No Mercy (5 page)

Lena Gissing made some final adjustments to her fine blonde hair before pausing to gaze more intently at her reflection. The long gilt-edged mirror in the hall told her two things: one, that she wasn’t a young woman any more, the other that she didn’t look as old as she actually was. Surgery, Botox and cosmetic fillers were her constant allies in the battle against ageing, and it was a war that was waged with stubborn determination. She refused to give in, to give up her beauty. It was a defence, a shield against all the crap in her life. So long as she had her looks, she could survive. She could do
anything.

Lena gave a small satisfied nod. Yes, she could easily pass for forty, she thought, even late thirties in a more forgiving light. She took a few steps back in order to view the bigger picture. The short white sleeveless dress she was wearing showed off her long, shapely legs as well as her tan. Her body, on the whole, was still slim and firm, her curves still inviting enough to attract admiring glances. Only her upper arms were showing some signs of wear, a slight crinkling of the skin just beneath her shoulders.

She lifted her arms and dropped them again. She frowned. She considered getting a jacket, but decided against it. It was too hot, and anyway, the person she was going to visit didn’t need impressing. She put on her Prada sunglasses, picked up the car keys from the hall table and walked over to the living-room door.

‘I’m off. See you later.’

Tony Gissing looked up from the paper he was reading. He was knocking on sixty, a short, stocky man with a thick neck, a pronounced beer gut and the squashed ugly face of a bulldog. What remained of his greying hair was cropped short, surrounding the ever-growing bald patch on the top of his head. He came from a long line of East End villains, all of them vicious and none of them smart. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Out.’

‘Where’s out?’

‘I’ve already told you. Delia. Don’t you ever listen? I’m going for a coffee with Delia. I won’t be long.’

Tony’s expression shifted to one of indifference. Women like Delia Shields didn’t interest him. Unless a female was under twenty-five with breasts the size of melons and a butt worth slapping, she didn’t merit more than five seconds of his attention. ‘Ah, right. See you later, then.’

Lena walked out of the flat, got in the lift and glided smoothly down from the penthouse apartment to the ground floor. The foyer, filled with palms, leafy ferns and small citrus trees, had a Mediterranean feel to it. Her heels tapped on the polished marble tiles. As she left the air-conditioned space, she felt a rush of heat, as if the door to an oven had suddenly been opened.

Quickly she climbed into the red MG and pulled across the seatbelt. Driving through the gated community of Silverstone Heights, she gazed out at the detached houses, the semis, the rows of smart terraces and other smaller blocks of flats. These were all surrounded by landscaped gardens – the sprinklers were on, shooting thin jets of water across the grass – and these, in turn, by high brick walls designed to keep out the less desirable residents of Kellston.

It amused Lena to know that she was one of the ‘undesirables’. The Heights had been built to protect the respectable, the law-abiding from the common riff-raff of the area. But the enemy was already within. Once, Tony Gissing had been nothing – the youngest son of a family of third-rate villains who never learned from their mistakes – but Lena had changed all that. Now he was rich, feared and respected. Now he was a force to be reckoned with.

And force, she thought with a sigh, was all he actually brought to the partnership. She didn’t love Tony, didn’t even like him most of the time, but they had made a deal and for the last ten years she had stuck to her side of the bargain. The marriage wasn’t a particularly happy or fulfilling one, but divorce wasn’t an option – they were joined by secrets, by a devilish pact that bound them together.

Still, she had made the best of a bad job. Her husband wasn’t the sharpest knife in the drawer, but unlike his brothers – both of whom were currently residing at Her Majesty’s Pleasure – he had the sense to realise it. When it came to business, she called the shots.

Lena had an eye for an opportunity and over the years she’d built up several thriving businesses. The best and most lucrative of these was a high-class escort service for the more discerning kind of client. MPs, judges and top corporate bosses were all on her books. When it came to sex, the weakness of men never failed to amaze her. They’d pay more for a shag with a desirable woman than most people earned in a month.

Lena never advertised her services. She didn’t need to. Her clients came by word of mouth and she always ran a check before agreeing to take them on. Her girls – all of them smart, stylish and beautiful – were able, if required, to fit into any social situation. They could be taken to lunch, to dinner or parties, without fear of their true profession being exposed. Of course, most of them never got beyond the bedroom. The majority of her clients were married men who had no desire to be seen in public with a woman who wasn’t their wife.

