It was after seven and Frank hadn’t seen or heard Fifi come in from work yet. She’d been behaving a bit oddly too; she hadn’t gone out once at the weekend, and last night when he spoke to her about John Bolton, she barely responded.
‘Maybe they’re having a bad time,’ he thought, going back into his kitchen to finish clearing up.
He was watching ‘Z’ Cars later, when there was a knock on his living-room door. ‘Come in,’ he called out, knowing it was Dan by the sound of his footsteps on the hall lino.
‘Sorry to disturb you, Frank,’ Dan said, putting his head around the door. ‘Fifi’s not back yet. Did she tell you if she was going somewhere this evening?’
‘No, she didn’t,’ Frank said. ‘Come in, son, and shut the door. Didn’t she leave you anything for your tea?’
‘I’m not worried about that,’ Dan said, coming in hesitantly. ‘I just expected her to be here, that’s all.’
Frank could see the lad was troubled. His eyes were dull and he had a slump to his shoulders. ‘You two had a row?’ Frank asked, seeing no point in being anything but direct.
Dan nodded miserably. ‘I walked out on Saturday,’ he admitted. ‘I was so mad with her it seemed the only thing to do. I got a letter from her this morning at the site though, saying she wanted to make it up. But then I expect you know all this?’
Frank was deeply shocked. ‘No, I didn’t know. Fifi hasn’t said a word to me,’ he said. ‘But it explains why everything was so quiet over the weekend. Now, don’t worry about her not being here, she probably didn’t expect you to come round immediately. She likely went off for a coffee and a chat after work with one of the office girls. Women do that when they’re upset.’
‘But she might have known I’d come straight here after I got the letter,’ Dan said, his voice cracking as if struggling with his emotions.
Frank sensed Dan was close to breaking down. He looked as if he hadn’t eaten or slept in days, so he told him to sit down and poured him a brandy.
‘I’m going to make you something to eat,’ he said firmly. ‘You look all in, so you’d best have a bath and get into bed. She’ll be home soon, and as I remember with June, the best way to make up is with a cuddle.’
An hour later, Frank was back in his chair watching television. He’d made Dan a quick meal of tinned stewed steak, peas and boiled potatoes, then packed him off for a bath. But it was after nine now, and Fifi still wasn’t home. He couldn’t help but be a bit worried himself as Fifi had often said she didn’t like going out after dark without Dan. It also seemed unlikely that a coffee or cup of tea after work with someone from the office would turn into a night out.
Dan had told him what the row had been about, and said he had really thought Fifi would have a better life without him.
Frank had always been of the opinion that Fifi was like a fish out of water around here. Losing her baby, and then the trauma of Angela’s death, was enough to shake the most solid of marriages. But whatever Fifi’s parents thought of Dan, he was a decent, hardworking lad, and just to be with them both was to see how much they loved each other. So he gave Dan a little pep talk about all marriages having their sticky patches, and told him that he and June had blazing rows in the first couple of years they were married. ‘But it’s a mistake to walk out,’ he informed Dan. ‘You see, that leaves it all up in the air, even when you do come back and apologize. So the next time you have words, you drag all the old stuff out too. What you’ve got to do is talk it through properly. Fifi’s been through a lot lately, you have to make allowances for that.’
They moved on to talk about other things after that and Frank told Dan about John Bolton.
‘Jesus!’ Dan exclaimed, his face blanching. ‘That will have sent her right round the twist. No wonder she’s not in, she probably thinks they’ll be coming for her next.’
Frank had thought that was a daft remark at the time, but now he was sitting here on his own, his ears cocked for the sound of Fifi’s key in the door, it didn’t seem quite so ridiculous. People were saying that John had been killed because he knew too much about what went on at number 11. Fifi could have been spooked by that – after all, she was to be a key witness at Alfie’s trial. He wondered if he ought to go upstairs and suggest Dan ring her parents in Bristol to see if she’d gone there.
‘No, that’ll just alarm him,’ he murmured to himself. ‘And Fifi wouldn’t want her parents to know she and Dan were having problems.’
