‘Whatever happens, I’m in on it, Joey,’ he said heavily, ‘and if that means I have to take you down, then I will.’
Joey shrugged; ‘You’ll do whatever you have to. And so will I.’
At the end of the day, his fear of the Liverpool gang was greater than his fear of the police.
Derrick O’Hare was laughing. He had a loud raucous bellow that generally made everyone else laugh with him. Today, though, his men were finding it hard to respond.
Deep inside they knew their boss was really a psychopath, and that he enjoyed inflicting pain. Enjoyed it a little too much for their liking. For instance, Derrick had personally taken out an eighteen-year-old burglar he had employed a few months before to do a few B&Es and collect information Derrick badly needed.
The boy had performed his job well, had kept his mouth shut and had looked forward to a long and happy association with the man who had employed him.
But when O’Hare had all the information he needed, on both criminals and straight people, he had shot the boy in the head and left him dead on a small country road in Essex. Now Chelmsford police were running around like blue-arsed flies trying to connect the boy with local villains, and failing dismally.
The boy had been a genius at his work; as young as he was, he could get into any house, anywhere, a skill taught to him by his father, an old-time safe breaker who had been shot to death in Marbella a few months previously. The boy was sound, trustworthy. There had been no need to kill him.
Derrick had kidded himself and his men that it was a security thing, when they all knew he just hadn’t liked the boy. Had resented his youth and undoubted talent. Such was the mentality of Derrick O’Hare.
After the men had left his house in Manor Park he walked through to his conservatory and settled himself in a large cane chair to watch his two Dobermanns playing in the large ornately landscaped garden.
His girlfriend Lottie brought him out a drink. She was thirty-nine, still pretty and still well built. They had been together over nine years. Lottie was besotted with her big villain and Derrick was besotted with his blonde bimbo. Lottie played at being a fool, knew that was what he wanted, and she would do anything for this big man she loved with a vengeance. She had left her husband and child for him, and had never regretted it.
Now, kneeling between his legs, she performed fellatio on him, knowing this always calmed him down after a business meeting. He was a man with a permanent hard on, and Lottie knew that to keep him by her side she had to keep him happy. She was pleased to do this.
Derrick, for his part, was still obsessed by her. He was convinced every man in the world wanted her, and consequently fucked her rigid to keep her mind on him. It was a strange relationship, and in its own way a good one. He owned Lottie, and she was quite happy to be owned.
Lee Bonham was sitting outside the sex shop in Wardour Street. He had been waiting for over an hour.
Lee was a small man with impatient green eyes and straggling black hair. He was always speeding, amphetamines were like food to him. Consequently he was as thin as a rake and in a constant state of agitation. Today he was dressed casually in a white T-shirt, black jeans and leather bomber jacket. For his job you had to look nondescript.
As a shooter for hire, he was one of the increasing number of nameless and faceless men who were making a good living in the London underworld. The police had trouble pointing the finger at them because they were so well protected.
It was all done in a civilised and friendly fashion. Lee was told the name and the location of his hit, and picked up his money once the job was done. This was a twenty-grand earner and he wanted it out of the way as quickly as possible.
He saw his mark leaving the shop and stepped out of the Ford Escort van in which he had been sitting. Crossing the busy road, he walked towards the man as he went to unlock his car, a rather nice Daimler Sovereign.
Lee tapped the man on the shoulder and pumped four bullets into his chest in a matter of seconds. He eased his dying victim to the pavement and ran back across the road, skilfully dodging the traffic. He was in his van and gone from the scene in double quick time. No one from the crowded street could pinpoint anything or anyone.
As usual one witness was sure he was black.
The police and the ambulance men were there in minutes, and all knew it was a complete waste of time.
Desrae needed more help than anyone. Sedated, they placed him in the ambulance and took him off as fast as possible. Joey was left with a coat covering his head as CID made their way to the scene.
A contract killing in Soho would make all the news broadcasts, and the police knew there would be a lot of pressure on them to find out who had done it. They also knew they had as much chance of finding the location of the proverbial snowball in hell.
