Dangerous (15 page)

Lately, a photographer had been showing up at the soup kitchen, taking impromptu shots in and around the place, until one of the Sally Army captains asked him what he was up to.

‘Taking a few natural shots. Black-and-white, for texture. I think people should see this, should know that people are destitute, that they have to queue up for food.’

‘What’s he doing?’ asked Bernie. She found the man fascinating. He was so tall, with long thin limbs and an offbeat, arty way of dressing. His sand-coloured hair was scraped back in a ponytail, and he had warm blue eyes. When he caught her staring, he smiled. He had a lovely smile.

He was still there when they were closing up. She hesitated, then went over, fidgeting warily.

‘Hello,’ she said, as he squatted in a corner removing a roll of film from his camera. He licked it, stuck down the end paper, then put the roll in his pocket. He stood up, turned to face her.

‘Hi. I’m David.’

‘Bernie,’ she said, and shook his hand. She nodded at the camera slung around his neck. It looked expensive. ‘You ought to watch it, coming around here with that. Someone’s likely to nick it off you.’

‘A couple of people have tried,’ he said. ‘They’d have to take me with it. I can’t function without this.’

‘So . . . is this a hobby? Taking pictures?’ she asked, chewing her lip.

‘No, I rent a studio. I do this for a living. Such as it is.’

‘Really? I’d love to see it,’ said Bernie impulsively. She’d never met a photographer before.

‘How about now?’ he asked.

‘Oh!’ Surprised, Bernie looked around. Clara wouldn’t expect her back until late, there was nothing else she had to do. Why not? ‘OK. If you don’t mind.’

‘Why would I mind? I’d be delighted.’

33

Toby was simply adorable. There was no other word for it. Clara was so delighted to have found him. He took her to the theatre and to the opera; he loved the arts, music, and it was pretty clear that he loved her, too. He sympathized over her difficult brother (although she didn’t confide even to Toby just how difficult Henry truly was), agonized with her over Bernie’s social shortcomings, seemed to understand her and empathize with her in a way that no other man ever had.

Annoyingly, Clara found that, attractive as Toby was, she didn’t feel a physical pull toward him in the way she had felt toward Marcus Redmayne. But she was very fond of Toby, and felt cosseted and adored in his company, and he was rich, so what more could any woman want?

You know the answer to that
, a voice in her brain told her.

Oh yes. The sexual stuff. That wild fizzing in the veins that told a woman she desired a man. She’d felt it, the moment she’d clapped eyes on Redmayne. And stifled it, too, instantly. Such madness had dragged her mother down, left her penniless, pregnant, without a hope. That was
not
going to happen to her.

She toured the clubs with Toby, asking questions, meeting the acts, and slowly they became a couple, gossiping happily together over what was happening around the venues, laughing at private jokes. They became a fixture on the Soho club scene. Wherever Toby went, wending his flamboyant way around the streets, there was Clara, stately as a queen, at his side.

‘Who is that?’ asked Paulette, tapping Marcus’s arm as they sat at his usual table in the Blue Bird one evening. ‘I’ve seen her out with Toby Cotton a few times now.’

Marcus looked where she was indicating and saw Toby Cotton sitting down at a table with a stunning dark-haired woman. One of the hostesses went up to them and took their drinks order.

Fuck
, he thought. It was her again. Clara bloody Hatton. She drove him mad with her ripe luscious body and her cold-as-ice ways. He watched her for long moments; she was wearing a plunging red silk gown and those looked like real diamonds in that necklace she wore. There was a white fox fur stole over her shoulders. She was fucking
beautiful
. And cold as Christmas.

‘His girlfriend, I suppose,’ he said, looking away. He picked up his whisky and drank it in one hit.

What he wanted . . . what he
wanted
was to go over there and slip his hand inside that low-necked dress and squeeze one of those fabulous tits of hers until she shrieked. He wanted to fuck her until she could barely walk. He wanted
everything
with her, to see her exhausted and wrung out in his bed. But she was like ice; untouchable. A couple of times their paths had crossed since Frank had fallen off the twig, Marcus had come on to her – and she had knocked him straight back, hard.

‘But I thought he . . . ?’ Paulette was still staring at Toby and Clara.

‘Look, who gives a fuck?’ snapped Marcus, and Paulette fell sulkily silent. He clicked his fingers for another drink, and the hostess hurried over.

