Bad Girl (4 page)

‘I don’t think—’ Janet began, but her grandmother interrupted her.

‘Of course you can, dear.’

Helen rushed out of the kitchen and took the stairs two at a time, hurtling into her room and launching herself on to the bed. She curled into a ball and waited for the tears to come, but nothing happened. It was as though something had frozen inside her. After a while, she sat up again, wrapping her arms around her knees. Her mother was gone, gone for ever.
Dead.
How could that be? She didn’t even know how it had happened. An accident. That could mean anything.

As she sat gazing bleakly down at her feet, she noticed a tiny flattened clump of blossom protruding from the sole of one of her sandals. Carefully she peeled it off and held it in the palm of her hand. If only she could turn the clock back, return to that moment when she had turned into Camberley Road and marvelled at the row of cherry trees. Then, in her head at least, her mother had still been alive. For the first time in her life, she understood the meaning of the saying that ignorance is bliss.

It was then, suddenly, that the tears began to flow, slowly at first but getting faster and faster until her body was racked with heaving sobs. She buried her face in her arms, not wanting anyone to hear.

Tommy Quinn pushed his breakfast around the plate, the untouched bacon and eggs already starting to congeal. He had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, and the smell of the food was making it worse.

‘What’s wrong with it, then?’ Yvonne asked from across the table.

He shoved the plate aside. ‘There ain’t nothing wrong with it. I’m just not hungry.’

She took a puff on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a quick, resentful stream. ‘You could’ve thought about telling me that before I started cooking. You think I haven’t got better things to do than slave over a hot stove all morning?’

Tommy took a slurp of his tea and glared at her over the rim of the mug. ‘Don’t start. In case you’ve forgotten, it’s my sister’s bloody funeral today.’

‘Well, don’t think I’m coming with you.’

‘Nobody’s asking you to.’

She tapped her fag in the vague direction of the ashtray. ‘It’s not as though you’ve even seen her for years. I can’t see why you’re bothering.’

Tommy stared at the tiny cylinder of ash that had landed on the table. He thought of the crematorium, of a body laid out in a coffin, of the flames that would engulf a young woman’s flesh and bones. The thought of it made his stomach turn over again. He should have made more of an effort, tried harder to heal the breach between them. But Lynsey was stubborn like him. She’d never admit that she’d made a mistake. Once she’d married that copper, there was no going back.

‘What time are you leaving?’ Yvonne asked.

Tommy glanced at his watch, pushed back his chair and stood up. ‘Now.’

‘Now?’ she repeated, scowling up at him. ‘I thought you said the funeral wasn’t until one.’

‘I’ve got a bit of business to sort first.’ He wasn’t actually due to meet Frank Meyer for another hour, but he wanted to get away before he said something he’d regret. Tommy neither loved nor even liked his wife, but preferred to keep things on an even keel. After fifteen years of marriage, he knew all there was to know about her, and most of it did his head in.

‘Don’t be late,’ she said. ‘You’ll need to open up. If you think I’m doing it again, then—’

‘I’ll be back in plenty of time.’ Since Connor had been arrested a few months ago, Tommy had been running the Fox on his own. It was hard work, but that didn’t bother him. He’d grown up in the pub and was more than happy to be living there again. Yvonne, on the other hand, couldn’t stand the place. Given a gallon of petrol and a match, she’d have gladly razed it to the ground.

He took his black jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it on. As he walked out on to the landing, he gave a small nod of satisfaction. Yes, it was good to be back. This was where he belonged and where he intended to stay. For the past seven years they’d been renting a semi on the south side of Kellston, but Tommy had never felt comfortable there. It had always seemed more like Yvonne’s house than his, a place where he had eaten and slept but never really felt at home.

Connor’s arrest – for demanding money with menaces – had turned out to be a blessing in disguise. It had given Tommy the excuse he needed to move back to the Fox. Someone had to keep an eye on Dad and his cronies, or they’d drink all the profits away. At least that was what he’d told Yvonne. And money was tight these days, so what was the point in shelling out for rent when they could live above the pub for free? The flat was big enough for all of them, and with the business to run it made sense, financially and practically, to live on the premises.

Tommy jogged down the stairs, eager to be away from his wife. If it hadn’t been for the girls, he’d have kicked the marriage into touch years ago, but he didn’t want to be one of those part-time fathers who only saw their kids at weekends. Thinking of his girls reminded him that Lynsey had a daughter too, a child who no longer had a mum or a dad. Helen, that was her name. She must be eleven by now. Jesus, his own niece and he’d never even seen her.

He headed outside to the car park and climbed into the white Cortina. For a change, it started first time, and he drove down the road on to the high street and parked outside Connolly’s. He was early, but it didn’t matter. He just wanted to drink a mug of tea in peace without Yvonne giving him earache.

