Wishing and Hoping (28 page)

Sally was perched on a particularly high bar stool.

‘Well, you're looking the bee's knees! Quite sophisticated in fact.'

‘I'm feeling businesslike.'

‘How's Michael?'

She told her about his injuries and the attitude and demands of one particular screw in particular.

‘Bastard!'

Marcie nodded. ‘Of the highest order of bastards.'

‘Are you really running this place yourself?'

She ordered a gin and orange from the bar before
answering. ‘I'm determined, Sally, so don't try to talk me out of it.'

It was at that moment that Carla emerged from the ladies' cloakroom. She looked from Sally to Marcie. ‘What's going on here?'

After taking a sip of her drink, Marcie said, ‘I'm here for a reason, Carla. Well, two reasons really. Number one I refuse to let this club be sold. Michael was so proud of it. Number two is that this is where all our problems began. This is where the weapon that killed Linda Bell was found. Apparently the whole case against Michael depends on that gun and how it got into his desk drawer and I don't think he put it there. I thought that one of the girls might have heard something – you know how some men talk.'

‘So this gun wasn't his?' said Carla, as though a man and his gun should never be parted.

Marcie took umbrage. ‘He's never had a gun,' she snapped. ‘He does bookkeeping, not guns!'

‘Keep your shirt on,' muttered Carla, whilst shrugging in her low-cut gown and in serious danger of her boobs popping out.

‘It might just work. So what did Michael have to say?' asked Sally, intent on cooling things down.

Marcie averted her blazing eyes from Carla's face, though she was far from being placated. Sally mentioning Michael had brought other problems to bear.

‘As I've just been telling Sally, he's been getting some bad treatment.' She explained about his eye and the sullen look.

‘Other prisoners can be bastards,' snarled Carla. ‘But it can be sorted,' she added with a wink.

‘Not necessarily other prisoners,' said Marcie after taking another large sip of her drink. She went on to explain about the prison officer and the deal he had offered her.

‘If I'm nice to him he'll make sure that everyone is nice to Michael.'

‘Something needs to be done about the bastard!' Sally exclaimed.

‘What's his name?' asked Carla. Her eyes were narrowed as though she were thinking hard.

‘David Morgan. He's slimy. It makes me shiver just to think of him.' Marcie shrugged. ‘There's nothing to be done about it. I could report it, but if I do that they'll treat him even worse. I'm stuck!'

Carla's arched eyebrows beetled into a deep frown and she looked as though she were grinding her teeth. ‘So where does he want you to be nice to him? Surely not at the prison?'

‘At his home. He's given me his telephone number. I'm to phone him to arrange it.'

‘Bastard!' Sally exclaimed again. Marcie had told her the details before Carla had joined them and she was still voicing her disgust. Sally was like that. Like
a dog with a bone she wouldn't let it drop. When Sally disapproved of people – men, that is – it was the one word she used over and over again, like a record player needle stuck in the groove.

Carla wasn't saying anything. She was strangely quiet.

Carla gave Marcie the creeps when she did that. It was almost as if there were a different and more lethal Carla beneath the blousy dresses and the fox fur coats.

Marcie acted to divert the conversation. ‘Let's not talk about that. I need everyone to keep their eyes and ears open. Kevin's asked the barmen and girls to keep their eyes and ears open.'

‘Ladies and gentlemen!'

The master of ceremonies making the announcement was a chap called Bert Laidlaw. He had a mane of white hair, a chiselled pink face and was elegantly turned out in bow tie and tuxedo.

The light coming from the blue genie lights and the ones on the table dimmed a little as the stage brightened.

‘And may I now present, the one and only Cathy Cooper!'

The audience clapped enthusiastically. Cathy Cooper was a popular singer who'd just had a big hit with an old Anne Shelton number.

Once she was leaning against the grand piano, the
familiar strains of ‘I'll Be Seeing You' tinkled from the piano keys.

