Threat Page 7

  ‘Did you get back all right?’

  ‘Nick brought us.’

  ‘We had to come on the bleedin’ train. I felt a right fool in me finery at ten o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘How come you had to leave?’

  ‘Search me. One minute we’re in the bath with the Viscount and then that butler comes in, whispers something in his ear and the Viscount jumps out of the bath, says he’s sorry but the hunt’s leaving, wraps a towel round himself and legs it back to his room. Then this maid brings our clothes in and the butler tells us to get dressed, takes us out the back door, puts us in a car and we get dumped at the station.’

  ‘Charming.’

  ‘What happened to you?’

  Before I can tell her a bouncer appears beside me.

  ‘He’s waiting for you.’

  I follow him past the tables, round the dance floor and through a padded door behind the bandstand into a small lounge with a couple of plush sofas and a small bar in the corner. Bielsky is sitting at the far end of the room talking to an older woman in a black sequinned dress. He dismisses the bouncer and signals for me to join them.

  ‘Rina, this is Madame Greta, she looks after the girls here. Greta this is Rina who is going to carry out the business for us.’

  Greta looks me up and down, gives me a friendly smile and I shake her bony hand. She looks elegant with her black dress, a necklace of pearls and shiny grey hair. Although her face is lined and wrinkled there’s a knowing glint in her eye behind the mascara. I’d normally refuse to discuss a job in front of anyone else but I have the feeling that this lady’s all right.

  ‘Greta will show you the man I wish you to deal with and give you what details we have,’ says Bielsky.

  ‘When do you want it done?’ I ask.

  ‘You have forty-eight hours.’

  He gives me a hard look and goes back into the club.

  8

  Greta’s eyes soften as she looks at me and they remind me of my mum’s eyes before the drink got hold of her. After a bit she smiles.

  ‘How old are you Rina?’

  I never tell anyone anything about myself when I’m working but before I know it I’ve told her that I’m twenty. She looks surprised for a moment.

  ‘You are sure you want to do what Feliks is asking?’

  ‘It’s ok,’ I say.

  ‘There are other ways to repay him for a girl like you.’ And I don’t need her to tell me what they are.

  ‘It’s ok.’

  ‘You are sure?’

  ‘Just tell me where I can find this Russian.’

  She stands up and says, ‘Come.’

  She picks up her stick and as she walks I can see how hunched over she is. She leads me into a small office, pulls back a curtain on the wall and I can see into the club through a glass panel. She looks round the club and says, ‘He is not here yet. Usually he comes at this time.’

  ‘Every night?’

  ‘When he is in London, yes.’

  ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Pavel Budanov.’

  ‘Where does he stay?’

  ‘Dorchester Hotel. When he comes you can take him to a table perhaps?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you want to meet him, no?

  ‘I just need to see him.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘Is there a back way out of here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  While we wait for the Russian to come in, I ask, ‘How do you know Feliks?’

  ‘From prison camp in Russia, in the war.’

  She looks sad and troubled. I feel bad that I’ve asked and I look away but she puts her hand on my arm.

  ‘There is Budanov. Going to the bar now.’

  A man in a brown suit with a round face and receding hair makes his way through the crowd around the bar and speaks to one of the barmen. When he turns round and looks round the club I’ve seen enough.

  ‘I’ll be off then,’ I say.

  ‘I show you the way.’

  We go back through the lounge and into the dancers’ dressing room beyond it. Greta points to an exit door with a metal bar across it at the back of the room, then she holds her hand against my cheek and says,

  ‘Goodbye Rina. You be careful now.’

  ‘I’ll be all right,’ I say.

  She puts her hand on my arm. ‘Maybe you come and see me again?’

  ‘Maybe I will.’

