Dangerous Lady (33 page)

He took a deep breath. She deserved to know the truth.

‘I sold out Michael Ryan, Noola.’

Noola’s hand flew to her mouth. Her grey eyes screwed up into tiny slits until they finally closed, as if trying to

blot out what her husband had said to her. She took her hand from her mouth and put it to her heart as if trying to stop its beat.

‘Oh my God, Sammy! He will kill you.’ Her voice cracked with emotion.

‘I know that, Noola. I am waiting for him now. That’s why I sent the girls away. I am sure he would not hurt them or you. But I think it would be better for all concerned if I was alone when he came.’

‘But why, Sammy? Why?’ Her voice was stronger now, truculent. ‘He has always been a good friend to you, looked after you.’ Sammy wiped his forehead again. ‘I know that. You think I don’t know that?’ Noola sat back in her chair and stared at her husband. It all became as plain as day to her.

‘Gold help you, Sammy Goldbaum. You’ve been gambling again. That’s it, isn’t it?’ He nodded his head.

‘So, like Judas Iscariot, you betrayed your friend. Your very good friend.’

‘I did not think that anyone would get hurt.’ His voice was self-righteous. ‘I swear, Noola. Then tonight I heard on the radio that his club, Le Buxom, had been firebombed. And I realised I had caused a lot of trouble. Now all I can do is sit and wait for my punishment. It is pointless trying to get away from him.’

Noola got up from her seat and went to her husband. She kissed his hot dry lips and sweaty forehead and she went to bed. She knew that she would never see her husband alive again. She took three Mogadon sleeping tablets, and when Maura and Michael arrived was out cold. As Sammy said, sometimes it was best not to know anything.

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Janine looked at her husband Roy. He was eating his breakfast and it seemed to her that every mouthful was a trial to him. ‘What’s going on, Roy? I’ve already heard on the news about the bombing.’

He stopped chewing and glanced at his heavily pregnant wife. Then, putting down his knife and fork, he got up from the table and went to her, pulling her into his arms.

‘Bombed!’ He tried to make his voice light. ‘It was a gas leak. You know what it’s like if anything happens in Soho. The press always has a field day.’

‘But a young girl died, and Gerry Jackson is seriously ill.’

‘I know that, love. It was burns. Honestly, Jan, it was a gas leak from the building next door.’ He caressed her swollen belly. ‘You just worry about Junior here. I’ll take care of everything else.’

‘If it’s trouble, Roy, I want to know.’

He turned her back towards the cooker and patted her behind. ‘You just worry about making me a nice cup of Rosie Lee. Then I’d better be off

Janine filled the kettle and plugged it in. Then she turned the radio up. It was the eight-thirty news. The announcer’s voice crackled around the kitchen as if unaccustomed to being listened to in this household.

‘The bombing of the West End nightclub, Le Buxom, was this morning said to be a terrorist attack. The owner of the nightclub, Mr Michael Ryan, has been seen over the years with various IRA sympathisers. Mr Ryan is a known gangland figure, though attempts to bring charges against him have always failed. He was not available for comment this morning. Mr Heath …’

The voice droned on and Roy carried on eating his breakfast. Janine placed his cup of tea in front of him. She

did not know what to do. She felt the baby kick and her hands went to her swollen belly protectively. She thought of ringing Carla and dismissed it. She would wait for him to leave then she would phone her mother-in-law. Sarah Ryan looked terrible. She had not slept all night. Her straggly grey hair had escaped from its usual bun and her round open face looked more wrinkled than usual. Her body had grown fatter over the years and now everything about her seemed to sag - her breasts, her stomach, even the folds of skin under her neck. She had always looked older than her years, but in the last twenty four hours had become positively decrepit-looking. She was just fifty-nine. Her eyes, though, were alert and filled with a bright intelligence that seemed to glow out of her wrinkled face. She was worried out of her mind about her youngest son. She had not seen him for over forty-eight hours, not since he had devoured one of his Olympian breakfasts. She knew that something had happened to him. She had tried unsuccessfully to contact Michael and Maura. Both were nowhere to be found. Carla had told her that she had not seen Maura for a couple of days. She had not seemed too bothered about it, but Sarah knew that her nervousness had communicated itself to the girl and now she too was worried.

