Kitabı oku: «Trapped», sayfa 3
CHAPTER FIVE
The ride in the back of the black Mercedes to Holloway Road should’ve been a comfortable one, but Tommy Donaldson was finding it quite the opposite. Not simply from the broken air conditioning but from having to sit and listen to his father firing off a ranting tirade of abuse, directed at him.
Tommy noticed whenever his father was angry there was a change in his Irish accent. Over the years it’d become watered down from the years he’d lived in Soho. The anger, however, turned it back into a thick guttural growl, making all his words sound more violent and attacking than usual.
Catching his father’s eye in the driver’s mirror, Tommy continued to listen to the barrage of abuse, hoping desperately to get to their destination as quickly as possible.
‘Is it only me who’s able to tell the bleeding difference between four and half past four? When did you start to think it’s alright to be late? I didn’t bring up me kids to make a mug of me. Virgin Mary help me, because I’ll beat the shit so hard out of you son, you’ll be needing a colostomy bag. Between you and Frankie Taylor you’ll have me digging me own grave. What is it with people that think they can get away with disrespect? Well tell me lad, do I have cunt branded into me arse?’
Tommy glanced out of the window, biting his lip; he didn’t know if the question was supposed to be rhetorical or not. If he didn’t answer when he should’ve done, he knew when the car stopped he’d get a hard slap. If he answered when he shouldn’t; the same rules applied.
Before Tommy had decided what to do, Max swerved the car with blackout windows into the carwash off the traffic-filled Camden Road. The brake was put on too quickly, sending Tommy and one of his father’s heavies face first into the back of the leather front seats.
‘Well, well, well. Look what we have over there lads. They’re right when they say talk of the devil and he’ll appear. I’ll tell you something, the rats are coming out today in their droves.’
Max Donaldson spoke, staring with hatred at a white Range Rover on the other side of the empty forecourt. As Tommy followed his father’s gaze, Max opened the door and got out, giving Tommy a clearer view of the recipient of his father’s anger. There, standing larger than life, enjoying a joke together in the late afternoon’s sunshine were Frankie and Johnny Taylor.
Watching his father stride over towards them with his face curled up in a vicious snarl, Tommy sighed, preparing himself for trouble.
‘You’ve got a nerve, Taylor, showing your face round here.’ Frankie looked up, slightly taken aback but not unduly concerned to see Max Donaldson marching towards him, red-faced. He waited for Max to come closer then spoke, his tone laced with amusement.
‘Round here? Now all of a sudden this is your turf is it? My, my, how the Donaldsons have an inflated sense of self. You should lay off the coke Max, or is it just your son who sticks the whole of London up his nose? Glad to see you’ve changed your shirt since last night.’
Max lunged forward but was held back by Tommy. Apoplectic with rage, he turned his anger on his son.
‘Get off me boy. I don’t need a fecking babysitter. Grab me again and I’ll not think twice about slicing you.’
Max shook off Tommy’s arm, pushing him out of the way, and stepped a foot closer to Frankie. Squaring up and breathing hard as Frankie stood his ground, thinking about the way Max behaved towards his own son. The man was twisted with anger towards everyone.
Frankie didn’t have a problem with fighting usually. However the last thing he needed now was Max Donaldson with a bruised ego, squaring up to him because of a thrown drink and a wet shirt. He was already late to get round all the clubs so he wasn’t in the mood for any of Max’s crap.
‘Listen Max; pick a time and a place. You know I’m happy to have it out with you, but not here, not now.’
‘Why not Frankie? Scared you’ll not be able to put up when you haven’t got your men around you?’
Frankie shook his head. It was clear Max wasn’t about to back down and wouldn’t be happy if he didn’t get at least one swing in. He’d known him for years. Too long to remember. He’d always been a sadistic little bastard. It was common knowledge he’d frequently battered his wife and kids to the point of bones being broken.
Frankie knew the Donaldson boys quite well through his encounters with Max and from the fights Johnny had had with them when they’d been younger. He’d only ever seen Max’s wife and daughter in passing, years ago. Though he wasn’t complaining – the less he had to do with them the better. The whole family were messed up, or at least the boys were, so it wouldn’t surprise him if the girl wasn’t far behind.
