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  He had thrown himself into work after Meg’s death. Despite the aching loss, he still had the golden touch. Jeb, his right-hand man, was an efficient enforcer. Shaun also relied heavily on a bent accountant, a man expert at laundering his ill-gotten gains and keeping the taxman at bay. The Tottenham venture was bound to be a success.

  He needed to stop worrying about his sons and relax. An evening at Diamonds was just the ticket. Jeb knew a girl there, didn’t he, a potential employee for Tottenham? The two of them should make a night out of it.

  Just as Shaun thought, Jeb was up for a night in the West End. Gambling had always been Jeb’s weakness. The younger man had even sought counselling in his prison days. It must have been serious; Jeb indulged freely in booze, cigarettes and cocaine without complaining of addiction. He must be backsliding. Shaun resolved to watch him like a hawk.

  Shaun dressed with care, choosing an Armani summer suit, cut from off-white linen. An East End boy, he would hold his own in the West End. As he knotted his white silk tie, he frowned at his reflection: the greying hair and jowls that had appeared as he hurtled towards fifty. His bright blue shirt flattered him though, bringing out the colour of his eyes and skimming over his paunch to give an illusion of slenderness. Meg had bought it for him. His mirror-polished shoes, by contrast, he had ordered himself from a cobbler who made them by hand. They added an inch to his height. While he could never be as tall as Jeb, he at least appeared above average.

  Jeb, arriving in Wanstead in a BMW with rap blaring from the stereo, was darkly handsome in a charcoal suit. A sheen of oil glistened on his short, black curls. Now he’d removed the single gold earring and nose ring he usually wore, he looked like an estate agent or kitchen salesman. He stared at Shaun with evident disbelief. “This isn’t a Saturday Night Fever convention,” he muttered.

  Shaun put Jeb right with a few choice words. “Slip a tenner to the doorman, you can get in anywhere,” he finished, sage advice that his father had given him and which turned out to be true that evening.

  Shaun had visited Diamonds several times before and was gratified that the staff remembered his preferences. He was ushered to the roulette wheel and asked if he would like to book a table for dinner, perhaps to have some well-hung fillet steak. Jeb trailed after him, his usual swagger as subdued as his clothing. The fibres of his suit caught the light, a tell-tale sign that it had cost less than a tenth of Shaun’s Armani threads.

  “I’ll put a hundred on red,” Shaun said, and the evening began.

  Shaun knew very well that the odds favoured the house; it was why he believed gambling was a business opportunity. Simply betting on red, he won on a few spins of the wheel, lost on a few more and almost broke even. Jeb, on the other hand, made arcane bets on combinations of numbers, losing nearly a thousand pounds. He seemed unfocused, reckless as he threw the chips down. Perspiration beaded his face.

  Shaun took him to one side. “You’ve been at the Charlie,” he hissed. He peered into Jeb’s eyes. Despite the inviting glow of the low lights over the gaming tables, it was too dark to tell.

  “I never touch it,” Jeb protested, unconvincingly.

  “What’s with these stupid bets, then? You can’t afford it,” Shaun whispered.

  “What? It’s hot in here, isn’t it?” Jeb said, mopping his brow. “I’ll have to go outside for a smoke.”

  It was possible Jeb’s cheap suit was the problem. Shaun doubted it. He was sure Jeb had overdone the powder. “I’ll come with you. Listen, we’ll leave after we’ve eaten, OK?” he suggested. “Just introduce me to that girl you mentioned. You said she’d do some work for me.”

  “You mean Kat? She’s over there,” Jeb said, pointing to a horseshoe-shaped blackjack table.

  Shaun stared at the blonde laughing and joking with a bunch of city suits as she handed over their winnings. She exuded charisma and he was surprised he hadn’t noticed her before. Still, blackjack was not his game of choice. It was one for professionals, or city boys who thought they could beat the house.

  The blackjack players couldn’t keep their eyes off her. Of course, she was at the centre of the horseshoe, and she was pretty, her tied-back curls reminiscent of Marilyn Monroe. Her uniform, a crisp white shirt, black waistcoat and miniskirt, suited her figure. It was more than that, though. As Kat caught his eye and smiled, he realised it was her self-assurance that attracted men. Like addicts seeking a hit, they clustered around her.

