Bad Girl (30 page)

Helen climbed the stairs to her flat, unlocked the door and walked through to the living room. She dropped her jacket on the sofa, then went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she ran through her conversation with Lazenby again. Could she trust him? Neither of them had mentioned Joe Quinn or the small matter of the firebombing of the Fox. She still had no idea if he’d been involved or not.

Helen had to admit that she’d taken an instant dislike to the man. There was something highly unpleasant, even odious about him. Absently, she rubbed at her bare arms, as if his predatory gaze might have left a slimy trail. But for all her distaste, she still reckoned that the information he’d given her was sound.

She delved into her bag and took out the photograph of Anna Farrell. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, a picture that had probably been taken in a photographer’s studio. Where had Lazenby got it from? She hadn’t thought to ask. There were a lot of things she hadn’t asked, but it was too late now.

Anna definitely had a look of Lynsey Beck about her – long straight fair hair and brown eyes – and it was easy to see how a mistake could have been made. But if that was the case, then where was Anna now? Still on the run, or had Chapelle caught up with her? If the latter was the case, then there wasn’t much hope of her being alive.

Helen made herself a brew, then settled down on the sofa and wrote down everything Tony Lazenby had told her, as well as what she remembered from the police reports. When she’d finished, she read it through a couple of times, making sure there was nothing she’d missed. She chewed on the end of the pen and gazed out of the window at the pale blue summer sky. It was almost six thirty on a Saturday night, and most girls her age were probably getting ready to go out on the town. Did she envy them their carefree pleasures? Perhaps a small part of her did, but the greater part was consumed by a need to find her mother’s killer.

This afternoon, when they’d closed up the sandwich shop, she had told Moira that she was going over to Kellston to see Lily. She didn’t tell her about the intended visit to West End Central police station, or her phone conversation with DCI Tony Lazenby the evening before. Moira had been so obviously relieved to hear that nothing particularly useful had been gleaned from the tenant in the house at Kilburn that Helen hadn’t had the heart to tell her the rest of her plans. Moira’s relief, she knew, was only down to concern; she was worried for her well-being, for her safety, and perhaps, bearing in mind today’s revelations, she was right to be.

The lie about Lily, however, sat uneasily on Helen’s conscience. The truth was that she hardly ever saw her former friend these days. They had drifted apart, their lives taking different directions. Helen hadn’t been back to Soho since she’d been raped, but Lily still roamed the same old streets, still playing the game and risking the odds. The last occasion they’d met up, over a year ago now, had not gone well. There had been an awkwardness between the two of them, a tense and edgy atmosphere.

The phone interrupted Helen’s thoughts and she jumped up off the sofa. ‘Hello?’ she said into the receiver.

There was a beeping sound as someone dropped coins into the slot of a phone box, and then a male voice came on the line. ‘I’ve got it for you.’

‘I’m sorry?’ It took a moment for Helen to realise it was Pym. Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, you have? That’s great.’ She was still holding the pad in which she’d been writing up her notes on Lazenby. She put it down on the table and flicked over to a fresh page. ‘Okay, fire away.’

‘He’s on the Mansfield,’ said Pym.

Helen started. ‘What?’

‘The Mansfield,’ he repeated. ‘Carlton House.’

‘But… but he can’t be. He’s in jail. He can’t be out yet. He got the same sentence as Tommy, and
he
isn’t due to be released until the end of the month.’

‘Yeah, well,’ Pym grunted. ‘Maybe Tommy got himself in bother, got time added on. Look, I ain’t got all day. Do you want this address or not?’

Helen’s fingers tightened around the pen. Her pulse had begun to race. ‘Yes, of course.’

‘Number seventy-four,’ he said. ‘You got that?’

She quickly scribbled it down. ‘Seventy-four Carlton House.’

‘That’s it.’

‘Thanks,’ Helen said. ‘Thanks very much.’ But she’d barely got the first word out before the line was disconnected. For a moment she listened to the dialling tone, before carefully replacing the phone in its cradle. She stared down at the address, barely able to believe it. Frank Meyer was out of prison and he was living back in Kellston.

Helen stood gazing down at the piece of paper, trying to decide what to do next. Her initial instinct was to grab her jacket and dash straight round there, but maybe she needed to think things through first. Frank Meyer might not welcome uninvited guests turning up on his doorstep. He couldn’t have been free for long and was probably still adjusting to life on the outside. Was it fair to hurtle round to Kellston and burden him with all her problems?

She decided, on balance, that it would be better to wait until tomorrow, when things might be clearer in her own head. The sandwich bar was closed on Sundays and so she had a free day. After a while, she sat back down on the sofa, still trying to absorb the fact that Frank was out of prison.

