Bad Girl (34 page)

Frank hesitated before replying. ‘Well, I’d swear that he had Anna Farrell killed. That’s what he’s worried about. But I’m not so sure about your mother. I don’t think he was faking when he claimed that he didn’t remember her. I mean, why would he bother to pretend?’ He pulled on the cigarette while he pondered some more. ‘My gut instinct says he came here only because of his connection to Anna’s death. I could be wrong, but that’s the way I see it.’

It wasn’t the answer that Helen had wanted. She thought back over the encounter with Chapelle. It was true that he hadn’t shown even a flicker of recognition at the name of Lynsey Beck, but that could have been a deliberate ploy to put her off the scent. It didn’t mean anything. Not really. Men like him wore deceit like suits of armour. ‘He’s hardly going to admit it, though, is he?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘But you think I’m wrong?’

Frank’s shoulders lifted a fraction before dropping again. ‘All I’m saying is that his main interest, his main worry, seemed to be Anna Farrell.’

Helen, who needed things clear-cut – she wanted justice for her mother – was reluctant to give up her main suspect. Chapelle had the motive and the means. He could easily have paid one of his goons to commit murder and then torch the flat afterwards. ‘But why would Lazenby have put his name forward if he didn’t have anything to do with it?’

Frank gave a snort. ‘Why do bent coppers do anything? Because there’s some advantage in it. Because he wants to cause Chapelle grief. Perhaps he’s got a grudge. I don’t know. All I do know is that you can’t trust Lazenby any more than you can trust Chapelle.’

‘But if Chapelle didn’t kill her, who did?’

Frank swirled the whisky around in his glass. ‘Whoever sent the notes? Perhaps we’re confusing two completely separate issues. Maybe there was someone else who wanted her dead.’

‘God,’ said Helen, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. ‘If that’s the case, then we’re back to square one. How do we even begin to find out who it was?’

Frank didn’t seem to have an answer to that one.

‘So what next?’ she asked.

‘That’s up to you.’

Helen’s gaze dropped from the wound on his temple to the bloodied cloth lying on the coffee table. She’d caused enough damage for now. It was time to pull back for a while. ‘I think we should leave it until Tommy gets home. It’s only a few days. Let’s wait and see what he says.’

Terry Street, although inwardly raging, kept his expression composed as he gazed back at Lazenby. The man was a liability, a dangerous, interfering fool. You didn’t fuck with the likes of Chapelle unless you wanted to end up in a wooden box. But Lazenby, of course, thought that he was bloody invincible, thought that he could get away with anything.

‘Don’t you see?’ the copper said, almost knocking over the bottle as he refilled his glass. It was one o’clock in the morning and he was drunk on triumph and whisky. ‘He’ll have to try and get rid of her. She’s digging too deep and she isn’t going to stop. There’s only one sure way to shut her up, and when he makes that choice—’

‘You’ll be there to put the cuffs on.’

‘You’ve got it. He’s already paid her a visit, thinking he can scare her off. All I have to do now is tip him the wink that it hasn’t worked out, that she’s still shooting her mouth off about how he murdered her mother, and he’ll have to come up with a more permanent solution.’

Terry gave a nod, giving nothing away. He’d spent the last five years building a good working relationship with Eddie Chapelle – they owned three gambling establishments together, a few clubs and a string of strip joints – and now Lazenby was about to blow it all out of the water. For years, the rival firms in the West End had been at war with each other, fighting over territory, over ownership of pubs and clubs, until it had reached the point where they were inflicting more harm on each other than anything the filth could come up with. Barely a week went by without a firebombing or a stabbing. Someone had to find a way to keep the peace, and he was the one who’d come up with the perfect compromise.

He lit a fag, still pleased with his idea and with the way it had panned out. The plan had been a simple one. Instead of single ownership, all of the clubs were to be split between the major firms, so they had half, third or quarter shares in each establishment. With everyone getting a fair share of the profits, there was no reason to attack each other. Of course there were still disagreements, petty squabbles and personal vendettas, but on the whole, life was a lot calmer. Everyone had benefited from the deal, and for the moment, a truce was holding.

That truce, however, could easily be shattered. Eddie Chapelle was one of the major players, an influential one, and if he was taken out of the picture, the whole balance would shift. There’d be a renewed tussle for power and everything would fall apart. Before long they’d be back to their old ways, tearing each other to pieces instead of concentrating on the cash that could be made.