The darkness seemed to press in on Fifi as she lay huddled up under the blanket. She’d been doing all right until it got dark; after a spell of crying and feeling panicky and sorry for herself, she’d forced herself to climb the bars of the cage for some exercise. She felt quite proud of herself for having managed to swing hand over hand right along the top of the cage like a monkey, and she even did handstands to pass the time.
The exercise had made her more focused about all this too. She’d lain on the mattress, staring up at the rain on the barn window high above her, and carefully analysed everything she knew.
The police had never revealed any uncertainty about whether Alfie or Molly did actually kill Angela, that story had come from Johnny Milkins. Yet judging by the way they hauled in Frank and Stan, it looked as if they weren’t totally convinced that the killing was down to the Muckles. Yvette’s horror at Fifi playing amateur detective and her references to bad men suggested she knew something she hadn’t disclosed. And just the way she spoke of it hinted that she wasn’t talking only about the events of that last card game, but something which had been going on for some time.
The hideous idea that had formed in the back of Fifi’s mind after speaking to Yvette on Saturday hadn’t been fully erased, only put aside because of other events. But now John Bolton was dead, and she’d been abducted, it didn’t look so far-fetched.
Had Alfie been allowing his card-playing friends to have sex with his daughters?
She had always wondered what possible attraction there could be for anyone spending Friday nights at number 11. In the past there had been screams, fights, loud music and raucous laughter. Weren’t men who played cards for high stakes supposed to sit round a table in virtual silence?
Now she had aired that blackest of suggestions in her mind, the more she thought about it, the more certain she became.
Molly was a blackmailing slut, who neglected her children and allowed them to be physically abused. Alfie was completely amoral; rumour had it he’d given his older daughters children. She felt the couple were quite capable of selling or lending out their children for sex.
If it had been Alfie who raped and killed Angela, there would have been no reason for anyone else there on the Friday night to have been too frightened to come forward, for she wasn’t killed until Saturday morning. In fact the vast majority of men, whatever their walk of life, would put aside all hard-held taboos about not grassing up a mate at such a heinous crime.
Yet if Angela had been passed around, and perhaps the two other Muckle girls as well, all the men were in it together, and they would be linked by an unholy bond. The ones who sat by and let it happen were as guilty as those who took part. So they’d all stick together, no one daring to break ranks. Fifi felt certain this was what had happened, but perhaps Angela was so traumatized by it that they feared she’d tell. So Alfie or Molly smothered her.
Fifi could only guess what happened after she’d been to the police with her information. Maybe they went straight to John Bolton to demand the name of the man she’d seen him with. They could have gone to the council depot and asked questions there, but either way she had no doubt it must have got back to the man with the Jaguar.
It had always seemed odd that Alfie hadn’t named names, but was this only fear of reprisals? Perhaps he trusted the top man to find a way to get him off the hook for keeping his silence? Was that why Stan was put in the frame?
One thing was certain: if the Jaguar man was a villain, he was a powerful one if he could get John Bolton
killed at a click of his fingers. She wondered why he hadn’t got someone to make sure Alfie met with a fatal accident while in prison, as that would have been the surest way to keep his silence. And who would care? Everyone had always wanted him to be guilty and permanently out the way. But then there was Molly too! Fifi supposed two fatal accidents weren’t feasible.
Working it all out in her mind did help stop Fifi from dwelling on what was going to become of her. But once daylight began to fail, and the men still didn’t come back, she just fell apart.
It was so eerie and menacing in the dark. The wind was whistling around the barn, the rain drumming on the roof, and over and above that there were squeaking and rustling sounds which could only be mice or rats. She was so scared she felt she might die of fright.
Her stomach was rumbling with hunger, even though she doubted she could eat when she was so scared. She didn’t dare try to sleep in case a rat ran over her. What if the men never came back? Suppose she just got weaker and weaker from hunger and thirst until she died?
