Tanner Trilogy 02 - The Girl from Cotton Lane Page 5

  Freddie the Nark had finished setting out his plan and he leaned back in his chair, raising his glass to his lips with a smirk of satisfaction. He could see that Chopper and Frankie were sold on the idea. He noticed, however, that Billy Sullivan was not so smitten with the plan.

  ‘Why d’yer fink we should knock the ole boy around before we tie ’im up?’ Billy asked.

  Freddie leaned forward. ‘Look at it this way, Billy,’ he said in a condescending tone of voice. ‘If by any chance the police pull us in on suspicion they’ve got ter ’ave an identification parade, an’ if the old watchman recognises any of us we’re done for, unless ’e’s too frightened ter pick us out, an’ ’e will be if ’e knows we’re capable o’ smackin’ ’im around a bit. Anuvver fing is that if we do ’im over ’e won’t ’ave the strength ter struggle free too soon after we’ve gone. It’ll give us more time ter get the load stashed. We’ll need a couple of hours at least.’

  ‘What about the load?’ Billy queried. ‘Are yer sure it’s what that geezer said it was?’

  Freddie grabbed at his glass and took a quick swig of ale then put it down with a bang on the wooden table. ‘Joe Wallace ’as worked at Clark’s Wharf fer years. ’E knows more about that place than the guv’nor ’imself,’ he asserted. ‘What’s more, Joe Wallace was so pissed that night ’e didn’t ’ave an inklin’ who ’e was talkin’ to or what pub ’e was in for that matter, so there’s no come-back from ’im at least. One fing yer can be sure of - drunk or sober, Joe knows what’s lyin’ in that ware’ouse. Like I said, ’e told me an’ Tony McCarthy that there’s no end o’ silk on the ground floor an’ upstairs there’s cases o’ real ivory ornaments. Them alone are werf a small fortune.

  ‘Now let’s go over it once more,’ he went on in an encouraging voice. ‘Tony’s all right about drivin’ the lorry as long as we load the stuff ourselves. Two of us should manage the bales an’ the ovver two can carry down the crates of ornaments. They’re only small crates. We should be able ter manage one each. Tony’s gonna bring up the lorry at six o’clock sharp on Saturday night. We’ve gotta be ready fer ’im. When ’e’s backed the lorry in the yard we close the gates like I said. Tony gives us till quarter ter seven then ’e’ll come back and drive it out o’ the yard. I’ll be in the front ter show ’im the way an’ it should take us about twenty minutes ter Wappin’. There’ll be no trouble the ovver end. They’ll be waitin’ fer us an’ once the load’s orf the motor Tony can take it back on ’is own. As I said before, we can stop over the ovver side o’ the water fer a celebration drink. I know a few good boozers over there as it ’appens. The only fing we’ve gotta decide is, who’s gonna come wiv me on Sunday evenin’ fer the pay out. We can’t all go traipsin’ over ter see Johnnie Buckram.’

  Billy Sullivan was silent for a while, his mind racing. With his share he would be able to get the gymnasium he so badly wanted. The only thing which bothered him was the old night watchman. Supposing something went wrong, he thought anxiously. Supposing one of them got carried away and hit the old boy too hard. No, there had to be no violence to the watchman. He would make that clear, or else he would have no part in the raid. As he stared down at his half-empty glass Billy became aware of Freddie watching him closely and he looked up at the schemer suddenly, fixing him with a cold stare. Freddie the Nark was a shrewd character, he thought, and from what he knew of the man Billy realised that he must tread very carefully. Freddie lived by his wits and he was involved with many shady characters. He had found the fence and he had planned the raid very well. He had a vicious side to his nature and it apparently meant nothing to him that an old man was going to be roughed up during the raid.

  Freddie was indeed a shrewd character and he knew that Billy Sullivan was hedging. He was known as the Nark by the local people who placed their bets in Albion Street. Freddie stood on the corner of the turning as lookout for Tommy Green the street bookmaker. He knew the local C.I.D. and it was said he could sniff a copper out a mile away. Freddie the Nark also had the reputation of being a womaniser. His long-suffering wife Elsie knew that her man had a mistress tucked away somewhere. What she did not know was that Freddie had two children by his other woman. Elsie kept quiet about his affair and swallowed her pride, however. With six children to feed she felt unable to challenge him about his mistress lest he walked out on her for good.

