Charity (69 page)

She lay in his arms, feeling his fingers gently playing with her nipple, and wondered why a man with so much going for him should have become such a bastard.

But George had paid her good money for this job and she mustn’t start feeling sorry for Toby now. Once he was asleep, as he soon would be, she must get up and find the heroin, put it in her bag and be ready when George arrived at seven.

‘I’ve never felt like this before,’ Toby whispered against her hair. ‘It’s like a door opening and showing me something beautiful I didn’t know was there.’

‘You must have done.’ She laughed softly. ‘A man like you!’

Those were practised words she’d said to many men, said glibly while inside she was laughing at herself for stoking their vanity. The public school ones like Toby were usually hopeless cases, so proud of their background, their superior education and so hidebound by warped morality and unhappy childhoods that there was no way to get through to them. The most she could achieve from such men was the certainty that they’d keep call girls like her busy for years.

But Toby was different. He was still so young, innocent enough to think she was just an ordinary girl, naïve enough to believe this was dawning love. If she had met him in different circumstances she might be tempted to try and hold on to him, but that was out of the question.

Carla’s home wasn’t in Dover, with a loving father who would pick her up in the morning. She was Carol Muckle, a girl from Dagenham who had run away from home to avoid the attentions of her mother’s latest boyfriend when she was only fifteen. If anyone had told her ten years ago that she would one day fool men into thinking she came out of the top drawer, she would’ve laughed at them. Secondhand clothes, a hideous cockney accent – she couldn’t even hold a knife and fork correctly. All she had in her favour was a pretty face, a good body and a hatred of poverty.

It was Donald Withers who had changed her into Carla Clayton. A forty-year-old accountant whose passion for young girls was equal to hers for money and luxury, he may have thought of her as a sex slave when he set her up in a little flat in Stoke Newington, but three years later she had reversed their roles. True, she still put on a gym slip and navy blue knickers for his pleasure, plaited her hair and let him play out schoolroom games, but he was the slave, not her. She made sure she got a big allowance each week, or he didn’t get so much as a finger in her knicker elastic. He paid for her to have elocution lessons and she insisted on eating out in good restaurants, and weekends away in smart hotels. By the time Donald was ready to trade her in for a younger, less worldly model, Carla had savings, a wardrobe full of expensive clothes and the equivalent of a degree in lovemaking. A couple of years as a receptionist in several top London hotels gave her all the confidence and inside information she needed; then she branched out on her own, doing the job she had trained for, pleasing men and getting paid for it.

But now as Toby nuzzled into her neck, she was reminded of times when she too had wished for the kind of love which would wash away all her more shameful memories.

‘I’ve just used women,’ he said softly, his voice full of regret. ‘But perhaps it’s not too late to change.’

‘Of course it’s not.’ She ran her hand over his smooth chest. She knew of course that anything he felt tonight, whatever painful confessions he made, would be wiped out when he discovered he’d been set up. But all the same she wanted to reach inside him and discover what made a man with so much going for him resort to drug smuggling and even murder.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ she said softly, stroking his face. ‘Lovemaking is a good time for sharing secrets. If you’re embarrassed tomorrow you don’t have to see me again.’

Toby had already forgotten the image he had cultivated over the years. Carla had peeled a layer of his act away and he rather liked the naked sensation.

‘You don’t want to know about me,’ he whispered.

‘I do,’ she insisted.

‘I’m not a very nice person,’ he said, blushing slightly. ‘Mind you, I think I inherited that from my father. He was cruel to my mother and to us kids.’

‘Go on,’ she prompted.

Toby smirked, stroking back her hair.

‘I don’t know why I’ve even told you that!’

‘Making love can do lots of things to people.’ She lifted herself up on one elbow and looked down at him, letting her long hair trail across his chest.

Toby’s eyes were the clearest blue she’d ever seen, his hair white-blond like a Swede’s or a German’s. Undoubtedly he was the most handsome man she’d ever seen. But there was pain in those eyes, and she was sure it was those childhood memories that had twisted his mind.

