Kate’s eyes were hard now. ‘Because, unlike your so-called normal people, I happen to have half a brain and I don’t like to talk like a cheap-rate gangster. Forgive me, Patrick, present company excepted, of course.’
The barb hit home and she saw he was fuming.
‘You lairy bitch. Have a pop at me - go on. I know you better than you know yourself. I know
everything
about you, woman. You can come the big “I Am” with those little shitbags in that nick but don’t you
dare
to use that tone with me, lady. I picked you up and brushed you down after that little mare Lizzy shagged half of Grantley and popped enough pills to get the whole town high. I never threw it in your face, mate. I listened to you going on about that fucking geek Dan, and I got shot of him for you, so don’t you “gangster” me. When it suits you, I’m useful. I admit I am not kosher, not by your standards anyway, and if a few punters want to look at some tits what’s the bloody problem? As long as I don’t show them
yours
what’s the big fucking deal?’
She stared into his face; it was still the face she loved. The face she wanted beside her. Even if he was a little greyer, a little more wrinkled. He was gorgeous and she would never get over the sheer sexuality of him. But he was not getting away with this.
‘Don’t talk to me like I’m one of your little gangster sluts, Patrick Kelly.’
He slapped her hand in annoyance. ‘Will you stop calling me Patrick Kelly! You sound like me bleeding mother.’
‘Don’t you touch me like that! Always violence with you, isn’t it? The hard man, the big bloke. Well, you don’t impress me, Patrick Kelly. You don’t impress me one bit. You lied, schemed and broke all the trust I thought we had. I wanted something you could never give me, and that was honesty. I am always honest with you, about everything, but then I don’t need to duck and dive, do I? I don’t do anything that would offend you or make you feel disgusted.’
He was sorry for her. He knew she was being truthful, he knew how much she was hurting. He loved her and to see her so hurt made him feel bad. But he had an agenda and he had to keep that in mind.
‘I need you, Kate,’ he told her steadily. ‘I want to ask you to do something for me that I know will make you crazy. But I will ask it, darling, because you owe it to me. I would do it for you at the drop of a hat.’
Kate was quiet at the anxiety in his words. She could feel the underlying fear in him and she was hushed by it.
‘I’m in shit so deep you would not believe it,’ he went on. ‘I’ve got myself into a situation that I cannot get out of without hurting some people very badly. I am telling you this because you wanted honesty and, by fuck, you’ll get it this time. I need you to go against everything you believe in to help me, but I know you will, once I explain it all to you.’
He looked into her strained face, at the deep-set eyes, flashing with fear, at her straight nose, her high cheekbones, and he felt an urge to kiss her. But he knew that was not going to happen. He had blown it and it would take time to regain her trust. Time that he didn’t have.
‘My God, Pat, what have you done?’ Her voice was low and it angered him. She thought he had killed Duggan. He realised that now and it hurt.
‘I have done nothing except become a partner in a business. I swear to God, Kate, that is the truth. But I need you to do something for me.’ He tried to take her hand and she shrugged him off. ‘I want you to say I was with you the night Duggan died.’
She thought back to that night and realised he had been gone most of the evening, supposedly seeing a man about a golf course.
‘Where were you, Patrick? Who were you with if you weren’t with Duggan?’
He looked at the dashboard, avoiding her eyes. ‘I can’t tell you that.’
‘Were you with a woman or a man?’
‘I can’t divulge that information, Kate. I am sorry.’
Her face screwed up in abject disbelief. ‘You want me to lie for you, swear an affidavit for you and you won’t even tell me where you were, or who you were with?’
He shrugged. ‘Basically, yeah.’
She shook her head furiously. ‘No chance, mate. I am sure you have plenty of cronies willing to lie for you - can’t you get one of them to do it? Why must it be me, eh?’
‘Because no one would doubt you, and I could be off the hook and out and about finding out who
did
kill Micky and why they want it to look like it was me. Another thing, before you carry on, I am on someone’s wanted list now as well. So if they get their way you will be burying me, darling.’
They were both quiet and then he said softly, ‘I have never asked you for anything, Kate, not once. I am asking you now as a friend. A friend who would do anything you asked. Anything.’
