Anyone Who Had a Heart (39 page)

‘So!’ he said to Sally. ‘Where’s she gone?’

Sally was dancing at the Jamboree Club that night. She had a resident spot there on a Friday night because she was that popular with the punters.

‘Don’t know,’ she muttered, fastening her suspender onto one of her fishnet stockings.

She took time to straighten her seam, running her hands over stocking top and bare thigh. She did the same with the second stocking, seemingly too busy to bother with the likes of him.

Michael wasn’t fooled. Sally might be blasé on the outside, but he could tell she was nervous.

‘Your bloke in tonight?’

‘Might be.’

‘The German or the copper?’

‘The copper. And Klaus is Swiss, not German.’

Sally’s ‘lesser lover’, as she called him, was a copper, an inspector in the vice squad who had got into the habit of taking his work home with him. Sally was a fine piece of work alright. She was sassy, sexy and as bold as brass. She was also Marcie’s friend.

Being purposely evasive to Michael’s enquiries, his patience was wearing thin. He grabbed her upper arm. ‘I want to know what happened to make her leave, Sally.’

‘You’re hurting.’

‘You’re struggling.’

‘Damn you.’

‘Tell me. I don’t want to hurt her, Sally. I love her. Do you understand that?’

Her eyes had a brittle sparkle to them when she looked up at him. Her bottom lip curled in anger. ‘You Camilleris …’

‘I’m not like them. Anyway, my name is Jones.’

‘Your blood’s the same,’ she spat.

‘No. That’s where you’re wrong. Did you tell Roberto where she was?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You and him had a bit of a fling – don’t think I don’t know about it. Does Marcie know you had a fling with him? Well, Sally? Does she?’

She looked ashamed when she shook her head. Michael found himself feeling sorry for her. He let go of her arm. He sensed she was close to tears and also how upset she was.

‘I didn’t tell Roberto where she was. Honest I didn’t.’

He believed her, but there was something else going on here, something he didn’t quite understand. Normally he would have shoved off, but he didn’t. It wasn’t in his nature to intimidate women, but he decided to push her that bit more. He wanted to find Marcie. He wanted to know she was safe.

‘Have you tried her father?’

He nodded. ‘He’s done a bunk too. Latest reports are that he’s heading for home on account of messing around with someone’s wife.’

‘Oh!’

Sally swivelled round in her chair to face the mirror. It was surrounded with light bulbs just like the ones in Hollywood films. Her hand shook as she applied lipstick.

Seeing this, Michael rested his hands on her shoulders. He felt the shiver of fear that ran through her and knew it wasn’t because of him.

‘You have to tell me,’ he said, his eyes meeting hers via the mirror. ‘Who betrayed her?’

For the first time ever on a Friday night, Sexy Sally did not take off her clothes in front of a baying audience of horny men. She’d broken down and told Michael all he needed to know. She’d told him about Allegra being his father’s mistress and Allegra’s beautiful face being bruised and battered when she’d gone round to see her after Roberto’s outburst. She told him about Carla and also about the person who was funding the whole operation. He was still numb when he crossed London to see his father, the only person who could stop Roberto in his tracks.

THE TAXI DRIVER
helped Marcie alight from the taxi that had brought her from the railway station to Endeavour Terrace. He also helped her out with the luggage she’d managed to bring with her.

‘I used to go to school with you. Remember?’

His name was Paul Smith. ‘How could I forget?’

He was pleasant enough and didn’t hesitate to help her carry her belongings up the garden path. Having heard a car draw up and the front gate squeak as it opened, her grandmother was standing at the door.

‘You are here!’

She sounded both relieved and surprised, as though there might have been some reason why she shouldn’t be. Marcie was apologetic.

‘Sorry, Gran. I didn’t have time to phone.’

Her grandmother stared for a split second. That was all it took for her to take in Marcie’s flushed cheeks and breathlessness.

‘This is home. There is always a place for you here whether you let me know you are coming or not. And you are well?’

Again that probing as though she might not be well.

Marcie smiled and was reassuring. ‘Why shouldn’t I be?’

‘Of course.’

Once her grandmother had taken Joanna from her arms, she paid the taxi driver.

