Faceless (43 page)

‘What’s happening about her flat?’

‘Well, it’s council, and as long as the rent gets paid they will keep it open for her because the Social Services will request that much, what with the child and everything.’

‘I’ll take over the rent if needs be.’

‘I thought you would say that. It would make life much easier if they could find her.’

Marie didn’t answer, just looked at her with those big eyes and Amanda knew she had more idea of what was going on than any of them but she would never say.

‘She might turn up, Amanda. Stranger things have happened.’

Her face was closed once more and Amanda decided to let things lie. For all the talks they had had over the last months she felt she knew no more about Marie Carter than she had on the first day they had met. One thing she did know, though, Marie was gradually coming out of her shell. She had lost her nervousness of seeing people. She greeted her fellow residents and had brief conversations with them. That was a big step.

Amanda knew how hard it was for people who’d been shut away from society for long periods of time to adjust to everyday things let alone a divided family, a whole new set of rules, and in Marie’s case coming to terms with why she had been incarcerated in the first place.

She also had to deal with the knock-on effects of what she had done. The burning of her family home had been traumatic, exacerbated by the fact that her mother had long ago disowned her anyway and Marie now felt it was her fault Louise had been so badly injured. Guilt was a strange thing. She was guilty of a double 290

murder and also of being far too hard on herself.

What she had done all those years ago had been terrible but she had been a girl then, a very different person from the woman she was today. She would accept that eventually. It would be hard but one day she would find herself laughing out loud and realise that she had not thought about what she had done for a few days. It was all part of the healing process.

Marie had been as much a victim in her own way as the two girls who had died.

Amanda had gathered from the social worker that the daughter was going down the same path. What Marie had to be careful of was getting too involved in Tiffany’s affairs. Anastasia’s father was the same man who had fathered Jason. Nothing like keeping it in the family, as the social worker had put it. People’s lives could be so complicated.

Amanda had seen it time and time again over the years. Women like Marie had lived complicated lives since childhood. Mothers might have three or four children, all by different men. The product of those brief relationships lived with the knowledge that they were no one really. They had no roots. The women had given birth to them then abandoned all responsibility for the by-products of their brief flings, leaving the children to the mercy of children’s homes or eventually secure accommodation, It was so heartbreaking to see them come here, over and over again, knowing that it was only a matter of time before they were banged up once more. They were institutionalised at an early age, and deep down they only felt safe when locked up.

After Marie had left she felt the usual feelings of helplessness. There was so much that needed putting right in this woman’s life, and so little Amanda could do for her. And she would like to help Marie Carter, sure that deep inside she was a good person.

If only she would give herself a break.

Patrick was still convinced that he had to do something spectacular to get himself back on form. Since Maxie’s death he felt that people were suspicious of him, and the police coming to his home had shaken him badly. Every time he thought of them at his front door he felt almost faint with anger. Someone had to pay for that. People had to be made aware that he was not a man to fuck with. He needed a fix, and his fix was fear. Pure unadulterated fear.

He needed people to be scared of him, to respect and revere him. That was the key to getting away with murder.

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He had had to chase her all over the fucking smoke, the stupid cunt. Even she thought he was a fucking pussy eater with nothing better to do with his time. Maybe she thought that now that murdering whore of a mother of hers was on the street again she could walk all over him. Fucking Jonah! That Marie had always been a Jonah. Since she hit the pavement he had started getting aggravation. She was like all her kind, nothing but trouble.

All women were trouble. They were either fucking whores or they were religious nutcases. Never a happy medium with them. All fucking pot pourri or living in shit holes like fucking trollops the lot of them. Get them on their backs and you could make them do anything. And anything would get them on their backs. Drink, drugs, a fucking meal at a Bernie Inn for most of them. All women were nothing but fuck busters, worth a shag and that was it. He knew how to make money from them, and it was what they were put on earth for - to be used by men. All the laws in the land would not make a woman his equal. They could say it over and over again, it would not make it true. Women were only equal to animals, natural scavengers living off the carcass of their mate. That was the reality of the situation and anyone who thought different was a fucking moron. Women went to the strongest man who’d have them for protection, money and sex. Well, Patrick gave them all that and didn’t even have to put up with their miserable fucking faces at the breakfast table.

Now he was going to do the big one. He was going to take out a face, a London face. A man who instilled fear into Brixton and its boundaries, and made the rest of the South East think twice before they offended him. A bona fide nutcase, and also a nice bloke in many respects. He had taught Patrick a thing or two, that much had to be said for him. Credit given where it was due. He was a good Gangsta man, a Rasta killing machine and a man who commanded respect. And Patrick would garner that respect for himself before much longer. He would deal with the Yardies in future. He would bring in the drugs, and take over all the women.

For all his respectable front there was nothing like a good expanse of complete bastardy to get the juices flowing. Make you feel like a man. Bring your brain into action and your body into line. There was nothing like causing a bit of mayhem to give a bloke a buzz. No drug could match it. If he could bottle that feeling of ecstatic pleasure it gave him he would be a fucking billionaire. It was 292

addictive, it was the best feeling in the world. Better than sex. Or better than the kind of sex his girls provided anyway.

He was looking forward to it. But first he had to sort out Tiffany.

Carole lay in her filthy bed and breathed in the fumes of alcohol and vomit. She knew on some level that she should see a doctor, but she was too scared. Her whole body ached. The alcohol made her sleep for a while but it was wearing off, and she knew she should try and wake herself up. At least take a soak in a hot bath. She could feel the vomit in her hair as she moved, it was stiff and it stank.

She tried, unsuccessfully, to get up. It was too much trouble and she slumped back on to the pillows again.

