Bad Girl (33 page)

‘I think someone’s had their cage rattled and they’re not too happy about it. We’ll stick together, yeah? Wait and see what happens next.’

Helen pulled a face. ‘Is that what you call a plan?’

‘Best I can come up with at the moment. You got a better one?’

‘No.’

‘Right, let’s go home.’

As Frank turned the car around, Helen kept her eyes peeled for their shadow. A ripple of fear ran down her spine. She was afraid, she couldn’t deny it, but a part of her felt strangely exhilarated too. Maybe, finally, the truth about her mother’s murder was starting to unravel. It hadn’t taken much – a single visit to Tony Lazenby – but already someone was worried enough to put a tail on them. She sent up one of her silent prayers to the heavens.
Please God, keep us safe.

It took Frank less than thirty seconds to break the lock with a screwdriver and prise open the old tin. ‘Here.’ He pushed it across the kitchen table without flipping open the lid or looking inside. Then he stood up and went through to the living room.

Helen was grateful for his tact. She sat for a while staring at the initials in the right-hand corner. She wondered how old her mother had been when she’d painted them on. Her hand hovered over the tin while she braced herself for whatever might lie inside. Memories, she thought – and they weren’t always easy to deal with. She took a deep breath and opened it.

The first thing she came across were photographs, pictures of herself as a baby, as a toddler, in school uniform, in a blue velvet dress for a kids’ party. She took them out and laid them to one side. Next there was a picture of her mum and Tommy when they were children, standing outside the Fox with their mother. She had never seen a photograph of Irene before. Her maternal grandmother, a slim blonde woman, had a nice face and a pleasant smile but also an undisguised weariness about her eyes.

Helen stared at the picture for a while before placing it on top of the others. Next there was a birth certificate confirming that she was the child of Lynsey and Alan Beck. And also her parents’ marriage certificate. She found a crayon drawing that she couldn’t remember doing, a hotchpotch of coloured circles that might have been balloons. Her name was unevenly scrawled across the bottom of the page.

She continued to work her way through the box, uncovering receipts, buttons, a broken silver link bracelet, used cinema tickets, an unopened sachet of sugar, a couple of tiny pebbles and a pale pink feather. She had no idea what these mementoes had meant to her mother, but she knew that they’d meant something: tiny remembrances, perhaps, of happier times.

At the bottom of the box was a small heap of envelopes, six in all, addressed to Mrs L. Beck at the Samuel Street address in Kilburn. Helen’s first thought was that they might be love letters. She smiled, wondering if there had been someone special in her mother’s life after the disappointment of her marriage. As she took the letter out of the first envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper, her smile instantly froze. Instead of the sweet nothings she’d been expecting, there was a brutal threat written in bold black capitals. YOU ARE A BITCH AND YOU ARE GOING TO DIE.

Quickly, Helen snatched up the next one. KEEP LOOKING OVER YOUR SHOULDER, BITCH.

And then the next. YOU DESERVE EVERYTHING YOU GET.

The other three were in a similar vein, short and to the point, nasty and threatening. She could feel her heart thumping in her chest as she gazed down at them. Her hands were shaking, damp, and she had a sick feeling in her stomach. Grabbing the first envelope, she stared at the postmark. It had been sent from Holborn in 1970, a few weeks before her mum had been murdered.

‘Frank,’ she called.

He came into the kitchen with a bottle of beer in his hand. ‘You okay?’

Helen gestured towards the notes lying on the table. ‘I… I found these. They were in the bottom of the tin.’

He sat down beside her and picked up the notes, one after the other. ‘Christ,’ he murmured.

‘You think Chapelle sent them? Or got someone else to send them? You know, to warn her off about giving evidence.’

‘Could be,’ he said. He examined the envelopes, peering at the postmarks. ‘All sent from different parts of London.’ He sipped on his beer and pondered for a few seconds. ‘Not sure if it’s really his style, though. If he wanted to give her a warning, he’d be more likely to send one of the boys round. Why bother with this kind of thing?’

‘Perhaps he just wanted to scare her.’

‘Easier ways of doing it.’

‘But there has to be a connection.’ Helen raised a hand to her mouth and chewed on her knuckles. ‘God, why didn’t she go to the cops? Why didn’t she tell them?’

‘I don’t suppose they’d have done much. The best she could have hoped for – and that’s presuming she was prepared to give evidence – would be witness protection. And that would have meant changing her identity, moving away and probably never seeing you again.’

Helen played with the notes, picking them up and putting them down again. ‘At least she’d have been alive.’

‘But did she even know enough to be a threat to Chapelle?’