‘Making love can make you feel pure again. It can make you feel more for someone else than you do for yourself. It relaxes, stimulates so many different things. But I think in your case it’s touched a part of you that was locked away – maybe your father.’

‘He was a preacher,’ he said turning his face away. ‘Even as a little boy I knew it was all a sham. He was a liar, a hypocrite, he loved no one but himself, and worst of all he was a pervert.’

Carla had heard many such admissions from men. Whatever was going to happen to Toby after tonight she felt duty bound to let him unburden himself and maybe exorcise at least one of his demons.

‘Tell me?’ she said softly. She sat up and pulled him close to her so his head was resting on her breasts. She stroked his hair away from his face and waited.

‘He screwed my sister,’ he muttered into her flesh. ‘One night I heard this noise and I went upstairs. I looked round the door and he was there, doing it to her. She must have been thirteen then and I was too young to really know what it was. But the noises he was making frightened me and I went away.’

‘Did you ever tell your sister you knew?’ She felt so sorry for him; it wasn’t hard to imagine how such a scene could torment a boy once he reached adolescence and understood what he’d witnessed.

He didn’t answer right away, just buried his face closer into her.

‘Did you, Toby?’

‘Yes.’ He made an odd sound in his throat, like a half-swallowed sob. ‘But I was as cruel as my father. I threw it at her, knowing it would hurt her.’

Carla closed her eyes. Somehow she understood everything, even though she knew no more of his background than George had needed to tell her. He loved this sister – perhaps she was the only person he’d ever loved – and he’d hurt her deliberately because of his own pain.

‘You must tell her, Toby,’ she said, smoothing his head gently. ‘All of it. Don’t let this thing grow between you like a cancer.’

He lifted his head from her breast and she saw tears in his eyes.

‘You’re very wise.’ He tried to smile. ‘How come you couldn’t fix your car?’

‘I’m better at fixing people.’ She smiled back, wiping at his eyes with one finger. ‘Suppose I make us a cup of tea, have a wash and then we start all over again?’

It wasn’t until five that he eventually fell so sound asleep that she was able to wriggle out of his arms. She lay still for several minutes listening to his deep breathing, then slipped out of bed and over to his bag.

Enough faint light filtered through the curtains for her to see. Hardly daring to breathe she rummaged through it and when she found nothing but clothes and toiletries, her heart began to thump.

Could he have left it in the car? There was no way she could go in and out of the hotel at this hour without arousing suspicion. But then she remembered the red marks on his chest. Of course, he’d taken it off once he got up here!

She glanced under the bed, and as she straightened up she saw his jacket. Keeping her eyes on Toby she crept towards it. He was sound asleep, one arm curled round his face like a small child, his half-covered body golden against the white sheets.

Holding the hanger still with one hand, she delved into the pockets and breathed a sigh of relief as she felt the packets.

It showed his real innocence that he hadn’t suspected a set-up. Most men in his position wouldn’t have stopped in a lonely road, even for a girl on her own. If they had been foolhardy enough to stop, they would have found a safer place to hide the drugs: in the hotel safe, even under the mattress.

In a minute she swapped his packets for ones of talcum powder she’d brought in her bag, then got back into bed beside him.

Carla knew there was no danger of falling asleep; she was much too tense now. She was being paid for a job, just as he was. They were both people who lived by their wits and it wasn’t her responsibility to decide whether her actions were any more reprehensible than his.

He woke just as she got back from the bathroom. She had changed into jeans and a shirt.

‘I’ve got to go,’ she said and bent over to kiss him.

This was the dangerous time. Ruthless he might be, but he was brought up a gentleman and he would find it hard to let her go without escorting her downstairs.

‘But –’ he sat up in bed, ready to jump up.

‘Don’t come down. Dad might be waiting in the foyer.’ She kissed his forehead and pushed him gently back on the pillows.

‘When will I see you again?’ he said and his eyes looked sorrowful.

She took a sheet of hotel writing paper from the dressing-table and wrote down a number in London. It was a made-up one, but it was kinder than the truth.

‘Ring me soon.’ She kissed him again, for a moment letting herself sink into his arms. ‘It was a wonderful night, Toby. You’re the best lover I’ve ever had.’

