Read The Girl Who Broke the Rules Online
Authors: Marnie Riches
The Girl Who Broke the Rules (48 page)
‘I don’t think he loves me. But I don’t care. I just want him to pull through.’
Unexpectedly, Tamara let go of her father’s hand and took hold of George’s instead. ‘He needs his girls to believe in him. You can believe in him, right?’
The cynic in George saw this offering of solidarity from a stranger as off key. But then she registered the glassy film of sorrow on Tamara’s grey eyes, and recognised the loneliness of an only child. Perhaps Tamara needed the comfort of knowing there was someone else rooting for her dad. She opted to squeeze her hand, though it was unpleasantly clammy. ‘Yes. Definitely. He’s the most stubborn arsehole I’ve ever met. He’s going to make it, without a doubt.’
She stood. Leaned over and kissed van den Bergen’s forehead. His skin smelled of medicinal alcohol and unwashed hair.
‘No kissing!’ the nurse said. Stern-faced and disapproving. ‘This is a clean ward. Keep your germs to yourself.’
‘Too late,’ George said. Her heart was buckling. She knew it could be the last time she saw her beloved friend alive. The nurse could go and fuck himself.
Feeling guilty that she was somehow upstaging Tamara’s grief – as though van den Bergen’s daughter had more of a legitimate claim to sorrow than his sometime lover – George took her leave. She saved her selfish tears until she was outside the intensive care unit. Then, let her own torment out. Imagining holding van den Bergen’s broken body close to her, as she had during their time in Ramsgate. So much was still to pray for, and George was not a praying woman.
‘On your knees, you fucking spaghetti-guzzling scum,’ Dermot Robinson said. His voice had a deathly calm to it. Venom distilled into those over-enunciated consonants.
Before him, two of the three Italians were trying to front it out, like they had some fucking mafia code of honour to uphold. Keeping their bruised and bleeding heads held high, though the pride should have been tortured out of them by now. Amazing what you could do in a sex dungeon, when you had all kinds of clamps, vices and spiked equipment to hand. They were strung up by manacles, attached to the basement wall by long, thick chains. Harsh lights recently used for filming, making them squint and sweat. Let them feel it was an interrogation. Nowhere to go but to the other side.
But the short one was still full of it. ‘
Vaffanculo!
You don’t get to speak to us like that,’ he said.
Dermot swiped him across the face with the riding crop he had dipped in vinegar for a little extra sting. ‘Shut your fucking trap, you borlotti bean bastard. You’re on
my
turf now. You came into
my
clubs. Creaming off
my
profit margin. Damaging
my
reputation. Murdered
my
manager and
my
actress.’ He paced theatrically up and down in the dungeon.
It would have been easier just to have these two spivs whacked somewhere further afield. Technically, he was shitting on his own doorstep. But there had been little time to react, once he’d got the call from Sharon.
She’d sounded like she had the winning lottery ticket. Nothing like a woman scorned. ‘I’m telling you, Mr R. I’d recognise them anywhere. Swear to God. The Stockpot on Old Compton Street. I’m having a nice lunch with my sister, yeah? And them bastards walk in. Ordering stuff. Sitting around, eating like they ain’t even got a care, when they know Soho’s yours. Them murdering wankers got more front than Margate.’
When de Falco had been found dead; once the police had found Dermot’s girl in that derelict industrial unit in Kent, lying abused and abandoned in her own filth to die; once rumours of some Mr Gera had started to spread like dry rot in the woodwork, he’d called the fixer. Agreed a price straight away. Put word out: anyone with information on those cunts, leading to their capture and execution, gets a reward. The fee for the fixer would be money well spent, of course. Professionals cost. The ten thousand reward was just a necessary tax on top of that.
And now, here they were. The Italians. On the trusty dungeon set used in many a BDSM flick. His bitches.
‘What you did amounts to a serious attempt to fuck me in the arse,’ he told them. Raising his voice, now. Spit flying everywhere. ‘Nobody fucks with Dermot Robinson. I do the fucking around here.’ He could feel his blood pressure rising. Marge would be on his case about that.
Dermot gave the sign to the big ugly bastard in his pay. The Porn King of Soho could not show weakness before his enemies. Didn’t want his other subjects getting any big ideas. But the Porn King didn’t wish to get his hands dirty either. He was strictly legit. Let the fixer fix it.
