Dangerous (30 page)

The PC was writing in his notebook. The inspector looked at her sceptically.

‘You actually saw him . . . ?’ he asked.

‘I did. And I’d swear to it in court.’

‘You people don’t usually refer things like this to us,’ he said.

‘Look, I’m a private citizen being menaced by a thug, and I want protection.’

‘You have any evidence that Sears was involved in this?’

‘I told you. I saw him in the Carmelo club the night it happened. And he saw me.’

‘And what was he doing?’

‘Hitting my staff and my punters. With knuckledusters.’

‘You’d testify to this?’

‘I would.’

Now both men were staring at her. This was something unique – a Soho club owner talking to the police about
anything
was a shocker. But to say they’d give evidence? It was unheard of. Of course they’d heard nothing about this before Clara’s visit. The local plod had, as usual, turned a blind eye. And there were enough boys in blue on Soho’s streets on the take to make sure that happened; a sad fact of life.

‘Also, I think he could have been involved in the death of Sal Dryden.’ If Clara was going to hang Sears out to dry, she wanted to make a thorough job of it.

‘Why would you think that?’

‘He was terrorizing her,’ lied Clara.

‘What does that signify? Nothing, in my book.’

‘And what about the fire at my house? What about the death of my husband? Sears was trying to get to
me
– isn’t it possible he wanted to get Toby out of the way?’

‘All right. We’ll look into it,’ said the inspector, and dismissed her.

‘What you been up to?’ asked Jan when Clara got outside in the cold February fresh air again.

Clara clutched a hand to her heart. Jan had peeled away from the wall outside the cop shop, she hadn’t expected to see her there. ‘What the hell you doing?’ she demanded.

‘Following you.’

‘Well don’t, for God’s sake. You nearly gave me a bloody seizure.’ If Jan could follow her, so could anyone. That wasn’t a nice thought. And she had just done what no one else in the whole of Soho would dare to; she had dropped the snubbed, rejected Fulton Sears in the shit. Gone to the law. Turned grass.

‘What you been doin’ then, talkin’ to the Bill?’

‘Go home, Jan. It’s none of your business.’ Clara started walking away, very fast.

Jan half-ran to keep up with her. ‘You been tellin’ them about what happened in the clubs? I don’t believe it.’

Clara stopped walking and gave Jan a hard shove in the shoulder. ‘Look,’ she said hotly. ‘Mind your own, Jan. This has nothing to do with you.’

‘Well, pardon me,’ sniffed Jan, looking hurt.

‘I don’t want to have to tell you again. Fuck off,’ said Clara, and walked on. This time, Jan didn’t follow. And Clara was glad. Jan was safest being a long way away from her. She was poison now, she’d gone beyond the pale, and soon everyone would know it.

One job down; one to go.

She went to the Blue Bird that night, paid on the door to get in just like every other normal punter, then asked the muscle in there to take her to their boss.

‘Who wants him?’ asked one of them, eyeing her suspiciously.

‘Tell him it’s Clara Cotton.’

The muscle disappeared upstairs, then reappeared within a few minutes.

‘Come on up,’ he said, and she followed him up a set of steep stairs and along a short gloomily lit corridor. He knocked on a black-painted door to the right, then opened it.

‘Clara Cotton, boss,’ he said, and ushered her inside, closing the door behind her.

‘Well, this is nice,’ said Clara, looking around the cramped office. Actually it wasn’t nice at all. It was a box, full of filing cabinets, a desk, three wheelback chairs and Marcus Redmayne, who was leaning back in a ruby-red leather captain’s chair behind the desk and staring at her like she’d appeared out of a puff of smoke.

Finally he said: ‘What do you want, Clara?’

‘That’s an easy one,’ she said, taking a chair and settling herself on it. ‘I want you to marry me.’

76

The silence in the office was total for a long time. Finally Marcus said: ‘Why would you want me to do that?’

Clara shrugged. ‘You said it yourself, didn’t you. You have money. I want money.’

‘Right. I heard your clubs got a going-over.’

‘They did. And frankly it looks like I’m going to have to cut my losses there and admit you’re right. Running clubs is a man’s game. And you know about the insurance, don’t you. They claim the fire was started deliberately. It probably was. But
not
by Toby. They mentioned accelerants. Which all leaves me a bit short, as you can imagine. And so I thought, why not? You mentioned it first, and I suppose now would be a good time to take you up on the offer. You want the clubs. You said so.’

