Rosie had decided to get the ferry over to the south docks rather than get the bus from Thompson’s to see if it made her journey home any quicker. She had recently moved out of her bedsit near the bus depot in the centre of town to a slightly better class of accommodation on the town’s Borough Road which, geographically, was situated more or less exactly midway between her two places of work.
She still popped in to see her old neighbour, Mrs Townsend, who would probably never move from her room in the three-storey Georgian house on the corner of Grange Terrace. During the year Rosie had lived directly above her, she’d grown attached to the old woman, whom she called Mrs T for short, and every week Rosie would pop by with a couple of slices of cake or some iced buns she had bought from the town’s bakery, and the two of them would drink tea and eat their treat and talk about all the latest goings-on.
Rosie had a suspicion Mrs T knew about her second job and that her ‘welding accident’ had not been some careless mishap at work but something far more sinister, but she never mentioned it, and Rosie was glad of the old woman’s discretion and, more so, that Mrs T did not judge her for it.
Rosie had promised to take her little sister to see Mrs T when she visited during the summer holidays. It would be the first time Charlotte had actually come to stay with her. After their parents’ death five years ago, when Charlotte had started boarding school, it had been arranged that during the holidays she would go to stay with their mum and dad’s elderly friends, Mr and Mrs Rainer, as they lived just a bus journey away from her school in Harrogate. It was because Rosie had wanted her younger sister to come and occasionally stay with her that she had decided to get a proper flat and not just a room. And now that she had increased her income quite substantially from her investment in Lily’s, she could afford it.
As Rosie started walking along Low Street up to the main road that led into town, she saw a familiar face coming towards her, wearing the same smart but well-worn black woollen three-piece suit, with a narrow, perfectly knotted dark blue tie. His overcoat was flapping open, failing to keep out the winter cold. It took just a few seconds for Rosie to place the man, and a few more to recall his name – or rather his surname and rank.
‘Ah, Detective Sergeant Miller,’ she said with a smile. ‘What a surprise to see you here.’
By the look on DS Miller’s face, he was not only genuinely surprised at having bumped into Rosie, but also very pleased.
‘Good evening, Miss Thornton’ – he stopped, took off his trilby hat and put out his hand to greet her – ‘but please call me Peter. DS Miller is far too official.’
‘As is Miss Thornton,’ Rosie replied.
Rosie would more than likely have let the detective keep to the more formal ‘Miss’, had she not been feeling in such a good mood. Happy even.
‘Rosie,’ she said, releasing her hand from Peter’s firm grip, ‘is just fine by me.’
‘All right, Miss Thornton, sorry … I mean Rosie … how are you? And how is work going at Thompson’s? I know you’ve all got a heck of a workload over there.’
Rosie looked into the detective’s grey-blue eyes and saw he was genuinely interested, and it surprised her that she wanted to talk to him. She would normally have just gone through the usual ‘how do you dos’ before carrying on her way, but something made her want to chat to the man she had only met twice in her life, but with whom she shared a strange kind of alliance.
For the next few minutes she told the detective about recent developments at work, including the yard’s very particular pride in having their owner Cyril Thompson chosen by the British Admiralty to go over to America with a new design for a cargo vessel called the Liberty Ship, which might potentially help the Allies win the war. It was a Sunderland ship, and the Yanks needed help in going through the design and being shown how they could build it more quickly by welding rather than riveting.
‘Our yard manager’s still over there helping out with the production … But, anyway, enough shop talk, what are you doing in these parts? Aren’t you usually based at the police headquarters in town?’
DS Miller sighed. ‘A lot has changed since I last saw you – and again, my condolences for the loss of your uncle.’
‘Please, no need,’ Rosie interrupted, ‘I barely knew the man. And by all accounts, from what you told me, that was a blessing.’
It had always been a source of amazement to DS Miller that Raymond Gallagher, the convicted rapist, whose body they had pulled out of the River Wear, had actually been related to this woman now standing before him. And, just like when he’d gone to inform Rosie, as the next of kin, about her uncle’s death, he was again struck by how attractive she was, and by how the smattering of small scars on her face did not detract from her natural beauty in any way.
