Faceless (47 page)

The room was very quiet as Louise said a decade of the Rosary as she always did when she was upset. The Sorrowful Mysteries always made her feel better. But for some unknown reason, they didn’t comfort her this time. She didn’t feel that Marshall was close as she usually did.

In fact, she felt lonelier than she had ever felt in her life.

Marie was holding Tiffany’s hand as the girl drew her last breath. It was all over in seconds, and she was at peace. Marie knew she was at peace, she could see it in her daughter’s face.

Jason put his arms around her waist and she held him as he cried, his body racked with sobs. She held him tightly to her, enjoying the smell of his hair even as she mourned for her daughter. She had lost her child and gained a granddaughter. It was unbelievable, and she felt responsible for it all. Would always blame herself for what had happened to her daughter.

Her own guilt would make her hurt Patrick Connor. Guilt and revenge were both powerful emotions. Together they were stronger than anything.

She held her son and she cried. For her daughter, her granddaughter and also for Jason. Finally she cried for herself, at the

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wasted life she had lived and the knowledge that she was the cause of all the problems her children had encountered. But she could right some of the wrongs she had done and she was going to start with her son’s father, Patrick Connor. She was looking forward to it.

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Book Two

‘Those who cannot remember the past are condemned to repeat it.’

George Santayana (18631952)

‘I am condemned to be free,’

Jean-Paul Sartre (19051980)

‘My son, may you be happier than your father.’

Sophocles (496-406 be)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Patrick was in his office at Spitalfields. He watched through the window as members parked their cars before going into the gym. Everything he touched was turning to gold. It was as if he was being watched over by an angel. His legal businesses were raking in money, but it didn’t give him the buzz he got from his scams. Every time he fucked with a young girl’s head, or pulled in a few quid on a drug deal, he felt a euphoria that was becoming addictive.

He lit another joint and blew out the smoke lazily. As he finished it two men walked into his office. He knew immediately that they were police. He smiled and finished blowing out the smoke lazily.

‘What can I do for you gentlemen?’

He was Mr Nice Guy today and knew it would throw them.

‘Mr Connor?’

He nodded.

‘I am Detective Inspector Ragfield and this is my associate, DC Spicer. We need to talk to you about an event that took place yesterday in South London.’

Patrick looked suitably bewildered.

He was in businessman mode today. He knew these two policemen had nothing on him or they would have pulled him in for questioning proper. He was dressed in a crisp white shirt and Italian designer jeans, knowing he looked every inch the young City entrepreneur. He smiled once more, showing his pearly white teeth. He was a very good-looking man and he knew it. He could also be charming when he wanted. It was a prerequisite of being a pimp. Charm got you further than anything with working girls. Until you had them by the throat, of course.

‘So, how can I help you?’

It was a question apparently asked by an innocent man with no idea what was going on. Ragfield was impressed despite himself. This was a consummate actor. He knew that Connor was suspected

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of enough skulduggery to keep the whole of the Met in forms until the next millennium. It was proving it that was the difficult part.

As he looked at him now it was hard to believe that this man was responsible for murder, arson, rape and drug dealing, and that was only the tip of the iceberg. It was rumoured he had high-up friends;

in the Met and in the GPS. He must have someone because they were finding it increasingly hard to pin anything on him. Ragfield had been warned to go easy on Connor by his own supervisor and that in itself told him all he needed to know. This was one slippery bastard, and the worst thing of all was Patrick Connor knew exactly what he was thinking and found it all highly amusing. Well, the DI would enjoy taking him down once and for all. In fact, he was determined to do it. So he smiled back at Patrick, an easy smile very like his own.

‘We had an incident yesterday in South London. A Mr Malcolm Derby and three of his associates were murdered.’

Patrick butted in, ‘And what has that to do with me?’

He sounded shocked and affronted. As if it was ludicrous for anyone to think he could have had anything to do with a murder.

‘We were given your name by an associate of Mr Derby …’

Patrick was swiftly on his feet, a deep frown on his forehead and his stance belligerent.

‘Do you have anything to substantiate your claim that my name has been put forward in connection with this terrible occurrence?’

Spicer was trying to suppress a smile and Patrick noticed.

‘Do you find this amusing, is that what you’re trying to tell me? I think I had better see what my solicitor has to say about it. Have you a warrant for my arrest? Have you anything to tie me into this investigation in any way?’

Spicer said clearly and loudly, ‘Have you been smoking grass in here, Mr Connor?’

Ragfield closed his eyes in distress at the crassness of his colleague.

Patrick also seemed to lighten up as he said, ‘Is this fucker for real, man?’ He was all West Indian now. ‘I can’t get nicked for a joint, you damn fool boy. I get a caution if that.’

He shook his head in amazement at the complete stupidity of the men before him.

‘No warrant, no talking. So either show the paper, man, or take a fucking walk. Who you think you dealing with, eh, a beastie boy? A fool? I’ll blow you so far out of the water, man, you will need a fucking rocket ship to get you home. Now get out and stop wasting my time.’

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Ragfield smiled again, in control once more.

‘We’ll be back, Mr Connor.’

Patrick laughed aloud.

‘When you come back, boy, make sure you got something to talk about OK? Don’t be wasting my time. It makes me angry, you know. I am a busy man, and a rich and busy nigger is not a man to cross. Because this is what it’s all about, ain’t it, eh? I am a rich boy, and I am black, and I don’t fit the mould. You better take care, man because I have good representation in the City and they love cases of racism by the police. I’ll whip your arse and smile while I do it. You understand where I am coming from?’

He was baiting them and they knew it.

