Blaggers Read online

  ‘We’re fine just to stay up here,’ Zak reassured him.

  ‘Cool. I’d better get back - my set starts in five minutes.’ Then Dylan stopped. ‘Bummer! That’s them now.’ He pointed to a group of four men who had just entered the club through a side door next to the DJ box. ‘The two blokes nearest us are the owners and the big guy at the far side is the manager. Believe me, they are not nice people so just keep out of sight.’

  Mercedes leaned forward to catch a glimpse of these not nice people who seemed to rule their staff through terror. A sickening stab of recognition shot through her. There beneath her, in the middle of the dance floor, she saw not Harry Spinks and his heavies (whom she had mentally put at four to one favourite), but none other than her own brothers, Frankie and Chubby.

  ‘Oh! My! G-’ Jenny looked across the table; her eyes wide with shock.

  A sharp kick on the shin from Mercedes stopped her mid sentence.

  ‘G- ow... oh...’ Jenny’s voice trailed away.

  Although Jenny had never met Frankie, she knew Chubby and had obviously recognised him, so Mercedes narrowed her eyes, silently warning her to keep quiet. How anyone with even half a gram of social awareness could even think of revealing that one of those men was Mercedes’ blood relation, was beyond belief. It was something Mercedes was having difficulty getting to grips with herself. She certainly didn’t want Jenny blabbing it to Zak and Donovan on a first date. What the hell had she been thinking? But, more to the point, what did it mean? There must have been some sort of mistake. How could anyone have thought of Chubby in those terms anyway? Chubby wouldn’t swat a fly. Frankie, on the other hand... Well, she could believe anything of Frankie - almost. But not this. She knew he could be a bit creative about his business dealings but the insinuation had definitely been that the owners were on the fringes of crime.

  ‘Jeez!’ Zak leaned forward peering at the group below them. ‘That guy lives just down the road from me.’

  Great! So her best friend recognised one brother and her boyfriend recognised the other. At least Zak didn’t know that Frankie was related to her. She leaned back trying to distance herself from what was unfolding.

  But things were about to get worse.

  The man whom Dylan had described as the manager turned slowly in a circle as though doing a recce of the club. His gold crucifix earring caught the light and, with a dull thud of recognition, Mercedes saw her Uncle Horace. Oh deep joy! Who was going to come crawling out of the woodwork next, she wondered? Her mother, perhaps? Or even Nanny Molly? Talk about Sod’s Law! Her first time deviating from the straight and narrow and her family had turned out in force to try and catch her out.

  She watched as her brothers followed Horace’s lead, looking round the club; scanning the punters for... For what? Under-age drinkers? No way! Even Mercedes wasn’t that naïve. No, the previous day’s overheard conversation combined with this and she had the feeling that something big was going down. But what? She didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.

  ‘Are you OK?’ Zak asked.

  ‘I’m fine,’ she replied, unconvincingly. ‘Bit of a headache, that’s all. I’ll just sit here and finish my drink.’

  Or maybe, she thought, there was a slim chance that she’d fallen asleep and woken up in the middle of a bad dream. Her eyes scanned the club trying to find evidence that the whole thing was a misunderstanding; that her brothers weren’t the people Dylan had been talking about. She knew her brothers were a bit overprotective with her and she knew they weren’t averse to accepting the odd backhander every now and again but that didn’t make them crooks, did it? Five minutes ago she’d been worried about what her brothers would say if they knew she’d been to a club that was run by criminals; now she was being told that her brothers were those criminals. It was too much to take in. She needed to get out and go home but her only exit was across the floor where she’d be seen by the very people she wanted to avoid.

  ‘Do you want to go home?’ Zak looked concerned.

  ‘No!’ she said, meaning, Yes but only if you can wave a magic wand and beam me out of here without us having to cross the dance floor. ‘I’ll just sit back and take it easy.’

