The Runaway (25 page)

His sole concession to the fashions of his time were the wide kipper ties he wore, and even these were rapidly going out of style. Gates would stubbornly carry on wearing his. He had hundreds and he loved them.

A very private person, he knew he was considered strange by other people. But he could live with that and enjoyed his solitary life.

As he smoothed down his thin close-cropped hair and waited for the weather forecast, the phone rang. Swearing under his breath, he looked ruefully at his breakfast and went out into the hallway.

No one who knew him well would dare call him at home before ten o’clock. This had to be work, either a murder or a decent attempt at one. At the very least it had better be an armed robbery, nothing else would be allowed to spoil his breakfast.

In fact, the caller was Duncan Goodings and it was just as well he was unaware of the type of man he had to deal with. His nerves had never been Duncan’s strongest point.

 

Cathy awoke and wondered where she was. A heavy smell of bacon was permeating the room and her stomach rumbled in sympathy. She was starving.

The fire was banked up and rain was hitting the windows with a steady rat-tat that was strangely reassuring. Stretching, she sat up and looked about her. In the cold light of day the room looked dilapidated, furniture and walls scuffed, carpet threadbare in places; but with the cheerful fire aglow it didn’t look so bad. She had lived in worse, much worse, all her life.

As Cathy pushed her hair from her face with fingers that were feeling less painful, the door opened and Mama Gosa came in with a cup of tea.

‘You look much better. Drink this up and I’ll fetch your few bits. I’m sure you want to get dressed and be on your way, yes?’

Cathy smiled and took the tea gratefully, her blue eyes open and trusting.

‘You’re looking quite bright this morning. A good sleep and a hot bath were just the things to get you on your feet, yes? Show me your poor hands and I’ll see if we can do any more for you.’

Cathy put her cup on the floor and held out her hands. Though red and sore-looking, they really had improved and she and the Greek woman smiled at one another.

‘Much better, yes? Now I have made you a nice big breakfast to see you on your way, so drink up and come and eat.’

Cathy was nonplussed for a moment. ‘Must I leave today? I can pay - I have money.’

Mama Gosa grinned. ‘We’ll see, yes?’

She left the room and Cathy sipped at the tea and pondered her situation. This set up suited her. If she could camp out here for a few days, get her hands in better shape and have a much-needed rest, she would be able to face the world looking and feeling better than she had in a very long time.

She had an idea that her twenty-five pounds would come in very handy.

Suddenly it hit her that she was in effect on the run, and the unfairness of her situation stung. In just under four weeks she had been through more than most people endure in a lifetime. Yet, she consoled herself, she was still standing. She was still here, and she was coping. Admittedly, it was difficult to keep body and soul together at times, but she was making sure that she did.

Life with Madge had prepared her for the worst, and if you expected the worst anything other than that was a bonus - like this place. Denise and her knowhow had been a bonus too, and of course Eamonn was the very best bonus life could offer.

Following the smell of bacon and eggs, she made her way through the house to the kitchen. Her natural alertness was returning, together with her strength, and it occurred to her that there was really no reason why the two Greeks should give her their time and hospitality. Maybe she would be asked for something in return? No matter. She would cross that bridge when she came to it. She just hoped against hope that all they would want was money.

Smiling pleasantly, she went into the kitchen and began to eat her breakfast. The food was good and hot, the kitchen filthy. It didn’t bother Cathy in the least. She knew she needed her strength and her wits about her. Hopefully she would recover both these things in this funny-looking refuge in Fulham.

Eamonn was still asleep and snoring when Patsy Fullerton crept from the bed. She was on the wrong side of thirty, with enormous breasts and backcombed bleached hair that made her look like a reject from a
Carry On
film.

As she struggled into her underwear and a very grubby Mary Quant mini-dress that did not really suit her short stubby legs, she watched the boy in the bed and shook her head in wonder. Three times, straight off, and not one word had he spoken to her. He was a funny little fucker.

