Dangerous (25 page)

‘Any problems she discussed with you or her workmates? Boyfriends? Anything?’

Clara thought of Sal’s photos but shook her head. ‘Sal had a bit of an attitude, she was mouthy but we all knew that. You took no notice.’

‘Had she upset one of the customers? Anything like that?’

‘Not that I know of.’

The inspector stood up. ‘I’ll have a talk to the staff.’

An hour later, he was back in Clara’s office. ‘A couple of your staff have told me that Miss Dryden did some modelling on the side. Under-the-counter stuff, I believe.’ He sniffed. ‘Do you know anything about that?’

Clara shrugged. ‘She did mention it, in passing.’

‘But you didn’t think to mention it to me,’ he said.

‘No. Well, it was nothing. It slipped my mind.’

He was staring at her face. Then he stood up. ‘Well if anything
does
cross your mind, call me,’ he said, and dropped a card onto the desk.

When Clara got home later that day, she went straight to Toby. She found him in front of the mirror in his bedroom, holding two silk ties in front of his pale blue Turnbull and Asser shirt, whistling along to Roy Orbison singing ‘Ebony Eyes’ on the radiogram. He smiled when he saw her. ‘Darling, what do you think? Blue or dove grey?’

‘The grey,’ said Clara, and went and sat on the bed. ‘Toby, something’s happened. Something awful.’

Toby put the ties aside and came and sat beside Clara. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

Clara took a gulping breath and spilled everything out to Toby, barely keeping the tears at bay.

‘Oh, Clara, how fucking awful! Come here, my darling,’ said Toby, hugging her. ‘You poor little mare.’

‘The police came into the Oak today, questioned me and all the staff. They’ll probably want to talk to you at some point.’

‘Me? How would I know anything about it?’

‘You don’t, obviously. I’m only warning you, in case they do.’

‘Why don’t you stay home today, have a rest? It must have been horrible for you.’

It had been. But Clara’s brain was spinning, she couldn’t rest. Her mind kept re-running the events of yesterday and today like some obscene art-house movie stuck on a never-ending loop. Sal’s gaping mouth, her belly slashed open, the coins on the floor, the photos in Sal’s bag . . . yes, the photos. Thinking of them reminded her of what she’d done, and gave her a feeling that was dangerously close to shame.

No, she’d done what was necessary.

She had to keep telling herself that.

And she did – right up until Bernie came home a few nights later, sat down at the kitchen table, and cried her heart out.

60

‘What’s the matter?’ asked Clara, and she was thinking
Oh shit.

Bernie couldn’t speak; she was crying too hard.

Clara put an arm around her sister’s shaking shoulders and thought
I did this. I am a bad person. A wicked woman.

‘Can’t you tell me what’s happened?’ she asked after a while, when Bernie’s sobs had abated enough for her to be able to form a sentence.

‘It’s David,’ said Bernie, gasping, looking in her bag for a tissue, blowing her nose loudly.

‘What about him?’

‘I found some photographs in his flat.’

‘Well, he
is
a photographer.’

Bernie was shaking her head. ‘No! These were . . . horrible. Real hard-porn things. Kids and stuff. Disgusting.’

‘Then he couldn’t have taken them,’ said Clara. She hated this, seeing the pain in Bernie’s eyes. ‘He does weddings, portraits, innocent stuff like that.’

‘I thought that, at first. God, I was so shocked when I found them. He was in the kitchenette making tea, and I sat down, and there was something rustling, something papery, and I felt down the side of the cushions and dug out these shots of a girl and a man . . . Well, I won’t tell you what they were doing. And I turned them over, and there was David’s studio stamp, right on the back of them. They’re
his
photos.’

‘Did you confront him about it?’ asked Clara. Her heart was beating fast; she felt nauseous. It had worked, better than she had hoped it would. But now she wished she hadn’t done it. Wished she could have spared Bernie this pain.

But it’s for her own good. He’s a loser, he’s poor, he’s a nothing.

‘I did. Of course he denied it. Said they were nothing to do with him. But I know they are. They were stamped with his own studio mark, how could they not be?’