Since the news about the bombing of the nightclub she had had a sick feeling in her guts. She had spoken to Roy late the night before but he was closemouthed about everything she had asked him. Protecting himself and the others, she guessed. She poured out a large mug of tea and took it up to her husband, who as usual had drunk himself into a stupor and gone to bed. She placed the tea on the bedside table and shook him roughly, the sour smell of his breath adding to her feeling of nausea.

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‘What? What do you want?’

She stared down at his sunken face. He had not shaved for nearly a week. He looked what he was … like dirty Irish scum. She had to stifle an overpowering urge to throw the mug of steaming hot tea into his face.

‘Benjamin … he still hasn’t come home.’ She tried to get some response. Benjamin opened his eyes and stared around him blearily.

‘Oh, piss off, Sar. Benny’s a grown man. He’s probably out shagging. You know what he’s like.’

He sat up in bed and looked at the clock. It was just after nine.

‘Jumping Jesus Christ! What you woke me up for?’

Sarah sat on the bed and gripped his arm.. ‘I think something terrible’s happened. Michael’s club was bombed last night.’

‘What!’

‘It was on the news. Roy said it was a gas leak but the man on the news said it was a terrorist attack.’

She watched the different expressions flicker over Benjamin’s face and sighed. In his state he would have difficulty even working out what day it was, let alone following all this. It had always been the same. She could never rely on him to be of help in any way, shape or form. It was beyond him. For the first time in years she needed him and he was going to let her down. She heard the telephone ringing in the hallway and rushed off to answer it, hoping against hope that it was young Benny. It was Janine. Sarah felt the hope seep from her body as she heard her daughter-in-law’s voice.

‘Can you come over to me, Sarah? Please.’

‘Yes, Janine, I’ll come to you. Give me an hour.’

When she replaced the receiver she rang Carla. By ten-thirty the three women were closeted together in

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Janine’s house. For once the atmosphere between mother and daughter was forged by a common bond. They were all frightened, but as yet did not really know what exactly they were frightened of. Mr Desmond Buckingham Gooch walked his dog across Hampstead Heath every morning. He rose at five precisely and breakfasted on a soft boiled egg and one slice of toast. He then walked his dog Victory across the Heath. He was there by six o’clock every morning, come rain or shine. His neighbours called him ‘Colonel Blimp’, though never to his face. Victory was a cocker spaniel, a splendid animal, though scatty. She never came when he called her and completely disregarded his orders, and he loved her with all his heart. She was his sole companion.

This morning she had stopped by a litter bin attached to a lamp post. He called her in his most commanding voice. She ignored him as usual and stayed exactly where she was. She began to whine. She got up to her hind legs and tried to scratch the metal bin. The lamp post was giving out an eerie light. It was just becoming day in the cold twilight world of a winter’s morning. A fine covering of snow had settled during the night and in the gloomy light of the breaking dawn the lamp post seemed to be radiating a burnt orange glow that barely illuminated itself. For a few seconds Desmond Buckingham Gooch felt a prickle of fear. Then, his natural common sense coming to the fore, he walked purposefully to the bin. Victory could probably smell one of those damned hamburgers that young people these days seemed to live on. If he had his way he would bring back the days of powdered egg and rationing. Youngsters today had it too easy, far too easy in his opinion. He looked into the bin. A head stared up at him, covered with a layer of early morning frost. He staggered backwards, his hand going instinctively to his chest. He felt the vomit in his mouth, his boiled egg and toast mixed with bile burning his tongue and gums. He threw up on to the pavement. Taking deep breaths, he dragged Victory roughly away from the bin and put on her lead, then he half pulled and half kicked his beloved dog back to his flat. Inside his hallway he leant against the front door, trying to calm his heartbeat. He made his way into his bedroom and, sitting on his bed, opened his beside cabinet and took out the pills the doctor had given him for his heart. He placed one under his tongue with a trembling hand. Victory sat staring at him, her bright red coat glistening with snow. When he felt the life coming back to his limbs, he picked up the phone by his bed and called the police.

