Tara

  She had to laugh, he was totally immersed in the song. Once it had finished she switched the radio off.

  'Will you listen to me?'

  'Come on then, what is it? More money?'

  'The sales are down, Josh,' she said quietly. 'We're selling more Indian junk because that's just about all we've got.'

  'The sales aren't down! Whoever told you that?' He opened his eyes wide and once again she saw only pupils and little of the iris.

  'Because I stand in the shop from time to time and watch, like you should do,' she said. She was sick of the smell of joss-sticks, of hearing 'All You Need is Love' on tapes. "The only time you spend in there is when you're trying to get a girl in the stockroom.'

  'Well, I've got other business interests, too,' he said airily.

  She didn't know if this was true, but it didn't concern her anyway.

  'Real customers are getting more discriminating. I don't mean the hippy-trippy ones who wander in for a new cheesecloth smock, but the people with money,' she said. 'I see them every day examining hems and linings. Over in Kensington Market girls much like me are opening up stalls selling wonderful clothes and we're losing trade to them. If you don't pull the business back together pretty sharply, you won't have one much longer.'

  'You sound just like my dad.' He laughed, but he was touched that she cared so much. 'Stop worrying, Tara. Be cool.'

  Despite her anxiety that Josh was losing his grip, she found him easier to work for than ever before. He wouldn't go along with her ideas about revamping the shops and their image, but he did let her have her own way about designs as long as they could be produced cheaply. He often came to the workroom late in the afternoon to discuss something with her, and if she wasn't rushing home to see Harry it sometimes went on over a drink or a pizza.

  The first time he asked her to go with him to a trade fair in Birmingham, she was hesitant. Not because she didn't want to go, but because Harry might misconstrue the relationship.

  She adored Harry, but in his world she was just a pretty decoration, his 'bird' as one of his henchmen once called her. No-one at the Top Cat Club cared about what she did. The trade fair gave her wider vision, she met people who were passionately interested in the same things as her, and the ambitions she'd had before she started her affair with Harry came back more strongly than before.

  The novelty of going to the club had long since worn off. Harry was always too busy to sit with her for long, and she had little in common with his cronies. It was better to see him away from the club, two or three hours before it opened, on his night off and Sundays. Their romance was one of snatched moments, full of high passion but with never enough time to share one another's interests, friends or even to really talk.

  She needed a life of her own. When Josh asked her to go with him to mills and factories instead of staying in the workroom all day, she went, seeing it purely as a way of furthering her knowledge about the industry.

  It was a night away in Paris that sparked the row, and all at once her grandmother's observations about Harry seemed a great deal less ridiculous.

  Josh always went to see the Paris collections. He claimed he learned nothing from them, that it was all hype and the glorification of a few designers who made clothes only for the super-rich. But he thought it was time Tara experienced it, too.

  Everything was totally above board. They left Heathrow at the crack of dawn on a Thursday morning and were back on Friday night. They had separate rooms in the hotel and there was no time for romantic boat rides along the Seine or whatever else Harry thought they might have been up to. But she was stimulated by what she'd seen. It was as if a curtain was pulled back to reveal a world of beautiful people, with exotic lifestyles. She wanted to design for them, not for little office girls with ten pounds to spend.

  Best of all though, Josh seemed to be coming round to her way of thinking. On the plane home he said he was going to look into his finances with a view to a complete update.

  Josh dropped her off in his taxi just after ten. Tara limped up the steps of the house; her feet hurt, she was exhausted, hot and sticky.

  To her surprise Harry was sitting in her flat. He had his own key so he could come in late at night without disturbing anyone, but he rarely came round without phoning.

  'Hello.' She grinned weakly as she flung her overnight case down. 'I didn't expect to see you!'

  He didn't jump up from the settee to kiss her, there was no bright smile which said he'd missed her, no concern at her looking tired. Instead he stared at her slinky velvet maxi dress with a split up to her thigh, and it was obvious he disapproved.