She shrugged. ‘She was friends with Anna Farrell. Anna was Chapelle’s girlfriend. Well, according to Lazenby. And girls talk to each other, don’t they? Anna could have told her all kinds of stuff.’

‘She could have,’ Frank agreed. ‘But it would only have been hearsay. Surely Anna was the one he’d be more concerned about.’

‘So he killed them both. Just to be sure. She’s probably dead too, don’t you think?’

Frank sat back, frowning. ‘I don’t know.’ He played with the beer bottle, revolving the neck between his finger and thumb. He was quiet for thirty seconds, and then he said, ‘You sure you want to carry on with this?’

Helen gave a nod. ‘Of course I do. I
have
to.’ She swallowed hard. Suddenly, after the tail that had been put on them and the threatening notes to her mother, the danger had become more real. ‘I’m not scared of him,’ she lied, although the tremor in her voice betrayed her.

‘Sometimes it’s good to be scared,’ Frank said. ‘Especially of men like Eddie Chapelle.’

For the next few weeks, Helen divided her time between working in the sandwich bar and finding out everything she could about Eddie Chapelle and Anna Farrell. While she was buttering bread and doling out teas, Frank was either in Islington, sorting out business with Alfie Blunt, or up West making discreet enquiries about Chapelle.

On Wednesdays, which she had off, she and Frank took the Northern Line up to Hendon and went to the Colindale newspaper library, where they trawled through the mass of microfilm, searching for anything that could be relevant to her mother’s murder. The library had been Moira’s suggestion, and through its archives they had found out a little more about Anna Farrell: she had been a model and socialite in the early sixties, a rising star mixing with the glitterati, but by 1970 – when she was thirty-two – she had more or less slipped out of view. There had been a couple of convictions for soliciting in 1967 and 1968, but since then nothing else.

On Chapelle, however, they’d compiled a much larger dossier, none of which made for comfortable reading. Eddie Chapelle had been arrested on numerous occasions, usually in connection with pimping, pornography or gang warfare in the West End. In 1969, there had been a particularly nasty killing: a man called Raymond Deed had been brutally murdered, slashed and stabbed, his head almost severed from his neck. Chapelle had been in the frame, had even been charged, but the case had never gone to trial.

Lynsey Beck’s death, on the other hand, had barely registered with the media. They had found only one mention, and that was in the local Kilburn paper, a narrow six-inch column reporting the fire in Samuel Street and the death of the tenant. There was no suggestion of foul play.

Helen squinted through the windscreen as they approached Camden, the early evening sun in her eyes. They had the windows open and a warm breeze caught her hair and sent it flying back over her shoulders. Since getting his money from Alfie, Frank had bought himself a second-hand motor, another MG, although this one was white. Now that he had some cash, he was free to move out and find his own flat, but as yet he hadn’t suggested it.

He was only staying, she knew, because he didn’t want to leave her alone while she was digging up the past and possibly stirring up trouble. She wondered if she was a burden, if she’d involved him in something he’d rather not be doing. The thought made her uneasy. She wanted him to stay, but she didn’t want him to feel under any obligation.

It was strange how quickly she’d got used to having him around, to waking up each day and finding him in the kitchen, the smell of toast and coffee wafting on the air. Every morning the bed was reconstructed as a sofa and the blankets piled neatly in the corner of the room. He was easy to get along with and she looked forward to the time when work was finished and she could race upstairs to the flat to see him again.

This afternoon, they had spent several hours tracking down old friends and acquaintances of Anna Farrell, but had little to show for the effort. Of the few they had managed to find, nobody was prepared to say much, although whether this was down to fear or ignorance was impossible to fathom. On the whole, they had been met with only shrugs and frowns. No one knew where she was. No one had heard from her for years. No one seemed to care.

‘Are we wasting our time?’ sighed Helen as Frank cruised into the parking space outside the sandwich shop.

He turned off the ignition and glanced at her. ‘Not giving up already, are you?’

‘Did I say anything about giving up? I just meant… I don’t know… Maybe we’re not looking in the right places.’

Frank’s mouth curled a little at the corners. ‘Ah, the
right
places. You should have said.’

‘Now you’re laughing at me.’

‘As if.’ He made an effort to straighten his face. ‘But seriously, you have to be patient with these things. If we keep going, something useful will turn up eventually.’

Eventually felt like a long way off for Helen. ‘I hope so.’

They got out of the car and went on up to the flat. They had barely been inside a minute when the doorbell rang.

‘You expecting anyone?’ asked Frank. He went over to the window to take a look outside.

‘Oh, it’s probably Moira. She said she might drop by this evening.’

