Wishing and Hoping (21 page)

His heart leaped with joy when she looked up, saw him and smiled.

‘Archie! Have you got something for me?'

He grinned and almost felt bashful. ‘Of course I
have. Wouldn't leave my little sister without some decent grub, would I?'

She snatched the newspaper parcel from him as swiftly as one of his gang members might snatch an old lady's purse. For a little 'un she was certainly becoming streetwise. He found himself wondering what she would be like when she was fully grown.

‘What you gonna be when you grow up, our Annie?'

The little girl chewed and swallowed before replying. ‘A princess.'

‘What's that supposed to mean? How can you be a princess? You ain't one now.'

‘Yeah, I can,' she said with a bewitching smile. ‘Cos when I grow up I'll be beautiful and then I can be whatever I want.'

‘We'll see about that,' he said, uncomfortable with the little girl's innocent view of the world. ‘Get on with yer supper.'

He watched her as she ate, cramming the hot food into her mouth as fast as she could.

‘Steady on,' he said, placing a restraining though loving hand on her arm. ‘Don't want to get a belly ache now do you.'

Hunching her shoulders, she giggled in the pleasant way she did, the way that made him feel like hugging her close and taking her away from their mother, the council house they lived in and the local pub.

‘I'll take you to London one day,' he said suddenly.

‘Oh, yeah.' She looked pleased about that.

‘But in the meantime I'll look after you, Annie. You know that? I'll always be there to look after you.'

‘Lovely,' she said, and in her smile he felt all the weight of the world on his young shoulders. At thirteen he'd become the man of the house in the absence of his father. It was a huge responsibility and he knew damned well that it was about putting a meal on the table and looking after the ones you loved – only his dad didn't seem to know that and neither did his mother.

He looked down at the little girl and felt a tightness in his chest. Whatever it took he would look after her, and if it meant stealing from old ladies then so be it. Annie came first and just behind that came the rest of his family. He'd steal for them. He'd even kill for them if he had to.

MARCIE WAS DESPERATE
to hear some good news, but it was certain she wouldn't be getting it from Michael's solicitor.

Michael had made a formal appearance in court. Bail had been refused.

Jacob was looking sombre. Outside the courtroom, he took hold of her shoulders and outlined his views on the matter. ‘I won't tell you not to worry. You're an intelligent woman. You know how things stand. All I can tell you is that we'll go to trial then after that we'll appeal.'

‘And if he's convicted? What will he get?'

Her voice sounded cold and strangely calm. Inside she was anything but. Her husband was being accused of murder for Christ's sake!

Jacob shrugged. ‘I won't lie. It could be anything from twenty to thirty years – life.'

Marcie felt numb, hardly able to believe what she was hearing. Michael could be sentenced to thirty years. Thirty years!

The evidence had been overwhelming. The gun he stated he'd found in his desk drawer at the nightclub
was covered in his fingerprints. He protested that it would be. He'd found it in his drawer and, after mentioning it to his manager, had locked it away in the safe.

Kevin McGregor's word was not enough to convince the police or anyone else that he was speaking the truth.

There were statements from other witnesses to consider. For a start, his old friend Aldo confirmed it was when Michael was partaking of his usual coffee break in his usual seat that Linda Bell had come into the café. He repeated word for word what she had said – heavily accented of course. He'd gone on to say, ‘Mr Michael was very angry. He denied what she said.'

‘What did Linda Bell say after that?' the prosecution had asked.

‘That she would tell his wife.'

‘And what did Mr Jones – Mr Michael – say then?'

Aldo had taken a deep breath then paused, his eyes frantically searching for some way out of what he could not avoid saying.

Seizing the advantage, the prosecution had pressed him further.

‘What did he say Mr Benuzzi?'

Aldo looked at Michael. ‘I'm sorry, Mr Michael.'

‘Mr Benuzzi?'

The prosecution had scented blood.

Aldo sighed. ‘He didn't mean it – it was just said . . .'

‘Mr Benuzzi! Will you please answer the question! What did Mr Jones say – word for word?'

