Tara

'All I'm saying is, there are rumours.' The barman looked over his shoulder to check no-one was listening.

  'Do you know where he lives?'

  The barman shook his head. 'Must be somewhere close, he's in most nights.'

  Harry changed the subject. He didn't want Wain-wright warned someone had been asking about him.

  The rain had stopped when he came out of the pub and the sun was shining again, making the pavements steam. He quickly checked his map, then drove round to Godolphin Road, where Simon had lived four years ago.

  A girl was sitting on the wall outside the house. From a distance she looked pretty, but as Harry pulled up she looked at him with dead eyes and he realised she was on drugs.

  'Do you live here?' he asked.

  'Why?' She looked up at him but there was no real curiosity in her eyes. 'What's it to you? Charging rent for the wall?'

  'No, love.' He noticed her neck was filthy and a sour smell was wafting from her. 'Just wondered, because I wanted to ask who lives on the top floor.'

  'Noel,' she muttered.

  'Noel who?'

  'I don't know his fuckin' other name,' she said, giving him a baleful stare. 'He's just a bloke.'

  Harry pulled a pound note from his pocket and waved it at her.

  'Did you know a couple of blokes who lived there, one was called Simon, a big blond guy, the other was Quentin?'

  She looked at the note and then at him. 'You queer?'

  Harry shook his head and smiled.

  'I knew Quentin, he was a dancer,' she volunteered. 'He left about a year ago. I didn't know the other one, except by sight.'

  Harry gave her the pound. "Thanks, love.'

  So Wainwright had moved on. Harry wasn't surprised, but it had been worth a try.

  As he drove back to the club Harry banged on the steering wheel in frustration. In the old days he would've turned up at that pub tonight mob-handed and torn it apart till he found Wainwright. But turning straight meant he couldn't do that. He hated the idea that Josh was now privy to a bit of Tara's past. Even more than that, he hated to see the fear and shame in her eyes which just a few hours earlier had been lit up with happiness.

  At quarter to ten Harry walked back into the Leprechaun. It was so packed now he could barely see across the bar and at the far end four ageing Teddy boys were playing Fifties' rock and roll.

  The barman with the diseased nose wasn't working, instead there was a woman in her forties who he suspected was the landlady, and two young barmaids. The barmaids were both very ordinary, with droopy long hair, short skirts and footballer's legs, but the landlady was a bit of a sensation – shoulder-length red hair, a figure like Diana Dors and vivid blue eyes that sparkled as if she enjoyed every moment of her life.

  Harry made no effort to be noticed at the bar because he wanted to study her. Instinct told him she wasn't a tart, just a naturally sexy lady, but he could understand it if her customers were confused. Big bouncing breasts almost popped out of her low-cut black lace dress, and her small waist was clinched with a wide belt studded with imitation rubies and emeralds.

  'What would you like?' She swept down the bar to serve him, bringing with her a cloud of the heady Madame Rochas perfume Queenie always wore.

  'You,' he said, giving her one of his special grins. 'But until you're free, a pint of Bass.'

  She laughed and those big soft breasts quivered.

  'I haven't seen you in before,' she said, looking straight into his eyes without any pretence as she pulled his pint. 'I'd remember someone as tasty as you!'

  'I bet you say that to all the blokes.' Harry laughed.

  'Only the pretty ones.' She smiled, showing perfect white teeth. 'I'm Myra, the landlady.'

  A sudden influx of customers prevented Harry from talking to her and he got shoved further and further away from the bar. Then the band paused for a drink and the whole bar seemed to have the same idea. He was trapped between a group of girls on a hen night and three very drunk Irishmen whenhe saw Simon Wain-wright come in.

  Age hadn't hurt him. If anything he was better looking now than in his picture. In fact Harry would have to agree that Wainwright could have been a film star. It was no wonder Tara fell for him.

  Harry pushed his way through the crowd up to the far end of the bar, so he could watch Wainwright, and see how close he and Myra were. It was quite incredible to watch how she lit up when she spotted him – it was as if the Blackpool illuminations had been switched on.

