Charity (75 page)

But the message that had meant most to Charity was from John Marshall. He had moved with his wife Nina to the Seychelles and had learned what had happened to Toby from his agent in London.

‘My heart goes out to you. Charity,’ he wrote. ‘I have watched your success in business from a distance, many times wishing I dared write and say how proud I was of you. Now as I imagine your heart-break I cannot hold back the rush of emotions and I had to communicate with you. You are in my thoughts and prayers, just as you always have been all these years, and I have to believe that out of all this tragedy, something good will come to you.’

John couldn’t have known that his letter would give her such comfort. In his few words he managed to convey hope for the future and give meaning to the past. The funeral was the last hurdle. She, Prue and James had mourned Toby in private, drained their tears together, shared treasured memories. Prayers and hymns gave the occasion an air of dignified finality, and maybe they would give them the strength to rise above the gossip.

A clear thumb and forefinger print on Toby’s shoe had led the police to Alf Tooley at an old warehouse in Wapping. Samples of grit embedded in Toby’s clothes and shoes matched those found on the floor of the garage. Alf and his brother Jim were arrested.

The two brothers had confessed to Toby’s murder, but as yet they remained stubbornly silent about the rest of the drug network and the man who organised it all. Charity didn’t care: as far as she was concerned, the police had Toby’s murderer and the mystery of her uncle’s death was solved. That was enough.

Charity took Prue’s arm as they filed out of the chapel. Prue was trembling, biting her lip to stop herself crying. Her moods had swung like a pendulum during the last two weeks. One moment she was claiming Toby’s death was a relief and a blessing; almost lighthearted, she cleaned out cupboards for Charity and went shopping in the West End. The next she plunged into wild sobbing, saying her career as a teacher was finished, as was her marriage to Tim and that Toby had been led astray.

Today Prue was drained of all colour, her pallor made worse by her severe black dress and hat. Tim’s continuing lack of support and his absence today seemed to confirm Prue’s claim that he didn’t care about her. Privately Charity thought her sister would be better off without such an insensitive man.

James was the rock. He constantly spoke of Toby’s good points, refusing to bow down to the darker side of his brother’s character. He encouraged them to reminisce about their childhood, even events before he was born, drawing the three of them into a tight unit.

Looking at James now in his neat dark suit and highly polished shoes was to see Toby again at the same age. But James had no chip on his shoulder, or hunger for wealth. In time, Charity knew, he’d give their family back a sense of pride.

‘What do we do now?’ Prue whispered as they walked slowly past the few wreaths lying in the porch.

Rain coming down like stair rods reduced visibility to a few yards, and mourners for the next funeral were scurrying through the car park in a sea of black umbrellas.

‘We all go home to my flat, of course,’ Charity said, thinking for a moment that Prue was losing her grip. ‘We have tea and sandwiches, then it’s over.’

‘I didn’t mean this minute.’ Prue sighed deeply. ‘I meant, how do we cope?’

‘We take it one step at a time.’ Charity put her arm through her sister’s and smiled weakly at Lou and Geoff who were waiting to speak to her. ‘First the tea. Don’t try to look ahead just now, things can only get better.’

Charity stood at her window watching the rain beating down. Her pansies and petunias in their tubs looked as battered as she felt. It was just after four and everyone had left. James had gone home with Lou and Geoff to pack for a holiday in Cornwall. Prue had offered to drive Margaret and Tom back to Studley where they were still looking after things. Then Prue was going home to see Tim to attempt to patch up her marriage. Rita had returned to the office.

Rob hadn’t wanted to leave. He’d suggested that Charity go back for a break to his flat in Baker Street, but Charity had refused: she wanted some time alone.

It was a great comfort that both Prue and James liked Rob. In the last two long weeks he’d taken James out swimming and to the squash club, lightening the long wait till the funeral. With Prue he’d sat and talked about her work, and listened to her fears that her career as a teacher was over. He’d even mentioned other fields she could move into if necessary.

Charity was glad to be alone. Two weeks of being surrounded by people, the constant buzz of conversation, drained emotions and even cooking and clearing up for others, made solitude welcome.

