She would cross that bridge when she came to it. Everything people said about Kelly was supposition, nothing against him had ever been proved and in this country you were innocent until proven guilty. The thought had a hollow ring to it.

Kate felt she was tumbling headlong into something that she was not strong enough to fight.

But fight it she would.

If the time came.

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Thirteen

Sexplosion was just getting busy when Tony Jones saw Tippy walk through the door. He smiled at her.

‘Bloody hell, girl, you don’t half look rough.’

Tippy’s face was drawn and white.

‘I want to talk to you Tony, now!’

He was puzzled. ‘All right, girl, come through to my office.’

He looked around the shop for Emmanuel, who was trying to pick up an elderly man in a smart business suit.

‘Emmanuel, get behind this bloody counter now! Come through, Tippy love.’ He opened the serving hatch and she limped through.

In the dingy back room, the Tom sat down on the ramshackle chair. Tony watched her warily. There was something wrong here. He hoped she didn’t have AIDS or something. She did look ill, and Tippy looked rough at the best of times. All the birds who worked the submission trade did.

‘Got any booze, Tone?’

He opened a small cupboard in an old sideboard and took out of a bottle of Gordon’s gin.

‘I ain’t got nothing to go with it. Will you drink it straight?’

Tippy nodded. ‘I’d drink of a cup of cold piss at this moment in time, Tony, if it blotted out the world. I’ve never felt so bad in all my life.’

Tony poured her out a generous measure into a half pint glass. ‘Here you are, girl, get your laughing gear around that.’

Tippy took a long drink. Tony noticed that her hands were shaking. He bit his bottom lip in consternation.

‘Look, I ain’t being funny, love, but I ain’t got all day.’

She looked at him with hooded eyes.

‘That punter you sent me yesterday . . . he was weird, Tone, really weird.’

Tony relaxed. Was that all?

‘They’re all weird, girl . . .’

She interrupted him.

‘No, not normal weird. He was a nutter, Tony. A bloody nutter.’

Tony pictured mild-mannered George. He liked a bit of old bluey, and admittedly they were a bit near the mark, but that aside he seemed a nice, quiet, polite man.

‘You’re just feeling low, Tippy. All brasses feel like that at holiday times . . .’

She laughed scornfully.

‘Listen, Tone, I’ve been on the game for eighteen years, woman and girl, and I’ve had some strange ones in my time, but never anyone like this. Look . . .’

She stood up and lifted her skirt. She heard Tony’s intake of breath.

‘Stone me, Tip, he done that?’