The Runaway (24 page)

Mary Barton, bitch of a woman, bugger of a wife and scourge of the Social Services, had dropped a prime bollock.

He could get a good bit of mileage out of this and intended to do just that.

Mary’s tear-blotched face looked up at her husband’s and both knew exactly what the other was thinking.

Nevertheless, they kept on playing the game. It was their idea of a civilised marriage.

 

Cathy walked through the door of a small Soho cafe. Finding a table as close to the heater as she could, she ordered herself a coffee and some toast and sat down to think.

Her hands were throbbing with pain and, taking the mittens off gingerly, she surveyed her fingers with horror. Most of her nails had fallen out and the open skin beneath was very sore.

When the Greek man behind the dingy counter noticed the state of them, he shook his head sadly.

‘Stay there, sweetheart. I’ll bring your order over to you. What you had - an accident of some kind? I’d say those need looking at by a doctor. Go on, sit back and get yourself warm.’

Gratefully she settled in her seat while the man brought over the coffee and toast.

‘Let me have a little look, I won’t hurt you.’

She was the only person in the coffee bar and was nervous because of it. He sensed this and laughed, his big round face alive with friendliness.

‘Don’t worry, I don’t eat up little girls any more - I just nibble on their fingers.’

Cathy was startled into a smile by his banter and he smiled back at her, displaying large, uneven but very white teeth. He examined her hands and tutted. Holding her wrists gently, he said: ‘You been tied up, girl?’

Tears stung her eyes and she shook her head. ‘No, ’course not. I ain’t been well, that’s all.’

The man stared at her for a long while. Then: ‘I don’t think you should have them bandaged, they’ll benefit more from the air, but you must keep them very clean, you understand me?’

Cathy nodded.

‘You smell like an old fishmonger, girl. You need a bath and a change of clothes and a good rest by the look of it. Drink your coffee and eat up, I’ll talk to you later.’

As he spoke, the door opened and two women came in. Cathy recognised them both at once as prostitutes. They had the same way about them as Madge had done. They gave her a cursory glance and sat themselves down, chatting and laughing happily.

Cathy ate her toast in peace and sipped at the hot coffee. She could feel her body gradually warming up but the pain in her hands had become almost unbearable.

The Greek man brought over two white pills and told her to take them, they would ease the pain. She took them without even asking what they were. Her hands were so sore she would have taken anything.

He also brought her over another coffee and she smiled at him gratefully. Pulling out her money she offered a five-pound note. He closed his eyes in distress, noticing the sidelong glances from the two prostitutes at the other table.

‘What the hell are you doing, girl? Put that money away, for Christ’s sake. You’re asking to get rolled. Those two would kill their own mothers for a few pounds.’

Seeing the frightened look on her face, he relented and, sitting beside her, said gently, ‘Look - you’re in Soho and you look like a runaway. I see them all the time. They come here thinking they’ll have a good life, that things will be better for them here. Well, they very rarely are. You’re just a little girl. All you can do to supplement your cash is sleep with men. You understand? Now, whatever you have run from, it can’t be any worse than what you’ll find here. So drink your coffee, it’s on the house, then get yourself back to wherever it is you came from. Listen to me: I know what I’m talking about.’

Cathy heard him out then shrugged at the end of his speech. He obviously talked this way a lot; the words had a practised edge to them.

‘I’m only staying a few days and then I’m going to some friends,’ she said.

The cafe owner smiled sadly. ‘I’ve heard that before. You sit there and get nice and warm. I’m open all night, I don’t mind if you stay here. All I ask is that you think about what I said, eh?’ He smiled and Cathy smiled back. ‘I have a friend you might want to meet, a lady with a small boarding house. I can ring her if you like, my dear. She owes me a favour anyway.’

Cathy smiled widely. ‘Thank you so very much, Mr . . .’

The big man nodded happily. ‘Tony Gosa - they call me Tony Gosa.’

‘Thank you, Mr Gosa. I appreciate your help.’

