Until Death (30 page)

The baby burbled and stretched towards his mother. The woman, ambushed by the strength of her primal bond, smiled at Kelly as the baby cooed.

‘Have a nice day,’ Kelly added and then she took off. She ran hard down the road away from her pursuer. He was tired after his long sprint after her in the car and she lost him as she cut through a small park and turned twice, on to a bigger road with free-flowing traffic. She jogged along for a while, cutting west, trying to find a minicab office or a black cab. She found neither, was stuck in an area of storage companies, haulage firms and low-rise offices. She saw a cement mixer rumbling along the road and on a whim stuck out her thumb. The truck coasted to a halt.

An old man sat in the cab looking down at her. She could see he was swearing behind the window glass. She opened the door to his cab. He was furious. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing? Hitchhiking? If my daughter did that I’d bloody kill her.’

‘I’m desperate, I really have to get to central London.’

‘Desperate? That’s the sorriest excuse I’ve ever heard. I’ll give you a lift if you promise me you’ll never, ever do something so bloody stupid again. Do you know the creeps and perverts out here?’

Kelly nodded and climbed in. ‘I really can’t thank you enough.’

‘You’re a stupid woman, so bloody stupid.’ He shook his head and put on his indicator before pulling away, continuing to lecture her. He took her all the way to Bank, proclaiming long and loudly about the idiocy of the world and everyone in it.

G
eorgie and Mo were in a car outside a betting shop on the Bethnal Green Road, Georgie in the back seat next to Ian Scanlon, Mo in the driver’s seat.

‘Come on, Ian, help us here and we can help you,’ Georgie said.

‘I don’t know nothing.’

‘You pick up this delivery of pot-pourri, take it to Casson Street, and hand it on to someone else,’ continued Georgie. ‘Only it’s not pot-pourri, is it? I looked at the paperwork for this job. These goods are listed as weighing seven tons; pot-pourri, apart from smelling awful, weighs nothing.’

Ian was staring at the black crescents under his fingernails, morose.

‘Tell us where that consignment goes, and who picks it up,’ said Mo.

‘I don’t know.’

Mo sighed. ‘This can is listed as going to Leicester, but you don’t take it there, you take it to Casson Street and hand it on to someone else.’

No reply.

‘We’re taking you to the customs office now, where you’ll be booked. Unless you can come up with the names of who hired you, who you work with, you’ll be left in a cell—’

‘You’re picking on the small guy. I just got a phone call, I’m desperate for any work I can get. It’s me and that rig and that’s it. If someone pays me for delivery, I’m happy. What they’re shipping is none of my business.’

‘What they’re shipping is entirely your business. How often do you deliver to Casson Street?’ asked Georgie.

‘I’ve done it a few times. And they pay on time! I’m hustling for every job, I am. The price of diesel has crippled people like me, you pen pushers with your paid holidays and fat pensions haven’t got a clue—’

‘Ian, we found you in the betting shop.’ Georgie shook her head. ‘What’s crippled you is your love of a quick buck. You’re just not very good at getting cash the hard, honest way, are you? You’re going to have to start naming names, Ian.’

‘I just get a phone call and some instructions—’

‘Who do you hand it on to?’

‘Just some guy, probably working double shift like me. We don’t chat or talk about the weather, we just get the can transferred and he drives off.’

‘Were you due to pick up a consignment at the docks a few weeks ago?’

‘They cancelled at the last minute. I was out of pocket on that job,’ he huffed. ‘Listen, if this is about illegal immigrants, I know nothing about that. They’re a fucking disgrace—’

‘Buckle up, Ian, we’re taking you in.’ Mo turned to face forward and started the engine.

R
icky was sitting in his living room armchair smoking a roll-up. His cafetiere of coffee was cooling on the small dining table. He’d shut the dogs in the kitchen for now, their jumping up on his lap whenever he tried to read was getting on his nerves. His
New Yorker
had just arrived and he wanted to dive in, read about places he would never visit, countries that were off limits to him after his conviction. He had accepted that keeping abreast of events meant doing it from this armchair. Dawn was at the supermarket buying ingredients for a paella they were going to attempt later. It was all about burning the rice apparently, which seemed counterintuitive to Ricky: damaging something to make it better. His mind flashed to what he had done to Kelly. He had scared her witless and for that he was sorry. But she had opened a Pandora’s box of possibilities he was still trying to digest.

