The Factory Girl (45 page)

He'd confided a good deal of it to her when he'd first known about it, talking of the money he would get out of it and what he would buy her.

Now, of course, things had changed between him and Geraldine and it would be with Di that he would go abroad on the money and live like a lord. After all, his cut of the two million Sam had spoken about wouldn't be peanuts. Without him smelting down the haul they wouldn't be able to move it. Not easy to shift stuff like that in its original state.

‘I could kill her,' he went on, thinking about Geraldine. ‘She could ruin everything.'

Di gently freed her hand from the pressure of his lips and it began to slowly travel down his torso and his stomach with a light touch that set him tingling. ‘They wouldn't dare drop you, my love. You know too much. No, they'll be annoyed, my sweet, no doubt about that, but they know which side their bread is buttered.'

She stopped fondling him and sat up abruptly. ‘You know what I think? If your wife had really spilled the beans to the police yesterday afternoon, don't you think they'd have swooped by the time you got there? They wouldn't have let any moss grow under their feet over something like that, now would they?'

He had to admit she was right. Perhaps not much harm had been done after all. But he would still go there first thing tomorrow. Di had begun to caress him again, taking away all thoughts but those of her as he felt himself rise and fill, and for the second time that night had Di take him to the realms of paradise, twice in a single night, something Geraldine had never been able to do.

Next morning around six-thirty he left Chelsea and made straight for Sam's home near Vauxhall Bridge. A maid answered, left him standing there for a moment then came back to say that Mrs Treater had said Mr Treater and his colleague Mr Schulter had left early without saying where they were going. All Tony could do was turn his motor car in the direction of his home and have things out with Geraldine.

He needed to clear the air, needed to put his cards on the table. What she'd done had been the last straw in their marriage. He was through with her. She was dangerous. The more he thought about her going to the police the more scared he became as he drove through West London.

He couldn't wait to be out of this business, be safe for the rest of his life. Once this job was done, and he was sure he'd still be required to do it, he and Di would take a long holiday out of the country. He'd have plenty of money by then. The business could take care of itself. Geraldine could manage that, she often had when he wasn't there, and she'd have Bell to help her. Later he'd settle a good allowance on her. He wouldn't want to see her go short once the divorce was settled. He wasn't that vindictive even if she was.

Thank Christ she didn't know where he kept his smelter. Only those he worked with knew. The bullion would be taken there by van late at night, unseen in the total darkness of the Rainham marshes. It would take ages, of course, to melt down that much and he'd have to sleep there.

But after that he'd go home to Di, lie low until he got his cut, a substantial one Treater had promised, enough to retire on. Then with the money he and Di could live in luxury somewhere abroad.

The excitement of that thought all but rubbed out the fear. Perhaps, like Di had said, it wasn't as bad as it seemed. Would the police really have taken notice of a woman apparently talking rubbish about her husband being a fence? Not unless they felt bloody-minded enough to follow it up. And she might have realised that she too could find herself implicated and tell them it was all silly imagination. They had nothing to go on, did they?

Once home he would tax Geraldine to see just how much she had told the police. It surely couldn't have been that much because what she knew had only been what he'd told her and only that he was doing a big job for someone and stood to reap a good payout. Then he would telephone Treater or one of the others if he still wasn't home and do a bit of careful explaining, apologising, a bit of wriggling. He wouldn't be in their good books but it hadn't been him who'd contacted the law. Maybe no harm had been done at all, he managed to convince himself just under a mile from home.

Feeling better and able to breathe more easily, he slowed to a stop outside a tobacconists not far from Hyde Park Corner to saunter in for a packet of Players, looking to delay the time when he must confront a possibly still irate Geraldine.

Geraldine practically stumbled from the taxi as it stopped outside Alan's yard. She'd hardly been able to manage to give the address, her voice had shaken so much. She must have looked like some mad woman, face working, eyes staring from their sockets, her hair, short though it was, uncombed and her clothes dishevelled as she stumbled along Grove Road looking for a taxi and when one finally came along, frantically waving for it to stop.