  Kat waved to Jeb. “I’ll be on my break in ten minutes,” she mouthed, before turning to the suits and beginning to deal once more.

  The casino had a patio for smokers. Shaun fished around in his pocket, retrieving his cigarettes. He offered them to Jeb, who accepted gratefully. After a couple of deep drags, Jeb regained his composure. He had a smile ready for Kat when she joined them. “Hi Kat. Want a light?” Jeb flicked a flame out of his lighter, a flashy gold number with a skull and crossbones picked out in sparkly stones.

  “No, thanks,” Kat shook her head almost imperceptibly. She had the grace of a unicorn. “We’re not allowed to smoke at work. You should know that, Jeb.”

  “Rules are made to be broken,” Jeb said.

  “How do you cope?” Shaun asked, curious. “I’d be gasping for one inside the hour.”

  “I guess I’m a social smoker,” Kat replied. Her eyes, jade-green, looked into Shaun’s for the first time. “We haven’t been introduced.” She held out her hand.

  Shaun shook it firmly. “I’m Shaun.”

  “Shaun’s my boss,” Jeb said. “I know you like your dresses, Kat. Shaun has a proposition for you that’ll help you pay those credit card bills.” He stumbled over the sentence; proposition was a long word for him.

  Shaun imagined Kat in a low-cut dress, then wearing even less. He chided himself. She didn’t look that type and she had a posh voice. “How would you like to earn some extra money, Kat? Cash in hand.”

  Kat laughed throatily, a pleasant sound that reminded him of jazz singers. “I’m open to opportunities,” she said. “What did you have in mind?”

  “I need a croupier for a new casino – an unofficial one.” He stopped there, giving her time to digest his words.

  Kat cottoned on quickly. “You mean a speakeasy?” she asked, her smile dazzling him.

  “Yes, a speakeasy,” Shaun said. “I like that word.” It conjured up visions of prohibition, of gravel-voiced gamblers drinking cocktails in smoke-filled bars. He resolved to employ a mixologist as well.

  “Where is it?” Kat asked. “I live in Fitzrovia; I don’t travel south of the river.”

  “No worries,” Jeb said. “It’s in Tottenham.”

  Shaun wished Jeb had kept quiet. Kat’s smile blazed less brightly. Tottenham was always going to be a difficult sell to someone like her, a classy girl living in the West End. “It has to be off the beaten track,” he said. “It’s exclusive, a secret destination. Those in the know will travel there specially. You don’t have to walk through the neighbourhood. I’ll pay for taxis, door to door.”

  “I’ll give you a lift, Kat,” Jeb said.

  “There’s no need,” Kat said, with a wry glance. “What kind of custom are you expecting?” she asked, turning her gaze towards Shaun’s again.

  Usually, he could read people’s eyes, yet Shaun realised hers were telling him nothing. Her expression was friendly, but entirely business-like. She gave away no emotion: no enthusiasm, desire or disdain. He respected her for it. “Entrepreneurs like myself,” Shaun replied. “Gentlemen and ladies who want to enjoy themselves without the government telling them what to do.”

  “He means smokers,” Jeb said. “And people who like a drink.”

  Shaun’s lips pursed. “We’re not talking crusties drinking strong lager and coughing over roll-ups,” he said. “I’m not chasing the losers who play on one-armed bandits.”

  “Quite right too,” Jeb agreed. “Those guys cause trouble. Although nothing I can’t handle, if I say so myself.”

 
Kat giggled. “You sound like a gangster, Jeb.”

  “Is that so?” Jeb said with mock irony. He winked at Shaun.

  “I want the sort of punters who come here.” Shaun scanned the patio, noting several smokers whose clothing and languages were foreign, and caveated his words. “Actually, a British customer base. No Chinese, Sheikhs, oligarchs or Poles. Londoners with money to spend in a relaxed environment. They can have a bit of a flutter, drink cocktails, try a cigar – all premium imported brands, of course.”

  “Like Snow Mountain vodka?” Kat asked, to his surprise.

  “Yes, high end brands like that. Why Snow Mountain in particular?”

  She shrugged her shoulders, a movement that, from anyone else, might speak of contempt. When Kat did it, it was simply elegant. “I was always told it was the best,” she said.