  From the back of the alcove she could watch her brothers and wait for an opportunity to make her escape and she was fairly certain that they couldn’t see her. She saw Frankie nod in the direction of an alcove that was concealed from the main area by a fretwork screen. It was diagonally opposite their hiding place. Her brothers walked towards it and the fourth man in the group stepped forward and pulled back the screen. He was smaller than the others, of Mediterranean complexion and was completely unknown to Mercedes. She felt a momentary flush of relief that at least there was one member of the group who wasn’t related to her by either birth or marriage.

  Dylan had begun his set and the music had increased in tempo. More people were taking to the dance floor.

  ‘Shall we have a dance?’ Jenny asked Donovan.

  ‘Er, hello!’ Mercedes pointed out. ‘Has the whole low-profile business gone by the board?’

  ‘Come on, no one will see us. There’s so many people down there.’

  For once Mercedes thought that Jenny might have a point. The dance floor was quite crowded and, with her brothers otherwise engaged with their meeting this could be ideal time to make their exit.

  ‘Actually,’ she said to Zak, ‘I think I would like to go home now.’

  Jenny opened her mouth to protest but another look from Mercedes stopped her.

  Mercedes sent the boys down the spiral staircase first and she and Jenny followed. Once they were on the dance floor she felt safer. They merged with the other clubbers and, in the subdued lighting, she was sure they were home and dry. Zak took her hand. Halfway across the room he stopped.

  ‘Sure you don’t fancy dancing?’

  It was very tempting but, as she paused to consider his suggestion, she felt a strange hand between her shoulders. Despite the heat, an icicle of fear slithered down her spine, as she was pushed forwards into Zak’s chest.

  ‘OK,’ he grinned. ‘If you’re asking, I’m dancing.’ And he placed his arms round her waist.

  ‘What the hell happened?’ she asked angrily, peering over his shoulder to try and see who it was who’d pushed her.

  ‘There was a woman on a mission and it seemed that you were in her path.’

  Mercedes peered through the crowd to a woman crossing the dance floor. She was slim and black with long weaves to her waist. She walked slowly, wrapping one leg in front of the other with her head high and the expression of a wild cat stalking its prey. The dancers parted like the waters of the Red Sea, as she made her way towards the booth in the corner.

  Zak leaned forwards and shouted into Mercedes’ ear, ‘Hey! You’ve been slapped on the back by Honey Coombes, the supermodel.’

  ‘Great, I’ll never wash my shoulder blades again,’ she replied, distractedly.

  She watched as the model tapped on the fretwork and waited for the wooden screen to be pulled back. Honey Coombes was glaring round the room and tapping her stilettoed foot impatiently. Frankie emerged from the alcove, placed his arm around her waist and kissed her full on the lips. Any anxiety Mercedes had felt about being caught in a club was suddenly replaced with outrage. The dirty rotten cheat! And how could Chubby sit there and go along with his brother’s two-timing, scumbag antics?

  Once more, Zak leaned forward so that Mercedes could hear him above the music. ‘Wow! That’s the guy who lives near me and, unless his wife’s been overdoing it on the sunbed, it looks like he’s playing away from home. I think you’re right - it’s probably best that we get out of here. If he’s as dodgy as Dylan’s making out, I’ve got more information than is healthy for someone who’d like to make it to his eighteenth birthday.’

  Just at that moment, Mercedes saw Honey
push a piece of paper into her brother’s top pocket and then point in the direction of the door. She appeared to say something to Frankie. Mercedes watched her brother strain his neck, looking over the heads of the dancers. Mercedes wasn’t scared of being found out any more - she had enough inside information now to keep Frankie quiet - but she was intrigued to know exactly what was going on. Frankie put his fingers to his lips, the way he had taught Mercedes to do when she wanted to call the dogs, and let out a whistle that could penetrate a thousand decibels of music. Then he beckoned in the direction of the door.

  Keen to remain unseen, Mercedes grabbed Zak, pulled him towards her and kissed him. It wasn’t quite how she’d planned her first kiss. After all, it wasn’t exactly romantic; her attention was focused more on what was going on over his shoulder than what was going on in their mutual lip area. But she’d always prided herself on being able to multi-task.

  The bouncer who had let them in crossed the floor and faced Frankie. There was a brief altercation during which Frankie appeared to grab the front of the bouncer’s trousers. He sank to his knees, said something to Honey who gave a haughty sniff before entering the private booth with Frankie and leaving the bouncer on the floor.

