Friends to Die For (8 page)

By the following morning, like magic, and exactly as Tiny had predicted, only twenty-four hours late, it seemed that all Bob’s plants had been returned, replaced on his
terrace almost exactly as they’d been before, along with a second plastic-encased note.

Thanks for the loan. Taken a few pelargonium cuttings. Hope you don’t mind, AT.

Bob called Tiny with the good news.

‘There, what did I tell you?’ said the big man.

‘OK. You were right. I still don’t like it though.’

‘Oh, come on, Bob. Where’s that cockney sense of humour of yours? It was just a joke.’

‘Ummm. And we don’t know who’s responsible, do we? Or what they may do next.’

‘Look. It’s not been anything serious . . .’

Bob interrupted, repeating his barbed comment of the previous day: ‘You were very sure I’d get my stuff back, weren’t you, Tiny?’

‘I certainly was. True to form, I reckoned.’

This time if Tiny picked up on any hidden implication in Bob’s remark then he chose to ignore it.

Bob paused before deciding to persist.

‘Look, I’m going to ask you outright, no more pussyfooting around,’ he said. ‘Was it you, Tiny? Did you do it? Did you take my plants?’

‘No I bloody didn’t,’ Tiny shot back at him. ‘Hey, don’t go round accusing me, mate. I was your good Samaritan, remember?’

‘Ummm. Look, it has to be someone I know, doesn’t it? Someone who knows me and my place well enough to be able to do this.’

‘Could be anyone.’

‘I don’t have many mates, Tiny. George and I are both Sunday Clubbers. Looks like whoever played these tricks on us is one of the group. And somebody agile enough to climb on and off
my terrace.’

‘It’s not very high off the walkway. Probably rules out Marlena though.’

‘She could have paid someone to do it.’

‘For God’s sake, Bob.’

‘OK. What about George then? He’s fit. He’s always at the flipping gym. And he’s forever taking the piss out of me about my garden.’

‘George has also been a victim of a prank. You just said that.’

‘He could have played it on himself.’

‘What? George? Put himself in that situation with only a Mr Tickle suit to wear? Don’t be daft!’

‘Maybe you’re right. What about Greg then? He lives in Bishops, just a few doors from me. Knows his way about the place better than anyone. He came round the other night too. It
could have been him.’

‘Oh stop it, Bob. You’ll drive yourself mad, and what’s the point? No harm’s been done. Whoever did this will probably own up sooner or later anyway. Proud of themselves,
more than likely. Like we all said at Sunday Club, remember?’

‘I suppose so,’ muttered Bob.

‘Good. You are coming to Johnny’s this Sunday, aren’t you?’ persisted Tiny.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Come on, Bob, this needs to be talked through. You need to admit to everyone how upset you were when you thought you’d lost Danny’s pot, and that you don’t think
it’s funny.’

‘Well, I don’t.’

‘You laughed at George.’

‘Yes, and I wish I hadn’t, to tell the truth. The whole lot of us should have thought things through more.’

‘OK then, I reckon we have to put a stop to all this. We don’t want any more pranks, because we don’t want not to be trusting each other, do we, mate?’

‘I guess not,’ said Bob.

After finishing the call Tiny phoned Greg to say the plants had been returned.

Greg giggled at him down the phone.

‘Look, Bob’s taking it all a bit seriously . . .’ Tiny began.

‘I know that,’ said Greg. ‘He was dead moody when I called round, and I was only trying to help. Even though I’d guessed it was another prank. And you gotta accept that
it’s funny.’

‘Bob doesn’t think it’s funny,’ said Tiny. ‘Actually, he’s very upset. You saw that for yourself. You have to remember, Greg, that he thought he’d lost
the pot his kid made for him – he’s never got over Danny pissing off. And you know how daft he is about his prize pelargoniums. He once told me he regarded his pelargoniums as his
children now, and that they were a lot less trouble than a hairy-arsed teenager.’

Greg’s giggling exploded into full-blown laughter at this.

‘Oh for God’s sake, Tiny,’ he said. ‘Now that really is funny.’

Tiny, Billy, George and Marlena all arrived at Johnny’s early the following Sunday. Michelle came next and immediately expressed sympathy for Bob and unease about what
she felt could be an unpleasant edge to the practical jokes.

‘If you’re upsetting people then that’s not a joke, not as far as I’m concerned anyway,’ she said.