The phone rang. The customs woman on the other end of the line had the nasal twang of Essex in her voice and sounded very young. She wanted to talk about the past, about Southampton – unofficially, of course. She wanted to pay him a visit.

He ground out his roll-up in the ashtray on the arm of his chair. He had a much better idea. He would come to her. No, it was no problem at all. He would be happy to help. There was no time like the present, ex-cons tended not to be too busy. He would come to her today.

T
he Wolf had parted the net curtains and was staring down at the tarmac. Taxis were discharging passengers and picking up the well-heeled by the Savoy Hotel doors. He was looking at the only strip of road in Britain that was like the USA, taxis driving the wrong way up the street. He could hear faint laughter; it wasn’t contagious. Rain was beginning to pool on the pavement. He’d forgotten how black London was – the shiny roofs of the cabs, the black lacquer of the sign above the doors, the tarmac, the umbrellas. Late October was pressing down. Only when you came home did you realise how suffocating it was.

In the suite behind him, Jonas slouched and pinged the tops off beer bottles from the minibar. He seemed happy to watch two fat ladies on the TV argue in a suburban kitchen. Luciana had her leg behind her head in a yoga pose, her yellow hot pants riding high up the crack in her arse. She’d turned the heating up so much he was sweating just standing still.

Isabella was asleep in the adjoining room. He was glad that in his past he had been aspirational and had experienced somewhere of this quality. If they were waiting in a lodging house in New Cross Isabella would have been hollering to be freed long before now. He understood that she was someone who had experienced some good things in life and expected them now she was in London.

He was edgy, time was pressing. Isabella wouldn’t wait much longer in sleepy compliance. You soon learned if you were a prisoner. Room service food and dodged questions about Christos would only keep her quiet for so long. Forty-five minutes later his vigil was rewarded. He pushed himself off the window frame and spun for the door, barking an instruction at Jonas.

Kelly came up to the reception at the Savoy in a hurry. Now she had come, she wanted it to be over quickly; something unpleasant that had to be done now for peace of mind later. The receptionist was pretty, as she would be, enough important faces flowing past her that effort might be richly rewarded. She smiled invitingly. Kelly couldn’t get the name out, couldn’t say it, a rare moment of superstition overwhelming her.

‘Yes?’ The woman smiled.

‘Is Clyde Bonnier staying here?’

The woman typed on a keyboard, frowned, typed again. ‘I’m sorry, there’s no one here of that name.’

Kelly walked away and stood by a marble pillar. She felt a wave of nausea flow over her and closed her eyes, leaning her cheek against the cold marble. She felt a tap on her shoulder. She opened her eyes and saw a ghost.

Left foot, right foot. It was impossible, yet possible. He was holding her hand tightly and his long stride was dragging her quickly through the hotel, so she had to run to keep up. He shoulder-barged a door and they were in an empty dining room, the Thames behind them.

She stood panting, staring up at Michael. He looked shockingly older, deep grooves etched either side of his nose, his eyes more bloodshot, his hair an inch further back on his head. She grabbed his lapel. She tried to talk but three questions came out at once and it sounded like gibberish. She groaned and punched him on the arm. Then again, harder. ‘Where have you been? Where have you been?’ She was crying now, great sobs racking her body as he pulled her close and put those long arms of his around her. Her face was in his chest, she could smell him, the memory of him, the smell of her old life. She shoved him away. ‘Where’s Amber? Where is she?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Tell me where she is!’

He held her arms firmly, looked into her face. ‘She’s gone, Kelsey. She’s gone. The tide was so strong it nearly ripped my life jacket off. I went right under the ferry, right underneath and out to sea. I was pulled along the coast until I found a moored boat. It’s not possible she survived that.’ He paused. ‘I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Kel.’