Cathy had just got out of the bath at the flat when the doorbell rang. Pulling on a white silk negligee, she went to the door, a smile on her lovely face and a spring in her step. She was expecting Desrae; instead she found Tommy Pasquale.
‘Hello, Tommy, I didn’t expect you—’ He pushed past and dragged her into the lounge. Cathy pulled herself away from him, alarmed at his strength.
‘What’s happened? Is Desrae OK?’ she asked.
Tommy sank down on to the sofa and put his head in his hands. Cathy watched in horror and amazement as she saw the tears dripping through his fingers. Kneeling down beside him, she put one arm over his shoulders. ‘Tommy, for God’s sake, tell me what’s happened.’
‘Me dad . . . it’s me dad. Someone murdered him today. Outside the shop in Wardour Street.’
Cathy was stunned. ‘Are you sure?’
Tommy said aggressively through his tears: ‘Of course I’m fucking sure! You don’t make mistakes about that kind of thing, you silly bitch. They shot him, like a fucking dog. He was hit four times . . . four fucking times.’ He broke down and sobbed.
Cathy put her hands to her mouth and Tommy felt an urge to take her in his arms. He needed her now, more than he had ever needed anyone in his life before. He had loved his father, loved and looked up to him.
‘Desrae! My God, he’ll go mad . . .’ Cathy’s voice was a whisper as she thought of the man who had loved Joey with all his heart.
‘They’ve sedated him,’ Tommy told her. ‘He’s all right for the moment. I’ve got to tell me mother yet . . . Oh Christ, Cathy, what am I gonna tell me mother and me sisters?’ Gone was the hard man, the villain. Tommy was a lost and lonely boy, grieving for his loss and in agony over breaking the news to the living.
Taking him in her arms, Cathy cried with him. She had loved Joey as well. He had been so kind to her, and looked out for her and helped her fulfil her dreams.
As she felt Tommy’s arms go around her waist she pressed herself against him, needing his comfort as much as he needed hers. When he began kissing her she responded, liking the feel of his lips on her face, liking the touch of his hands on her body as he slipped the silk negligee from her shoulders.
Sex to Cathy was all about her need for safety, not the basic urge it was to others. She badly wanted to feel loved now so she allowed Tommy to take her, aware that his need was as great as hers. As he pulled her gently on to the carpet before him, she opened her legs gracefully, tugging him down on top of her like an old pro. Instinctively she knew what he wanted and gave him it, moving her hips against his and rising to meet his every thrust as if they had coupled many times before. Their tears dried as both entered a twilight world of mutual gratification.
As he came inside her, Cathy caressed his face and whispered loving things in his ears.
Afterwards they lay together in the gathering darkness and talked as they had never done before. They talked about Joey, about Desrae, about their childhoods. They talked themselves into normal people again, both trying to make sense of the terrible thing that had befallen them.
Tommy realised that he loved Cathy Duke, had always loved her. He also realised that once this night was over she would be her old independent self again. He admitted privately that his father’s death was almost worth the feeling of closeness he had achieved with this young girl with the big blue eyes and strange attitude towards sex and men. If nothing else came out of Joey Pasquale’s death, he had tasted his Cathy, been caressed by her and loved by her. At least he had experienced that much.
As dawn broke over Soho and the first rays of the morning sun touched their naked bodies, Cathy got up and dressed herself.
Making a large pot of coffee, she took it into the lounge and woke the man to whom she felt so closer now. As he sipped his coffee, Cathy saw that the frightened, shocked young boy was gone. He had been replaced by a bitter man who wanted to exact violent revenge for his father’s murder.
‘What are you going to do, Tommy?’ she asked.
He smiled grimly. ‘I’m going to hunt down that bastard O’Hare and kill him stone fucking dead.’
It was what she’d expected to hear, but it made her sad even so. Tommy had played at being the villain; now he had to live up to it. She had a feeling he would have no difficulty with that.
He was, after all, his father’s son.
