When You Are Mine(29)

‘Daddy!’

‘Hands,’ he says, grinning. ‘What did you think I was gonna say?’

‘I am your daughter.’

‘I thought you’d resigned that commission.’

‘I tried. What’s wrong with your heart?’

‘Too many fags and full English breakfasts. My arteries are clogged. Should have seen it coming. Your grandad had a heart attack at fifty-two. It’s in my whatsits, you know.’

‘Genes.’

‘Yeah, but you won’t have to worry until you hit menopause.’

‘Thanks for the heads-up. When is the surgery?’

He gives me a non-committal shrug.

‘You are having the surgery?’

‘Right now, I’m busier than a one-legged arse kicker. This Covid-whatsit has put us months behind, plus the banks are up to their usual fuckery.’

‘You have three brothers. Delegate.’

‘They’re not project managers. And if the banks get word of my condition, they could pull their loans.’ He takes the bottle of pills from the table and rattles them. ‘These things are the dog’s bollocks: nitroglycerin. It’s the same shit they use to blow stuff up, but in small doses it widens the arteries and nourishes the ticker. Know who discovered it?’

I shake my head.

‘Alfred Nobel. Same geezer who gives out them prizes for science and medicine and world peace.’

‘How long can you delay the surgery?’ I ask.

‘Few months.’ He glances at the door. ‘Constance doesn’t know. None of them do.’

‘Why are you telling me?’

‘I’ve never been able to lie to you.’

‘That’s a crock of shit.’

He smiles sheepishly. ‘Constance would drive me crazy; and the boys would do something stupid.’ He is close to me now. He reaches out and tries to take my hand. This time I don’t pull away. ‘This has to be our secret, OK? You can’t tell anyone.’

‘Only if you promise to have the surgery.’

‘I will.’

‘And I need something else. A place to stay. Somewhere off the grid.’

‘What have you done?’

‘Not for me. A friend.’

‘Doesn’t Scotland Yard have safe houses?’

‘She’s not a witness. She’s a victim of domestic abuse. The man who beat her up is a police officer who might still be looking for her.’

‘What’s his name?’

‘That’s not important.’

‘If I’m going to help this woman …’

‘Darren Goodall.’

Recognition seems to flare in his eyes.

‘Do you know him?’ I ask.

He doesn’t answer. ‘How long do you need a place?’

‘Until he loses interest.’

I feel a dull throbbing in my head – the beginnings of a hangover that can be curtailed by more champagne or a big glass of water or maybe food.

‘Have the police spoken to you?’ I ask.

‘About what?’

‘Dylan Holstein.’

He looks at me blankly.

‘Don’t play dumb.’

A sigh. A dismissive shrug. ‘He wrote a few bullshit stories about me.’

‘You dumped a truckload of building waste outside his house.’

A smile. ‘I thought that was rather creative.’

‘He was found dead last night. Someone wrapped chains around his chest and weighted him down with breeze blocks, before throwing him in the river.’

I am studying his face. It’s like watching a comedy and tragedy mask in Greek theatre.

‘What are you suggesting, Philomena?’

‘The detective in charge of the investigation is outside your gate.’

Daddy’s eyebrows almost knit together but just as quickly equanimity returns and his features soften.

‘I know what people say about me, Phil, but most of the stories are apocryphal. This country is obsessed with gangsters, geezers and guns. I blame Guy Ritchie.’

‘The film director?’

‘Yeah. He keeps making these violent fantasies about trigger-happy spivs with stupid names like Headlock Harry or Get Rich Raymond. They don’t exist, Phil. They’re make-believe. Some gangster films are half-decent. I quite liked The Long Good Friday and Get Carter, but the rest are no more realistic than watching those westerns where cowboys shoot Indians off horses from a hundred feet away or gunfighters out-draw each other in the street. These are fantasies, just like most of the stories they tell about this family. They aren’t true. Yeah, we hijacked a few lorries. Stole the merch. Flogged stuff at markets—’

‘You ran a protection racket. Extorted money from transport companies. Orchestrated industrial action. Sabotaged building sites.’

‘Yeah, yeah, OK, OK, but we never sold drugs or guns or desperate people. And we didn’t take from those who couldn’t afford to pay.’

‘Just like Robin Hood,’ I say sarcastically.

‘Fair point.’ He picks up his white suit jacket. ‘You never got to meet your great gran. She raised me after my mum died when Dad was still in prison. She was a girl during the Great Depression. Years later, in her eighties, she was living in this lovely little terrace, and had plenty of good nosh, but she still washed out empty margarine containers and kept scraps of soap, because she remembered what it was like to be poor and to be hungry.’ He is still gazing out the window at the marquee and the fairground. ‘This sort of extravagance doesn’t sit well with me.’