A Clear Conscience (13 page)

‘They won't expect us to be sober, then.' Ryan was slightly mutinous, he hated drinking halves, almost as much as he detested combining work with pleasure.

‘What was it you said we were here for?' he asked. ‘I thought you just said we'd go out for a drink. I haven't been out for a proper drink since—'

‘Last week,' Bailey interrupted drily. ‘I saw the state you were in Friday morning. You think I'm blind? Your eyes were like candy floss.'

‘Never touch the stuff. Tell me again. That Damien Flood murder is all wrapped up. So what the fuck are we doing here?'

‘Oh, nothing much. Mickey Gat, maybe. Having a word with anyone who might like to come over and chat with us.'

‘Who is this Mickey Gat? Not much chance of anyone chatting in here, is there?'

Bailey
sighed. Ryan's ignorance of Mickey Gat summed up exactly how much effort he had made with this case.

‘Oh, I don't know. That's Dave Jones' cousin over there, giving us the glad eye. Surprised they let him in.'

It was not such a bad pub. There was none of the sensation of danger Ryan secretly enjoyed in half the East End pubs, where a policeman was as obvious as a flag and as much loved as a black beetle; where you could feel the boots aching to crush, smell the mood and taste the hatred on the tongue. Not here, it was a well-run place, a drinking parlour sure, catering for old lags and young blood, of all races, but its real
raison d'être
was the pool tables. Most of the custom played pool, which made for an atmosphere in which any other kind of contest was irrelevant. Equally
de trop
, most of the time, were wives, girlfriends and anyone who did not play.

‘They must earn a fortune off them tables,' Ryan remarked. ‘Fancy a game?' Bailey shook his head.

The bar was a stark contrast to a place like the Spoon and Fiddle. This was the kind of place where Mickey Gat would be at home, full of highly domesticated drinkers. Mickey would not risk a fight. Risks for money were a different matter, because in Mickey's book dishonesty was not even antisocial. Which was why it was so odd that the place where they sat should be the scene of a violent argument leading to death. Not here. There was never any blood on Mickey Gat's floors, only in the little park round the corner, next to the leisure centre.

‘I still don't understand why.' Ryan had a complaint in his voice, which, however irritating, still acted on Bailey's conscience. God alone knew why: Ryan owed Bailey more favours than either could count. The two men never acted in accordance with the irrational affection between them. They did little but joke. Ryan was sulking because the atmosphere made it impossible even to do that. He looked down at his feet, moodily examining a new pair of shoes which were too hot and too heavy for summer. He wriggled his toes inside the unyielding leather. Nothing doing. No more new shoes either, what with the kids going to school and his wife talking about feeding him on sandwiches. A bit like Bailey's bird, although the occasional remark from sir seemed to indicate that she had improved. He bent to adjust the laces, froze.

Mickey
had changed into evening gear. The feet were squashed into white high heels. There was a gold chain round one ankle. Black leggings extended over huge calves and gargantuan thighs, disappearing beneath a brilliant white shirt, on which the legend ‘Michaela' was stitched in lurid gold thread over the straining bosom which merged into the stomach to form a massive trunk. A series of chins ascended into a wide face. Pale blond hair danced in fat, salon-disciplined curls. The lips were coral coloured, the eye-shadow piercing blue, and the age of the vision indeterminate. Ryan's eyes landed back at the level of an enormous pair of hands, manicured nails held delicately at waist level, cradling an orange juice.

‘Can I get you boys anything?' asked Mickey Gat. Ryan was petrified. So that was why Bailey had brought him here on the pretext of a treat. He had needed a minder, or, perhaps, bait to throw to the lions.

‘Only I don't seem to have seen you recently, Mr Bailey,' Mickey's voice continued in a good natured rumble. ‘And I need to know to what I owe the pleasure. What are you drinking?'

She was the largest woman Ryan had ever seen, six foot all round. He would rather have tried to stop an oil-tanker. Ryan could feel the earth move with each breath. He raised his eyes further towards Mickey Gat's vast, squashed face and found it was wreathed in smiles, and even Ryan could tell a grin which was not quite a preface to a threat. It meant either she would play with them first or she was pleased to see them. The slap to Bailey's shoulder would have knocked a lesser man to the floor. As it was, only the table shifted position by an inch. The legs of a chair creaked ominously as Mickey sat, heavily.

