Trust (10 page)

“You told me about that. They getting carried away a bit, the Russkies?”

Dean nodded. “Especially after the fight,” he said. “They’re lording it now. Think they own the place.”

“They think the Bailey Boys are history, right?”

Dean nodded again. “They’re getting very confident.”

“
Over
-confident?”

A nod for the third time, then Dean leaned in close and said, “Are we still on for this, Lee?”

His brother grinned. “Oh yes,” he said. “We’re still on.”

He probably thought he was being discreet. Easing his way out of the bed we’d shared to shower and dress. Moving around quietly.

He should have known discretion simply isn’t an option under circumstances like these.

Not after a night where we’d barely slept at all.

Not when I was still adjusting to the abrupt transition from strangers to getting more comfortable in each other’s company to... to what?

A one-night stand?

More?

I couldn’t work out what I wanted this thing to be.

I knew that the previous night was unlike anything else I’d experienced. The intensity. The passion. Hell, the energy and staying power!

I was twenty-two years old. I’d been in a couple of heavyish relationships. I’d explored. I’d gone off the rails completely for a time, and even I don’t remember everything I’d got into over that period...

I like to think I’d always had standards, though.

I’d certainly had my fair share of sex.

Up until that night with Dean, though, I simply hadn’t realized that it had mostly been
bad
– or at best, adequate – sex.

But... no matter how good last night had been, this was
Dean Bailey
.

I knew I couldn’t let this go anywhere.

Despite the extraordinary sex.

Despite how he’d looked last night when he’d pulled his shirt over his head, impatient with the way I’d been fumbling at the buttons. That broken, fighting man’s face. The athletic shape of his body, which explained why a suit hung so well from those square shoulders. The broadness of his chest – not taken to bodybuilder extremes, but packed with wiry, athletic power – the slim waist, the rippling abs. The way his trousers hung from his hips, a slight gap to either side of his abdomen, inviting me to just hook my thumb into the waistband and draw him closer.

All that. I had to put it aside. I couldn’t risk
not
to.

What kind of life was this?

What kind of
man
was he?

I remembered the violence I’d witnessed. The guns, the fights.

Lying there in the bed we’d shared, I resolved that I wouldn’t let this be any more than a one-off.

And then the bastard got in first, taking any choice out of my hands.

He came back in, as quiet as before. Was this the gentlemanly side I’d seen several glimpses of the day before, not wanting to disturb my beauty sleep? Or was it mere morning-after awkwardness?

I heard him rummaging for clothes, dressing. Tried not to allow myself to become distracted by memories of that hard body, of what he did with it that no man had ever done to me before.

I had to stop myself from thinking like that!

I rolled onto my back, fully aware that the bedding was rucked down across my waist. I moved a hand up to brush the hair away from my face, knowing his eyes must inevitably be drawn to the way my exposed breasts moved as the arm swung up and across.

When I finally allowed myself to open my eyes, he was moving in, an odd look on his face.

He kissed me on the cheek. Briefly. Amicably. No more than that.

Then as he pulled away, he mumbled, “Got to go. Stuff to deal with, know what I mean? Stay here as long as you like, okay? Use whatever. Catch you later?”

And he went. Vanished.

He could hardly have moved faster if he’d run.

All I was left with was a waft of his musky aftershave and the certainty that I’d just been given the almighty brush-off.

That
Catch you later
... He might as well have said,
Yes, of course I’ll call. Trust me
.

§

I lay there a bit longer, on principle.

My mind was going round in circles. Maybe I’d got him wrong. Maybe that was a genuine
Catch you later
, and he really had needed to rush out on business first thing.

I spent some time exploring the various settings of the shower, and the many different toiletries at my disposal. Went back to the bedroom and investigated the wardrobe he’d left open. There were women’s clothes in a range of sizes, all clearly new and unused: jeans and leggings, tops, jumpers, underwear that ranged from big granny knickers to tiny lace thong and bra sets.

