Running Scared (35 page)

Then someone else did turn up. Ponytail. My heart plummeted. I should have expected that he’d be on hand. Grice would hardly have come without his minder. He’d been close by near the top of the spiral stair which led down to Concert Hall Approach and, my eye distracted by the snapping camera, I hadn’t seen him at first.

I was suddenly struck by an idea which I at first rejected and then decided wasn’t so fantastic after all. Down that spiral stair, across the York Road, through the subway and Grice would be at Waterloo Station and the Eurostar Terminal. A few minutes’ walk only. Was that what Grice had done? Come in on Eurostar, specifically to make this exchange? Having made it, he could just retrace his steps and get on the next fast service to the continent. It was so easy. I wondered if the cops had thought of it.

Ponytail moved to Grice’s side and murmured something in his ear. Grice let the camera fall to hang from the strap round his neck. I swallowed with difficulty; my throat had clammed up. Where was Harford and his team? So far, all I’d seen was one phoney beggar back there on the bridge, nowhere near enough to be any use. He was presumably backup in case Grice took flight that way. I glanced round nervously, hoping Grice didn’t think I was looking for help, just being prudent. The couple in the cafeteria had left their table and were coming out through the exit, hand in hand and still lovey-dovey. Grice was coming my way.

‘Miss Varady?’

His voice was surprisingly pleasant. I’d been expecting a thug like Ponytail. But of course, Grice wasn’t like that. Foxley had told me Grice was probably living a blameless life somewhere, masquerading as a respectable businessman, pillar of the community.

‘You have something for me, I think,’ he went on courteously.

I couldn’t see his eyes through the shades. What I could see of his hair beneath the ridiculous hat looked reddish. He’d been at the bottle of colour again. He probably had one to match every photo in his selection of passports.

I fumbled for the envelope in my pocket and dragged it out. ‘What about my money?’ I forced myself to ask.

Grice glanced at Ponytail, who brought another envelope from his pocket. Grice held out his hand.

‘I’d like to check the contents first, if I may?’

‘Feel free,’ I mumbled hoarsely, handing it over.

He opened it, riffled through its contents, held up the strip of negatives to the light, then looked at me. ‘This is the lot? You’re sure of that, are you?’ His voice was no longer quite so pleasant.

‘Yes,’ I whispered, because it was a lie. I had removed the duplicate of the print I’d given Ponytail, otherwise there would have been one extra to the four I’d claimed existed.

Some tremor in my voice must have betrayed me. Between the brim of his hat and his shades, his broad forehead puckered into a frown. I felt his suspicion radiate in my direction. Fear made me speak up.

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I don’t know who you are and I don’t care. They’re just some blooming holiday snaps. He said you’d give me a grand.’ I tried to sound both bolshie and dim. It must have worked.

The frown smoothed out. A slight smile touched his face. He turned to Ponytail. ‘Give her—’

‘Oy! You! I bloody know you! Where’s my woman?’

Grice swore. Ponytail swung round, his hand moving inside his jacket. I goggled and nearly passed out.

At the top of the spiral stair, just climbed up from the street below, was a tall bearded figure in a plaid jacket and woolly hat. Jo Jo.

I had forgotten, in admiring the lay-out of this place as I walked over the bridge, just how close it also lay to the network of underpasses which offered shelter of a kind to the homeless. This was where Tig and Jo Jo had been reduced to sleeping, before desperation had sent Tig to me and consequently, back to the Midlands and the claustrophobic high-tension comforts of the Quayle household.

Jo Jo lurched forward, brandishing a clenched fist. ‘I saw you talking with Tig! Where’s she gone? What’ve you—’

Belatedly he realised he’d walked in on something he’d rather not be anywhere near. He broke off and turned to run back down the spiral stair. But a bunch of other guys were running up it, blocking it. Others had appeared round the side of the cafeteria from the direction of the river. The male half of the young lovers stopped cuddling his girl and shouted, ‘Police! Stay where you are!’

Not bloody likely, as someone else said. I ran.

Jo Jo, unable to scuttle back down the stair to Concert Hall Approach, wheeled round and raced after me. We reached the corner of the cafeteria building neck and neck and made the turn right in unison. But Jo Jo wasn’t interested in me any longer, only in escape. Jointly we negotiated the trestle tables set out for snackers, like a pair of runners in an obstacle race. After that, Jo Jo easily outstripped me. I could see him legging it ahead in great strides past the Queen Elizabeth Hall and Purcell Room. He reached the flight of steps leading down to the lower level and suddenly veered right between the blocks of concrete architecture towards the Museum of the Moving Image, making for the steps which led up on to Waterloo Bridge. From there, by turning right on the bridge and keeping going straight ahead, he’d be safe in the warren beneath the Bull Ring in no time. There were probably half-a-dozen blokes looking just like him in that general area.

I clattered down the steps and plunged on past the National Film Theatre. Beneath Waterloo Bridge, open-air second-hand bookstalls had been set up today. Long trestle tables barred my path. There were a lot of people there, sorting through the volumes. I dodged around them and thought I was clear when a dotty old girl with her nose in a book she’d just bought, stepped straight in front of me. I leaped to one side, slipped and crashed to the pavement.

The woman with the book yelled and dropped it. A couple of men by the bookstall left what they were doing and came running. I saw they were headed for me and didn’t look friendly. They probably thought I was a fleeing mugger and had made a grab for the woman’s bag, slung over her shoulder. I was about to be the subject of a citizen’s arrest. A crowd began to form round me. I’d be lucky not to be duffed up as well.