DS Miller forced himself to concentrate on their conversation as he explained to Rosie that he was now working for the Dock Police, who, as he was sure she was well aware, had a cabin by the sea lock on the south dock, near to the Fire King, the town’s floating fire engine.
‘That’s where I’m going now,’ DS Miller explained. ‘The graveyard shift, as they say.’
‘Well, I’d better not keep you from catching any villains,’ Rosie said, aware that they’d been chatting for longer than was just good manners.
‘Of course, I’ve kept you long enough,’ DS Miller said, although he made no effort to move.
Rosie said her farewells and continued her walk up to the main road, while DS Miller remained where they’d both been chatting, watching as she became lost in the throng of fellow shipyard workers all hurrying home or off to the pub after the end of a long, hard day’s work.
Rosie’s basement flat was still very much a novelty, as she had just moved in over a month ago; she still revelled in the luxury of having a lounge, a little kitchenette, a large bedroom and, best of all, a bathroom, complete with a washbasin, roll-top bath and toilet.
Rosie changed out of her overalls and had a quick wash-down. As she carefully pulled her figure-hugging navy blue satin dress over her head, and adjusted the pussy-bow neckline, thoughts of her surprise meeting with the smartly dressed detective – with his thick salt-and-pepper hair, and eyes that crinkled when he smiled – pervaded her mind.
Rosie wondered where he lived, and if he was married and had a family. There was something about him that suggested he was on his own, although Rosie didn’t know why exactly she presumed that. An intuitive guess, perhaps, or the way he seemed to want to chat – as if he missed female company.
After quickly covering her facial scars with a pale-tinted foundation she had acquired off the black market, and which was so much easier to apply than the thick theatrical make-up she had been used to putting on her skin, Rosie dabbed a little rouge on her cheeks and brushed her long eyelashes with a smear of mascara, before grabbing her long, light grey herringbone trench coat and checking she had locked her front door. Rosie’s living accommodation was completely separate from the rest of the house, affording her the privacy she required for the hours she kept.
A short tram journey later, and Rosie was walking up the long path of the beautiful Victorian terrace house on West Lawn, an exclusive, wide, tree-lined residential street in the affluent area of town known as Ashbrooke. Now that Rosie had bought into the business and was managing the girls, rather than simply being one of the women who worked there, she could enter the premises through the main, very grand, wooden front door, and not by the small back entrance that the working girls and the clients had to use in order to keep the comings and goings of those who frequented the property as discreet as possible.
Luckily, the people living on either side of what amounted to a three-storey mansion were both elderly, and paid no heed to the life around them. As long as there were no disturbances or noise, the neighbours on both sides seemed happy for them all to keep themselves to themselves.
They had, of course, all met Lily, who owned the house, on a number of occasions over the years she’d been there, and they all seemed to have accepted their slightly eccentric-looking neighbour, even if she was not quite of the social standing normally expected in such an upmarket area of town. It had aided neighbourly relations that Lily had told them, in the most beguiling French accent she could muster, that she was a designer, specialising in fashion and textiles, which they had not for one moment doubted, having been overcome by the cloud of Chanel No. 5 perfume in which Lily doused herself on a daily basis, as well as her very obviously dyed mass of auburn hair, worn up in an outlandishly large and rather chaotic bun.
Just the other week, shortly before leaving for her trip to London to find premises for her new venture, Lily had paid her neighbours a visit, taking with her two little pots of pâté de foie gras as a present to both households, not only to keep up the charade that she had French origins and still had connections with her homeland, but also to reassure them they had a kind and respectful resident next door.
They would, of course, have been horrified had they known the truth: that Lily was not really a madame but a madam, and that they were, in fact, living right next to an establishment they would most definitely have viewed as a wickedly sinful den of iniquity.
As Rosie turned the key and stepped over the threshold of the place known by those who went there as Lily’s Bordello, she could hear the gentle murmur of people talking and the soft tinkling of the piano coming from the back reception room.