  'How come Josh didn't come in for a nightcap? Did he spot my car?'

  Tara flopped down in an armchair, took off her shoes and massaged her toes. She didn't like Harry's tone.

  'Neither of us were looking for your car,' she said, still rubbing her feet. 'We were both too tired to think about anything other than going to bed.'

  Harry looked closely at Tara. It was some time since he'd seen her dressed up and she looked like a new girl. She wore her hair up, loose tendrils escaping at the neck. It made her seem older, more sophisticated. The combination of those alluring amber eyes and her wide pouting mouth was enough to make any man catch his breath. In the last couple of years she'd gained a little weight, just enough to make her more curvy. Her brown velvet dress wasn't tight but it clung to her body; he could see her hipbones slightly protruding, the cleft in her buttocks and her breasts jiggled as she moved. In that second he would gladly have locked her up so no man could look at her.

  'You've been hitting the high spots, then?'

  Tara looked up. Harry was in his dinner jacket and bow-tie ready for the club, his hair tied back in a pony-tail, and for a second she had a flash of one of his haughtier customers, the Hon Nigel Fitz-Makepeace, a man Harry called 'A prat of the first water'.

  'You sound like Nigel the Prat,' she giggled. 'Hitting the high spots indeed!'

  'Don't you take the piss out of me!' Harry jumped up and reached her in two big strides.

  She thought he was going to hit her and involuntarily drew back, protecting her head with her arm.

  'You must have done something to make you look so guilty.' He caught hold of her arm and twisted it slightly away from her face. 'I wasn't going to hit you.'

  'I was neither taking the piss nor looking guilty,' she snapped back at him. 'And wouldn't anyone flinch when a man of your size and strength charges at them like a wild boar?'

  'You've been up to something,' he insisted. "That dress is hardly the thing to wear on a plane!'

  As she moved to protect herself, she had revealed a flash of thigh. She looked down and swiftly covered it.

  'I'm a fashion designer,' she said through clenched teeth. 'Maxi dresses are high fashion everywhere other than the Top Cat Club and, if you must know, we spent most of the time rushing about, talking to people about really thrilling things like buttons, accessories and industrial machines.'

  'Did you sleep with Josh?' he asked, his voice as cold as his eyes.

  'If you have to ask me that I suggest you fuck off now.' She tilted up her chin, refusing to be browbeaten by him. 'Would I tell you I was going to Paris with him, share a cab back here and not invite him in, if I had slept with him?'

  'I don't know you any more,' he said, eyes narrowed. 'You've changed. Once you lived for me popping in to see you, now I've got to make an appointment because you're always gadding about with Josh!'

  'I've got a job I care about.' She wriggled to the edge of the settee because she felt intimidated by him standing over her. 'All I'm doing with Josh is learning more about the fashion industry. I'm sorry I wasn't waiting stark naked in the bed for when you wanted to come and give me one. How terrible of me!'

  She made to get up, but he pushed her back down. His face was mean-looking and there was a dangerous glint in his eyes.

  'I didn't come round here for a screw. I could get that from one of my barmaids i
f that's all I wanted. I had something to talk to you about, but I'll find someone else to share that with, too.'

  'You make me sick,' she shouted, eyes flashing with anger. 'I've had to make a life of my own because you're always stuck in that bloody club with your gamblers and villains. You could have asked me what Paris was like, about the designers I've met, show an interest in me for once. But no, all you think about is you.'

  He turned on his heel and made for the door. Not another word, or even a look back. She heard the door slam, his feet on the stairs, then the outer door close behind him. A few seconds later his car engine roared into life.

  Tears didn't come, she was too angry for that. She didn't even go to the window. Instead she shook out her hair and stormed off to have a shower.

  Later, in bed, her mind turned to the many warnings her mother and gran had given her. Harry had come close to hitting her, even though he would probably deny it. Was this what life would be like with him?