‘Maybe you should—’

But Helen didn’t catch the end of what he was suggesting. She was already on her way downstairs. As soon as she opened the door, she regretted it. Standing on the pavement were three men, two of them as tall as Frank, the other – the one in the middle – with a face that she instantly recognised from the photographs she’d seen in the papers. Her heart leapt into her mouth as she found herself staring into the cold, steely eyes of Eddie Chapelle.

‘Hello, Helen,’ he said.

She went to try and slam the door, but was way too slow. One of the goons stepped forward, inserting his heavy boot into the gap and shoving the door back, forcing her to retreat. The other two followed in his wake until all four of them were huddled together in the cramped hallway.

Eddie Chapelle gave a weary shake of his head. ‘That’s not much of a welcome, Helen. I’m disappointed. I thought you’d be pleased to see me.’

She could feel her heart thrashing, her mouth turning dry with fear. She knew what this man was capable of; she’d read and heard enough to comprehend the kind of danger she was in. ‘W-what do you want?’ she eventually managed to stammer out.

He fixed her with that intimidating stare again. ‘Isn’t that the question I should be asking?’

Frank suddenly appeared at the top of the staircase. ‘What the—’

‘Don’t even think about it,’ Chapelle said, looking up at him. ‘We’re just here for a chat. There’s no need for any nastiness.’

The very next second, Helen felt the cold pressure of steel against the nape of her neck. One of the goons had a gun to her head. She drew in her breath, her gasp clearly audible.

Frank gave a nod and raised his hands. ‘Okay, okay. I get it.’

‘Stay where you are,’ the other thug said. ‘Don’t move a fuckin’ muscle.’ He also had a gun, a black revolver that he kept aimed at Frank as he jogged up the stairs. Quickly, he ushered Frank around the corner and out of sight.

‘And now you,’ the first goon said to Helen. ‘Up the stairs and take it slow, huh? No sudden movements.’

Helen did as she was told, her legs shaky. It was only a few minutes since she’d been bemoaning their lack of progress – but this wasn’t the kind of progress she’d been hoping for. When they got to the living room, Frank was already in the armchair, with the thug standing guard behind him.

‘There’s no need for all this,’ Frank said. ‘What’s with the shooters?’

Chapelle threw him a sneering glance but otherwise ignored him, turning his attention back to Helen. ‘Sit down, sit down,’ he said, waving towards the sofa.

Helen lowered herself into the corner, keeping her eyes on him. Eddie Chapelle was a dapper man in his mid fifties with grey hair and a thin, sharp face. Although he was of medium height and build, the size of his two companions made him seem almost petite in comparison. ‘What do you want?’ she asked again, trying to keep the panic she was feeling out of her voice. ‘What are you doing here?’

Chapelle remained on his feet, watching her carefully. ‘A little bird tells me you’ve been asking questions behind my back. I don’t like that, Helen. I prefer to conduct my business face to face. More honest that way, don’t you think?’

Helen looked up at him. Despite her fear, anger was blossoming inside her. Was this the man who had killed her mother? It was more than likely. And if he was going to kill her too, she felt determined to find out the truth before he did. ‘You don’t think I have a right to know what happened to my mum?’

‘Every right,’ he said slyly. ‘But what makes you think I can help?’

‘Because you knew her. Lynsey Beck. She used to work for you.’

Chapelle frowned and pursed his lips. ‘A lot of girls work for me. Many girls. Why should I remember her?’

‘Nineteen seventy,’ said Helen. ‘She was friends with Anna Farrell.’

‘Ah, Anna,’ he said. ‘Now I do remember Anna. A very attractive woman. We were also…
friends
for a while. But your mother, no, I don’t think I recall her.’

Helen took a deep breath. ‘When you were in jail, she received threats, notes telling her to keep her mouth shut. Are you saying you didn’t send them?’

‘Threats?’ he repeated, his eyebrows lifting. ‘And you think…? But how would that be possible if, like you say, I was in jail?’

Helen couldn’t tell if he was being genuine or not. He was the kind of man, she imagined, who lied with such regularity that it was virtually second nature to him. She answered his question with one of her own. ‘If you’ve got nothing to hide, why are you so bothered about what I might be doing?’

Chapelle pulled a face. ‘A man has his… reputation to consider. Mud sticks, my dear. You start accusing people of—’

‘I’m not accusing you of anything. Somebody killed her,’ Helen said. She could feel Frank’s eyes on her – he was probably willing her to shut up – but she refused to meet his gaze. ‘I’m just trying to find out who that was.’