The caff was pleasantly warm, smelling of damp coats and cigarettes. On his way to the counter he nodded to a few of the fellas but didn’t stop to chat. He didn’t want to have to listen to their expressions of sympathy:
Sorry to hear about your Lynsey, mate.
How many times had he heard that over the last week? And as soon as his back was turned, they’d be gossiping like women, raking over old history about how Lynsey Quinn had got knocked up by a copper, and noting that even her own father wasn’t going to the funeral.

Tommy got a brew and went to sit in the corner by the window. The glass was steamed up and he cleared part of the pane with the palm of his hand. He stared up at the sky, dark and heavy, the grey clouds swollen with rain. Hard to believe that only a few days ago the sun had been shining.

It had been raining, he remembered, on the Friday night Lynsey had come home all those years ago, bringing with her the kind of news that no self-respecting family of villains wanted to hear. If only the poor cow hadn’t got herself pregnant. She’d have got over Alan Beck in time, seen him for the scumbag he really was. Tommy hated bent coppers even more than straight ones. You chose one side or the other – that was his philosophy – and didn’t dabble in the shades of grey.

He lifted his mug to his lips and sighed into the tea. Why hadn’t she packed her bags when it had all started to go wrong? But he already knew the answer to that. Lynsey was too proud to come crawling back. She’d rather have thrown herself in the Thames than admit to Joe Quinn that she’d made a mistake. Every now and again he’d heard snippets of news from Moira Sullivan, the only person Lynsey kept in touch with – that the baby was a girl, that they were living out Ilford way, that the marriage wasn’t a happy one.

Later, after Beck had got his just rewards, there had been all sorts of rumours about what Lynsey was doing. Tommy’s mouth turned down at the corners. They were the type of rumours he didn’t want to dwell on. Maybe if he’d made the first move, if he’d gone to talk to her, things could have been different; but he hadn’t, and that was the end of it. It was too late to start stressing over might-have-beens.

He sensed a movement and looked up. The tall, broad-shouldered figure of Frank Meyer was striding towards him.

‘You’re early,’ Tommy said.

Frank looked at his watch and smiled. ‘Says the man who’s been sitting here for how long?’ He pulled out a chair and took a seat on the other side of the table. ‘I dropped by the Fox. Yvonne told me you’d already left.’

‘Yeah, well, there’s only so much grief you can take of a morning.’ Tommy fingered his tie, feeling overdressed in the casual surroundings of the caff. ‘You’d think she’d give it a rest today of all days.’

‘What time do you have to be there?’

‘One o’clock.’

Frank looked towards the counter, caught the eye of Paul Connolly and ordered another two brews with a quick gesture of his hand. Then he turned his attention back to Tommy. ‘Joe’s not changed his mind, then? He’s not coming with you?’

‘What do you think? He never gave a damn about her when she was alive, so why should he bother now? The bastard can’t even be arsed to go to her funeral.’

‘You want me to come along?’

Tommy was touched by the offer. Even his own wife wasn’t prepared to set foot in the crematorium. It was at times like this that you found out who your real friends were. He thought about it for a moment, but then shook his head. This was something he needed to do on his own. ‘Nah, it’ll be fine.’

‘Well, the offer’s open. Just give me the nod if you change your mind.’

Tommy had only known Frank Meyer for a year or so, but in that time he’d come to trust him. They’d first met in the Red Lion in Bethnal Green. It had been a Tuesday, a cold night, and Tommy had been doing a bit of business in the area. He and Yvonne were at each other’s throats over something and nothing, and not relishing the prospect of round three, he’d nipped into the pub for a few loin-girding Scotches before heading home.

Frank had been sitting at the bar nursing a pint. He was in his early thirties, a man with a square-jawed face and a bored expression. The place had been quiet, and they’d fallen into the kind of aimless conversation that was probably taking place in a thousand pubs around the country between a couple of blokes who had nothing better to do and who would in all likelihood never meet again.

Tommy had downed his third short and was preparing to leave when the door had opened and two of the Gissing brothers, Lennie and Roy, had walked in. Not good. Not good at all. The brothers were tanked up and looking for trouble. It was only a year since the Krays had gone down, and other East End firms were jostling for dominance. There was a gap in the market, and the Gissings had ambitions to fill it.

Tommy was handy enough with his fists, but he didn’t relish the prospect of two against one. He was off his home turf, with no one to watch his back. If the place had been busier he would have tried to slip away, but as things were, he was standing straight in their line of vision.

