Nameless (27 page)

‘I can’t spare much time, I’m afraid,’ she said. ‘I don’t usually see sales reps at all, I generally leave that to the buyers. And it’s pretty late in the day . . .’

‘Ah, well,’ said Michael. ‘That’s all right. Because I’m not a sales rep.’

On the phone to her secretary Jane, he’d said he was.

Ruby looked at him. Took in the sharp suit, the iron-grey hair, the hard grey unblinking eyes that held hers. He was, she realized for the first time, an extremely attractive man. His appearance was wealthy, cared-for, beautifully groomed. But . . . the only time in her life she’d seen a similar expression in a man’s eyes was when she looked in her brother Charlie’s. Joe’s had that look, too, but to a lesser degree. It was a look that said:
I don’t give a fuck who you are; I’m in charge here.

‘Then what are you? Exactly?’ she asked, all thoughts of poultry gone from her mind.

She’d had the week from hell and now she had this dangerous-looking, frankly
gorgeous
man in here playing silly buggers. Ever since she’d visited Charlie, she hadn’t been able to get what he’d said out of the forefront of her mind, and this Saturday was the christening of Joe and Betsy’s second child, a brand-new baby boy. She was going to attend, and she was going to get some straight answers out of Joe if it was the last thing she did.

‘Just a businessman,’ said Michael with a light shrug. ‘I like to offer my services to people to make sure they have no problems. Keep out the unruly elements, and so on.’

Ruby stared at him. Now she knew exactly what he was.

‘Don’t you usually send the breakers in first?’ she asked.

‘What?’ He stared at her, wrong-footed.

‘The breakers. Soften the mark up a bit.’

This intrigued him. She knew about his business. He half-smiled.

‘Not when the mark’s a lady. Besides, I don’t want to break you.’ His smiled widened slightly. His eyes teased hers. ‘Yet.’

Ruby stared right back at him. ‘I have a brother who can handle security for me,’ she said. ‘Perhaps you know him: Joe Darke.’

Joe was still doing his iffy deals, but that was nothing to do with her. She didn’t want to know about Joe’s ‘business’ – it just reminded her of the bad old days with Charlie. But Michael Ward wasn’t to know that.

The grey eyes blinked, once.

‘I know Joe. Top man.’

‘So you see, the issue of protection for my business is already covered. But thank you for the offer.’ Actually, she wouldn’t dream of asking Joe for help. She knew he still did the loan-sharking and other stuff, but she didn’t want to know about it: she never had, not even when Charlie was out on the loose and involved in it all.

Michael smiled slightly. ‘I never knew he had a sister. Never connected the two in my mind. Joe Darke and Darkes the store.’

No, a sister’s not worth talking about. Not worth mentioning, not among the men of the Darke family
, she thought.

‘Well, he has,’ she said. ‘And I’m it.’ Ruby stood up in one smooth movement. ‘And now, if that’s all . . . ? I have a busy schedule.’

Michael thought that maybe this was a bluff. Maybe she
wasn’t
Joe and Charlie Darke’s sister. Michael knew Charlie had gone down for the mail van robbery during the war. He knew he was still doing time for it. He knew Joe had taken over the reins. But a sister called Ruby? He’d never heard a word about that.

He’d seen Ruby Darke occasionally in the business pages. She was clearly intelligent, which was good: he hated dumb women. And she was fabulous to look at. He’d already decided he wanted her in bed. The famous Ruby Darke – the Ice Queen, they called her – intrigued him. Unmarried, childless, relentless in her pursuit of profit. And yet . . . hadn’t there been stories about a wild past as a Windmill girl? Stories she had always sidestepped with a brisk: ‘No comment.’ And she was as stunning in the flesh as she was in the papers. Cold as permafrost, yes – but a beauty.

‘You don’t look like Joe,’ he said.

Ruby knew that. She was dark-skinned, exotic-looking; Joe was pasty-white. She said nothing. All that was her business, no one else’s.

‘Well, I think that’s all for now,’ he said, when the silence stretched out between them, and stood up and held out a hand. ‘Thanks for your time – Ruby.’

Ruby took his hand warily and shook it. His hand was hot and dry, his grip very firm. It felt electric, unnervingly thrilling, just that simple contact.

‘How about dinner one night?’ he said.

‘No,’ said Ruby, and let go of his hand as if it had burned her.

‘No? Well, if there’s ever anything I can do for you . . .’

‘There isn’t. There won’t be. Goodbye, Mr Ward.’