  'Our life together just revolves round sex,' she whispered sadly, reaching out to turn off the lamp/There's no time for anything else, not talking, seeing friends or having fun together. You don't want a woman with a career and a mind of her own, Harry, you. want an empty-headed doll who adores you.'

  The tears came then, because she sensed this was the end of the line for them, and at its best it had been so beautiful.

  Chapter 30

  Harry wiped a tear from his cheek as he drove away down Pembridge Road towards Notting Hill Gate. It was a warm night and people were everywhere coming out of pubs and restaurants, looking in shop windows and just wandering about. A gang of freaks with long hair, bright coloured loons and flowing shirts stood at the corner by the Tube, chatting. He stopped at a zebra crossing for three girls in long dresses to cross. One waved at him and blew him a kiss. Any other time Harry would've blown one back, but he was too miserable for that.

  He was angry with Tara, and even more angry that he'd got himself into this jam.

  The goals he had two years ago no longer applied. He didn't want a club, he didn't even want to be in London. Tara was the only thing in his life he really cared deeply about and now it looked as if she was growing tired of him.

  He put his Abbey Road tape on. 'Here Comes the Sun' usually made him feel better, but as the music filled his car it just made him feel more depressed. Summer was on its way, he and Tara should be visiting her mother, walking in the parks or going to the seaside, not going off in two different directions.

  Everyone assumed it was so exciting having a club like his. Drinking with friends every night, making a heap of money at the same time, being in control dressed up like a damned penguin. They never saw behind the scenes, the workload of ordering, doing the books, taking on staff and training them, watching for dishonesty, discovering his toilets trashed by filthy mindless animals, and even having to clean them himself because his staff turned tail and ran.

  What was he going to do? There was someone out there really trying to screw him up, and the worst of it was they were succeeding!

  It had been stupid, with hindsight, to burn the files. But after Mabel was killed he panicked. The police kept turning up at the club with questions and more questions and he was afraid they might come one day with a warrant and find the lot. Now if he wanted to go and spill the beans about that Wainwright he had nothing to back it up with. Besides, how could he tell them everything without naming Tara?

  Then there was this undercurrent at the club, something heavy that he couldn't quite put his finger on. As if some of them knew something was about to happen and were afraid to admit it in case they got it too.

  Sometimes he wished he had taken Josh's advice and made it a club for youngsters. He felt old and in a time warp. The Top Cat Club was stuck back in the Fifties. The men were all booted and suited with short Brylcreamed hair; even a coloured shirt made you look suspect. Men with scarred faces drank intently at the bar, concerned only with creating a hard image. Their birds were usually dim-witted, dancing together round their handbags till they were so pissed they had to be shoved in a taxi. He'd tried to update the music, but all they wanted was Matt Monroe and Frank Sinatra. When did he last have an intelligent conversation with anyone?

  Keeping Tara away from the club was a precaution he felt he had to take – he didn't want her involved with whatever was happening there. But it was miserable. He loved to have her beside him, to show her off. He couldn't blame her for thinking he only went round to her flat for a quickie, it often happened after a couple of kisses and then he felt ashamed when he left.

  That's probably why he'd been so stupid and tactless tonight. Why hadn't he just cuddled her, made her a cup of tea, asked her about Paris then told her that he was selling the club? Was he trying to send her off into Josh's bloody arms?

  Still, it looked as if the sale would go through, even if he didn't really like the man. Funny how things turned out. Duke had been there when he won the club. He'd put up money to get it off the ground, and in the two years he'd not only got his stake back, but made a bob or two at the tables. Now he wanted to buy the place and, as far as Harry was concerned, he was welcome to it. He was hard-nosed enough to make a fortune out of the punters, and good luck to him!

  After all this time Harry still knew little more about him than he had on the night of the poker game. He only turned up when there were big stakes; win or lose he kept his cool. But he was doing everything right, coming in night after night, helping out, meeting the members, and the solicitors said he had the finance organised.