I wondered what kind of place this was, and that led me back to thinking about what kind of
world
this was that Dean Bailey and his brothers occupied. That they
ran
.

One where it was normal to have a spare house like this, stocked for any eventuality.

I settled on fresh underwear and black t-shirt, and my jeans from the day before, even though I had a couple of changes of clothes in the bag in the back of my car.

I’d get sorted, get myself a coffee, leave a note, and then find my way back to the Mini.

Drive home, content with memories of a wild evening and an even wilder night, and the knowledge that such a thing was possible.

As Granddad had said, back when he’d bailed me out:
Don’t just live your life, Jessica. Live it
well
, girl.

I could live with a philosophy like that, but now it was time to leave all this and head home.

And I would have done exactly that, if real life hadn’t intervened in the shape of Reuben Glover.

§

I found a notepad and pen in a drawer while I let my coffee cool a little.

For a time I struggled with what to say, then opted to keep it simple. Just a thank you for looking after me, a couple of Xs like the soppy schoolgirl I’d felt at times in his company, and, after a little hesitation, my number.

It was one of those odd etiquette dilemmas: I didn’t want to imply he had any reason to call, or that I expected anything, but it would have been rude not to, wouldn’t it?

I left the pad and pen on the granite breakfast bar, balled yesterday’s underwear inside yesterday’s vest-top and rammed them into my tiny clutch, and went through to the front door.

I saw him straight away.

The guy from last night. Tightly curled dark hair, cropped close to his skull. Sharp blue eyes set in a narrow face, and a tongue that kept flicking across his thin lips.

He’d been running things at the warehouse, had set the fight up, according to Dean.

I remembered him standing by, nodding approvingly as two of his men had held Dean by the arms while another one drove his fist into Dean’s belly and face.

Dean had said this man was a police officer, and while he’d managed to convince me at the time, this morning it was suddenly just too much to accept.

He was clearly watching the house.

As soon as I opened the door, spotted him, and hesitated on the threshold, he was out of his silver Ford Focus and moving round to cross the road.

“Morning, love,” he said.

I looked either way, as if he might be addressing someone else, but that just made him smile.

“Mind if I have a minute or two of your time, do you?”

He reached into his jacket and for a moment I flashed back to the day before on this same street when Putin’s friend had smashed in the window of Dean’s BMW with the butt of a pistol.

This man didn’t produce a gun, though, but a warrant card. “Detective Inspector Reuben Glover,” he said. “London Metropolitan Police. I don’t think we’ve met.”

I raised an eyebrow at that. Surely he must recognize me from the night before? I’d waded right in when he’d been overseeing Dean’s beating.

Maybe it was some kind of a challenge, something out of
Fight Club
: no-one talks about the fight night. Especially to the corrupt copper who’d run the thing.

Not just any old copper, either. If he was to be believed, Reuben Glover was a senior officer. I’d seen enough TV police dramas to know that a detective inspector wasn’t just any old bobby. No wonder he had enough sway to put something together like Lee’s fight night, an event where half of London’s underworld had felt safe enough to turn up, unarmed, and relax with some of their fiercest friends and rivals.

How far up did this go?

Reuben waved his ID again, indicating the car. “I’d like you to come with me, if you’d be so good,” he said.

Another man had climbed out of the passenger seat and moved round to take over driving duties. A policeman? Did I recognize him from the night before? I couldn’t be sure, but he might even have been one of the ones dishing out Dean’s beating.

“I... Am I under
arrest?
”

Reuben’s smile wasn’t the kind that offered reassurance. It was a humorless thing, a mask.

Without thinking, I crossed my arms, hugging myself as if a sudden chill had swept through what was, in fact, a mild spring morning.

“It’s fine, love,” Reuben said. “Just routine. This is my home patch. I see a new face, especially one as pretty as yours, and I like to get to know you.”

His words were about as reassuring as that mask of a smile.

§

The inside of the Ford Focus smelled of fast food, cigarette smoke, and sweat.

