The Sister (42 page)

When Theresa had asked Tanner if she could talk to him outside work, he dared to hope, but never dreamed they'd become lovers that night. She'd surprised him with her voracious appetite for him. They were barely inside the house, and had said very little before they devoured each other hungrily. The thick dark auburn hair that framed her face became tangled and bedraggled; her eyes were intense, filled with greedy desire, the enigmatic smile replaced by wicked glee as she whispered in his ear.
Don't tell Kennedy!
He paused at the mention of his name. She giggled, and he laughed, resuming with a new vigour.
Eat your heart out, Kennedy.
She let herself go completely. Two lonely people in need of more than just company, swept away in a tidal wave of passion.

He lay there afterwards, thinking about a possible future and pinched himself. She was all he'd dreamed of and more; he couldn't believe she'd been right under his nose all this time. He never realised just how good she would be for him.

She stroked his chest, lazily running the tips of her fingers across his skin. The sensation soothed him. He kissed her hair and closed his eyes.

"John," she said, drawling his name in her familiar way, but she sounded different. She sounded scared.
He opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling without saying anything, waiting…

"John, I didn't tell you everything . . ."
 

When she'd finished telling him what she'd done, he faced a dilemma. He'd just begun to picture her in the future with him. Now he had to make a choice.
Would I have done anything different, faced with her choices?

Her next words clinched it for her. "The thing is John; I think it's Kennedy who's been calling me."

He shook his head and said, "That's crazy, Theresa and you know it!"

"Don't you think I know that? John, you're going to have to bear with me a minute here. I think Kennedy is the caller. He's compromised me. He thinks he can demand sex, and I can't do anything about it. But I don't think it started like that. I think he tried to make me feel sorry for him . . . that he was being targeted by some manipulative . . .
somebody.
"

"Well it's an interesting theory, but what made you come up with such a thing in the first place, he's never tried anything with you has he?"

"No, he hasn't, but it's the way he looks at me sometimes, and not only that, the voice on the phone, it
sounds
like him."

Tanner froze. A seed of doubt formed in the darkness at the back of his mind. It would explain the jealousy, the outburst, and what about the call he'd taken. That caller had sounded like Kennedy too. Where was Kennedy that morning? Could he have set the whole thing up himself, for reasons that hadn't yet become clear? He shook his head, more at himself than anything else. To go to such lengths to get a woman in the sack seemed extreme. He just couldn't see it.

She pulled herself into his arms and squeezed him tight, whispering, "John, what are we going to do?"

Chapter 86

When Monday morning came, once Tanner dropped her back to collect her car, she handed him a piece of paper with the telephone number she'd called and the registration number of the motorcycle that tailed her.

One thing was for sure, if they could catch her tormentor, they would be able to keep her off the hook. He put it in his pocket, telling her, "I'll get those checked out."

An hour later, when he checked the bike's registration, he couldn't believe his eyes, yet in some crazy way, it made sense to him. He didn't relish the coming confrontation, but he knew he couldn't shrink from it either. The telephone number drew a blank, just as she'd expected.

"Out on our bike the other night, sir, were we?"

"Are you being serious?"
Kennedy said, folding his arms.

"Why would I not be?"

"Because my bike is in bits, on my garage floor and has been for months."
Kennedy frowned. "Why did you ask me that?"

"It looks like someone has cloned your registration, sir."

"How come?"

"Someone was talking about a road rage incident in my local. They got the registration number, and I thought . . ."

"I'd have thought you have better things to do with your time, Tanner. What's happened about that fairground boxer you were tracing?"

"Waiting for a call to tell me when he is next fighting, it might take forever. He's an ex-champ who still fights, but rarely these days . . ."

"Well, get to it will you, I can't believe you can't trace him until he comes out of the woodwork to fight."

"There's no official record of him, sir, we only have a twenty-year old photo of him and nobody knows where he lives . . . So, where exactly do you suggest I start?"

Kennedy seemed deflated as he shrugged. "Somewhere in the woodwork, I would think."

Chapter 87

Melissa put down the phone. She confirmed her arrangements with JFK. Moving her laptop in front of her, she signed in to Facebook to post the agreed message. 'I can't wait for more birthday celebrations'.
Almost over now, Mel
.

She'd given up trying to figure out what it was he was up to after the second message. Not that she had time to worry much about it, she was raking in around two and a half, to three thousand in appearance fees and the one night a week with clients was bringing in another six or seven thousand.

If she carried on working extra hard, she could recuperate most of what was stolen in twelve weeks or so, less her living expenses. If the caller stuck to his word, she would have the money back a lot sooner. She prayed Lynch wouldn't ask for it in the meantime.

Despite the break-in, she still put her earnings in the safe.
Lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place.
After the break-in, she'd started a new dossier. For her, it was an irresistible urge. Keeping a diary had been a habit from when she was nine years old, when her mum bought her one for her birthday. It was only when she reached later life that she realised the true value of recording days and dates. She recorded every request, right from the caller's first contact with her; she knew what men like him were like. He would try to spin it out, squeeze another favour from her. If she did it this way, she could say,
you've had your five things you asked for. I know because I wrote it down.

When the call came this time, a few minutes later, he introduced a new requirement.

She hesitated. It was a bizarre request. She tried to make sense of it. "I want to know the
reason
you want me to do that."

