Dangerous Lady (21 page)

Jonny licked his lips nervously. He wasn’t at all sure that he was doing the right thing now. Michael spoke of his little sister as a mixture of the Virgin Mary and the Queen. Either way, she was completely beyond reproach.

‘It’s about your sister … She’s got herself a boyfriend.’

Michael relaxed. ‘Is that all? Who?’ Jonny took a sip of his gin and tonic before answering. ‘It’s a policeman from Vine Street.’

Michael looked as if he had been hit by a bus.

‘A what!’

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‘Keep your voice down! Do you want the whole world to know? He’s a young Detective Constable. Remember my friend little Mo, the fat queen from Kensington?’ Michael nodded. ‘Well, apparently he has a few friends at Vine Street, though myself I’d call them customers. Anyway, one of them told him. It seems a bigwig there … some bloke called Murphy… pulled the rug out from under him today. Told his Chief Inspector that he was seeing her … your sister. Apparently there was a big to-do about it. Anyway, little Mo rang me. And being a good boy, I thought you ought to know.’

Michael was staring at Jonny without seeing him. His face was dark with fury. The conniving little bitch! She’d been knocking about with a filth right under his nose. He felt a blinding compulsion to wring her neck.

‘Phone this little Mo and find out who his customers are. Names, ranks, the works. Tell him from me that if he decides to become coy I’ll break his fucking neck.’

Jonny nodded. ‘All right, Mickey. First thing in the morning.’

Michael was in the throes of a violent rage. Maura had never even brought a fellow home. A small rational thought broke into his reverie. It said to him, Well, she wouldn’t, would she? Of course not. She had a bit more sense than to bring an old Bill straight into her family of criminals. He could easily walk out of this club and smash her to a pulp. At least one good thing had come of it. He had the means to blackmail a few of the shirtlifters on the force. He consoled himself with that thought.”

‘Look, Jon, I have to get around to me own club now. I’ll see you later on tonight.’

Jonny smiled his best smile. He had been the teller of very bad news and now he was scared. Michael was capable of taking the whole thing out on him. ‘All right, Mickey love.’ He fluttered his eyelashes as a woman might. Watching him, Michael experienced one of his lightning changes of mood. He laughed softly, guessing what was going through the boy’s mind. Wagging his finger in Jonny’s face, he said: ‘Behave yourself, you!’

To which Jonny answered seriously, ‘I don’t have much choice do I?’

Michael squeezed his shoulder affectionately and left the club. As he made his way to Dean Street he thought about what Jonny had told him. The doorman of the Pink Pussycat hailed him and he waved back halfheartedly. His arrogant, strutting walk and dark countenance were familiar features around Soho. Unlike most of his contemporaries Michael didn’t feel the need to be surrounded by minders. His immense size, coupled with the fact that he was known to carry a piece, was warning enough for any would-be assassins. Since Michael had taken over as the Baron of the West End he had not had one serious threat. He was, to all intents and purposes, the business - the highest accolade that a villain could be awarded. As he walked to his club he was hailed by touts, prostitutes, bouncers and pimps. He crossed Shaftesbury Avenue into Dean Street itself and slowed his pace. If Maura was knocking about with a filth he would kill her. He hadn’t fought tooth and nail since he was seventeen to have his little baby sister blow it all wide open for him. He gritted his teeth in temper. He had worshipped her, would have given her the earth if she had asked for it. But he wouldn’t allow her to have this bloke. Never! He would find out everything he could about this copper and then he would nip it in the bud. He stormed into Le Buxom at ten-fifteen.

The club was just picking up. A few stray punters were

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having a drink. They were ‘weekend warriors’ - the nickname given to men who saved up their meagre earnings as civil servants or bank clerks and came up West once a month for a drink, sex and excitement. An experienced tom could tell them a mile off from their off-the-peg suits to their Freeman, Hardy and Willis shoes. The older women gravitated to them, secure in the knowledge that it would be an easy lay. These men were too scared of their wives and the police ever to cause any trouble. They were seldom rough, and because they had to make their money stretch were hardly choosy. The only bugbear for the club was the fact that they only ever bought one bottle of champagne, making it last all night, until the final stripper had departed. A weekend warrior was the only sort of punter who provided the women with, an opportunity actually to drink the stuff.

