DONNA AND THE FATMAN (Crime Thriller Fiction) (3 page)

‘Depends what you’ve got. Cause I’m picky, Joey. I’ve been indulged.’

‘There’s strawberry jam, cheese slices, a bit of marge . . . ’

She rolled out of bed.

‘Butter me some toast, then, Joe.’

She wandered over to the table.

‘Not too much,’ she added, ‘just a scraping.’

She sat down opposite him. They smiled at each other, for it would happen soon. He dug his knife into the plastic tub.

‘Cheese or jam?’

‘Both, I reckon.’

‘You can’t have both.’

He draped a slice of processed cheese on to a piece of toast and passed it across.

‘I’m the guest, Joe,’ she pointed out.

She placed a spoonful of jam on top of the cheese, and smeared it all over with her thumb.

‘I can have what I like.’

And having thus laid down the rules of their relationship, breakfast was duly consumed.

They left the flat around nine-thirty, Joe allowing a good half-hour to get from Kilburn up to Hampstead in the fag-end of the rush-hour. A touch cautious, she felt, as they cruised up Carlton Vale. A shade anal, perhaps, though she didn’t want to mention it. The car was a late-model BMW, an executive motor with soft leather seats. It was the third-favourite in Henry’s collection, he told her, the first being his Bentley and the second, his Mercedes Sports.

‘What about Mervyn’s Jag?’

‘You mean his Daimler?’

‘Yeah.’

‘That’s Henry’s, too.’

She stared out of the window.

‘So everything’s Henry’s.’

Joe changed up to third.

‘More or less.’

They crawled along West End Lane and took a right up Lymington Road. He had one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh. Now and then she felt him glance across, as if to check she was really there, as if he couldn’t quite believe she was almost his, she was very nearly Joey’s girl. He cut across the junction, put his foot down hard, and they were climbing the slope of Arkwright Road. The German engine barely murmured. She loved that car, really loved that car. Bit of quality in a tacky world. Should be his, she thought. Not right that Joe had nothing.

When they turned into Fitzjohn’s Avenue, the traffic was barely moving. The fumes were already building up, the air was beginning to thicken. But Hampstead Village, all the same, so you had to make allowances. He flipped the gearstick into second.

‘Like to live here, would you?’

She checked her lipstick.

‘Might consider it.’

He took a left into Church Row, went twenty yards up Frognal, then left again into Redington Road. He parked about halfway down and pulled on the handbrake. She gazed at the houses. Unattainable houses.

‘We double back or something?’

Joe switched off the engine.

‘Thought we’d take the scenic route.’

She pulled on her calfskin gloves. The one good thing that she had to her name, a pair of calfskin gloves.

‘Can I ask you something?’

‘Course you can.’

‘How does he manage to fit in the Merc?’

Joe thought it over.

‘We lever him in, then we spoon him out.’

It was eight minutes to ten. Henry emerged at three minutes past. He walked up the short drive and climbed carefully inside, easing his soft bulk into the back seat. The car was suddenly filled with a faint, almost imperceptible, odour. It floated quietly in the air and swirled around her head.

‘Hope you had a pleasant night,’ he said. ‘Hope my boy was gentle.’

He flicked the back of his hand against Joe’s head. He sort of slapped him, sort of gently.

‘That right, son?’

Another smack, slightly harder.

‘You been tender with the lady?’

The car dipped as he leaned forward. His mouth was open, and that whiff again, that old man’s breath.

‘He behave, did he? You can tell
me
, sweetheart, cause we’re all friends here. Just say it, sugar, just spit it out. Cause I like my boys to toe the line, so tell me, darling, cause I need to know.’

That Henry-smell, blowing in her face.

‘Boiled milk,’ she muttered.

‘What’s that, sweetheart?’

‘He didn’t do anything, Henry.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘I think I would have noticed.’

‘Maybe when you weren’t looking . . . ’

‘Doubt it.’

‘While you were sleeping . . . ’

‘Couldn’t sleep, Henry. Not on that bed.’

The Fatman snorted.

‘What d’you expect? Cause that’s a poor man’s bed, see. That’s the bed you get when you choose the driver not the boss.’

Joe turned the key in the ignition. The engine fired. He glanced into the rear-view mirror.

‘Where to?’

A neutral voice. You couldn’t gauge him by his voice.

‘You asking, Joe?’

‘I’m asking.’

The Fatman leaned back in the seat. He settled himself down, made himself comfortable.

