The Elephant Girl (Choc Lit) (33 page)

So Letitia had had her eyes on Arseni. Did they have a relationship back then? Did they still? she wondered, just as she had wondered when she first met her uncle. He never married, but that meant nothing today. If Mimi had come between them, could Letitia have lost her rag and had her bumped off? It wasn’t impossible, except Letitia was far too aloof to squabble over any man.

Then what about Arseni himself? Mimi may have used the next best thing to her husband’s sperm, his brother’s, in order to have a child. Enough to incense a proud man when he realised he’d been exploited, and it could explain why he was all over Helen now, with his peculiar mix of guilt and attentiveness.

Neither scenario painted her mother in a particularly positive light, and it left a bad taste in her mouth. She’d loved her mother, hadn’t she? Or had she merely loved the memory of having a mother, since she couldn’t remember their time together?

She rubbed her temples while trying to make sense of it all. Instead of having her questions answered, she’d been presented with a whole heap of new ones.

The taxi pulled up outside the house, and she climbed out to find her path blocked by a broad-shouldered and black-suited individual. A hard lump formed in her gut, and she took a step back to collide with a similar obstacle. Her legs began to shake.

The first man put a heavy hand on her shoulder, and before she could even squeak, his other hand clamped over her mouth. She found herself being lifted across the road, too shocked to struggle, and deposited by a dark car she hadn’t noticed when the taxi pulled up. Wordlessly the other man opened the door, and a light came on, revealing luxurious cream leather seats and a bar. Crystal decanters threw prisms of rainbow colours across the interior, dazzling her before she saw the guy inside.

He looked familiar, his voice was not. It was as smooth as a marbled egg and as alluring as the prospect of a viper’s kiss.

‘Miss Stephens, perhaps you’d be kind enough to step inside.’

Chapter Twenty-Three

It was an order, not an invitation. Jason’s father wasn’t used to being disobeyed.

She thought of making a run for it, but one goon had a firm grip on her arm, the other looked like he could give chase without breaking into a sweat. They would probably hurt her if she resisted them.

She allowed the first muscleman to push her inside the car while she clutched her rucksack to her chest. If Jason’s father was planning to do away with her, he probably wouldn’t do it in his nice, clean, posh car.

‘Who the hell do you think you are? You can’t just go bundling people into the back of bloody cars!’

‘Language, Miss Stephens, language,’ Derek Moody signalled to the man to shut the door.

Having done so, both goons slid into the front of the car, which was separated from the back by a glass screen, and the car pulled away from the kerb.

‘Where are we going?’ Helen demanded.

‘For a little drive.’

‘Where to? The river? Are you going to throw me in with something heavy around my legs?’

‘Such originality. Tut-tut.’

Helen sat back against the leather seat and crossed her arms. ‘Nice car,’ she sneered. ‘You’d better be careful you don’t get blood on the seats. I’ve heard it’s difficult to get out, and what a shame that would be.’

‘Thank you. It’s my favourite.’ A small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. ‘For your information, I tend to do my bloodletting elsewhere. Forensics, and all that.’

‘That’s reassuring.’

He laughed suddenly, a hearty guffaw, which under different circumstances would have been contagious, but Helen had lost her sense of humour at the mention of bloodletting.

‘I have to hand it to you,’ he said, ‘you’re one in a million.’

‘You got that right.’

‘The thing is, my dear, I only want to talk to you.’

‘Oh, that’s what they call it,’ she retorted, emboldened by his laughter. ‘Attacking people in the street and bundling them into the back of a car? That’s a real conversation opener.’

He shrugged. ‘Sometimes people think they don’t want to talk to
me
so I need a little extra persuasion. I don’t like the word “no”.’

His expression returned to the glacial stare she remembered from her uncle’s dinner party. Not many people would dare say no to this man and live to tell the tale. Except perhaps his son.

Jason had rejected his father’s lifestyle and did what he believed in, helping others less fortunate than himself, despite the threat that his father could throw a spanner in the works at any time.

And Jason was her friend. At least she thought he was.

She stuck her chin out, the chin everyone said she’d inherited from her mother. ‘You wanted to talk to me, so talk.’

He was silent for a heartbeat or two, and she regretted her cockiness. ‘What are you up to?’ he asked.