When Rosie looked up the wide, gently curving staircase, she saw one of the girls, a very attractive platinum blonde called Vivian, hurrying down the thick-carpeted stairs with a pleading smile on her face.
‘Rosie,’ she said in a husky voice, which was partly put on, as Vivian wanted to sound like a sultry Mae West, and partly genuine, due to the number of cigarettes she smoked, ‘can I ask a favour?’
Rosie smiled. She knew exactly what Vivian was going to ask her. It was always the same with her. Money seemed to slip through the girl’s fingers like water; she was always asking for ‘just a little advance’.
‘Ask me later on this evening, Vivian,’ she told her firmly but good-naturedly. It had taken a little while for Rosie to make the transition from being one of the girls to being their manager. All the young women who worked there had tried their luck with her in some shape or form, and it had been difficult for her to strike a good balance between friend and employer – but she had managed and they all seemed to have accepted her graduation from fellow worker to boss without too much trouble.
As Vivian sashayed past her to greet one of her regulars who had just walked through the back door and was handing his hat and coat to the cloakroom attendant, Rosie heard the sound of a key in the front door. She turned just as it opened.
‘Je suis rentrée,’ Lily announced as she stepped through the doorway, shaking out her umbrella – although Rosie was sure it hadn’t been raining – and somehow filling the whole of the wide, grandiose hallway despite her small stature.
‘Lily, I didn’t expect you back until tomorrow evening,’ she said, going up to the woman who was now her business partner and giving her the obligatory kiss on both cheeks, something Lily had told all her girls to do as it was ‘très chic’.
‘Oui, ma chérie, I was, but you know me … full of surprises,’ Lily declared, grabbing Rosie’s arm and steering her into the back parlour.
Rosie smiled as she detected a hint of Lily’s true cockney accent break through the faux French. Every time Lily returned from the country’s capital she caught traces of her true accent sneaking to the fore.
For the next couple of hours, the two women chatted, in between greeting clients, speaking to the girls, and making sure there were enough drinks and canapés for their guests; and, of course, taking care of the steady stream of cash payments for services rendered.
As the evening started to draw to a close, Lily poured them both a glass of Rémy Martin. Rosie allowed herself a very small tipple, but was wary of drinking too much; she had started to rely on it heavily during the hellish few months she’d been caught in the vice-like grip of her uncle Raymond. She had vowed nothing would ever control her again. Not anyone. Nor any kind of addiction.
‘So, now, I want to hear about you, my dear,’ Lily implored. ‘What news is there in ta vie … your life?’
Rosie would have normally skimmed over Lily’s question with a simple, ‘Nothing. It’s been nice and quiet. Just the way I like it,’ but for some reason she found herself telling Lily about bumping into Peter on her way home after her day at the yard.
‘Oh, mon dieu,’ Lily said, trying unsuccessfully to hold back her excitement. ‘Do I detect a little je ne sais quoi … a little frisson of attraction, peut-être? Could I even go as far as saying there might well be a little chemistry between you and this Peter?’
Rosie gave a short laugh and waved her hand at Lily, as if physically batting away her accusations.
‘I do recall the way you talked about him back then …’ Lily started to say, but then she stopped herself. Lily hated to recall that awful time last year when Rosie had been reduced to a wreck by that heinous man who had nearly killed her and had scarred her beautiful face for life. But at least when the whole horrendous debacle had come to an end, DS Miller had ensured she got her so-called ‘inheritance’, money believed to have been Raymond’s, but that had in fact been Rosie’s; her hard-earned money that had not only bought her uncle’s silence, but also protected her sister Charlotte from his perverted threats.
And it was thanks to getting this money back that Rosie had been able to buy into Lily’s business – and Lily herself had then been able to invest in a new enterprise in London.
‘There was no frisson, as you put it, or chemistry,’ Rosie rebuked Lily. ‘He just seems a nice man. I thought it was a coincidence we bumped into each other and that he’s now working with the Dock Police.’
Lily looked over her new half-moon spectacles. She claimed she needed them as her sight was deteriorating, although Rosie suspected Lily’s eyes were perfectly fine and that the ornate horn-rimmed glasses were to make her look more sophisticated and intelligent, which, to be fair, they did.
