The Runaway (52 page)

Hugging her a final time, he finally withdrew from her, and being Eamonn Docherty, his father’s son, hoped he had given her a child. That would have been a real kick, made her his even when he wasn’t here. As it was he had to go back to New York, and soon. Deirdra was making restless noises and threatening to arrive in London if he didn’t hurry back.

After his wife’s heavy body and sexual demands, Cathy was like a breath of fresh air. He loved the smell of her, the feel of her, everything about her, and intended to come to London often to see her.

He was holding her tight, trying to figure out how he was going to tell her about his wife and family yet keep her sweet enough to wait until the next time he was over.

She had told him about the threat from Maltese Victor, and he suddenly realised how he could walk away and still keep Cathy’s good opinion. He had a little plan and would act on it as soon as possible. That way he could come out of this with her undying love and affection.

He told himself he would do anything to keep that.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Cathy was on cloud nine and it showed. It was as if the girl had been lit up from inside and in a way Desrae envied her.

He remembered how it felt to be young, in love, and also in lust. For him it had been Joey, who had been worthy of that regard. He wasn’t so sure about this Docherty who was too smooth by half. He was convinced Eamonn was going to leave Cathy’s life as suddenly as he’d entered it and could do nothing to prevent that hurt. All he could do was stand by the girl as best he could.

For now, though, he had the worry of the predatory Maltese, the fact that Tommy was apparently on the missing list, and threats to the club hanging over his head.

‘Do you think anything can have happened to Tommy, Desrae?’ Cathy asked him in a small voice.

‘I really don’t know, love. I even rang his mum’s, pretending I was a business associate looking for him. She hasn’t seen him either, only she didn’t sound too bothered about it. She was pissed as usual.’

Cathy looked worried. ‘I’ll get the boys out on the street, shall I? See if they can come up with anything.’

Desrae shook his head. ‘No, love, not yet. We don’t know for sure that anything’s happened and if we go looking for him then word will get round. Leave it for another twenty-four hours and see what develops, OK? I’ll have a word with Gates, see what he can come up with.’

‘Fair enough. Eamonn will know what to do anyway. He’ll be round soon.’

Desrae forced a smile on to his face. ‘That’ll be nice for you.’

Cathy knew how much it had taken for him to say that. She hugged her friend. ‘Oh, leave it out, Desrae, I’ve known him all my life.’

He shook his head sadly and grabbed her hands. ‘All I’m saying, love, is be careful, that’s all. But I’m here for you when you need me, you know that.’

His voice said he thought that would be sooner than either of them knew.

 

Maltese Victor was pleased with himself. No one had seen hide nor hair of Tommy Pasquale for days and the Soho community was agog, waiting to see who the new baron was going to be.

Never had there been such excitement and speculation in the West End. Joey’s death and Tommy’s sudden disappearance, coupled with the death of O’Hare, had made even the laziest whore interested in what was going on around her.

As Victor stepped out of his club on to Old Compton Street, he hailed a couple of touts who worked for him. When he crossed over to walk into Dean Street he was smiling after the respect they had shown him.

It was early evening, the place was coming alive and all the garish lights were being turned on ready for the night’s business. Victor loved Soho, loved every part of it. He had liked old Joey, but now he was gone the place was open to anyone with a bit of nous. And Victor had that in abundance.

When the car pulled up beside him and he was hailed, he turned happily, knowing the voice and feeling safe. His old associate Demetrious Scalpie smiled at him, and Victor smiled back. Scalpie was a small-time villain, a Greek with a Maltese wife and a Maltese mentality. Victor was waiting for the man to give him his due respect. He could hear the strains of Blue Mink’s
Banner Man
coming from a nearby bar, smell the onions and offal sold by a street vendor.

Life was good, and Victor was happy.

When the shot hit him in the chest, at first he thought he was imagining it. There was no pain at all, just a heaviness as he was forced backwards. The second shot hit him in the shoulder, nearly taking off his arm. As the blood flowed he stared at it, amazed. Then he looked up at Scalpie. The man’s face was creased into a smile as he aimed the gun at his friend’s head.

Then Victor knew no more.

