Gangsters Wives (5 page)

At last she looked at her watch and saw it was almost five. ‘Christ, I've got to get back,' she said.

‘Don't go,' said Ali.

‘I have to, sweetheart.'

‘Are you driving?'

‘Yes. My car's in a garage in Berkeley Square. Thank Christ, it is, otherwise it would've been towed away by now. What about you?'

‘Tube. I'm just a poor copper remember.'

‘Not so poor in bed. By the way what does the “S” stand for?'

‘Sex god,' he replied with a laugh.

‘You can say that again babe.'

‘Will I see you again?' he asked, suddenly serious.

‘Do you want to?'

‘What do you think? Do you?'

‘Absolutely. But we'll have to be careful.'

‘We will, I promise.'

‘If this ever gets out, we're dead, you know that.'

‘Not necessarily. I'm a copper.'

‘So? Do you think Robbo gives a fuck about that?'

‘He wouldn't dare.'

‘You'd be amazed what he'd do.'

‘I'm willing to risk it.'

‘Me too.' She got up from the wrecked bed and began to get dressed. Ali watched in admiration, his cock growing hard again.

‘Down boy,' she said. ‘Save it for another time. Or your girlfriend.'

‘Not guilty,' he said.

‘Good-looking bloke like you? Bet your mum's got you married off to some nice, sweet girl already.'

‘Not guilty again.'

‘I bet that's what you tell all your conquests.'

‘It's the truth.' And strangely enough, it was.

‘I'm going to shoot off,' she said. ‘Home in time for dinner.'

‘I'm jealous.'

‘Good. But you shouldn't be.'

‘How do we keep in touch?'

‘Give me your mobile number. I'll call you. Don't ever call me. I know you can get numbers, but don't. I mean it. If you do, it's over.'

‘OK.' He pulled his notebook from his pocket and scratched down his number with the pen from the bedside table.

She pulled on her hat, mac and glasses, retrieved her bag, pushed the piece of paper into one of the inside pockets, and leant down and kissed him hard on the mouth. ‘Thanks for a great time. I can hardly walk.'

‘Good.'

‘I'll be in touch.'

‘Please do.'

And with one more kiss she was gone. Back to her car, and her husband in Essex, feeling better than she'd felt for years.

So the seeds of deceit were being sown. Poppy had to work hard at keeping her feelings for Joseph hidden, Sadie kept working her way through the young men she needed more and more whilst Kate, usually so poised and assured, was in the first flush of a tumultuous affair that made her feel like an oversexed teenager.

Niki concentrated on keeping fit and brushing up on her martial arts skills. As a child her father had introduced her to Judo, Karate, and even more exotic forms of hand to hand combat. Niki had taken to it like a duck to water, and after her father died, her grandfather had continued her education. Back in Russia she'd watched Bruce Lee films until the tape on the video wore thin, but Connie had no idea of her expertise. In the mornings, when he either lay in bed, or was off on some nefarious task, Niki would pull on a shapeless track suit, pull her hair back into a band and go for a run round the Isle of Dogs ending up at Millwall Park, where she would practise her katas for hours until her body was totally limber, and the perspiration poured down her back. She was tough. Tough enough that, when the crunch with Connie came, as she knew one day it would, she could take care of herself—under any circumstances.

One morning in spring as she was practising her moves, three men left Island Gardens DLR station and made their way to the park. Each of them carried a striped off-licence bag full of cans of lager and it was obvious they'd already drained several.

They spotted Niki straight away, standing stock still amongst the dog walkers and commuters hurrying to work, and decided she was just the thing for a bit of entertainment, before getting down to the serious business of getting thoroughly rat-arsed.

‘Oi love,' said the biggest of the trio, an obese barrel of a man in a West Ham shirt and dirty jeans. ‘What you doing then?'

Niki, engrossed in practising her deadly karate moves, didn't even hear his question.

‘He's talking to you,' said the second man, a weaselly little runt with a pockmarked face, wearing a fake leather jacket and combat pants.

Once again Niki didn't hear.

‘You cunt,' spat the third. Well built, but rapidly turning to fat, he nonetheless thought himself a wow with the ladies, despite his repellent body odour.

His words got through to Niki's brain, and she turned towards them. ‘What did you say?' she asked, her accent hard in the morning air.

‘Fuck me,' said the first one. ‘A bleedin' foreigner. What are you then? A fuckin' asylum seeker on the scrounge?'

Considering none of the trio had done a day's work in decades seemed to make no difference to his righteous indignation. Years of reading reactionary tabloids had convinced him that anyone with a foreign accent was only in the country to steal the benefits he received from the state, and that were his natural right.

‘What do you want?' asked Niki. She was confused about why the men were picking on her.

‘He wants to know what you're up to, you dumb fucking bitch,' snarled Weasel.

A native east-ender might have come up with some quick remark, or possibly told them to piss off and mind their own business. Even if they were mob-handed, and well on the way to being drunk and disorderly.

‘I'm practising,' said Niki. She wasn't afraid, just a bit perplexed by their attention.

‘Practising what?' asked Pock-marks. He was beginning to enjoy the sport. Nothing like three men against a lone woman to add a little spice to the day. His little firm were feared in many a boozer from Hackney to Limehouse, and barred from most for bad behaviour. But one on one was not their idea of fun.

‘Martial arts.'