Grief was a strange thing, she decided: huge waves, almost drowning her, then long periods of calm and resignation. Now she felt empty. Maybe another wave would overwhelm her again soon, but for now there was peace.

The clearing up was done; uneaten sandwiches had been thrown away, plates washed and the carpet hoovered. She had some serious thinking to do and despite the rain she wanted to do it outside in the fresh air.

As she walked into her bedroom to collect her raincoat and a pair of stouter shoes, she was thinking about Rita.

‘This is no time to discuss business,’ Rita had said just before she left. ‘But if in a couple of weeks’ time you still can’t face the office, perhaps we should talk about me buying it from you.’

There was Studley Priory to consider too. According to Uncle Stephen’s solicitors, the estate would pass on to Charity. Prue and James jointly. Then there was Rob.

Their relationship had been put on hold. It hadn’t seemed right even to kiss him or hold him while Prue and James had been there. But Charity could feel the need in him, the unasked questions, and several times today she’d caught those anxious glances that meant Rob was unsure of how and when to attempt picking up the threads again.

Should she take the initiative? Did she even want lovemaking so soon after such tragedy? One part of her said it would be the healer, but another voice was urging caution.

Charity was glad Frank the porter wasn’t behind his desk when she got down to the foyer. He would probably have asked her solicitous questions about the funeral and though he meant well she’d had enough of people’s condolences. She pulled her hood over her head and slipped out into the rain, walking briskly down Finchley Road towards Swiss Cottage.

Alec Stubbs dialled Charity’s number, drumming his fingers on the callbox glass while he waited to see if she was in. He left it ringing for five minutes and smiled in triumph.

‘At fuckin’ last.’ He sighed with relief.

He had been checking the number daily since Stratton’s death, but every time there’d been someone there. Now the funeral was over Stratton’s sister had obviously gone away, and there couldn’t be a better time to check out her flat.

Just a few weeks ago Alec Stubbs wouldn’t even have considered doing a job like this himself, but there was no one left he could trust now. Jim and Alf nicked, and all the others so nervous they wouldn’t put their noses outside the door.

The moment Stubbs found out Toby was in league with Weasel he felt certain Toby had stashed the heroin somewhere. Once Weasel knew his life was on the line he’d had verbal dysentery, pouring out poison in an endless stream. Stubbs hadn’t been particularly interested in Stratton hiring Weasel to kill his uncle, but if he could go that far for money he certainly wouldn’t have any qualms about snatching thousands of pounds’ worth of heroin.

Stashing it at his sister’s was so obvious Stratton probably thought no one would bother to check it out. It was a good thing Jim had brought the keys from the MG back after their night at Dungeness. An odd-shaped one turned out to open the outer door of the block of flats, so it stood to reason the other one belonged to her apartment. The girl probably had no idea her brother had hidden the stuff there.

Alec Stubbs prided himself on being invincible. He’d got his big house down in Kent by using his brains and keeping the people who worked for him afraid. If he’d let Stratton get away with robbing him, it would soon get around. Shooting Weasel had had to be done; the man knew too much. But once Stubbs had retrieved the heroin he’d take a holiday and maybe plan a new line of business which gave him less headaches.

Returning to his car, Stubbs drove it to Cochrane Street and parked it. In his youth when burglary was his game, he’d liked areas like this. Plenty of old ladies with wads of money tucked under their mattresses, nice jewellery and tons of silver. A great many of the big houses had grilles on the windows now, a sign of the times, like safes and alarms. Charity Stratton’s modern block was like Fort Knox too with its intercom and the porter. But when you had keys, had done your homework and found out when the porter went off for his tea, it was a doddle.

Stubbs wasn’t nervous. In his view it raised less suspicion going into a place in broad daylight. Under an umbrella, wearing a suit and carrying a briefcase, he just looked like any other businessman going home.

It took two minutes to reach the front doors of the flats, just one second to slip in the key and turn it. He hesitated momentarily between the lift and the stairs, but took the lift as calmly as if he lived there.