68

‘Come on, sweetie, let’s play,’ said Sebastian excitedly.

Cornelius lay naked in bed, watching the boy fondly. Sebastian was jumping around the room in the nude, his skin glowing golden over long, taut muscles, his coal-dark hair cascading like a dark waterfall around his powerful shoulders, his cock bouncing on its little cushion of black pubic hair. This was the first time he’d brought Sebastian here, to his own London house in its peaceful leafy square, and Sebastian was thrilled.

‘Come on, lazy,’ said Sebastian, coming to the bed and yanking the covers back. He was holding a scarf. ‘Come
on
, I want to try this.’

Cornelius gave a groan. Sebby wanted to try
everything.
No outer limit of sexual deviance was too extreme for him. Now he looped the pastel-toned Liberty scarf around Cornelius’s neck.

‘What . . . ?’ Cornelius was laughing.

Leaning in, laughing too, Sebastian tied the scarf in a tight knot. Cornelius felt his throat constrict.

‘Good
God
,’ he objected, his voice coming out a breathy whisper. Sebby’s head dipped and his hair brushed teasingly down over Cornelius’s stomach. He felt the boy’s lips touch his penis.

‘See? It works,’ said Sebby. ‘It’s true, it enhances sexual performance, you see?’

Cornelius wrenched the damned thing from around his neck. His erection was sudden and mighty. Yes, it
did
work. But he didn’t like it.

‘Oh, don’t take it off,’ objected Sebby.

Cornelius threw the scarf aside. ‘I’ve no taste for being throttled,’ he said.

‘Don’t be such an old fusspot,’ said Sebby, jumping off the bed and heading for the fruit bowl on the side table, his buttocks jiggling enticingly. He picked up a tangerine. ‘See, you hold something like this in your mouth. Keeps the airways open. Try it.’

‘No,’ said Cornelius.

‘Then
I
will,’ said Sebby, popping the fruit in his mouth. He snatched up the long scarf and went over to the big mahogany wardrobe, throwing the doors open. Carelessly he pushed aside garments, throwing a couple out onto the floor.

‘Hey!’

Sebby held up a hand and Cornelius fell silent, watching his young lover. Sebby was reaching up, looping the scarf around the clothes rail inside the wardrobe.

Cornelius watched, smiling.

‘Mmph,’ said Sebby past the fruit, beckoning him over.

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Cornelius left the bed and strode over there. Sebby indicated that Cornelius should tie the end of the scarf around his neck and hoist him up, just a little.

‘This is stupid,’ said Cornelius, but he did as the boy wanted.

He was alarmed to see Sebby’s face turning bright brick-red the moment his feet left the wardrobe floor. But Sebby was making
it’s OK
movements with his hands.

‘What . . . ?’ Cornelius didn’t like this at all.

Sebastian spat out the tangerine.

‘It’s all right,’ he wheezed. ‘Oh, it’s good. Look . . .’

Sebby was right. He had a large erection. Cornelius was transfixed, staring at it.

‘Yes, that’s all very well, but . . .’ Cornelius stopped speaking.

Sebby’s eyes were
shut.

He felt a hot thrill of fear.

‘Sebby?’ he said quickly. ‘Jesus – Sebby!’ he shouted, and tried to lift the boy up. He could only lift him a little. He was heavy. Scrambling, straining, half-sobbing with effort, he put a hand to the boy’s heart, and could feel nothing. ‘My God, no. No!
Sebby
!’

Tito got there shortly after midnight. A white-faced Cornelius, wearing a silk paisley robe, let him into the house. He led the way upstairs to the master bedroom. Cornelius nodded towards the wardrobe then collapsed onto the bed, his head in his hands.

Tito stepped over the pile of clothing on the floor, and opened the doors. Sebastian was hanging there, blue in the face with his tongue protruding from his mouth. He was obviously dead.

‘I didn’t know what else to do, who to call . . .’ said Cornelius hopelessly.

Tito glanced back at him, seeing the desperate eyes, the face wet with tears. Carefully, he closed the wardrobe doors. He crossed to the bed.

‘Can I use this phone?’ he asked, indicating the one on the bedside table.

Cornelius nodded. ‘If this gets out, I’ll be
ruined
,’ he said.

Tito made a call, then hung up.

‘I’ll take care of it,’ he said, patting Cornelius on the shoulder. ‘Give me a front-door key, then get dressed and go downstairs to the drawing room. Ignore anything you hear. Just stay in there.’