There was no escape. Aldo replied, ‘He said that if she went to see his wife he would kill her.'

Other witnesses, Aldo's customers, also testified to Linda Bell visiting him and him threatening to kill her. Then there was the shirt covered in blood that the police had found buried beneath the rose bush.

They'd asked Marcie about it, questioned whether she'd found it in her laundry basket and, realising what had happened, buried it out there herself.

Jacob had cautioned her against lying or risk her children being left without father and mother. She'd had to tell the truth.

Jacob had managed to throw in some questions about intruders prowling around the place, about the dead cat being tied to the front gate, about the girls in the nightclub being attacked and some kind of gangland vendetta being fought. He suggested that Michael Jones was being framed because of this.

The judge refused to accept his argument, terming it as little more than conjecture.

‘I could ask you not to worry, but I know it will do no good,' Jacob added before making his way back to Whitechapel.

Marcie bid him goodbye. Her mind was working
overtime. She refused to believe that Michael had done such a thing. Following Jacob's line of conjecture, she decided that everything emanated from the Blue Genie. Paddy Rafferty wanted to muscle in. He had to be a prime suspect. But she couldn't rule out Michael's father and his half-brother.

She made her way to their house, meaning to confront Gabriella.

Gabriella's reception was as cold as ice. ‘What do you want?'

Marcie stood in the doorway. Gabriella was wearing a brown cap-sleeved dress with a tan, red and brown tartan waistband. She looked a little more tired than when Marcie had last seen her. The dark eyes were still fiery, but living without her son was wearing her down. No matter how cruel or unfaithful, Gabriella lived for the men in her life. She would be loyal to both of them until the day she, or they, died.

‘I wanted to ask you whether Victor or Roberto had anything to do with framing my husband?'

‘Michael!' Gabriella almost spat his name. It was obvious judging by the look in her eyes that she'd tolerated Michael for her husband's sake. Her jealousy was never well hidden at the best of times.

‘Whatever your beef with him, Gabriella, he does not deserve to be framed for something he didn't do.'

Gabriella's eyes flashed with anger. ‘What makes you think you know him so well? He is a man.
A red-blooded man needs more than a wife. Do you think him a saint? Do you think him better than my Roberto? Better than my Victor? Your husband betrayed his own father. Remember that.'

Gabriella attempted to close the door in Marcie's face. Marcie jammed her foot into the gap and held on to the door.

‘Yes, Gabriella. And that says it all. They would frame him, wouldn't they? But this is a life sentence we're talking about, Gabriella. Not just a short sentence for running a protection racket.'

‘My Roberto has been jailed for violence. My Roberto is not violent. His mother knows this.'

‘Rubbish!'

Marcie couldn't help it. Gabriella deserved to know what her son was really like. Marcie told her as matter-of-factly as she could manage about Roberto attacking her and Victor's violence towards Allegra. She'd already presumed that Gabriella must know about Allegra.

She saw the older woman's expression change. Yes. She knew about Allegra all right, but it was Marcie's rape she focused on.

‘No! No! No!' she said, shaking her head emphatically. ‘My Roberto would not do such a thing. It is you,' she shrieked, pointing her finger into Marcie's face. ‘You are a slut with a bastard child. He told me that you threw yourself at him. It was you who seduced him!'

Marcie could not believe what she was hearing. She felt her face reddening with anger as she gripped more firmly on the door that was threatening to close in her face.

‘Your son is a psychopath. A head case who thinks he can have any woman he wants. Well, he couldn't have me! And do you know what, he couldn't cope with that. A woman had actually said “no” to his face. So what was not given he resolved to take. He attacked me, he raped me and he even wanted me to have my child adopted just so I could cater to him and him alone. I hope Roberto rots in jail.'

Gabriella's face froze then thawed swiftly. Her smile was cold and the look in her eyes was cruel.

‘No. It is that bastard Michael who will rot in jail. My Roberto is coming home. He will be here tomorrow.'