Still, she reasoned, he was doing all right, had a few quid to fling about, and didn’t spend half the night telling you all his troubles. She often joked that her job was more a line of therapy really. Most punters wanted a captive audience to listen to their woes more than they wanted an actual woman.

If they paid for oral sex they never kept their mouths shut, before, during or after the event. It pissed her off.

Still, she had her money safely tucked into her bag and had had a good night out with the young man asleep in the bed. That in itself was a touch as far as she was concerned. Normally she was lumbered with some old bastard with greasy hair, a greasier smile and even greasier money - usually not quite enough to pay for all the services she’d rendered.

Which didn’t really bother her because at the end of the day, if you kept the fuckers happy then they’d come back, which was what her job was all about.

Her pimp was big, black and liked the good life. She provided it for him, along with a few other girls, and was quite happy to do so. Why, she didn’t even know herself and had long ago stopped trying to puzzle it out.

She had no illusions that the boy in the bed would ever want her services regularly, although she had heard he was gradually going through every whore in London. And besides that she knew damn well he was being seen out and about with a regular bird called Caroline Harvey, daughter of a well-known 1950s face.

Funny then, that when he’d lost himself in the oblivion that Patsy provided and called out a girl’s name, she had distinctly heard him say ‘Cathy’. Girlfriend or no, Caroline Harvey was out of the running with Eamonn Docherty, did she but know it.

 

Caroline Harvey was small, plump and had the biggest violet-blue eyes anyone had ever seen in a woman. People were always saying her eyes reminded them of Elizabeth Taylor’s. She mascaraed her lashes religiously, knowing they would enhance her best feature. Her breasts were small but full and her waist thick; she had long legs which she covered always in black stockings to hide the stretch-marks from a pregnancy when she was fourteen.

Her dark brown hair was cut in the latest style and she wore clothes that accentuated her figure. She knew what suited her, she knew what to say, and she knew exactly what was going on around her. She made a point of doing so.

All in all she was pleased with herself, very pleased with herself. More so since she had bagged Eamonn Docherty. He was an up-and-coming face and she loved the notoriety she earned by being seen with him.

At this moment, though, he was in her bad books. He had left her in a club the previous night and she had quickly arranged to stay at a friend’s. She would never admit what she had in fact guessed: that Eamonn had simply forgotten her. Caroline couldn’t actually bring herself to acknowledge that. Instead, she made her way home, encountering Patsy on the stairs of her lodging house.

The two women stared at one another. Patsy, knowing the score, grinned easily. ‘He’s a wanker, love.’

Caroline laughed good-naturedly. ‘I know, but ain’t they all?’

As she let herself into her flat she was smiling. Let Eamonn have his other birds. As long as the money kept coming her way, she didn’t give a toss. All she wanted out of life was enough to spend, a hot cock and a bit of fun. She was also shrewd enough to put money by, something her mother had taught her years before.

‘Never depend on no one but yourself’ had been a constant theme, along with: ‘If a man can’t give you more than you can give yourself, then dump him.’

Both sayings had since been proven right, time and time again.

Plastering a big smile on her face Caroline said, ‘What on earth happened to you last night?’

Eamonn, grinning sheepishly, replied, ‘Sorry, babe, it was just one of those things, you know?’ His voice begged forgiveness yet managed to convey impatience all at the same time.

Caroline shrugged. Pouting prettily she said, ‘Well, don’t let it happen again.’

When Eamonn had eaten his breakfast he told Caroline they were going flat hunting together. As far as Eamonn was concerned it was a purely temporary arrangement. But he didn’t bother telling Caroline that and her happiness was complete.

 

Betty’s flat was small and very clean, a fact that always surprised people when they first entered it. Unlike most of her contemporaries, she liked order and neatness. She reasoned there was enough shit to cope with in her everyday work; she didn’t need it at home. Where most of the whores would go mad in their free time, buying up the markets and drinking themselves into a happier frame of mind, Betty was quite happy to scrub out her little flat, cook herself a nice meal and listen to the radio. Victor Sylvester was a favourite and she listened to
Housewife’s Choice
every day. On a Sunday it was
Letter from America
, and of an evening she tried to be home for
Mystery Voice
.