DI Glover climbed into the back seat beside me and immediately the car pulled out into the narrow street.

I peered out of the windows, wondering if anyone had seen the exchange, if maybe even Dean might still be around, but there were just a few strangers passing, studiously looking the other way.

Reuben seemed content to let the silence drag out, and I understood enough to know he was using it to unsettle me, not that I needed to be any more unsettled than I already was.

“So,” I said brightly, “how may I help you?”

Silence, still. He was studying my features, his expression unreadable.

“I’m trying to work it out,” he said, finally. We were out on a main road now, stop-starting in the morning traffic. “You Deano’s new bird, or just a casual bit of skirt?”

The same thoughts had been racing around my head all morning, and I probably wasn’t any closer to an answer than the DI was, as far as Dean Bailey’s view of it was concerned.

“I’m trying to work out how close the two of you are,” he went on. “How...
involved
.”

If I hadn’t been creeped out before, I certainly was now. I shook my head. “I don’t know what you mean,” I told him. “Dean and I are just–”

“–friends. Don’t give me that, love. Those shadows under your eyes aren’t what you get from being just friends all night.” He didn’t need to laugh at his own jokes. He really didn’t.

“Where are we going?”

“You want to go to the nick and talk to me there under caution?” he said. “Or you want to go somewhere else, maybe? Good-looking girl like you. Could fit in well around here, you know what I mean? Plenty of career options. But you know that, sleeping with a Bailey, right?”

I forced a smile, and said, “I think I’d rather go to the police station and have this conversation under caution, thank you.”

That smile again. Hands raised, as if in surrender.

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Just saying.”

Leaning forward, he put a hand on the driver’s shoulder and said, “You hear that, Phil? Bethnal Green police station, if you would?”

Turning back to me, he went on: “Things are going to get nasty around here, you understand that? It’s my job to pick up on the undercurrents, stay a step or two ahead.”

“‘Nasty’?”

He gave a brief nod.

“Your Dean, he can be a bit naughty sometimes. You saw him last night, didn’t you? He’s a loose cannon. Stirring things up with our European friends like that. He was well out of order.”

“I think he got the message.”

The smile seemed more genuine this time. I’m not sure that was a good thing.

“Things are changing around here,” said Reuben. “It seems Dean and his brothers are among the last to cotton onto that. Seems we have to take every opportunity to get the message across.”

I desperately hoped that was the full extent of my role in this: passing on DI Glover’s warning to reinforce the message they’d given Dean in a more physical manner the night before.

“I’ll pass that on,” I said.

Outside, it was just a normal morning, people heading for work or school, but in here... I wasn’t sure how much longer I could maintain this calm façade.

“Good, good. Tell him he needs to readjust his sights. For everyone’s good, okay? I’m just the peacekeeper here, trying to avert a war, you understand?”

I thought then of the look in Dean’s eye when he’d gone for Putin, the pure, unbridled animosity between the two. Was there a chance that Reuben was, in some perverse way, the good guy here?

I really didn’t know.

All I understood was that I was way out of my depth in all this.

“So tell me,” Reuben said now, “you think you have any sway over them? The Bailey Boys? You think you might be able to bang some sense into them?” A slight pause, then the two coppers laughed a little too hard at the ‘bang’.

I raised an eyebrow, waited.

“So how d’you know them? Give me a little background. Help make my job easier for me.”

It was my turn to pause, let the silence draw out. I tried to read his expression, but he was giving nothing away. I wasn’t sure how much to reveal. Whether explaining things would make clear how peripheral I was, or would simply draw me in deeper.

“I used to come here when I was little,” I said. “Family stuff. My parents were from this part of London, my grandparents, too. They all moved away before I was born, but we used to visit.”

“Old family friends?”

I nodded.

“My gran’s not well. She was talking about old friends down here. I said I’d come and see who was still around. That’s all.”

“What did you say your name was?”

“Jess,” I said. “Jess Taylor.”

It took a moment for him to make the connection, then his expression changed, the mask faltering just a little.