He winked at her and held her hand for a beat as she handed him the money.

‘If ever you fancied a night out, I’m your man.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind if I’m that desperate,’ she said with a tight smile, before slamming the door in his face.

Her grandmother paused in the hallway. ‘Father Justin is here,’ she said over her shoulder.

‘Eating cake and drinking tea,’ Marcie added sarcastically. The old priest spent most of the day eating and drinking. She sincerely doubted he kept a crumb of food in the presbytery, except perhaps a bottle or two of communion wine. He depended on charity in the shape of his parishioners for his daily bread.

Her grandmother threw her a look that warned her to be polite and respectable.

‘Don’t worry, Gran. I’ll keep a civil tongue in my head.’

They went through to the kitchen where the priest was sitting in one of the fireside chairs. He was presently leaning across to the other chair where
Garth
was sitting silently, a vacant look in his eyes. He jerked back when they entered. On seeing Marcie his eyes lit up, the yellow streaks in the whites running into the pale pupils.

‘Marcie!’ He got to his feet, smothering her hand with both of his. ‘How are you, my child?’

His eyes twinkled and like the taxi driver, his hands lingering too long on hers.

‘I’m very well, Father. And yourself?’ she said while retracting her hand. She adopted a congenial expression though the effort to smile almost broke her jaw.

He told her that he was fine and that he’d come here to try to persuade her grandmother to let Garth go into the care of some nuns at a convent in Essex.

‘Your grandmother doesn’t agree with my suggestion. I think she has something against Essex. She couldn’t possibly have anything against the holy sisters can she now?’

The comment was delivered with good humour, a thick Irish brogue and a light chuckle.

‘And how does Garth feel about this?’

‘He does not wish –’

Father Justin butted in. ‘Now, now, Rosa. The poor fool can’t know his own mind. You know that as well as I do.’

Ignoring the priest’s ugly eyes, Marcie looked at the poor creature sat huddled at the fire with a
blanket
around him. The day was neither warm nor cold, certainly not cold enough to warrant a blanket.

Garth had not acknowledged her arrival. He was sitting staring at the glowing coals of the old cast-iron range. It wasn’t usual for him to ignore her and the fact that he was doing so troubled her.

‘Is he ill?’ she asked.

‘He is tired,’ said her grandmother. She passed Joanna back into her mother’s arms before dealing with the priest. ‘That is all the cake, Father,’ she said, taking the empty tea plate from the priest’s hands. She took the last piece remaining on the cake stand and gave it to Joanna.

Father Justin looked surprised. So was Marcie. Although Father Justin O’Flanagan was not the most likeable of people, her grandmother always deferred to his position and was courteous, never showing her true feelings towards him. A lot of that courtesy was extended through cake.

The priest got to his feet but was languorous in his movements. Marcie concluded that he was not inclined to leave too swiftly. Turning his back to the range, he stood with legs slightly apart. He held his black robe aloft at the rear and rubbed his rear with his hands.

‘I’ve been telling your grandmother that she’s done her Christian duty for Garth and she’ll be rewarded in heaven. The sisters will look after him well. He’ll be better off there.’

London had made Marcie a braver soul than she had been. She chanced looking into his pale eyes and saw nothing but conceit and gluttony staring back at her. And something else; her flesh crept when she realised she could also see lust there.

‘I think that’s a ridiculous statement,’ she said hotly, folding her arms while staring steadily into those awful eyes. ‘Do you have some reason of your own for wanting him to go there, Father O’Flanagan? Do they pay you on a commission basis for patients referred there? Is the Catholic Church that short of funds at the present time?’

She heard her grandmother gasp. She saw the priest’s mouth slacken as the sickly smile fall from his face.

‘Not at all,’ he said after swift consideration. ‘I’m just thinking of your grandmother dealing with a boy trapped in a man’s body. He still plays with the kids in the street. You have to be careful of him doing things like that. He’s got urges and what with young kids around …’

‘Your insinuation appals me. Garth wouldn’t hurt a fly, Father Justin O’Flannagan. And now I suggest you leave. I’d like to talk to my grandmother alone and besides I’m tired and my baby’s tired. I would appreciate if you left now.’