‘So what do you think?’ Lazenby said smugly. ‘Once he’s history, we can clean up.’

Terry took a long drag on his cigarette. He was all for cleaning up, but he knew that this wasn’t the right time or the right method. Lazenby was incapable of seeing the bigger picture. If he succeeded in banging up Chapelle, they would lose more than they’d gain. It would be a bloody disaster. This wasn’t a thought, however, that he chose to share. Instead, he nodded his head, feigning an enthusiasm that he didn’t feel. ‘Sounds good to me.’

‘Lucky you’ve got me around, huh?’ Lazenby said. ‘As soon as he tries to top Helen Beck, as soon as he’s arrested, we can move in and grab his share.’

‘Easy,’ Terry said. ‘A piece of cake.’ He remembered the girl who’d collected the glasses in the Fox. Tommy Quinn’s niece. But she’d been called something else then.
Mouse
, that was it. She’d been a quiet, serious little thing, not like Tommy’s two flirty daughters. It was strange to think of her stirring up trouble for someone like Chapelle. ‘What if you don’t get there in time? What if he does top her?’

Lazenby gave a careless, drunken shrug, as if it didn’t really matter. ‘Then we get him for murder rather than attempted murder. Either way, we get the result we want.’

Terry, who had long ago learnt that there was no room for a conscience in the world he had chosen to inhabit, still felt a spurt of revulsion at the copper’s callous response. However, his decision as to what to do next would be driven only by practical considerations. He glanced at his watch and rose to his feet. ‘Sorry, but I have to be somewhere. Are we done?’

Lazenby looked up at him and smirked. ‘What’s the hurry? You got a bird keeping the bed warm for you?’

‘Yeah, and she’s the impatient type.’

‘Best not keep her waiting, then.’

‘Call me,’ Terry said, before turning away and walking out of the club. Outside, he breathed in the cool night air as he cut down Lancaster Place on to the Embankment. To his right, the dark expanse of the Thames glittered with reflected light and he stopped for a while to watch the river flow by.

Terry didn’t often think about the past – what was done was done – but Lazenby’s talk of Helen Beck had revived old memories. He found himself thinking of Joe Quinn, about a conversation they’d once had in Connolly’s. He could still see the older man’s fingers deftly rolling up a fag, could still hear the warning tone in his voice. It wasn’t so long ago, and yet it felt like a lifetime. Then there had been the firebombing of the Fox, the attack on Stott’s pub, the elimination of the Gissings. And then…

Terry shook his head, not wanting to remember
that
particular night. But now he’d started, he couldn’t find a way to stop. Joe was sitting beside him, frowning, scowling, whingeing, because he was travelling in a rusty old van. The stink of him. Yes, he’d never forget that smell: whisky and tobacco overlaid with a pungent unpleasant aftershave.
Where d’you get this fuckin’ death trap?

The Thames ran strong and steady. Terry gazed at the water, but all he saw was Joe getting out of the van and hurrying over to the silver Jag. That moment when time had stood still. He could have changed his mind, but he hadn’t. Instead he had reached down under the seat and grabbed hold of the baseball bat. He instinctively flexed his fingers, feeling again the warm, sticky polythene wrapped around the handle. Out of the van, a few steps and…

It was the sound that haunted him most, the crunch of wood against bone. He screwed up his eyes, listening to the water lapping beneath him, but all he heard was that sound again. It resounded in his head, a constant reminder of what he’d done. Yet he knew that if it hadn’t been him, it would have been someone else. Joe Quinn’s days had been numbered, no matter how you looked at it.

Everything Terry had now – the power, the influence, the money – was down to that one defining action. And he wasn’t going to let a fucker like Lazenby screw it all up. No, it was time to let go of this particular association, to sever the ties in a permanent fashion. The copper had served his purpose; he was no longer needed.

Terry carried on walking until he came to a phone box. He looked around, making sure he had no unwanted company, before opening the door and slipping inside. He dug into his pocket for some loose change, picked up the receiver, dialled the number and waited. The call was answered after a couple of rings.

‘Yeah?’

‘It’s Terry Street. Put Eddie on the blower. I need to talk to him.’