‘And you’ve come here because you’re strapped for cash.’

‘That’s right.’

‘That’s the only reason.’

‘Of course.’

Marcus narrowed his eyes and stared at her face. ‘Why don’t I believe you?’ he pondered aloud.

‘I don’t know. Why don’t you?’

‘I bet you’re a great poker player.’

‘I never gamble.’

‘No, I think chess would be more your game. You only go for certainties.’

‘That’s right.’

He was shaking his head now. ‘No, there’s got to be something else, some angle you’re not telling me about.’

‘No, there’s nothing.’

‘Clara, Clara,’ he sighed. ‘If only I could believe that. I’ve watched you work people over before, remember. Poor old Frank, and then Toby. You’re cold, you’re devious. Do you ever stop thinking, plotting your next move? I doubt it.’

‘So you don’t want to marry me then? You don’t want to have those clubs that were Toby’s?’ asked Clara.

Marcus sucked in a breath. ‘You know what? Actually, I think I still do. Even if half of them
are
in a damaged condition. Of course I could just buy them off you now, couldn’t I? With all this aggro and the state they’re in, it would be a knock-down price. Or I could take them off you. For nothing.’

‘Marcus. I need security. Your “muscle”, if you like. Of course I expect to live to a certain standard,’ said Clara. ‘When we’re married.’

He shrugged. His mother was the same. Give her gifts, give her the world, and she was happy. Nothing less would do. Fucking
women
. And marriage? When the hell had he ever mentioned
that
?

‘I’ve never mentioned marriage to you. Not once,’ he pointed out.

‘No, you haven’t. But that’s the only way you get the whole package, Marcus. The clubs. And me. The
only
way.’

He was silent, staring at her face. She meant it. ‘What the hell happened to you?’ he asked at last.

‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said, but she did.

‘I mean, what made you like this?’

Too much pain
, thought Clara.
Too much shit.

‘I am what I am,’ she said. ‘So . . . ?’

Marriage! Fuck’s sake!
Marcus stared at her. Yes, he wanted her. Wanted the clubs, too. But
marriage
. . . ‘I suppose the Registry Office would be acceptable? After all, you’ve already been married twice.’

‘And widowed both times,’ Clara reminded him. ‘Not divorced.’

‘What, you want a church wedding then?’ Marcus couldn’t believe he was having this conversation. Yes, he’d wanted her for a long time. Now she was here, offering it on a plate . . . but marriage. Christ! He’d been dodging
that
for years.

‘No. I don’t.’ After all, this wasn’t going to be a love match, was it. She wanted his money, he wanted her business and her body. The way he made her feel . . . well, she could deal with that. She
would
deal with it. ‘I want an equal partnership,’ she pointed out. ‘I want that understood right from the start. Equal shares. I want just as much say as you in the way they’re run, both your clubs and mine.’

He was watching her. ‘Long engagement?’ he asked.

‘No. Short as possible.’

‘Engagement ring, though.’

‘Of course.’

‘Preferences?’

‘Diamonds.’

‘Very marketable. And easy to remount.’ He looked at her hands: no rings there at all now, except for a thin, worn gold band on her right hand. ‘What’s that then?’ he asked, curious.

‘Oh, this?’ Clara looked down. ‘My mother’s wedding ring.’

‘Yeah?’ Marcus thought of his own mother. ‘What’s she like?’

‘She’s dead.’

Marcus nodded slowly. ‘We’d better go shopping, then. Tomorrow.’

‘Yes. First thing.’

‘Where are you staying?’

‘The Ritz.’ The little flat over the decimated Heart of Oak was far too risky now.

Marcus sighed. ‘Should have guessed.’

77

‘People are saying that Fulton Sears has been pulled in for questioning by the police,’ said Marcus when he picked her up in reception next morning.

‘Really?’ asked Clara, all innocence. ‘What about?’

‘Trashing your clubs, I heard. And that hostess who died? Sal something? Her murder. And maybe Toby’s murder too.’

‘Sal Dryden. Someone must have tipped them off then,’ said Clara. ‘I suppose.’

‘Yeah.’ Marcus followed her out, then hailed a passing taxi with its yellow light aglow. ‘I wonder who.’

Diamonds truly were a girl’s best friend. The inside of Asprey was as welcoming and as sumptuous as a fabulous box of chocolates, Clara thought, and she remembered all the times she had come in here with Toby, both of them happy as children playing in a sandpit as they selected this jewel or that.

