difference between the Purple Hearts and the Black Bombers on the streets and what’s going on here is that these are all adults. They all know what they’re doing. Relaxing after a hard week at work. That’s all. No different from you enjoying that glass of bubbly and your cigarette.’
Angie sipped automatically at her drink. David was so calm about it all. So persuasive. She looked around the room, listening to the buzz of conversation and the occasional eruptions of pleased laughter. It all looked so beautiful. Like a film set. The clothes, the jewellery, the people. She thought about the girls with their bikinis stuffed full of cash. More money than she earned in a month sitting behind a boring desk.
It was a different world from the one she knew. Maybe the rules were different for people like these.
‘How about giving the cars another go? Or roulette? I’ve got a table set up in the other room.’
Glad of the distraction from her thoughts, Angie was about to say she’d like to try roulette, if that was OK with him, when Bobby appeared.
‘Sorry to bother you again, Dave.’
David looked displeased. ‘I thought you were going over the Missy Me.’
‘I got held up. By a phone call.’ Bobby leaned close to David and said quietly into his ear. ‘It was Terry. Something needs sorting out.’
‘Give Angel some money and take her through to the roulette, then see me in the back bedroom.’
When Bobby came into the room, David’s muscular frame was perched on a delicate pink-and-gold brocade bedroom chair; he was puffing angrily on a panatella, his broad legs splayed wide. Had anyone not known David Fuller’s reputation, they might have been inclined to have laughed.
‘That Terry needs a fucking good hiding. He knew he had to keep an eye on Marshall.’
Bobby agreed, but said nothing.
‘How bad is it?’
‘It was a set-up, Dave. The papers were there.’
He threw up his hands. ‘Well, that’s it. I can’t do anything for him now. I don’t think even Burman could get the silly bastard out of this one.’ David stubbed out his cigar in a porcelain dish on the dressing-table, stood up and adjusted his tie in the mirror. He closed his eyes and shook his head in wonder. ‘Fucking stupid idiot. Still, can’t be helped. Might as well get back to the party, eh, Bob?’
It was the early hours of Sunday morning and Detective Constable Jameson was sitting in the canteen, working his way methodically through Saturday’s Guardian crossword, while he ate the cheese-and-salad sandwich he had eventually persuaded the woman behind the counter to make for him. He was drinking tea from his flask, having given up on the foul, dark brown brew that the rest of the station seemed immune to.
As usual he was alone, but a table close to him was occupied by two female constables. Jameson closed his ears to their inane chatter, not wishing to know about their sex lives and the various preferences of their boyfriends, but suddenly his attention was grabbed.
‘At least he doesn’t get up to tricks like the Old Man,’ said the red-haired one.
‘What tricks?’
‘You haven’t heard?’ She grinned knowingly.
‘Sandie …’
Sandie leaned forward for the sake of privacy, but she still spoke loudly enough for Jameson to catch her every word. ‘Know that new club over in King’s Cross? The Missy Me.’
‘Can’t say I do. Gambling, is it?’
‘No. It’s for people who like to take their pleasures rather seriously. The type who enjoy a bit of S and M, but with an audience thrown in for an extra thrill. The right hardcore, really extreme lot, I’m talking about.’
‘Are you saying the Old Man …’
Sandie leaned back, folded her arms across her chest and opened her eyes wide. ‘Yep. He got caught in there last night.’ She could barely keep a straight face. ‘Sadomasochistic practices, according to Barbara down on the desk.’
‘No …’
‘That’s right. All dressed up in this rubber women’s corset thing and stockings. With long, pink rubber gloves.’ Now she was sniggering helplessly. ‘Doing horrible things with surgical appliances. The whole three-ring circus. With a few extra trick ponies thrown in for good measure.’
‘Never!’
‘I’m telling you. He’s finished.’ Tears of laughter were pouring down her cheeks. ‘The papers’re only going to be able to show them photographs from the waist up.’
She handed Sandie a glass of water. ‘Is this kosher?’