Scalpie was back inside his car and off down Dean Street before the screaming hostess who had witnessed it all was back inside her club to tell the tale.

Victor lay on the dirty pavement, his eyes still registering shock as they stared blindly up at the night sky.

By the time the police arrived, two clubs in the vicinity were closed and in the others no one had seen anything.

No one had heard anything.

And no one gave a shit anyway.

 

Desrae smiled at Eamonn and he smiled back at him. Neither smiles quite reached their eyes but it was the best they could do. Cathy, pleased that there was no real animosity, was happy enough. As she poured them all drinks, she felt a warm glow inside her. Eamonn looked so handsome this evening. She drank him in with her eyes as he made small talk with Desrae.

The phone rang and Desrae answered it, eyes widening with surprise as he took in what had just been said. Putting down the receiver, he looked at Cathy and shook his head in amazement. ‘Maltese Victor is dead, can you believe it?’

Eamonn, the big man, happy with his role in everything, grinned. ‘Gunned down in Old Compton Street, about one hour ago, yeah?’

Desrae stared at him, eyes now registering a grudging respect. ‘How do you know?’

‘Because I made it happen. Now I’ve asked around about you, Desrae, and I know that you’re sound, so anything I say is not to leave this room, OK?’

Cathy and Desrae nodded.

‘I wiped him out as a favour to Cathy. I know Joey’s death was a blow and that you will need a bit of muscle. I’ve arranged that muscle for you. I also had a hand in the murder of O’Hare, but that was personal, nothing to do with Joey. I just did you all a favour without knowing it.’ He was smug, enjoying their attention.

Desrae was intrigued. ‘But you’re living in New York. What the fuck was O’Hare to you? Where did he fit into the picture?’

‘I’m involved in a lot of organised crime in the States, and that business extends to England. I obviously have other interests in New York, but my main enterprise is here, in dear old Blighty.’ He smiled to take the edge from his next words. ‘I’m involved with the IRA.’

Cathy’s mouth dropped open. ‘But they’re terrorists! They’re just a load of fanatics . . . What the fuck are you doing with them? You hated being half Irish. You would never admit to it. When your dad used to spout off about them, you used to do your nut. What’s changed?’

Eamonn looked down at the carpet as he answered. ‘Over here they’re terrorists. In New York, in the Irish community, they’re fucking heroes, a real army. I collect for them, Cath, it’s big business and only the strongest are good enough to work for them.’ He was having to defend himself and it was annoying.

Cathy’s face drained of blood; even her lips were pale. ‘They’re murderers, that’s all. Innocent people died in the last bombing . . .’

Eamonn laughed gently. ‘Oh, and Joey and people like him aren’t murderers too? I never took you for a hypocrite, Cathy.’

She stood up and paced the room.

‘I don’t care what you say. Joey and his sort stick with killing their own; I’m not saying that’s right, not at all, but Joey Pasquale would never have planted a bomb where women and children could be maimed and harmed. He would never have done anything like that. He lived as a criminal and, God love him, died as one but I was proud to know him. I wish he’d been my father for all they say about him.

‘But this . . . no way can I accept this, Eamonn. They’re not an army, they’re terrorists, and you can tell all your new friends in New York that I think they fucking stink! You should have seen the papers here a while ago when they bombed an army barracks. It was carnage. That’s not war, not real war. That’s just killing for killing’s sake, and in the name of God as well - as if He had anything to do with it!’

Eamonn was stunned. Where was the adulation, the thanks for a job well done? In America he was treated like visiting royalty - even the Mafia gave him respect. Yet here in London, and his Cathy was talking to him like they were still little kids.

‘My God, Cathy, you’ve got a fucking nerve!’ he exploded. ‘I took out a man for you today, one who was a danger to you, and what thanks do I get, eh? I get a lecture off a young girl with the brains of a fucking amoeba and the nous of a dead cat. I had a man killed for you, to keep you safe, and you turn on me like this? I can’t fucking believe it!’

Cathy saw the bewildered look in his eyes and felt the first stirrings of sorrow. He really could not see what he had done. It had always been the same with him. Eamonn never could see that he was wrong. It was like the night he’d killed for the first time. All he’d been interested in was getting an alibi. All he had ever really been interested in was himself.

