Nothing but Trouble
Also by Roberta Kray
The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Strong Women
The Villain’s Daughter
Broken Home
Non-fiction
Reg Kray: A Man Apart
COPYRIGHT
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-74812-301-8
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2012 Roberta Kray
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Also by Roberta Kray
Copyright
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Epilogue
For my great friends Marcelle and Stuart Carratt and their
lovely daughters Tanya, Kirsty, Sian and Narita.
Prologue
On the surface there was nothing different about that dull August day in 1998, and yet it was to change all our lives for ever. Shall I tell you about it? There’s a part of me that wants to, that longs to, but another part that’s simply too afraid. I’ve kept it hidden for so long, and if I open the box all kinds of demons might fly out. I’m not sure if I can cope with that. There’s something else I’m worried about too, another fear that can’t be pushed aside: I’m terrified of being judged. Even as I write these words I’m aware of how cowardly they sound. But that’s who I am. I’m a coward and a liar, and because of me a ten-year-old girl died.
Well, there it is. I’ve taken the first step, admitted it, and there’s no point in trying to backtrack now. So I’ll tell you what I know. It may not be the whole truth, the exact truth, but I’ll do my best. Time plays tricks with the memory, and my account may not be completely accurate.
This is a story about six ten-year-old girls. On the day we’re talking about, five of them ate their breakfasts, left their respective homes and met up at the rusting gates of the Mansfield Estate. Becky Hibbert was the first to arrive, closely followed by Kirsten Roberts, Lynda Choi and Sam Kendall. Paige Fielding, as always, was the last on the scene; she was the self-proclaimed leader of the gang, the tallest and the loudest, and she liked to exert her authority by keeping everyone waiting.
Alley cats was what the neighbours called them, kids with too much time on their hands and nothing better to do in the school holidays than aimlessly roam the East End streets of Kellston. On that particular Wednesday the sky was a gloomy shade of grey, but the air was mild enough and the rain had stopped falling. The five girls, dressed in jeans and T-shirts, flip-flopped down the high street with boredom tugging at their heels. With less than a quid between them, they were on the lookout for anything that could be easily lifted.
After being thrown out of Woolworth’s – they’d raided that store too many times before – they headed for the market, where there were usually easy pickings. Keeping their eyes peeled for careless shoppers who left their purses too close to the top of their shopping bags, they strolled casually up and down between the rows of brightly coloured stalls, their quick hands swiping what they could. Small, easily hidden items were what they were after. The jewellery stalls were their favoured sites, with their heaps of rings and bracelets and dangly earrings. The girls had little idea of the value of what they took but, like jackdaws, were drawn to anything that glittered.
After they’d accumulated as much as they safely could, the next stage was to find a quiet place to survey the haul. This was always somewhere in the confusing maze of alleyways that criss-crossed the dingier parts of Kellston. On that Wednesday morning they went round the back of Albert Street, haunt of the local toms – although none were working at that time of day – and hunkered down by a pile of old crates. The ground was littered with discarded condoms, used needles and empty plastic cider bottles.
It was Paige who gathered the spoils together, making sure the others didn’t hold anything back. She had a sixth sense for when someone was lying to her and the ability to inflict the worst Chinese burns in living memory. Paige was, to put it mildly, a Class A bitch.
‘Gimme,’ she ordered, holding out her hand, palm up, to each girl in turn.
Everyone did as they were told.
Paige would examine the stolen goods, sneering if she thought they weren’t up to scratch. Everyone had to contribute something or they wouldn’t eat that lunchtime. Those were the rules and everyone stuck to them. Most of what they lifted was cheap costume jewellery, but occasionally they struck gold with a purse or a wallet. When that was the case the cash was divided equally between them, but the credit cards went straight into Paige’s back pocket.
That Wednesday, however, the pickings were slim. A few rings, a silver chain and a selection of bangles was the sum total of the morning’s activity. As midday approached and their stomachs started to rumble, the gang drifted down to the Hope and Anchor, where old Johnny Lucker, a lifelong fence, would be sitting hunched over his pint of bitter. Paige put her head round the door, frantically flapping her hand until she got his attention. Then it was off to the staff entrance at the side. There, beside the bins and out of sight of prying eyes, Lucker’s nicotine-stained fingers furtively examined the goods. His mouth turned down at the corners as he saw what was on offer.
‘Barely worth leaving me pint for,’ he grumbled.
‘Aw, come on,’ Paige said, flicking back her long brown ponytail. ‘That chain’s worth summat. You know it is.’
‘I’ll give you five quid for the lot.’
‘Ten,’ Paige said.