‘How you doing, Michaela? No, haven't seen you in a while.'

‘More's the pity, Mr Bailey, because I haven't been doing so good. Oh, I mean the kids are fine, so's the old man, and business isn't bad. I take it you aren't here to check up on the licence or anything like that, 'cos if so, hop it. Otherwise …'

‘No,
Mickey, nothing like that. You know me better.'

She sighed. ‘Well I thought I did, but you never can tell.' She let out a roar of laughter which shook the hanging light above her head. At the bar, where drinkers had paused to listen, heads turned back and normal conversation was resumed. Ryan began to breathe normally.

‘I'm always pleased to see you, Mickey. Better luck than I expected. I'd have stopped to chat outside the Spoon, nice pub that, but it didn't seem right, you were busy. About Damien.'

‘They got him, didn't they? That poxy kid who did it? Little bastard.'

‘We got one of them, Mickey. Only one.'

Mickey shook her head slowly. It reminded Ryan of a bull shaking away the irritation of flies.

‘That was a bad business, Mr Bailey. A bad business. They were strangers in here. We shouldn't have let 'em in.'

Same could apply to us, Ryan thought, vowing to keep his own mouth firmly shut, unless to drink.

‘Anything I ought to know, Mickey? I mean, we'd like to mop it up a bit better than we have. The boy came back armed, sure, but he says he didn't use his knife for more than a scratch.'

Mickey snorted. ‘He would say that, wouldn't he?'

‘And this Damien,' Bailey continued, sliding his cigarettes off the table and into his pocket, ‘he was a bit special, wasn't he? I mean no enemies you'd know about?'

Mickey nodded approval at the disappearance of the cigarettes. She could drink the tank dry, but never had much tolerance for smoking; bad for sport. She shook her head, smiling sadly. The fags reminded her of little Harry at home, coughing his guts up.

‘No, Mr Bailey, no enemies and I wouldn't tell you a lie. He was magic at pool; let's face it, Damien was magic, full stop. Full of laughs, could have been a great boxer if he hadn't liked life better. Oh, there was some people got ratty when he took their money at the end of a game, but that never lasted. He'd give it back if they asked nicely. Everyone loved Damien. Naa, it was a bunch of kids from another pub, what a bloody waste.'

Sentiment
was Mickey's second nature; Ryan noticed she was near to tears. The spectre of that was terrifying. The arm of an average man would only go halfway round those shoulders.

‘Family?' Bailey asked, tentatively.

‘Only his sister. He used to take her everywhere when he first started, till she met Joe Boyce. Think they was orphans or something, close, anyway. Nice, innit? Family sticking together. Well, they were all they had, that's why. I owed Damien a few favours, Mr Bailey. That's why I gave Joe the job at the Spoon. He's another one drinks too much, but not so's you'd notice.' There was a slight element of caution. Two pints appeared on the table. Ryan restrained himself from seizing the glass, stared at it hungrily, nodded thanks.

‘Well, this Joe Boyce, he wasn't much help, was he?' Bailey suggested. He was boxing in the dark, Ryan could tell by the voice. He couldn't understand the man, really he couldn't. They'd got a result on a two-bit murder, hadn't they? Or they would, after the trial. Why this time-wasting when it was time to move on? Plenty more bodies out there. Mickey spread her hands, and rumbled with laughter again.

‘C'mon, Mr Bailey. Wee Joe Boyce is just a hanger-on. Trails after heroes, thinks he's hard, but couldn't hurt a fly. I mean, I can't hold it against him. Damien was good to him, sure, but he would never have expected Joe to act as his minder. Joe had his wife to look after, and besides, he'd be fucking useless. They'd often go for a drink together, then Damien would give Joe a present, perfume or something to take home to Cath, and off he would go like a good boy. That's Joe Boyce all over. He does what he's told.'

‘He's like this one, then,' said Bailey, nodding in Ryan's direction. ‘Ever-obedient and full of respect, aren't you, Ryan?' Ryan nodded back, dumbly, followed Bailey's lead and got to his feet.

‘Which is why I've got to get him home to his wife,' Bailey continued. ‘You know what you married women are like.'

‘I
do, too, Mr Bailey,' said Mickey, moving a manicured paw in and out of the side pocket of her shirt, extending it towards Ryan. ‘We're like cats, us women, you know. We only stay if we're fed.'