It only took a moment for them to spot their prey. Like a pair of hungry hyenas they padded softly across the bar and stood directly in front of him. None of the Gissing brothers – there were three of them in all – was blessed with good looks, but Lennie took the prize for sheer unadulterated ugliness. He was in his forties, a former bare-knuckle fighter with the facial scars to prove it. Leaning in, he expelled a rush of booze-laden breath. ‘Well, if it ain’t Tommy Quinn.’

Tommy smiled as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Never show any fear. That was the number one rule. ‘Lennie. How are you doing? Long time no see.’

Lennie gave a snarl, revealing a row of chipped yellow teeth. ‘Ain’t you got a pub of yer own to drink in?’

Tommy held his gaze, trying to keep his voice casual. ‘Fancied a change, didn’t I?’

Roy Gissing narrowed his eyes. He wasn’t as tall as his older brother, but what he lacked in height he made up for in sheer viciousness. ‘Quinns ain’t welcome in the Lion. In fact, now I come to think of it, Quinns ain’t much welcome anywhere.’

Lennie sniggered. ‘Now ain’t that a fact.’

Tommy glanced towards the door, but the two men were effectively blocking his path. He could see what was coming and there was no escape from it. Unless a bloody miracle happened, he was about to get a kicking.

It was then that Frank Meyer stood up. ‘Is there a problem, gentlemen?’

Three heads turned to look at him. Until that moment, Tommy hadn’t realised how big Frank was – six foot three or four at least – and solid with it. Glancing back at the brothers, he could see surprise blossom on their faces. Having come into the pub just as he was about to leave, they’d thought he was drinking alone.

‘What’s it to you?’ said Lennie, but his voice had a less aggressive edge. He might have been pissed, but he wasn’t completely stupid.

Frank loomed over him, his cool grey eyes looking faintly amused. ‘And here was me about to ask the very same question. Mr Quinn and myself were about to go. If you’ve got a problem with that, please feel free to join us outside.’ He left a short pause before adding, ‘Be a shame to smash up this nice tidy bar.’

Lennie exchanged glances with his brother. They were both in the mood for a scrap, but something about Frank – and it wasn’t just his size – made them think twice. They shifted slightly to the side, leaving room for the two men to pass them. ‘You’d better fuck off, then.’

Once they were safely on the pavement, Tommy took Frank’s hand and shook it. ‘Thanks, mate. I owe you one.’

‘No worries.’

‘No, I mean it. My old man’s got a pub in Kellston, next to the station. It’s called the Fox. Drop by any time.’

‘Kellston,’ Frank repeated, as if the place meant something to him.

‘Yeah, you know it?’

‘Used to. I imagine it’s changed a bit since then.’

Tommy hadn’t really expected to see Frank again, but a couple of nights later he had turned up at the pub. They’d been mates and business partners ever since.

Now Frank leaned across the table. ‘Tommy? Have you been listening to a single word I’ve said?’

‘Sorry, I was just—’

Frank waved a hand. ‘It’s okay. You’ve got things on your mind, yeah? We can do this some other time.’

‘Nah, go ahead. I’m listening.’

The two fresh brews arrived and Frank waited until Connolly was out of earshot before resuming the conversation. ‘I may have found a fella,’ he said softly. ‘Over Romford way. His name’s Blunt, Alfie Blunt. I reckon he could be our front man.’

‘And he’s sound?’

‘Yeah, I’ve checked him out. He’s clean and he’s well up for it.’

‘Good. Let’s set up a meet and get things moving.’ Tommy hadn’t even considered long-firm fraud until Frank had suggested the idea, but once he’d got his head around it he could see the advantages. The MO was simple. First, you got a front man, preferably one without criminal convictions, to open a shop or a warehouse. Goods would then be ordered on credit and the suppliers would be paid promptly. This would continue over a longish period of time, with more and more business being done, until the moment came for the final big bang: there would be a series of massive orders and the credit-bought goods would be sold at knockdown prices in a ‘liquidation sale’. After that, the premises would be closed and the profits pocketed.

Tommy took a slurp of tea. ‘So how long do you reckon we’re talking, start to finish?’

‘About a year, maybe longer. You need patience in this game, Tommy. You can’t rush things. It’s all about building up trust.’

‘I can do patience. I’m married to the lovely Yvonne, remember?’

Frank grinned back at him. ‘You’ve got a point.’

‘So we’ll go ahead?’

‘Sure. I’ll set up a meet and we’ll take it from there.’

Tommy gave a nod, pleased that the plan was going ahead. Joe Quinn preferred the quicker, more basic approach to business – protection, intimidation, poncing off the local villains – but Tommy was looking for less risky ways of making a living. If Frank was right, the long-firm fraud could bring in a hundred, even a hundred and fifty grand – and with little chance of getting caught. By the time the creditors had realised they’d been done, it would all be too late. The front man would have disappeared and the trail would be cold.