‘Five,’ he repeated firmly. ‘And that’s being bleedin’ generous.’ He rummaged in his pockets and came up with four pound coins and a quid’s worth of change. ‘Here. Take it or leave it. It’s the best I can do.’
Paige pulled a face but reluctantly accepted the cash on offer.
And perhaps that was why it happened.
Paige wasn’t happy, and when she wasn’t happy she always found a way to vent her frustration.
It was hardly the first time the girls had been disappointed. Sometimes they got lucky, sometimes they didn’t. So there was nothing particularly different about that day, apart from one essential fact. As they wandered back in the direction of the chip shop, Minnie Bright appeared from nowhere and tagged along behind them. She was the type of kid who no one wanted to be friends with, small and spindly, with a colourless face and strange pale eyes. In fact everything about her was vapid, as if she’d been put through the washing machine as many times as her ragged clothes. She had an odd smell too, a faintly metallic odour.
‘Fuck off,’ Paige said.
But Minnie didn’t. As if oblivious to the demand – she was probably used to similar ones at home – she continued to saunter behind them. One of the buckles on her cheap plastic sandals was broken, and it made a small clinking sound as she put one foot in front of the other.
Becky Hibbert turned, placed her hands on her hips and glared at her. ‘Are you deaf or what?’ Becky saw herself as Paige’s lieutenant, the second in command, and as such was always out to try and impress. ‘Fuck off, okay?’
Minnie lifted a hand, scratched hard at her scalp and gazed blankly back.
‘Yer not wanted,’ Becky said. Leaning forward, she gave the girl a shove. ‘Clear off! Don’t you understand bloody English?’
Minnie stumbled back a step, bit down on her lower lip, but didn’t say a word.
None of the others intervened. Although not cruel by nature, Kirsten, Sam and Lynda all had the same instinct for self-preservation. They knew that as long as Becky and Paige were busy tormenting Minnie, they themselves were safe from similar treatment.
Suddenly, glancing to her left, Becky was distracted. Momentarily forgetting about her victim, she gave Paige a nudge with her elbow. Her voice was a hushed combination of awe and excitement. ‘Look who it is. It’s him, it’s him!’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘At the bus stop.’
‘Who?’
‘The Beast,’ Becky whispered.
All six of them simultaneously looked across the road towards the man in jeans and a dark jacket. He was in his fifties, an average sort of height and with sandy-coloured hair receding from a large domed forehead. His mouth, wide and fleshy, tugged impatiently on a cigarette. All the kids knew Donald Peck, or at least knew of him. He was the local bogeyman, the flasher, the weirdo who liked to unzip his flies and show his floppy cock to unsuspecting children.
‘See that man, Minnie?’ Paige said, grinning. ‘The one with the black sports bag, yeah? Well, he kills bad girls like you and chops them into little pieces.’
Minnie shrank back, her pale eyes widening.
‘See that bag he’s got? It’s full of arms and legs and tiny hands.’ Paige reached out and grasped Minnie by her skinny wrist. ‘Shall I give him a shout and tell him to come over here? Shall I tell him how bad you’ve been?’
Minnie frantically shook her head, her startled eyes darting between Paige and the man across the street.
‘What?’ Paige said. ‘I can’t hear you.’
‘N-no,’ Minnie eventually squeaked out.
The bus arrived and temporarily obscured their view. After a while they saw Donald Peck walk towards the rear and settle down in a seat, placing the bag beside him. Paige waited until the bus had moved off before resuming her torment of Minnie.
‘Okay, I’ll let you come with us. But you’d better do exactly as I say, or I’ll be giving the Beast a bell and telling him where you live.’ The corners of her mouth curled into a cruel smile. ‘He’ll come round in the middle of the night and snatch you away, and you’ll never be heard of again. You got it?’
Minnie’s head bobbed up and down like a manic nodding dog.
‘Okay, let’s go.’
The others, realising Paige was up to something, exchanged a quick series of looks.
‘Where are we going?’ Kirsten said.
‘You’ll see,’ Paige replied.
She led them back along Station Road with her hands in her pockets and a new swagger in her step. From time to time she leaned in towards Becky and whispered in her ear. The two of them giggled together, glancing over their shoulders at the others. Even at that tender age, Paige had discovered the ancient art of divide and rule.
After five more minutes she swung a left on to Morton Grove, with its long row of dilapidated terraced houses. A few England stickers were still pasted on to windows, along with some red and white flags, symbols of a hope that had long since died. France had won the World Cup, and England had lost to Argentina. Beckham had been sent off after mistaking an opponent for a football.
‘Where are we going?’ Kirsten asked again.
‘Almost there,’ Paige said, turning in to the alley that ran behind the Grove. It was empty, as most of the alleyways usually were. They were known as a mugger’s paradise and all sensible people avoided them. A high red-brick wall lay to their right, and to their left were the mean backyards, the majority concreted over and used as dumping grounds for unwanted household items.
