Part 8 (2/2)

Kathy walked along, looking at shop fronts in Vallance Road. Nick had told her his mother had a florist's on this street. She hoped he hadn't been giving her a load of old flannel about how he came to know Charlie. Perhaps Nick's version of Potter pestering his mother in her flower shop, forcing him to retaliate to protect her, had been a concocted tale.

Kathy spotted a possible premises on the opposite side of the road: LOTTIE'S FLOWERS was proclaimed in bold script over the colourful awning. Kathy crossed over and, under cover of admiring hyacinths behind the windowpane, darted glances at the people within. The shop looked quite empty; just one customer handing over some cash for a bunch of tulips. But the woman behind the counter, wrapping the posy, looked to be a possible candidate. Lottie, Kathy supposed the woman to be from the shop name, seemed about the right age to have a son in his late twenties.

Having rallied her courage, Kathy entered the shop, breathing in a wonderful fresh floral scent. She approached a display of waxy-leaved hothouse lilies, their heavy perfume filling her nostrils. They reminded her of funerals so she moved on, browsing the buckets filled with a rainbow of blooms, while waiting for the customer to leave so she might talk to Lottie in private.

'Those make a lovely display.' Lottie Raven came up behind Kathy, nodding at some yellow freesias. 'From a hothouse, those are, grown down Kent way. Won't see them in your garden till the weather warms up ...'

'They smell beautiful ...' Kathy was determined not to pose as a customer, raising false hope of a sale. 'Sorry to bother you but I wanted to ask you something,' she blurted as soon as the door closed on the departing customer.

Now they were face to face, she realised the florist was an attractive middle-aged woman who did rather resemble Nick Raven, although her hair was brown, threaded with silver, and her eyes blue rather than grey.

'Ask away,' Lottie prompted.

Lottie didn't get many nurses in; she knew they couldn't afford such luxuries as bouquets on their pay. Apart from orders for weddings and funerals, most of her customers were pampered housewives, or husbands hoping to ingratiate themselves with their spouses on anniversaries. Lottie was coming to realise that she should have set up shop in a more salubrious area if she wanted to make a good living.

'I was just wondering if you're Mrs Raven and have a son called Nick?' Kathy saw at once from the woman's expression that she'd struck gold.

Lottie looked taken aback, then her expression turned speculative. Women liked her son, and plenty were keen to bring themselves to his notice, whether he wanted them to or not. She knew he was presently seeing Joyce Groves, although they hadn't been introduced. Lottie was relieved about that as she'd heard on the grapevine that her son's new fancy was a bit of a calculating madam. The description reminded her of Blanche. Only her daughter-in-law hadn't been clever enough to calculate how well Nick would do for himself once he'd got shot of her. Suddenly it occurred to Lottie that a nurse might be the bearer of bad news.

'Has something happened to Nick? I haven't seen him in days.' Ever since her son had had a run-in with Charlie, Lottie had worried the brute might ambush Nick to get him back.

'Oh, it's nothing like that.' Kathy gave the woman a rea.s.suring smile. 'It's just ... I don't know how to contact him, so would you give him this next time you see him?' She held out an envelope that bore his name neatly written on the front.

Lottie looked at it suspiciously. 'What is it?'

'It's just a short letter ... nothing sinister, honestly.' Kathy could tell that Lottie believed it might be, and realised that wasn't a good sign. 'Your son was kind enough to do me a favour but I wasn't able to thank him. I don't know him well so I've no idea where he lives to post it.'

Lottie took the envelope gingerly. She wasn't prepared to give out Nick's address, or his telephone number, without checking with him first. Neither did she want to act as a messenger for a stranger and irritate her son. The simplest way to deter ambitious hopeful girls was to let them know Nick had a wife in the background. If this young lady weren't on the hunt, she wouldn't care either way about him being married.

'Perhaps you ought to tell me your name, dear, and that this is nothing his wife's going to be upset about.' Lottie wagged the letter, giving Kathy a subtle smile. 'Don't want to get in trouble for pa.s.sing secrets.'

'Oh, no ...' Kathy finally replied. 'Nothing in that to upset anyone at all. And my name is Kathy Finch.' She was heading for the door before Lottie could ask any more, or return the envelope.

Once outside, Kathy suppressed an urge to return and tell Mrs Raven that if anybody had a right to be upset it was her, because she'd never encouraged Nick's roving eyes to land on her. Lottie obviously knew her son was a philanderer; she'd not seemed surprised at the idea of him playing around behind his wife's back.

Kathy knew if she'd had the vital information about him before she'd written the note, its content would have been quite different. When he came back to see her again, as she'd requested, she'd wrap the b.l.o.o.d.y bike around his neck if he seemed reluctant to take it.

'Can I come back and live with you, Lambeth way?'

'No you bleedin' can't.'

'Why not?' Jennifer asked the question but already had an inkling of why Bill didn't want her around permanently. She'd caught a whiff of perfume on Bill on previous occasions when he'd turned up on a visit, and today she'd noticed a long dark hair clinging to his sleeve. She hadn't confronted him over whether he'd shacked up with a woman in Lambeth because she could guess the answer, and despite knowing he was no good, Jennifer still loved the man who'd taken her virginity.

At fifteen she'd thought him the most handsome, charismatic fellow, and had believed, just for a little while, that he'd fallen in love with her and would marry her. Then she'd got to know him and realised that every woman he thought might be useful to him was treated to his charm. Jennifer had cottoned on quickly to the fact that she needed to keep her boyfriend in cash to keep him interested. She'd preferred shoplifting to prost.i.tution as a way of earning.