That started up a fresh wave of sobs. Clara patted Bernie’s shoulder, soothed her, and felt sick to her stomach now, really churned-up. She thought of Marcus Redmayne’s harsh words to her:
gold-digger
. Well, that was her, wasn’t it? She was a gold-digger, she’d married twice for money and now she was making damned sure that her sister was going to do the same, live a comfortable life, not one of hardship and desperation, trying to keep the wolf from the door.

But . . . she felt disgusted with herself.

Still, she could make this better. She would start introducing Bernie to some more
suitable
men, now that arty David with his slum-loving ways had been kicked into touch. Clara gritted her teeth and thought
It will be OK. Bernie will get through this, and she’ll be happier for it.

‘He takes these disgusting shots and I was going to
marry
him, not even knowing.’

Clara grasped Bernie’s shoulders hard. ‘At least you found out,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s better that you know. Isn’t it? Before it’s too late?’

Bernie nodded, her face a picture of misery. ‘Yes. I suppose it is.’

But Bernie didn’t look convinced.

She looked destroyed.

61

‘Someone was asking for you earlier,’ said Fulton Sears, who was standing at the Starlight’s front door when Clara went there a week later.

She paused. ‘Oh? Who?’

‘Bloke called Bennett. In a bit of a state. Said he was going to call back tonight, see if you were in. You want to see him, do you?’

No. She really didn’t. Clara stared up at Sears’s face. God, he was ugly. And right now, after all that had happened, he was hanging on to this job by the skin of his teeth. ‘Yeah, let him in when he comes,’ she said, and walked on, into the club, aware of the goon staring after her.
Great lummox
, she thought.

It was only ten but it was already busy, the atmosphere thick with cigarette and cigar smoke, the lighting low and intimate. All the hostesses were circulating, chatting up the punters, drinking overpriced booze with them at the long red-lit bar and at the tables. Clara was pleased to see the regulation uniform on each and every one of the girls, the plain black satin evening dress, the neatly groomed hair, an aura of cleanliness and friendliness about them.

Up on the tiny half-moon stage, a brunette in emerald green was crooning ‘Where the Boys Are’ under the spotlight. Clara moved over to the bar and ordered a G & T. She perched up on a bar stool and sat listening to the girl singing about a man who was there, with the boys, waiting for her.

God, was that all everyone thought about? Love?

Toby was in love with Jasper, he was always talking about him, obsessing over him. Toby
had
his love. Whereas she . . .

An image of Marcus Redmayne, dark-haired and dangerous, drifted into her brain and she kicked it straight back out.

Love didn’t last. Look at her dad, running out on Mum when she most needed him. And in her own life, oh yes, there had been husbands. For security, for making sure the family got by. But love? She had only ever tolerated Frank Hatton. In her way, of course, she loved Toby. They’d become friends, companions; they understood each other, valued each other’s input. But love, the true love they sang about in songs, the heart-wrenching, gut-clenching love that drove people to madness or despair . . . she didn’t know about that. And she didn’t want to, either.

The girl finished her song and the punters clapped loudly. Then Clara saw David, face set in grim lines, weaving his way through the packed tables toward the bar. He looked a bit unsteady, like he’d been on the drink. She braced herself.

‘So you’re in then,’ he said when he reached her.

‘Yep, I’m in,’ said Clara.

The girl on the stage was bowing, then turning to the piano-player and nodding. He played the opening bars of ‘When the Boy in Your Arms’ and she was off again. Really, she was very good. They’d have to see to a little pay-rise for her, or someone would poach her to sing in their clubs, instead.

‘I tried to catch you at home, but you’re never bloody there. Always out around the clubs. Counting the takings, I suppose,’ he said bitterly. The barman came up. ‘Whisky,’ said David.

Clara nodded and the barman went to the optics.

‘So what can I do for you?’ she asked David.

He stared at her face. He hitched himself up onto the stool a little; yes, he’d been drinking already. He was unsteady, swaying. Finally he let out a caustic laugh.

‘What a piece of work you are,’ he said, as the barman came back with his whisky. David lifted the glass to his lips, threw back his head and drained it in one hit. Then he slammed it back down onto the bar.

‘Go easy,’ warned Clara.

‘Get me another,’ said David to the barman.

‘No. Don’t,’ said Clara, and the barman moved away. She looked at David. ‘Say what you’ve got to say, then.’

‘You absolute bloody bitch. It was you, wasn’t it?’

‘What?’