Before she could answer, Golding banged on the window and said loudly, ‘The boy’s been found, ma’am. He’s dead.’
Kate opened the car door and walked unsteadily towards the police station entrance. Why had all this to happen now? It was a question she knew she could never answer.
She turned and saw Patrick looking at her, and she was reminded of the first time she had seen him, frightened, angry and waiting for a daughter they had both known was not coming home. He had seemed vulnerable then, as he seemed now.
But what he was asking her to do was too much.
Far too much.
Ivor’s mother was keening. It was a high-pitched wail, almost animal in its intensity, and other prisoners were complaining about the noise. Kate watched as a female social worker put her arms around Caroline’s plump shoulders and tried to comfort her.
It was Ivor’s little corpse, there was no mistake. It looked like suffocation as no marks had as yet been found on the body. No needle marks, bruises or cuts.
A picture came into Kate’s mind of a little girl stabbed to death by her father, and she tried to blot it out. It had been one of her first cases and she had solved it in a few hours. The man, overcome with remorse, had confessed.
It had been a harrowing experience and Kate had gone home, grateful that her own daughter was OK. Yet, as Kelly had pointed out, Lizzy had not turned out as she had hoped. But Kate loved and accepted her, nonetheless. She could never imagine wanting to kill her. Yet it seemed parents saw their kids as something they owned, something they could use and abuse. Now she had to decide what course of action to take with Ivor’s distressed and hysterical mother.
First thing was to let the duty doctor examine her and get his report. At least that would give Kate a breathing space as they tried to collate some evidence from the child’s body. But as she walked along the holding cell corridor the woman’s sobs were painful to her ears.
Terry Harwick was a fixer - a good one. In fact, he took a pride in his work that was uncommon in the criminal fraternity. He bragged that he could fix anything for anyone, at a price.
Terry was a large man with a bald head and protruding blue eyes. In prison, he had been classed as A grade. Dangerous to know. Inside he had created a network of people whom he trusted. People who helped him get the ins he needed to carry out his daily business.
Married to the delectable Tracey, a small woman with brown eyes, black permed hair and a large bust, he was a happy man. He drove a new BMW, owned a nice house in Manor Park and sent his kids to private school. His neighbours thought he was a financial adviser and that suited him.
When he saw Patrick Kelly walking up his drive, with his hard man Willy Gabney in tow, for a split second Terry felt fear. Then he shrugged it off. He was a sought-after man these days, so it was not unknown for dangerous villains to visit his home. But, normally, they rang first and arranged an appointment. It was this fact that was bothering him.
Putting on a smile, he thanked God that Tracey was getting her hair done, and opened his front door in a friendly manner. He took a deep breath before speaking, hoping his voice wasn’t too wobbly.
‘Hello, Pat. Long time no see.’
He ushered them into his large hallway. ‘Come through and I’ll get us a drink then we can talk properly.’
The fact that neither Patrick nor Willy answered him made him more nervous. He walked them through to his lounge, which overlooked the gardens that were landscaped and maintained to perfection. Patrick and Willy stared incredulously at what lay before them. A fountain, which was a bad copy of an Italian design, left even Willy, who normally loved bad taste, nonplussed. There was a dovecote, a large pool area, and lawns that were striped like a tennis court. The barbecue area was all red brick and black metal-work. The
pièce de résistance
, however, was a statue of Elvis in full regalia holding a microphone to his mouth.
‘The wife loves the King . . .’ Terry’s voice was apologetic and Patrick looked at him as if he had never seen him before.
‘Do you mean to tell me you let her put that in the middle of your garden - and didn’t even attempt to argue with her? Have the neighbours complained?’ Patrick was having trouble keeping the laughter out of his voice.
Terry grinned sheepishly. ‘You know my Tracey. If she wanted Idi Amin she’d have had him. She had the kitchen done in bright red; I told her it was a violent colour and she said not half as violent as she’d be if she didn’t get her way. The house is her domain, Pat. What can I do?’ He held out his arms. ‘The kitchen’s still red!’