Michael looked around the club. It was half empty. He noticed Benny sitting at a table with one of the younger girls, a pretty little piece known affectionately as Pussy. Despite his anger Michael smiled. Benny had a permanent hard on. As soon as a new hostess arrived, Benny was there, cock standing to attention. There was a longstanding joke in all the rival clubs that without Benny, Le Buxom would have gone bankrupt years ago. Michael stood by the meat seats. For once the girls there were subdued. He had that effect on people. The girls rarely spoke to him unless he addressed them personally. The stench of cheap perfume was overpowering. Michael nodded to them and made his way out into the foyer and upstairs to the offices. Geoffrey, Leslie and Garry were already in there having a drink. He greeted them and poured himself a large brandy. Sitting behind his desk, he looked directly at Garry. If anyone knew Maura’s whereabouts it would be him.

‘Do you know if our Maura’s got a boyfriend?’

Garry looked at his brother in bewilderment. ‘What if she has? It’s none of our business.’

Michael was out of his seat and round the desk, knocking Leslie flying out of his chair as he pushed past him to get to Garry. He grabbed him by his shirt front, pulling him up out of the chair with considerable strength.

‘ “None of our business” you say … I heard a whisper on the street tonight that our sister is knocking about with a filth!’ He threw Garry back into his seat. His temper was seething. If he didn’t get some kind of answer soon he would explode.

Leslie stared at Garry, who was gasping for breath. There was no doubt about it… Mickey was an awesome bastard. There was no one to touch him. Mickey was the business. Well the business.

‘Who told you all this then, Mick?’ Geoffrey tried unsuccessfully to defuse the situation.

‘Never you mind who bloody well told me! It’s enough that I’ve heard. I want you two -‘ he pointed at Leslie and Garry - ‘to find out how true it is.’

Geoffrey tried again, ‘It’s not definite then? What I mean is…’ Michael screwed up his face and bellowed at this brother, ‘Oh, for fuck’s sake, Geoffrey … I don’t want a government White Paper on it all. I just want the facts! Now do what I fucking well told you to do!’

Leslie and Garry scrambled from the room. When Michael was in one of his tempers, you did not argue with him.

Geoffrey poured himself a brandy. When Michael was like this, it was best not to rock the boat in any way.

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Michael swallowed his own brandy in a gulp and grimaced. ‘So what do you think, Geoffrey?’ His voice was once again steady.

‘Who told you?’

‘Jonny actually.’ He sounded wary.

‘In that case … no way. Not our Maws.’ His voice was dismissive. He did not like Jonny. He did not like the fact that Michael was homosexual, though he would never say it outright.

Michael guessed, rightly, exactly what had gone through Geoffrey’s mind.

‘I know you don’t like Jonny. That’s tough. But I’ll tell you this much - for all his faults he ain’t a liar. And there’s one thing that seems to have escaped your notice … most people don’t even know we have a sister.’

Geoffrey digested this bit of logic, watching Michael sitting at his desk chewing his thumbnail. Geoffrey knew from experience that Michael could sit like that for hours. Sighing, he poured himself another drink. He hoped for Maura’s sake that what they had heard wasn’t true.

Downstairs, Leslie and Garry had told Benny what had happened. He was still sitting with Pussy, except now the night had lost some of its enchantment. Sensing that she had lost his attention, the girl stroked his thigh, pouting at him prettily. He smiled at her with a crafty little grin guaranteed to melt the hardest of hearts. “.,’

‘Pussy.’ His voice was caressing.

‘Yes?’ She looked into his eyes. Their blue depths mirrored her features.

‘Let’s go, shall we?’

‘All right then.’ They stood up together. Benny wanted out of here before Michael decided to rope him in on everything. There were many things he would do for his eldest brother, but even he drew the line at a witch hunt

on his only sister. Gathering up their things, they left the club. Hailing a cab outside, Benny jumped in, pulling Pussy in after him. There was a little hotel just off Leicester Square where he could hole up with her for the night. And that’s what he intended to do. The thought of ringing home and warning his sister crossed his mind, but he soon dismissed it. He didn’t want any part of this whatsoever.

The girl snuggled up to him in the back of the taxi, and for the first time in his life Benny wondered if he would be able to get it up.

