Ethan Justice: Origins (Ethan Justice #1) (10 page)

John crossed his fingers under the table and hoped that she wasn’t going to cry again. This would not be a good place to have a scene.

“I’m sorry,” he said, genuinely. “Was it a long time ago?”

“Three years,” replied Savannah. “Her body rotted from the inside out before my very eyes.”

“Cancer?”

“Yes, she was a smoker and she never quit, even after being diagnosed, though I begged her day and night.”

John remained silent. What did you say to that? Well, wasn’t it her own fault? She should have listened to you. True or not, these facts were not what she needed to hear.

“She left me taken care of,” she continued, her gaze still concentrated in space. “Left me a small flat in Shepherd’s Bush. Nothing like your mammoth pad but two small bedrooms, mortgage all paid off. Even had a small, communal vegetable patch where I grew strawberries every summer. I love strawberries, don’t you? My mum loved strawberries too.”

John knew that he would regret asking but he honestly did want to know.

“So what happened?”

“Dad happened, that’s what. Turned up two days after the funeral, swore he’d changed and moved in. Six weeks later he’d drunk himself to death, gambled the flat away and I was out on the street.”

“Jesus Christ. You must hate him.”

“Not really. He couldn’t help himself. He was addicted to gambling and alcohol like I’m addicted to lost causes and you’re ...” Savannah paused. Either she couldn’t think of the words to say or felt the need to temper the ones that first came into her mind. “ ... addicted to lying,” she finally ended the sentence with. “Mum told me never to let him back, she knew what would happen and she was right. I gave him the excuse to ruin us both. It’s my fault more than his.”

John pondered on the ‘addicted to lying’ part of the conversation and what she might possibly be referring to. He made a mental note to ask her later. “I’m not sure that I want to know or whether you want to talk about it, but how did you get involved with a scumbag like Christos?”

“Another lost cause. I worked in Shepherd’s Bush market for a Jamaican guy who sold DVDs and a bit of marijuana on the side. Spoke a lot like Calvin actually. You were pretty cool in the shop and at the bedsits. You’re a strange one all right.”

“Thanks, I think. You coped pretty well yourself.”

John didn’t want the conversation brought around to him. He wasn’t ready to talk about Mark yet. This adventure with Savannah had pushed his problems to one side and that’s just where he liked them.

“So you worked for this Jamaican in Shepherd’s Bush market...” John nudged.

“Yeah, he paid me in cash, gave me a little weed here and there which I sold on. I got myself a bedsit and I was studying business at night school. Finished the course with merit last June and moved in with Graham during the summer.”

John had a sinking feeling when he spoke. “Graham?”

“I met him at night school. Going to change the world, he was. Always strapped for cash, always borrowing from me and never paying me back. I should have known as soon as I moved in.”

“Go on.”

“He was sweet and kind to me and his flat was cool. I figured that he had money. He always went on about how rich his parents were, how he’d take me on cruises and show me how the other half live. After all the crap with Dad and working myself through a qualification, I figured I’d finally landed on my feet.”

“Dare I ask what happened next?”

“I woke up one morning and he’d gone. He’d taken my clothes, my qualification, my purse, bank card, jewellery and everything. Even the ring that my mum had left me, the last thing I had of hers - a simple gold band with a sliver of an emerald in a tiny claw. That sicko Tibbett wouldn’t have given me a fiver for it but it meant a lot to me.” A tear ran down her cheek but it was alone and John didn’t interrupt, glued to her every word. “It turned out that the flat was a rental on which he owed three months back rent and I was chucked out the very next day. I was back on the streets again after nearly three years. He had cleared out my bank account - three thousand five hundred and forty seven pounds. I never saw him or the money again.”

“Didn’t you call the police? Banks have got insurance against that sort of thing. If you get a crime number the bank has to pay you back.”

“Didn’t want the hassle. Picked myself up, dusted myself off and started again. Got my job back at Shepherd’s Bush market and then met Amy who got me the bedsit about four weeks ago. You know the rest.”