‘W
hy do you stay?' Helen felt she should have known, but she could not keep the incomprehension out of her voice.

Cath succeeded in keeping the amazement out of hers. ‘Oh, I wouldn't want to go. He's good to me, really. I dunno why he is the way he is, but he is. It's only the drink, without the drink he's not so bad. He can be lovely, my Joe.' Cath could not keep a note of pride out of her voice.

‘Have you ever told Emily about this?'

‘Course not. Why should I? She's a respectable married woman.' Meaning of course, that Helen was not. There were enough signs of Bailey's presence about the place, second-best shirts in wardrobes, the odd pair of shoes which would only be worn by a male, items of underwear, which indicated an alien presence. Cath's obvious discovery of these, and the sentiments it evoked – either pity or disapproval – affected Helen, just a little. She had lived her own life far too long to sink beneath the weight of other opinion, but how she lived remained private territory. She shook herself. It had been a good idea to offer wine, after all. It loosened Cath's tongue.

‘What brings it on, though, the violence? Not just drink?'

‘Mixture of things, I s'pose,' Cath muttered. ‘Like I've bought something second hand. He only likes new stuff. He can't stand the idea of someone else having used it first. Unless it's army stuff. Me, I'm the opposite. There doesn't seem any point in getting new things if you can get old ones with wear in them. Except a bed, of course. I couldn't stand a second-hand bed.'

Suddenly Cath was weeping, a guttural series of sobs, more like a fit of sneezing, ugly. Helen did not move. The air in the garden into which they had moved, grew colder; the perfect evening had waned away into a red sunset. She did not know, or, for that matter, like Cath Boyce enough to offer comfort, and somehow sympathising with Emily's irritation with Cath, did not quite want to touch her. Or maybe it was Mary Secura, teaching her, by adverse example, how to keep her distance. Cath did not try to control her tears, as if she knew it would be a vain attempt. She let them flow without the slightest effort to dab her eyes, blow her nose or control her face, before the storm passed as abruptly as it began.

‘I
like your house and Mrs Eliot's. I couldn't tell Mrs E because I need my job.'

‘She wouldn't sack you because … because you were having a rough time at home.'

Cath raised one eyebrow, shrugged, and then spoke carefully.

‘No, she wouldn't. Anyway, Joe gets the hump, sometimes. He's never quite worked out what he ought to do, you know? Apart from marrying me. I'd been working in one of them big hotels, chambermaid, he'd been in the Army. I think he met my brother through boxing or it might have been pool but anyway one night I go to meet Damien, and there he was. My man Joe.' She suddenly leaned forward and clutched her stomach. ‘Got anything to eat?' she demanded.

Helen found the three packets of peanuts she had earmarked for a typical supper in Bailey's absence. Cath launched herself towards them with sufficient hunger to scatter the contents far and wide as she tore the packet. She did not seem to notice, chewed loudly and swiftly. Helen turned her head away.

‘Well, I just loved him. Damien always said he'd find someone for me. He's my brother. We were always together since we ran away. Almost always, anyway. Joe was living in a hostel. Wasn't no good, nowhere for us to go, see? We got married anyway, Damien had a lot of money then. Joe loved Damien, everyone did. He knew Mickey Gat, Harry, and all the boys. I don't suppose I could have one of your cigarettes?'

‘Of course.'

‘Joe got us our flat, Damien got Joe his job with Mickey Gat. I think it was round about then he started.' She took a drag of an extra-mild Silk Cut, looked at it, puzzled. It was quite clear to Helen that it made her feel nauseous. Lunch was a forgotten memory, half a sandwich somewhere. She felt equally, vicariously, sick.

‘What's
he going to be like tonight?'

Cath waved a hand in an airy gesture. ‘Oh, he'll be fine. He's usually fine on Thursdays. He's OK as long as I don't criticise.' And then with an abruptness which belied the fey gesture of the sweaty hand a moment before, she was on her feet, her face suffused with embarrassment.

‘Got to go,' she announced. ‘Where'd I put my shirt?'

‘On the bed.'

‘Got to go,' Cath repeated. ‘Got to go.'

‘Sit down,' Helen commanded. ‘I can drive you there or get you a cab. Which would you rather?'