‘You planted those fucking pictures in the chair. I
told
you she sat there every time she came, and she found them just as you intended she would.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘And the fucking studio stamp. You didn’t miss a trick did you? Coming over all faint so I’d leave you alone long enough for you to stamp those pictures. Well, you got your wish. She never wants to see me again.’

Clara looked at him straight-faced, but her heart was thumping. ‘Sal showed me the prints. Weeks ago. They were disgusting.’

He stared at her. ‘How did you know? Come on. Tell me. How did you know?’

‘What?’ Clara looked back at him blankly.

‘Fuck’s sake!’ He leaned both elbows on the bar, dragged his hands through his hair, then turned to face her. ‘How could you know I’d taken those bloody things? Or . . . ’ Now he was staring at her face. ‘Oh Christ. You didn’t, did you? You were just going to fit me up with them, put Bernie off me. You didn’t know that I’d actually taken them!’

62

‘What did you just say?’ Clara was staring at him in shock. David Bennett, friend of all mankind, had taken that stuff which it had nearly choked her to look at? The children, the cringing women, Sal’s unhappy face while her body was being abused by that huge bull-like man . . .

‘Christ,’ he muttered, realizing he’d said far too much. ‘Oh, Christ . . . ’

‘No. I didn’t know,’ said Clara, her lip curling in distaste. ‘But now I do? I’m
glad
I did what I did. If only to keep Bernie away from you. What were you thinking, getting involved in filth like that?’

Now he was laughing without mirth, staring at her, his eyes full of hatred. ‘Well, sadly we can’t all be so fucking choosy as you, can we? I’ll tell you why I did that shoot,
those
shoots – there were quite a few of them and they turned my stomach, but I did them because do you know how much a Leica camera costs? Or a Hasselblad? Or the lenses or a decent tripod or proper studio lights? Even a bloody cable release? No? Well, it all costs a fortune. I told Bernie I took out a loan to buy the cameras – all right, I
lied
to her, but I couldn’t get a loan, the interest would have crippled me, it was too much. So when someone asked me to take a few porno pictures, I said yes.’

‘I see,’ said Clara.

Now he was shaking his head, smiling sourly. ‘You never thought I was good enough for her.’

‘You got that spot-on. I didn’t. I thought she’d have a miserable life with you.’

‘We’re in love.’

‘Oh, please. That wouldn’t feed my sister, or a family.’

He was staring at her, mouth half-open, looking at her as if she was something from an alien species. ‘I
helped
you,’ he said. ‘I fucking-well helped you, you cow! I don’t know what the hell you were doing there—’

‘I told you. Visiting a friend.’

‘That’s bullshit, isn’t it? But still. Maybe I’ll find out.’

‘Keep your nose out of my business.’

‘I’ll be glad to. I don’t think I’d have the stomach for looking into anything much to do with you, Clara. Christ, what a cold-blooded cunt you are. You’re
nothing
like your sister.’

‘Don’t bring Bernie into this. And I think you lost the moral high ground when you decided to take photos of people fiddling around with women who looked like they were being raped at gunpoint, and with innocent kids. Bernie’s better off without you.’

‘Oh, you think so? What would you know? You only marry for money, don’t you. You don’t know the meaning of the word “love”. All you do is count the cash – am I right or am I right?’

‘You’re right,’ said Clara flatly. ‘I’ve never had any interest in marrying for anything else. I don’t want to live that way – the way that you would have inflicted on my sister, given half the chance. I’m pleased to say that she’s escaped all that, and soon she’ll find someone with a bit of substance to them and a bit more of a conscience too.’

‘Someone with big fat wads of money, you mean.’

‘Yes, that. Why not? And then she’ll forget all this stupid business and she’ll be happy.’

‘Like you are? Are you happy, Clara? Or Black Clara, as they call you? Oh, you’re black all right. Black-hearted. Black to the core.
Rotten
to it.’

Clara froze as he hurled the words at her like stones. Was she happy? She was . . . content, she supposed. She’d done well, she’d single-handedly pulled the family out of the poverty their father had left them in. She’d made a success of her life, despite all the struggles, all the sacrifice. But . . . happy?

The brunette was doing a snappier number now: ‘Up a Lazy River’, made famous by Bobby Darin.

‘What do you know about Sal Dryden?’ asked Clara, changing the subject.