  Mercedes pulled away from Zak. ‘Thank you,’ she said.

  Zak looked dazed. ‘Wow! My pleasure!’

  ‘Cool!’ Mercedes smiled and headed towards the exit.

  Well, one thing was certain anyway; Frankie could scream and holler all he liked about her being in a club under-age but he was on a hiding to nothing now. He wouldn’t dare say a word. OK, so some people might call it blackmail, but Mercedes preferred to think of it as her safety net. And she was going to use whatever means she could to discover exactly what was going on in her family.

  Seven

  Watching grass grow would’ve been infinitely more exciting than Mercedes’ weekend. Apart from Jenny wanting to know why Donovan hadn’t phoned her, (eight times), and En Min wanting to find out how the date had gone, Mercedes’ mobile might as well have dropped into a sound-proofed well for all the messages she got from Zak.

  The house phone, on the other hand, had hardly stopped ringing. Nanny Molly was due into Stansted on the Sunday evening, combining her summer respite from the Costa-del-Lager-and-Chips holidaymakers with her seventieth birthday celebrations the following weekend. The marquee had been ordered, the caterers briefed and guests invited - yet, by mid-afternoon on the Sunday, Mercedes was in danger of developing a permanent crick in her neck from having taken so many telephone messages. The sound of it ringing again was too much. She folded her arms, lay back on her bed and let it ring.

  ‘Get it for us, will ya, babes?’ Laverne called from where she and her sister were sitting on loungers by the poolside, apparently incapable of reaching out to the cordless phone that was less than an arm’s length from either of them.

  Mercedes remained resolute. It wouldn’t be anything important anyway. By which she meant that it wouldn’t be the one person she wanted it to be. The odds on Zak ringing on the landline were at least a thousand to one. There was no way she’d ever give him her home number - just on the off chance that her mother might pick up. Although, in the light of this weekend’s phone activity, there’d be fat chance of that happening.

  She put her hands behind her head and stared idly at the ceiling as she worked out the odds on a variety of telephone contenders. Over the course of the Saturday, she had taken three calls from And So to Bedouin, the tent people, triple-checking Laverne’s constantly changing instructions on the size of the marquee. Florrie’s Flowers had rung, confused about the number of table centre-pieces and Helium Heaven had called to say that they needed to take expert advice as to whether or not the marquee would stay moored to the ground with so many balloons inside it. Being Sunday, Mercedes was fairly certain that she could write off anyone concerned with the party as a rank outsider.

  ‘Merce! Get the bleedin’ phone for gawd’s sake, will ya?’

  Mercedes was well and truly fed up with being her mother’s secretary. ‘Can’t you get it?’ she called down from her bedroom window.

  ‘You ’aving a giraffe, or what?’ came her mother’s truculent reply. ‘Can’t you see Sylv’s doing my nails!’

  Mercedes flopped back on to her pillow just as the phone stopped ringing. So what? If it’d been important they’d leave a message on the answerphone. Her nan had already phoned both as she’d left her apartment in Marbella and again from the airport in Malaga and, according to Ceefax, air- traffic controllers across Europe were on their best behaviour, so it wasn’t likely to be anything urgent. Mercedes carried on where she’d left off working out the tote: Frankie hardly ever rang so she’d give him fifty to one. Cheryl on the other hand, having been brought up in care herself, seemed to be under the misapprehension that her mother-in-law was the childcare guru of East London, and was a distinct possibility worth at least five to one. But, Mercedes gave a shudder, the fingers-down-the-throat favourite at two to one on, had to be Terry Tweddle. And no way was she up for a conversation with Gold Denture!

  ‘Who was it?’ her mother’s voice sounded from the garden.

  ‘Dunno!’

  ‘What d’ya mean?’

  Mercedes wondered why they’d bothered booking an amplifier for next Saturday’s party - all they needed to do was plug the PA system into her mother and the whole of Snaresbrook would get an earful.

  ‘It stopped before I could get it.’