He glanced at Tommy, who was standing behind his father. He kept himself to himself but he was known to be a bit of a looney tune. Still, however much of a nut job he was, Frankie had to admit, Tommy Donaldson certainly was a good-looking man. He could have easily graced the cover of any men’s magazine with his handsome face and tall, muscular physique.
The other brother, Nicky, whom he saw less of, was almost as handsome as his older brother. Handsome but another space cadet, sniffing up so much coke he hardly knew who he was. Frankie knew Johnny dabbled from time to time. Hell, he often enjoyed a line himself when he’d a late night ahead of him. But there was a difference between social enjoyment and a bang-on junkie.
It astounded Frankie how Max’s two boys could look so different from their father, who was short and stocky with a rounded face and beady, sunken eyes. A world apart from the handsome looks of his crystal-blue-eyed boys.
Frankie’s thoughts broke off as he felt Tommy’s intense stare. As blue and dazzling as they were, there was something unsettling about his eyes. Something that made him seem as if he was not all there. ‘Troubled’ as his old Nan would say. But then, having a father like Max Donaldson, it was no wonder.
Sighing, Frankie turned his attention back to Max. He could see Max wasn’t going to move unless he got a bit of a rumble. What he didn’t see was the small knife he was holding in his hand.
Not wanting a stand-off, Frankie took a swing, connecting his diamond knuckledusters to Max Donaldson’s lip. The warm blood spurted across both their suits and a tiny bit of bright red flesh landed on the concrete floor. Frankie saw Johnny step forward as Tommy and Donaldson’s goon came to wade in.
It didn’t take long for the adrenalin to take hold of Frankie, his appetite now wet for the fight. He went to take another swing at Max. Immediately he felt a cold rush go through his body. He touched his side and saw his hand covered in his own blood. Pushing down hard on the wound to try to stop the bleeding, Frankie stumbled forward, grappling to hold onto Johnny for support. He fell to his knees in front of his stunned son and managed to utter a few words.
‘He’s stabbed me. The fucking cunt’s stabbed me. Get hold of your mother.’
Then Frankie Taylor blacked out.
CHAPTER SIX
Gypsy Taylor sat down hard on the marble toilet. She’d been bursting for a wee all afternoon, but hadn’t been able to bring herself to use the public ones in Piccadilly. They smelt of stale urine which always reminded her of her beloved Auntie May who’d lived till she was well over a hundred and died with a smile and a fag on her lips. Gypsy was certain she could still smell the foul odour of the public conveniences lingering on her expensive clothes hours later, so she avoided them like the proverbial plague.
She supposed she could’ve made the short walk home back to Berkeley Square or to one of her husband’s Soho clubs to use the bathroom, but going back out to see her friends might have proved tricky. It would’ve meant explaining to her husband where she was going. And Frankie didn’t like her seeing her friends. Frankie didn’t like her seeing anyone. Anyone except for him.
Flushing the toilet and washing her hands in the Italian handmade sink, Gypsy wondered where her husband was. His phone was turned off. She’d tried the clubs but they hadn’t seen him; no one had. Not that she was worried, quite the opposite. She was going to luxuriate in the peace and quiet without him.
Gypsy loved Frankie with all her heart. She always had done. From the moment she’d seen him at the Reno nightclub on the Mile End Road she knew he was the one. But his possessive nature was starting to become too much. She was no longer the starry-eyed teenager he’d first met in the East End all those years ago. She was her own person now and she wanted her own life. However, trying to tell that to Frankie would be as good as asking him for a divorce.
It wasn’t as if she didn’t want to be married to him; she did. But him insisting on her having to call him throughout the day to tell him where she was and who she was with, had worn thin a long time ago. At first she’d thought it was sweet, Frankie wanting to know her every movement. However, over time sweet had turned sour; in fact, sweet had turned into a pain in the bleeding hole.
Her best friend was going to Spain soon with some of the other girls from the East End and they wanted her to go with them. ‘Come on, Gypsy; just tell your old man you’re going. Put your foot down girl.’ She’d looked at them and shaken her head. ‘You know what he’s like; he’ll probably think I’ll be jumping into bed with every Spaniard in sight. I wouldn’t put it past Frankie to turn up disguised as a matador so he can spy on me.’ Her friends had laughed hard. So had Gypsy, though her laughter was tinged with sadness. Not going to Spain was another example of Frankie’s control she couldn’t ignore any longer.