Sandie sipped the water, wiped her eyes with the back of her hand, and did her best to control herself. ‘Wait till you see the papers in the morning. It was the Clarion that set him up. It’s going to make the front page. And’, the sniggers exploded again, ‘you know how quiet Monday is for news.’
Jameson calmly folded his newspaper, wiped out his cup with a paper napkin and screwed it back on his flask. He stood up and tidied his empty plate on to a plastic tray, which he returned to the counter, then walked out of the canteen towards the car park.
When he reached his Morris Minor, Jameson slapped the bonnet hard with the flat of his hand.
DCI Marshall was finished. Well and truly finished.
He unlocked the car and got in. ‘Right, Fuller,’ he said in a low, steady voice. ‘Your protection’s gone. I’m ready for you now.’
Jameson hummed tunelessly to himself as he drove towards Greek Street. With a bit of luck, Fuller and his cronies would still be there, going over the day’s business, and, with a bit of patience, Jameson would get a glimpse of them when they left, and would see if they looked worried.
But, much as he would have enjoyed such a sight, Jameson doubted if they would look even slightly concerned.
Those men had a mentality, lived a life, that thrived on risk and notoriety as much as it did on financial gain; you only had to see them swanking about to know that. It drove Jameson mad, how so many ordinary, supposedly decent, men and women had such an appetite for reading all about the villains’ so-called glamorous lives, with their night-clubs, their tarts and their showbiz friends.
The public encouraged it. Encouraged it, that was, until they were touched by it. Until it was their kid found out of his head on acid, or caught selling it on to even younger kids to finance their kicks. Then they weren’t so impressed by the likes of David Fuller.
Jameson was going to have him. Show him that his glamorous life also had its costs, and that being banged up in the Scrubs wasn’t glamorous at all.
‘I didn’t know whether to expect you or not this morning, Ange.’ Jackie closed the street door behind her. ‘You’ve not exactly been a regular at work lately, have you?’
‘Don’t start, Jack.’
Jackie managed to keep quiet until they had almost reached the station, then it all just spilled over. ‘Martin’s been away for the whole weekend. At his girlfriend’s. He phoned late last night to say he was going straight in to college today, and wouldn’t be home till tonight. Big posh house in the country, they live in. He says her family are loaded. Her dad drinks too much, her mum seems lonely and he wouldn’t live in the country if you paid him.’ She glanced sideways at Angie, then added, ‘I think he’s sleeping with her.’
‘What?’ Angie sounded preoccupied, as if she hadn’t been listening.
‘Martin. Sleeping with Jill. His girlfriend.’
‘Why shouldn’t he?’
‘Angie!’
‘Well, don’t be so square.’
‘Pardon me for breathing.’ Jackie linked her arm roughly through Angie’s, punishment for not being interested. Or pretending not to be interested. ‘Mum would kill him if he got her pregnant.’
‘Jackie, I couldn’t care less about your brother’s sex life. Can we talk about something else? Please?’
‘You’ve changed.’
‘What, because I’ve got a boyfriend?’
‘Boyfriend.’ Jackie snorted. ‘Angie, he is a man. Not a boy. A much older man. And I think you should be careful.’
‘Not jealous, are you?’
‘All right. If you must know, I am.’
Angie looked at her. ‘Are you?’
‘Course I am. You go off to some party in bloody Chelsea with a bloke in a Jag, and I wind up in a dance hall over the shops in Forest Gate with a gang of girls from school. And it was my birthday.’
‘Sorry, Jack. Did you have a good time?’
Jackie smiled. ‘Yeah. I did actually.’
‘Did you?’
‘I met someone.’
‘Yeah?’
‘Andrew. Really nice. Works in the City. And he’s nearly as mod as Martin.’
Angie narrowed her eyes.
‘All right, I won’t mention him again.’
They pushed their way through the crowd down the station steps.
‘Know what would be nice, Ange? If we could go on a double date some time.’
‘I don’t think so, do you, Jack? David’s not exactly the sort to go dancing at the Lotus.’
‘Pardon me for breathing. But I didn’t mean with David, I meant with one of Andrew’s friends.’
