Tara (49 page)

'I don't know.' Tara shook her head. 'You know how awkward Gran can be. Greg made some sort of suggestion about building a practice in the meadow by the side of the farm and she went crackers.'

All through the meal Tara was painfully aware of Harry watching her. She saw his eyes travel down her neck to her breasts and felt her nipples harden under his gaze.

'Tell me what it's like to be famous?' he asked teas-ingly. 'How does Josh feel now his rival is out?'

She had avoided the subject of Josh and the shops. She didn't want Harry to feel put down by hearing such a success story when he was at such a low ebb.

'I'm not famous.' She blushed. "There's only been one article about me. Josh is the one who's becoming a celebrity. Speaking of him, he wished you well.'

In fact Josh had turned red with anger yesterday afternoon when she mentioned Harry's release and this celebration.

'Don't go tangling with him,' he warned her. 'The media will be on to it in a minute. He's bad news.'

She had called him a turncoat, suggested he was getting too big for his boots, forgetting old friends.

Josh tried to get round her later, said he was frightened of losing her and how much he cared. He held out a hundred pounds and asked her to give it to Harry to help him out till he found a job.

'I bet he wished me a thousand miles away,' Harry smiled, looking into her eyes as if trying to gauge whether he had been told the truth. 'It must scare the hell out of him imagining me snatching you away. His business would crumble over night.'

'For the record, Harry,' she said softly, 'Josh tried to give me a hundred pounds to tide you over. I refused it, because I knew you would. And his business wouldn't crumble without me, he'd have dozens of designers jumping to take my place.'

She ought to have said he couldn't snatch her away anyway, but at that moment she knew he was maybe the one man who could!

'I don't believe that.' Harry's lips were twisted into a wry smile. 'The money was a bribe!'

'Come on now,' George interrupted. 'It's 1968 now, a new year, a new start. I'm going to order a bottle of Champagne and we'll leave the past behind us.'

It was after midnight when they left the restaurant. Harry slipped his arm round Tara as they stood together looking for a taxi to hail. Queenie and George were still in the restaurant doorway, chatting to the owner.

'Tara!' A male voice came from nearby but it wasn't one she recognised. She looked up at Harry in astonishment and a camera flash went off. It was a second or two before they got over the surprise and by then the photographer was jumping into a car and heading off down Essex Road.

'Who on earth was that?' Tara was so shocked her mouth fell open. 'How did he know I'd be here, anyway?'

Queenie toddled over to them, a little unsteady on her high heels.

' 'E must have followed you 'ere,' she said indignantly. 'What a slag. I wonder 'ow 'e connected you to our 'Arry?'

'Josh,' Harry said, his face turning hard and cold. 'That creep would sell his own mother for a spot of free publicity!'

'Don't be ridiculous,' Tara snapped at him. 'What good could it do him?'

'Wait till tomorrow and you'll find out,' Harry sniffed. 'I can see the headlines. "Top designer celebrates with East End villain on his release." Quite by chance there'll be a picture of the shop, too!'

It was as if someone had thrown a bucket of cold water over them. All the rosy dreams Tara had planned of perhaps going on somewhere so they could be alone to talk vanished. She didn't like Harry's accusation and she was even more perturbed at the prospect of her face being splashed across the papers. Jumping into a taxi alone was instinctive, but once she'd got into bed she regretted it.

She thought of Harry's slim, hard body, sensual lips and those brilliant blue eyes. She recalled the way he'd tried to grab her back from the taxi, his face aghast because it wasn't what he'd planned either. He would see this as loyalty to Josh. All that passion pent up from a year inside might be unleashed elsewhere. Why hadn't she just thought of his feelings instead of her own stupid pride?

All at once she knew where she belonged. It didn't matter what other people thought or said. She had to be with him. She got out of bed and, going down to the phone in her workroom, she dialled Paradise Row, pulling her silky negligee tighter round her body.

But Queenie answered.

'Could I speak to Harry?' she asked. 'I was a bit hasty running off.'

' 'E's gone out, darlin',' Queenie's voice sounded tense, as if something else had happened. 'Only a saint would spend his first night of freedom at 'ome!'

'Do you know where he's gone?' She was quite prepared to get in a taxi and go to look for him.