John had a thousand questions. Like why didn’t she really go to the police? With the three and a half thousand she could have got herself a replacement certificate for her business qualification, got a decent job and put a deposit down on a flat of her own. John could imagine the word ‘victim’ written in capital letters across her forehead.

She was a sucker for a sob story and she’d been taken advantage of one too many times. Everyone she ever trusted since her mother died had let her down. So what did that make him? He was dragging her into God only knew what, and he couldn’t stop himself. A part of him knew it was wrong but he had no one else to turn to. He had no real friends, other than Mark, and his family had already had their fill of him. It was wrong but he couldn’t face being alone. He would make it up to her, he promised himself.

“Bad luck all right,” he said, glad she wasn’t looking at his guilt ridden face. “Rotten bad luck.”

“Yeah,” she agreed, gaze still in mid-air.

“So, ready for Piccadilly?” he asked, as upbeat as his conscience would allow.

“Sure,” she replied, snapping out of her trance. “What’s in Piccadilly?”

“Why the Ritz, my dear, the Ritz.”

*

Wilson prepared to contact Johnson from a toilet cubicle located in the bathroom close to the Pizzeria eating area. He’d always loved pizza, as had his wife, but the delicious aromas had done no more for him than the smell of disinfectant inside the bathroom, another pleasure that had departed with Julie. Hearing the girl’s bad luck story had reinforced his anger at not being able to spend her last remaining weeks together. At least Savannah had said her farewells. He took in a huge lungful of air and it was all he could do not to burst into tears.

Julie’s doctor had explained the chain of events to Wilson only eight days ago:

“It was cancer of the most voracious kind I’m afraid. When she came in two months ago she was already in tremendous pain. Why she didn’t come in sooner is a mystery. We tried everything but the damage had already been done and the cancer was everywhere. We made numerous attempts to contact you.”

“I was in hospital myself.”

“Your wife said, but she didn’t know where or why? We thought it might be the pain killers affecting her mind.”

“It’s a long story.”

“Your daughter said you were a killer and in prison.”

“That sounds like Kate.”

“Do you wish to use our chapel?”

“Isn’t it a bit late for that?”

“Some people find comfort there.”

Damn bloody Earthguard, keeping him in the dark. Dick Burns, another useless yank, had confirmed that his employment did not cover family healthcare and that the Earthguard private hospital was reserved for field agents only.

“I contacted the Ministry of Defence who control the UK budget for Earthguard and asked for a special dispensation to move your wife. I told them that you couldn’t leave your bed and that your wife was terminally ill. When I told your controller he visited Whitehall personally. It was the same response. Funds are tight and the money was needed elsewhere.”

“Why didn’t anybody tell me that my wife was sick,” he had said, close to wringing the pen pusher’s scrawny neck.

“You were in a coma for the first month and once you woke up, your surgeon said you were not to be put under undue stress. What could we do?”

Wilson pulled out six sheets of soft toilet tissue from the dispenser, wiped away his tears and blew his nose. Bloody politicians. He pressed the top side button on the Breitling Blackbird watch. This wasn’t the ordinary model. This was an improvement in timekeeping, complete with two way radio communication and a global positioning system.

“Johnson, come in.”

“Johnson. Anything to report?”

A short beep sounded to let Wilson know that Johnson had finished speaking.

“I’ve been listening in to their conversation. I’ve got nothing on Smith but he seems to be helping Jones sort out her problems, and by the sounds of it she’s been through the wringer and back.” Wilson sniffed before he let go of the button.

“Are you crying?”
Beep.

The nerve of Johnson. Wilson ignored the remark.

“I heard nothing that links either one to Bradshaw’s murder or the missing item.”

“Yeah, I’ve got their files on the monitor now. She’s definitely clean and I’d have to agree that the chances of him being a killer are pretty slim. You reckon we could get them to help us?”
Beep.

“Are you serious?”

“We’re alone in this and you’re currently a borderline retard. We could do with all the help we can get. If the girl’s in trouble then maybe we could do a deal?”
Beep.

Wilson muted his watch while he blew his nose again. The thought of helping the girl out had its appeal. She had suffered at the hands of her father and her boyfriend and her mother had died of cancer. It might give him a purpose for a while.