‘That’s what I’m beginning to think,’ said Tiny. ‘And Bob certainly does.’

‘Come on,’ said George. ‘I was made to look a total prat. But now a bit of time has passed I do realize the prank played on me was pretty funny. I just want to know who’s
doing it, that’s all.’

‘We all seem to agree it’s the same person, and probably one of us, don’t we?’ said Michelle.

‘Definitely the same person,’ said Billy. ‘Same MO, as they say in the best detective shows. And obviously someone who knows Bob and George, their habits, and where they live.
What other link do Bob and George have, apart from Sunday Club?’

George shrugged.

‘Can you think of anything, George?’ asked Marlena.

George was just replying that he could think of no other link, when Greg and Karen arrived.

‘Sorry we’re late,’ Greg said. ‘Some bastard’s slashed the tyres on the van. Three of ’em, for fuck’s sake. Had to sort it straight away, ’cos I
need to get going first thing in the morning. Gotta big job on.’

There was total silence as Greg sat down and helped himself to a glass of the wine that was already on the table. It seemed a long time before he became aware of the silence, or that all eyes
were fixed on him.

‘What?’ he enquired, looking around.

‘Whaddya mean, “what”? Isn’t it obvious?’ enquired Billy.

‘Isn’t what obvious?’ Greg paused, then the penny dropped. ‘Oh, no. You can’t possibly think it’s the same joker who took the piss out of George and Bob, can
you? That was entirely different. This is malicious.’

‘Yes, and it’s a different MO,’ said Billy, working it out like the lawyer he was. ‘As you say, entirely different. But if it’s not the same joker then we’ve
got a coincidence on our hands.’

‘Not really,’ said Greg. ‘Typical Saturday-night vandalism, if you ask me. I’ve lived in this manor all my life and these things happen. The van’s parked in the
street most of the time I’m not driving it, in residents’ parking. Just my turn for a bit of bother, that’s all.’

‘So you really believe it was random?’ pressed George.

‘’Course I do,’ said Greg.

‘No note then, like George and Bob?’ queried Billy.

Greg shook his head.

‘Maybe it blew away,’ said Tiny. ‘It’s windy today.’

‘For goodness’ sake, no,’ responded Greg. ‘Look, we’re market. Expect the odd knock round here. Don’t we, babe?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Karen. ‘I honestly don’t know. I mean, nothing like this has happened to us before, all the years we’ve lived here, has it?’

‘Like I said, it’s our turn. And I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. So come on, I’m ravenous. I could eat a horse. Whoops, shouldn’t say that, should
I – who knows what’s in the burgers these days? Anyway, a horse might not be big enough.’

Greg picked up the Sunday specials menu. He tried to avoid meeting Karen’s eye. She knew more about him than anyone else in the world. But even she didn’t know everything.

He wanted desperately to change the subject. To move on from the matter of his slashed tyres.

‘Hey, half a roasted elephant,’ he said, realizing he was talking nonsense but not caring. ‘Just the job. Oh no. My mistake. Half a roasted chicken. Think I’ll have the
spare ribs again.’

More wine was delivered, another Prosecco for Marlena, and a second round of cosmos for Tiny and Billy, while the group juggled the menus and finally ordered their meals. Alfonso, on duty at the
Vine, and Ari, off goodness knows where and on goodness knows what, did not turn up. Neither did Bob.

It was quite usual for only some of the friends to be present, but none of them had really expected Bob to be there. Especially given the fact he hadn’t taken the theft of his plants well
and he suspected one of the Sunday Clubbers to be responsible.

Nonetheless, in spite of the awkwardness generated by Bob’s absence and the unease caused by Greg and Karen’s news of the damage to their van, after a bit the evening settled into a
normal Sunday Club session. But that was only how it seemed. In truth, everyone around the table, including Greg, who had put on such a show of being dismissive, was uneasy.

Greg kept his head down and concentrated hard on his spare ribs in barbecue sauce, thankful that he had chosen a dish that demanded his full attention. Karen kept glancing at Greg anxiously and
said little. Tiny, Billy and George all talked too much. Michelle and Marlena both picked at their food. Marlena, witty caustic Marlena, who normally had a riposte for everything, was unusually
silent.

There was a common preoccupation, of course. Questions that lurked in the back of the minds of at least six of the seven assembled members of the group, or perhaps all of them.

