Tara (55 page)

The police were suggested and then rejected. As Josh pointed out, this bit of smut would get round faster with them on the case.

'What hurts me most is that you never told me about this guy,' Josh said finally. 'It's just another of those secrets you keep hidden. How many more will come out before I get to the bottom of you?'

She had to tell him about Harry then. Not to hurt him further, but because she knew Harry was perhaps the only person who could sort it out.

'I see.' His face set like concrete, a chilly look in his eyes. 'I might have known.'

'I'm going to phone him now. He'll know what to do.'

'What can he do that I can't?' he jeered. 'Send round a couple of heavies?'

That was meant to insult Harry but Tara wasn't going to be rattled.

'Maybe that's just what this needs. Anyway, I think he'll feel it's his place to stop this man,' Tara said quietly. 'Remember, Josh, I've known him all my life.'

Strains of 'Bridge over Troubled Waters' drifted up the stairs, along with the perfume of joss-sticks. Tara made more coffee and insisted Josh ate a sandwich.

'I'll just pay the money.' He sighed deeply as he finished the sandwich. 'There's nothing else for it.'

'That won't work and you know it,' she said sadly. 'He'll be back for a second lot, then a third, and the more successful my designs are for you the more he'll want each time.'

But as Josh slowly calmed down, Tara's fears for herself grew. Not just over her smeared name, or her family's shame, but Harry, too. It was one thing having admitted to a relationship with Simon, another having to show Harry graphic pictures of the event. Would it taint everything?

Miranda's voice called up the stairs. 'Tara, here a minute!'

Tara wiped away tears from her cheeks and brushed past Josh. At the bottom of the stairs Miranda waited, an anxious expression on her face.

'It's Harry,' she whispered. 'In the shop. I told him Josh was up there with you and tried to make him go away, but he seems to think you wanted him here.'

'I did, Miranda.' Tara tried to smile. 'Sorry, I should have told you.'

'Is everything all right?' Miranda wiped a stray tear from Tara's cheek, her eyes full of concern. 'He hasn't sacked you or anything?'

Tara shook her head. 'Just a bit of a show-down. Tell Harry to come up.'

Harry seemed to tower over Josh as the pair
coldly
shook hands. Ironically it was Harry who looked the real businessman today, as he'd changed into a navy suit and striped shirt ready to see his bank manager.

'Let me see the letter,' Harry said quietly.

Josh passed it to him with the pictures. Harry held the prints with one hand and read the letter.

Tara felt so faint she had to sit down. Any minute now he would look at the pictures and the loving kiss he gave her at the bottom of the stairs just now might well turn out to be the last.

He folded the letter and put it in his inside pocket then, without even looking at them, he tore the batch of prints in half.

'You haven't seen them,' Josh's voice rasped.

Harry took out his lighter and held it to one of the prints, setting it alight and dropping it into the waste-paper bin. As they watched he did the same with all ten.

'There was no point in doing that,' Josh spoke up. 'He'll have copies.'

'I don't want to see them, nor do I want anyone else looking at them.' Harry looked at Josh as if he was a maggot. 'I'll go and sort that pervert out now.'

The flames in the bin died down and the room was filled with an acrid smell.

'You'll do more harm than good.' Josh's eyes went black with anger, irritated by Harry's quiet control. "This is something that needs negotiation.'

'Fuck off, Josh.' Harry stood up, poised to leave. 'That louse wants stamping on and I'm surprised you're even considering anything else.'

'He might retaliate out of spite if you hit him,' Josh argued.

'He might end up dead if he tries.'

Tara looked from one to the other. Harry was far bigger than Josh, leaner and healthy, and she loved him. Next to him Josh looked insignificant, effeminate with his long curls and jewellery, but she valued his friendship. An electric current of jealousy sparked between the men and she knew for certain that, whatever came of this business, there wasn't room for both of them in her life.

'I'll come with you,' Josh said as Harry made for the door.

'No.' Harry shook his head. 'Tara's my girl. I do it alone!'

He was off down the stairs so quickly Tara was shocked.

'Harry, wait,' she called, running after him. She caught him at the door through to the shop. 'Be careful.' She reached up and kissed him.