'No, love. He didn't say.'

'Was he angry with me?'

'Sad more than angry.' Queenie sighed deeply. 'I won't take sides. I understand how it is for you, and him. But he's thought of nothing but you all this time. Whoever tipped off that reporter knew they would mess things up between you. You can't blame 'Any for thinking it was Josh!'

'I know, that's why I rang.' Tara felt tears pricking her eyelids.

'Let's just pray he gets quietly drunk somewhere and lurches home without getting up to any mischief.' Queenie chuckled. 'I'll leave 'im a note that you phoned.'

Chapter 22

'Yeah, of course I've heard of Harry Collins. But I don't like the idea of some ex-con steaming into our game.' Duke Denning spoke in a low voice, glancing back over his shoulder to make sure there weren't any eavesdroppers.

He needn't have worried. At eleven in the morning in the shabby Town of Ramsgate in Wapping High Street, the only customers apart from himself and Joe were two comatose old men staring at their pints.

The pub was one of the oldest on the river, overshadowed by soot-blackened warehouses. When the docks were in their heyday it had been a cheery little place, but now it looked as sad and abandoned as the rest of Wapping.

'Well, he ain't a cheat if that's what you're thinking. I might not like the bloke, but he's straight. His track record will tell you that,' Joe insisted.

Duke had been a gambler all his life, but he'd learned over the years to shorten the odds in his favour. He was tall and powerfully built, with the kind of blond good looks that usually opened doors for him automatically. But he had to remind himself he wasn't in Manchester or Birmingham now. East End villains and gamblers were different.

When Joe Spikes rang him late last night and asked for a meet, he was surprised. Joe rarely came north of the river, and he wasn't one to ask favours of mere acquaintances. Perhaps this was why Joe insisted on this pub. It was close to the Rotherhithe tunnel, frequented only by warehousemen and a few hardened drunks. Anyone observing them together would assume their relationship was employer and employee, because of the gulf between their appearances.

Duke's height, blond hair and rugged face made women turn their heads and flutter their eyelashes. Joe's appearance did the opposite. A hideous scar covered the right side of his face, puckering his upper lip and pulling his nose to one side. To make matters worse his head was as bald and shiny as a billiard ball. At six feet tall, with shoulders like a barn door and a hard, lean body, nobody would want to run into him in a dark alley.

Duke wore a light grey Savile Row suit, but Joe was in rough corduroys and a donkey jacket.

'Why are you so anxious to get him in on the game?' Duke had already picked up the vibes that Joe had a grudge against Collins, but setting someone up at a game of cards was a strange way to get even.

They'd first met a couple of years ago, in Manchester. Duke had an interest in an illegal gaming house, and Joe was brought in as a debt collector. No-one they'd ever employed was so successful; one look at that face was enough to frighten even the most persistent 'welsher'. But Duke liked Joe, even if he knew little about the man's past. He was tough, entirely fearless and far brighter than people gave him credit for.

'I want him to lose, of course.' Joe grinned, but it did nothing to enhance his fearsome appearance.

'Fair enough.' Duke smiled back. 'So he's loaded. Right?'

'Dunno about that.' Joe shook his head. 'But I want him cleaned out of what he's got.'

'Come on! Why?' Duke asked, his piercing blue eyes homing in on the other man like lasers.

'That's between him and me,' Joe dropped his eyes from Duke's. 'It's quite simple, ain't it? You get the others to let him in, you take his wedge off him. What you got to lose?'

'Well, if he's a demon poker player, everything,' Duke smirked.

He couldn't make out why Joe didn't just give the guy a good thrashing, but then Joe was a devious bastard and maybe this way the hurt would last far longer than a few broken ribs.

'Harry ain't a gambler. Sure, he's had a game or two, but not in your league. I know why he's bin trying to get into a big game, because I was enough of a mug to do it once or twice myself. He thinks it's easy money. I want to teach him a lesson.'

'OK.' Duke finished his pint and stood up. 'We can all do with a couple of pigeons in a game, I'll send word he's in.'

Joe gave that evil grin again.

'Thanks, Duke. I owe you one! But do me a favour and don't let my name slip. This is just between us. You know where you can reach me to let me know the result!'

Harry nervously patted his breast pocket as he got out of the van by Swan Wharf in Wapping.