  She heard her mother mutter something to Auntie Sylvie. Then, ‘Come down ’ere, will you.’

  Mercedes, still hopeful that Zak might ring, picked up her mobile and went into the garden. Laverne was holding her fingers out as though she’d had steel rods inserted.

  ‘Look, babes! What d’ya think?’ Each nail, long enough to be called a talon in any other species, had a crescent of black nearest the nail-bed with a silhouette of a palm tree against a gold and pink sunset. ‘Reminds me of Lanzarote last year, don’t you think, babes? Sylv’s done them with transfers for now - just so as I can get a feel for them and then I’ll get Angie at the Chingford salon to airbrush them next week. Fabulous, ain’t they?’

  Mercedes found it difficult to match her mother’s enthusiasm. ‘Lovely,’ she said with more obligation than admiration.

  ‘Now, what d’you think about a diamanté stud in the middle of each sun?’

  Mercedes sighed. It was time for truth to prevail over diplomacy. ‘Too much.’

  ‘Yeah, I think she’s right, ’Verne,’ Sylvie agreed. ‘I would just have one on each thumb if I was you.’

  ‘I’m going to take the dogs out before Nan gets here.’

  ‘What about the phone?’ Laverne asked.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘Ain’t you gonna do 1471 and see who it was?’

  Mercedes stood for a moment without answering. She wanted some space. So much had happened in the past seventy-two hours. Her whole perspective on life had done a hand-brake turn and she needed to make sense of it all. She’d met, gone out with and kissed the most gorgeous boy she’d ever set eyes on but now he hadn’t either phoned or replied to any of her text messages. She’d also discovered that her brothers were involved in some sort of underhand activities and, the more she thought about it, the more she realised that her mother probably knew all about it too. Uncle Horace was obviously up to his neck in it, so unless he and Auntie Sylvie had a totally non-communicative relationship, she suspected that her aunt was also a party to the dubious dealings. She knew that she’d been brought up to trust no one, but she’d never dreamt that that included her own family.

  Ignoring her mother’s question she turned to her aunt. ‘Auntie Sylvie, what does Uncle Horace do?’

  An almost imperceptible glance passed between the two sisters before Sylvie found something that required her full attention on Laverne�
�s thumb nail. ‘A bit of this; a bit of that. You know,’ she said, without looking at her niece.

  ‘No, I don’t know,’ Mercedes persisted. ‘A bit of what?’

  ‘He’s a consultant,’ Laverne chipped in. ‘Now, go do 1471, there’s a good gel.’

  ‘What sort of consultant?’

  ‘Who d’you think you are, Chris bleedin’ Tarrant?’ her mother snapped.

  ‘It’s just that he seems to work away from home quite a lot.’

  ‘Yeah, and?’

  Satisfied that there was something definitely fishy about her uncle’s employment that her family didn’t want her to know about, Mercedes realised that it would be impossible to investigate further without giving away the fact that she’d been in the nightclub.

  ‘I just wondered if he’d be home for Nan’s party, that’s all.’

  Another glance passed between the sisters, this time one of relief. ‘Course ’e will, darlin’,’ her aunt smiled. ‘Orace wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

  ‘Now, babes, go get the phone and find out who was calling will you?’

  ‘No,’ she said. ‘I told you, I’m going to take the dogs out.’

  Unused to such non-compliance both Laverne and Sylvie stared open-mouthed.

  ‘Why, you cheeky little mare!’ Laverne said, after some time.

  Ignoring her mother, Mercedes whistled through her fingers and the dogs bounded down from the shrubbery behind the tennis court. She turned and walked towards the house.

  ‘Merce! You come back ’ere!’ Her mother was flapping her hands and shouting.

  ‘Watch it ’Verne - the top coat ain’t dry yet,’ Sylvie warned.

  ‘Merce! Get back ’ere! What’s got into you, you mouthy little cow?’

  Mercedes took the dog leads from the hook by the door and switched off her mobile. She did not want to be contacted by anyone. And if Zak rang - well, too bad! He should’ve rung sooner. From now on, no one was going to mess with Mercedes Bent. And she meant no one!