With a whistle, the fixer swung a baseball bat through the air. Once. Twice. Knocking the Italians to their knees. Blood spattering from the backs of their heads.
‘Better. You’re Catholic boys, aren’t you?’ Dermot said. ‘Just like me. Now how’s about you tell me who you work for? Think of it as your last confessional.’ He patted the tripod that held the bright lights. ‘That’s not electricity, fellers. It’s the heavenly light of the almighty. Speak up!’ He cupped his hand to his ear.
The Italians had fallen to the floor, groaning. Dermot walked over to Gera and put his large foot on the man’s cheek. Gera looked up at him with dazed eyes.
‘I know you’re just the rubbing rags. Who’s the big wheel?’
Silence.
Niente
. These two-bit thugs weren’t going to speak, even after the torture and the prospect of death looming over them. Fucking waste of time.
He turned to the fixer. ‘Put a couple of bullets in them. Leave them somewhere where they’ll be found. But not on my patch. Right?’
Walking up the stairs with the gunshots ringing in his ears, he dialled George’s number. A long, foreign ringtone. Funny. He’d only seen her at de Falco’s funeral the other day.
When she picked up, she sounded rough.
‘Hello, love. Tell your aunty it’s all sorted,’ he said. ‘She’ll know what I mean. Listen, I’m calling about a special cleaning job I’ve got for you on one of my film sets. I’ll pay you double.’
‘Sorry, Mr Robinson,’ she said. He liked the way she was so respectful. That was a girl who would go far. ‘I can’t. I’m not…er. There’s someone coming.’ A change in her voice that sounded like dread. ‘I’ve got to go.’
Realising word would get out that her aunty had given up the whereabouts of the Italians, he was just about to warn her to watch her back when she cut him off.
The maid made to slam the heavy door to the Charlottenburg villa, but Elvis shoved his shoe in the way, scuppering her attempt to shut them out.
‘I told you, sir’ she said in halting English. ‘You cannot come in.’ Wiping a hand covered in orange food mess on her otherwise spotless, starched apron. ‘I am very busy.’
Marie stepped forward, thinking there might be some way of connecting with this woman. Perhaps she was frightened and alone. Berlin was hardly a crime-free city, and the rich were always targets for burglars, con artists and even kidnappers. She showed her ID again. ‘I promise we’re legitimate. Police from the Netherlands. See? We just want to talk about a missing child.’
There had been no paperwork in the Laren house files, showing the final destination of Magool’s baby. Not in the filing cabinet in the garage. Not under the floorboards of Schwartz’s office. In the recesses of Marie’s orderly mind, she realised that if there were meticulous records available, showing everything from the payments to Erik at Rotterdam Port Authority for hacking-services-rendered, to invoices for medical advice to Skin Flicks and Scream Screen Productions, to an audit trail that tracked the purchase and sale of scores of harvested organs and fifteen newborn babies – all the children of cash-strapped illegal immigrant girls, who had succumbed to Ahlers’ collusive offer of a discreet and safe delivery – it stood to reason that there would be paperwork on Magool’s baby. Didn’t it?
It was only after a twelve-hour shift, sifting through the files, that she had come across old deeds of sale for a villa in an expensive part of Berlin. 1970s. Registered to Schwartz’ father, though the father had been dead for more than a decade. No deed of transfer to darling Veronica, Herr Doktor Schwartz’ legatee. Strange. Who lived there?
Visiting the house had been Elvis’ idea. The department was in such disarray with van den Bergen out of action and Hasselblad under investigation for sanctioning the arrest of Strietman, there was nobody around to protest if he and Marie were to slope off on a little unscheduled jaunt to Berlin. A snooping exercise, more on a whim than a bona fide hunch.
Now, they had flown for just over an hour, using departmental funds that had not been signed off, to stare at the unflinching, unfriendly face of a maid through a six-inch crack in the door.
‘You could get into a lot of trouble if you don’t speak to us,’ Marie said. Wondered if the woman, who looked of Middle-Eastern descent, was legal. Perhaps she could threaten her with deportation. Any kind of manipulation would feel like a cheap trick, but Marie owed this to the boss; to the victims of whatever traffickers Schwartz had been working for; especially to Magool. ‘We’ll have to bring the Berlin police, madam.