  Harry was too far away to hear the conversation, but he saw Wainwright take her hand and lift it to his lips, lightly kissing each finger-tip. She gave him a double gin and tonic but no money changed hands and even when she went to serve other customers her eyes constantly strayed back to him.

  It was nearly eleven when Harry beckoned to her to give him another drink. Although the bar was even more crowded, fewer drinks were being served now as it approached the end of the evening.

  'Another Bass?' she asked.

  'Yes, please.' Harry took a chance and leaned over the bar. 'I was going to ask you out for a late drink somewhere, but I see you're already spoken for!'

  She coloured, and for a moment looked flustered.

  'It's an on-off thing,' she said, glancing over her shoulder. 'I'm not sure how things stand tonight.'

  Harry knew exactly what that meant; after all he'd played that game with women hundreds of times. But he could also see she was tempted just this once to stand the man up.

  'I could pop back at twelve to see if you're free,' he suggested.

  'OK.' She pointed over to the small door by the side of the bar. 'I'll leave that one open if I'm alone.'

  She waved away the money for his drink and moved to ring the bell for last orders.

  Myra was talking to Wainwright again; she gave him another drink and he downed it in one. He took her hand again, but this time he pressed the palm to his lips and appeared to be trying to appease her about something.

  The group played their last number, 'Summertime Blues', and people started to leave, first in ones and twos, but faster as the barmaids came round collecting glasses.

  Myra looked a little cross now, while Wainwright leaned on the bar talking earnestly, still holding her hand in his. Suddenly he straightened up, leaned across and kissed her on the lips, then left without a backward glance.

  Harry had to follow him quickly, but he blew a kiss to Myra, tapped his watch to say he'd be back and left by another door.

  It was raining again, a light drizzle which made visibility more difficult. Harry turned up the collar of his suit jacket and wished he'd had the sense to wear a mac.

  When Wainwright crossed the Uxbridge Road, walking towards Shepherd's Bush, Harry didn't follow him immediately. But as he turned off into Loftus Road there was no alternative. Keeping well back he watched every move the man made, relieved that he seemed to be going home rather than off to a club or restaurant.

  Finally he stopped, opened the gate of a terraced house which was in darkness, and then the front door. Harry waited a few houses down. He saw the light go on in the hall, another further back in the house, then one on the stairs. He moved closer. The curtains in the front room were open, and though the room was in darkness there was enough light from the hall to make out a very average sitting room with a three-piece suite and television. He heard the lavatory flush upstairs and saw Wainwright come back down the stairs and go to the room at the back.

  It was all Harry needed. The man was alone in the house, he was sure of that. The lock on the front door would be easy to pick later on, but for now he was going back to Myra.

  The door was open as she'd promised, and Harry slipped through without making a sound. She was standing behind the bar wiping down the optics with her back to him.

  'Boo!'

  'Oh, my goodness!' she exclaimed, jumping a couple of inches. 'I nearly had heart failure.'

  Harry sat down on a stool. There was no doubt she was pleased to see him.

  'I
only came back to say hello, really,' he said. 'I don't like to move in on a hot romance.'

  She had put more lipstick on while he was gone and combed the lacquer out of her flaming red hair.

  'It was hot, but it's cooled.' She sighed deeply. 'I suppose if I had any sense I'd tell him to sod off, he just uses me now. But you don't want to hear this, do you? Let me get you a drink? Is that jacket wet? You didn't tell me your name!'

  'Mike. I'll have a scotch, please, and my jacket's only damp.' Harry smiled at her warmly. 'He's a good-looking chap. He looked pretty keen on you from where I was standing.'

  Myra pushed the glass up on to the optic and made it a double. She put it down on the bar and got herself one, too.

  'I thought I understood most men,' she said, coming round the bar and getting up on the stool beside him. 'But he has me puzzled. He seems to be keen, but there's a coldness in him. He wants me to do something for him at the moment and I've got a feeling the moment it's over I won't see him again.'

  'What is it? Putting a bomb in the Midland Bank, topping his wife?'

  'No, nothing like that, nothing dangerous or even illegal. I've only got to give someone an envelope, that's all.'