"Melissa, we are going to fall out if you keep asking me questions like that, eh?" he said, in a smooth and persuasive voice. "Do this thing for me and I'll come round with the money and
your little black book. Five favours I asked for, and this will be the last. I promise you won't be bothered again by me."

The tone of his voice reassured her he was telling the truth. "Okay . . ."

"Right, when is your next liaison?"

"It's tomorrow night at 8—"

"No, that's too early . . . wait a minute," the caller didn't speak for a moment. "Okay, we can work with that. At 8:30 p.m. tomorrow, your phone will ring. Do not answer it under any circumstances, is that clear?"

"Yes," she felt subdued; she didn't have a choice.

"Good and don't listen to the message afterwards. I'll know if you have and if you have, you'll have broken our bargain. You will not get your things back. Do you understand? Now, I want you to call Lynch, tell him you heard this from Kennedy . . ."

He told her what he wanted her to say. "Have you got that? Good, after he leaves, the minute he leaves, call this number . . ." He read it out to her. She scribbled it down on an old envelope.

"And don't forget my little package. Once I’ve heard from you, I'll bring your things back as promised."

He hung up.

Chapter 88

It was Thursday night, and a mass of club goers were packed along the length of the building, between the rope barriers, waiting to get in to Lynch's new nightclub. The queue moved slowly, but steadily, a conveyor belt of people that would start and stop, as the men at the door controlled who came in. Staff turned away only a few, young men mostly, or blatantly under-aged girls. High above the door, a huge array of coloured light bulbs depicted a face that was instantly recognisable, even without the sign, that read
Marilyn's
. The crowd below were bathed in the colour of its warm blush. A man emerged seemingly out of nowhere, into the pink hue, apparently intending to jump the queue, a couple of doormen moved to check his progress.

"I'm here on business," he said, raising both hands above his shoulders, as if protesting innocence.

Neither of them seemed interested. They exchanged looks, respecting the strangers menacing size and appearance by skilfully blocking him and at the same time steering him away with gestures, careful not to touch him.

"Hear me out, fellas." He stared straight at the head doorman, pitching his voice loud enough to attract his attention. "I'm hoping to stage a series of White Collar boxing events and I'd love to do them here."

The head doorman came out and studied the stranger's face. Old, but dangerous looking, he looked like he'd taken part in a few boxing events himself. The stranger caught the look.

"I'm into promotions now."

"You need to see the boss and he ain't here."

"Fair enough, any one else I can see?" he said, knowing Tony, Lynch's right hand man was in there. He'd seen him arrive five minutes earlier. He inched forward.

"No sorry. Not without an appointment." The doorman raised his hands to keep him away, a trickle of adrenaline combined with rising apprehension had made him jittery. "Stand aside for me will you, I'm trying to run a door here."

The stranger, now flanked by three bigger men, didn't appear at all concerned. "Look, I don't want any trouble, but I'm here now - you know what I mean?" His voice softened, "This'll take about five minutes, that's all, this place would be ideal, but I got another place to see where the staff might be . . . um, friendlier. I wouldn't have thought your boss wants to be hearing how well the club down the road is doing, because you lost him a great business idea, would you?"
The head doorman spoke to the men either side of the stranger. "What do you reckon?"

One shrugged. "I've heard about it, Reg . . . You know he could be right."

Reg scratched his chin. "Okay, Take him inside; see if Tony will see him. What's your name?"

"The name's Dyson - as in the
Hoover." His face was deadpan as he added, "as in clean up."

"Wait there a minute." The bouncer pointed him to a navy blue sofa, but he made no effort to sit. The music pounding on the other side of the blue pair of doors seemed to increase tenfold as the doorman opened them to go through.

Left unaccompanied; his attention wandered from the rich, red wallpapered alcove where he sat, to the reception and cloakroom area. The place had a steady stream of people coming in through the doors. He couldn't resist doing the numbers.

You got a tidy little operation here, Lynch.

The doors opened, and Tony came out. He was chewing on gum as if he were in training for a gum chewing competition, the expression on his face fixed as if botoxed. His body jerked sporadically. Either he was suffering from Tourettes, or he'd been mixing too much drink with cocaine. 'Dyson' decided on the latter. Tony couldn't concentrate on the man before him, his eyes continually flicking over at the women coming in.

"Your name, Dyson?" He looked contemptuously at the man's ill-fitting suit. "What we got in mind then, my staff tell me it's to do with staging White Collar boxing nights here, is that right?" Dyson spotted a tiny hint of white powder in Tony's left nostril.

"Tony, that's right. You see there's a market for all kinds of fighting right now, and you know this gives ordinary people a chance to settle their differences in the ring like men. The ring's smaller than a pro ring—"

Tony cut him off short. "So what do I need you for, I can set this up for myself, and I gotta say to you mate . . ." Looking at Dyson's weathered and beaten face, he pointed at his spiky, straw-coloured goatee. "That's the most
fucked up
coloured beard I've ever seen. It doesn't even look real!"

"Tell you what, sonny." Dyson's demeanour changed, taking on an air of menace. "Give it a tug why don't you, see if it comes off." His lips stretched back baring his teeth. "If it does, fair play to you, but if it doesn't, I'll smack you up. What do you say to that?" He had his fist up by his jaw, rocking it slowly, his old Foreign Legion tattoo clearly visible left to right across the knuckles of his right hand, spelling out WRAT.