She needed her friends; they were a refreshing tonic. Unlike some women, Gypsy didn’t need the constant attention of men. She enjoyed the company of women and saw her friends not just to have a laugh with but also when she needed a shoulder to cry on. Most of all, Gypsy knew they just wanted the best for her.
Frankie, on the other hand didn’t see them like that. He saw them as he did anyone who came near her; a threat. A bad influence. ‘I don’t want you hanging round with those slags, Gypsy. You’re better than that.’ She knew it was pointless trying to convince Frankie. He was one of the most stubborn men she knew. But she still tried, always living in hope he might be able to see she could still love him and have her own life. ‘They’re alright, Frank. You don’t know them like I do. If you let yourself get to know them, perhaps you’d like them.’
The last time she’d said that to him, Frankie had banged his food down on the black cut marble table, and had gone to sulk in the cinema room where Gypsy had found him an hour later. They’d made love and as usual she’d enjoyed it. What she didn’t enjoy was her growing dissatisfaction with her princess in the tower lifestyle.
Gypsy sighed, looking at herself in the mirror. She wasn’t bad looking. A lot of people told her she looked like Bridget Bardot. Gypsy suspected a lot of her looks were down to the facelifts, along with the expensive weekly facials and that night creams she used religiously. ‘Fucking hell Gypsy, do you really have to slap that beauty mask on your face at night? Sometimes I think I’m shagging that geezer, Michael Myers, from Halloween.’
Frankie did make her laugh. Apart from his controlling nature he was good to her. And especially good to their son, Johnny, who was the apple of his eye. After Johnny she hadn’t been able to have any more children. Frankie had been gutted. Secretly she’d been relieved. Pregnancy hadn’t suited her. If she was honest, neither had the first few years of motherhood.
She’d suffered with depression for a long while after the birth of Johnny. She hadn’t been able to explain to Frankie what was going on. He couldn’t understand why she wasn’t on top of the world. He’d wanted her to go to the doctor but she refused, knowing whatever they said or did wouldn’t help.
The combination of the way she felt, trapped in the house with a young child, and Frankie’s possessiveness had been too restricting for her. She’d had two nannies to help. Although they hadn’t really been nannies in the conventional sense. They’d been two ageing strippers who’d worked in one of her husband’s clubs but had, according to Frankie, started to put the punters off with their wizened bodies and crinkled fannies.
Frankie was a generous man. A man who, even in the business he was in, was naturally given to looking out for others. Wanting to help and to reward the strippers’ loyalty, he’d employed them as home helps. She hadn’t minded. They’d been good with Johnny and she’d liked their company. But even with all the help, Gypsy still felt as if her wings had been clipped.
It was only when Johnny had started secondary school that she started to feel more like her old self and taste the freedom again. The more she tasted it, the more her hunger for it grew and with each passing year it got worse.
One way or another she needed to convince Frankie to loosen the rope – or one day he might wake up to find she’d cut the rope herself.
Her white Swarovski iPhone began to ring. Smiling, she saw it was Johnny.
‘Hello darling, how’s …’
Before Gypsy could get the rest of her words out, the colour began to drain from her face as she was interrupted by a hysterical Johnny. Within a moment Gypsy hung up the phone and began to run.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Nicky’s face was covered in blood. The water in the men’s room turned red as it poured into the clogged sink. For once Nicky’s bleeding nose wasn’t a result of being hammered by a fist or a foot, but by too much cocaine – which Nicky thought was better than being caused by too little.
It wasn’t the first time it’d happened. He knew it wouldn’t be the last. Nicky was in no doubt his nose would continue to bleed. Bits of flesh would continue to fall out and the cocaine would continue to erode the cartilage until it caved in completely.
But he couldn’t stop. Though at least he had a plan. If, or rather when, his nose did fall apart, all was not lost. He’d shoot snowballs or start to smoke more crack. He realised it was more difficult to function once he became heavy on the crack, but if that was the only way, so be it.
After washing his face in the men’s room, Nicky went into the main bar of the ‘Swag’ club; a lap dancing venue off Frith Street. The atmosphere was electric. He liked the place; it was classy, unlike a lot of the bars dotted around the area. Black velvet wallpaper, white leather seating and expensive chandeliers hung from the ceiling. The music was pumping out the latest sounds from New York.