Die Berliner Polizei. Verstehen Sie das?
Understand?’
Apparently, she understood.
The interior of the house was immaculate. Antiques. Persian rugs. Chandeliers. Modern art on the walls. But it had the air of a mausoleum about it. It smelled like it had not been renovated in twenty years or more. The place was a memorial to a time gone by – left unchanged by its owner and occupier, who was ostensibly the very dead Herr Dr Schwartz.
‘What is your name, madam?’ Elvis asked the maid.
‘Hilal.’ Her back was turned. She was leading them through to the kitchen, perhaps.
Walking down the hallway, open doors gave glimpses of sumptuous, dated salons beyond. Tall windows ushering light in. It was breathtaking and suffocating. A Miss Havisham of a house, Marie mused. But one of the doors was shut. She heard banging beyond it. Loud, adult voices talking to one another in a childish manner.
Marie’s pulse thundered. Instincts screaming that closed doors signified secrets beyond. How to play it? If she asked to gain entry to the room, she was sure the maid would refuse. Banging. Still banging within. But not the sound of a workman. The sound of metal on plastic.
As Elvis followed close behind the maid, she hung back. Grasped the brass knob of the door, heart thudding. Breaking and entering of a sort. Sod it. Made as little noise as possible.
Inside the room there was a giant, flat screen television, attached to the wall – some kids’ channel blaring out
Sesame Street
, overdubbed in German. Big Bird having a conversation with Oscar the Grouch in his trash can. In that room, the floor was carpeted with toys. Big ones. Small ones. Of every description. No expense spared. And there, strapped into a high chair, laughing hysterically at the Grouch, plastered in what seemed to be pasta and tomato sauce, bashing his spoon noisily onto the plastic tray, was a tiny boy. He couldn’t have been more than eighteen months old. Two at a push. Turned to look quizzically at Marie. Big brown eyes and thick black lashes. Delicate-featured and dark-skinned. He was the living image of his dead mother, Magool.
‘I wondered when you’d turn up,’ George said, slipping her phone onto the nightstand. ‘Took your time.’
Ad standing over her. Clutching a bunch of ugly orange chrysanthemums and dyed blue daisies in his mouth. At a time of the year where ranunculus and tulips were in season, he had chosen those. Typical. In his hands, he carried a cardboard box. Perhaps he had brought clothes. Good.
‘Thanks for the flowers,’ she said, pointing to a vase on the windowsill. ‘They’re lovely.’
He looked tense. Something around the eyes. They lacked the usual warmth. Was he still pissed off at her for stealing Jasper’s car? Surely he’d read her text about the attempted murder of van den Bergen. That had to count for something in the way of an excuse.
Calm down. He’s brought you the flowers. It must all be cool.
But she knew it wasn’t cool at all. George had slept with van den Bergen. And it hadn’t just been a furtive fumble between friends that she had instantly regretted – a heat-of-the-moment thing. She had planned for it; had meant every touch, every kiss. Every time van den Bergen had made her come, she had relished it deeply. Diving headlong into the sea of desire, guilt had been a storm cloud hanging over a distant island on the horizon. She had resolved to worry about it another day.
Today that day had come. She had broken the trust between her and Ad. Deep within her lurked the conviction that she had fallen out of love with him. That she needed to end it not just because of her infidelity, but because it was no longer what she wanted.
‘Is Jasper still sore over the car?’ she asked.
Ad perched on the end of her bed. Hadn’t taken his reefer jacket off. Cardboard box on the floor by his feet. Looked pale and pinched, as though he were sickening for something. ‘What do you think?’
‘The police’s insurance will cover it. He’ll get it repaired. Tell him I’m massively sorry.’
He nodded in silence.
‘George, we need to talk,’ Ad said. Haltingly. Hesitantly. Biting his lip, which was almost devoid of colour.
No kiss. No niceties. No, ‘How are you doing?’ Just a shit bunch of flowers, a face like the proverbial smacked arse and now this.
He was going to tell her off.
She could feel a lecture coming her way. She hated lectures. Maybe she wasn’t strong enough to end it yet, after all. At that moment, she just fancied a hug and a little unconditional love. She swallowed hard.
‘Oh yeah? Sounds ominous.’ Smiling. Treating him to that grin he always said was alluring.