‘Oh well, let’s hope DS Miller doesn’t do his job too well, otherwise we won’t be getting our usual supply of much-needed black-market goods through,’ Lily clucked. ‘And I’ll be forced to stash our little essential luxuries in my suitcase and haul them back up from London.’
Both women were still chuckling at the thought of Lily trailing her booty up from the nation’s capital when Vivian knocked on the parlour door. ‘About that favour?’ she asked. Vivian had chosen her moment well, having heard the women relaxing and in good spirits.
Lily rolled her eyes to the ceiling in dramatic fashion, before telling Rosie.
‘Ten shillings. Not a penny more.’
Lily then swung her gaze back to Vivian, who, she noticed, had done a really good job of looking like a young Mae West, with her curled bob and wonderfully arched thick eyebrows and over-the-top false eyelashes.
‘Young lady,’ she said sternly, ‘I really believe you’re going to have to find yourself a very rich husband. You spend your money before you’ve earned it, and that is never going to put you in good stead for the future.’
Vivian threw her head back, causing her imitation diamond drop earrings to jangle back and forth as she laughed loudly. ‘I know, Madame Lily. Do you not think I am looking for one?’ she said, her normally disguised Liverpudlian accent peeking through.
Still chuckling, Vivian took the ten-bob note off Rosie, who then marked the debt up in her ledger, before shutting it and placing the thick, leather-bound book back inside one of the large kitchen drawers.
Just as Vivian was leaving, George arrived at the doorway to the parlour.
‘Ah, George.’ Lily turned to welcome her friend. ‘I’ve missed you so. Come here and join us for a nightcap.’
George practically lived at Lily’s, so much so that Rosie had wondered whether it would be a good idea for him to move in and pay a small amount for board and lodgings. Lily had chuckled and told Rosie she was born to be an entrepreneur and that she would chat to him about it.
As George walked into the room, Rosie noticed that his limp seemed to be more pronounced. She guessed it was down to the wear and tear of age, as George, like Lily, was getting on a bit, and must be approaching the start of his fiftieth decade. George was a veteran of the First World War, which had left him with a large scar down the side of his face and with a limp he refused to admit had given him a disability; as a result, he did not see the very obvious need for a walking stick.
Lily must also have seen the deterioration in her friend’s mobility for, as George limped into the room, she stood up and declared, ‘I have a present for you, George,’ before she bustled out of the parlour to fetch her gift.
‘Rosie … always a pleasure,’ George said, taking her hand and planting a chivalrous kiss on it before sitting down and pouring himself a brandy.
When Lily returned she was holding the most beautiful, clearly very expensive hand-carved cane.
‘It’s time, my dear,’ Lily announced, handing the cane over to her friend.
George started to object, but stopped himself. He looked at the walking stick and smiled.
‘How can I say no? It’s magnificent,’ he said, inspecting the ivory head that had a very subtle swirling ‘G’ engraved into the handle.
For the briefest of moments, Rosie recalled a very different cane – the one owned by her uncle; and how the ghoulish-looking ram’s head carved into the handle had, in fact, been a dagger that he’d used to force her head over a spitting weld.
Rosie pushed all thoughts of that vile man and that horrendous evening in November last year out of her head, and instead looked at what she had now and her hopes for the future.
As Rosie watched Lily and George, she wondered exactly what lay in store for her two friends, who she loved like family. She had often speculated on the exact nature of their friendship, and whether or not it was more than just platonic.
As she listened to Lily tell George about the unique little shop in Kensington High Street where she had bought the cane and had it engraved to her specifications, Rosie thought of her own solitary life and what it would be like to share it with someone else. For the briefest of moments, Rosie’s mind wandered to Peter, before she chided herself, pushing thoughts of the detective back to the far recesses of her mind.
Why couldn’t she just accept her lot? She could have a good life, but love was not to be a part of it. Rosie had accepted this, even before her face had been scarred for life.
To even think of having any kind of relationship – never mind with a detective – was far, far beyond the realms of possibility.