‘Isn’t that Marcus Redmayne over there? He’s staring at you, darling,’ said Toby.

‘Is he?’ Clara looked vaguely around. Her eyes settled on Marcus. ‘I hadn’t noticed,’ she lied, because the minute they’d entered the building she’d been aware that this was his place, that he might be here, that she might see him.

He wanted her. She knew that. He’d made it clear. But she wasn’t ever going to risk losing control, and with him she knew she would. No, she liked wonderful, laugh-a-minute Toby.

‘I’m not surprised he’s staring, you look gorgeous,’ said Toby, leaning over and kissing her cheek. Then he sat back and smiled. ‘We’ve been getting on so well, haven’t we,’ he said.

‘We have,’ smiled Clara. No wild excitement, no maddening crazy impulses, not with Toby. Toby was
safe
. And safety, wealth, the cocoon of luxury, all that was what he could provide, and she loved him for it.

Toby reached into his pocket and extracted a black velvet box. He held it out to Clara.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, her smile broadening as she took it. Toby was always giving her gifts. She opened the box. There was a gold ring set with a large dark sapphire surrounded by tiny diamonds inside it. ‘God, that’s gorgeous,’ she said, and looked up at Toby with a laugh.

‘It’s an engagement ring, darling. I would like you to marry me,’ said Toby. ‘Will you?’

Clara was shaking her head in disbelief, still smiling. She took out the ring and slipped it onto her finger. ‘It’s a perfect fit,’ she said.

‘Like us,’ said Toby.

Clara’s eyes met his. ‘Of course I’ll marry you,’ she said, and Toby called for champagne to celebrate.

34

Clara was dismayed that house prices were falling again. But she was comforted by the sapphire engagement ring she now wore, comforted by the extent of Toby cotton’s wealth, if not entirely happy about the business he was in. Clubs in Soho! It wasn’t what she might have wished for. But it was obviously a rich, thriving business; the new music scene was something Toby was enthusiastic about and keen to promote at three of his venues, while the other three were gaming and drinking clubs. She couldn’t wait to get gorgeous, flamboyant Toby up the aisle and take a proper look at the business situation.

Toby escorted her around all the clubs, and they hugely enjoyed each other’s company. He gave her extravagant gifts of silken blonde furs and dazzling white diamonds, treated her to lunch at the best places.

At the Savoy he had the waiters bring vintage Dom Perignon to celebrate their engagement, and Clara said: ‘But, Toby – my sister Bernie and my brother Henry, you do understand that they come with me, don’t you?’

‘Of course, dear heart.’ He smiled his wonderful crinkleeyed smile and they clinked glasses and drank to a happy life together.

Being so pleased with her new engagement, Clara was puzzled by Bernie’s fixation with the slums they’d crawled out of, the slums she had pulled them out of by the skin of her teeth. She had worked hard to make sure they could leave all that behind them; but now here was Bernie, coming home late again, exhausted but flushed with inexplicable good cheer, having spent yet another day in that pest-hole.

‘The soup kitchen’s doing well,’ Bernie enthused.

‘Really?’ Clara didn’t want to hear about it. She was reading the papers, flicking through the news. The GPO were going to build a 507-foot tower that would be the tallest building in Britain, and there was still fighting going on in the Congo and Angola.

‘We can hardly keep up with demand.’

Clara was exasperated. Poor stupid soft-hearted Bernie. If you were ill, Bernie was right there at your bedside. If you were a loser? Ditto. She’d be there with the tea and sympathy, every time. Bernie was so sweet. Shame Henry didn’t have half her feeling, half her heart and compassion; then he might yet be salvageable. Maybe that ridiculously expensive boarding school would do the trick. Maybe he was even happy there. He never came home in the holidays – she never invited him, either – so how would she know?

‘Who is this “we”?’ asked Clara. She supposed she ought to take some interest, if only to please Bernie.

‘Other women with some time and money to spare, and the vicar donates all he can too. And there’s a photographer who’s helping us out – David Bennett. He takes pictures of the slum dwellers. Actually, he’s quite poor himself. He’s a wedding and portrait photographer mostly.’

‘Oh.’ No surprise then that he was half-starving and happiest among the poor. In her experience, photographers rarely made any real money.

‘As a matter of fact, I’m going to start helping him out in his studio,’ said Bernie.

‘Is he going to pay you?’