Charity reached Swiss Cottage tube station and paused for a moment, trying to decide if she really wanted to go to Hampstead Heath in such heavy rain.

She would sell the business to Rita. Charity had no heart for it any more. It was time to sweep away the past, maybe take a holiday with Prue, live a little.

A tube map caught her attention and she moved closer to it, looking at the stations which had memories for her.

Hammersmith! She could see it so clearly in the snow that winter of ’62. Hiding her ever-enlarging stomach under layers of baggy clothes, sidestepping the mounds of black ice building up on the kerbs. Her small, cold room, just a hole to crawl into while she waited for spring and her baby.

Piccadilly. Meeting John there for their first lunch date. A thin little waif in rundown shoes and a threadbare coat, frightened because John had suggested taking her to the Ritz.

Earls Court. Memories of Rita and Dorothy. Dolly-birds, that was the word people used then. Charity could see the three of them so clearly in their miniskirts, long boots and fluttering false eyelashes.

Sloane Square, Marble Arch, Bond Street and Oxford Street were where she made her ambitions happen. All those department stores where she worked and later negotiated contracts.

Memories of the fubes ended when she got her first car. Once hurtling through tunnels staring at her own reflection in the dark windows had been a time to dream and plan. She had looked at all those little people scurrying to and from work like ants in a nest and vowed she’d rise beyond that.

Somehow moving away from public transport had removed her from the pulse of London. She forgot that those ants were happy, they had time to live and love, to get married and have children. While Charity was struggling to reach her goal, she’d failed to see that the posts had been moved.

She’d got the home she dreamed of, but it was an empty ivory tower which had never become the family haven she’d intended. There were so few times when all four of them had been together at one time. Now Toby was gone, Prue had a home and a life of her own and James wasn’t the kind to lean on anyone.

It was time to find what
she
wanted now and she knew it wasn’t riches, clothes with smart labels, or being looked up to as a successful businesswoman.

Charity wanted to love again and be loved. Nothing more.

She looked up and the rain ran down her face. The sky was still black, but over towards Hampstead it was lighter. Tomorrow the sun would be back and however empty she felt now, time could heal her.

Resolutely she turned back. She wasn’t going to walk up Daleham Gardens and brood about Daniel. She’d made the decision to give him up because she loved him. The past was done, she couldn’t change any of it, and it was time to start afresh.

She was soaked right through by the time she got back to Beech House. Charity smiled at her reflection in the lift mirror. The scar on her cheek seemed less livid at last, small wet ringlets framed her face and she had colour back in her cheeks. Her eyes still looked sad, but they’d lost that haunted look.

As she pushed open her door she was thinking of Rob. Tomorrow morning she would phone him and ask him to come to dinner. Her new life would start from there, and he was part of it.

A rustle startled Charity as she shut the door. She wheeled round to see the contents of drawers strewn around the floor. For a moment she was rooted to the spot. Then she saw the man standing beside her drinks cabinet.

A man little taller than herself, but with broad shoulders and a receding hairline. He was wearing a dark business suit and just for a second she thought he was a policeman.

‘How dare you!’ she snapped. ‘Don’t you need a warrant to search someone’s home?’

The man was as startled as she was. As Charity spoke his gloved hand disappeared inside his jacket and came out with a long, thin knife. His eyes had the look of a trapped animal. She knew then he was no policeman and her legs buckled under her.

Charity turned, in panic fumbling with the door catch, but he sprang forward and caught her shoulder.

‘Don’t try to run, lady,’ he snarled, pulling her back against his chest. The knife came up to her throat. ‘Don’t scream, or I’ll cut your throat soon as look at you.’

Charity hadn’t had time to get more than a brief impression of him but his voice bore out what she’d gathered. A man who’d fought his way out of back streets, his broken nose a testimony to many fights. The suit was hand tailored, the kind wealthy businessmen wore, but beneath it was an animal.

All at once she knew this was the man the police were looking for. The man at the top who killed people who got in his way!

Charity’s heart began to thump, terror clutched at her and she felt herself grow wet with sweat as the cold steel pressed against her windpipe.