Helen rummaged in her bag and found the pack of John Players that she’d bought in the Fox. With a slightly shaking hand she lit one and inhaled deeply. What would Frank be like after serving seven years inside for a crime he hadn’t committed? There had never been any doubt in her mind of his innocence. The prosecution, she was certain, had twisted and manipulated the evidence to make him look guilty. Just like they had with Tommy.

She tapped the cigarette against the side of the ashtray, trying to put herself in Frank’s shoes. How would she feel if it had been her? Bitter, she thought, and angry. All those years snatched away, with nothing to show for them. How old would he be now? She had never known his exact age but presumed that, like Tommy, he must be in his early forties.

She smoked the cigarette, then stubbed it out and gazed around the living room. She’d painted the walls a pale mossy green and decorated them with three quirky Paul Klee prints. Not to everyone’s taste, she imagined, but she liked them. The sofa was a darker shade of green and pulled out into a double bed for when she had visitors. Except she never did have visitors, not the type who stayed over, anyway.

Helen tapped her heel restlessly on the ground. The evening loomed ahead of her, long and empty. What was she going to do with herself? Watch some TV, perhaps, or go over the Lazenby notes. She wondered what Frank was doing and what had brought him back to Kellston. She got up and walked over to the window. She watched the people passing by beneath her, people with places to go, friends to meet.

Suddenly she knew that she couldn’t put it off. Now that she had Frank’s address, she had to see him. The thought of waiting until tomorrow was too much to bear. She went to the bedroom, changed into her jeans and a clean white shirt, pulled a comb through her hair and put on some lipstick. Then, before she could change her mind, she hurried through to the living room, shrugged on her denim jacket, grabbed her bag and rushed out of the flat.

Once outside, she tried to decide between catching a bus and travelling by rail. From Camden station she could get an overground train to Dalston and from there another one to Kellston. The latter would be quicker than the bus, but it wouldn’t be quick enough. She was too impatient to wait around for public transport.

For the second time in two days, Helen stretched out her hand and hailed a black cab. It was an expensive way to travel, but it saved hanging about. She gave the cabbie the address and settled back in the seat as he did a perilous U-turn and headed for Kellston. They were barely fifty yards down the road when she started questioning the wisdom of what she was doing, spending the rest of the journey in a state of heightened anxiety. What would she say to Frank? How would he react to her turning up out of the blue? What if he didn’t want to see her? What if he wasn’t there? What if was there but he had company, a girl perhaps? Oh God, there were just
so
many reasons why she shouldn’t be arriving unannounced.

By the time the cab drew up outside Carlton House, Helen had almost talked herself out of it. It took every effort of will for her to resist the temptation to ask the driver to take her back home. Butterflies were dancing in her stomach as she paid the fare and then watched the cabbie drive away. Well, she thought, looking around, there was nothing else for it. The time had come to gather her courage and put aside her reservations.

As she walked tentatively along the path, she recalled the times she’d spent on the estate as a kid, roaming the dank, gloomy passageways. Back then, she’d been both afraid and intrigued, but now she was only nervous. There was a threatening atmosphere to the place, a definite air of menace. Gangs of youths idled at corners, smoking joints or drinking beer as they stood and waited for something to happen.

The three tall towers of the Mansfield Estate had been built less than twenty years ago, but already they were starting to fall apart. Staring hard at Carlton House, she took in the crumbling mortar and the rusting balconies. She counted up seven floors and scanned the row of windows. Was one of them Frank’s?

The evening was pleasantly warm, but she still gave a slight shiver as she started climbing the stairs. She could have taken one of the lifts, but the wafting smell of urine had been less than inviting. Anyway, it would take her longer if she walked. It would give her more time to prepare herself.

By the time she mounted the last flight, she was beginning to regret her decision not to take the lift. She reached the seventh floor, checked the numbers on the sign and turned left towards number seventy-four. When she was almost there, she stopped to catch her breath, gazing out over the balcony at the view of Kellston. From here, she could see the neat rows of terraces, the high street, the station and even the roof of the Fox.

When she had delayed for as long as she could, and her pulse was almost back to normal, she took the final few steps and came to a halt in front of Frank’s door. It was shabby and battered-looking, the brown paint chipped and flaking. She couldn’t see a bell and so she knocked lightly with her knuckles, then waited, her heart in her mouth. There was no response. Disappointed, she rapped on the door again, a series of harder, more impatient knocks. This time there was a clearly audible movement from within. She heard the sound of a bolt being pulled back and then the door swung open. Suddenly she was face to face with Frank Meyer.

‘Yeah?’ he said roughly.