“No risking the girl’s life,” he said into the watch.

“Sure thing. Where are they now?”
Beep.

“I know where they’re headed. We can pick them up there. I mean it about the girl, Johnson.” But Johnson had ended transmission. That unfeeling bastard. It wouldn’t have surprised Wilson if Johnson rejected his request for time off to attend Julie’s funeral. If it wasn’t good for his career, he didn’t give a damn.

Wilson turned the winder of his watch anti-clockwise to rewind the recording he had made while sat opposite Smith and Jones. The small internal speaker played back part of the conversation surprisingly clearly.

“A simple gold band with a sliver of an emerald in a tiny claw. That sicko Tibbett wouldn’t have given me a fiver for it but it meant a lot to me.”

Yes, Savannah Jones was all right, he decided.

11: Saturday 24th September, 21:30

It was nine thirty in the evening by the time John and Savannah got checked in to a junior suite at the Ritz. At six hundred pounds it was a little more than they were expecting to spend but John insisted that she didn’t worry about it. It was all right for him. He could disappear into another world.

John Smith was a conundrum. On one level he was her hero, rescuing her from the clutches of a perverted sexual predator, and on the other level, he appeared to be a mixed-up creature who needed professional help. Another lost cause - shouldn’t she be running a mile?

She couldn’t help but realise that the more time they spent together, the safer she felt around him. Wondering what John’s thoughts would be on how to best resolve the Christos problem, she decided to see how the night went and make a decision in the cold light of day tomorrow.

With their Harrods bags filled with their used clothes, they headed for the suite having politely declined assistance from the hotel’s staff. John had such a way with words, he was obviously far better educated than Savannah, but for someone with such a privileged upbringing he carried no aura of superiority that many of his kind wore like a royal cape to be twirled in the faces of those less fortunate.

“So how come you didn’t bring your passport?” she asked.

“It’s at my parent’s house. I never use it and I’d probably lose it if they didn’t keep it safe.”

“Just as well we got mine back or they wouldn’t have let us have a room. They will give it back, right?”

“Of course.”

“Good.”

“You’d have thought that paying in cash would have been enough,” John said. “Anyway it’s not a room, it’s a suite!”

Savannah giggled like a naughty school girl. A suite at the Ritz, it was all utter madness but such fun nonetheless. If she could just get Christos off her back who knew what might happen.

“Yes, a suite,” she sang as she twirled along the corridor to their destination. “I could have danced all night, I could have danced all night, and still have begged for more.”

“
My Fair Lady
,” John said, twirling around once. “You’re a bit young for that, aren’t you?”

“My mum and I used to watch it together on video every week. It was her favourite film. Audrey Hepburn was so beautiful.”

“Yes, it’s one of my mother’s favourites as well. I think we watched it together when I was young.”

“Did she put you in a dress?”

“Very funny,” John stopped walking and rubbed his chin between his thumb and forefinger as if in the deepest of thoughts. “You know, I think she did,” he said, roaring with laughter and spinning around once more.

This was a corridor to a place so grand that royalty would not feel out of place, a corridor where anything was possible, a corridor where dreams and wishes might come true. This moment was the happiest Savannah had felt since losing her mother. She recollected Audrey Hepburn gliding around the staircase, beautiful big dress swishing through the air behind her, her head giddy with the success of the night - just before her world came crashing down around her. An icy shiver shot down Savannah’s spine.

“What’s wrong, Savannah?” John asked, as he entered the key card into the electronic lock to their suite. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Nothing,” she lied. “Just a bit tired I guess.”

Savannah’s worries evaporated when they entered the suite.

“Oh my God,” she said, open mouthed, hands and arms outstretched. “You could fit fifty of my bedsits in here.”

It was a vision of lavish taste with luxurious curtains, drapes and crystal chandeliers. Cream-coloured walls held elaborately framed original works of art. Tied-back gold and green striped drapes separated the bedroom from the seating area and a beautifully adorned king size bed invited tired and wealthy visitors to rest their weary heads. An abundance of fine antique furniture completed, but at no time cluttered, the expansive space. Savannah was in heaven. Then John fell apart.