‘Don’t be silly, Jack.’
‘Too good for going out with the likes of me now, are you?’
‘No. You know I don’t mean that. I just like the life David’s shown me. The places he takes me.’
Jackie had it on the tip of her tongue to say – you mean, the things David gets for me, and that Angie was sounding a bit too much like her mum – but she didn’t want to cause a row.
Angie stepped back from the edge of the platform as the train came into sight. ‘By the way, Jack, I’ve decided I’m giving up my job.’
It was almost lunchtime, and Vi was walking back from Sam’s shop, where she had been ‘helping’ him in the stock-room. She was reading the headlines of the Daily Clarion, laughing out loud.
‘Morning.’ It was Tilly Murray coming towards her. She addressed her neighbour through pursed lips. ‘Something’s tickling your funny bone, Violet.’
Vi held out the paper. ‘It’s this dirty old sod,’ she said, pointing to the front page that was almost entirely taken up with a flash photograph of a startled-looking Detective Chief Inspector Gerald Marshall. ‘Strange what gets some fellers going.’
Tilly tutted and adjusted her headscarf. ‘Disgusting. Ought not be allowed.’
Vi smiled craftily. Baiting her saintly neighbour was one of her little pleasures. ‘Don’t you and your Stan ever fancy something a little bit … you know, kinky, to put the lead in that old pencil of his?’
Tilly’s face went an unflattering, pale mauve. ‘Jackie tells me you’re seeing that Nick again.’
Vi folded the paper and tucked it into her gondola-shaped straw basket. ‘I’m flattered you’ve been discussing my private life, Tilly. Delighted, in fact. And, as you’re so interested, you might as well know the real story. I’ve not seen Nick for a while. He’s been busy.’ The part of the truth she didn’t mention was that she’d left Nick high and dry, just as she had so many times before, to chase what she saw as a temporarily better prospect. Sam. He might have been even less physically attractive than Nick – he had the looks of a spanked arse and the manners of a monkey – but he had a chain of shops and he worked a lot, giving her the chance to indulge herself with the very handsome, if far less dependable prospect, Craig.
Craig was Vi’s latest passion: slightly younger, better-looking by miles than Nick, Scottish, and more than a touch unreliable. He wasn’t entirely new on the scene – she had first met him about a year ago – but he was always being called away, always having to go back north of the border. It had annoyed Vi then, not because he was married – she couldn’t care less about that – but because at the time he had been the only one on the firm and she hadn’t liked not having a back-up. But now it suited her perfectly. When Craig wasn’t around, it gave her a bit of time to spoil Sam, to keep him sweet, to ‘help him out’ in the stock-room, and to enjoy first-rate dinners and some lovely little presents, all at pudding-faced Sam’s expense.
The arrangement was all rather neat; it would be neater still if she could guarantee the times that Angie would be out of the house everyday. She didn’t know what had got into the girl. When she wanted her at home to help, she was out, and now, when she wanted her to piss off to work or somewhere, she was always under her feet. It didn’t actually bother Vi, Angie being there, it was that she was looking so … well … sodding good. Too good. It was bloody infuriating.
Tilly folded her arms. ‘Must be lonely on your own.’
Vi raised a heavily pencilled eyebrow. ‘Who said I was on my own?’
Tilly’s lips became even thinner. ‘My Martin’s courting. Lovely girl. Comes from a really good family. Rich and all.’
‘That’s nice.’ The boredom in Vi’s voice was as apparent as the look of tedium on her face.
‘And I reckon your Angie’s seeing someone as well.’
‘News to me.’
Before she could stop herself, Tilly snapped, ‘Don’t you care about that girl, Violet?’
Vi took her cigarettes out of her trenchcoat pocket and took her time lighting one. ‘Not as much as you do, obviously.’ She smiled nastily. ‘Better get on, Tilly, some of us can’t spend all day gossiping. Things to do. People to see.’ She inhaled deeply and blew the smoke out slowly. ‘Ta ta for now.’
With that, she tightened the belt of her mac, slung her basket further up her arm and wiggled off on her high heels.