Cornelius did as he was told. Later,
hours
later,Tito knocked on the drawing-room door and handed him back his key.

‘All done,’ he said.

‘I’m very grateful,’ said Cornelius shakily.

‘These things happen,’ said Tito, and left.

Sickly, Cornelius crawled back upstairs and fell onto a bed in one of the other rooms: he couldn’t stand the thought of going back into the master bedroom, where he had romped so carelessly, so happily, with Sebby, and where Sebby had died.

‘Christ,’ he moaned, choking on his tears.

Sebby was gone.

And even worse – he knew that he was now more than ever in Tito’s debt.

69

The christening of Joe and Betsy’s second child Billy was held not too long after Ruby had visited Charlie inside. All Betsy’s side had come, the women in feathered hats and slim-fitting suits; even her mother and her elderly father had made a big effort.

Vi had turned up in a chauffeur-driven Rolls, looking incredibly glamorous in a lilac silk gown and matching hat. She had her husband Anthony, the present Lord Albemarle, in tow.

Mr and Mrs Porter were suitably overwhelmed by this ugly but titled individual. They behaved as they always did around their eldest daughter – slightly stunned, like a pair of sparrows who’d somehow bred a swan.

On Joe’s side there were a couple of his heavies and their wives, plus Ruby, who had come unescorted in a little clip-on fascinator hat and a figure-skimming apricot-coloured shift dress. She went everywhere unescorted. She was used to it. She was the Ice Queen, all the papers said so. Unmarried. Childless. Cold to the bone. Entering a room alone, walking into a party on her own, none of that held any fears for her. Her harsh upbringing had paid dividends, in the end. Made her tougher.

She was one of the godparents for little Billy, and had to stand up alongside three others at the font with the vicar and renounce the devil and all his works. Later, back at the house when there was a crowd around the cutting of the christening cake, Ruby took the opportunity to take Joe to one side.

‘I want to talk to you,’ she said straight away. ‘About Charlie.’

Instantly Joe’s expression of happy fatherhood changed; became secretive, closed-off.

‘Charlie said you were asking him about the kid,’ he said.

‘I told you I was going to.’

The music came on – the Monkees singing ‘I’m a Believer’ – and tables were being pushed back. Betsy, the baby cradled in her arms with the beautifully embroidered silk and chiffon christening gown spilling down like a white waterfall, sent Joe a look that said:
What are you doing?

Joe mouthed back:
Just a minute.

‘Thought you’d have a family of your own by now,’ said Joe to Ruby. ‘A proper one. You know. Husband. Kids. Nice house. Take your mind off all this.’

‘I don’t need a husband,’ said Ruby. ‘And I’m in the process of buying a nice house.’

This was true. She’d grown restless at the flat over the store. She’d hunted down a lovely Victorian villa in the countryside near Marlow and put in an offer.

‘And I have two kids,’ she said.

‘You
had
two kids. You ain’t been poking around with that Bray lot, pestering them for a look at the girl, have you? Because I warn you, Sis, they won’t stand still for that.’

‘They’re my children,’ said Ruby.

She wished she
had
contacted Daisy, but she’d lost her nerve. Several times she’d been
this close
to doing it, to making herself known to her daughter. But every time, her courage deserted her.

‘No.’ Joe shook his head. ‘You
sold
that little girl.’

‘You know damned well Charlie pushed me into it. And I was wrong to let him. I was young and stupid—’

‘And now you’re old and stupid,’ cut in Joe. He turned his back on Betsy’s desperate mouthings. ‘Look, Ruby – all that’s the past. It’s too late to turn back the clock. You think either one of those kids would want you anyway, once they know the truth?’

Ruby was eyeing her brother coldly, but he’d hit home with that one. She had sold her daughter. Every day, the guilt over that tormented her. She had been too weak, too afraid, to fight Charlie over her son. She should have done better by her kids; she knew that. But she hadn’t. And now, she wanted –
so much –
to make amends.

‘Charlie said my boy was done away with,’ she said.

Joe hesitated. ‘That’s right. I’m sorry. He told me at the time.’ His eyes skipped away from hers. ‘I couldn’t tell you, Rubes. Don’t look at me like that. I had to lie to you. How the hell could I tell you
that
?’

‘What’s going on?’ asked Betsy, bustling over with the baby whimpering in her arms. Two-year-old Nadine was clinging to her leg, whining for attention. ‘Joe, we have guests . . .’