  “I’ll make sure to get it,” Shaun said. Why not? He would send a white van over to Belgium to bring back anything he needed. The warehouses over there stocked every brand under the sun, at bargain prices because their tax was lower. He allowed himself a moment of self-righteous indignation at the criminal level of taxation imposed by the British government. It was practically an entrepreneur’s duty to evade it.

  Kat stretched and yawned in a fluid movement, reminding Shaun of a ballet dancer. “Excuse me,” she said. “My break’s nearly over and I have to powder my nose.”

  “Oh yes?” Jeb winked.

  “Not the way you do,” she retorted.

  “Wait,” Shaun said. He had expected more time to discuss his beloved project with her. “Are you interested?”

  “In working for you?” Kat asked. “You want croupiers, don’t you? I’d love to help, but I’m not looking for another job. I’ve only been working here for a month.”

  “You need some extra money, Kat,” Jeb wheedled, his voice soft as marshmallows and sweet as honey. “They don’t pay what you’re worth in this place, and your designer clothes don’t come cheap. You could work a couple of shifts for Shaun, surely?” He touched her arm lightly.

  It was enough to stop her walking away. “You need more than one croupier twice a week,” Kat said. “How about you bring in some girls and I’ll train them? I’m sure Jeb has friends he can send along.”

  Shaun eyed her with admiration. Kat clearly had Jeb’s measure. She had subtly mentioned his cocaine habit, and his women. Better still, Jeb hadn’t noticed. “Of course,” he said. “Forty pounds an hour, cash.”

  “Sixty,” Kat said. “Sequentially numbered notes; no forgeries.”

  “Agreed,” Shaun said, offering a handshake. “Write down your phone number and I’ll be in touch to agree a start date.”

  He joined Jeb in staring at Kat’s bottom as she walked away.

  “Nice arse,” Jeb said.

  “You’re not wrong,” Shaun agreed. “You haven’t had her, have you?”

  Jeb inhaled on his cigarette, looking up at the sky.

  “I know I’m right.” Shaun said.

  “Any day now,” Jeb said, exhaling a blue cloud.

  “You’re offering her plenty of the white powder, I suppose?” Shaun said. “To ease her knickers off?”

  Jeb grinned.

  “You’re wasting your time,” Shaun said. “She won’t take it from you.” Sure, it had worked for Jeb before; many times. He had a string of girls right now, ready to service him and anyone else who paid for the pleasure. Kat was different from the others, though. Her accent put her in a stratospheric social class compared with them. Shaun was surprised she had the time of day for Jeb. He couldn’t see that Jeb had anything to offer her.

  “She will,” Jeb protested. “Kat’s got an addictive personality. She smokes, right?”

  “You heard the lady. She’s a social smoker. And,” Shaun glared, “she’s not a rough slag. She’s a posh bird. They operate by different rules. Plus I need her to train my croupiers, so back off.”

  “You dirty dog. You want her for yourself.” Jeb’s lip curled, then he smiled, appearing suddenly to remember who was boss.

  Was Jeb right? Shaun imagined fondling Kat’s bottom and squeezing her firm breasts. He shook his head. Since Meg died, womanising was no fun, not even the droit de seigneur he enjoyed over Jeb’s harem of young blonde addicts. He wished he knew why. Anyway, while he rated Jeb’s chances with Kat as slim to none, his own were even lower.

  Chapter 4 Charles

  “You must meet Mark,” Deirdre said, flicking her expensively toffee-coloured locks away from her face.

  Charles fixed a grin on his face, while groaning inside. He had been about to step outside for a cigarette. Clearly, the five minutes Deirdre had spent speaking to Mark, a small, bald man, was enough for her. She wanted to circulate and would be expecting Charles to divert Mark’s attention.

  “My partner, Chas,” Deirdre said to Mark. “He works in banking.”

  “I suppose we’ve got you to blame for the financial crisis, then,” Mark said. “Ha ha ha.”

  “Ha ha ha,” echoed Charles, feeling, as always when the subject arose, that this was rather unfair. He doubted the world’s finances had been hit when his team persuaded two antiquated computer systems to talk to each other. He knew better than to explain the finer points of IT to Deirdre and her chums, though. She’d warned him such expositions were tedious.

