The Ladykiller (25 page)

‘Well . . .’

‘They won’t last long, mate, these type never do.’

George was in a quandary. He wanted the film desperately, but he had already had to hide one Barclaycard statement. He racked his brains.

‘Look, mate, if it’s too much . . .’ The other man’s voice was placating and wistful. Suddenly George was frightened that the man would think him mean.

‘I’ll take it!’

‘When can you get in?’

‘First thing tomorrow.’

‘See you then.’

The phone went dead. George replaced the receiver and went back to the kitchen. He reboiled the kettle for Elaine’s tea.

The phone call had frightened him. George felt exposed. He poured the water into the teapot. He would get the film. He would draw the money out of the bank this time. Elaine might notice it was gone but then again she might not. He would cross that bridge when he came to it. Chinese women . . . He liked Chinese women. They knew their place all right.

‘GEORGE!’ He winced as Elaine’s voice drilled through him.

‘Who was that on the phone?’

George poured out her tea and took it in to her.

‘Just a friend from work. Peter Renshaw. He wished you all the best, dear.’

Elaine took the tea.

‘Oh. Do I know him then?’

‘I don’t think so, dear. But I often chat about you to him. Would you like a biscuit with your tea?’

‘I’d love one, but with my diet and that . . .’ She grinned at him, a girlish look on her face.

George grinned back. If she was waiting for him to say that she didn’t need to diet she had a long wait.

Elaine felt the grin slip from her face. Her head was still pounding. She sipped her tea.

Imagine old George getting a phone call from a friend. Wonders would never cease.

Patrick Kelly was in his main offices in Barking. Normally on New Year’s Day he would be at home with Mandy. Mrs Manners would cook a large early dinner and they would sit and chat about the coming year. Now all he had to look forward to was burying her. And in a funny sort of way he
was
looking forward to that. At least then he would know that she was not lying on ice in a bloody mortuary. He lit himself a cigarette with his gold lighter. He grasped it tightly in his hand. On the front of it was the inscription:
To Dad, Love Mandy - xxxx
. It was all he had of her now.

A sharp knock at the door brought him back to earth.

‘Come in.’

Two large men entered. They were brothers, Marcus and David Tully. There was only ten months between them and they looked like twins. Both had skinhead haircuts and both wore identical grey tracksuits that hugged their large beer bellies. Both wore large chunky gold jewellery. Marcus, the elder, was the first to speak.

‘So where to, guv?’

‘I want you two to make your way up North, to Huddersfield. There’s a brand new Jag and a few bits of plant up there that need to be repossessed as quickly as possible. Take shooters with you, I think you’ll need them. The bloke don’t want to give them back, that’s how come we got involved. There’s good bunce for you both as soon as the stuff’s delivered back here. OK?’

The two men nodded.

‘You’ll need to take a couple of drivers with you. Take young Sonny and Declan, they’re pretty good, and that new bloke . . . What’s his name? Dodson. Here’s the address, and I’ll see you sometime tomorrow with the stuff.’

‘What’s the plant then?’

‘Two large earthmovers. The details are outside on the duty rosta. Select numbering, the works. The Jag has got private plates on it.’

‘Okey doke, guv. See yer tomorrer then.’

‘Try not to use the guns this time. Just frighten the bloke.’

‘We’ll only use them to wound, guv. We know what we’re doing.’

‘Be careful, that’s all I ask. Now get on your way.’

The two men left the office. Patrick shook his head. They were two of the biggest lunatics he had ever met, and he had met a few in his time. Still, they got the difficult jobs done and that was the main thing.

He pressed the button on his intercom.

‘Bring me in a cuppa, Debbie, will you?’

‘All right, Mr Kelly.’

He carried on working until Debbie brought him in a cup of tea. She smiled at him, placing the cup on his desk in such a way that he got a glimpse of a fairly considerable pair of breasts.

‘Thanks, love.’

‘Anything else?’ It was a loaded question and Kelly knew it.

No, thank you.’ He smiled at her crestfallen countenance. Before he had met Kate Burrows, she had been on his list of ‘things to do’. He had put her down as Tiffany’s successor. Now he just wished she would leave him alone.

‘Off you go then, Debbie.’

She stamped from the room. Physically she had a lot more to offer than Kate, but for some unknown reason he really fancied the policewoman. There was something about her. When he was with her, buried inside her, Mandy, Renée and everything else was gone from his mind.

For that he was supremely thankful.

Kate heard Caitlin before she saw him. Since the news had spread about him working on the case, the whole of the station had been in a state of excitement. She groaned inwardly. He was like something from a
Boy’s Own
comic. A real macho man. She stayed seated until the excitement wore off. Caitlin’s loud Irish accent boomed over everyone’s heads.

‘Sure Jesus, would you let a man get some air here!’

Everyone was greeting him. He was a living legend. Poor old Fabian and Spilsbury weren’t even in the running where Caitlin was concerned. He made Sherlock Holmes look amateurish! Kate saw his bulky form moving towards her desk. She had worked with him once before, when she had been a Detective Sergeant. After she had been introduced to him he had sent her to get him a cup of coffee, but not before patting her behind. He had solved the case with a male DS and a DC. Or that was how it had looked on the final report. Kate fixed a smile on her face.

‘Katie! How are you?’ His voice sounded genuinely pleased to see her. She stood up and held out her hand.

‘Chief Inspector Caitlin.’