She pulled up by the electric gates and slid her card into the slot. It had been a good choice, she knew, to come and live here. The penthouse apartment provided everything they needed. It was spacious without being grand, comfortable without being ostentatious. There was no point in drawing unnecessary attention to themselves. Other villains liked to flash the cash, to buy mansions with swimming pools, but she preferred not to advertise their wealth. So far as the taxman was concerned, Tony and Lena Gissing made their money from two legitimate car lots and a luxury car-hire service.

The gates swung smoothly open and she swept the MG forward into Silverstone Street and then down on to the High Street, where she swung a left and continued south. Delia had called her this morning, her voice sounding tight. She hadn’t said what it was about, only that it was important.

‘You have to come over. We need to talk.’

‘What’s wrong?’ Lena had asked.

‘Not now. I can’t… Later. Come after five. I’ll be here on my own then.’

Lena, who was generally fearless, felt a stirring of unease as she entered the cemetery and pulled up on the main thoroughfare. It was odd for Delia to summon her like this. Usually they met for coffee once or twice a month, engagements that she found tedious – they had little in common these days – but which she felt obliged to continue. They had known each other since school and some ties were hard to break.

She got out of the car, locked it and walked over to the office. Delia was waiting by the door, her arms folded across her chest, her expression one of an anxious parent waiting for a child to return home.

‘Where have you been? It’s almost a quarter past. I thought you weren’t coming.’

Lena raised her eyebrows. ‘Nice to see you too. And you know what the traffic’s like at this time of day. It would have been faster to walk. Anyway, I’m here now. What’s the panic?’

‘There’s no panic. I just… Why don’t you sit down?’ Delia stood back and flapped a hand towards a desk by the window. ‘I’ll make coffee. Do you want coffee?’

‘No. I can’t stay long. What’s going on?’

Delia’s face twisted a little, her hands lifting and falling through the air. She walked over to a table in the corner. ‘It’s already made,’ she said. ‘You may as well have one.’

Lena tried to stem her impatience, but there was no point in trying to rush her. She had learned from experience that Delia always did things in her own good time. She pulled out a chair and sat down, watching as the other woman organised mugs and milk and sugar with her usual brisk, tidy movements.

‘Is it all right if I smoke?’ asked Lena, taking a pack of cigarettes from her bag.

Delia glanced over her shoulder. ‘I’d rather you didn’t. Not in the office. It’s not allowed. Bob would have a fit.’

‘Bob isn’t here. I won’t tell him if you don’t.’

Delia’s gaze flicked between Lena and the cigarettes. ‘Do you have to?’

‘I’ll go outside if you’d rather.’

Delia waved a hand again, turning back to the coffee. ‘No, no, it doesn’t matter. You go ahead. I can give the room a spray before I leave.’

Lena lit up, sat back and crossed her legs. Not for the first time, she wondered why Delia didn’t do more with herself. They were the same age, both forty-eight, but nobody would have guessed. Delia was the typical spinster in her plain skirt, prim white blouse and flat, boring shoes. Her hair, a dull shade of brown, was already streaked with silver, and her make-up was minimal. If that was what was called growing old gracefully, then Lena intended to do it with as little grace as possible.

‘Why do you stay here?’ Lena asked.

Delia brought two mugs over from the table and placed them on the desk. She frowned at the question. ‘What do you mean?’

Lena gave a low, almost inaudible sigh. Life was for living, but Delia chose to spend it surrounded by the dead. How many years had she been here now? Too many to count. She looked out of the window at the endless rows of graves. It was a morbid, depressing place. ‘I mean, you could get a job anywhere, somewhere more… I don’t know, more
cheerful
.’

‘I like it here.’ Delia sat down, picked up her coffee and blew on the surface. ‘It suits me. Why would I go anywhere else?’

Lena gave a shrug. There were lots of things about Delia she didn’t understand. Her old friend’s life seemed dull and confined. There wasn’t even a man on the scene so far as she was aware. In fact, had Delia ever had a boyfriend? Still, maybe she was better off without one. In her experience, all a man ever brought was trouble. And perhaps she shouldn’t judge her too harshly. She might be boring, but Delia had her good points, top of the list being her fierce and unfailing loyalty. If anyone could be relied upon, it was her.