‘Here it is,’ Paige said triumphantly, flourishing a hand as she stopped outside one of the houses. They all stood and stared at it. There was nothing special about it; in fact the total opposite. The building was a wreck. Part of the guttering hung down from the roof, mortar was crumbling from between the bricks and the blue paintwork was peeling off in strips to reveal a lighter shade beneath. The windows, opaque with grime, didn’t need the grey net curtains to keep out prying eyes. The backyard was flanked by two tall rickety fences and was littered with debris; an old broken bicycle, a fridge and a heap of rotting bin bags took up most of the available space.
For a while nobody spoke.
It was Paige who eventually broke the silence. ‘Do you know who this house belongs to, Minnie?’
Minnie shook her head.
Paige grinned, clearly enjoying herself. ‘Course you don’t. You know fuck all. Well, it belongs to a queen, a very rich and beautiful queen, and she allows anyone who can get inside to choose what they want from her collection of jewels.’
Minnie’s eyes widened again. ‘A queen?’
Becky sniggered. ‘Yeah, you could be dripping in gold, Minnie. You could have a tiara and everything. You’d look like a princess.’
‘Why don’t you try the back door, Minnie, and see if it’s open?’ Paige urged. She gave the girl a push. ‘Go on, go and see. You might be the lucky one.’
‘Don’t be daft,’ Lynda Choi said.
Paige spun around and hissed at her. ‘Who are you calling daft?’
Lynda gave her a wary look. ‘I only meant—’
Paige glared. ‘Just keep yer Chinkie gob shut, all right?’ She paused for a second, waiting to see if anyone would challenge her over the comment – no one did – before looking smugly back at Minnie. ‘What did I tell you earlier about doing what you’re told?’
Minnie, after a short hesitation, began to walk down the narrow backyard. Every couple of steps she glanced back at the other girls.
‘Go on,’ Paige urged. ‘Don’t hang about. Just see if the door’s open and then come straight back here.’
Once Minnie was out of earshot, Kirsten said softly, ‘This is his house, ain’t it?’
Paige pulled a face. ‘What if it is? I bet he keeps all sorts in there. Probably got thousands hidden under the mattress.’
‘You reckon?’ Kirsten said.
‘Yeah, pervs like him don’t keep their dosh in a bank. They don’t do nothin’ normal. And he’s on the bus, so he’s well gone.’
Minnie reached tentatively towards the metal door handle, but withdrew her fingers again and turned, her pale eyes focusing on Paige. Then, as if the potential wrath of the
bigger girl outweighed all other considerations, she turned back, quickly gripped the handle in her grubby hand and pressed it down. There was a distinct rattling sound, but the door didn’t open.
‘Shit,’ Paige murmured.
Minnie rushed back, her thin cotton dress flapping round her legs.
Sam Kendall heard Lynda expel an audible sigh of relief. She tried to catch her eye but her friend looked away. Sam felt guilty about earlier, that she hadn’t defended Lynda. She knew that name-calling was bad, that it was hurtful, but her fear of Paige was greater than her sense of right and wrong. ‘I’m starving,’ she said. ‘Let’s go and get some chips.’
But Paige had other ideas. So far as she was concerned, this wasn’t over yet. Her expression grew tight and determined. To walk away empty-handed would be to admit defeat, to lose face in front of her troops. ‘There must be another way in.’
‘There isn’t,’ Sam insisted. ‘Come on, it doesn’t matter. Let’s go to the chippie.’
‘What about that window?’ Becky said, pointing. ‘The little one on the left. It’s not shut properly.’
Paige, with Becky and Kirsten on one side and Minnie on the other, strolled down the yard and peered up. The frosted window, probably leading into the bathroom, had been propped open a couple of inches. It was way too small for any adult to get through, too small even for most of the girls – but there was one person who might just manage to wriggle in.
‘You know what, Minnie, I think this could be your lucky day.’
Lynda Choi remained with Sam by the gate. She hopped from foot to foot, her anxiety growing. It was all very well nicking a few odds and sods from the market, but breaking in to a house was something else entirely. You could end up down the cop shop for that. She could imagine her mother’s face, her mother’s shame, if she did get caught. The thought was enough to propel her into action.
‘I’m gonna go,’ she whispered to Sam. ‘Are you coming?’
Sam dithered for a second, aware that they’d be punished for their desertion but as eager as Lynda to get away. She didn’t like being near this house. Its blank grey windows gave her the creeps. And although she knew that Paige had made up the story about the chopped-off arms and legs and tiny hands, she still had a scary mental image of them scattered around the dingy rooms inside.