  Billy had made up his mind. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on the table. ‘Right, Freddie. I’ll go along with the business on one condition,’ he said quietly.

  ‘What’s that?’ Freddie asked.

  ‘We leave the old boy alone. We can throw a sack over ’is ’ead an’ warn ’im ter be quiet or else. That should be enough.’

  Freddie was quiet for a few moments, then to Billy’s surprise he nodded. ‘Right. We’ll do it your way. But I’m warnin’ yer, Billy,’ he said with menace. ‘If that ole watchman gives us any bovver I’ll do ’im meself. Is that understood?’

  Billy nodded. ‘That suits me,’ he said. ‘Now let’s get a drink in. I’m gonna drink ter Billy Sullivan’s gymnasium.’

  Chapter Four

  Carrie leaned back in her chair and rubbed the tips of her fingers across her forehead as she stared down at the mass of papers on the kitchen table. There were unpaid bills, receipts and invoices, all spread around the large dog-eared ledger that Fred had used for the past few years. ‘It’s a complete mess,’ she groaned aloud.

  Fred Bradley was sitting by the kitchen range polishing his best boots and he looked up at her suddenly. ‘I’ve bin usin’ that book fer years,’ he said defensively. ‘Everyfing’s in there.’

  Carrie shook her head in exasperation. Some of the entries were illegible and others were written across the ruled lines and ran into each other, and they were all in scrawly handwriting, which she found very difficult to decipher.

  ‘Yer should total these, Fred, an’ keep yer accounts tidy,’ she admonished him. ‘We’ve got ter see ’ow we’re doin’, ’ow much we’re spendin’, an’ set it against the takin’s.’

  Fred put down the boot he was polishing and got up from his chair. ‘It’s all there,’ he said, sighing irritably. ‘Look, I’ll show yer. It’s dead simple.’

  Carrie folded her arms and stared up at him as he thumbed through the ledger and took out a grease-stained sheet of paper. ‘There it is. There’s nuffink difficult about it,’ he said with a show of impatience, pointing to the two columns of figures with the blacking brush. ‘Yer can’t ’ave it simpler than that, can yer?’

  ‘Well, I would ’ave thought so,’ Carrie answered shortly. ‘What does John Percival say when ’e does yer books?’

  Fred shrugged his wide shoulders. ‘I jus’ take everyfing to ’im an’ give ’im all those sheets wiv me totals on, an’ ’e works it all out. ’E’s never complained.’

  Carrie had seen the accountant’s bill for the previous year’s work and she knew why he never complained. ‘Well, it’s not businesslike ter do it that way, Fred,’ she protested. ‘We should be able ter look at these books an’ see at a glance ’ow we’re doin’.’

  ‘But I know ’ow we’re doin’. We’re doin’ very good,’ Fred replied, sitting down in the chair facing his young wife. ‘The place is full most o’ the time, an’ since the trade’s picked up at the docks there’s more carmen comin’ in all times o’ the day while they’re waitin’ in the rank. You should know that, you’re servin’ ’em.’

  Carrie bit back a sharp reply and instead she leaned forward across the littered table. ‘Look, Fred. I asked yer ter let me do these books ’cos I wanted ter sort out the bills an’ see where we can make savin’s. I fink yer buyin’ wrong,’ she said quietly.

  ‘What d’yer mean, buyin’ wrong?’ Fred asked quickly. ‘I’ve got me regular suppliers an’ they always come on time. Ole Bert Moseley’s ’ere on the dot at nine o’clock every Monday mornin’ wiv me stuff, an’ Albert Buller comes round every Thursday mornin’ ter take me order. I’ve bin dealin’ wiv John
son’s fer years now, an’ so was me parents when they ’ad the shop.’