  'What's in it? Why doesn't he post it?' Harry slapped on the innocent, interested face he'd perfected in school.

  'He said it was some papers. Something to do with his father's estate. He'll only hand them over when he gets back the money he's owed.'

  'Funny way to go about it.' Harry raised one eyebrow.

  'That's what I said.' Myra smiled. 'I thought perhaps he was blackmailing someone at first, but he just laughed. He said they really ought to do this through a lawyer, but that's so expensive, and anyway if the taxman finds out about this money he'll have to hand half of it over.'

  'I'd look at the papers if it was me,' Harry said, putting one hand over hers. 'I'd steam open the envelope and look inside just in case.'

  'I couldn't, it would be a betrayal of trust,' she said, but she looked over by the till as she spoke.

  'He might be betraying your trust.' Harry squeezed her hand. 'Let me look? I'll tell you if they're kosher or not!'

  She shook her head. 'No, Mike. I've always tried to be straight with people. I tell them what I really think, I don't lie. That's why I've told you the truth about Simon. I like you, too, but I want you to get it straight in your head about how things are for me.'

  'You love him?'

  She took a deep breath. 'Yes, I do. I never wanted any man so much, if you want to know the truth. In my heart I know it's not right, but I can't help myself.' She blushed and giggled.

  Harry really did like Myra, even if she was a good fifteen years older than him. He felt more than a little guilty he was fooling her, but somehow he had to get behind that bar to hunt for the envelope.

  They had another drink and Myra told him several funny stories about her customers, about her ex-husband who was a boxer, and about her annual holiday in Spain with her sister.

  'Come on up to my flat?' she suggested. 'I don't know why we're sitting here, it's not a bit comfy.'

  She was already getting up, smoothing her dress down over her hips, and she had lust in her eyes. Harry took a chance, following her to the door that led to her flat, then suddenly he stopped.

  'That door I came in by,' he said. 'Hadn't I better lock it?'

  'Oh, dear.' She stopped in the doorway. 'I'd forgotten!'

  'Don't worry,' Harry said. 'Go on in, I'll do it and visit the gents at the same time.'

  He could hear her feet climbing the stairs and he felt a stab of pity. She was lonely, wanted loving, and she deserved more.

  Slipping behind the bar, he saw a brown envelope sticking out next to the till and pulled it out. 'Patrick Mulligan' was written on it and he could feel something narrow, like a strip of negatives between sheets of paper. Sliding it into his inside pocket he nipped back round the bar and over towards the door, but as he put his hand on it, guilt overcame him.

  'I can't stay, Myra,' he said as he found her in her sitting room. 'I want to, but I can't.'

  She looked much younger up here, in the feminine pink room with its soft table lamps.

  'Why, Mike? Are you married and just remembered?'

  "That's about it.' He smiled. "The trouble with you is you're too nice, Myra. It started out me just wanting a bit of excitement. But I can't do it now.'

  'You mean you can't fuck me cheerfully then bugger off?' She had a half smile on her lips but sadness in her eyes.

  'I could fuck you cheerfully. I just don't know if I could bugger off afterwards,' Harry said. 'I think I should just go now.'

  'At least you make a girl feel good about herself,' she said softly, coming over and reaching up to kiss his cheek.

  He held her face in his hands for a moment. 'You're a queen, Myra.' He kissed her lips very gently. 'Don't think too harshly of me.'

  The rain was coming down heavily as he ran to his car. He jumped in and headed towards Loftus Road. He drove right past number 43. It was in darkness now, the curtains in the front bedroom pulled across.

  It was half past one. The street was deserted, with only the odd light here and there to show some people were still awake. By the light of the dashboard he opened the envelope. There were what looked like two sets of prints and the negatives, wrapped in plain paper. He pushed them back in hastily, resisting the temptation to look at them, and shoved them into the glove compartment. It was awkward changing in the car and he had to keep looking round to make sure no-one was coming. Off with the suit, shirt and tie, on with a pair of jeans, dark T-shirt and plimsolls.