‘What am I
up
to?’

‘I didn’t take you for an idiot. Please answer my question.’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

Derek Moody leaned closer, his nearness in itself threat enough. ‘Don’t insult me. I’ve been in business a long time. So has your uncle. Our paths occasionally cross, but mostly we respect each other’s territory. And then suddenly you pop up, in my son’s well-meaning but misguided little get-up of all places. Flaunting your assets, as it were, and what red-blooded young male could possibly resist?’

He looked her up and down, implying he’d have no trouble resisting any kind of temptation, least of all anything she had to offer, and Helen, who’d never flaunted anything in her entire life, felt her blood boil.

‘What does Stephanov want from me?’ he asked.

‘Nothing! It has nothing to do with him. I’ve only just met him.’

‘Well, of course you have, otherwise he’d have mentioned you before. He talks of nothing else now.’

‘Who? My uncle?’

‘My son,’ Moody replied.

‘Jason?’ Helen shook her head. ‘I’ve only just met both of them. A few weeks back. I knew I had an uncle, but I’d never met him before, and Jason … well, that was a complete coincidence.’

‘I don’t believe in coincidences. Try again.’

‘But it’s true!’

The goon in the front passenger seat cranked his fat neck around and sent her a malevolent stare, but Moody shook his head, and the man turned back.

‘And this?’ Jason’s father produced a manila folder, which he laid across his knees. ‘Care to explain?’

An ordinary brown folder like a thousand others, but she knew without looking what was inside. The newspaper clippings covering her mother’s murder.

‘How did you get that?’ She’d moved it from under her mattress when everyone found out who she was. There seemed to be no point in hiding it any more.

‘Let’s just say, I borrowed it from your room.’

‘You stole it.’

‘Taking the moral high ground, are we? Like I said, I don’t believe in coincidences. That woman, Fay Cooper, lives under Jason’s roof, and you’—he jabbed a finger at her—‘are using my son as leverage to get closer to her. I want a full explanation, and it’d better be good.’

Helen racked her brain for a suitable excuse, but couldn’t come up with anything. She had no idea whether he might have had something to do with her mother’s death, but whatever she said would probably be wrong, so she decided on the truth.

‘I’m investigating my mother’s murder,’ she said, aware how idiotic it must sound.

‘Your mother’s murder?’ He raised one eyebrow. ‘This happened twenty years ago. Have they reopened the case?’

Helen shook her head.

‘I see. You’re conducting your own little investigation.’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘I think they missed something,’ she said.

The other eyebrow came up. ‘Let me just get this straight. Little Orphan Annie comes back after twenty years, dismisses evidence, her own witness statement, identification parade, the lot …’

‘That’s right, and I’ll tell you why. Because there were other witnesses, but they didn’t come forward. Because the evidence was flawed. Because the person doing the identifying was me, a five-year-old epileptic kid, who’d just lost her mother, and couldn’t remember much.’

Moody stared at her as if he thought she was from outer space. ‘Blimey,’ he said when he’d recovered. ‘So you believe the Cooper woman is innocent?’

‘Yes, and I intend to find out who really did it.’

‘Any suspects?’

‘Too many.’

‘Am
I
a suspect?’

Yes, she thought, but modified her comment before it flew out of her mouth. ‘Should you be?’

‘Well, I knew your mother. We had some dealings together, although I didn’t take to her. I could’ve had her bumped off and thought nothing of it. That’s what people expect of me.’ He flicked at an imaginary speck of dust on the sleeve of his jacket.

Helen bit her lip. There was such a thing as walking into the lion’s den – where she was right this minute – but antagonising the lion further would be downright stupid.

‘And did you?’ she said, her mouth dry.

‘I’m not likely to admit to that, am I?’

No, he wouldn’t, would he? He was enjoying keeping her in the dark, she could tell, and even if he did admit to anything, what would she possibly do? An ominous silence followed, broken only by the clinking crystal decanters as they swerved around a corner.

‘Well, that about wraps it up,’ he said. ‘You’ve told me what I need to know. You’re free to go.’

As if on cue the car stopped, back where they started, across the road from the house. Helen hoisted her rucksack back on her shoulder. ‘I’d like my folder back, please.’