She thought about the money again and felt the futile tears. He had taken her money and given her the most terrifying time of her life. She had really thought he was going to kill her. He had been at her for hours and she had wondered all that time how he would finish her off. But in the end he had dropped her at the end of her street as if they had been on a date, and she had been terrified to leave the place since.

He had her address and he had her money.

She hated him.

What goes around comes around. Marie had always said that and she was right. It was the fact Carole had done what she had to Tiffany that made this even worse. Tiffany had been grassed for that money and now it was gone. No good had come of it whatsoever.

Carole tried to get up again and this time she managed to get herself to the edge of the bed. Her thighs were heavily bruised and already scabbed. He had scratched her, pinched her. She hoped she had a disease of some description, at least a dose of hepatitis so the bastard had a memento of her.

But then, what the fuck was he carrying?

Last night had been a wake-up call. Carole had lost a lot more than the money. She feared she had lost her bottle and in her job, especially at this end of the market, that meant she had lost her earning capacity.

She stood up, wincing at the pain all through her body. She caught a glimpse of herself in the stained mirror on the old dressing table. Everything here looked scuffed and dirty, like her. She was aware for some reason of the real state of her home, though it had never really been that, not by other people’s standards. It had just been somewhere to go when her night’s work had finished. Even 293

her daughters had never wanted to be there for any length of time, and who could blame them?

Carole didn’t want to be here either and now she had no choice. The place looked even more depressing than usual. All those years ago, she had meant to do something with her new flat. She had watched TV and thought, I would like a place like that, furniture like that, whatever. But she had known deep inside that she would do nothing about it. Even little Tiffany had tried to get a place together for Anastasia. Her flat had looked lovely, brightly painted and warm. She was just like her mother in that way. When Marie had got her first place it had looked nice. Until she got on the skag, then it had all been turned upside down. Patrick Connor smashing the place up regularly had not helped matters. She had given up, like many women before her. It was pointless trying to get a place around you when you had a man who was out to destroy you and anything you possessed.

Carole walked unsteadily to the dressing table and gripped the top of it. Her fingers felt sore where the man had bent them backward at one point in the evening. He had also burned her with a cigarette. Remembering made her feel faint with fright once more and she sank down on her knees. Her reflection told her all she needed to know and she started to sob: with guilt, remorse, and the realisation she had finally reached rock bottom. It had been a long time coming, but it had arrived.

She closed her eyes tightly and saw Tiffany with Anastasia on her lap. The little tableau made the tears fall thicker and faster. Marie would kill her if she found out what she had done. What she had caused to happen.

She had given that girl up like a sacrifice to the man who had destroyed everyone he had ever come into contact with, male or female. Marie’s voice was in her head once more: What goes around comes around. How true those words were.

The psychiatrist listened to Kevin rambling on. He had said the same thing over and over. That his wife was evil, that she had caused everything bad that had happened and now she was getting a taste of her own medicine.

It was like a mantra. One thing Dr Bewly knew for sure was this man was not fit to stand; he was not fit to mix with society either. Kevin Carter was suffering from a personality disorder, he was paranoid and he was also in a deep depression. Every now and then 294

he seemed lucid but the things he said were unbelievable.

Bewly reviewed his notes and decided that what this man needed was a course of intensive psychiatric therapy and drugs, then they could decide his fate.

He was meeting the police later in the week and they would review his findings. He felt sure that once they observed the man for themselves they would agree with him. Kevin Carter had lost all contact with reality.

He listened once more to his patient’s raving.

It seemed the wife had driven him mad over the years. A very difficult woman by all accounts. She would have been called a nag years ago, though that was politically incorrect, he knew.

He watched as Kevin leaned over the table and said conspiratorially: ‘You don’t know what she’s like, doctor. She made us all do what she wanted. Everything was for Marshall. None of us mattered, but he was as bad as she was. She made that boy as bad as her. Looking down on everyone, thinking he was better than he was. But it was Lou - she made him like it. She gave him an inflated opinion of himself from a child.’

Kevin stopped and concentrated on rolling himself a cigarette. His hands were shaking from the medication and suppressed anger. He carried on whispering to himself, oblivious now to the man sitting opposite him. He looked demented. He was demented.

And he was also telling the truth most of the time but it sounded so incongruous that no one could be expected to believe him. Least of all a doctor who had no real idea what had happened all those years ago. For the simple reason the truth had never been spoken aloud.

Patrick was in a Wimpy drive-through when he got the call he was waiting for. He wheel-spun out of the queue, ignoring the many shouts and rude gestures from the other patrons.

He was sweating with excitement, driving erratically through London, weaving in and out of traffic and listening to Jungle music. The beat stirred his blood and he luxuriated in the knowledge of what was going to happen soon. Violence was a funny thing; he had courted it all his life and as long as it was not directed at him he enjoyed it. He felt good about himself when he was in control of it.

Now he was about to cause an act of violence that would reverberate throughout London. The buzz was astronomical, the feeling giving him a natural high, and that was what he craved these days.

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He knew that everyone was mugging him off, from his girls to his so-called mates. Well, after today they would all have to have a rethink. He was going after the big one and he was going to get it.

He had settled a few old debts in the last twenty-four hours. Today marked a new era in his life. He was soon going to be in charge of every major scam in the smoke, and couldn’t wait to get started.

Mahogany Statter was tall and she was pretty, very pretty, with relaxed hair and large brown eyes. Her slim frame was perfect for displaying the latest fashions; she turned heads wherever she went.

As she walked into the block of flats on the corner of her road she heard a groan, low and barely audible. She stepped into the lobby and looked around. Nothing. She was about to walk to the lift, thinking that she had imagined it, when she heard it again.