The way he was feeling, he would need Charles Atlas to lift it for him. Garry and Leslie got out of their car. They were going to see another policeman. This was their second visit in two hours. The first had been to a young PC who had been as bewildered as they were. They had left no wiser to their sister’s antics than they had been before. It had cost them twenty quid to keep him quiet, but it was worth it. He was going to keep his ear to the ground. The man they were going to see now was a sergeant in Netting Dale police station. He had been on the Ryans’ payroll for about five years. Well, now he could earn his money.

They knocked on his front door. It was nearly twelve thirty. The small terraced house was in darkness. A light came on upstairs and Sergeant Potter’s grizzled head appeared from a window.

‘Who the bloody hell is it?’ ;

He peered myopically down at them.

‘It’s Leslie Ryan. I wanna see you, Sarge.’ Leslie’s voice was a theatrical whisper.

Grunting and moaning, the old man retreated back inside the room. Leslie and Garry heard him clumping

down his stairs. The hall light went on and the door was opened.

‘What the hell are you playing at? Coming round here at this time of night?’

Garry and Leslie walked into the hallway.

‘We’ve got a few questions, and we want you to give us the answers.’

The old man looked at them maliciously. He had a sneaking suspicion that he knew what they were going to ask. ‘Would the questions be about your sister by any chance?’

‘That’s right, Sarge. What do you know about her then?’ Garry sounded menacing and the man realised that he had forgotten for a moment just who he was dealing with. He licked his lips.

He started talking in a self-righteous tone of voice. ‘Now you listen to me … I didn’t know anything until today, I take oath on that. A friend of mine who’s now at Vine Street gave me a ring at Netting Dale. He told me that there had been a bit of malarkey with one of the plainclothes there. He got hauled over the coals because he was knock - I mean, seeing your sister.’

He was fiddling with the cord of his plaid dressing gown, his short stubby fingers tobacco-stained. Leslie and Garry stood quietly staring at him.

The man began to babble. ‘Honestly, boys, I didn’t think you would be interested in it. I mean … I assumed you knew about it all.’ He was getting desperate.

‘What’s the bloke’s name?’

‘The bloke who rang me or your sister’s fancy man? Sorry, I mean boyfriend.’

Garry closed his eyes wearily. He spoke slowly and deliberately. ‘Who was the man who rang you up?’

‘Oh, it was an old friend.’

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‘Listen, you!’ Garry pushed him across the hallway. ‘I just want his name, not his fucking life story. Now who is he?’

The old man had fallen back on the stairs and sat there watching the two boys. Upstairs he could hear his wife getting out of bed. Her high-pitched, nasal voice floated down the stairs. ‘Who’s that down there, Albert? Sounds like an ‘erd of bloody elephants from up here.’

He groaned. That was all he needed, his wife awake and sticking her oar in where it wasn’t wanted.

‘No one, dear. It’s police business. You go back to sleep.’

‘Well, just you tell them to keep their great big galloping feet off of my clean floor.’

‘I will.’

Leslie had an urge to laugh and stifled it. ‘The name of your informant?’

‘It was a bloke called Jones … He’s a DS at Vine Street.’ ‘Is he reliable? I mean, if he said something was true, would that be the case?’

‘Oh, yeah. He’s a rare one, old Jonesy. If he told me he had seen old Nick himself I’d believe him. He’s not a spinner.’

Garry snorted. ‘That makes a change in the police force. I thought you needed a degree in being a lying bastard before they would have you?’

Albert pursed his lips. Even though he was on the take, he still took a pride in being a policeman.

‘What was the bloke’s name who’s been seeing my sister?’

‘Petherick. Detective Constable Terence Petherick.’

‘That’s all we wanted to know. You can go back to bed with old vinegar tits now.’

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As they left the house, Leslie slipped the old man a ten-pound note.

‘Listen, Sarge, we want his address. If you can get it there’ll be a pony in it for you, all right?’

‘OK, son.’ All his animosity was forgotten now. He could do a lot with twenty-five quid. Anyway, he reasoned, they’d get their information one way or the other so he might as well feather his nest while he had the chance. ‘I’ll keep me ear to the ground. Don’t you worry.’ He closed the door behind them.

His wife’s voice came once more from above him. ‘Al… bert!’ She had the knack of singing his name out in such a way that her voice carried for about three miles.