Tara (64 page)

He turned on his heel and made for the door. Not another word, or even a look back. She heard the door slam, his feet on the stairs, then the outer door close behind him. A few seconds later his car engine roared into life.

Tears didn't come, she was too angry for that. She didn't even go to the window. Instead she shook out her hair and stormed off to have a shower.

Later, in bed, her mind turned to the many warnings her mother and gran had given her. Harry had come close to hitting her, even though he would probably deny it. Was this what life would be like with him?

'Our life together just revolves round sex,' she whispered sadly, reaching out to turn off the lamp/There's no time for anything else, not talking, seeing friends or having fun together. You don't want a woman with a career and a mind of her own, Harry, you. want an empty-headed doll who adores you.'

The tears came then, because she sensed this was the end of the line for them, and at its best it had been so beautiful.

Chapter 30

Harry wiped a tear from his cheek as he drove away down Pembridge Road towards Notting Hill Gate. It was a warm night and people were everywhere coming out of pubs and restaurants, looking in shop windows and just wandering about. A gang of freaks with long hair, bright coloured loons and flowing shirts stood at the corner by the Tube, chatting. He stopped at a zebra crossing for three girls in long dresses to cross. One waved at him and blew him a kiss. Any other time Harry would've blown one back, but he was too miserable for that.

He was angry with Tara, and even more angry that he'd got himself into this jam.

The goals he had two years ago no longer applied. He didn't want a club, he didn't even want to be in London. Tara was the only thing in his life he really cared deeply about and now it looked as if she was growing tired of him.

He put his Abbey Road tape on. 'Here Comes the Sun' usually made him feel better, but as the music filled his car it just made him feel more depressed. Summer was on its way, he and Tara should be visiting her mother, walking in the parks or going to the seaside, not going off in two different directions.

Everyone assumed it was so exciting having a club like his. Drinking with friends every night, making a heap of money at the same time, being in control dressed up like a damned penguin. They never saw behind the scenes, the workload of ordering, doing the books, taking on staff and training them, watching for dishonesty, discovering his toilets trashed by filthy mindless animals, and even having to clean them himself because his staff turned tail and ran.

What was he going to do? There was someone out there really trying to screw him up, and the worst of it was they were succeeding!

It had been stupid, with hindsight, to burn the files. But after Mabel was killed he panicked. The police kept turning up at the club with questions and more questions and he was afraid they might come one day with a warrant and find the lot. Now if he wanted to go and spill the beans about that Wainwright he had nothing to back it up with. Besides, how could he tell them everything without naming Tara?

Then there was this undercurrent at the club, something heavy that he couldn't quite put his finger on. As if some of them knew something was about to happen and were afraid to admit it in case they got it too.

Sometimes he wished he had taken Josh's advice and made it a club for youngsters. He felt old and in a time warp. The Top Cat Club was stuck back in the Fifties. The men were all booted and suited with short Brylcreamed hair; even a coloured shirt made you look suspect. Men with scarred faces drank intently at the bar, concerned only with creating a hard image. Their birds were usually dim-witted, dancing together round their handbags till they were so pissed they had to be shoved in a taxi. He'd tried to update the music, but all they wanted was Matt Monroe and Frank Sinatra. When did he last have an intelligent conversation with anyone?

Keeping Tara away from the club was a precaution he felt he had to take – he didn't want her involved with whatever was happening there. But it was miserable. He loved to have her beside him, to show her off. He couldn't blame her for thinking he only went round to her flat for a quickie, it often happened after a couple of kisses and then he felt ashamed when he left.

That's probably why he'd been so stupid and tactless tonight. Why hadn't he just cuddled her, made her a cup of tea, asked her about Paris then told her that he was selling the club? Was he trying to send her off into Josh's bloody arms?

