Anyone Who Had a Heart (40 page)

Pete Henderson had been dragged from bed – Sally’s bed – to hear this. And he listened. The more he heard the more the bells of promotion rang inside his head.

Pete knew he played second fiddle in Sally’s affections to an incredibly rich Swiss banker and accepted it. There were perks to their relationship. Number one she wasn’t faithful to him alone so he didn’t need to be faithful to her. That suited him fine. He liked a bit of variety in his sex life. Number two she mixed with the underworld in a way that he never could. They trusted a girl who took her clothes off in their nightclubs, which in their estimation meant she didn’t have a brain. Boy, were they mistaken!

He devoured the information Michael had brought him and knew it was dynamite.

‘There. Now will you do something about it?’

Sally was shrugging herself into a diaphanous dressing gown. Luckily she was wearing something else beneath it so Michael wasn’t treated to a free view of her body.

Sally’s question was directed at Pete Henderson. She’d gone to the police station to find him. He hadn’t been there so she’d left a message. She’d also phoned Carla, who’d fallen silent as Sally told her what she intended to do.

‘You might not dance again. You know that, don’t you?’

Sally knew exactly what she was saying. If the Camilleris found out that she’d betrayed them to the police then her livelihood was in danger.

Carla’s voice was its usually gravelly self, but Sally perceived an undercurrent that made her think she was hiding something.

Carla had been the one who’d suggested that she and Allegra approach Marcie with the business scheme. It was Carla who to all intents and purposes supplied the money. The suggestion had seemingly come out of the blue. What was Marcie to her?

Sally cast her mind back to a few days before her meeting with Marcie and Allegra. Klaus had been around. Smiling as though butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth and dressing relatively conservatively in a little black dress with a boat neck – cleavage discreetly hidden – she’d accompanied him to an upmarket cocktail party in Kensington. It was there that she’d got into a conversation with the wife of a high court judge. They’d gossiped about friends,
family
and the London social scene and also social problems among the young, especially teenage pregnancy. The woman had been friendly but had excused herself when she’d mentioned her friend Marcie and how brilliant she was at dress designing. She remembered mentioning her name and where Marcie came from.

The woman’s expression had paled and she’d excused herself. Sally had presumed that the woman – like a lot of those with money and husbands of position – only talked about social deprivation. The aspect of working-class girls getting knocked up when they were barely more than kids themselves had been too much for her. That was what Sally had thought at the time. In a way the woman excusing herself was just as well, before she blabbed about her own past and her own child. Carla had come calling shortly after that.

‘Are you listening to me?’ Carla had said. ‘You will never work again if you cross that nest of vipers.’

Sally knew she was right.

In desperation she’d gone back to Marcie’s place in the faint hope that she’d returned. Instead she’d found Michael.

‘Leave it with me,’ he’d said. ‘I’ll call round as soon as I can.’

‘So, copper. Are you going to do something with this?’

Pete Henderson had sandy-coloured hair and the hint of a moustache on his top lip. His skin glistened. His smile was as slow and shadowy as a python about to gobble up its prey.

‘Consider it done.’

THE LAST PEOPLE
Marcie had expected to see at her grandmother’s front door were Sally and Carla. Michael was with them.

She must have looked astounded.

Sally did the talking. ‘Don’t look at us like that, Marcie. We’ve only come down from London, not bloody Mars. Can we come in?’

Rosa Brooks came out into the hallway. Her black eyebrows beetled above suspicious black eyes.

‘Who is this woman using bad language in my house?’

‘We’re not in your house, Mrs Brooks. We’re still out on the doorstep,’ said Sally. ‘I promise I won’t swear if you put the kettle on and make us a cup of tea. There’s a dear.’

‘They’re friends,’ said Marcie.

Her grandmother was not the sort of woman who took kindly to any form of condescension. There was a fierce look in her eyes.

‘They’re very good friends, Gran. They helped me set up my business.’

She hadn’t had the guts to tell her grandmother
that
she made scanty costumes for showgirls and strippers. There was no need as far as she was concerned. What she did for a living was her business, but she treasured her grandmother’s approval. So she’d told her that she made nurses’ uniforms. She did sometimes, though not the sort a real nurse was ever likely to wear on a ward.

