Nameless (36 page)

Tito Danieri had come into the room, and his three heavies were standing around now, watching Kit, watching whatever was going to happen. Tito smiled down at him, and then looked across to where the dead body of his mistress lay.

‘See, I don’t like people poaching on my territory,’ said Tito, as if that explained everything. ‘What’s mine is mine, I don’t share with
anybody
, you got that?’

Kit said nothing.

Tito lunged at him, his eyes suddenly wild. He punched him hard across the face, once, twice, three times. Kit’s head rung with the force of each blow. For a moment he thought he was about to black out. And that would be good. Maybe that would be the best thing that could happen to him. He could feel blood seeping from his lower lip where Tito’s fist had broken the skin.

Now Tito hovered over him, breathing heavily, not smiling any more. His lips were pulled back in a snarl and his eyes snapped with malice.

‘You think you’re clever, touching that on the sly?’ Tito stabbed a finger towards the corpse in the corner. ‘You got a lot to learn, boy. A
lot.
And I’m about to teach you.’

Tito walked away from Kit. He picked up a glass of amber-coloured liquid. Whisky, or brandy. Kit would have
killed
, right now, for a drink. Something to take the sting off what was to come. Tito threw the booze back in one hit, and replaced the empty glass on a small occasional table. Then he moved over to the fire. Kit’s eyes followed him. It was only then that he noticed the poker, embedded deep in the hot coals in the hearth.

It was a plain, functional room, the room behind Michael’s restaurant. Small, too. With Michael, Daisy and the minder in it, there was not much room left. But there was another occupant in the room, a tall slim exotic-looking woman with upswept black hair. She was staring at Daisy, then glancing at Michael.

‘What’s happening?’ she asked anxiously.

‘Kit’s in trouble,’ Daisy blurted out on a sob. ‘Three men have snatched him.’

‘Where are they taking him?’ asked Michael, ushering Daisy quickly into a chair as she looked as if she was about to collapse to the floor.

‘I don’t
know
,’ she wailed.

‘Did they say anything? Give any clue?’ he persisted.

‘Michael, she’s in a terrible state,’ said the woman. ‘Take it easy.’

‘Ruby, keep out of this,’ said Michael sharply. He crouched down in front of Daisy and looked up at her mascara- and sweat-smeared face. ‘They must have said something. Think, sweetheart. Did they?’

Daisy opened her eyes wide. ‘Tito,’ she said.

‘Tito? Tito Danieri?’ asked Michael.

‘That’s it! He was upset with Kit. He wanted a word.’

‘Shit,’ said Michael, and stood up. He looked at the heavy. ‘Rob. Get Eric, get Jack, let’s get over there.’

‘Who is this Tito person?’ asked Ruby as the heavy hurried from the room. Her eyes were fastened upon Daisy. It was her all right. Daisy Bray. Her beautiful daughter. Scraped and bloodied and in deep distress. Everything in Ruby cried out to her to run to Daisy, to take the hurt away. But she had to stand here, act normally.

‘He’s not someone you’d want to cross,’ said Michael, grabbing his jacket from the back of the chair behind the desk and shrugging into it. ‘Look after her,’ he said to Ruby, and left the room.

Ruby looked at Daisy, who had dissolved into tears.

‘I thought they were going to kill us,’ she managed to blurt out in between sobs.

‘Michael will sort it out,’ said Ruby, standing there ramrod-straight. She was staring at Daisy’s knees, scraped red-raw. She swallowed hard and went to the filing cabinets behind the desk and took down the first-aid box. She stepped around the desk and went to where Daisy huddled on the chair, and opened the box and found cotton wool and a bottle of iodine. She wanted to hug Daisy hard, to reassure her, but instead she said: ‘This might sting a little bit,’ and started dabbing at the grazes.

Daisy sat there, biting her lip, watching the dark-haired woman with the gentle hands working on her abraded flesh, and gradually she began to feel a little calmer.

92

Tito was slipping the poker out of the fire. Kit could see the bottom four inches of it glowing, white-hot, as Tito turned with it in his hand. Now Tito was smiling at him, his expression almost gentle, as he crossed the room.

‘You right-handed or left?’ asked Tito.

Damage limitation. ‘Left,’ he lied, heart hammering. The one thing – the
only
thing – that scared him shitless, was the prospect of burning, of fire touching his skin.