‘Have to think about that,’ he murmured. ‘Got to have a little ponder.’

He took out a small cigar and slowly unpeeled the cellophane. Where to? he wondered. It was an interesting question, almost metaphysical. Whose life should he enhance today? To which unpaid debt should he attend? Which part of town should he deign to grace with his splendid Fatman presence? He quietly mulled it over. He indulged in rumination.

‘You know something,’ he said finally, popping the cigarillo into his mouth, ‘it’s such a pleasant day, and I’m feeling so at peace with life, that I think I’d like to visit Trevor.’

* * *

CHAPTER 3

He placed a black-gloved finger on the buzzer and pressed twice. Cleared his throat and waited.

‘I’d like you to meet some friends of mine.’

Monday morning in Acton Town, and a sour, November wind came whipping down the street, bringing fumes and filth from Hanger Lane.

‘They have to live above the shop, poor bastards.’

She stared at the window-display. Cheap gold bracelets arrayed on fake blue velvet. Low-grade stuff, for girls like her.

‘Decent folk,’ he added. ‘You know the sort.’

He was standing beside her, pressed up close. A different coat from yesterday’s. Camel-hair this time, which didn’t suit him. Her head felt raw from lack of sleep. She glanced over her shoulder. Joe was waiting in the car, fifty yards back down the traffic-clogged road. Nowhere to park these days, Henry had said. Almost no point having a motor, he’d said. Almost worth it taking the Tube, he’d said, if you didn’t mind humanity, if you weren’t averse to body-smells. She shivered inside her jacket, felt him slip an arm around her shoulder.

‘You ought to eat more,’ he murmured. ‘Get something hot inside you, of a morning.’

Smiling at her with his soft, pink lips.

‘Do you like nice things?’

He had an unexpected voice. Never strident, never rasping. A fairly classless, vaguely London, voice. You couldn’t place him from the way he spoke, couldn’t size him up and pin him down, establish where he came from. And quietly, almost in a whisper. You had to listen closely to the words. You had to cock an ear, and hold your breath, and strain to catch the whispered words of Henry.

The arm around her shoulders, the silent squeeze of ownership.

‘Cause if you like nice things, be nice to me.’

He put his finger on the button, and this time held it down until a man appeared inside, a thin-faced dark-suited man who hurried to the door. They watched him fumble for the keys, and then locks were turned, bolts pulled back, and the plate-glass door swung open.

A moment’s pause, then:

‘Hello, Trevor. Me again.’

He took her by the elbow and they stepped inside. Warmth, she thought, approvingly. The Fatman cast a critical look around.

‘Bit dark in here,’ he observed. ‘Bit gloomy.’

He strode into the middle of the shop.

‘Let’s have some light, then. There’s a good lad.’

The jeweller mumbled his excuses and flicked a switch. Light flooded down.

‘I almost thought you weren’t in,’ Henry said. ‘I almost did.’

‘My wife was sleeping,’ the man said. ‘Didn’t want to disturb her,’ he said, ‘not this early in the morning. All that buzzing . . . ’ he added. ‘I’m afraid you woke her up.’

Henry nodded. The bleak, unblinking eyes.

‘Don’t be afraid.’

‘She’s not well, Henry.’

‘And I’m sorry to hear it, believe me. Most distressed, in fact. Nothing infectious, I hope? No germs floating about in the upstairs ether . . . ?’

‘It’s her nerves,’ the man said. ‘She’s always been a nervy type.’

‘I know she has, I don’t need telling. Very highly-strung, she is. Very what one might call
delicate
. So shall we pop upstairs and say hello? See your lady in her nightie?’

‘Rather you didn’t . . . ’

‘She’s had her wash, I take it? Because they get that smell when they stay in bed, that yeasty smell. All their hidden places start to pong a bit, which is fair enough, if you like that kind of thing. So I’m not complaining, though Billy might.’

‘Maybe you should come back another time, then. Might be better.’

‘It might be, Trevor, and it might not. You see, today is your day. I’ve set it aside specially, because I’ve been thinking of you, haven’t I. Today, I told myself — while I shaved, before I showered, after I wanked — today belongs to Trevor.’

He undid the single button of his overcoat, letting it hang coyly open.

‘So how’s business, these days?’

‘Not too good.’

The Fatman shook his head, allowed himself a brief and rancid grin.

‘Thought you’d say that. Can’t imagine why.’

‘It’s true, Henry. No one’s buying.’