‘Fucking
Kung-Fu
,' said Weasel. ‘
Glasshopper
.'

This piece of wit caused them all to laugh nastily.

Niki didn't know what he was talking about, as
Kung-Fu
had never reached Russian TV in the Seventies.

She looked confused again. ‘What?' she asked.

‘Fucking ignorant Gyppo,' said the first man around a mouthful of Stella Artois, and he went to push her down.

It was his second mistake of the day. The first was getting up.

Niki swayed away from his touch, and moved within reach of the Lady-Killer who grabbed her by the shoulder. Another bad idea in a lifetime of them.

Niki turned sharply and roughly pulled her shoulder away.

Weasel laughed. ‘What's the matter with you two?' he said, ‘She's just a girl,' and he tried to stuff the hand not holding the can up her tee-shirt.

It was this clumsy attempt to touch her that filled her with rage. She bounced on her Nike trainers, and appeared to simply touch the man three times. Once on each shoulder, and once in the solar plexus. Weasel dropped like a stone, his can erupting foam, as Niki spun on the balls of her feet and delivered a kick to the Barrel Man's crotch. His scream froze passers-by as he doubled up and fell to his knees, his beer joining Weasel's on the grass.

The Lady-Killer was thinking twice about what to do next. Who the fuck was this woman, and what had gone wrong with the day?

Almost as an afterthought Niki chopped him beneath his nose, and his two front teeth, of which he was inordinately proud, were forced down his throat. When the second chop hit his Adam's apple, they were projected out of his mouth in a gout of blood.

The third strike was at his right knee, and as he lost all feeling in his leg, he too hit the deck.

‘Don't ever touch me again,' said Niki, to their prone bodies. ‘And don't come back.'

With that, and under the gaze of half a dozen people in the park she set off for home, knowing that she'd have to find somewhere else to exercise from then on.

Sadie kept on with her life as usual. But she knew something was badly wrong. Eddie had become more and more withdrawn as the days went by, as it got closer to his court appearance. Even the forty grand seemed to have evaporated away. But when Sadie tried to talk to him he just ignored her, or left the room, put a DVD into his home cinema set-up and closed the door on her. Or on even more occasions lately, he left the house, drove away, and didn't return for hours.

She was more worried than she'd admit. He'd been up in front of a jury before and always had a good result. Not guilty. But this time seemed different and she didn't like it. Also, she had noticed there were a lot of lengthy phone calls being conducted in hushed tones. When she asked about them, he just told her, ‘Don't worry babe.' But the more she heard the words, the more she did.

But as her home life seemed to be falling apart, her sex life was on a roll. She had recently met a wild young man in a wine bar in Ilford. He was tall and handsome, about twenty-five, single, and up for it. Just the way Sadie liked her boys. He ran a stall in the market selling DVDs, and as she was sitting, sipping on a glass of Pinot Grigio, he slumped down in the chair opposite and said, ‘This seat taken?'

‘Looks like it is now.'

‘Not if you've got a geezer at the bar.'

‘You know damn well I haven't. You've been screwing me for the last ten minutes.'

‘Only in my head.'

‘And that's where it'll stay.'

‘Spoilsport.'

Sadie smiled at that. She liked a bit of verbal fencing before she got down to business with a new man.

The man took the smile as a green light, and went on. ‘So what's your name then, love?'

‘None of your business.'

‘Don't be like that. It's a beautiful day, and you're beautiful too.'

‘How often do you spin that line?'

‘No, I mean it. My name's Spencer by the way. My friends call me Spence.'

‘Hello
Spencer
.'

‘I can tell you're a harsh woman, but I like that.'

‘Would you like my drink in your face?'

He laughed. ‘I don't think so. I just had this jacket cleaned. Well, if I've offended you I'm sorry. Just passing the time of day. I'll be off. Half the day gone and not a penny earned. Sure I can't top you up before I go?'

She pretended to weigh up the question. ‘Go on then,' she said. ‘Pinot Grigio.'

‘A fine choice.'

He went to the bar and returned with wine for her and a bottle of Becks for himself. ‘So what
is
your name?' he asked.

‘Sadie,' she relented.

‘See how easy that was.'

‘Don't get any ideas.'

‘Ideas?' he said, grinning suggestively.

‘About me being easy.'

‘Fair enough. So Sadie, what do you do, apart from sitting around in bars in the morning, drinking wine?'

‘I've got a private income.'

‘Yeah?'

‘Yeah. My husband's.'

‘I noticed the ring.' It wasn't difficult, as the diamond in her engagement ring rivalled the rock of Gibraltar. ‘He must be making a few bob.'

Thinking of the upcoming court date, Sadie wasn't so sure. ‘He does all right,' she replied.

‘What business is he in?'

‘Does it matter?'

‘Just making conversation.'

‘Sure. Sorry. Let's not talk about him.'

‘Fine by me. Let's talk about you then.'

‘Not much to say really,' Sadie answered, icily.

Spencer, not picking up on Sadie's reluctance to talk about herself, pressed on. ‘I don't believe that for a minute.'

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah.'

‘I mean it.'

‘Sure you do.'

‘Honest.'

That was the last thing Sadie wanted-honesty. All she wanted and needed was a good fuck and a lot of lies. She was used to that. At least, the lies part. ‘Do you do this a lot?' she asked.