‘They call that sinister in Latin, did you know that? Dexter’s right, sinister’s left. Sinister as in dark, untrustworthy, not quite
right.
And that’s you, isn’t it, you little shit? Creeping around behind a man’s back and taking what’s his.’

Kit worked some spit into his mouth and managed to speak. ‘Takes two,’ he said.

‘Yeah, well, we’ve
done
all that.’ Tito tipped his head to the left, indicating the crumpled corpse that was Gilda. ‘And
that’s
not going to be happening again, is it? Which just leaves you. So hold out your left hand, you cunt. It’s going to be a long night for you.’

Kit’s fists were clenched. He looked at Tito with dumb insolence.

‘Open his hand out,’ said Tito, and they all piled in, Kit was powerless to stop them. They held his hand out, palm up. Tito moved in with the poker, and Kit could
feel
the heat of the damned thing where he sat.

Delicately, almost lovingly,Tito laid the white-hot tip onto the flesh of Kit’s palm.

Kit thought he was going to pass out. The agony was almost unbearable. He was panting, unable to help himself. Tito held the poker there for what felt like hours, but it was seconds, just seconds.

Then the poker lifted, and it felt to Kit that half his skin had lifted with it. His hand throbbed hotly, sending dancing waves of pain shimmering up his arm. He gulped, swallowed, heaved in a mouthful of air. Sweat had broken out all over his body, and now the nausea followed. He looked at his hand. It was already starting to blister. His head drooped. He blinked. His crotch was wet. Involuntarily, humiliatingly, he’d pissed himself.

‘Only I don’t believe you’re left-handed,’ Tito was saying conversationally. ‘What would I say, in this situation? The same as what
you’ve
just said. I’d save my good hand. So let’s get started on the right one, shall we? Before we move on to other things.’

The heavies piled in, exposing his right palm just as they’d done his left. Tito moved in, grinning as Kit thrashed about in the chair, unable to stop any of this happening.

‘No good fighting,’ said Tito. ‘You’ve asked for this, boy, and now you’re going to get it.’

The poker came down against Kit’s cringing skin and this time Tito was in no hurry to lift it up. This time he yelled out with the pain. Couldn’t help it.

The smell was bad. The scent of his own cooked flesh filled his nostrils as Tito pressed the thing down hard onto his palm. It smoked, and it sizzled.

Jesus.

Kit was breathing hard, like he’d just run a mile. Both hands were a sea of agony now. Pain seized him, hugged him like a lover.

At last,Tito raised the poker. Smiled right into Kit’s sweat-stinging, watering eyes.

‘Now it gets even more interesting,’ he said. He looked at a small bottle on the table. Kit’s eyes followed Tito’s.

Lighter fuel.

Tito walked over, picked it up. Sauntered back to Kit. Unsnapped the bottle and held it above Kit’s head.

I don’t want to burn,
thought Kit.
Oh, shit no. Please don’t let me burn.

There was a knock on the door, and another heavy slipped inside.

Kit was nearly out of it. Almost fainting, his head rolling around like a punch-drunk boxer’s.

‘Tito,’ said the heavy. Tito’s hand stopped moving. He paused. ‘Ward’s shown up.’

Michael was waiting in the club below. Tito joined him at the bar.

‘Give Mr Ward a drink,’ he said to the barman, slapping Michael warmly on the back in greeting. ‘What is it, Michael? Whisky?’

‘Not for me,’ said Michael with a calm smile. ‘I’ve come for a boy of mine. Kit Miller.’

‘Ah.’Tito signalled for the barman to set him up a tumbler of Southern Comfort. ‘Now, Michael, I’ll be straight with you. I’ve had trouble with that little cunt. He’s been fiddling around with Gilda – you know Gilda.’

Michael nodded, thinking,
Kit you fucking fool.
‘Of course.’

‘You won’t any more. I don’t do sloppy seconds.’ Tito drank down his whisky in one hit.

‘He’s young and he’s foolish,’ said Michael. ‘However, I don’t want any harm coming to him. We can come to some arrangement over this.’

‘Only my thinking is, I’m going to
re
arrange his face, Michael. I’m sure you understand.’

‘I do. Absolutely. But he’s a valuable man to have around and I don’t want to lose him.’

‘I can appreciate that,’ said Tito.

‘So what can we do here? Come on, Tito. Be the bigger man, yes? What can I offer you in return for your leniency in this matter?’