‘Well, no. Not at first.’

Not at all
, thought Clara, closing the papers with a brisk rustle.

Bernie irritated her to death sometimes. Clara stared hard at her sister. Why didn’t Bernie make more of herself? Attract someone with prospects for a change? Her longsleeved drab clothes, bitten nails and lack of make-up all added to her plain-Jane aura, when really she was quite pretty – if only she’d show it.

‘He can’t afford an assistant yet, but he will, one day. I’m going to help him with paperwork, doing up the proofs, that sort of thing.’

‘When you’re not trailing after him around the slums.’

‘Don’t be horrible, Clara. We can’t all be like you, engaged to a wealthy, interesting man like Toby. He’s so handsome too. And so nice. You’re lucky.’

Clara knew she was lucky. Toby was an absolute find: chatty and sweet, and he loved to fuss over her. He wasn’t very demonstrative physically, he was not a passionate kisser or forever groping her tits, but after marriage to Frank, that didn’t bother her in the least.

‘David says that people should see this,’ Bernie was droning on. ‘People should know the conditions these poor souls live in. He’s going to get his pictures into the national newspapers one day.’ Bernie started to sit down at the dinner table.

‘Oh. Right.’ Clara was dubious about this. It seemed to her that pigs might fly first. Toby had told her that some of the newspapers were conducting campaigns against the clubs in Soho, claiming that they were hotbeds of drug-taking and prostitution and other terrible perversions. The newspapers were no friends of Toby, and so they were no friends of hers, or of Bernie’s either. Clara wrinkled her nose. ‘Bernie, can you wash first please? And get those clothes off. They smell.’

Bernie rolled her eyes at her sister. ‘You lived there once,’ she said.

‘I know that. You don’t have to remind me. It’s a flea-infested rat-hole – and please don’t ever ask me to help out in your soup kitchen, because I would brain you with the fucking ladle if you did.’

35

Fulton was almost annoyed when one of Jacko’s old drinking mates showed up after having been abroad for a couple of years and said that he might know where Jamesy was. Anything that distracted Fulton from his long-running fascination with Clara Hatton irritated him, but he supposed he’d better show willing. The old mate said Jamesy was at his sister’s, so Fulton went there to see what was happening with him, and if he could shed any light on Jacko’s whereabouts.

Fulton thought about it on the drive over. For fun, he’d nicked a Morris off a garage forecourt and had Ian Bresslaw – who was scared shitless of him after Stevey Tyler got glassed – fit a set of fake plates to it for him.

Of course, Fulton reasoned that it was perfectly possible his brother had simply gone off somewhere, to the costas maybe, and that was fine, who gave a shit? But that far-distant fight in the Blue Bird being the last-known sighting of Jacko gave him pause. Had something happened to Jacko that night, something
fatal
maybe? Either way, Ivan would expect him to make the effort to find out, if he could, and maybe Jamesy could supply some answers.

‘Well, you can try,’ said Jamesy’s sister when he got to her door. She was a worn-looking middle-aged yellow-blonde with varicose veins, a fag smouldering in her hand and a network of lines on her face that British Rail would be proud of.

‘What does that mean?’ asked Fulton.

‘Come through and you’ll see,’ she said, and led the way down a gloomy hall to a sitting room. It was very hot in there, and smelled stale and shitty.

Jamesy was there, and straight away Fulton could see he’d had a wasted journey. Jamesy was sitting in an armchair, his head bent over, his eyes vacant, a string of drool sliming its way down his chin.

Fulton had seen all sorts but he was shocked. He had seen Jamesy once on a visit down here – and this wasn’t anything like the Jamesy he remembered. Those days, Jamesy had been upright, short, bald and bow-legged as Popeye, with a big grin and a quicksilver way about him. Now, all his previous vigour was gone. He looked like he’d left planet Earth and forgotten to die first.

Fulton looked at the sister. She took a long pull at her fag and stared straight back at him.

‘See?’ she asked.

Fulton saw all right. On top of Jamesy’s bald head there was a half-moon scar about four inches long, coloured angry red.

‘The doctors said there was nothing more they could do. Someone fractured his skull in a fight, knocked bits of bone into his brain and left him like this. I thought of a home, but I didn’t want to do that.’ She sniffed and blinked back a tear. ‘Not at them prices, anyway. He was a lovely boy, but look at him now.’