Still, it looked as if the sale would go through, even if he didn't really like the man. Funny how things turned out. Duke had been there when he won the club. He'd put up money to get it off the ground, and in the two years he'd not only got his stake back, but made a bob or two at the tables. Now he wanted to buy the place and, as far as Harry was concerned, he was welcome to it. He was hard-nosed enough to make a fortune out of the punters, and good luck to him!

After all this time Harry still knew little more about him than he had on the night of the poker game. He only turned up when there were big stakes; win or lose he kept his cool. But he was doing everything right, coming in night after night, helping out, meeting the members, and the solicitors said he had the finance organised.

Another two or three weeks and contracts would be exchanged. Harry would have enough cash to buy Tara her own shop and bid for that row of derelict houses in Islington. Building work was what he really liked – he'd never been happier than when he was gutting and rebuilding the club. It was clean money, too, restoring houses for people to live in, not watching mugs lose their shirt at cards.

Brooding about Tara had distracted him from the journey, and it was only when he turned into the dimly lit dockland streets that he realised he'd been driving on automatic pilot. Ahead he saw a flashing red light and two policemen standing in the road. He slowed down, opened his window and then stopped. The policemen were bending towards something by their car and one beckoned to him. Harry got out.

'Got a problem?' he called out.

He didn't see the person who jumped him, just heard a soft, light step behind him and then felt the crack on the back of his neck. The last thing he saw before hitting the ground was that they weren't police, just men in dark overalls.

Harry was aware of being in a van, of a thin blanket beneath him and a smell of petrol, even before he felt the rope and the blindfold. The pain in his neck reminded him what had happened and suggested he shouldn't let on to his captors that he'd come round.

He was on his side, wedged in by something behind his back. Although his hands were tied, he could reach it with his fingers and it appeared to be a rough wooden crate. His ankles were tied together, too, and he had pins and needles in his arms from lying in one position.

He could remember playing a game on the bomb-sites when he was a kid; they'd take it in turn to blindfold each other, then make noises and the captive had to guess where and who each one was. It was time to play it again.

There were three, possibly four men in the van. He could tell by the stuffy atmosphere, the number of times a lighter flicked on and several different body smells. One was sitting next to where he lay, it was his trousers that smelled of petrol and he could feel the heat from him. The others were in the front seat. Only two of the men were talking, but somehow he sensed a silent third. He was certain he'd never heard either of them before. Their voices were London but not Cockney, more towards Essex. They weren't talking about him, just about drag-racing.

'No more talking,' a third voice spoke. 'He'll be awake any minute if he isn't already. Check him.'

He was right, there were three in the front, and he'd heard that voice somewhere before. It was Cockney, but ironed out somehow, as if the man had lived somewhere else for some years.

Rough hands were checking him over, a light shone on his face and the man's breath smelled of onions.

'Still out, guv!'

He didn't know that voice either, though it sounded more local than the other two. Only the deeper, older one rang a faint bell. But there was no further talking after that, just taps, a slight rush of air as Harry imagined one waving his hands as a signal, an occasional whispered word.

'Clever fuckers,' he thought, smiling behind his blindfold. 'Go on, try and frighten me to death. I'll just play doggo and wait for you to give the game away.'

It was painful lying on his side, every bump in the road jarred his hip and a cramp in the arm beneath him made him want to groan.

What had they done with his car? What message had they got at the club? How long would it be before anyone would realise he was missing? Needles would worry immediately unless he was told something plausible. Tony would worry less, but both would take charge and carry on as normal if the story told to them was convincing enough.

Harry thought hard. His father wasn't likely to raise the alarm, they sometimes didn't speak to one another for a week at a time. That left Tara! Once, two or three days' absence would have been enough for her to panic, but recently they hadn't seen each other more than once a week. And after the way he'd stomped off tonight, well, she'd be expecting him to apologise. When he didn't, she'd assume he just didn't care.