The news of the finding of the head did not hit the streets until twelve-thirty.

It was Benny Ryan’s. Mrs Carmen De’Sousa, a West Indian woman, was coming home from a nightshift at Ford’s in Dagenham. She walked slowly up Lower Mardyke Avenue towards her block of maisonettes. She had had a bad night. Their union representative had wanted to call them all out. She shook her head in its large woolly hat. This country amazed her.

She heard the rubbery screech of car tyres as somebody attempted a wheelspin in the frosty morning. She ignored it. Cars came and went at all hours of the day and night. You became immune to the sound, as you became immune to the noise of radios, record players and ghetto blasters. If you were sensible on the Mardyke Estate, you kept your nose out of other people’s business.

She started to walk up the steps that led to her landing,

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gripping the rail that ran parallel with the steps. It was very icy, the snow had settled, and all around her the world was blanketed in a white layer that made even the Mardyke Estate look pleasant. As she reached the top step she stopped. She could hear a faint mewling. She walked past the entrance to her landing and began to walk down the flight of steps that led to the garages that ran the whole length of the block of maisonettes. No one in their right mind kept their cars there these days. They were full of junk, old furniture, old bikes, mattresses and general rubbish.

She heard the soft mewling again and called out in the darkness, ‘Marley? Id that you, boy?’

She reached the bottom of the steps and felt rather than saw that there was something lying sprawled out in front of her. She squinted and peered at the ground. The lights had been broken down here for over five years. She felt in the pocket of her heavy blanket coat and took out a box of Swan Vestas. She lit one and held it in front of her. It was to be an action she would regret all her life.

Lying on the floor in front of her was the body of a young man. A young blond man. She stared at the body for what seemed ages, a scream stuck in her throat. Then the match burnt her fingers and pain spurred her into action. She began to scream and wail at the top of her voice. Within five minutes nearly every resident from her block of maisonettes was with her. Jonny’s body had been found.

. . A Denise and Carol McBridge walked to the bus stop together. Both girls worked at Van Den Bergh and Jur gen’s in West Thurrock. Their bus came at five minutes to seven. Two stops later they alighted and made their way from the London Road to the dirt track that had always been used as a short cut to their factory. As usual they were joking around, barely able to see in the winter half-light. Carol tripped over something and swore softly. It was a large rolled-up canvas. Nothing unusual about that. This was a known dumping ground. What was unusual was what was poking out of the bottom end of it. On closer inspection, the girls found that it was a pair of feet. Rather large feet. As if of one mind they scrambled over the bundle and ran as fast as they could to work, fear giving their feet wings.

Sammy Goldbaum’s body had been found.

Denise’s and Carol’s manager was very good. He gave them the rest of the week off on full pay.

. ‘!

Maura sat in the interview room at Vine Street police station. She lit another cigarette and pulled on it hard. She was frightened, very frightened. But outwardly she looked as if she did not have a care in the world.

The WPC who had been assigned to stay with her looked her over critically. She approved of the pale grey suit Maura wore. It was plain but, with the single strand of pearls and the pearl earrings, it looked what it was: exclusive and expensive. WPC Cotter approved of everything about Maura Ryan, from her shiny white-blonde hair to her crocodile skin shoes and bag. It was common knowledge that this was the woman who had nearly ruined DS Petherick’s career. It was an old story that had been embellished over the years until now it was part of Vine Street folklore.

DI Dobin came into the room. He smiled at Maura and she smiled back. She had been here for hours and they still had not charged her. She had called her brief and he was on his way from Cambridge. All she had to do was keep a clear head. They had nothing on her.

She forced the events of the night before from her mind. Sammy Goldbaum had deserved everything he got. Sammy was to become another blank spot in Maura’s mind, along with everything else she had ever done that was decidedly wrong. DI Dobin and the WPC and everyone who touched Maura’s life in some way, however trivial, were never in any way aware that she was like a time bomb: a dangerous time bomb that would eventually explode. Her outer veneer of calm and friendliness hid a mass of emotions and feelings that would one day spew out like a festering cancer.