‘So lower your prices. Cut the margin.’

‘Couldn’t pay the suppliers, I did that.’

‘Fuck the suppliers, son. You’ve got to pay me.’

Henry sighed and glanced at his watch.

‘I was meant to be somewhere else twenty minutes ago. You know that? I’m late for a previous engagement, because of you.’

Trevor blinked unhappily beneath the fluorescent light.

‘My time’s worth more than what you owe,’ Henry said, ‘but some things are more important than money. Principle is more important, and I’m a man of principle. I’ve got a tender heart, and I give a helping hand to people down on their luck. But I don’t like being taken advantage of, do I. Never liked that, old son.’

He took out a packet of twenty.

‘My fault, I suppose, cause I’ve always been good-natured.’

He tapped the base, and a couple of cigarettes poked up.

‘Smoke?’

Trevor shook his head.

Henry lifted the pack to his mouth and slid a cigarette between his teeth.

‘Don’t be like that,’ he said softly.

‘Like what?’

‘Unfriendly.’

The jeweller’s skin turned unhealthily pale. He looked like a man who didn’t eat his greens.

‘I’m not really a smoker,’ he explained quickly.

‘That a fact.’

‘My wife . . . ’ he said, ‘she’s always . . . ’

‘Shall I tell you something, Trevor?’

Henry struck a match.

‘If I owed what you owe, and the man who lent it paid a visit, I’d suck on a fag if he offered me one. I wouldn’t purse my prissy lips and shake my head.’

He held the flame to the end of the weed.

‘I mean I’d suck his fucking cock, if that would make him happy. That’s what I’d do, Trevor. If you’re interested.’

He blew a smooth plume of smoke into the air.

‘It’s called having social graces, old son.’

He took another drag, coughed it out, and glanced at the girl.

‘How you doing, darling? Having fun?’

She gave a little nod, for she doesn’t like to disappoint, she tries to be obliging. But having fun? Is she the type who goes through life aware of having
fun
? She’s standing, quietly watching, conscious of the hum vibrating in the air, some discreetly watchful alarm-system that has already sized her up, and marked her down, and found her rather wanting. For she gets these feelings, now and then. Feels dispossessed, like she’s outside looking in, like a peasant at the gate.

‘She’s very quiet, isn’t she, Trev? She ought to talk a bit more, or I’ll start to wonder. Might start to think she’s bored.’

He pushed his face right next to hers.

‘You bored, then, are you? Cause if you are, my love, just let me know. Don’t hesitate to mention it.’

And Donna, being prudent, says:

‘Where’s all the other customers, Henry?’

‘There won’t be any others, sweetheart, cause Trevor’s locked the door. Better like that, get some privacy. Cause I like to do my shopping undisturbed, away from all the riff-raff. I keep my distance from the punters. Can’t bear them, frankly. Smelly bastards. That right, Trevor? Am I right, Trev, eh?’

The jeweller nodded, even managed a smile. Henry clapped him on the shoulder. Not too hard, just nice and friendly.

‘He’s the boss round here, you know what I’m saying? He owns this place, he’s not some flunky. Got a stake in this establishment. As has the bank, and diverse others. People who’ve lent him money, see. Soft-hearted types, like you-know-who. So he’s not just nobody, is how I’d put it. He’s not some piece of rubbish, is he?’

He let the statement hang in the air, and then he said:

‘Forgive me, girls, I’m forgetting my manners. Allow me to do the introductions.’

He waved a hand.

‘Sweetheart, this is Trevor. A business colleague, so to speak. Trevor, meet young precious. We’ve come to get her a bauble, Trev. Something bright and shiny. Nothing dull, okay? No antique silver for my girly. Something she can play with on a rainy afternoon.’

He glanced down into the nearest counter and pointed at a necklace made of thin silver chains.

‘That’ll do nicely, I’d have thought. Just right for little luscious.’

‘My wife has one like that.’

‘Does she, really?’

‘Silver’s always been her weakness.’

‘A very discerning lady.’

‘Got quite a collection.’

‘Nothing but the best, eh?’

‘She knows how to keep herself,’ the jeweller added.

‘She does.’ The Fatman nodded gravely. ‘She knows how to dress, your wife, I’ll grant you that. Knows how to comb the hair and tie the scarf. A very elegant wife, she is. Very what I’d call
refined
. Hugely attractive and deeply seductive, the one you feed and bed, while she gives you head. Your charming lady wife, I know her rather well.’