Willy roared with laughter and it broke the ice. ‘She’s a girl, her. Even I’d be wary of young Tracey.’
It was a compliment and Terry smiled his thanks at Willy. Tracey was an acknowledged handful and Terry was proud of that fact.
‘So what can I get you?’
Patrick shook his head. ‘We’re OK for the moment.’
‘Well, please take a seat and we’ll talk, eh?’
Patrick and Willy disappeared into a large white leather sofa. Pat felt something digging into his leg and held up a half-chewed toffee bar.
Terry took it from him, silently cursing his cleaner. ‘Probably Tracey Junior’s.’ He put it in the bin and perched himself on the edge of his seat looking as if he was about to start a race.
‘So what can I do you for?’
Pat smiled at the joke and then said seriously, ‘I need to speak to a couple of Russians. Can you fix it?’
Terry’s heart sank into his boots as he plastered a friendly smile on his face. ‘Any ones in particular like, or just those involved in certain businesses?’
Pat looked him in the eye. ‘I need to talk to Stravinski. Boris Stravinski, in case there’s more than one.’
He saw Terry go pale, and sighed. He hoped Terry was more frightened of him than the Russian because he needed to talk to Boris and soon.
Terry shook his head softly, weighing up his words before speaking. ‘He’s a hard nut, Pat. No disrespect to you, but be wary of him. He’s a bona fide nutter. Most of the Russians are.’
Patrick flapped a hand as if he didn’t have a care in the world. ‘There’s a few in England too, in case you ain’t noticed.’
Terry looked at the dark brown carpet on the floor and took a few seconds to think before he spoke again. This time his voice was quietly determined.
‘It’ll cost you, Pat. Big time. I ain’t running risks for a poxy few quid. Not with Boris, anyway. He is a lunatic of the first water. And I mean head case. Have you heard about him?’
Patrick nodded, his blue eyes steely.
Terry Harwick felt as if he was caught between a rock and a hard place. He didn’t want to refuse the man in front of him and he definitely didn’t want to talk to Boris the Russian, as he was known. ‘I will see what I can do, OK? No promises.’
Patrick stood up with difficulty; the chair was like a bucket seat in a low-slung sports car. ‘I will give you enough, don’t worry about payment. You fix me a meet and you get it quick, all right?’
Terry Harwick nodded. Boris was scary, ‘treble scary’ as his kids might say. And now he’d been dragged into something he would rather be kept out of. Still, he was a fixer, and he was good at it.
Sally McIntyre looked out of her front-room window and watched as her neighbour, Kerry Alston, dragged her little girl along the street. Kerry was only seventeen and already had a four year old and a two year old. It looked like the two year old was being taken out now.
Sally shook her head in annoyance. It was scandalous the way that girl carried on. Her music was on all hours of the day and night, men coming and going. She was a right little slut and no mistake. And if you complained! The language! Eff this and eff that. Those two beautiful little girls already had a vocabulary like a sailor in port.
She saw Kerry disappear around the corner and toyed with the idea of phoning the police. Or even Social Services. Mind you, Kerry was so aggressive, people were chary of reporting her because when they did she slagged off everyone who came near her. The other week, when the police came about the noise, she stood on the balcony flashing her breasts at all and sundry as they walked past and screaming, ‘Had your effing look eh?’ It was scandalous. Shocking.
And where was the other little mite? The elder one with the long black hair and the big doe eyes. A stunningly beautiful child. End up just like her mother she would, left there with Kerry and the people who visited her flat. All on drugs, all drinking. The smell of cannabis was overpowering in the lobby.
Old Mrs Railton swore her arthritis was better from breathing in the fumes. Sally had laughed at that along with everyone else. But it wasn’t funny, not when it concerned those little girls.
An hour later, Sally heard a car door bang and looked out of her window again. It was Kerry getting out of an old Escort alone, and Sally felt relieved. She didn’t have to do anything, and that suited her. She liked to keep herself to herself. It paid in this area to do just that. Keep out of everyone’s business.
She went and made herself a cup of tea and as she sat down to watch
Morse
she sighed with happiness. She liked a good mystery and John Thaw was a bit of all right for his age.