It had been late afternoon by the time Moira got back from Durham with Tommy. Helen and Frank had gone round to the house for what proved to be an emotional reunion. There had been hugs and kisses and a few tears. The men had gone through that ritual back-slapping routine before sliding easily back into the old banter as if it had only been seven weeks rather than seven years since they’d last seen each other.

The champagne had flowed along with the beer and the whisky, and by the time they sat down to eat they were all a little drunk. Helen watched her uncle from across the table. If prison had left a mark, it wasn’t immediately obvious. To her, he seemed like the same old Tommy, solid and reassuring, with that familiar wide smile on his face.

There was plenty of conversation and lots of laughter as they tucked into roast beef and all the trimmings. There was wine too, bottles of red and white. The atmosphere was upbeat and cheerful until the subject of Yvonne came up. Then Tommy’s face clouded over, his eyes flashing with anger. He looked across at Helen.

‘I’m sorry, Mouse. That woman’s a bitch. She had no right to throw you out like that.’

Helen shook her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. It’s all in the past now.’ Earlier, she had glossed over her time with Lily, making light of it, pretending that nothing important had occurred until Moira had come back on the scene. So far as she knew, he was not aware of the attack, the rape, that had taken place in Soho, and that was how she wanted to keep it. Moira had promised to keep quiet, and it seemed that she had kept her word.

‘You’ve hardly told me anything about that time. How did you cope, love? Jesus, you were only fifteen.’

‘I was okay. I got jobs. I managed.’

‘Yeah, but what sort of jobs?’

Helen, finding herself put on the spot, shifted uncomfortably in her seat. She didn’t like lying to Tommy, but it was preferable to telling him the truth. ‘Oh, this and that. In pubs and cafés mainly. I didn’t stay anywhere for long. I got by. I was fine.’

Tommy studied her closely. He had an inkling, perhaps, that something was being kept from him. He leaned forward as if about to interrogate her more closely, but then Frank came to the rescue with a quick change of subject.

‘So have you thought about trying to buy back the Fox?’

Tommy leaned back again. ‘Fat chance of that! Yvonne wiped me out. There’s the cash from Alfie, but I’ll still be well short.’

‘I dunno. Once the shops are sold, you’ll have a fair few quid. And you could always get a partner.’

Tommy gave a shrug. ‘Even if I could find someone, Terry wouldn’t sell.’

‘He might. From what I’ve heard, he spends most of his time up West these days. And anyway, he owes you. I bet he got that pub for a song when Yvonne flogged it to him. No harm in asking, is there?’

Helen, who was sitting beside Frank, turned her head to look at him. ‘Why don’t you invest? The two of you could buy back the Fox together.’

‘Who, me?’ Frank laughed. ‘I don’t know anything about running a pub.’

‘You don’t need to.’ The thought of Tommy getting back what was rightfully his and Frank having a reason to stick around suddenly seemed like an ideal outcome. Despite all the bad things that had happened at the Fox, she was still attached to the place, still felt as if a part of her belonged there. ‘Tommy will do all the hard work while you sit back and rake in the profits.’

‘Oh yeah?’ said Tommy, grinning. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’

Frank laughed again, but didn’t commit himself one way or the other. Helen decided not to press him. Perhaps he had other plans. Perhaps in a week or two he’d pack up his belongings and leave her flat for ever. What reason did he have to hang around? The prospect of him going away put a dampener on her earlier elation. Even if Tommy did get the Fox back, it wouldn’t be the same without Frank.

The conversation shifted again. Tommy nodded towards the injury on the side of Frank’s head. ‘So are you going to tell me what happened?’

‘It was just a scrap. You know how it is.’

‘Don’t give me that,’ Tommy said. ‘You don’t get into scraps. Or hardly ever. And when you do, you sure as hell don’t come out looking like that.’

Frank lifted a hand to briefly touch the wound. The cut was starting to heal, but the bruising had spread down the side of his face in wide arcs of yellow and purple. ‘It’s nothing.’

‘So what’s the big deal?’ Tommy asked. ‘Why are you holding out on me? Come on, I want to know.’

‘It was my fault,’ Helen piped up. She hadn’t wanted to tell him what they’d been doing – not tonight, at least – but she didn’t want Frank to have to lie for her either.

Tommy grinned again. ‘You, huh? What you been doing, Mouse – practising your left hook?’

There was a short, awkward silence. Helen didn’t know where to begin. Tommy glanced around the table, sensing the sudden change of atmosphere. ‘Anyone gonna tell me what’s going on?’