Tito blew out his cheeks. ‘I dunno . . .’

‘Come on, Tito. We’re businessmen. We work together. And we have other connections too, don’t we?
Deeper
connections. I’d hate for us to fall out over this – it’s nothing. So come on. Name your price.’

Michael was mad at him, Kit understood that much. He also understood that he was lucky to be breathing as Tito’s thugs untied him and hustled him tripping and stumbling down the stairs and out into a car. Michael was already in the back, one of his boys at the wheel.

‘What are you, a fucking idiot?’ Michael was smoking furiously. ‘I expected better of you.’

Kit felt bad that he had let Michael down. But right now he was living in a world of hurt. Both hands were blistering and the pain was beyond belief. He’d be no use to anyone for quite a while. He thought of Gilda, lying there disfigured and dead. He’d loved her,
really
loved her. And he had failed to protect her from this.

That
fuck
Tito.

‘You got nothing to say for yourself?’ asked Michael.

‘I’m going to kill that bastard,’ said Kit.

Michael slapped him once, very hard, across the face.

‘You say anything else stupid like that and I’ll kill
you
,’ he said, his eyes like flint. ‘You got off lightly. You deserved to be pulled up, you behaved like a
cunt.
You cost me dear. I’ve had to hand over a lot of wedge to pull your sorry arse out of this shit. Now don’t start coming over all Magnificent Seven with me, because I’m telling you, do that and you’ll have more than Tito and his boys to deal with. You clear on that?’

Kit swallowed and nodded. ‘Daisy tip you off?’ he asked at last.

‘She saved your arse big time.’

Kit was shaking his head. ‘He killed her. He killed Gilda.’

Michael was silent for a long moment. ‘Just be thankful you didn’t join her.’

But Kit kept thinking of her, his beautiful Gilda, crumpled like a disused toy in the corner of the room. His hands hurt like fuck and his pride was smashed. He’d wet himself in terror, like a little kid. His hatred for Tito Danieri knew no bounds.

He was going to get even, sooner or later, whatever Michael said.

He promised himself that much.

93

Vanessa had brought to Cornelius’s attention that their daughter was keeping company with an unsuitable young man. He was coloured – that was bad enough. Cornelius put out a few feelers and soon discovered that the man was a thug by the name of Kit Miller, and he had heard from one of his underworld contacts that his old comrade Tito had caught his girl Gilda cheating with Kit. He questioned Tito about it, but found him surprisingly close-mouthed.

Tito only shrugged. ‘These things happen. The incident passed off, and there are plenty more girls.’

The incident passed off.

Cornelius didn’t think the incident would have passed off
quite
that easily. He knew Tito, and he’d seen Gilda with him on many occasions. The woman was beautiful, golden, a prize – a cut above the usual gangster groupies who swarmed around men like him.

But Cornelius didn’t continue with the questions; he knew better. Tito could go off into spectacular bursts of temper at a moment’s notice. He couldn’t imagine that Tito would have taken the news of his mistress’s infidelity lying down.

And Kit Miller had bandaged hands. Cornelius had him watched discreetly as he moved around town. His hands were bandaged for over a month; after that, the wraps came off.

‘Looks like his palms have been burned,’ said Cornelius’s informant.

‘I want to know more about him,’ said Cornelius to his man, and back came the information that Kit Miller had come out of a children’s home and started throwing his weight about on the streets of the East End, before working for Michael Ward – another powerful gang lord who might or might not have some business links to Tito – and quickly progressing up the ranks until he was head of breakers.

‘They break legs,’ said his informant, a weedy little man who ran an investigation agency working on the shadier borders of government. ‘Hence, breakers. But he’s gone on to greater things, apparently. Ward trusts him. Miller’s his number one man.’

Nothing would get Vanessa up to town these days, and Cornelius rarely bothered to go home at weekends any more, preferring to stay in a cottage he rented on the wilds of the windy Kent coast. But this particular weekend he thought the situation with Daisy was serious enough to warrant a visit to Brayfield.

He still loved the place; adored it. Passing by the gatehouse, he thought of his beloved mother, long gone now. Every day he missed her sound common sense and ever-indulgent love. The gatehouse had stood empty since her passing.

Perhaps now would be the time to gift it to Daisy, to give her the feeling of a stake in the place, her own home, of course, but conveniently out of London and – better still, because Daisy was a loose cannon and he knew it – within her mother’s eyeline.