Besides being clean and tidy, the flat was also relatively smart. The furniture, though second-hand, was good. Her two large wardrobes were her pride and j oy. She had picked them up in Camden Market for a fiver. They were yew, had shined up a treat, and were fitted with everything from a full-length mirror to shoe racks. Her clothes looked lovely in them and Betty would often open the doors just to peek at her possessions.

This morning she opened her front door to Richard Gates and smiled at the look on his face as he surveyed his surroundings.

‘You’ve got it nice here, Betty.’

She grinned and preened herself with satisfaction. ‘Thank you very much. Never was one for bringing me work home, know what I mean? Cup of tea, coffee?’

Ordinarily he would not have accepted anything in a brass’s house, but today was the exception to the rule.

‘Coffee would be lovely, thanks.’

He followed her through to the kitchen. Betty walked lightly in old carpet slippers, keeping her back very straight. It made him wonder what she had been like as a girl. She was delighted to have such an illustrious visitor and kept up a stream of chatter.

‘I done this place all myself, you know. Over the years I looked about and found a few nice pieces. But my forte, if you like, is collecting thimbles.’ She laughed at herself, and Gates didn’t have it in his heart to laugh with her.

‘You’re a nice woman, Betty, do you know that? Probably have made some man a good wife.’

She shook her head in instant denial. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Gates. I’ve been tomming since I was twelve - takes the shine off all that, really. I’m happy enough with my life. I work to live these days, mate. I close me front door, and have my little bit of home and my radio and my thoughts. They’re enough for me.’ She sipped at her coffee in embarrassment for a moment after these revelations, then remembered the reason for his visit.

‘So what’s happening with Cathy? When are we off to get her?’

Gates walked through to her tiny front room. Perching himself precariously on one of her Queen Anne chairs, he said, ‘Cathy went on the trot last night from that secure. I had some bigwig from Social Services on the phone. By his account she was aggressive and violent, something I don’t believe, but no matter. The social worker who dumped her there - that old bag Barton - well, her old man’s a judge. Like I give a flying fuck! Judges, street cleaners, they’re all the same to me.

‘But anyway, the bottom line is they’re all well protected and we can’t do fuck all. I even had a call from the Commissioner of Police, telling me politely to leave things alone. There’s a big con going on and at some point in me life I’ll find out what it is and have each and every one of them by the bollocks. But that’s for later on, when I start me digging. For now I know they’re all shitting bricks and that suits me.

‘Officially Cathy went missing last night with another girl, Denise something or other, a half chat chink. Already on the bash, already on the ball. There’s a Missing Persons out and that’s it. I’m here both officially and unofficially because we’re being asked nicely by the police in Deal to keep an eye out in the East End. They think Cathy’ll make her way back here.

‘It stinks like a pile of horseshit on your front room carpet. I’ll get to the bottom of it, lady, you can trust me for that much. And when I do, someone is going to wish that their mother had had access to the fucking pill on the night they were conceived!’

It was the longest she had ever heard him speak, and was the most emotional speech she had ever heard from anyone.

Looking round her little front room, with its displays of thimbles all neatly set out on shelves, and her few leather-bound books, Betty felt the sting of tears. Cathy would have loved it here, adored it.

They had always got on, Betty had always cared for the child. With Madge banged up she had seen herself inheriting a mother’s status and had looked forward to it. Now the girl had gone missing and anything could have happened to her.

‘I’ll make sure that everyone keeps an eye out for her,’ Gates continued. ‘I reckon she’ll make her way back here, don’t you, Betty?’

She nodded sadly. ‘If for no one else, she’ll come back for Eamonn Docherty. She loves the bones of that boy.’

Gates frowned. ‘Stupid little bitch! Can’t she see that he’s worse than his father? Christ, she must have more of her mother in her than I thought. By the way, any idea who the girl’s father is?’