‘So,’ said Lena, leaning forward, ‘are you going to tell me what’s going on? What’s so important that it couldn’t wait until tomorrow?’

Delia put the mug down without taking a drink. Her lips parted as if she intended to reply, but no words emerged.

A couple of seconds passed. Lena felt the nerves fluttering in her stomach. She forced a smile. ‘Come on, hon. Spit it out. It can’t be that bad.’

‘He… he’s back,’ Delia finally managed to splutter.

‘Who’s back?’

‘
Him.
Cato.’

Lena jumped at the name, the shock passing through the length of her body. ‘What?’ She could feel the blood draining from her face. ‘He can’t be. Have you seen him? Has he been here?’

Delia shook her head. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘So what makes you —’

‘The grave, Lucy Rivers’s grave. He’s got a girl tending it. I only found out this morning. Who else could it be but him?’

Lena sucked hard on the cigarette before releasing the smoke in a long, thin stream. Her hand was shaking slightly. ‘It can’t be. It has to be someone else.’

‘Like who? No one’s been near that grave for years.’

‘An old friend, a member of the family, perhaps.’

‘There is no family. And after thirty years, why should any old friend suddenly —’

‘I don’t know,’ Lena snapped. ‘Why do people do anything? Maybe one of them has a guilty conscience.’ She leaped up out of the chair and started pacing. She knew that she was grasping at straws, but that was all she had left. ‘How long has this been going on?’

‘I’m not sure. A few weeks, a few months. I only found out today.’

Lena walked up and down, from one side of the office to the other, before stopping abruptly by Delia’s chair. She waved her cigarette in the air. ‘Who is this bloody girl, anyway?’

‘Her name’s Maddie Layne. She’s one of the regular grave tenders, been here for about a year. She’s local and cheap, so she gets a bit of work.’

‘And how do you know that Cato employed her?’

‘I don’t, not for sure, but she didn’t deny it.’

Lena stared at her, a look of incredulity on her face. ‘What? You came straight out and asked her?’

Delia gazed back, her shoulders lifting slightly. ‘Why not? How else was I going to find out? And anyway, there’s nothing wrong with my asking. I work here. I’ve a right to know what’s going on.’

Lena reckoned a more subtle approach might have been in order, but it was too late for that now. ‘So what did she say, this Maddie girl?’

‘Nothing much. She got all tight-lipped and defensive, said it wasn’t her place to reveal her client’s name.’

Lena started pacing again, up and down, up and down. ‘Which means it must be him. Shit! Jesus!’ She rubbed her face as sweat prickled her temples. ‘But he’s still inside. I’m sure of it.’

‘Well, they’ve got phones in there, haven’t they? It doesn’t take much to organise a grave tender. Or maybe he got someone else to call her.’

‘But why? Why is he doing this?’

‘Why does Cato do anything?’ Delia said. ‘To wind you up, to get under your skin. He’s crazy, Lena. You should call the police.’

Lena gave a snort. ‘The filth? What the hell are they going to do about it? It’s not against the law to put flowers on a grave.’

‘It’s harassment,’ Delia said. ‘It’s… it’s… I don’t know, threatening behaviour or something.’

Lena took a last drag on her cigarette and looked around for somewhere to stub it out. ‘Oh yeah? And how am I going to explain why that is, exactly? It’s not going to help any of us if the truth comes out about Lucy Rivers.’

Delia visibly paled. ‘You don’t think he would? Tell, I mean?’

Lena went to the sink in the corner, ran the tap, doused the cigarette and dropped it in the bin. She sat down and stared at her old friend for a moment, seeing the worry etched on her face. ‘No,’ she said. ‘No, that’s not his way. He’s just sending me a message, reminding me that he’s still around. He knew I’d get to hear about the grave eventually.’

‘Maybe that’s why she did it,’ Delia murmured.

‘What?’

‘The girl. Maddie Layne. She came to the office this morning, going on about some bloke lurking in the bushes. She made a point of telling me that it was near the Lucy Rivers grave. Maybe… maybe Cato told her to do that, to make sure I knew, to make sure I told you about it.’