‘Do you remember that Christmas, Eamonn, when your dad dumped me mum for the little widow and we went round there, me and me mum . . .’

Desrae interrupted her. ‘What the hell has that got to do with anything?’

Cathy turned on him and roared: ‘If you listen, you might learn something. Now, do you remember that, Eamonn?’

He nodded. ‘Of course I remember. What about it?’

‘Well, when we got back that day, you’d eaten all the chicken. Every bit of it, picked the fucking bird clean.’

Eamonn shrugged. ‘So what?’

Cathy looked into his face, her eyes pained and flat. ‘That’s you all over. You took what you wanted and didn’t give a toss about me, me mum, no one. And that’s how you’ve always been. You’ll never change all the time you’ve got a hole in your arse. Don’t talk to me about causes and armies, I’m not interested. If you’re involved it’s for personal gain and nothing else.’

Desrae watched the two antagonists wide-eyed.

‘Well, you got that much right anyway. I ain’t a screamer for the Cause, but I earn a good fucking wedge from it and that’s how I’ll stay. I don’t tell you what to do, how to earn your living, so don’t you ever try and tell me, lady. My wife doesn’t tell me what to do, no woman ever will, and a few of them have tried . . .’ And then he realised just what he had said.

The three people in the room fell silent, the atmosphere charged like an electrical storm.

Standing up, Desrae smoothed down his herringbone skirt and said heavily, ‘I’ll make a pot of tea, Cathy. Call me when you need me.’

‘So you’ve got a wife then?’ Cathy’s voice was low now. ‘Is she in the IRA as well? Is that how you got involved?’

Eamonn shook his head. ‘Listen, Cathy love, I know it’s a shock, all of it, but at least I’m telling you the truth . . .’

She laughed then, a bitter, harsh sound. ‘Oh, fuck off, Eamonn. You wasn’t going to tell me about Mrs fucking Docherty. Are there any little Dochertys yet?’

He wiped a hand across his face and sighed. ‘Three. All boys. Jack and the twins, Declan and Michael. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to spoil everything. I couldn’t get in touch with you after I had to leave on the quick . . .’

Cathy’s eyes were slits now as she said, ‘Oh, yes, when you murdered poor old Caroline. Let’s not forget her, shall we?’

‘How can I ever forget her? I’ll have to live with what I did all me life. I see her every day . . .’

Cathy pushed him hard in the chest. ‘Well, it hasn’t stopped you shagging around, has it? Three kids, a wife, and silly little mares like me on the side. Killing her hasn’t cramped your style at all, has it, you two-faced fucking bastard! I’ll give you IRA . . .’ She shook her head in loathing. ‘Go on, get out of here and leave me alone.’

‘So you don’t want to know about Tommy then? Me and Tommy?’

She looked at him hard. ‘What about Tommy, what do you mean? He wouldn’t have anything to do with the likes of you. He’s decent and kind like his father. A villain, I admit that, but not a murderer. Not a fanatical Irish loony. He’s half Italian, for Christ’s sakes . . .’

Eamonn grinned once more and Cathy felt an urge to slam her fist into his perfect teeth and break them all. ‘Well, he was very interested in what we had to say.’

‘What do you want him to do then?’

‘That is none of your business. Let’s just say he’s been with us for the last few days and he’s due back home this afternoon.’

‘You’re bad, Eamonn. Everything you touch is tainted by you, and I let you touch me.’

She shuddered, unable to bear the memory.

‘I let you touch me and you are scum. That’s all you are, you and all your fucking cronies - Irish scum. Go back to New York and your wife and your kids, though I feel sorry for them, having you as a father. You’d sell them off if it got you what you wanted, wouldn’t you? Just go, and I hope to Christ I never clap eyes on you again.’

Eamonn saw the disgust in her eyes and tried once more to reason with her. ‘Cathy, please. Let’s not part like this.’

Walking past him, she left the room. She picked up her coat and called through to Desrae in the kitchen: ‘I’m out of here, I’ll be back later.’

Without another word she left the flat.

As Eamonn went to follow her, Desrae stood before him. In his high heels he was as tall as their visitor and his grim expression made Eamonn think twice about pushing past.