It was a friendly establishment; he’d never seen or heard of any trouble in there. Most of the punters were male but Nicky always noticed a few women scattered around the dimly lit venue, sitting uncomfortably, pushing back into the seating, trying to distance themselves as far as physically possible to what was going on around them. Girlfriends, wives, all being brought along by their partners to join in the voyeuristic fantasies.
The lap dancers were tall, lithe women in their twenties. Good-looking girls who wanted to earn extra money, rather than the girls in the clip joints and peep clubs who needed to earn extra money. They gyrated expertly to the music in front of the clients, moving seductively, grinding their semi-naked bodies against the men’s laps; tempting them to pay for another dance.
Nicky liked it. But he wasn’t really interested in it. Not the drinking nor the women interested him, although he knew most of the girls by name. He wasn’t even really interested in the music. What he was interested in was the top-grade powder he could score.
He’d driven his father’s car back home, then taken the stuff Gary had given him on tick. Now he wanted more; needed more. He hoped Gary would be as obliging as he had been earlier.
Nicky smiled and spoke to the topless blonde Croatian woman sitting in the corner on her break. He raised his voice to be heard over the heavy beat of the music.
‘Have you seen Gary?’
She looked up at Nicky and grinned; a stoned glazed grin.
‘He’s in the back. Oh, Maggie came in; she seemed desperate to see you.’
Maggie. He’d forgotten she was coming home. Shit. He’d wanted to explain to her what had happened before other people started talking. He certainly didn’t want her to speak to Gina; that might ruin everything.
He was tempted to go and find Maggie and just hope she hadn’t seen Gina. Except the draw of getting some powder was too strong, and the grip on Nicky’s arm a moment later by the tall wiry black man was even stronger. He was going nowhere.
Gary Levitt was sitting in the back room of the Swag club smoking a cigar. He couldn’t abide the taste of them but he thought it looked good and added to his image. He wanted people to see him as sophisticated; not just some toerag dealer from Bermondsey. He glanced up from preening his manicured nails as Nicky Donaldson was marched into the room.
‘Nick-Nick. I’ve been wondering where you’d gone. I wanted to know where my money was.’
Nicky blanched. A look of confusion crossed his face. He’d only seen Gary a few hours ago. He’d told him he’d got a couple of weeks to straighten everything out, but here he was with a cigar longer than his dick hanging out of his mouth, demanding his cash.
‘I … I … I haven’t got it.’
‘Don’t stutter Nicky man, it makes me think of Porky Pig and I always fucking hated that cartoon.’
Nicky could feel beads of sweat forming on his forehead, partly because he needed to score, but mainly because he was eyeing up the cosh that the goon standing behind Gary was holding in his hand.
‘I thought I had two weeks, Gary. You said two weeks.’
‘Yeah, you’re right I did. Now I’ve changed my mind, a man’s entitled.’
‘Listen, I can get you some of the money in the next couple of days, not a problem.’
‘But it is, Nicky. It’s very much a problem. I don’t want it in two days; I want it now. I suppose I could always ask your Dad for it. I’m sure Daddy wouldn’t want to hear you’re in any trouble.’
He chuckled at the deepened fear showing on Nicky’s face. Gary could no more approach Max for money than he could the Pope; he wasn’t stupid. As much as he knew Max probably wouldn’t give a shit about Gary putting the squeeze on his son, he was still as scared as the next man was of Max Donaldson. Though one thing was clear – by the expression on Nicky’s face, Gary clearly wasn’t as scared of Max as his son was.
It amused Gary to play games with Nicky who was soft by nature. The man had so many beatings and took so much gear that even the changing wind seemed to frighten him.
‘Fine Nicky; I’ll give you a couple of days to bring me some money, but I don’t want you to forget.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’
‘I’m sure you won’t, but I want to leave you with a little reminder, a little memo.’
Gary Levitt nodded to one of his henchmen and leaned back in his chair, too uninterested to watch as Nicky’s face came into contact with the cosh.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Maggie sat deflated on the steps of the walk-up in Greek Street, waiting for Gina and watching the crowds of people go by. It was getting late and the last of the summer sunshine had disappeared.