‘You will not make an example of me, you hear? Oh, a girl was found in a rubbish bin recently, are you going to charge me with that one as well?’

Ragfield could not believe what he was hearing.

‘She was the mother of your child, wasn’t she, Mr Connor?’

Pat grinned again.

‘Lots of bitches have my kids. If one of them gets hurt, are you automatically going to blame me? She was a whore and a lap dancer, a heroin addict, a fucking loser. She would fuck anyone for a fix, even you. Anyone could have done that to her. So remember that when you’re looking for a likely culprit, OK?’

Patrick pressed a button on his desk and two muscle-bound men came in. Both were white-skinned and blond.

‘Escort these gentlemen from the premises, please.’

He was smiling once more as they left the room. He felt invincible because he knew they had nothing on him.

But they were at his door once more, and that was two visits too many as far as he was concerned. He would have to spread a few more grand around to stop any repetition of this foolishness. He had it all sewn up, he was the king and he knew it. Now he just had to convince the filth and he was home and dry.

He rolled himself another joint and smoked it slowly, savouring the taste and the buzz. It calmed him and he needed calming now more than ever. He was ready to explode again. Anger always did that to him.

He stood up and looked out of the window once more, master of all he surveyed. Gradually he calmed himself, but it was difficult, really difficult. Because he had the taste for blood again and it was making him excited.

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He thought about Tiffany and wondered if she was dead yet. He

hoped so, he wanted her obliterated from the world. It occurred to

him that he would have to remove the witnesses as soon as possible

Grassing was a lucrative business these days, so it was just as well to

watch your back.

He felt pleased with his own forethought. All in all he was doing

well. Very well. That was what happened when you worked hard for

a living.

Marie lifted the letterbox and felt for a string. She found it and

pulled the key towards her. Old habits died hard.

She opened the front door carefully, so as not to make too much

noise, and walked into the damp dinginess of the flat. She wanted

her visit to have the element of surprise. She stood still and listened.

All she could hear was the muted sound of the TV. The familiar

smells of old food and broken-down furniture pervaded her nostrils.

How did people live like this? How had she lived like it all those

years ago? Every time the smell invaded her nostrils it reminded her

of a life that was wasted and useless, even though it had seemed so

exciting at the time.

Carole Halter was still lying on the sofa. She was in agony. All

night she had tried to sleep but not even whisky had brought her

any relief from the aches and pains that racked her whole body.

As she watched Richard and Judy she lit another cigarette. She

liked Richard, would give him one as she’d often said to anyone

who would listen to her. Though it was the furthest thing from her

mind at the moment.

She was frightened she’d lost her will to work, the nerve to go

out on the street and consort with strangers for money. If she

couldn’t get that back she was finished.

Then she heard a noise; it sounded like the front door. She felt

the sweat break out on her forehead. It might be the madman

coming back to finish her off. When the door opened and she saw it

was Marie, for a split second she felt relief. Until she remembered

what she had done, and acknowledged the fact that Marie had

walked into the flat unannounced. Carole prided herself on the fact

she could smell a rat before it was stinking and realised she was in

deep shit. Marie was after her for what she had done to little Tiff,

and who could blame her?

‘All right, Marie?’

It was a form of address and a question all at once.

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Carole was so scared she was having trouble breathing. She knew

what Marie was capable of and in her heart of hearts she knew that

she deserved whatever was coming her way. The law of the street

dictated that Marie should take an eye for an eye. Carole Halter was

expecting the worst.

Marie stared at her. Her eyes were cold and her face so still she

looked as if she was carved from stone. Karen was reminded once

more of how beautiful Marie actually was. Tiffany had the look of

her mother but had never had her presence. Marie had always had a

way about her; men either adored her or wanted to fight her. But

one thing they all had in common was they wanted to fuck her. It

had made Carole jealous as a girl, and it still made her jealous as an

adult.

Now, looking at Marie standing in her home, she realised just

what she had done to the woman she had been friends with for so

many years. One thing she was sure of: she was going to be the

recipient of some serious physical retribution.

Marie stood and stared at her. She took in Carole’s battered face

and body, knew she had got a rogue punter and inside herself was

pleased that her old friend had at least experienced something of

what her daughter had gone through over five lousy grand.

‘Where’s the money, Carole?’

Her voice was low and clipped. It felt like a slap it was so cold.

‘What money?’ Carole was silly enough to try and front it out.

Her voice was high and nervous. A tic was working just by her left

eye and she could feel it even as she tried to control it.

Marie shook her head in utter disbelief. Then, moving quickly,

she had Carole by the throat.

‘The fucking money Connor paid you! Five grand, if I remember

rightly. Now don’t fuck me about, Carole, I really am not in the

mood. I watched, my Tiff die over you, you piece of fucking shit.

So, I am begging you, don’t wind me up any more than I already

am.’

Carole knew she was in deep trouble. Could see that Marie was

on the edge. Tiffany was dead … the words penetrated her brain.

In a split second she realised exactly what she had done.

She saw Tiffany as a little girl; saw her grown-up. Saw her taking

care of Anastasia, the pride in her face as she’d looked at her baby.

Remembered introducing her to Patrick Connor. Went red with

shame as she remembered telling Tiffany what a bad mother Marie

had been to her and her brother. Patrick had given her money then.

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The worse she had made Marie out to be, the bigger the sum.

Shame washed over her like a hot flush and she could not look at

Marie, aware finally of what she had done and the trouble she had

caused. Marie threw her back against the sofa and pain raged

through her body like a fire. Carole was in mortal agony and it

didn’t matter any more. For the first time in her life she was

thinking about someone else and it felt strange. Even her own