She left then, running down the stairs with her bag in her hand and across the foyer to the street.

The black Jaguar was waiting just a few yards up the road. As she approached George leaned across and opened the door.

‘You got it?’

‘Of course.’ She wanted to smile, to laugh and tell him how easy it had been, but all she could think of was that lonely, lost man lying there wrapped in rosy dreams while she was running out on him.

Toby felt like a new man as he drove back into London. Traffic was pouring down towards the coast, for a Sunday at the seaside, but there was little going into London. Despite only a few hours’ sleep he was rested and relaxed. He had the hood down, the sun was shining and he couldn’t wait to see Carla again. No girl had ever made him feel like this before. It was better than speed or coke, better even than money.

Maybe he shouldn’t have told her about his father, but then maybe this good feeling inside him was a result of that confession?

As he drove up the Old Kent Road he saw a row of telephone boxes and on an impulse he pulled up outside.

As he dialled Charity’s number he had a pang of anxiety that she would blank him off, but he knew he’d got to try and make amends.

‘Hallo.’

Her voice sounded sweet; once again pangs of remorse came back.

‘It’s me, Chas,’ he said. ‘Toby!’

Once just the sound of his voice would have brought a note of delight into her voice, but instead she hesitated before speaking.

‘Don’t hang up on me,’ he begged her. ‘Let me just say my piece?’

‘Go on then,’ she said coolly.

‘I got leave to come and see you. I’m so sorry about what I said and what I’ve done, Chas.’ His words tumbled over one another. ‘I know there isn’t any excuse for any of it, particularly the cruel things I said.’

‘I forgive you for what you said, Toby,’ she said so quietly he had to listen hard to catch it. ‘But I won’t stand by and see you ruin your life with drugs and until I have your assurance that that part of your life is over I won’t see you.’

‘It
is
over,’ he said. ‘All this trouble with you has made me see it was stupid. Let me come round later today and see you.’

‘I’m going out today,’ she said gently. ‘But tomorrow is fine. Come over for lunch and we’ll talk.’

Toby had a lump in his throat. He swallowed hard but still it was there.

‘You don’t hate me?’

‘I could never hate you, Toby. I don’t like you sometimes, but I’ll always love you.’

Toby put the phone down and went back to the car. He felt guilty that he still had the packages to deliver and he wished he hadn’t agreed to this last trip, but he couldn’t put the clock back now.

It was three in the afternoon as he parked his car in Cinnamon Street in Wapping. He had driven round the block of old warehouses, checking to see the place wasn’t under police surveillance, then, satisfied it was safe, he transferred the heroin from his jacket pocket into a brown paper bag. It took a couple of minutes to put up the hood. Even though the street was deserted and he didn’t intend to stay more than a few minutes, it was the sort of area that made him cautious.

Tucking the brown bag under his arm, he crossed the narrow cobbled street to the warehouse. The grass outside the seedy pre-war block of flats behind him was brown and scrubby, the one lone tree laden with dust.

The few shops at the end of the street looked equally bleak: wire grilles over the windows, peeling paint and crumbling stone. A rancid smell filled the warm air, a mixture of river, rotting ancient buildings and neglect.

Ringing the bell above the green door, Toby glanced nervously over his shoulder. An old lady was leaning on the top-floor balcony looking down at him, but almost all the other balconies were hung with washing. He could smell spice wafting out of the brickwork, a reminder of what the warehouse had been built for. He never dared ask what they used it for now. Albert and Jim Tooley weren’t the kind of men you questioned.

The sound of clonking boots on the stairs made him glance round again. He had changed this morning into jeans and a white T-shirt, but his short hair and sports car made him stand out in an area where men were tough, with tattoos, bulging muscles and beer bellies.

He sensed someone looking through the spyhole and then the door opened.

‘Come in, mate.’ Albert’s big face registered nothing. Not pleasure, not even dislike. Toby had never seen him smile, or show any other kind of emotion.

Albert was huge: over six feet, with a body like a tank. His brother Jim was the brain, at least he handed over the money and arranged things. Albert appeared to be there just to terrify people.