He looked old. Kate was shocked. The man looked positively ancient. His head was nearly bald, his full mouth had that loose-lipped look peculiar to ageing men, and his startling green eyes were now watery-looking. The lids were wrinkled above them like old venetian blinds.

‘You don’t look a day older than the last time I worked with you.’ The Irish burr was more pronounced than she remembered. ‘I’ve been hearing great things about you, great things.’

Kate smiled.

Caitlin pulled up a chair and sat down opposite her.

‘As we’ll be working together, I thought we could share a desk. Make it more personal.’

Kate felt the smile freeze on her face. The smell of Teacher’s and cheap cigars wafted across the confined space and she cringed inwardly.

Caitlin settled himself in the chair.

‘Now what’s this I hear about this madman driving an Irish Ford?’

Kate’s heavy brows knitted together.

‘I’m sorry? An Irish Ford?’

‘An O’Ryan ... Orion.’

Kate burst out laughing, causing many pairs of eyes to focus on her. Caitlin laughed with her. He leant across the desk in a confidential manner, scanning the room shrewdly. He tapped his nose.

‘You can call me Kenny.’ He nodded at her and Kate realised with growing dismay that the man was drunk. She forced the smile back on to her face.

‘Whatever you say. Now shall I fill you in on all that I have?’

Caitlin leaned back in his chair. Opening his coat, he took out his handkerchief and blew his nose loudly.

‘You do that, Katie. The sooner this bastard’s caught the better.’

Well, they agreed on that much anyway. Taking a deep breath, Kate started to talk.

Chapter Twelve

2 January

George had left for work at his usual time of eight fifteen. By ten thirty-five he was walking into Sexplosion. Anthony Jones was behind the counter and George smiled at him tremulously. The shopkeeper gave a large toothy grin.

‘Hello, cocker! Happy New Year.’ He was full of good-humoured camaraderie.

‘Happy New Year. Er, I have the necessary.’

‘Good, good.’ Tony Jones lifted the serving hatch and invited George through to the back of the shop. He looked around him hesitantly before walking through. There were quite a few customers even this early in the morning. Tony Jones shouted to a dark-haired boy of about eighteen.

‘Emmanuel, watch the shop, I’ve got some business to attend to.’ In the back of the shop he whispered to George: ‘He’s as queer as a nine-bob note, but he’s a good little worker. Right then, look at this!’

He rubbed his hands together in anticipation and pressed the play button on a video that stood on a small table. On the television screen above it a young Chinese girl appeared. Her face was a mask of fear.

‘Sit yourself down, mate, I’ll make us a cuppa.’ George sat down and watched the flickering images in front of him. In the dirty little office, he felt the first stirrings of excitement.

An hour later he left with the film tucked firmly under his arm, and a phone number and address in his pocket. He got into his car and began to drive aimlessly around London. It was a dark overcast day; the people milling around all looked grey. Grey and dirty.

George found himself in Paddington and smiled. He rooted around in his coat pocket until he found the address that Tony Jones had given him. He parked his car off Warwick Avenue and, locking it up, began his search. He walked along the Harrow Road until he found the small turning he wanted. He walked into Chippenham Road, scanning the house numbers. When he arrived at the right house he checked the number carefully against his piece of paper. He walked to the front door and looked at the array of bells there.

All the bells had little cards above them.

Flat one: Suzie, French model.

Flat two: Sexy Sadie, full correction.

Flat three: Imogen, Swedish masseuse.

Flat four: Carol, schoolgirl temptress.

Flat five: Beatrice, for naughty boys.

He wanted flat six: Sure enough there it was.

Flat six: Tippy - submission my speciality.

George rang the bell.

‘Yeah, what?’ George was startled. Hardly a submissive voice! He cleared his throat noisily.

‘Er . . . Tony sent me. Tony Jones.’

Suddenly the voice changed.

‘Oh, I’m so sorry, sir. You caught me offguard there.’ George heard a throaty laugh. ‘Bit early for me, love, but come up anyway.’

There was a whirring noise and the door clicked. George opened it cautiously. His cheesecutter hat and Burberry overcoat gave him the look of a working class spiv. His hard little grey eyes were moist with anticipation. He had drawn out three hundred pounds earlier. Two hundred and fifty had gone on the video that was now tucked away securely in his car. He still had fifty left. He’d decided to treat himself. If all that Tony Jones said was true, this Tippy was just what he needed.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste at the acrid smell of the place. The narrow hallway was littered with old newspapers and circulars. It was dark and dingy. George pressed the lightswitch on the wall by the stairs and a muted light came from above. He began to mount the uncarpeted stairs. The wallpaper was long gone from the walls, and here and there in places were rust-coloured stains that looked like blood. He began to hurry.

Inside her room, Tippy, real name Bertha Knott, was hurrying around trying to tidy up. The night before had been a hectic one with seven punters. One after the other. It was always the same in the holiday season. She picked up her discarded clothes and threw them into a small bureau, scratched and marked by years of neglect. ‘She practically threw the overflowing ashtray and empty vodka bottle into the tiny kitchenette, the cigarette butts flying across the work surface and into the sink. Bollocks! Sod that bloody Tony Jones! Imagine sending her a punter at this time of day. No brass worth her salt was even up before twelve thirty!

She heard the timid knock on her door and sighed. She hoped this bloke wasn’t too rough. She was sore as it was. She pulled the grubby negligee around her bony body and opened the door, a wide professional smile on her face.