  ‘Well, I reckon we should look at the prices,’ Carrie persisted. ‘Now we’re increasin’ the order we should get better quotes. We could get bulk sugar instead o’ those silly packs yer bin orderin’, an’ we should fink o’ buyin’ tea by the chest. We’ve bin runnin’ out more than once lately. If yer remember, yer ’ad ter send Bessie out fer a couple o’ pound last Friday ter tide us over till Monday.’

  Fred looked crestfallen. ‘Maybe you should talk ter Albert Buller when ’e calls next time,’ he suggested.

  ‘An’ what about these books? Are yer gonna let me take ’em over?’ Carrie asked firmly.

  Her husband nodded meekly. ‘If yer want to. I bin pretty ’ard put to it in that kitchen lately,’ he said, passing his hand through his thick greying hair.

  Carrie got up and walked around the table, feeling suddenly sorry for her aggressive attitude towards him. She laid her hands on the top of his shoulders and kneaded the base of his neck with her thumbs. Fred dropped his head and groaned.

  ‘Gawd, that feels good,’ he murmured in a low voice. After a pause he added, ‘D’yer fink yer can get a discount from Johnson’s?’

  Carrie walked around to face him and gestured towards the mess of papers. ‘I’ve bin totallin’ up the bills fer the past month,’ she told him. ‘If we could get some discounts an’ look at what we’re buyin’ I fink we could do even better than we’re doin’ now. There’s ovver suppliers who deliver locally. If Johnson’s don’t give us any satisfaction then we’ll take our trade elsewhere. That’s business, Fred.’

  He looked at her with a smile on his wide, open face. ‘D’yer know, Carrie, yer’ve really changed from the little miss who knocked on my front door that evenin’. Yer was pretty as a picture an’ I said ter meself straight away, “Fred”, I ses, “this ’ere little lady is gonna be good fer yer business.” Little did I know she was gonna be me wife an’ ’ave me children.’

  ‘Whoa! ’Old on a minute, Fred Bradley. Children did yer say?’ Carrie exclaimed. ‘I’ve got one baby ter look after as well as an ’usband an’ the business. That’ll do me very well fer the time bein’, thanks!’

  Fred leaned out and grabbed Carrie around the waist, pulling her to him. She placed her hands against his chest to resist, a serious look appearing on her face.

  ‘We’ve got no time ter mess about, Fred,’ she said quickly. ‘I’ve got Rachel ter wash and settle, an’ then I’ve gotta sort those papers out.’

  ‘The papers can keep,’ he replied, his hands tightening around her waist. ‘Rachel’s quiet. Let’s go inter the bedroom.’

  ‘No, Fred,’ she demurred, trying to remain calm.

  ‘It’s bin a while now, gel,’ he said, his voice urgent. ‘I’ve bin missin’ yer. All work an’ no play ain’t good fer anybody.’

  She was pushing against his chest but Fred rose to his feet and, moving sideways, suddenly bent down and swept her up in his strong arms. Carrie sighed in resignation as he carried her out on to the small landing and leaned his shoulder against the bedroom door. She could smell the sweat on his body and feel his excited breathing. She closed her eyes and prepared to submit. It was better that way she told herself. Better than enduring his fumbling during the night in the vain hope of satisfaction when the need was strong in her.

  The bedroom felt cold and as Fred sank to the bed with her still in his arms Carrie closed her eyes and tried not to let herself focus on the small round damp patch on the ceiling above the foot of the bed. That patch had slowly become an image of despair and frustration over many occasions since she had first shared his bed. Fred was a kind, considerate man, uncomplicated and loving in his way, but she regretted that he had never been able really to arouse her fully and take her to the height of passion. Even when the need in her grew strong in the dead of night and she lay close to his slack body, caressing him and urging him, he was never able to fulfil the need in her.

  Carrie’s eyes opened reluctantly as he fumbled with her buttoned dress and she saw the small round damp spot on the ceiling. He was removing his thick leather belt with one hand and struggling with one of her buttons. She finished undoing it for him and slipped out of the dress, and as she let him raise her petticoat her eyes strayed again to the patch on the ceiling. Fred’s face was flushed a deep red and his breath came fast as he slipped down his trousers and pressed himself on top of her body. He was much heavier than her and Carrie felt breathless as his full weight bore down on her. She bit on her bottom lip as he moved into her roughly, his breath coming faster and changing to a pant. The damp mark above her seemed to take shape. It was like a smiling, mocking face, laughing at her useless attempts to raise her own passion. Fred’s trousers were still around his ankles and his movement was hurting her, but by the time she had managed to free one of her legs from beneath him he had finished. He lay prone on top of her for a few moments then he rolled to one side, panting loudly, his breath slowly returning to normal.

