Martina Cole: Close

He had no actual friends though, not in the real sense. Dicky was the nearest person to have earned that title. But Pat had a lot of acquaintances and he also had the knack of making people feel that they had his full attention, even though he rarely listened to anything unless it benefited him or his family.

He knew it was this aloofness that was the key to his success and he found that now he actually cultivated it. Used it to his advantage.

'Soon, OK? Give me a few days to think about it.'

Dicky knew he was in and he stronged it as Pat had known he would from the outset. He waited patiently for him to get to the crux of his conversation.

'Come and meet this tame filth I've found, eh, mouthy little ponce he is, always shooting his mouth off and chancing his arm. Now we own him, well you do actually, it's your club he fucked up in. Though he don't realise that yet, of course, he thought Lenny Donnelly owned it. He is a bit of a lad, typical Old Bill, more mouth than cows got cunt, and a personality like a pair of nylon socks. However, he is also on his way to what he perceives as greatness, mainly through the pursuit of promotion in Old Billery. In short, Pat, he is a cunt with an earhole in the right places, and a knob that rises on a regular basis. Know what I mean?'

Pat nodded. Poor Dicky was telling him nothing he did not already know. He had been one step ahead of everyone all his life, had had to be, but as always he kept his own counsel. People only know what you tell them. And it was true. People gave out their whole life stories to anyone and everyone without a second's thought. Stand at a bus stop, sit in a strange pub, get banged up, and someone would always give you their life story. It was as if they were trying to prove they existed.

Dicky smiled nervously, the silence as always making him slightly uneasy, and Pat refilled their glasses without uttering a word.

'We'll keep our traps shut as always, Pat, keep our business to ourselves, but this way, we can also get a bit of insurance for the future.'

Pat grinned.

The point had been taken but the subject was now closed.

Detective Inspector Harry Lomond was drunk. Really drunk, and his stomach was just about to vacate its contents.

He was in a hostess club in Soho, he was without his trousers, and he was also convinced that the walls were breathing. LSD would do that to a body. Dilys Crawford, known as Sabina while at work, was sitting beside him, bored out of her brains.

An unnatural redhead, she had small breasts, large thighs and a mouth that was legendary. She had three kids, a husband doing a ten-stretch in Dartmoor and more varicose veins than the Michelin man. Still, men sought her out, and stone-cold sober she sorted them out quickly and efficiently. She would never have full sex with a punter, a nosh. A bit of tit and a laugh was about as far as she would go with them. Most men were happy with that, and as for her, she would slip under the table and do it, so even paying for a hotel room was not part of the equation.

Tonight though, she was not even bothering to pour the champagne on the floor, a ruse many hostesses used so they didn't get drunk and ripped off. This ponce was so far gone, fucking Donald Campbell would have trouble keeping up with him.

A stripper came on the stage and she sighed in relief. Candy did an act with a snake and a trilby hat that was so outrageous it left all the hostesses free to relax, have a fag and work out their next moves.

Her next move was to pass this filth on to Dicky, the sooner the better as far as she was concerned. When she saw Pat walk in with the Williams brothers, she sighed with relief. She would suck off a fucking tramp if he had the money, but she balked at touching Old Bill. They were about as much use as a handbrake on the proverbial canoe. She had done her bit for England, she just wanted her poke and a cab home. Harry was still smiling drunkenly when she dumped him in the basement of the club.

Lil settled the child once more, and sitting down at the kitchen table she yawned noisily.

As tired as she was, she loved every second of her life so much that even a fractious child was bearable. As she looked around the kitchen she sighed with sheer contentment. Her life was so different and she thanked God for that every minute of every day.

Even though it was three-thirty in the morning and she had no idea where her husband was, or what he was doing, she didn't fret. The life that she now lived was what she classified as normal. It had been like this since day one. Naturally close-mouthed, she didn't question Pat and he didn't expect her to. It was a perfect arrangement for them both.

He would turn up at some point, he always did, and she would cook for him, chat to him and make love to him. It had never occurred to her that the life she lived was not the norm for most young women; she never questioned him about his whereabouts as any other young wife would.

All she understood was that he was out grafting for her, and because of that, she had everything a girl could want, from a twin-tub washing machine to a set of Carmen rollers. Never in her life had she been so cared for, or felt so safe. She depended on him for everything, from the food she ate to the light she read by. He provided for her and their son, more than provided, and she was happy enough with that. Since her marriage she had money coming out of her ears and she spent it like it was going out of fashion. The best of everything, was Pat's mantra and she enjoyed having just that.

It all seemed very fragile at times, precarious even, but she put that down to the way she had been brought up. The fear of her life collapsing around her was never far from her mind, and she struggled to stop the fear enveloping her. All her life she had felt as if she had been waiting for something good to happen, and now it had, the feeling was still there, but it was mixed with a frightening dread that sometimes felt stronger and more real than anything else.

Dicky was laughing. Pat had beaten the filth until he had passed out. Whether that was through the drink or the ministrations of the prostitute combined with the alcohol, or Pat's bruised knuckles, no one was sure. The lesson had been duly administered. From a friendly drinking session, it had eventually deteriorated into a drunken beating. Lomond was now theirs and he would realise it as soon as he sobered up.

On the cold floor, Harry Lomond was having trouble breathing, although no one in the room was worried. In the hostess club they had seen so many Old Bill gasping for breath it was a running joke.

Filth like Lomond were renowned skirt chasers, he was typical of his ilk. A bully, a bruiser, and ultimately a coward. The strange thing was, no one minded a capture off a straight Old Bill. It was expected if not welcomed, but it was a pure collar. Everyone was generous if it occurred, inasmuch as they had a mutual respect for each other. A capture off a bent filth, however, was a different story, it was a complete and utter gutter. Bent filth convicted anyone they were asked to, or paid to, depending on whether they owed money, or needed money. No one wanted the aggravation or indeed humiliation of being banged up by someone they had no respect for, or worse still, for something they didn't do. Serious Bill feeling your collar at least afforded you the respect you were due. Bang to rights, it was a fair cop. A changeling on your case though, told you and all your contemporaries that you had been fitted up for a crime you never committed, to get you out of the way usually, so that whatever skulduggery you might actually be involved in would now be taken over by a different Face. Or you had been well and truly grassed by someone close to you, not even an enemy. Either way, this was seen by police and criminals alike as an unsafe conviction. Especially for the person who brought it about in the first place.