  I can feel her watching me as I brush past the feathers and fringes of the costumes hanging on the wall. There’s something strange about her and even though we’ve hardly spoken I know I do want to see her again but I’m not sure why. I push the door open and step into the alleyway at the back of the club. It’s gone midnight and I decide to have a look at the Dorchester before I go up Kensal Green to get some cash. I get to the car and drive across Regent Street, through Mayfair, turn into Park Lane, drive past the Dorchester and turn left into a narrow street that runs alongside the hotel. I can see what looks like a tradesman’s entrance a bit further up and I park opposite and wait. I’m thinking about Greta and what she must have been through in her life when I get lucky and two maids come out and walk along the street laughing about something. One of them’s got her coat undone and I can see her black dress and white apron underneath. I get out of the car and walk round to the main entrance.

  A doorman in a uniform with lots of gold braid opens the door for me. I walk over to the desk and a girl in a black suit, with her hair in a dark brown bob, gives me a snooty look so I veer towards an older bloke who’s sitting at the other end of the desk and looking bored. I tell him I’m here to see Mr Budanov. He gives me a look that tells me he thinks I’m a tom and dials a three-figure number on the phone in front of him. I lean forward so that I can see the phone below the counter, clock the number he dials as 427 and wait for him to tell me Budanov’s not answering. When he does I thank him and walk back to the main door. As I go through, the doorman with the gold braid tries to speak to me. Doormen at the posh hotels always expect a little earner off the working girls but I ignore him and head to the car.

  I drive north up Edgware Road, turn into Harrow Road and drive up to Kensal Green Cemetery. I park a bit beyond the gates and wait for an old drunk to weave his way past. Once he’s out of sight I change my stilettos for a pair of plimsolls that I keep in the boot, climb up some ivy that’s clinging to the brick wall of the cemetery and drop down on the other side among the gravestones. The moon’s providing enough light to see my way and I walk among the headstones to our Jack’s grave. I stand beside it and remember the brave little kid he was and how I loved him. I start crying and then I grind my fist against a tree trunk for the unfairness of him being taken.

  Once I’ve calmed down I walk on to a big family monument at the far end of the cemetery. I kneel down at one end of it, push my fingers through a hole at the corner of one of the stone slabs until I get a grip of it, then I pull it towards me and lay it down on the grass. I push an old canvas bag out of the way, reach in and drag out the ammunition box that I keep in there. I open it up, take out a sheaf of fivers and two bundles of fifties. I put the fifties in each pocket, roll up the fivers and push them down my bra. As I’m closing the box and telling myself I really must count up the rest of the money that’s in there, I hear a noise somewhere behind me.

  I look round slowly and see nothing. I pull the canvas bag towards me as quietly as I can, slide open the zip and put my hand in. As my fingers touch the Smith and Wesson a great weight lands on my back and there are hands round my neck. I swing both elbows back, shove one foot against the grave, heave myself backwards and crush whoever it is against something solid. I pull his hands off my throat and roll away but he scrambles after me, grabs my ankle, throws himself on top of me and goes for my throat again. I bring my knee up hard between his legs. As he cries out he pulls his head back. I try to jab a finger in his eye but I miss and my nail just grazes his temple. I swing a short punch at his head, roll out fro
m under him, stand up and kick him under the chin as he tries to get up. He staggers back but doesn’t go down. He pulls a gun out of his belt so I dive at him, and knock him backwards onto a marble slab. I take hold of his head, smash it down on the stone and break his skull.

  I didn’t intend to kill him until I found out who he was but it’s too late now. His face is thin and gaunt, with a hook nose and a small moustache above a pair of thin lips. He’s bald with a scraggy fringe of hair round the back of his head and he looks a bit too old for the rough stuff. I search his pockets and find a wallet with a few quid in it but nothing to say who he is. I pocket his car key and drag his body off the marble slab. I take a small shovel out of the holdall and have a look at the headstones nearby. There’s one where the engraving’s so worn that I can’t read the name but I can just see that the date is 1840 and I reckon whoever it is might like a bit of company after all that time.