Desrae opened his eyes and looked about him, feeling ill. He knew at the back of his drug-clouded mind that something bad had happened, he just couldn’t figure out what it was. As he tasted the bitterness in his mouth he remembered, and big fat tears rolled down his face. In the night one of the nurses had removed his make-up and false eyelashes and by the harsh light of day he knew he must look his age and, worse than that, just like a man.
He tried to rise. Glancing across the ward he saw a man in blue-striped pyjamas staring at him incredulously.
A small Scottish nurse came to the bedside and said gently: ‘Can I get you a drink, dear?’
Desrae nodded, unable to speak for the silent tears that were pouring from his eyes. He felt he could scream with hurt and fear. Like a trapped animal he looked around the crowded ward at the other patients, all staring at the big transvestite who’d been brought in the night before.
It was the final humiliation.
‘Had your fucking pennyworth, you ugly load of bastards?’ he demanded. ‘Seen the freak now, have you? Give you something to talk about at visiting time, I suppose. Wankers . . .’
As Desrae ranted and raved a doctor pressed a needle into his arm and he knew the blessed peace of oblivion once more, his last conscious thought being that Joey would have laughed to hear him because for once in his life he had talked like a man.
What would he do without his Joey?
When he woke in the evening he was in a small private room and Cathy was sitting by the bed, holding his hand. Desrae smiled at her gratefully.
‘I showed meself right up earlier, ducks.’
She smiled at him tenderly. ‘So I heard. Here, I’ve brought you in all your make-up and a change of clothes.’
Desrae squeezed her hand and started to cry once more. ‘They killed him - the Liverpool scum killed him. What will I do, Cathy? What on earth will I do without him?’
She kissed the man she loved so well and said in a strong voice: ‘You’ll get yourself dressed and then come home with me. Joey wouldn’t want you upset like this, you know that. The Old Bill is waiting to talk to you and Gates is already outside. Keep your trap shut, Desrae, and tell them you saw nothing. Tommy’s got everything in hand, OK?’
Desrae nodded, nonplussed at the businesslike tone of the girl’s voice. ‘You sound so different, love, I think I’m a bit scared of you.’
Cathy sighed and tried to grin. ‘We’re all in deep shit, Desrae. The Liverpool people are out to take everything Joey had. Tommy told me all about it last night. There’s going to be a lot of trouble and we’ll need our wits about us, OK?’
She kissed Desrae’s stubbled cheeks. ‘Once you get home, you can grieve in peace and we can find out what’s happening. Now, do you feel strong enough to get up? I’ll help you dress and everything, all right?’
He sat up in bed. ‘Do I look really terrible?’
Cathy said sadly, ‘Of course you do, you’ve just lost the most important person in your life.’
Desrae grabbed her hand and kissed it. ‘You’re important to me too, love - and don’t you ever forget that.’
Before she could answer, Richard Gates came into the room.
‘I’m sorry, Desrae. I liked Joey, you know that,’ he said, and they believed him. ‘Now what you must do is think back and tell me anything unusual that you saw. Anything at all.’
Desrae looked at him, all big-eyed innocence. ‘But I didn’t see anything, Mr Gates, I swear.’
Richard Gates knew he was lying and forced himself to make polite small talk, hoping for a change of heart. Cathy Duke, all in black, looked good enough to eat as usual. She knew more than she was saying. Gates too, understood that these people lived by a different law and that they would not be changing sides at this stage.
But he would get to the bottom of it all, he swore as much to himself.
He ended up giving a silent Desrae and Cathy a lift back to their flat. The irony of the situation was not lost on any of them.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Richard Gates and Cathy sat and sipped their drinks. Desrae was having a nap in bed and they were making small talk. The subject of Joey came up and Cathy told Gates how good the dead man had been to her.
‘I’ve been very lucky, what with you and Desrae and Joey looking out for me. He really was kind to me, you know.’
‘I know that, love,’ Richard said quietly. ‘He thought the world of you, see. It’s not hard even if I say it myself. I think the world of you too.’
It was the first time they had ever discussed their friendship, and Cathy was embarrassed. She gulped down her brandy and poured herself another.