Marcie turned round to listen and to look, and not just because she admired Cathy Cooper. For a fleeting moment she could forget her troubles and relish the fact that the dress Cathy was wearing had been designed and made up in her own sewing room. It was tight fitting and black. Droplets of glittering jet dangled from all over it, the teardrop ends catching the light from the stage backlights.

Sally leaned across and told her how lovely it looked. ‘A bit more work in it than the usual stuff,' Sally added.

She was right of course. The exotic numbers she made were tiny compared to a full-size gown. Although Cathy's dress was off the shoulder and plunged deeply to reveal an admirable décolletage, it was still a major project compared to the bras and wispy G-strings she made for the exotic dancers and chorus girls.

‘She's considering asking me to design and make two or three more, though it all depends on a tour that's being planned and an appearance at the London Palladium. She's also hoping to get a television appearance.'

‘Good for her,' Sally whispered.

Their faces lit by the light from the stage, they stopped talking for the duration of the performance.
Once it was all over and the clapping had died down, the lights came up again.

‘Fancy another drink?' asked Sally.

‘On the house. How about . . .?'

Marcie looked to where Carla had been sitting. The bar stool was empty. Carla was nowhere to be seen.

‘Gone to the lav maybe,' said Sally.

‘I didn't see her go.'

For the rest of the night she looked for Carla but didn't see her. It wasn't usual for Carla to leave without saying goodbye, but there was always a first time.

She mentioned it to Sally when they caught up with each other after both had circulated, asking questions and generally being sociable – though listening and watching all the time.

Sally laughed. ‘It must have been something we said.'

‘Of course it wasn't.'

It wasn't until later on that she realised Sally had hit the nail on the head. It was something
she'd
said, and Carla had gone off to act upon it.

SAM KENDAL BELIEVED
in striking while the iron was hot and if Paddy Rafferty didn't toe the line he was likely to get burned – badly! Paddy was in need of a warning and Sam Kendal was the person to do it.

She'd given the order for Paddy to be apprehended and brought to her and here he was.

‘Enough!' Sam's voice.

Said goon took a breather and so did Paddy, though every breath was like swallowing razor blades, his back was that sore.

‘What's this all about, Sam?' His voice creaked and blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

Paddy Rafferty couldn't believe what was happening to him. His gloved hands were encapsulated in a vice and a goon with fists like steam shovels was pummelling his kidneys as though trying to beat them out of his belly.

‘Look, Sam. Ask your old man. I made a promise years ago that I wouldn't tread on his toes. And I've never done that, Sam. Honest I have not.'

The Irishman rushed his words and was panting with exertion. Sweat was dripping off his forehead
and onto the workbench on which the vice was situated. Why was she doing this? He just didn't get it.

Relaxing his arms a bit so they didn't ache so much, he moved his head so that his sweat dripped onto the floor, making penny-sized roundels on the dusty boards.

A pair of feet clad in black patent court shoes came into view. The stockings were a smoky-grey colour. He smelled her scent, all flowery and feminine just as female perfume should be.

The woman known as Sam Kendal ruled her husband's empire with an iron fist. By turning his head, he managed to look up at her with one fearful eye. She was standing with her arms folded. Her jaw was rock-solid firm and there was no smile on her face.

‘You taking the piss, Paddy?'

‘No!' he exclaimed, shaking his head vigorously. ‘I wouldn't do that, Sam. Honest I wouldn't.'

She lowered her face so it was level with his. ‘I'm angry with you, Paddy, but because you've been loyal in the past I'm going to let you off with a warning.'

‘I've always been loyal, Sam. Always!'

‘Until you decided to branch out on your own, Paddy.' She shook her head. Fine wrinkles creased the corners of her heavenly blue eyes, eyes that could be as bright as cornflowers or as cold as steel. ‘Let's
get this straight, Paddy. You're the bloke who brings the labour over from Ireland. OK, you can dabble in a bit of property yourself when the occasion arises and when I give permission, but nobody gave you leave to muscle in on the Blue Genie. That's our territory, Paddy. I was not consulted!'

The word ‘I' was shouted into his ear thus leaving him in no doubt that she meant what she said.

‘I'm sorry.'