Marcie came away feeling stunned and also fearful. Gabriella would report her visit to her son and to Victor. No doubt she would present herself as a mother standing up for her darling child.

She could imagine the vengeful look in Roberto's eyes. He would relish Michael languishing in prison. She only hoped that he wouldn't get in contact, but knew it was more than likely.

Her concern proved correct. Roberto Camilleri phoned. He'd been let out of prison.

‘Sorry to hear about Michael. Dad's sorry too. He sends his love. I can do more than send it if you're willing. How about I come over and take you out on the town. Arrange for that old grandma of yours to take care of the kids and we can start up where we left off.'

She slammed the phone down, her eyes blazing and her face red with anger.

He phoned back again. ‘I'll be watching you, Marcie. I'll be watching you all the time.'

Again she slammed the phone down. Although she half expected it, he didn't ring again that day. All the same, she couldn't help glancing out of the window now and again, suspecting she might see his car parked across the road.

The move from the house to the flat above the sewing room had gone relatively smoothly, mainly because she had rented the place out fully furnished.

Tonight was the next step in her plan. She was going to the nightclub, determined that she could cope whatever might happen.

Allegra arrived to look after the kids, looking almost dowdy in plain black and without make-up. It occurred to Marcie that the former mistress of Victor Camilleri was beginning to resemble something completely opposite to the woman she'd once been. The glamour and confidence had gone, replaced by a meditative demureness; she'd also admitted to attending confession much more often.

‘Will you be OK, then?' Marcie asked before leaving for the club.

Allegra smiled. ‘Of course I will. Will you?'

Marcie took a deep breath and pretended that straightening the hem of her dress was very important. ‘Oh, I'm a big girl now.'

Yes. She was a grown woman, but usually she would have consulted Michael about doing this. She had not.

Trying to tell herself that she was up against some heavy problems had done no good. She likened herself to a tigress protecting its cubs, though in her case it wasn't just her cubs; it was her mate, her den, the things they'd both worked for.

‘Be careful,' Allegra said before Marcie had buttoned her coat.

Marcie pretended she hadn't heard, but she had. She knew she had to be careful. Michael would be horrified if he knew, but she hadn't yet told him that she was intending to run the Blue Genie herself. So far the manager, Kevin McGregor, had taken care of things. But at the end of the day, it paid for the owner to keep their eye on things and Marcie intended doing just that. There was also the matter of keeping her ear to the ground. Any whispers from the underworld were bound to be picked up there, not sitting at home waiting for things to happen.

She drove her car to the club. The pavements were wet and icy. The night was cold.

The weather wouldn't make that much difference to the punters. Men liked to unwind and a nightclub was the place to do it in.

Olivia Oliver was dancing tonight. She was a great favourite with the crowds and had trained as a Bluebell Girl. Her legs were long, her figure looked as though she'd been poured into a perfect mould: full breasts, narrow waist and rounded hips.

There was also a singer tonight, a woman named Cressida Carter. She sang in bare feet like Sandie Shaw, though the dress she wore revealed more length of naked thigh than Miss Shaw had ever exposed.

After saying hello to Jimmy and Kevin, Marcie made for Michael's office.

Kevin had looked apprehensive that she was here at all. She'd had to explain to him that she was not here to spy on him.

‘I'll be in the office. Can you come along once I've got myself settled?'

He said that he would.

Once in the office she took off her coat and hung it on the hook behind the door. Fighting off the urge to shiver, she ran her hands down her skirt, took a deep breath and looked around her.

Michael's office at the Blue Genie seemed cold and empty without him in it. It was swish all the same, a glass and chrome desk dominating the room, a six-foot tall rubber plant growing from a pot in the corner.

She contemplated what was on her mind. This was where someone had planted a gun. But who?

Everything seemed as it usually was. The desk and safe were firmly locked, but she had the keys.

Speculating about what had happened here was useless without concrete evidence. Nobody had a clue about the gun.

She opened the desk drawer, slowly pulling it out just in case something had been left behind, something that the police may have overlooked. There was nothing.