  An hour later I’m knackered and wishing I’d worn a flared skirt but I reckon I’ve dug down far enough so I drag him over, push him into the hole, chuck his gun in after him and cover him with earth and leaves. I go back to my hiding place, put the shovel back in the canvas bag, push it in beside the ammunition box and lift the stone slab back into place. I make my way back to the wall, climb up it and have a look over. I can see an old Ford Consul parked over the road. The dead bloke’s car key has a Ford tag on it and I know I’ve got to get rid of his motor. I look at my watch and see that it’s gone three o’clock. I get over the wall, go to the car, unlock it and get in. I search the car but find nothing but an empty fag packet and a beer can. I turn the key and press the starter. The engine fires up first time and I turn round and head back down Harrow Road, along Ladbroke Grove and up Westbourne Park Road. I park beside the Royal Oak and walk past the El Rio club. A black guy in a dark blue zoot suit, holding a tambourine, asks me if I want to score. I shake my head and go down some basement steps by the corner of Chepstow Road. I knock on the door and wait until a small panel slides open and a voice asks what I want. I say my name and who I want to see and the panel shuts. A minute later it opens again, and Tommy Gaynor’s squinty eyes appear.

  ‘All right girl?’

  ‘I need you to off a motor.’

  ‘Bring it round the yard tomorrow.’

  ‘Now.’

  ‘I’m in the middle of a game.’

  ‘I’ll give you a ton.’

  ‘Hang on.’

  He goes inside and the door closes. I take two fifties off one of the wads in my pocket and wait. A couple of minutes later Tommy appears and I follow his broad back up the stairs. When we get to the car I unlock the driver’s door.

  ‘You’re driving.’

  He gets in. I sit in the passenger seat and give him the money.

  ‘Drop me on Harrow Road by the cemetery, take this one to the yard and make sure it’s well hidden.’

  ‘Got it.’

  ‘When can you crush it?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  As I drive home I’m wondering if the man I’ve killed is just any old rapist who’s seen me going over the wall and fancied his chances, or if he could be the one who’s been doing Tony’s girls. Mary Weedon and the girl in Dukes Meadows were killed and then taken away in a car and he had the chance to shoot me but didn’t. I reckon my man either wanted to fuck me or capture me, and if it was capture I’ve no idea who he was or why.

  I park in Hall Road, walk round the corner and let myself in at the front door of the flats. Reg is asleep behind the desk and he doesn’t wake when the lift creaks down to collect me. I walk past Lizzie’s and think about knocking on her door in case she’s free. I always want to be with her when I’ve done a bit of work but my watch says four o’clock in the morning and I decide to be good and get some sleep. I find my keys and open up my new locks. I go in, lock the door behind me and feel glad for the protection of the thick steel plate. I look in on Georgie and see that she’s sleeping. Her bedside light is still on and her book is open on the nightstand. I pick it up and see that it’s still Pride and Prejudice. I read the first few lines and smile. I wonder what Jane Austen would make of some of the single men with a good fortune that I could introduce her to. I take the book with me into the bathroom. I unscrew the panel and put the two bundles of fifties and the roll of fivers behind the bath, then I turn on the taps, pour in some bubble bath and read on while the water’s running. I slip off my clothes, sink beneath the bubbles and let the warmth ease the tension from my body. I lie in luxury for a bit and then I wash the graveyard dirt off me, get out, dry myself and slide into bed with Jane. By the time Mrs Bennet has given up trying to bully her husband into paying Mr Bingley a visit, I’m asleep.

  • • •

  Georgie’s shaking me.

  ‘I’m late for school and I can’t find my book!’

  I reach for it under the blankets and give it to her.

  ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t know you’d need it.’

  ‘It’s English Lit exam today, of course I need it.’

  She goes into the kitchen and I get out of bed, grab my dressing gown and follow her. ‘Do you want some breakfast?’

  ‘I haven’t got time.’

  ‘Shall I make you a sandwich?’

  She takes an apple from the bowl on the table, puts it in her satchel along with her book and says, ‘I’ve got to go.’

  ‘It’s your last exam today isn’t it?

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Good luck.’

  ‘Ta.’

  She closes the door behind her and I can hear her cursing at the front door as she fumbles with her new keys. I go and show her which one’s which and she unlocks the door and runs off to the lift. I watch her until the gates close and give her a wave. Lizzie’s door opens and the Russian athlete appears and lopes off towards the lift. Lizzie’s standing in the doorway looking a bit bedraggled. She sees me, comes across the hall and I take her hand and lead her into the bedroom.