Someone at the club had to be in on this. Dennis was the most likely candidate, as gaming-room manager he knew everything that went on and he was intelligent enough to take command. Recently his attitude had changed slightly, too, a trace of sullenness, rarely chatting or wanting to stay behind for a drink. What could they want from him? Kidnapping was a possibility, but unlikely. Some new firm starting up who wanted to frighten the pants off him so the word would get out about them? Did someone believe he'd grassed? Or was it straight revenge?

Harry tried to concentrate on overhearing something from outside which would give him a clue where they were. He could hear heavy traffic. There was light getting through the blindfold frequently, but that meant little. It could be any busy road from the Ml to the Holloway Road. He was dropping off to sleep when someone spoke.

'Where to, Joe?'

He sensed anger between them that one of them had let slip a name.

'Joe'. Harry hugged the name to himself, sure it belonged to the man with the deep familiar voice. How many Joes had he known in his life? Joe Shepherd who went off to Canada, Joe Cohen whose father was a Rabbi and insisted his name was Joseph anyway. There was Joe Small, the ex-boxer who trained at the gym, but his voice was distinctive, like a fog-horn.

Joe Spikes. That was the name his father had mentioned when he was inside. It had never cropped up again and he'd forgotten about it until now. George had suggested he was something to do with a South London gang. To his knowledge he'd never met the man, but then he could have been to the club one night. Perhaps that was why the voice jangled bells. Maybe he'd been barking up the wrong tree about Wainwright being connected with the incidents at the club. Maybe it went back further?

The van was full of cigarette smoke, making him feel sick. His neck hurt, he had an itch on his foot he could do nothing about and his arms ached like crazy, but still he said nothing.

The journey seemed to be going on forever, and now there was seldom a flash of light from outside and no noise from other traffic. They had turned on to a smaller road, he could tell by the number of twists and turns and an occasional branch brushing the van. The man in the back with him was getting restless, stretching his legs out, flexing his arms and yawning. All at once they stopped, pulling over on to uneven ground.

'Get the gate!' The order came from one of the men up front and the van door slid back, a blast of cool clean air clearing the smoke.

The van moved forward and stopped again while the gate was shut, then the man jumped in, panting slightly.

It was rough ground, the van lurching and wallowing, going downhill quite steeply, winding, and he could hear branches slapping on the van. The wheels reached gravel and flat ground. More wind came in as the van came to a halt, which suggested they were now on open ground.

The men in front got out and the back door was opened. Harry's feet were tugged sharply and he was pulled out like a side of meat.

'Where are you taking me?' The words came out despite his determination to remain silent. They didn't reply, but the rope holding his feet together was untied.

Two of them frog-marched him forward, holding him by the elbows. One man was just in front of him; he couldn't make out where the fourth one was. They stopped, and to his right he heard something. Footsteps! They were muffled, but on a wooden floor. They were waiting for a door to be opened. There was a scrape of old bolts, the turning of a lock. An old house or church somewhere deep in the country? The door creaked.

'A Hammer Horror setting!' Harry remarked, and one of the men punched him in the small of his back. Fear clutched at his innards, and he struggled to get a grip on himself.

Their feet echoed as they walked along a passage with a wooden floor and he could smell cedar clearly. Another door opened.

'Down steps now. Take it easy or you'll fall!'

It was terrifying to walk in total darkness down stairs he knew were narrow and old. He could feel cobwebs. The smell of musty earth grew stronger with each step and it was cold, very cold.

Once they hit the bottom he felt uneven flagstones underfoot. Could it be the crypt of a church? The coldness, the ancient mustiness suggested it could be. Another door and this time they pushed him forward alone.

For a second panic rose up inside him, a conviction that he was being pushed to the edge of an abyss and they were waiting for him to fall in. He teetered, gained his balance and shouted. 'Take the fucking blindfold off!'

One of the men walked towards him. Harry had never felt so terrified.

'For God's sake, if you're going to kill me get it over with quickly!'

He regretted his outburst immediately. Before his words had even finished echoing round the walls, he sensed their amusement.