  The thin surgical gloves were next, a length of rope round his shoulders, knife tucked into his sock and the strip of plastic in his hands. One more look round to make sure he wasn't observed then out, leaving the keys in the ignition in case he needed to get away fast.

  The front door opened effortlessly. Harry slid in, closing it silently behind him, then crept towards the stairs in the darkness.

  He could sense the character of the house, even though he couldn't see it. Thin, cheap carpet on the stairs, textured wallpaper painted over. It smelt musty, of stale cooking and infrequent cleaning.

  At the top of the stairs was a post, ahead a landing and to his right another few steps going up again. He took the steps. Ahead the bedroom door was open and he could see the glow of a street light shining through the curtain and hear a gentle snore. He knew exactly what he was going to do. The only problem would be not killing him once he got his hands round the pervert's neck.

  He paused by the side of the bed, looking down at Wainwright and assessing the best way to grab him. His chest was bare, covered only by a sheet and blanket up to his waist. He lay on his back, head turned slightly to one side.

  Silently he took up his position at the side of the bed, drew out his knife, and held it at Wainwright's throat. His other hand went down to the pillow where golden hair spread out. He gathered it up gently in his fist, then, as he felt himself in control, yanked it tightly.

  'Wake up, you bastard,' he said softly. 'Wake up!'

  Chapter 26

  Wainwright opened his eyes and his body bucked violently.

  'Don't fuckin' move,' Harry hissed, 'or shout, because this is a knife I've got at your throat.'

  'What is this?' Wainwright's voice was just a squeak of terror. 'I haven't got any money.'

  'It isn't money I'm after,' Harry snarled. 'It's revenge. Turn over, gently now in case this knife slips.'

  'I don't understand,' he whined, but did as directed. 'Who are you?'

  'Someone who doesn't like nonces.' Harry put one knee on the edge of the bed and got a better grip on the man's hair before putting his knife down. 'It's what you've attempted to do to my friends I'm concerned about. Now put your hands behind your back and clasp them together!'

  Five minutes later Harry had Wainwright bound hand and foot.

  'That's better.' He rolled Wainwright on to his side and turned o
n the bedside light.

  It was the sort of room Harry had seen dozens of times before, cheaply furnished and battered by previous tenants. A scuffed and dusty dressing table stood in front of the windows, curtains barely covered the window. Brown patterned lino lay on the floor and yellow rose wallpaper was peeling off in one corner.

  Harry sat down on the bed. 'This room ain't much to boast about.' He picked up his knife again and flicked it against his finger. Wainwright's brown eyes bulged with terror and he tried to wriggle back from him. 'Now you can list all your victims to me!'

  'What victims? I don't know what you mean!'

  'Oh, but you do.' Harry put the tip of the blade in Wainwright's nostril. 'Have you ever seen anyone with their nose cut open? It's not a pretty sight,' he said casually. 'Just be sensible now. I've got all night, you see, and I want to know about everyone you've blackmailed.'

  Wainwright acted innocent, insisting he'd never blackmailed anyone. Harry waited patiently while the man spouted off about mistaken identity and if he didn't untie him now he had friends in high places who would see him locked up for years.

  'You must think I'm as stupid as you.' Harry smirked. 'I've given you a chance to tell me without any rough stuff, but it seems to me that's the only thing you'll understand.'

  He put the edge of the blade back in Wainwright's nostril and with a quick flick of his wrist he cut it. Not far, half an inch at most, but enough blood gushed on to the pillow to convince Wainwright his whole nose had been cut off. He cried then, great blubbering tears and Harry looked down on him with contempt as blood, tears and mucus mingled and ran over his lips.

  'Tell me,' Harry ordered. 'Come on, the works, or I do the other one, too.'

  It all came out then, a torrent of almost incoherent babble. But Harry understood enough to know there was a politician guilty of procuring a young boy, the wife of a rich man who'd had an affair with him. A policeman who was homosexual and a judge who'd had sex with two under-age girls, but still Wainwright didn't mention Tara.

  'You don't expect me to believe that's all?' Harry threatened him with the knife again.

  'It is,' Wainwright sobbed. 'I've told you everything.'