It came over her, time and again when she least expected it. The memory of Toby, lying there burned, made ugly, ruined. Someone had done that to him. She shivered and had to swallow hard and blink back tears.

‘You all right?’ Marcus asked.

Clara snapped back to the present. She was trying on a diamond solitaire ring, mounted on a platinum band, and both the jeweller and Marcus were staring at her as she stood there, saying nothing. She fastened a smile on her face.

‘It’s lovely,’ she said bracingly. ‘Took my breath away for a minute there! Yes, this one. It’s perfect.’

They had lunch at Claridges, then Marcus asked what she would like to do next.

‘Look at the Crown Jewels,’ said Clara.

‘Haven’t you had enough diamonds for one day?’

‘I never have enough diamonds,’ said Clara. ‘Haven’t you heard?’

‘I’ll book the Registry Office for next week. Friday. All right?’

‘Fine,’ said Clara. That would give her time to make her peace with Bernie so that she could have her as bridesmaid. She thought of Henry, but she kept seeing that scene at the Carmelo, Henry flailing about among the blood and the smashed wine bottles like he was enjoying himself – while he wrecked his sister’s club. Like he was finally having his revenge on her.

No, she wouldn’t be inviting Henry to her wedding.

When they got back to the hotel late in the afternoon, Clara was surprised to find she’d had an enjoyable day.

‘I’ll see you tomorrow,’ said Marcus as he got back into the black cab and was driven away. Clara stood there on the pavement and stared after it. Her brand-new fiancé hadn’t even tried to kiss her goodbye. And why would he? This was a business deal. That was all. Then someone tapped her on the shoulder. She whirled around, her heart leaping into her mouth. It was Jan.

‘Christ, you again! What do you want?’

‘Was that Marcus Redmayne?’ asked Jan.

‘Yes. Not that it’s any of your bloody business.’

‘Keep your wig on. I wondered where you’d got to, and I thought, where would I find Clara? Knew it had to be a posh hotel and I’d heard you mention this one.’

‘Well done, Sherlock. What did you want to find me for?’

‘Just to tell you what I heard on the street.’

‘Which is?’

‘That Sears is being detained.’

‘I know that. Marcus told me.’

‘Yeah? Well you better hope they
keep
detaining the bastard, because penny to a pinch of shit he’s going to hear about your visit to the cop shop from one of his tame plods – and he ain’t going to be too happy with you when he gets out.’

78

Next day Clara went to the address off Regent Street where Bernie was staying with her friend. It was a tall, airy house divided into flats; Sasha had the top one. Clara trudged up four flights of stairs to find herself in a small and stiflingly hot attic room that must once have been servants’ quarters. There was a sweetish scent in the air; pot, she thought.

‘Oh, hi,’ said a languid brown-haired girl, opening the door to Clara. ‘Come in.’

Clara entered. The room she stepped into was shabby, dust-motes floating in the diffused light that fell from an uncleaned window. Sofas were draped with red and orange rugs that had seen better days. Indian dream-catchers dangled from the ceiling and extinguished joss-sticks lay on the mantelpiece above the boarded-up fireplace. Two closed doors led off to what must be bedrooms. She wondered if there was the luxury of a bathroom in the flat or if they had to share with the other tenants on the floors below. The thought brought back memories – not good ones.

A door opened and Bernie stepped out, wearing a knee-length white skirt – no miniskirts for Bernie – with burgundy go-go boots and a matching long-sleeved blouse. Her copper-brown hair was loose on her shoulders; she looked lovely. But her eyes when they rested on her sister were cold, and her face looked lifeless. Her lower lip looked sore from bite marks.

‘Hi, Bern,’ said Clara.

Bernie said nothing. Sasha looked between the two of them, then said awkwardly: ‘Let me give you folks a moment . . . ’ and sidled off into the room that Bernie had just vacated, closing the door behind her.

‘Can I sit down?’ asked Clara.

‘If you want,’ said Bernie, making no move to do so herself. She moved about the place restlessly, pacing, picking up ornaments, putting them down again, shooting glances at her sister all the while.

Clara went over to the rug-draped sofa and sat down. She looked up at Bernie.

‘So, what did you want?’ asked Bernie, folding her arms.

‘I’m getting married. Next Friday.’