‘You will be!'

Paddy gritted his teeth. He thought he'd been so careful cultivating the friendship of certain city politicians. It was so easy really. Give them a good night out when the champagne flowed and the girls were willing and they were putty in his hands – or rather putty in the hands of Sam Kendal and the company she ran for her husband. Sam Kendal was right about that. He'd acted underhand, chancing his luck by himself instead of referring the takeover to the Kendals.

On paper the company was totally legitimate, but the Kendals were ruthless. The respectable veneer hid a multitude of more sinful sidelines. And Sam Kendal ran it all.

‘What about the Blue Genie, Paddy?'

He fancied her tone of voice had changed and not for the better. There was a more incisive, icier tone to the rounded vowels. She always sounded a bit
upper class, did Sam Kendal. Rumour had it she'd gone to public school – a bit like the one Princess Anne went to.

His sweat had begun to cool, but now it ran anew. ‘I wasn't just doing it for myself,' he blurted.

‘Liar!'

The fists pummelled into his back again. He groaned and spat blood on the floor.

Sam began pacing up and down and it unnerved him. ‘You made one big mistake, Paddy. The Blue Genie is already ours.'

She proclaimed the fact in a husky voice close to his ear. To all intents and purposes such a voice would turn most men on. Sam Kendal was seductive in looks and speech. In action she was ruthless and he didn't want any more of Sam Kendal's action. He'd made a mistake, a mistake that could lead to his death if he didn't cover his tracks.

‘I didn't know. Honest I didn't.'

He racked his brains as to why he hadn't been aware that the Kendals had an interest in the Blue Genie. He thought he'd done his research well. The joint was owned by Michael Jones. What connection did Sam Kendal have with him? He couldn't for the life of him work that one out.

The problem was that he'd set Michael up with that Linda Bell bird. It was the sort of thing the Kendals would do themselves, so no big deal. But, to
have set up someone outside the Kendal circle was one thing; to set up one of their own was something else. He couldn't admit to what he'd done. He daren't admit what he'd done or heads – his head in particular – would roll.

The thing was he still couldn't work out the connection between Michael Jones and Sam Kendal. Were they lovers? It wouldn't surprise him, though Michael did have a lovely little wife.

‘No more visits to the Blue Genie,' Sam Kendal was saying. ‘If I hear you've been pushing your weight around down there I'll cut your balls off and stuff them in your gloves for you to fondle at your leisure. Have you got that?'

He nodded so vigorously that his head seemed in danger of falling off.

‘Get out of here.' The husky voice had changed to a growl.

Paddy was all apologies and humility. If he were to stay alive he had to be. It seemed that Sam Kendal was unaware of him setting up Michael Jones for murder. Normally he might have boasted of what he'd done and the Kendals would have gained from it. But somehow he felt that she wouldn't be pleased and he didn't know why. It could be that when she did find out he would be mincemeat. It struck him that he had two options: either head for a faraway place where they couldn't reach him – Buenos Aires
might be a good bet – or put somebody else in the frame. It would have to be Baxter.

For her part, Sam Kendal had another important matter to deal with. Carla had phoned outlining a problem Marcie was having to face and it was something she could do something about.

She called in the big bruiser who had stuffed Rafferty's head in the vice.

‘How do you feel about uniforms, Neil?'

Neil had a slow, sexy smile that she liked a lot. ‘Depends who's wearing it – if you get my drift.'

‘Cheeky sod.'

She knew he fancied her and wasn't averse to coupling up with him once Leo was dead and buried. But not yet. She'd never been unfaithful to Leo and she wasn't about to start now.

‘Not me or you,' she returned with a grin. ‘A prison officer. A screw.'

DAVID MORGAN KNEW
that Marcie Jones would have to phone. He'd sensed her reluctance of course, but he'd laid it on the line: play ball with me and I'll ensure your old man's left alone.

With his eyes on the clock and a whisky or two inside him, he sat ruminating on the pleasure he'd got from her phone call.

‘So when are you coming round?' he'd asked her, a smirk running from ear to ear.