  “So you’re the lucky man,” Mark said, ogling Deirdre as she sparkled among a group of middle-aged women in jewel-bright cocktail dresses. “She looks like the cat with the cream. Many of us had hopes, but alas...”

  “Yes,” Charles replied. He felt insulted that Mark would regard himself as competition: the small man’s girth almost matched his height, producing the effect of a shiny-topped cube. Charles was quietly proud of making it to his mid-forties without hair loss or middle-aged spread. What on earth should he say next? “I don’t suppose you’ve got a light?” he ventured.

  “Yes, actually,” Mark replied. “I’m surprised Dee allows you to smoke. Thought a woman like her would be wearing the trousers.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong,” Charles said. “This may be her flat and her friends, but I’m here because I choose to be.” Even as he said them, he wasn’t quite convinced by his own words. He would much rather be at Deirdre’s drinks party than staying late at work, however, and he knew a cigarette would improve his mood. “Let’s go outside.”

  They stood on the balcony overlooking the Mayfair square’s gardens. A solitary worker was tending a lawn that already looked green, neat and trim as a snooker table. “Ah, you’re a Marlboro man,” Mark said. “Me too. I hate these networking events, by the way; can only get through them with whisky and cigarettes.”

  “Why do you turn up, then?” Charles asked, his curiosity piqued. His own presence was easy to explain: it was required by Deirdre. He, too, used nicotine to alleviate the stress and boredom of meeting strangers with whom he had nothing in common.

  Mark looked back over his shoulder. “Dee’s such a good connector,” he said. “When she hosts a gathering, she makes sure you meet people who can help you in your business.”

  “What’s your line of work?” Charles asked.

  “Similar to Dee,” Mark replied.

  “Fitness?” Charles nearly choked on his cigarette. An awful vision of Mark clad only in shorts and trainers swam into his mind. Mark’s physique was not so much pillowy as a whole duvet of flesh wrapped around his body.

  “No, videos,” Mark said. “I shoot and stream them online for a subscription, like Dee does with her fitness classes.”

  Charles imagined porn movies in which cube-shaped Mark was the star. He began to feel nauseous, and drew on his cigarette for comfort. “Yes,” he said, his tone non-committal.

  “I do corporate work as well,” Mark continued. “Today, I had a marketing shoot for Veritable Insurance.” He lowered his voice. “Between you and me, I wouldn’t work with them again for double the money. Terrible. There was a dreadfully rude woman called Parveen who kept
panicking and interrupting the shots.”

  “My daughter works for her,” Charles said, thankful that Mark’s work was nowhere near as interesting as he’d feared. Amy had bent his ear about a manager called Parveen. It had to be the same person.

  “She has my sympathy,” Mark snorted. “I’d find another job if I were her.”

  “She struggled to get that one. Dee had to pull strings. Her brother’s the CEO there.” Charles remembered not to use his partner’s given name; she regarded it as ageing.

  “Really?” Mark whistled. “I know she lives in this fabulous flat, but I didn’t think Dee was born with a silver spoon in her mouth.”

  “She wasn’t,” Charles said. “We knew each other at school. She used to smoke then.”

  He recalled Deirdre, nervous and chubby, lighting a cigarette for the first time. He’d been skulking with a couple of friends in the school’s old and overgrown air raid shelter, known as Smokers’ Corner. The bike shed was too heavily policed. His best friend, Tim, had brought a magazine adorned with pictures of naked women. All three fifteen-year-olds were poring over it.

  “I say, have any of you chaps got a light?”

  The boys turned round. Tim hastily stuffed the magazine in his school bag.

  “Well, look who it is! Davey Saxton’s sister.” Richard, like the others, was in the school football team. They all knew Davey, a curly-haired twelve-year-old who showed great promise on the soccer field. His sister, her hair mousy and windswept, looked every inch as sporty. She was wearing trainers, a cotton top and shorts. The outfit did nothing for her chunky thighs, although it revealed a bounteous bosom.

  “What’s your name, Davey Saxton’s sister?” Charles asked, making no attempt to look any higher than her cleavage.

  “Deirdre. I’m his older sister.” Her answer revealed teeth imprisoned behind braces. She added, in response to their cynical expressions, “I’m fourteen.”