It was four weeks since his release and tonight was the first stage of the plans he'd made in prison. He'd drawn his entire savings, three hundred quid, out of the post office, and if his father knew he'd kill him. But what could he do with three hundred? Buy a secondhand motor, take a holiday or get a new suit. What he needed was enough dosh to buy a couple of derelict houses, a bit of spare to do them up and he'd be on his way.

It was all very well his dad saying they were partners and making out like he really needed his son around, but, aside from humping heavy boxes, Harry was just a spare part. Employers didn't want someone with a record, unless it was navvying. Harry wanted to work with his hands and marry Tara.

There was money to be made as a builder and he had a nose for places that were right for speculation. Hadn't it been his idea to buy the house in Paradise Row? So maybe he'd lose this wedge, but so what? He'd played poker inside enough, listened to all the tales of fortunes won and lost. As long as he didn't go beyond what was on the table and kept his cool, he'd be no worse off.

The tall warehouses looked spooky in the darkness. As a boy he had loved this place with its narrow cobbled streets and names like Cinnamon Street and Tobacco Wharf. Sailors and dockers crammed into the little pubs, a rich soup of every nationality. There were strange exotic smells of spices, coffee and tea, and noise and confusion everywhere. But now there was only the sound of his feet on the cobbles, the occasional fog-horn on the river, and wind whistling through dilapidated buildings.

He had taken it as a good omen that the game was to be played in Baxter's warehouse, as he remembered it from his childhood, when he and Needles used to go down the narrow alley at the side to watch the ships unloading their cargoes. But Baxter's looked sad now. Most of the windows on the front were boarded up, a bush grew out of the roof, and the old hoists creaked ominously in the wind. The old man who owned it, Stan Baxter, died a few years ago. Harry had done his homework about all the players tonight and one of them was Chas Baxter, the owner's son.

Harry flicked down the cuffs of his white shirt. He'd got to start bluffing right now and make them all believe he was a pigeon. The gun cufflinks were part of the image he wanted to portray. Only a naive eighteen-year-old or a mug would wear such things, but he'd known they'd come in handy one day.

He knocked loudly on the narrow door next to the loading bay, polished up his old winklepickers on the backs of his strides while he waited, and set his face to look like an arrogant twerp.

It was eleven o'clock and he wondered if it would still be dark when he came out.

He could hear footsteps coming down a metal staircase, the echo proving the place was no longer used for storing goods. Metal bolts were pulled back, a key turned in the lock and the door creaked open.

'Harry Collins.' He shot out his hand and gripped the other man's. He knew this was Duke Denning by the descriptions he'd been given, but he hadn't expected him to be quite so good-looking.

'Come in, Harry. The others arrived a few minutes ago. Ready for a good night?'

Aside from a description and the knowledge that this man was reputed to be one of the best players in England, Harry hadn't found out much else. He didn't seem to have any form. Rumour had it he was just a professional gambler.

The wind was howling through broken windows on the river side of the building, bringing with it that peculiar, tangy river smell Harry loved. Although there was only one dim light on the metal spiral staircase, he could see enough to know the place was in ruins.

'It's gonna be a bit chilly, ain't it?' he said as he followed Duke up the stairs.

'The old office is OK.' Duke turned to speak. He wore an impeccably tailored navy suit, a military tie and hand-stitched shoes. Even the man's voice was quality, deep, clear and accentless.

Harry had dug out an old suit tonight, dark green mohair, with a flashy gold lining. But, like the cufflinks and winklepickers, it was just a prop.

Duke flung open a door and warmth, light and cigarette smoke came billowing out.

'Here we are, lads,' Duke said in an overloud voice. 'Harry Collins!'

Three men, all far older than him, sat round a table strewn with pub ashtrays, lighters and glasses. An almost full bottle of Scotch stood at the centre. Harry grinned as he waited to be introduced.

The office was oak panelled and still very gracious, despite the ruin elsewhere in the building. An electric fire was on in the old fireplace, and an oil painting of a stern-faced Victorian gentleman hung above it. Nothing else of the past remained. The floorboards were bare, the curved-topped windows taped up with cardboard. A single dim light above covered in a red fringed shade suggested someone's attempt at creating atmosphere.