'I'll ring or call round after I've seen him.' Harry held her briefly. His eyes were colder than a January morning. 'We'll have to find you a new place to live, too.'

Harry sat in his car, reproaching himself for not beating the shit out of Simon Wainwright personally four years ago. He had got a couple of lads round to give him a good kicking, whispered in the right ears that this bloke needed castrating. But clearly he hadn't frightened the man enough.

Reaching into his jacket Harry dug out the old envelope he'd just collected from his flat. He slid his thumb under the flap and pulled out the contents. Just a photograph of the man and the pitifully small list of productions he'd been in. Harry had got this from Wainwright's agent's office just a couple of days after Tara was tucked up safe with George and Queenie.

It had taken a few drinks to persuade the secretary to open up, but she'd been bruised by the man too and Harry convinced her it would be therapeutic to talk. He'd learned how the man used his charm on both sexes, but mostly on the rich and middle-aged who showed their gratitude with things like his Jaguar, holidays, expensive clothes and jewellery. The child modelling agency was owned by one of his lovers, as was the house in Shepherd's Bush. The woman went on to say she was sure Wainwright was involved with blue film-making.

Harry studied the black and white picture. It was out of date now, possibly taken ten years earlier. The man could have lost that blond hair, put on several stones and lines could cover that matinee-idol face. Maybe that's why he'd turned to blackmail now!

He looked at his watch thoughtfully. It was almost twelve, the Leprechaun would be open now and, if the clientele was as he expected, buying a few rounds of Guinness should encourage someone to give him a bit of information.

'What'll it be, sir.' The red-faced Irishman behind the bar with a nose like a diseased sausage polished glasses, pulled pints and carried on a conversation all at once. The pub was precisely how he expected it, a Victorian watering hole that had been left intact except for electric light, a juke box and a small stage in one corner.

'A pint of Bass, please.' Harry took out a handkerchief and mopped the rain from his face. 'I only parked a few yards away, it's piddling down out there.'

'Ah, we need the rain. 'The barman smiled. 'That hot weather isn't good for trade!'

'I didn't think anything kept an Irishman from his drink,' Harry joked. 'By the way, is this the only Irish pub round Shepherd's Bush?'

'Well, it's the best-known one.' The barman seemed willing to chat.

'Do you know a guy named Tom Clancy?' Harry used the name of an Irishman who lived near his father. 'That's why I came in, I've got a message for him.'

'Tom Clancy?' The barman rubbed his chin thoughtfully. 'I know a Sean Clancy, but he's gone back to Dublin now and I don't think he had a brother. Tell me what the man looks like?'

'Good-looking bugger.' Harry leaned one elbow on the bar while he made up this fictitious character. 'Black hair, blue eyes, big shoulders, did a bit of acting at one time.'

The barman shook his head. 'I'd remember him for sure if he'd been in. Don't get many good-looking people in here.' He laughed at his own joke.' 'Cept you of course, sir!'

'I'm sure this was the pub they said.' Harry frowned. 'He used to hang around with another actor called Simon, big blond-haired bloke.'

'I know a Simon,' the barman said. 'Yeah, he's an actor all right. He's not Irish though.'

'He wouldn't be a bit suspect, would he?' Harry grinned wickedly. 'Likes blokes as well as birds?'

The barman grinned and Harry knew he'd struck gold.

'Don't you go saying that to the boss.' The Irishman's eyes twinkled and his voice was lowered as if he didn't want to be overheard. 'She's kind of sweet on him, and she hasn't noticed anything odd yet.'

'Is it true, then?' Harry leaned forward conspiratorially.

'All I'm saying is, there are rumours.' The barman looked over his shoulder to check no-one was listening.

'Do you know where he lives?'

The barman shook his head. 'Must be somewhere close, he's in most nights.'

Harry changed the subject. He didn't want Wain-wright warned someone had been asking about him.

The rain had stopped when he came out of the pub and the sun was shining again, making the pavements steam. He quickly checked his map, then drove round to Godolphin Road, where Simon had lived four years ago.

A girl was sitting on the wall outside the house. From a distance she looked pretty, but as Harry pulled up she looked at him with dead eyes and he realised she was on drugs.

'Do you live here?' he asked.