‘And looking in the wrong direction, I’m afraid.’ Chapelle tilted his head and gave a sigh. ‘I don’t wish to be dragged into this business. Do you understand?’ He leaned down suddenly, grabbed hold of her chin, yanked it towards him and pushed hard into her cheeks with his thumb and forefinger. ‘Do you?’

‘Keep your hands off her!’ Frank said. He lurched forward, but the goon wasn’t having any of it. In one swift, brutal motion, he smashed the butt of the gun against the side of Frank’s head, sending him sprawling to the ground.

Helen let out a cry. She instinctively tried to move, to help, but Chapelle tightened his hold. He grasped her shoulder with his left hand, his fingers like an iron grip. ‘Don’t worry about your boyfriend,’ he hissed. ‘He’s not dead… yet.’

Frank, as if to verify the statement, gave a low groan from where he was laid out on the carpet.

Chapelle stared hard into her eyes. ‘Look at me, not him. And listen to me good, because I don’t like to repeat myself. You stay away from me and my business. I hear you’re still poking around, and next time… well, next time it won’t be such a friendly visit. You got it?’

Helen gave a nod.

‘You got it?’ he asked again.

‘Yes,’ she croaked.

‘Good.’ He let go of her, turned to his goons and gave a fast flicking gesture with his hand. The two thugs, like well-trained Rottweilers, immediately walked over to the door. Chapelle gave Helen a long final stare. ‘Let’s hope we don’t meet again.’

As soon as he had gone, she jumped off the sofa and crouched down beside Frank. ‘Are you okay? Are you all right?’

Slowly, he pulled himself up into a sitting position and leant his forehead briefly against his knees. Then he touched the side of his head and winced. There was blood in his hair. ‘Jesus, what did he hit me with? A bleeding brick?’

‘Don’t move. Let me get something.’ Helen rushed into the kitchen and ran a clean cloth under the cold tap, then wrung it out and took it back into the living room. She kneeled down again and dabbed tentatively at the wound, trying to stem the flow of blood. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m so sorry. This is all my fault.’

Frank looked at her. ‘Why? Did you hit me?’

‘No,’ she said. ‘But—’

‘Then it’s not your fault.’

‘You know what I mean. If I hadn’t started… if I hadn’t… I never meant for you to get hurt.’

‘Here, let me do that,’ he said, reaching up to take the cloth from her.

Helen felt the breath catch in the back of her throat as his hand collided with hers and their fingers became briefly intertwined. Their eyes met, and for a moment their faces were so close that their lips could have touched with only the barest of movements. Flustered at the thought of it, she quickly turned her head to one side and pulled her hand away. ‘We should go to the hospital. You may need stitches.’

Frank frowned, as if trying to fathom out what had just happened. Or maybe it was the pain he was frowning at. ‘What I really need,’ he said, as he pressed the cloth firmly against the cut, ‘is a stiff Scotch.’

Helen, glad of an excuse to leave the room, jumped to her feet and went back into the kitchen.

‘You may as well bring the bottle,’ he called out. ‘I get the feeling I’m going to need it.’

She returned with the bottle of whisky and two glasses and sat down on the floor near but not too close to him. She poured out a large measure and passed it over. ‘How are you? That’s a nasty cut. It’s still bleeding. Are you sure you don’t want to go to hospital?’

Frank knocked the drink back in one, winced and then sighed. ‘Ah, that’s better. No, honestly. I’m going to have a headache, but there’s no lasting damage.’

Helen poured him another whisky and then picked up her own glass. She took two large gulps, feeling the burn as it slid down her throat. ‘Do you know, when he was here… I really thought…’

‘I know,’ he said. ‘The idea crossed my mind too. It’s not every day you get a visit from Mr Chapelle and live to tell the tale.’ He looked at her over the top of his glass. ‘And it’s not everyone who’d have the guts to do what you did. I was impressed, Mouse.’

Helen flushed at the compliment, even though she felt she didn’t deserve it. ‘What’s there to be impressed by? I was terrified.’

‘But you still went ahead and asked the questions. It was a brave thing to do.’

She bowed her head before raising her face to look at him again. The shock of it all was only just beginning to sink in. ‘Brave or stupid?’ Briefly she pushed her fist against her mouth, thinking of how much danger she had put him in. ‘You were the one who got hurt.’

‘I’ll live.’

‘No thanks to me.’

Frank shifted back and leaned against the armchair. He laid the bloodied cloth on the coffee table and lit a cigarette. ‘I knew what I was getting into. I don’t blame you, so don’t start blaming yourself.’

Helen understood what he was saying, but it was hard for her to see it that way. She felt responsible for what had happened. She
was
responsible. Quietly she said, ‘He did kill her, though, didn’t he? He did kill my mum.’