'Let me come hoisting with you round the West End, Bill,' Jenny burst out. 'I'm skint and need money for stuff.'

'Hoisting? You?' Bill answered on a bark of laughter. He grabbed Jennifer's arm, dragging her with him to the mirror over the mantel. 'You seen yerself lately, Jen?' He shoved her closer to the spotted gla.s.s, shaking her when she avoided looking at her bedraggled reflection. 'Ain't exactly the sort of customer to be seen swanning about in d.i.c.kens & Jones, are yer, gel? Not any more.'

Bill stomped off and collapsed into the sofa, kicking away a dirty plate by his foot. He was angry because once Jennifer had looked exactly the sort of person to be seen patronising such a swish establishment. At fifteen years old, fresh-faced and pretty, done up to the nines in cla.s.sy clothes, Jennifer had pa.s.sed herself off on numerous occasions as a well-to-do young lady out on a spending spree on her rich daddy's cash. She'd been a regular in Oxford Street, and if not exactly making purchases, she'd certainly exited top stores like Selfridges loaded down with their luxury merchandise.

Having Jennifer back to her old self was the stuff of Bill's dreams, and hearing her suggest she could still do it simply wound him up. It wasn't just that she looked a mess he could tart her up if need be the stumbling block was her mental state. A hoister needed to be sharp and clever, with a ready line in patter if she were stopped. Five years ago, Jennifer could outthink and outrun any store detective. Now she couldn't go a day without drugs and drink, and found it hard to put together a coherent sentence when under the influence. She was a wreck and, unfortunately for them both, it showed.

In her heyday, Jennifer had been the queen bee of Bill's little gang of female shoplifters and had made him a small fortune. Then everything had gone sour on him ... and he blamed her, and her poxy family for the disintegration of his little empire.

In the past, Bill had had a good business relations.h.i.+p with Jennifer's father. That's how he'd met Jennifer in the first place: dropping off boxes of stolen goods over in Islington for Eddie Finch to fence. Following a dispute with Eddie over priceless jewellery, Finchie had beaten him up so badly Bill had ended up in hospital. Their feud had then escalated into all-out war.

Bill had been humiliated and robbed by Eddie so in a fit of insanity he'd kidnapped little Tom Finch, to try to save face and force Eddie to give back the cash he'd stolen from his wallet. But Bill's act of revenge had turned sour on him. The police had got to hear all about it and Bill had been arrested. He'd done a stretch inside, then come out to find his little team of shoplifters had poached his best contacts and dispersed.

Only Jennifer had remained, not from loyalty to him but because she'd had nowhere to go. Her parents had disowned her because of her a.s.sociation with him, so she'd holed up in his flat while he was in gaol and paid the rent by going on the game.

Now Bill was reduced to small-time larks with characters he previously wouldn't have bothered to acknowledge. Despite his bitterness over it all he couldn't break all ties with Jennifer. When desperate for cash they could pull in a few bob finding her business. Sometimes they'd roll the punter, other times Jennifer had to hold up her end of the bargain to the best of her ability.

Bill looked at her thin figure and tangled hair with faint disgust. G.o.d knows what anybody saw in her. These days he only slept with her himself when he'd had a few too many sherbets.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN.

'f.u.c.king h.e.l.l! What's all the commotion about?' Tony Scott bellowed.

He'd been pulling on his overalls over his pants and vest when he'd heard shouting in the room below. Hopping to and fro, he attempted to extract his foot from a knot of crumpled navy twill, finally flinging the overalls on the bed. He hurtled down the stairs and burst in to the kitchen to be met by the sight of his wife wrestling with his daughter.

'Give it here ... no point ripping it up, you foolish gel ... let me see it.' Gladys was trying to prise a letter from Blanche's fist.

'It's that b.i.t.c.h Joyce Groves.' Blanche was dancing in rage. 'It's her fault. She's the one done this, Mum, 'cos I gave her a smack and told her to stay away from him.' Paper was waved agitatedly beneath Gladys's nose. 'I'll have her, Mum. I'll swing for her, swear I will. She ain't getting away with stealing me husband.'

Tony s.n.a.t.c.hed the letter from Blanche's fingers before she could crush it. Having seen the name of a firm of solicitors emblazoned in bold type across the top, he knew he wouldn't need to read more than the first few lines to have the gist of the letter's content.

His son-in-law wanted a divorce and, all things considered, Tony couldn't blame him. He was only surprised that it had taken Nick this long to get round to it.

'Sit down, Blanche and have a cup of tea to calm your nerves,' Gladys soothed, sending her husband a frantic look.

Blanche's usually pale, pretty face was scarlet and running with tears and snot. Her mother started to dab at the mess with her hanky but Blanche knocked away her hand in irritation. The next moment the tension seemed to leave her and she collapsed down into a chair at the table.

'Ain't going to work and don't want no f.u.c.king tea,' she gurgled at her mother, who was nervously proffering a steaming cup.

'Come on, Blanche, love,' Tony crooned, crouching down by his daughter. In the chaos, he'd forgotten he was wearing only his underclothes and the baggy cotton gaped at his crotch displaying some wiry dark hair. 'It's not unexpected, is it now, dear. You know Nick's been patient over it all ... can't say he ain't,' he carried on, oblivious to his daughter averting her face from him in disgust.

'Soon find someone else, won't yer now?' Tony added gamely, patting his daughter's knee. 'You can go out and have fun with some friends ...'

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