'Why?' She looked up at him but there was no real curiosity in her eyes. 'What's it to you? Charging rent for the wall?'

'No, love.' He noticed her neck was filthy and a sour smell was wafting from her. 'Just wondered, because I wanted to ask who lives on the top floor.'

'Noel,' she muttered.

'Noel who?'

'I don't know his fuckin' other name,' she said, giving him a baleful stare. 'He's just a bloke.'

Harry pulled a pound note from his pocket and waved it at her.

'Did you know a couple of blokes who lived there, one was called Simon, a big blond guy, the other was Quentin?'

She looked at the note and then at him. 'You queer?'

Harry shook his head and smiled.

'I knew Quentin, he was a dancer,' she volunteered. 'He left about a year ago. I didn't know the other one, except by sight.'

Harry gave her the pound. "Thanks, love.'

So Wainwright had moved on. Harry wasn't surprised, but it had been worth a try.

As he drove back to the club Harry banged on the steering wheel in frustration. In the old days he would've turned up at that pub tonight mob-handed and torn it apart till he found Wainwright. But turning straight meant he couldn't do that. He hated the idea that Josh was now privy to a bit of Tara's past. Even more than that, he hated to see the fear and shame in her eyes which just a few hours earlier had been lit up with happiness.

At quarter to ten Harry walked back into the Leprechaun. It was so packed now he could barely see across the bar and at the far end four ageing Teddy boys were playing Fifties' rock and roll.

The barman with the diseased nose wasn't working, instead there was a woman in her forties who he suspected was the landlady, and two young barmaids. The barmaids were both very ordinary, with droopy long hair, short skirts and footballer's legs, but the landlady was a bit of a sensation – shoulder-length red hair, a figure like Diana Dors and vivid blue eyes that sparkled as if she enjoyed every moment of her life.

Harry made no effort to be noticed at the bar because he wanted to study her. Instinct told him she wasn't a tart, just a naturally sexy lady, but he could understand it if her customers were confused. Big bouncing breasts almost popped out of her low-cut black lace dress, and her small waist was clinched with a wide belt studded with imitation rubies and emeralds.

'What would you like?' She swept down the bar to serve him, bringing with her a cloud of the heady Madame Rochas perfume Queenie always wore.

'You,' he said, giving her one of his special grins. 'But until you're free, a pint of Bass.'

She laughed and those big soft breasts quivered.

'I haven't seen you in before,' she said, looking straight into his eyes without any pretence as she pulled his pint. 'I'd remember someone as tasty as you!'

'I bet you say that to all the blokes.' Harry laughed.

'Only the pretty ones.' She smiled, showing perfect white teeth. 'I'm Myra, the landlady.'

A sudden influx of customers prevented Harry from talking to her and he got shoved further and further away from the bar. Then the band paused for a drink and the whole bar seemed to have the same idea. He was trapped between a group of girls on a hen night and three very drunk Irishmen whenhe saw Simon Wain-wright come in.

Age hadn't hurt him. If anything he was better looking now than in his picture. In fact Harry would have to agree that Wainwright could have been a film star. It was no wonder Tara fell for him.

Harry pushed his way through the crowd up to the far end of the bar, so he could watch Wainwright, and see how close he and Myra were. It was quite incredible to watch how she lit up when she spotted him – it was as if the Blackpool illuminations had been switched on.

Harry was too far away to hear the conversation, but he saw Wainwright take her hand and lift it to his lips, lightly kissing each finger-tip. She gave him a double gin and tonic but no money changed hands and even when she went to serve other customers her eyes constantly strayed back to him.

It was nearly eleven when Harry beckoned to her to give him another drink. Although the bar was even more crowded, fewer drinks were being served now as it approached the end of the evening.

'Another Bass?' she asked.

'Yes, please.' Harry took a chance and leaned over the bar. 'I was going to ask you out for a late drink somewhere, but I see you're already spoken for!'

She coloured, and for a moment looked flustered.

'It's an on-off thing,' she said, glancing over her shoulder. 'I'm not sure how things stand tonight.'

Harry knew exactly what that meant; after all he'd played that game with women hundreds of times. But he could also see she was tempted just this once to stand the man up.