She’d been all over Soho looking for Nicky and after making her way round all the bars she’d finally decided to give up, guessing he was probably crashed out in some dive or drug den sleeping off the night before. She’d then taken herself off to Gina’s flat in Robert Street on the other side of Euston Road, bracing herself for trouble, but like everywhere she’d gone, there’d been no one in. The frustration of getting no answer had brought her to tears. The second time she’d cried that day. Even though she’d been on her own, she’d quickly wiped them away, feeling embarrassed.
Her next stop had been the sauna on Brewer Street. An old haunt of Gina’s, a place Maggie knew she still liked to hang out in. Although Gina’s mouth was clamped shut like a good Catholic girl’s legs when it came to providing any information about her own business, Gina Daniels did enjoy listening to other people’s gossip, especially if it involved their downfall; and in the sauna on Brewer Street gossip overflowed like a blocked toilet.
Another reason Maggie knew Gina enjoyed visiting the sauna was to get herself a bargain from the junkies who went in on a daily basis with their stolen goods, hoping to get enough money to score some brown or a bit of crack.
Perfumes, make-up, watches, even expensive lingerie, made its way to Sonya’s Sauna in Brewer Street. All sold for next to nothing – for the price of a hit.
‘Hello Maggie love, it’s good to see you. Gina ain’t here. I saw her earlier though with a big fucking smile on her face. Jammy cow got herself a pair of Gucci shades for twenty quid. She’s probably gone to see Joanie in the walk-up on Greek Street to gloat. If I see her I’ll tell her you’re looking for her shall I?’
Maggie had looked at the Tom behind the reception in the sauna and smiled. She’d known her for years; the last thing she wanted though was Gina to know she was looking for her.
‘No, don’t say anything. I want to surprise her.’
That’d been at half past six. It was now nearly half past eight. She wasn’t sure Gina was even going to turn up at the walk-up, but watching Soho life go by was better than going back home and worrying.
In the two hours she’d been sitting on the stone steps, she’d only had to shuffle over to make way for three punters, eager to make their way up the bare wooden staircase and along the unpainted corridor to be ‘serviced’ for twenty quid by Joanie. Business was clearly down.
As Maggie saw it, Soho was divided into three different levels and it was down to the individual to see what they wanted to see. The first level was for the tourists, who gazed about with excitement, soaking up the sounds and the smells of the cramped one square mile. Feeling a part of the magic but not getting close enough for it to cast a deadly spell on them.
The second level was the mix of communities; real people trying to live in harmony amongst different cultural and social backgrounds, all attempting to be sympathetic to one another’s beliefs. Most of the time everybody managed to be tolerant, but occasionally it kicked off. Then the air would be heavy with tension until the community leaders sorted it out.
And finally there was the deepest level of Soho. The darker level which Maggie had been born into, and doubted she’d ever escape from. The protection rackets, the drugs, the sex trade, and the gangsters. The faces of Soho who ran the areas weren’t seen until they wanted or needed to be. That was the part Maggie felt she belonged to. She knew everyone; knew who to avoid and who to take the time to speak to. Soho was in her blood as strong as being a Donaldson was. Whenever she left it she missed it; and whenever she was in it she wanted to get as far away from the place as possible.
‘Touting for business, love? I’ll give you a quid and even then I’m being generous.’
Maggie looked up and saw the grinning face of Lola Harding who owned and ran a cafe round the corner in Bateman Street. Lola was a good ’un; she’d been a brass most of her life and lived in the area for all of it.
Maggie remembered Lola’s kids from when they were little. They’d all played together, though they’d been slightly older than her. One Christmas Eve Lola’s kids had been taken into care by social services, and Maggie could still hear the desperate screams as Lola and her kids physically hung onto each other in the street as she tried to stop them being carted off.
When Maggie had seen what’d happened to Lola’s kids, she’d envied them. Wishing someone could swoop down and take her away from her childhood. She would’ve happily traded a place in the Donaldson household for a place in care on any given day.
‘Whatever’s troubling you babe, it won’t help any sitting with your bum jammed to the floor. When you’ve got an arse full of piles from sitting on that cold step, let me tell you, you’ll really have something to cry about. Come on love, why don’t you come and have a cup of Rosie Lee with me?’
‘No thanks, Lola. I’m waiting for Gina.’
‘Well I reckon you’ll be waiting a long time. She’s probably got her knickers off somewhere.’
Maggie scrunched her forehead into a scowl.
‘I thought she only worked as a maid now, thought she was off the game.’