Rosa Brooks scrutinised both women. Marcie could only surmise what she was thinking.

Carla was wearing her leopard-skin coat and skyscraper heels. Sally was neat and sassy in a shocking-pink suit with navy-blue trim. The jacket was boxy, the skirt was short.

Rosa Brooks went into the kitchen where Garth was sitting at the kitchen table drawing.

‘They’ve come,’ he said.

Rosa looked at him abruptly. ‘Who has come?’

‘The aunties.’

He spoke as though there were some great significance to them being here.

Rosa frowned. She fully accepted that Garth had a similar gift to hers. She also accepted that the pattern of his gift varied greatly from her own. He saw more than she did – in the living as well as the dead.

Marcie took Sally and Carla into the front parlour. Marcie bent down to switch on the electric fire. The room was mostly used at Christmas
or
when someone important called like the priest or the doctor.

‘A bit parky in here,’ said Sally rubbing her hands together. ‘Never mind. It’ll soon warm up.’

Carla made no comment but gathered her coat more closely about herself. She seemed distant and not so forthright as she’d been in the past.

Michael stood by the window with his back to the room. Although his eyes had met hers he hadn’t kissed her. Cool and collected as always, she sensed he was dwelling on something that might concern her or might not.

She returned here and felt safe, but thoughts of London had come with her. ‘Have you seen Allegra?’

‘She’s OK now,’ said Sally. ‘Victor beat her up. She’s alright but … He thought she was phoning another bloke. She was trying to phone you to warn you about Roberto.’

Marcie felt a great sense of relief. At least that particular bridge could be rebuilt. She frowned. ‘So why have you come?’ A sudden fear made her look to Michael. ‘Is Roberto out to get me?’

He smiled at her over his shoulder and shook his head. ‘No. Roberto won’t be going anywhere for a long time.’

‘My Pete …’ Sally exploded into a drawn-out description of how her ‘lesser lover’ as she called him,
had
arrested the Camilleris for deception, fraud and goodness knows what else.

For Marcie this was very good news indeed. It was as though the weight of the world had suddenly fallen from her shoulders. She brightened up immediately.

‘Joanna’s having her midday nap. You have to stay long enough to see her when she wakes up.’

‘We have to get back,’ Carla snapped.

Marcie’s smile diminished. ‘Your choice.’

Her good feelings obviously had no place in Carla’s life, yet the woman looked nervous. She kept fidgeting with her bag, her clothes and her eyes seemed to wander all over the place.

She studied the heavily made-up face, discovering lines that she hadn’t seen there before. Carla, she realised, was a lot older than she’d thought on first meeting. Why the sudden rudeness? Did she think Marcie was going to throw her out again? She seemed very nervous this time.

‘Why exactly have you come?’

‘Because I was asked.’

‘I didn’t ask you.’

‘Sod this!’ Carla sprang to her feet. ‘I know when I’ve outstayed my welcome.’

She bundled her coat around her more tightly and clutched her black patent handbag.

‘Carla!’

It was Michael who intervened. ‘Carla, you’re here for a purpose. I think you should stay.’

Marcie was still smarting. ‘She can go if she likes. I don’t need her for my business. I can get along by myself …’

‘Marcie.’ Michael’s voice was firmly persuasive and when she read his eyes she saw only affection and consideration for her. ‘Marcie, I think you should listen to what Carla’s got to say.’

There was a pause as Rosa brought in a tray of tea and biscuits. Without a word or a glance at any of them, she retreated back into the kitchen where Garth was drawing a sketch that both amazed and alarmed her.

‘We lied,’ said Carla, her gaze firmly fixed into her teacup. ‘It wasn’t Allegra who put up the money for your business. It was me.’

Marcie was suddenly racked by a strange sensation she couldn’t quite understand. She felt a great urge to flee as though afraid of what she was about to hear. On the other hand her body felt heavy as though she’d been immersed in liquid marble.

Stay
.

The voice she’d presumed to be her mother’s had left her alone for some time now. To hear it again – even that single word – took her by surprise.

‘You? Why?’

