East End Angel. Kay Brellend
her. She’d never get around as quickly as she needed to without transport. She didn’t think Dr Worth would like laying out for a new bike for her and she couldn’t afford to buy one herself out of her wages.
‘You’ve been hanging around here for a while,’ she blurted. ‘Did you see anybody take it?’
‘There was a fellow cycling round the corner into Brunswick Street when I turned up in the early hours.’ Nick recalled that little Pansy, as he now knew her name to be, had been pointing in the fellow’s direction. No doubt she’d been disturbed by someone stealing the bike and had gone outside, feeling curious.
‘Oh, damn! That was ages ago.’ Kathy stamped a foot in angry frustration before pacing to and fro. People were stirring – a milkman was clattering about at the end of the grimy terrace – but she knew she’d have no luck getting answers from anybody, no matter how many doors she hammered on. Nobody round here ever grassed up neighbours for fear of retaliation. The selfish thief probably wouldn’t even keep the damn thing but would sell or pawn it. She felt tears of exasperation prickling behind her eyelids.
‘Come on … I’ll take you home,’ Nick said gently, propelling her by the arm towards his car. ‘Don’t matter how long you stay here in a paddy, you’ll never find it now.’
Kathy felt lulled by the motion of the vehicle as soon as they set off. She had to jerk herself awake on hearing a male voice penetrating the fog in her mind.
‘You’re home.’ Nick nodded at the detached Edwardian house that Dr Worth once had lived in and now used as his workplace. At the back of the building was a small single-storey annexe, which was offered to the practice nurse as living quarters.
‘Oh … thanks … thanks.’ Kathy struggled upright and grabbed her case from the floor. She hesitated. She still didn’t know this man’s name. She’d started drowsing almost as soon as they’d set off and now felt rather rude and awkward. He’d shown consideration in leaving her to sleep. ‘Sorry … I should have asked your name earlier on.’ She stuck out a small hand. ‘I’m Katherine Finch.’
‘And I’m Nicholas Raven.’ Nick shook her outstretched fingers.
‘Well … nice to meet you.’ Kathy gave a bashful laugh, withdrawing her hand. ‘And sorry for ordering you about like that …’
‘Don’t worry, I’m glad you did, ’cos I didn’t have a clue. Anyhow, I reckon I could put up with you ordering me about a bit more.’
His eyes travelled over her, making Kathy blush. She felt a tightening in her gut that would have been pleasant had it not been tinged with uneasiness.
Nicholas Raven might not be dark-haired and swarthy; in fact, despite his name his hair was lighter than her own and his complexion fair. Yet in a way, he reminded her of Bill Black as he had been when Jennifer first came to know him: all smooth talk and expensive stuff. It had turned out that beneath Bill’s brash charm lurked a vile criminal and he’d caused dreadful trouble for the Finch family.
If the two men were similar in character, Kathy knew she’d never want to clap eyes on Nicholas Raven ever again. As he was acquainted with a thug like Charlie Potter, she reckoned she was wise to be suspicious of him.
‘When’s your day off?’
Kathy kept her eyes on her case, resting on her lap. ‘Don’t get one. Just an afternoon off and I’m on call all the time. When I get a bit of spare time I see my friend, David.’
‘Right …’ Nick said. He smiled as deep blue eyes peeked at him from beneath thick, dark lashes. He wasn’t used to getting knocked back by women. But then … she was just a girl, no matter what she did for a living or how bloody hard she worked at it.
‘Sorry … manners …’ he drawled as she still sat there, no doubt waiting for him to open the car door for her. He got out, smiling, and did the honours with lazy courtesy.
Kathy knew he was mocking her and she felt her hackles rise. Having given his hand another businesslike shake, she added a curt smile. ‘Thanks again for all your help. Goodbye.’
She went quickly up the side path of the imposing house, towards her apartment. She glanced at the shed. Normally, it would have been the first place she would go on arriving home. But there was no need this morning, with no bike to lock away. She’d have some explaining to do to Dr Worth when he arrived to open up the surgery later. So lost was she in her troubling thoughts that she didn’t even hear the car pull away. She’d forgotten about Nicholas Raven already.
Wes Silver liked to think he was a debonair man. He also liked to think he was thoroughly English, so when someone called him a fat Yid, he wasn’t happy. If he were a Hebrew, he wouldn’t be collecting funds for Mosley’s party, would he? In a surprisingly mild voice he put this argument to the man bleeding on the floor.
The fellow groaned, jack-knifing his knees to his chest to try to protect his groin from painful contact with Charlie Potter’s boot again.
In Wes’s mind, he wasn’t Jewish and took great pains to impress that on people who cast aspersions just because his grandparents had been called Silverman. They’d attended the synagogue until the day they’d died, so he’d heard his mother say, but Wes considered that a minor detail and no concern of his.
His Irish tinker mother hadn’t had a religious bone in her body. The Silvermans had failed to persuade her to get one in order to regularise her relationship with their son, so Abe Silverman had taken off to find a nice Yiddish wife when his son was three. But not before he’d had Wesley circumcised. Wes hated him for that more than anything, but had believed his mum when she’d told him the crafty git had gone behind her back to get it done when she was out one day. So Wes had loved his mum till she abandoned him. Mary Dooley had gone back to Ireland to live in a caravan with her new fellow when Wes was sixteen. He’d found it hard to bear, although he wouldn’t have gone with her even if she’d asked him to. So now, Wes hated the Jews and the Irish. In his eyes, Mosley was a hero and Wes was keen to act the disciple and spread the word.
‘Now, Cyril,’ Wes addressed the whimpering fellow clutching his balls. ‘Why are we having to do this when life could be easy?’
‘Ain’t givin’ you a penny for any causes,’ the fellow bubbled through his torn lips. ‘Ain’t political, am I? Don’t believe in nuthin’ except putting grub on me kids’ plates.’
‘Good man.’ Wes nodded, strolling to and fro. ‘Trouble is it’s not what I want to hear, see. ’Cos I am political and I do believe very strongly in getting all the foreign parasites out of the country. Now I find your attitude troubling, you being a family man with a business to run. You know the Jews are trying to take over everywhere, don’t you?’ He broke off as a bell clattered and a woman holding two young boys by the hands started to enter the shop. She wasn’t a customer, she was the wife of the battered shopkeeper.
‘Ah, Mrs Butler … glad you’re back, dear.’ Politely, Wes removed his homburg and dropped it on the counter. ‘I’ve been explaining to your husband how you’ve been actively supporting the cause but he thinks I’m lying.’
Mabel Butler turned white and shoved her kids back outside the door in an attempt to protect them. She ignored her groaning husband and rushed to the till, opening it and thrusting two pound notes at Wes.
‘See? Easy as that, Cyril,’ Wes said, folding the money. ‘Now I could have taken it, couldn’t I? But I don’t steal. You remember that in case you’re feeling daft enough to accuse me of any such nonsense to the boys in blue.’
‘Wouldn’t ever do that, Mr Silver,’ Mabel assured hoarsely. ‘Never, ever …’
‘That’s the spirit,’ Wes said, patting her arm. ‘It’s a shame your husband hasn’t