He stood up abruptly as the door opened once more, bringing in more prostitutes and a large African man dressed in a white suit and a leather stetson.

Cathy drank her coffee; the pain in her hands was receding and she finally relaxed, looking at the exotic people around her with interest. The women chatted and laughed, their perfume ripe and heavy as it wafted towards her. It reminded her of how
she
must smell, and indeed look, after the ride in the fish lorry. If she could get a bed for the night and a bath, a change of clothes and a rest, she would be fit and well enough to track down Eamonn. That was her main priority.

She knew she must keep away from the East End for a few days as Denise had warned her, but the money in her pocket would at least ensure her a place to stay.

Tony Gosa, the ever-genial host, brought her over a third cup of coffee and waved away any suggestion of payment. He looked sad-eyed and upset on her behalf and she felt relieved to have encountered such a sympathetic person.

Alone and frightened, a friend was just what she needed.

 

Duncan Goodings was fifty-seven years old, a rotund man with a ready smile and steely blue eyes. He was as fat as his sister, Mary Barton, was thin. He was also a much more resolute character than her, and even their own parents had conceded that that made him at once a strong and an irritating personality.

He had been summoned to his sister’s house by her husband and had arrived formally dressed in his usual three-piece suit, making Mr Justice Barton wonder if there was any truth in the popular belief that the fellow never slept. He looked as awake and well groomed as any normal man did at nine in the morning on his way to the City.

Fortunately for Mary, her husband was perhaps the only person who could intimidate Duncan Goodings. Whether it was the judge’s sheer size, his imposing appearance or his uncanny knack of grasping the underlying truth of any situation, Duncan wasn’t sure. All he knew was, his brother-in-law was demanding he help out his sister, and help her out in record time, or he would want to know why.

Taking the large Scotch offered to him by his horse-faced bitch of a sister, Duncan tried unsuccessfully to smile. His face felt as if it would crack from the effort. Being summoned here in the middle of the night, leaving his young wife alone in bed, was not his idea of fun. Not that there had ever been many laughs to be had in this house. His sister’s own children had abandoned the imposing residence as soon as they had finished university. Duncan sympathised with them. Anything would be better than living with these two.

‘So what’s all this about then?’ The smug look on his brother-in-law’s face spoke volumes and Duncan listened with growing uneasiness to his sister’s rambling story. He’d known all along he should have stayed in bed with BiBi, his young, skinny, but very versatile Eurasian wife.

He had put heart and soul into rising to the top of the social work profession and now knew without a doubt that he was being asked to do something that was both illegal and immoral. For all his faults, and he knew they were legion, he had never in his life abused his position of trust. In fact, he prided himself on his integrity and fairness towards his subordinates.

Yet, as he listened to Mary’s squalid little tale of power abused, he could see a way of turning it to his own advantage. This could be the very thing he needed to keep his sister out of his hair. Sometimes it was very hard to have to do what she asked, such as coming to dinner without his beloved BiBi, and pretending that she didn’t even exist.

Yes, on reflection, this could all be turned to the good. Actually smiling now, aware that they needed him far more than he did them, he said, ‘And this policeman, what’s his name again?’

Both his sister and her husband knew when they were cornered and had the grace to look just the smallest bit ashamed.

Duncan Goodings had already made a mental note to get rid of the principal offenders in this drama quickly and without any publicity, especially Hodges, Henley and his own sister. All in all, this wasn’t turning into such a bad night after all.

Smiling once more, he held out his glass for a refill of Scotch, and was gratified to see both his sister and her husband jump out of their seat in their eagerness to be hospitable.

 

Cathy was grateful to Tony Gosa, and so pleased to have made a friend in her first few hours in the West End that she followed him to the boarding house quite happily. As he led her through a maze of streets, she felt tired yet exhilarated. When he flagged down a cab she went with him without a second thought.

At three forty-five in the morning she walked through the door of a dilapidated building off Fulham Broadway. A large Greek woman welcomed her with open arms and relieved her of her bundle and her coat.