She cried anew, as if hearing the news for the first time. ‘Why didn’t you come back? I looked and looked for you. For so long I looked for you …’ She moaned, the pain bubbling out. ‘How could you do that to me?’ She was screaming now, anger chasing the tail of her grief. ‘To your daughter? You left Florence.’

‘I had to.’

‘Why?’

‘I’ll tell you everything but I haven’t got long—’

‘Long? You haven’t got
long
? What’s that supposed to mean? You’ve been gone eight years! Why did you have to go?’ He looked uncomfortable and she got it. ‘It wasn’t an accident, was it? You set it up.’

He grabbed her arm, forced her to look at him. ‘It was a fuck-up for sure.’

‘And me? What about your family?’

‘That was my greatest mistake. I saw an opportunity when we were stuck in the fog, when we went to help that drifting cruiser: I could just fall in and never come back out. I knew people who could help me start again … but I didn’t expect Amber to come in after me—’

‘You were her father – she loved you—’

‘I couldn’t save her. The current was so strong. I couldn’t do it. And then I simply couldn’t come back, after what had happened.’

‘You wanted out of our marriage.’

He didn’t deny it. ‘I was too young, Kel, I didn’t crave security and a family life like you did. But we did have good times, I know we did.’ He took a step closer to her, and she could sense his strength, the magnetism in him still. She blushed. Couldn’t tear her eyes away from him. ‘I need to know where you heard my name, Clyde Bonnier. It’s important.’

The sobs caught in her throat. ‘I saw it. As part of the crew list for the ship that’s just come in, the
Saracen
, that Christos—’

‘That your husband was looking at?’

‘My husband.’ She looked at him, stricken.

‘Hey, hey.’ He took her chin in his hand and tipped her face up. ‘I don’t blame you for remarrying, you weren’t to know. You were right to rebuild your life for you, for Florence. But I lived under the name Clyde Bonnier knowing you would be the only one who would understand its significance. I knew it would be something you wouldn’t have told Christos.’

She blushed. She couldn’t help it, even after all those years and all those experiences that battered her belief in love, she remembered. Michael and Kelsey at eighteen, up in London. Taking the flirting and the vodka and oranges in the local pubs near home to a new level. Seeing how far they could get on a £20 note. They’d scammed up on the train without paying, had hung around Covent Garden, shoplifted London tourist knick-knacks, done a runner from a Chinese restaurant on Wardour Street. Bonnie and Clyde, he’d nicknamed them. And she, who had always been a good girl, found the attraction of a bad boy like a glowing light that rushed through her soul and made her pulse with excitement.

They’d seen a sign for a talent competition outside a Covent Garden pub – a £50 prize for the winner. She had sat in the crowd and ogled glamorous women belting out their Whitney Houston tunes, their Madonna covers, watched a ventriloquist and a mime artist. When her turn came she had stood on stage and sung her Etta James number, sung quietly and tremulously about love and loss without, she realised now, understanding a word of it. But something in her performance had resonated with her audience, her belief that love could be perfect, because she had brought the place to its feet. With her first prize came drinks on the house. Later they had wheeled out, congratulations still ringing in their ears, and Michael had marched her to the Savoy, where they had booked in as Mr and Mrs Clyde Bonnier. They had paid in cash. He had pulled her up that staircase – she had never seen anything so grand – taking the steps two at a time, and that night he had taught her what love and passion could really mean. And then a few years later he had faked his own death to get away.

‘You know, I would remember your voice and it sustained me. Your beautiful voice.’

She pulled his hands from her cheeks. ‘I don’t sing any more. Haven’t sung in years.’

He paused, looking at her. ‘He doesn’t make you feel like singing, huh?’ She looked at the floor. ‘I need to know something. Are you in love with him? Are you in love with Christos?’

She got angry. ‘Why the hell does it matter to you? Why have you come back now? Why now? I should bloody report you to the police.’

‘There’s something I need to show you. You can make a decision then.’

‘Why were you on the
Saracen
?’

He took her arm and began to lead her out of the room. She hung back, protesting.

‘Please, you need to know.’

He led her up the stairs, his long legs taking them two at a time. She almost had to run behind him, the memory of seventeen years before, the same stairs, catching in her throat. She followed him to an upper floor and he stopped outside a door.