She had never been so frightened in all her life. She had concluded that the ringing on the door had been Tony and had gone down determined to give him his marching orders for daring to lift his fist to her. Well, hand really. But it had felt like a fist. All right, he'd been beside himself at her going to the police like that and she couldn't blame him, but to hit her was inexcusable.

The ready words of vilification as she yanked open the door had died on her lips, Sam Treater's disarming smile confronting her. With him was William Schulter. Sam had asked if Tony was around and when she'd said he was not, in no uncertain terms, anger still there, he'd smiled even sweeter and asked if they could come in and wait. Caught on the rebound she had snapped that she had no idea if he'd even be back and couldn't care less if he never did. Treater had said sympathetically, ‘Like that is it? Had a row then?' And when she'd replied that she supposed it could be called that, he'd said, ‘Well, never mind. We'll come in for a moment anyway. It may be we'll only need to speak to you.'

When she had asked what about, he'd slowly reached out and gently but firmly pushed her to one side, he and Schulter entering before she could think to stop them, taken aback by Treater's almighty presumptuousness.

She'd followed up the stairs, growing more and more angry at their rude arrogance, had even demanded who they thought they were. Neither took any notice of her until they were in her lounge, gazing about the place as if they owned it and as she followed them in had turned to face her, Treater's heavy face by then bereft of any smile. His words still pierced her brain.

‘I'll tell you who we think we are. We're your husband's colleagues who've entertained him, put him where he is, welcomed you into our midst – our wives have been good friends to you, we've given you good times, the best of everything. And now we find we aren't worth a second of loyalty.'

When she'd asked what they were talking about, Treater had replied in a tone that had frightened the living daylights out of her. ‘We're talking about you, my dear, going to the police about what your husband does for a living. No consideration for us, that we might be for the drop because of you. You may not care for what he or we do for a living, but both of you are happy to share in the spoils, aren't you? Not one word of gratitude, but when things look too rough, it's off to the police with a tongue as loose as a prostitute's pussy. And there's us putting all our trust in you both – yes, you're as much involved as him – and thinking of all the good turns we've done you both in having him working for us and getting good returns for it.'

He'd begun poking a finger at her, the finger connecting with her shoulder, jerking her backwards with each sentence. She'd glanced round for escape to find that the silent Schulter had got between her and the door. She remembered crying out, ‘What d'you want?' but still the toneless tirade went on. The digging finger became a fist punching at her shoulder until she was crying out in protest.

Backed up against Schulter, she had felt the flat of Treater's hand connect with the side of her head, not her face, no marks left to show, and continued to slap against the top of her head, knocking it from one side to the other. All the time the voice had grated that they knew she'd been to the police, were very put out by it, and when they got hold of Tony he'd get worse than this; that if he thought they would use him now he had another think coming – the deal off, as was the whole job, thanks to her, so where was her husband, when would she expect him home? And don't lie!

The smacking had got worse, Schulter beginning to dig her in the back with his knuckles, not enough to do damage but painful. Squirming and trying to fight back, she heard herself being referred to as a silly girl who had behaved like a child, and needed a lesson like all naughty children. The next second she found herself pushed back and lying over Schulter's knees, face down as he lowered himself onto a nearby chair. Like the child they said she was, she felt her skirt being pulled up over her waist. But she wasn't a child and as the blue silk knickers were displayed to these male eyes, her brain screamed at the thought of rape. Instead, struggling like a mad thing at the prospect, she had felt a smarting slap connecting with her bottom. Slap after stinging slap had landed, the silk of little protection, the sick dread of that first thought gave way to the humiliation of this present treatment.