Mama Gosa was huge. Rolls of quivering fat undulated each time she moved and her chins wobbled happily as she exclaimed over and petted the small figure before her.

‘Such a little thing, Tony. She needs food and warmth, yes?’

Cathy ate a large bowl of stew and afterwards was stripped and put into a steaming bath before she knew what was happening. Mama Gosa’s hands were surprisingly gentle as she carefully washed Cathy’s hands and helped her clean herself.

After another two white pills and a clean nightdress had been given to her, she was settled in front of a roaring fire in the small front room. Mama Gosa left her there and told her to relax and maybe have a little sleep. She would be back later.

As Cathy lay on the rather dirty settee, she pondered on her good luck. Her hands were feeling much better and she was clean and fed. Thanks to Madge and her earlier life, Cathy knew that she had to watch out for herself, knew the pitfalls of being alone, yet she trusted these two foreign people.

Glancing around the room, she saw faded brown wallpaper and heavy oak furniture. On the walls hung icons and pictures of a dark-eyed scowling man in a big black hat. She sensed he was religious in some way, he had that heavily pious expression they all shared. In her short life, most people who looked like that had tried to tuck her up.

Satisfied that she had sussed out the situation, Cathy lay there and basked in the luxury of freedom and warmth.

The pills were making her light-headed and she felt her eyes closing. Her last thought before she fell asleep was of Eamonn and the joy on his face when he realised she was home at last. That she had come home for him.

Until she dared go in search of him, she would enjoy all that the Gosas had to offer. It didn’t occur to her to wonder where her belongings were or, more importantly, her money.

Chapter Fourteen

Richard Gates was awake and contemplating whether to have a full cooked breakfast or black coffee and toast. As it did every morning, the full cooked breakfast won. Unconsciously rubbing the two large scars on his belly, he made his way naked to the kitchen.

The scars were a constant reminder to him of how close to death he had once come. Knifed when still a young PC, he had survived against heavy odds. The person who had knifed him had not come off so well, but Gates had stopped thinking about him years ago.

He had strong muscular arms and legs, and his stomach was heavy, full and surprisingly firm. The muscles having been slashed, he knew he would never look like Johnny Weissmuller again. But what the fuck? As he always thought - with his offbeat looks it didn’t make one iota of difference.

Pulling a towel around him, he put the kettle on and picked up his mail, promptly throwing it all in a drawer. He looked at his letters only every few months or so. After all, why meet trouble head on? He rarely received anything of interest, only circulars and bills. He wasn’t really close enough to anyone for personal mail.

As the bacon and tomatoes sizzled away, he walked through to his front room and turned on the radio. He liked noise around him in the mornings.

His flat was very tidy, and this fact always amazed people. It had a pristine cleanliness, almost like an operating theatre. The walls were painted white, he had a few good books, and his record collection was considered both weird and amazing by his few friends, containing everything from Burt Bacharach to the Stones. The carpet was deep brown, and there were two brown corduroy-covered two-seater sofas with brown Perspex arms. A large glass coffee table devoid of any clutter except for an ashtray finished off the room.

Not a photograph or personal memento to show who lived here. It looked like a room still waiting for its owner to stamp his personality upon it. Only his kitchen looked even remotely lived in. Gates loved to cook, had always loved to cook, and his pots and pans, recipe books and jars of spices, gave the flat its only touch of character.

He had a Belling electric stove with four large rings. It was the most expensive item in the flat and the most used. He also had an eight-track cassette which he played when one of his marathon cook-outs came over him.

Unlike his peers he didn’t feel the need to enthuse about the Beatles or the other top groups. He liked what he liked, and his dealings every day with what he termed ‘the scum of the earth’ made him the highly individual man he was.

His small flat was his haven, his refuge from the maelstrom of work. He protected it accordingly.

The only other thing of note he possessed was his car, a large black Zephyr which he adored.