  9

  It’s gone ten o’clock by the time I get to Harlesden. It’s a grey, rainy day and the car slides a bit on the cobbles as I stop outside my lock-up. I undo the padlock, go in and draw the bolts across on the inside. I check the tyres on the van then change the plates. I look in the wardrobe, sort through the clothes on the rail until I find my waitress outfit with the white apron and cuffs, take it out and hold it up against me while I look in the mirror on the back of the wardrobe door. I decide it’s close enough to the uniform the maid coming out of the Dorchester had on so I reckon it’ll do. I’m wondering if they wear a cap when they’re working. I rummage through a basket of odds and ends and find one. I pick a pair of flat-heeled black slip-ons, put them in a bag with the uniform and put the bag in the back of the van. I open the doors, drive the van out onto the yard, pull my car inside, shut the doors and lock up.

  Half an hour later I’m lucky with a parking space round the corner from Deanery Street which is where the side entrance to the Dorchester is. I park the van, walk to a phone box and dial the hotel number. A woman picks up and I ask for Mr Budanov in room 427. After a few rings a bloke answers with a foreign sounding grunt. I put the phone down, get back to the van, change into the maid’s uniform and put the cap in the pocket. As I’m walking towards the side entrance of the hotel a van pulls up outside and the driver and his mate open the back doors, take a box each out of the back and carry them into the hotel. They stop just inside the door and talk to a man in uniform sitting at a small desk. While he’s reaching for a clipboard hanging on the wall I slip in behind the driver’s back and walk down a corridor that leads off to the right. There’s a bloke in a chef’s white jacket pushing a trolley along in front of me and I can see the entrance to a kitchen up ahead and waiters and waitresses coming and going with trays. I turn left into another corridor before I get to the kitchen, and a couple of maids come round a corner giggling and laughing and push past without looking at me. They’re both wearing caps so I take mine out and put it on then I turn and w
alk in the direction they came from and see a flight of stairs and a lift in front of me. I get to the stairs just as the lift door opens and an older woman in a black suit and a man in a tailcoat get out. There’s a maid carrying a tray behind them and I run up the stairs and get round the corner before they can see me.

  I’m guessing Budanov’s room will be on the fourth floor so I climb seven more flights and go through the door that’s opposite the lift. The carpet’s thick and soft under my feet in the corridor, the walls are a warm peachy kind of colour with lights that shine upwards and there’s soft music playing. I stand back as a grey haired man in a dark blue suit and a woman in a long fur coat and a hat with a veil come out of a room and walk past me talking in foreign. I look at the numbers and I can see that I’m on the right floor and my man’s room should be along to my left somewhere. A maid comes round the corner pushing a trolley with piles of sheets and towels on it. We nod at each other as she stops outside a room, knocks on the door and waits. When she unlocks the door and goes in I lift a couple of fresh towels off her trolley, put them over my arm and nip round the corner. When I hear her move off with her trolley I find room 427 and knock on the door.

  For a moment I think he’s not there and it’s all over but then a gruff voice says, ‘Who is it?’

  ‘Can I change your towels please sir,’ I say.

  I hear some grunting and then footsteps. The key turns, the door opens and Budanov’s standing there in a white dressing gown with Dorchester written on the pocket. His round face is red and puffy, his eyes are bloodshot, what’s left of his hair is sticking up in tufts and even at a distance I can smell his foul breath. I wait a second while he clocks my body, then I give him a smile and say, ‘I’m sorry if I’m disturbing you, sir.’

  He stands aside and says, ‘Not at all, please to come.’

  I brush against him ever so slightly as I walk slowly past him. There are two doors leading off the bedroom and luckily one of them is open and I can see it’s the bathroom. I go in and put the new towels on the rail. Budanov follows me, leans on the door frame and watches me as I bend down and pick up the dirty towels off the floor. As I’m folding them I see him go to the bedside table and pick up a wallet. When I come out of the bathroom he’s standing at the end of the bed with his dressing gown hanging open and a twenty quid note in his hand.