It was like something from a film or a book. But people who got locked up like that always found some means of escape. She’d been over every inch of the cage, however, and there was no way out except through the door, and that was padlocked. They hadn’t even left her a bucket as a toilet like they did in films; she’d had to pee in the corner of the cage and she couldn’t bear the thought of how it would be when she wanted to do something more than pee.
And she couldn’t wash or clean her teeth either. How could anyone do this to her?
Her anger became as strong as her fear. She hadn’t done anything bad to anyone; she only went in to the Muckles’ house because she was worried about Angela. She went to that depot to try to help Stan. Dan left her because she lied about what her mother said in that letter and she only did that to spare his feelings.
If she ever did get out of here, she’d make sure she looked the other way if she ever saw someone hurt or in trouble again.
Self-pity overwhelmed her, tears running down her face as she thought of the way her mother used to nag and criticize her. It was all Clara’s fault; if she hadn’t been so nasty about Dan they wouldn’t have rushed into getting married. They wouldn’t have ended up in Dale Street, and Fifi would never have known that there were people like the Muckles.
She blamed her father too. He should’ve stood up for her. All he did was bury his nose in the newspaper when her mother was ranting at her. He’d said he was sorry when she lost the baby, but those were just empty words if he didn’t back them up with actions. Obviously he didn’t love her and was glad she was out of his hair.
Then there were all those so-called friends back in Bristol! Most of them she’d known since she was a child; they’d come to play with her, stayed to tea, even spent the night. Granted, she’d neglected them when she met Dan, but they’d done the same thing to her at times when they’d met a new man.
Why did they come round to the flat drunk that night if it wasn’t just to sneer at her? Not a present, a card or even congratulations! Fine friends they turned out to be!
A sound outside stopped her silent angry tirade short. She could hear a car and see a chink of light through the barn door, which had to be headlights.
Was it the men bringing her food? Or someone else?
She screamed at the top of her voice, hoping it was the latter.
‘Shut that racket,’ a male voice boomed out in the darkness, and a torch was switched on.
Fifi blinked in the bright light, unable to make out who was behind it. But as it came closer, she saw that it was Del and Martin again, and they were supporting someone between them.
As they came closer, she realized by the clothes that the third person was a woman, and her head was slumped forward as if she were unconscious. ‘Isn’t one prisoner enough for you?’ Fifi said sarcastically. ‘What’s she done to you?’
‘Shut up or you’ll get nothing to eat,’ Del said sharply, and leaving Martin to hold the woman up, he came forward to unlock the cage door. ‘Get over to the other side,’ he ordered curtly, the beam of his torch sweeping round the cage.
As he turned to beckon Martin to bring the woman over, the torchlight passed across her face. Fifi was so stunned to see who it was that she remained rooted to the spot.
‘Yvette!’ she gasped.
‘Get back,’ Del warned her.
He came through the cage door backwards, holding Yvette under her arms and dragging her. Dumping her on the floor like a sack of potatoes, he left the cage immediately and locked the door behind him.
Fifi knelt down by Yvette. There was blood running down her cheek and she was out cold.
‘What have you done to her?’ she asked, looking to Martin who was standing watching her, the torch in his hand. ‘Yvette wouldn’t harm a fly, why hurt her?’
‘She’s not hurt, she’s just had some knockout stuff to stop her screaming. She’ll be fine when she wakes up,’ he replied, his tone almost apologetic. ‘Look, we brought you some food. And some more water too,’ he added, pulling a bag out of his coat pocket.
Fifi didn’t know whether she was more or less frightened by Yvette being brought here too. But she knew she had to hide her fear and try to make some sort of impact on these men.
‘Why have you brought her here?’ she asked more boldly than she felt. ‘Are you going to bring in everyone from Dale Street? If you do, you might need a bigger cage.’
She was disadvantaged in every way – they were in shadow, whereas she was caught full on in the beam of the torch, and she knew she must look awful with her face blotchy from crying, and her skirt and blouse all creased up. Under the circumstances her appearance wasn’t going to make a scrap of difference to how they treated her, but if she couldn’t look good, she was at least going to have a stab at making herself memorable.