I scrambled to my feet but before I could get away, a pair of hands grasped my shoulder. ‘Leggo! I haven’t done anything!’ I squawked and hacked backwards at my captor’s shins.

‘It’s me, Fran, it’s me!’ shouted Jason Harford’s voice in my ear.

I froze and then, as his grip relaxed, turned. ‘It’s me,’ he repeated breathlessly.

I was pretty out of breath too. I’d a stitch in my side and my chest ached as I dragged air in and out.

‘Police!’ Harford called to the two men. ‘Under control. No problem.’ People began to drift away, already deciding that whatever it was, they wanted no part of it. The mention of the word ‘police’ has that effect. Even the pair of gung-ho types keen to nab me seconds before, were deciding that, after all, they didn’t want to be witnesses to whatever it might be.

‘Grice . . .’ I gasped, pointing a trembling finger over Harford’s shoulder back the way we’d come.

‘We’ve got him.’

‘His minder, big guy with a pony—’

‘We’ve got him too, don’t worry. The only guy we haven’t got is that loony in the woolly hat who came barging in. Who was
he
?’ Harford asked indignantly.

‘Nobody important. Just someone who thinks I did him a bad turn. Did you get Grice’s camera?’

‘His camera?’ Harford scowled at me, not understanding.

‘He took a picture of me. For God’s sake, get the film out and destroy it! I’ve had enough trouble from bits of film left lying around!’

‘Will do.’ He grinned. ‘Well done, Fran. Foxley will be pleased.’

I told him, rather impolitely, I didn’t care whether Foxley was pleased or not. Never, but never again, would I agree to help out the cops. It was not my style. It was against all my principles.

‘Do your own dirty work,’ I said in one of my more printable phrases.

‘You were always safe,’ he said reproachfully. ‘I said I’d look after you, Fran.’ He put his hands on my shoulders again, but gently this time. ‘And I will, you’ll see.’

I am not good at handling this sort of occasion. I said, ‘Oh, right . . .’ and felt a fool. Fortunately, just then Parry turned up.

‘Excuse me, sir!’ he hailed Harford sarcastically. ‘Can you come back to the control van? Mr Foxley would like a word.’

‘I’ll see you later,’ Harford said hastily. He gave my shoulders a last squeeze and hurried away.

‘Want a lift home, Fran?’ asked Parry, when he’d gone.

I told him no thanks. I just wanted to get away from it all and be alone, like Greta Garbo.

‘Going out with him, then, later, are you?’ He jerked his head back to indicate the direction Jason Harford had gone in.

‘Maybe,’ I said.

‘Watch yourself,’ said Parry. ‘He’s got every WPC on the Force in a tizz. Still, he’s a bright boy. He’s going far, as they say.’

The depressed look which had accompanied these words was wiped from Parry’s face as he added, ‘You didn’t half get a move on when you went belting like the clappers out of it back there. I thought you were going to break some record. They need you in the Olympics, they do.’

‘Oh, go and arrest someone,’ I said wearily.

He’d persisted in offering the ride home, ‘in an unmarked car’, until I eventually got through to him that he was wasting his time.

Instead I sat by the river for a while until my heartbeat had got back to normal and my legs were functioning again. Then I walked back, over Waterloo Bridge this time, cut through Villiers Street to The Strand and down into Charing Cross tube station. There was a lot I didn’t understand, but it no longer mattered. I’d never even got my fingers on the envelope with the thousand in cash in it. That did rankle and I brooded darkly about it all the way home.

Bonnie was pleased to see me, jumping up and squeaking. I was pleased to see her, to be back in one piece, to have it all behind me. A distant rattle of typewriter keys pinpointed Daphne’s location. The great masterpiece was being worked on again. Perhaps one day I’d get to read a bit of it.

‘Only me, Daphne!’ I called. A faint cry replied. The keys rattled on.

I went upstairs, stripped off and soaked in the bath. Feeling a lot better when I got out, I did my best to dress smartly (for me) though the best I could do was a repeat of the clothes I’d worn the night Coverdale had died. Hardly a good omen. To compensate, I applied the stub of lipstick Joleen had given me. Jason Harford had said he’d be round later.

I went down to the kitchen and was making a cup of tea when the phone rang. ‘I’ll get it!’ I called out and went into the hall.

‘Fran?’ asked a female voice when I picked it up. ‘It’s Tig.’

I was surprised, though I’d wondered if she’d get in touch and let me know how things were going. I decided I wouldn’t tell her I’d seen Jo Jo. It might lead to complicated explanations and anyway, she didn’t need to know it. I told her Bonnie was fine, and asked her how things were.

‘Mum’s gone shopping,’ she said. ‘I had to wait till she’d gone out to call you. She gets suspicious if I use the phone.’

That didn’t sound too good. ‘How’s your dad taking it?’ I asked.

‘Dad? He’s gone.’

That threw me. ‘Gone where?’

‘Gone. Shoved off. He couldn’t hack it, my being back and being “no longer his little girl” was his way of putting it. He’s sleeping over at his office on a put-u-up.’

That was a turn up for the books. I hadn’t anticipated that. Poor Sheila. She’d got her daughter back and lost her husband. ‘Perhaps,’ I said, ‘he’ll come back when he’s got it sorted in his head. I expect your mum is upset about it, his taking off like that.’