‘I was doing it on behalf of someone else. I …’ Carla didn’t seem to know how to begin.

‘Let me start the ball rolling,’ said Sally. And she did. She told Marcie about the cocktail party and the wife of a high court judge. She told her of Carla contacting her just after. Even before Carla began recounting the life of a homeless girl who’d met a certain Antonio Brooks, she knew who they were talking about.

‘My mother!’

Carla sighed. ‘Your mother spent most of her life in an orphanage. When she left there was nothing much for her. She got in with a bad crowd and trouble came with it. She was a bit of a bad girl …’ She smiled at the memory. ‘That’s why your dad was attracted to her. She did well for a girl from nowhere. Me and her …’ Again she smiled at the memory. ‘We were mates. Best mates. She had no mum and dad and I wished I didn’t have any. My old man used to get pissed out of his head and knock the stuffing out of us – me and me mum. I left home and hitched up with Mary, your mother. And we did alright. We had a nice little business going and had it made. I may as well be honest with you – we both worked the streets. Then along came Antonio Brooks and swept her off her feet.’

She shook her head. ‘Amazing. What a change in a girl! One minute she was a real hard case, and the next all she wanted from then on in life was to be a good mother and wife. Unfortunately things didn’t quite work out that way.’

Marcie listened in horror as Carla retold the story that had been told to her.

‘Your mother went up to London to buy you a special dress for your communion. It was to be a big surprise. She hadn’t even told your father. A mate of his had offered to drive her up. Unfortunately that “mate” …’ Carla spat the word contemptuously. ‘Well, he had his own agenda. The last thing she remembers is waking up in hospital with her clothes dishevelled and covered in blood. She couldn’t remember a thing. Not even her name. She had no option but to make a new life for herself. Not even having a name, she assumed the name of a dead child from off a grave stone.’

Marcie listened, with her heart feeling as though it were in her throat. She had an ugly suspicion who might have given her mother a lift to London. Alan Taylor had made a few offhand comments that made her suspect it was him. He’d been obsessed with her mother, just as he’d been obsessed with her.

However, he was dead and she wasn’t inclined to mention his part in this. Instead she asked, ‘The woman in the chauffeur-driven car. That was her?’

Carla nodded. ‘She couldn’t resist peeking at you and her granddaughter.’

‘Why didn’t she come herself?’

Carla’s gaze was now fixed on her hands. ‘Well! It was bit difficult. Her husband’s very posh. He don’t know nothing about her old life. It was only after
marrying
him that her memory began to come back. But she couldn’t tell him the truth. He’s old. Once he’s dead and gone, it’ll be a different matter.’

Not once had she met the frozen look on Marcie’s face.

‘Being curious, she’d already found out that Antonio had divorced her for desertion and remarried. But there was one thing she couldn’t find out from bits of legal paper; she couldn’t find out about you. She wanted to see you, but was afraid of how you’d be towards her. After all, she did desert you – in a manner of speaking.’

Marcie could barely control herself and certainly couldn’t speak. There were so many emotions whizzing around in her head; so many questions; so many things she wanted to say. Sentences kept forming and falling apart. Engrossed in what Carla had been saying, she hadn’t noticed Michael move away from the window. He was now standing behind her. She felt his hands resting reassuringly on her shoulders as if to say, I am here. Trust me.

One question, the most important question of all broke through all the others. ‘When can I see her?’

Carla locked her fingers around the teacup. ‘You can’t.’

All the high hopes Marcie had suddenly been entertaining came crashing down around her head.

Michael squeezed her shoulders.

Carla rushed on with her excuse – which to Marcie’s mind was all it ever could be. An excuse. Not a good reason.

‘Look, love, like I just told you, her husband is very much older than her and no longer in good health. He hasn’t got long to live. Look at it from her point of view: he’s at death’s door and she’s telling him she’s not who it says on the marriage certificate and that she was once a whore and married to a hood. Sorry, Marcie,’ she said on seeing Marcie’s wince, ‘but your old man is a hood. A crim! There’s no getting away from it. And she don’t want to tell him about her past. The poor old judge would have an instant heart attack. He’s been good to her. She can’t repay him like that. So if you’ll just wait a while …’