‘Don’t try and be funny,’ Del said.
‘Will you think I’m trying to be funny if I ask for a bucket to pee in?’ she said with a wide, false smile.
‘I’ll get you one,’ he said, turning away and walking towards the door.
Fifi was burning to examine Yvette, but being left alone with Martin was a golden opportunity to try to work on him.
Moving over to the bars, she put her hands through them. ‘What did you bring me to eat?’ she asked. ‘I’m starving.’
He came right up to the bars. ‘Just a pork pie and a cake,’ he said with a rueful half-smile. ‘It was all we could get.’
Fifi waited until she’d got the bag in her hand. ‘Are you a child molester too?’ she asked, looking hard at him. She knew she had no proof that this was what his boss was, for the conclusions she’d come to were only guesswork. But she had to say something to rattle a response from him.
He certainly didn’t look or act like a would-be gangster. His light brown hair was cut into the fashionable college-boy style, and he was wearing what appeared to be a handknitted jumper under his donkey jacket. He might be brawny but she didn’t think he was a cruel man; his eyes looked far too gentle.
‘No, I’m bloody not,’ he retorted, looking startled and puzzled by such a question.
‘So why are you helping men who are?’ she asked.
‘Whatcha mean?’ he asked, and the way the torch swayed in his hand suggested he was unnerved by her question.
Fifi thought it was possible he knew nothing of the murder in Dale Street if he didn’t read newspapers or live in Kennington; none of the girls in the office had said anything about it. He could have been ordered to do this job without knowing what lay behind it.
‘A few weeks ago a seven-year-old girl was raped and killed in Dale Street. Both Yvette and I live there, it was me who found the little girl. So whoever ordered you to bring us here is up to their neck in it, or they wouldn’t want a couple of innocent women out the way. So you can’t blame me for thinking you must be a nonce, if you work for one.’
She didn’t know the word ‘nonce’ until Angela died. But
since then she had heard people spit it out with utter disgust, and she knew the average man would want to tear apart, limb from limb, anyone with a leaning that way.
Martin looked at her in horror, his eyes wide and panicked. ‘You’ve got it all wrong,’ he said, gulping so hard his Adam’s apple went up and down like a yo-yo.
The barn door opened and Del came back in.
‘I haven’t got it wrong, but I think you have,’ Fifi said quietly but firmly. ‘Think on it. Would your mother or your girlfriend be proud of you if they knew you worked for beasts that screw children, then kill them?’
Del was too far away to hear what she had said, but as he came into the arc of light he was scowling. ‘What’s she going on about now?’ he asked Martin.
‘I was just asking him how he came to have such a dirty job,’ Fifi said airily. ‘But I suppose if you’re up to your neck in shit all the time, eventually you get to like the smell of it?’
‘Is that supposed to be funny?’ Del asked, and opening the cage door again, put a bucket in.
‘Do you see me laughing?’ Fifi replied and she asked Martin to shine the torch on Yvette while she knelt down beside her to examine her. To Fifi’s relief, Yvette appeared to be in a deep sleep rather than unconscious from a blow, and the blood on her face was only from a scratch, not a real wound. ‘Was a timid little dressmaker too much for you to handle? Is that why you’ve drugged her?’ she asked indignantly, glowering at the two men.
‘She’ll sleep it off,’ Del replied nonchalantly. ‘Come on, mate, we’re off,’ he said to Martin.
Fifi sensed Martin was the weak link in this duo, so she looked straight at him. ‘You ought to sleep on what you’re doing,’ she said warningly. ‘Be a gangster if you like, but don’t be the muscle for a murdering child molester.’
‘What are you on about?’ Del asked scornfully.
Fifi got to her feet and put her hands on her hips, staring impudently at the two men. She felt Del was a man who prided himself on being a hard bastard, she doubted he had a conscience. But she knew from things Dan had said that even the most cold-hearted of thugs didn’t approve of child molesters.