  Another two or three weeks and contracts would be exchanged. Harry would have enough cash to buy Tara her own shop and bid for that row of derelict houses in Islington. Building work was what he really liked – he'd never been happier than when he was gutting and rebuilding the club. It was clean money, too, restoring houses for people to live in, not watching mugs lose their shirt at cards.

  Brooding about Tara had distracted him from the journey, and it was only when he turned into the dimly lit dockland streets that he realised he'd been driving on automatic pilot. Ahead he saw a flashing red light and two policemen standing in the road. He slowed down, opened his window and then stopped. The policemen were bending towards something by their car and one beckoned to him. Harry got out.

  'Got a problem?' he called out.

  He didn't see the person who jumped him, just heard a soft, light step behind him and then felt the crack on the back of his neck. The last thing he saw before hitting the ground was that they weren't police, just men in dark overalls.

  Harry was aware of being in a van, of a thin blanket beneath him and a smell of petrol, even before he felt the rope and the blindfold. The pain in his neck reminded him what had happened and suggested he shouldn't let on to his captors that he'd come round.

  He was on his side, wedged in by something behind his back. Although his hands were tied, he could reach it with his fingers and it appeared to be a rough wooden crate. His ankles were tied together, too, and he had pins and needles in his arms from lying in one position.

  He could remember playing a game on the bomb-sites when he was a kid; they'd take it in turn to blindfold each other, then make noises and the captive had to guess where and who each one was. It was time to play it again.

  There were three, possibly four men in the van. He could tell by the stuffy atmosphere, the number of times a lighter flicked on and several different body smells. One was sitting next to where he lay, it was his trousers that smelled of petrol and he could feel the heat from him. The others were in the front seat. Only two of the men were talking, but somehow he sensed a silent third. He was certain he'd never heard either of them before. Their voices were London but not Cockney, more towards Essex. They weren't talking about him, just about drag-racing.

  'No more talking,' a third voice spoke. 'He'll be awake any minute if he isn't already. Check him.'

  He was right, there were three in the front, and he'd heard that voice somewh
ere before. It was Cockney, but ironed out somehow, as if the man had lived somewhere else for some years.

  Rough hands were checking him over, a light shone on his face and the man's breath smelled of onions.

  'Still out, guv!'

  He didn't know that voice either, though it sounded more local than the other two. Only the deeper, older one rang a faint bell. But there was no further talking after that, just taps, a slight rush of air as Harry imagined one waving his hands as a signal, an occasional whispered word.

  'Clever fuckers,' he thought, smiling behind his blindfold. 'Go on, try and frighten me to death. I'll just play doggo and wait for you to give the game away.'

  It was painful lying on his side, every bump in the road jarred his hip and a cramp in the arm beneath him made him want to groan.

  What had they done with his car? What message had they got at the club? How long would it be before anyone would realise he was missing? Needles would worry immediately unless he was told something plausible. Tony would worry less, but both would take charge and carry on as normal if the story told to them was convincing enough.

  Harry thought hard. His father wasn't likely to raise the alarm, they sometimes didn't speak to one another for a week at a time. That left Tara! Once, two or three days' absence would have been enough for her to panic, but recently they hadn't seen each other more than once a week. And after the way he'd stomped off tonight, well, she'd be expecting him to apologise. When he didn't, she'd assume he just didn't care.

  Someone at the club had to be in on this. Dennis was the most likely candidate, as gaming-room manager he knew everything that went on and he was intelligent enough to take command. Recently his attitude had changed slightly, too, a trace of sullenness, rarely chatting or wanting to stay behind for a drink. What could they want from him? Kidnapping was a possibility, but unlikely. Some new firm starting up who wanted to frighten the pants off him so the word would get out about them? Did someone believe he'd grassed? Or was it straight revenge?