Helen cleared her throat. She wasn’t prepared for this, and had a jumble of thoughts running round in her mind. Quickly, she tried to put them into some kind of order. ‘I’ve been… we’ve been trying to find out what happened to Mum.’

Tommy’s smile began to fade. ‘You know what happened.’

‘No, I mean what
really
happened. I want to know who killed her.’

Tommy stared at her, and then at Frank. His face had grown pale. ‘Who the fuck did that to you?’

‘One of Eddie Chapelle’s goons.’

Tommy shook his head. ‘Jesus Christ! What were you thinking? You’ve been messing with Eddie Chapelle?’

‘More the other way round,’ Frank said drily, touching the bruises on his face again.

‘Are you mad? Are you both mad?’ Frank turned to Moira. ‘Why didn’t you tell me about this?’

‘She didn’t know,’ Helen said. ‘Not all of it, anyway. She only… she only knew that I’d been round to where Mum used to live in Kilburn. It’s not her fault. I asked her not to say anything until you got home.’

Tommy pushed aside his plate, knocked back the wine he’d been drinking and reached for the bottle to pour another glass. He took a few fast swallows and then lit a cigarette. ‘Tell me,’ he said. ‘Tell me everything.’

Helen took a deep breath before embarking on a stumbling account of the last few weeks.

She told him about Kilburn, about going to the Fox, and about how she eventually found Frank. She told him about her meeting with DCI Tony Lazenby, the records he had let her see and the rumours about Anna Farrell that he’d shared with her.

‘Lazenby?’ Tommy growled. ‘You really thought that lying scumbag was going to help you? He couldn’t stand Lynsey’s guts. The bastard would have stabbed her in the back soon as look as her.’

‘I didn’t have a choice,’ Helen said. ‘I know what he is… who he is… but there was a chance he might give me something useful. And he did. He gave me Chapelle.’

Here, Tommy interrupted her again, putting his elbows on the table and glaring at Frank. ‘And you thought this was a good idea? Fucking with the likes of Eddie Chapelle?’

Frank scowled back at him. ‘A good idea? No, not in the slightest. But all she was trying to do was to find out who killed her mother,
your
sister. Would you rather I’d left her to do it on her own?’

Tommy pulled hard on the cigarette, releasing the smoke in a long, angry stream. ‘It’s got nothing to do with you.’

‘Christ, Tommy, don’t you want to know the truth?’

‘It was an accident,’ Tommy said. ‘She fell, she banged her head, a candle got knocked over and it set fire to the flat.
That’s
the goddamn truth.’

There was a hush around the table. Moira laid her hand gently on Tommy’s wrist. ‘You can’t be sure.’

Tommy snatched his arm away. ‘Why can’t you all just accept that she’s dead and gone and that’s the end of it?’

‘It’s not the end of it,’ Helen said. ‘She was threatened before she died.’

‘What?’

‘There were notes,’ Helen explained. ‘We went to the lock-up and found the box; you know, the cardboard box with some of her things in it. You must have got them from the flat. Her red coat was there. Do you remember?’ She paused, but Tommy said nothing. ‘There was a metal tin and inside it were threats, notes that had been sent to her. Someone wanted to kill her.’

Tommy got up from the table and began to pace around the living room. He took two more drags on the cigarette before stubbing it out in the ashtray. ‘This has got to stop,’ he said. ‘Promise me you’ll stop.’

Helen gave a small shake of her head. ‘I can’t.’

He walked over to the window and then turned back, his hands clenching and unclenching. ‘You have to. For God’s sake, Mouse, there’s only one way this is going to end. Is that what you want? I won’t let you carry on. I won’t. It’s bloody madness.’

What had started as a celebration had suddenly turned sour. Moira tried to intervene, to bring some peace to the proceedings. ‘Perhaps it would be better if we all calmed down and talked about this in the morning.’

‘I am calm,’ Helen said, rising to her feet. Now that it was out in the open, she wanted to finish what she’d started. ‘I understand how you feel, Tommy, but this is something that I have to do. I can’t just let it rest. If Chapelle did murder her, then—’

‘You don’t know what you’re messing with!’ Tommy yelled at her. His face had changed colour again, a great red stain covering his cheeks. ‘You’re crazy! You know that? You’re completely fuckin’ crazy.’