His expression stiffened. She could tell he didn’t like being put down like that. The lust had certainly
gone
from his eyes. Waddling and shuffling his feet, he wished Rosa Brooks a good night and made for the back door.

Once he was gone Garth Davies expressed a deep sigh. Both women looked at him in surprise. Garth smiled at Marcie. ‘Hello, Marcie. I’m better now.’

He grinned in his usual lopsided fashion, his two front teeth large and uneven.

For the second time in the space of minutes, Rosa Brooks had something to gasp about.

‘That is the first time he has spoken for days.’ She looked at her granddaughter as though seeing her for the first time. ‘You did this. You came home and did this, yet on his drawing …’

‘He’s still drawing?’

Marcie could tell by the look on her grandmother’s face that this was indeed the case.

‘I bought him a sketchbook,’ said her grandmother. ‘His mother only gave him bits of white meat paper that the butcher uses to wrap up a pound of chops. I thought he deserved a proper sketchbook. He did one of you before you came home. That is why I was so surprised to see you. And so relieved.’

Marcie read the look on her grandmother’s face. She was not nearly so gifted as Rosa Brooks, but she knew her grandmother well enough to read that she was unsettled.

Marcie picked up Garth’s sketch pad and saw the drawing. The people it depicted were drawn in coloured crayon. She saw the three figures: one lying on the ground and the others standing over her. The figure on the ground wore a skirt and was obviously a woman. The other two were men and one of them was wearing a wide-brimmed hat. She didn’t need her grandmother to interpret who they were. The man wearing the wide-brimmed hat was Roberto. The other was Michael. She saw what her grandmother had seen; these two men were fighting over her. She knew then that it wasn’t over. Roberto had come for her once and he woudn’t give up that easily. If he went back to her flat and found it empty, he’d guess where she’d run to. It was only a matter of time before he came for her again.

THE BLOW LANDED
on his father’s chin and sent Victor Camilleri sprawling, his heavy built-up shoe landing like a hammer on his good leg. Blood trickled from his cut lip. He looked surprised.

‘I’m warning you Michael, my son …’ He raised an accusing finger.

‘Warn me all you bloody like. And don’t call me your son! You did sweet FA for me until I was of an age to be useful to your operation. Roberto’s your son, not me.’ Michael stood over him, barely able to control his anger.

‘You have to understand …’ Victor began. ‘He bears my name …’

‘And is just as malicious! Just as corrupt. I asked you to help stop him from hurting that girl. You’re the only one he listens to. Well, if you’re not going to stop him then I am!’

Boiling with an anger he could not swallow, Michael headed for Victor’s private study where he’d so often been left to sort out his private paperwork.

‘You’re the only one I trust, my son,’ he’d said to him. ‘You’re a bright boy. You’ll go far in life.’

What Victor had meant was that he could make good use of a bright boy who had made university and got a degree in accountancy – a safe career his mother had wished him to follow. She hadn’t wanted another criminal in her life, but Michael had seen things differently at the time. Following childhood with only his mother, he’d been flattered that his father had wanted him. But he’d just been used. Roberto would never be supplanted in his father’s affections.

Michael knew exactly what to look for. As Victor’s criminal empire had grown so had his need to keep records of his transactions; it was all here, his dealings with local politicians who had given him the nod when a decrepit property was available for peanuts prior to demolition. Lists of the people – mostly immigrants – renting those properties, crammed in like sardines, sometimes a hundred people in a house built to hold thirty.

Victor had managed meantime to struggle to his feet and tug an antique blunderbuss from the walls. He had a whole host of antique guns; some of them in working order, though not the blunderbuss. He swung it round his head like a club, roaring as he charged towards his bastard son.

Michael ducked towards the door, the gun barely grazing his shoulder.

Victor prepared to charge again. The door opened, the butt of the gun grazed the edge of the door, landing
on
the head of his wife. Gabriella Camilleri screamed and went down on her knees.

Michael didn’t hang around. Gabriella hated him and for obvious reasons. Let the two of them stew. He had to stop Roberto. He knew he could do that. He also knew where to find him.