  ‘Was it nice?’ he said, his dark eyes close to hers.

  ‘Yes, Fred,’ she lied. She had tried to imagine Tommy Allen coming into the bedroom and taking Fred’s place, but it had made no difference. Just thinking of the dark young man with Romany looks who had taken her virginity, and for a short time had loved her so passionately, did not serve her well enough. She felt frustrated and alone, and a tear glistened in her eye as she lay there on her back with Fred’s limp arm lying heavily across her breasts. She had only herself to blame, she knew. After all, it was a marriage of convenience for her. It had been a way of escaping from the poverty into which her family had sunk, and she knew that by working hard for long, tiring hours and helping Fred turn the mediocre business into one that was thriving and profitable she would one day be able to help her parents and her brother too. Why should she feel guilty of deceiving her devoted husband, she asked herself, if it was only in her thoughts?

  The Saturday afternoon was drawing in now and Carrie looked out through the partly drawn curtains at the dark, rolling clouds. Rain was threatening and there was a distant roll of thunder. She moved slightly to one side and slipped from under Fred’s arm. He grunted and turned over, snoring noisily. Rachel had been quiet but now Carrie could hear her stirring, the growing sounds of protest coming through the open door. It was wrong for her to become obsessed with Fred’s inadequacy in the bedroom, Carrie told herself. If she was not careful all that she was working for, all that she had planned and schemed for, would be lost forever.

  Bill Smith took off his battered trilby and scratched his fuzzy ginger hair as he sat on his cart and urged the horse forward. The animal took no notice and clopped on at a steady plodding pace through the narrow turning. It had been pulling the small cart through backstreets for years now and seemed to know instinctively that it would probably be required to stop at any moment, so there was no point in hurrying. Broomhead Smith, as the totter was known, thought otherwise. He had been sitting on the cart since early morning and all he had to show for scouring the streets was an old tin bath that he had found on some waste-ground, a couple of sacks of rags and one or two pieces of old iron. There was also a badly scratched veneered cabinet which had once housed a gramophone. It was the only piece of junk that Broomhead was optimistic about. The scratches could be filled in with wood-filler and stained to match, and then the veneer cleaned with wire wool and vinegar, he decided. One or two applications of French polish would do the trick. It might even give him a nice profit on his outlay, which was nothing to worry about.

  Broomhead had tied the cabinet to the rave of the cart, lest it fall over and become more scratched if by any faint chance the horse decided to show some signs of life. The totter need not have worried. The animal was struggling with a loose shoe and was in no mood to break into a trot. Broomhead Smith had other things on his mind besides the horse. He had been accosted only recently by an irate Aggie Temple when he drove his cart into Page Street, and now he h
ad to steer clear of the little turning until he could fulfil his promise to get the woman a genuine tomcat mouser which had been doctored. The trouble was, the transport yard in Page Street was a good place to pick up bits and pieces of worthwhile scrap. Old horse brasses, damaged wagon wheels and various other items had very often found their way on to the back of his cart in the past without cost. Broomhead had at first considered giving the woman a salutation from his vast treasury of filthy language when she approached him, but he realised that it might damage his rather good reputation. As he prided himself on his fair and honest trading, and the high standards which he always maintained except in extenuating circumstances, the ginger-haired totter had decided he should do the right thing by her.

  Broomhead shifted his position on the cart and urged his horse on once more to no effect. They had just turned into Bacon Street when he heard a loud voice calling to him and pulled sharply on the reins. The tired horse stopped dead in its tracks and turned its head around to give him a baleful stare. Broomhead looked up in the direction of the shouting and saw a woman leaning out of a window on the top floor of Bacon Buildings.