‘She says she is, but nobody ever really is.’
‘You are.’
‘That’s because no one will have me. I’d end up having to pay the bleeding punters.’ Lola roared out a cackling laugh, making the passing Chinese couple huddle together and quickly cross over to the other side of the street in fright.
‘Sure you don’t want that brew, Maggie?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘Okay love, but you know where I am if you change your mind and want a chat. Say hello to your mum won’t you, and ask her why she hasn’t left that rotten bleeder yet.’
Another roar of laughter left Lola’s mouth and Maggie watched her walk away towards Soho Square. She wondered how after such a hard life Lola could still always find a joke; still see the bright side in the darkest of situations.
Maggie sighed, closing her eyes when she lost sight of Lola to the throng of the crowds. It hadn’t even been twenty-four hours since she’d been back in Soho, yet sitting waiting in the filthy doorway, surrounded by the smell of piss, made it feel like she’d been back a lifetime. But however bad the homecoming, she was still glad to be home. A year away had been a year away too long.
It’d been her own fault she’d been sent down. When the police had raided the house as they often did, hoping to find something they could pin on her father, she should have let them just get on with it. It was nothing new. Since she could remember the house had been raided. Every six months or so there’d be a hammering on the door, before it was booted in by a dozen or more boys in blue who charged through the house like elephants on crack.
The law knew who Max Donaldson was and he knew the law. He had his fingers in lots of businesses but first and foremost her father was a loan shark and a bag man. He extorted payments off landlords and shop owners. Charging a thousand per cent interest to old ladies who hadn’t been able to pay their winter fuel bills. With no strong credit history to take out a loan from a bank, they turned to her father for a hundred pound loan, only to find themselves paying back thousands of pounds from the interest on the interest on the interest. And if they couldn’t pay, her father would happily pay someone to break a bone as a warning. A taste of what was to come if they messed him about.
Her brother Tommy had been recruited by her father to join the family business. He hadn’t had a choice. And he hadn’t been able to drop out of it like Nicky had by default.
Nicky was soft like freshly picked cotton but his drug habit was out of control. It had been since he was twelve. It was this, not his soft kind nature which made him unreliable. Their father had eventually given up with him, giving him only the odd job to do now and again. Therefore it was poor Tommy who took the brunt, forced to work day in day out with their father.
Even though Maggie didn’t work for her father, she might as well have done. Everything came from him, whether she liked it or not. Her father owned their house, paid the bills, paid for food, for clothes, for the lot. Everything which was bought had to be run by him before he decided to put his hand in his wallet. She had nothing he didn’t own or possess. Including her.
Maggie had never had a job. She’d never been allowed to – a daughter of a face couldn’t be seen working outside the family business. Her father however didn’t want her working with or by him. Though she wasn’t complaining; she’d no desire to be involved in a business which thrived on exploiting the vulnerable.
Consequently, she should have been of use to the police coming into her room, turning it upside down and leaving it a mess. But for some reason, on that day it’d irritated her more than usual. When she’d objected, the copper had just sneered at her. She’d felt her temper swimming through her veins and she’d wanted to clout him, just to take the smug sound out of his voice. But she hadn’t, well not until they’d found the bag of pills which she didn’t know anything about. ‘I’ve never seen them before.’
‘Well then whose are they, Maggie?’
‘I don’t know. I don’t know what they are either and neither do you. They could be Smarties for all you know.’
‘I’ll need you to come down to the station whilst we check.’
‘I can’t do that.’
‘I’m afraid you’ve got no choice.’
‘You don’t understand; I can’t.’
Maggie remembered she’d looked over to see her father coming to stand at her bedroom door. There would’ve been no way she could’ve talked to the coppers in front of him. To tell them what she needed to say and explain why she couldn’t get banged up then. ‘Listen, give me an hour and I’ll come. I promise.’
They’d grinned at each other, bursting out into laughter. ‘This isn’t a social engagement. You know the routine, Maggie; you and your family have certainly had enough practice. You’ll probably be bailed by tomorrow.’
Tomorrow. Her mind had raced. Wondering where her mother was. Then Maggie had looked over again to her father, and by the look in his eyes she knew he knew something about the pills. She’d stared at him harder, and out of view of the sergeant her father shrugged his shoulders, mouthing a mocking apology.
