Wishing and Hoping (17 page)

Although she smiled sweetly, she knew damned well that Rafferty was in no doubt with regard to her insinuation. The man was a gangster.

His smile remained fixed. ‘No doubt you and me can come to some arrangement. A pretty girl by herself is going to need protection from the lounge lizards you find in seedy night spots.'

‘Is that so?'

‘Oh yes.' He paused whilst his eyes swept over her. ‘I think you'll have to be very careful about who you trust, Mrs Jones. I think you'll have to be very careful who's watching you – both day and night.'

Her blood turned cold. Although the urge to shudder was very powerful, she managed to hold it at bay. ‘Are you threatening me?'

‘No, no, no.' He shook his head in time with each
word just as emphatically as he had nodded. ‘Would I be so crass as to threaten Mickey's lovely wife? Of course not, me girl. Of course not! And I guarantee Mickey would be the first to agree with me. In fact he and I are of the same mind when it comes to women.'

Calling Michael ‘Mickey' did not endear him to her. Nobody called Michael that. He hated it.

‘I'm not sure I believe that, Mr Rafferty.'

Throwing back his head, he laughed uproariously. ‘Ah, but you women are all the same. You want to know everything your men folk are up to and that's a fact. Come now. We men have to have a few little secrets, don't we?'

She felt his eyes boring into hers and didn't like it. The time for being pleasant was at an end.

‘Now let's get this straight, Mr Rafferty. I have to get home to my kids. You promised to take me there. As regards the other matter, I'm afraid it will have to wait. Another time, another place. Better still contact our solicitor. He'll lay it on the line.'

He chuckled. ‘No need for you to worry your pretty little head about getting back to your kiddies. I'll get you home in style. Claude? Let's get the little lady home.'

The driver in the cheap suit responded. They were already out in the traffic but had not proceeded with any great speed up till now. Claude pressed his foot on the pedal and blew the horn.

The car nudged its way through the traffic. It was late afternoon and the rush hour was just beginning.

‘I live at . . .'

‘I know where you live, Mrs Jones.'

If it was possible to turn colder, she did that now. Paddy Rafferty knew where she lived? The prospect was worrying. Determined to stay cool, Marcie swallowed her nervousness.

‘I've driven past your place,' he said as though answering her unasked question. ‘Nice little avenue. Nice little area. I noticed there was a school up the road. I take it your little ones will be going there?'

‘I have no wish to discuss my domestic arrangements, Mr Rafferty.' She kept her voice even and businesslike.

‘Call me Paddy,' he said, a mouthful of teeth exposed in a grin that was as wide as Chelsea Bridge. ‘All my closest friends call me Paddy and I'm sure you're going to be one of them.'

Marcie was thinking that the last thing she wanted to be was close to Paddy Rafferty. ‘What do you want, Mr Rafferty?'

‘Paddy,' he said insistently.

‘Paddy,' she returned, though curtly.

Despite her manner, his grin persisted. ‘I thought I'd already said, me girl. It just goes to prove my point that the ladies have not the head for business. But never mind, me dear. I'm willing to be patient. I'll
outline the details again for you and you alone. Now this is the deal. In the present circumstances it seems to me that the most sensible thing is for me to forego becoming a partner to your husband and instead buy the place lock, stock and barrel. Running a nightclub isn't a job for a
colleen
. I will say it again and again, business is a man's world. A tough world.'

‘I might be tougher than you think,' she said, thrusting her chin forwards.

Paddy Rafferty was making her feel like a silly little woman whose place was firmly in front of the kitchen sink – or in bed – his bed no doubt. The stupid man wouldn't know it, but he'd thrown down a challenge and she was picking it up. Back at the prison she'd been in two minds about disobeying Michael and keeping the Blue Genie going. Now this man, this terrible man, had made up her mind. Not that he would know it. His idea had been to scare her, not to put her on her mettle.

‘Aye,' he said the grin more menacing and cruel. ‘I'm thinking you look as though you might want to put up a fight, but think about it. You could get hurt. Your children could get hurt. Now we wouldn't that, would we?'

She was suddenly filled with the greatest revulsion for this man and wanted to be as far away from him as possible. He reeked of danger and destruction. Why hadn't she seen that earlier?