Shocked, Helen’s mouth fell open. He’d never shouted at her before, never looked so angry. This wasn’t the Tommy Quinn she knew. Afraid of what she’d unleashed, she shrank back. For the first time she recognised his father in him, was reminded of Joe Quinn’s quick temper and brutal ways.

‘Don’t you care who else you’re putting in danger?’ he ranted. ‘It’s not just about you. It’s not just about fuckin’ you!’

‘Hey, cool it,’ Frank said warningly, quickly scraping back his chair and moving between the two of them. ‘What the hell’s the matter with you?’

‘What the hell’s the matter with
you
?’ Tommy yelled back. ‘Keep out of it! I’ve told you – this is none of your fuckin’ business!’

For a second, as the two of them locked eyes, Helen thought they were going to come to blows, but then Tommy whirled around and went back to the window. ‘It’s got to stop. All of this. Right now.’

Helen shook her head again. ‘It’s not as simple as that. It’s my choice,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry, but—’

‘Your choice? Your bloody choice?’ Tommy slammed the palm of his hand against the window pane, making the glass shudder. ‘For fuck’s sake, do you
want
to get her killed?’

There was a sudden eerie silence in the room, like the aftermath of a bomb going off. Tommy’s fist rose quickly to his mouth, but it was too late to retract the words. He twisted around, his gaze jumping frantically from Moira to Frank to Helen.

‘What?’ Helen murmured.

‘I meant… I meant
yourself.
Do you want to get yourself killed?’

‘No you didn’t,’ Frank said. ‘What the hell’s going on?’

Helen wrapped her arms around her chest, her heart beating hard. She felt her legs start to shake, to give way, and slumped back down into the chair. All the time she kept her eyes fixed firmly on Tommy. She could see that he was sweating, could see the veins on his neck standing out. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

Frank stared at him too, his expression one of disbelief. ‘Jesus Christ, she’s still alive, isn’t she?’

‘No,’ snapped Tommy. He raked his fingers through his hair and looked away. ‘How could she be?’

‘Don’t give me that shit,’ Frank said. ‘Just tell us the bloody truth.’

Moira stood up and walked around the table. Her eyes were wide, her voice a mixture of sharpness and bewilderment. ‘Tommy? What’s going on? Is it true? Is Lynsey…?’

For a second, Tommy looked as though he was going to deny it again, but then a wave of weariness seemed to flood over his body. A thin groan slipped from between his lips. He went over to the sofa, sat down and buried his face in his hands.

For a while, no one else moved or said anything. They were like players on stage, waiting for the next line. All eyes on Tommy. But he wasn’t ready yet. Helen could almost see his inner struggle, the desire to speak battling with a long-held silence. She could barely describe what she was feeling herself. There was pain and anger all wrapped up in a kind of numb, desperate hope.

Moira sat down beside Tommy and put her hand on his arm again. This time he didn’t pull away. ‘Just tell us the truth, Tommy. For Helen’s sake.’

Tommy looked up at her. His voice was quiet, strained. ‘I’m so sorry, Mouse. I didn’t… I couldn’t…’

Helen felt a suffocating sensation in the depths of her chest. She couldn’t breathe properly. She snatched at the glass of wine beside her and took two large gulps. ‘Is she… is she still alive?’ Her voice rose an octave, becoming almost shrill. ‘Tell me, Tommy. I have to know. Tell me!’

Tommy held her gaze for only the briefest of moments before bowing his head again. ‘I think so. Yes.’

Helen’s whole body jerked, her fingers tightening so hard around the glass that it instantly shattered. Blood and wine flowed down her hand, but she wasn’t aware of it. She was aware of nothing but that one stark word.
Yes.
Her stomach turned over, bile rising in her throat. She couldn’t think straight. A kind of ecstasy shot through her heart, piercing it with a desperate yearning. ‘You
think
so?’ she whispered. ‘What the hell does that mean?’

‘I can’t be sure.’

Helen felt hot and cold at the same time. A weird tingling sensation travelled down her spine. A few minutes ago, her mother had been dead, mourned over, her ashes scattered, but now, like Lazarus, she had risen from the grave. She shook her head, trying to make sense of it all. She would have jumped up from the chair if her legs hadn’t felt so weak. Instead she leaned forward, her whole body trembling. ‘Tell me, Tommy. Tell me everything.’