The flesh numbed, she'd suddenly been dropped unceremoniously to the floor. They'd strode out without another word, satisfied that she'd been given a lesson. Tony would receive harsher treatment and it was her fault. She had really messed things up for them both yet she couldn't feel fearful for him. He'd caused all this in the first place, she told herself. How was a wife expected to feel and react, wronged as she'd been, kept in the dark?

Humiliation and the fright she'd received overrode all sense of guilt as she stumbled from the flat, her nether parts stinging as though they had been whipped. Her head still throbbed from the battering of those flat-handed blows. All she'd wanted was to find help, though what sort she had no idea. She'd had the presence of mind to snatch at her coat and handbag, though she was into Piccadilly before realising she was hatless, where no woman going about her business in this part of the world would dream of ever being seen out of doors without one, people passing her in that busy road glancing askance at her.

Seeing a taxi she'd waved it down, almost fell into it and had given Alan's work address. If he weren't there, where would she go? She couldn't go to her own people, not like this. She sat in the taxi shaking uncontrollably inside from delayed shock, lips trembling, eyes brimming with tears of humiliation and from the horror of what had happened. Outside Alan's business she felt overwhelming relief to see the gate standing open and men moving about in the yard beyond. He had to be there.

The peak-capped cabby stated his fare as she fumbled for the money, only to find her purse had been left behind. The handbag she had grabbed was one used for evenings, held hardly anything – a handkerchief, a silver cigarette case, a lipstick, a comb and a powder compact. No need for money, Tony paid for everything when they were out together.

‘Can you wait?' she gasped. ‘I'll get some money from inside.'

With the cabby yelling, ‘Hey! Wait a minute, 'ere, 'old on!' she raced off through the gates, vaguely aware of the driver scrambling out of his cab to pursue her, his voice going on faintly behind her. ‘I mighta known your lark when I picked yer up! But y'ain't getting' away wiv it though, lass.'

She almost fell into Alan's office, praying he'd be there. He was, looking up in astonishment from what he was doing.

‘What in God's name—'

‘Alan! Have you got any money. I need ter pay the cab.'

The man had arrived at the door, more fleet-footed than she was. ‘'Ere, what's the lark …?' He stopped, seeing Alan, then went on, ‘This lady ain't—'

‘How much?' queried Alan, cutting him short.

‘Three bob. Come all the way from the West End she 'as. A bloomin' long way, that is, an' I ain't—'

‘Here. And somethink for your trouble.'

Seeing the extra shilling falling brightly into his quickly outstretched hand, his angry face changed to a grin. He touched his cap. ‘Sorry, mate. Didn't mean ter be awkward like, but … Well, cheers, an' all the best.' And he was gone.

Geraldine, watching the small scene, could only bend her head as Alan let out a laugh and came to put a hand under her chin ready to chide her. Her expression killed the laugh stone dead.

‘Gel, what in 'eaven's name's the matter?'

In reply she burst into tears, flinging herself forward into his arms, making him bend to catch her to him. Crouching before her he held her away to gaze into her face as best he could with her wanting only to hide it against the dusty overalls he wore. Relenting, he let her rest her face against him, smoothing her hair and rocking her gently until at last the sobbing subsided. She felt a movement as he raised a hand at one time to wave away someone who came into the hut, the man hastily drawing back and leaving.

Slowly she was able to calm down, lifting her face away from his chest to look wordlessly up at him. He was surveying her face, was frowning at the sight of the small, gathering bruise on her cheek bone. Despite Tony using the flat of his hand it had been a hard slap and had left its mark after all.

‘Who did that to you?' came the demand. She lifted a hand to it, a sort of reflex action of attempting to hide it. ‘Come on, Gel, who did that?'

This time she found her voice and it came out in a torrent of words. ‘I told Tony I went to the police. He lashed out at me. He'd have never done that if he hadn't been frightened. He's never laid a hand on me before. I should never have gone. I wasn't thinking straight. I was so incensed that he'd been carrying on with someone else behind my back. I felt betrayed. I thought he loved me.'