‘You are quite right in guessing that I shall be running my husband's business whilst he is awaiting trial. But I'll still be running things past him. I trust my husband's judgement.'

‘Your husband's judgement? This is the man who got a tart pregnant then topped her when she told him the good news. Aw come on!' Slapping his hand on his fat thigh, he guffawed as though she were the most foolish woman God had ever put on earth. ‘He wouldn't be the first man to play the field and get caught out. We've all done that in our time. But he murdered the girl. The police found the gun and a blood-stained shirt half buried between a rose bush and a raspberry cane. There's no way he's coming out of that place in that much of a hurry, my sweet girl. And you're not capable of running a nightclub. You'll be eaten up alive and spat out in pieces. Mind you,' he said with added chuckles, ‘I wouldn't mind being the one to eat you up any day of the week.' His gloved hand folded over hers. ‘I could look after you in a number of ways until your old man gets out, Mrs Jones.'

Marcie snatched her hand back from him, her face hot with anger. ‘The air in here is too oppressive, Mr Rafferty. In fact it stinks. Let me out. Let me out now. I'll get a taxi.'

She reached for the handle of the car door. The speed with which his hand recovered hers came as a
surprise. For someone who was as wide as a door, he moved quickly. This time his hand landed with the impact of a shovel. His grin had become a tooth-filled snarl.

‘Not so fast, Mrs Jones, me darling. Not until you've heard me out. I've got plans for that club and no little tart is going to stop me from getting my hands on it. I'll be getting my brief to send the paperwork to the little Jew in Whitechapel, that shrivelled little man who works for you. If he knows anything of my reputation he'll be getting you to sign on the dotted line. Now go if you must, but remember, old Paddy will be after you. Old Paddy always gets what he wants!'

AFTER PHONING ALLEGRA
to make sure the children were all right and that she didn't mind staying, Marcie made her way to Jacob Solomon's office in Whitechapel.

The entrance to his office was nothing more than a blank wooden door leading directly off the street. A brass name plaque to one side stated
MESSRS JACOB SOLOMON,
SOLICITORS.
Although the plural form of title was used giving the impression that more than one lawyer worked on the premises, there was only Jacob and his assistant Fred Faraday who doubled as clerk, bookkeeper and secretary. Faraday was not Fred's real name. Like Jacob he'd survived a Nazi death camp. Keen to cut the past from his life, he'd altered his name to that of the man who'd invented laughing gas. A strange choice, but Fred had lived through strange times.

The sound of a clattering keyboard greeted Marcie as she entered. Ancient brown lino squeaked in response to each footstep. The place was old and smelled of linseed oil and dusty paper.

Oak-panelled walls and shelves lined with the gilt
spines of legal tomes gave a solid, trustworthy air to what might have been a depressing Victorian darkness. The window was large but only looked out on a blank wall opposite. An old enamel hoarding advertising Cherry Blossom shoe polish relieved the monotonous courses of brick along with the odd weed that had managed to gain a foothold.

Even in summer little light found its way through the old sash windows. At this time of year, eight weeks before Christmas, a number of one hundred watt bulbs fought bravely but failed to pierce the seasonal gloom.

Jacob Solomon and Fred Faraday shared the same office; it was no secret that the two of them also shared the flat above the office. It was possible that they also shared a bed, but neither Marcie nor her husband ever questioned their lawyer's domestic arrangements or personal life. His wife and child had died in Nazi Germany. He'd never remarried and he was obviously homosexual.

Jacob had a fantastic professional reputation and boasted a very worthy client list. His sharp mind and knowledge of the law overrode any prejudice his clients might have.

As far as Marcie and Michael were concerned it was easy to be both sympathetic and tolerant. The two men had lost everyone and everything they'd held dear in the war. All they had was each other.

The moment Jacob looked up and saw her face, he was on his feet offering a chair and bidding Fred to put the kettle on.

‘Will do, Jacob. Will do,' said Fred, papers flying as he left his ancient typewriter with its clunking keyboard, making for the small kitchenette just off the office.

‘Tell me all,' said Jacob, his face wise and his speech gentle. Perching himself on the corner of his desk, he looked intently down at her through his horn-rimmed spectacles. Marcie was reminded of a wise old owl.

She told him about Paddy Rafferty apprehending her outside the prison. He already knew what Rafferty had been up to from Michael.