Could those tyres have been slashed by the same person who had played pranks on Bob and George? Could it really be one of their supper club? Could that person actually be sitting at the
table?

Or was Greg right, and this latest incident was just a random case of inner-city vandalism?

The next day Marlena, dressed in blinged black as usual, a mink cape tossed carelessly over her shoulders, wearing full make-up and false eyelashes, even though it was not yet
9 a.m., was still thinking about the previous evening when she set off for the Soho deli which was probably her favourite food shop in the world.

Marlena lived in a block of flats, converted in the seventies from a disused fruit-and-veg warehouse, at the heart of Covent Garden right by the Opera House.

‘Where else?’ she would ask.

She rarely strayed beyond the perimeters of the Garden.

‘Why ever would I, darlings? Covent Garden is the centre of the universe,’ was another of her sayings.

Her regular Monday-morning excursion to Franco’s Deli was an exception. It was, after all, only a twenty-minute walk from her home, and she actively looked forward to it.

Soho was at its quietest at this time of the week, and Marlena often had the whole wonderful shop to herself. She did not eat a great deal, but she liked to tickle her taste buds with assorted
delicacies. Normally her only preoccupation as she made her way through the city streets was to plan exactly what selection of delights she would treat herself to, but this particular Monday
morning was different. Marlena was worried. Her life for several years now had been ordered and pleasant. She had good and interesting friends, a comfortable flat in the middle of an area she
considered to be the very best place to live, and her demons had left her alone for some time.

There were aspects of Marlena’s past life that would cause her a great deal of trouble were they ever to become known. But Marlena had almost forgotten that. It was all so far behind her
that she had allowed herself to believe she’d got away scot-free. At her somewhat substantial age – she had taught herself to forget the precise figure – Marlena had finally found
a kind of peace. Or as much peace as a woman like her could ever achieve.

But that peace had been disturbed by the series of incidents involving three members – possibly four, if you counted Karen as well as Greg – of the little group whose company she so
enjoyed. It particularly disturbed her that the ‘joker’ responsible had yet to own up, leading to an atmosphere of distrust and suspicion among the friends.

She wasn’t exactly fearful. The incidents had been fairly trivial, after all. And while she was concerned that she might be the joker’s next target, she didn’t believe there
was anything they could do that would cause a real upset in her life. She was too careful for that. These days, people thought of her as an eccentric old woman. Her past was far behind her now and
buried so deep no one would ever suspect.

Even so, Marlena couldn’t stop feeling anxious.

She pulled her mink cape more tightly around her shoulders. The weather had turned cold again. As she touched the soft fur she was reminded of the only time she had felt in real danger since
she’d moved to Covent Garden.

It had been some time ago, during a period of anti-fur protests. Marlena had been walking past the rear entrance of the Theatre Royal when a group of protesters, no doubt waiting for a fur-clad
celebrity to emerge from the stage door, had spotted her. She’d been wearing an arctic fox wrap.

The protestors had rushed to surround her, and began pushing her, yelling insults.

‘Fucking murderer!’ they cried. ‘Vicious bitch!’ And more.

Then one of them had emptied the contents of a tin of red paint over her. And her white fur wrap.

Marlena had been stronger then, but in the face of their fury she’d been helpless. She could only cower beneath the overwhelming force of it.

Passers-by had crossed the street, pretending not to notice. Two stagehands having a smoke outside the stage door had ducked their heads to avoid glancing in her direction. Nobody wanted to mess
with the angry mob attacking her.

Eventually the protestors had grown tired of Marlena and returned to their stake-out. She had hurried home, reeking of paint, tear stains streaking her face, and on the way dumped the
irretrievably damaged fur in a municipal bin.

Marlena still winced at the memory. At least you could wear a fur in London again nowadays, she thought. Assuming you had the nerve. Although some people made their disapproval clear enough, the
violence had stopped. And surely she had nothing else to worry about? Not really. She remained in charge of her own destiny, didn’t she?

She passed through Seven Dials, made her way up Earlham Street, and came to a halt at Cambridge Circus, opposite the Palace Theatre. This was the point where Soho met Covent Garden in a tangle
of merging, intertwining traffic lanes, and the morning rush hour was still going strong. Not that there really was a proper rush hour any more, Marlena reflected. Since the congestion charge had
been introduced in 2000 it seemed that the traffic remained heavy all the time.