‘What for?’

‘Because it’s mine.’

‘I call the shots here, young lady.’ Moody held it out of her reach. ‘You’re not in a position to make demands.’

Red mist descended. The rancorous discussion between Ruth and Letitia, Ruth trying to make amends years too late, her splitting headache, the manhandling. And the rage, always the rage. She lunged across the seat and tried to grab the folder out of his hand.

‘You effing bastard! Just give it back!’

The sliding screen was pushed aside, and she found herself yanked against the bulkhead by the hair. A beefy hand closed over her windpipe and squeezed hard. Gasping, she clawed at the hand, but the grip was relentless. Adrenaline pumped through her veins, dark spots appeared before her eyes. A seizure threatened.

Studying his fingernails, Moody ignored her struggle for what seemed like an eternity, then made an imperceptible gesture. ‘That’ll do, Jones.’

The goon released her, and Helen fell back against the seat, fighting for breath, her head spinning.

‘I must apologise for Jones. He’s very protective.’

‘Really?’ Helen croaked and rubbed her throat. ‘You don’t say.’

Moody chuckled. ‘I admire your spirit. Your mother had that in spades too. Tell me, what’s so important about these papers that you’ll risk life and limb to get them back? They’re just newspaper clippings.’

‘I don’t have much of my mother,’ Helen whispered, and clutched her rucksack to her chest to stop herself from shaking.

He considered that, carefully, then handed her the folder. ‘Take it. I don’t need it any more.’

The door opened, and Helen was plucked from the car. Moody leaned forward to catch her eyes. ‘One final request. Stay away from my son.’

‘And if I don’t?’

‘Miss Stephens.’ He smiled pleasantly, just making conversation. ‘There are two hundred and six bones in the human body. Twenty-six of them are in the foot. Think about that next time you cross the road.’

Clutching her things, Helen watched Moody drive off, slowly, because she was no danger to him. He didn’t expect her to go against him.

‘Arsehole,’ she muttered.

Still shaking, she crossed the road and let herself in. Leaning against the front door, she drew comfort from the dry rot-infested wood.

She let out a breath, realising only then she’d been holding it in. Moody had presented her with an ultimatum, but she supposed she had a couple of choices. She could either isolate herself as she’d always done, or she could drum up the support of her friends.

Friends. She savoured the word on her tongue. She would do that, and if Charlie had a hissy fit and continued to avoid her, she would apologise. If Moody thought she was a forlorn and shrinking violet, he could think again.

Easier said than done. The house was deserted. No lights from Jason’s basement flat, none in the kitchen, and the door to Fay’s room was gaping wide, her empty walls a reminder of what Helen had done, of the damage lies could do.

No milk in the kitchen for a decent cup of tea was the last straw, and she slammed the fridge shut again.

‘Damn!’

A scuffing noise from the garden doors sent her heart leaping into her throat, and her pulse throbbed loudly in her ears. The blood left her face. She went cold, then hot again. Quickly she switched off the light and tiptoed over to peer out by the side of the threadbare curtains which someone must have closed earlier.

There was nothing to see except one of Fay’s cats on the shed roof, but she wasn’t sure what she’d expected anyway. Jason’s father had said what he came to say, and the man Helen had spotted in the alleyway could have been a neighbour if it hadn’t been one of Moody’s goons. Sneaking around the back of people’s houses didn’t seem quite his style anyway.

She let the curtain drop and poured a glass of water in place of tea. Her throat was dry and on fire, and her head still ached. Reaching for the kitchen door handle, she noticed her hand was still shaking, and a sick feeling curled inside her.

‘To hell with you,’ she muttered. Jason’s bastard dad might have won the first round, but she was damned if he was going to intimidate her forever.

Her courage left her at the sound of a key in the door. Without rationalising it, she looked around for a place to hide, found it in the shape of an old coat on a peg by the basement stairs, and slid in behind it. She heard footsteps approaching and the rustling of a plastic bag but stayed where she was.

The coat had a musty odour with a hint of old man’s sweat, and she tried to block her nose against the smells. Something tickled her on the side of her face, and she flicked at it with her hand. When she discovered the source of the tickling, a large house spider, she shrieked, burst out from behind the coat, and ran headlong into Jason.