‘Do you fear him?'

‘I find him threatening.'

Jacob nodded grimly. ‘You are wise to do so. Hardly a man of letters and best avoided as all ignorant people should be.'

‘He scared me, Jacob,' she said. ‘He's not asking if I want to sell, he's insisting.'

‘For a song. In effect he was offering your husband a partnership – on his terms of course. He thinks he can get away with purchasing the property off you for next to nothing, purely because you are a defenceless woman.' Jacob pronounced the last few words as though he were declaring a battle slogan.

‘I am not defenceless.'

‘He thinks so.'

‘The man's a crook.'

Jacob made a chewing motion with his mouth. ‘Mr Rafferty is not known for being honest in his business dealings. He runs the legitimate alongside the illegitimate. His main line of business is the exploitation of labour. He brings over labour from Ireland, charges them a fee and charges the building company one too. Needless to say the labour force work long hours and get little in return. Neither does the taxman for that matter.'

What he said was no less than Marcie had expected to hear. ‘He said he's already sent you the paperwork. Is that true?'

Jacob pursed his lips, clasped his hands and nodded. ‘He did. I told his messenger that I would take instructions from my client.'

Marcie eyed him warily. ‘What did the messenger say to that?'

‘Initially he said that he would break me if I did not comply. I told him the decision was not up to me. I also told him that more ruthless men than he had tried to break me.'

‘And?'

Jacob pursed his lips and regarded her as though assessing whether she could take the truth. He decided he saw a strong woman who could cope with it. ‘He
said that my client would sign immediately if she knew what was good for her and her family. He also said that I should do my utmost to persuade her if I knew what was good for me.'

Marcie's knuckles turned white as she clasped the chair arms and leaned forwards. She was in no doubt that her face was as chillingly white as her knuckles. ‘What do I do, Jacob?'

Fred Faraday laid his hand gently on her shoulder. ‘Calm down, dear lady. Please. Drink your tea.'

She took the bone china cup and saucer that Fred Faraday handed to her. To her great relief the cup didn't rattle in the saucer. She didn't want that. She didn't want to be scared or at least she didn't want to give the impression of being scared.

‘I will do whatever you want,' said Jacob, sitting upright on the corner of the desk, his arms folded. He nodded at Fred.

‘I just need to take these to Messrs Coleman and Co.,' said Fred. He was being discreet, leaving Jacob to talk to her alone.

‘Stay,' she said. ‘Please. I would prefer you to.'

He nodded and sat back down behind the old black Imperial.

The tea was hot and sweet. She didn't usually take sugar, but Fred had doubtless decided she needed it. She did. Her nerves were on edge, but through it all a little voice seemed to be telling her to stay calm,
to be strong. She didn't question whose voice it was. Her thoughts were confused. She needed to pull herself together.

‘They frighten you?' asked Jacob.

She nodded. ‘Of course they do. Did they frighten you? I know you said you've known worse, but . . .'

Jacob Solomon had shoulder-length hair, which had once been coal black but was now liberally laced with grey. When he threw back his head it landed like a cape on his shoulders. He laughed a deep throaty laugh that was mocking rather than humorous. The hand that clasped her shoulder was reassuring and kind. ‘Let me show you something.'

The hand was removed. His expression turned sombre.

She watched as, methodically and thoughtfully, he unfastened his shirt cuff and rolled up his sleeve. The skin of his inner arm was abnormally white. Etched into it was a number. He tapped it with his finger.

‘That is the number I was given at Belsen. My dear Marcie, I have been terrorised by experts. I have seen horrors you have never dreamed of.' His voice was now more measured, mournful with regard to the few years he'd spent when death was a daily occurrence. ‘Let me tell you something else,' Jacob continued, nodding at the same time as pointing Fred to a specific file from the shelf behind his assistant's head. Fred handed him a buff-coloured folder. ‘This is the matter
of the Blue Genie premises. Michael did not know how valuable it was when he bought it for a song from the previous owner. He did not know that it was up for redevelopment. It seems only a few people knew that. Those few people were so arrogant, so certain that they had everything sewn up with regard to the property that they did not for one minute think that the owner would sell it to someone else before they had a chance to put in an offer. Michael got there first. Did he tell you that he was being approached to sell even before he opened the club?'