Helen smiled up at him. She had almost forgotten how tall he was. He didn’t look that different from the last time they’d met, although his hair was shorter and there was a slight hollowness beneath the cheekbones that hadn’t been there before. He was sleepy-eyed and unshaven, possibly a little drunk. There was a definite whiff of whisky in the air.

‘Hello, Frank,’ she said.

A flicker of confusion passed across his face before her features finally registered with him. ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Mouse. Where the hell did you spring from?’

‘Not so far away,’ she said, trying to keep her tone light as old emotions rose to the surface. It was the first time anyone had called her Mouse in years. ‘Aren’t you going to invite me in?’

‘Sure,’ he said, standing back and waving her inside. ‘Come on in. Welcome to the palace.’

As Helen stepped inside the hall, the first thing she noticed was the overwhelming smell of damp. She wrinkled her nose, trying not to breathe too deeply. Frank closed the door and ushered her through to the living room. The smell was just as bad in there, and her gaze quickly took in the torn black-speckled wallpaper, the grubby carpet and flimsy curtains. There was hardly any furniture; only an old cream sofa with worn-out arms, and a small table. A bottle of Scotch stood on the table, along with a half-full ashtray.

Frank, seeing her expression, pulled a face. ‘Beggars can’t be choosers,’ he said. ‘It’s somewhere to live until I get myself sorted.’

‘Oh, I wasn’t… Yes, I’m sure it’ll be fine. A lick of paint and—’

‘And it’ll still be a dump. Don’t worry, I’m not planning on staying here any longer than I have to.’ He put his hands on his hips and stared at her. ‘Well, you’ve grown up since I last saw you.’

‘It’s been a while.’

‘A lot of water under the bridge, huh?’ He gestured towards the sofa. ‘Grab a seat. Let me get you a drink. What would you like? I can do Scotch or Scotch. Or black coffee if you don’t fancy that. There’s no milk, I’m afraid.’

‘Scotch, then,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’

While Frank went into the kitchen to fetch another glass, Helen perched on the edge of the sofa. She wasn’t sorry that she’d come, but she wondered if it was wrong to try and involve him in her troubles. ‘How have you been?’ she asked as he came back into the room.

‘Not bad. Yourself?’

Helen nodded. ‘Surviving.’

Frank sat down beside her, poured her a drink and passed her the glass. ‘Cheers,’ he said. ‘It’s nice to see you again.’

‘Thanks. And you.’ She took a sip of the whisky. ‘So how long have you been out?’

‘About a week. Just under.’

‘And was it… I mean… God, I don’t suppose you want to talk about it, do you? Sorry.’ She frowned and buried her nose in the glass again.

Frank gave a shrug of his heavy shoulders. ‘It’s over. That’s all that matters. Finished, done with.’

Helen looked at him closely, trying to read his face. She wasn’t sure what she saw there: relief, bitterness, despair, anger? Maybe all of them. Or none. It was hard to tell with Frank Meyer. She glanced around the room again, remembering his old flat overlooking the Green.

‘You can’t stay here,’ she suddenly blurted out. ‘You can’t.’

Frank gave a low laugh. ‘I’ve seen worse. And believe me, I’d rather be here than where I was last week.’

‘No,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘It’s not right. It’s not fair. Nothing that happened was your fault, but you lost everything because of it.’

Frank’s eyes met hers for a second before he looked away. ‘It’s in the past, Mouse. There’s no point dwelling on it.’

She left a short pause before saying, ‘These days most people call me Helen.’ She didn’t want him to think of her as the kid he’d known in the Fox. Those times were gone. She was a woman now, although she doubted if he saw her as one.

‘Do they? I’ll have to try and remember that.’

And then, on impulse, Helen said, ‘You can come and stay with me in Camden. You know, just until you get sorted. It’s not much, just a sofa bed, but it’s comfortable enough.’

Frank smiled. ‘Thanks for the offer, but I couldn’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because you don’t owe me anything, love. I’m not your responsibility.’

Helen frowned at him, realising that he thought she was there out of duty, or pity. ‘That’s not why I’m offering, not at all.’

‘So why, then?’

Helen felt the old familiar blush creep on to her cheeks. Suddenly, she felt as awkward and self-conscious as that teenage girl who had furtively watched the door of the Fox waiting for him to come into the pub. She took a large gulp of whisky and put the glass down on the table. ‘To be honest, you’d be doing me a favour.’

‘And how do you figure that one out?’

‘It’s a long story, but let’s just say that I’d feel a damn sight safer at the moment if there was someone else around.’

‘A long story,’ he said. ‘Well, you’d better get started, then.’