Chapter 7

Tommy

The bookie crashes through the door to my office, not even bothering to knock. He clutches a hand l to his chest as he pants and sucks  in breath, his knees pointed inward, his hair streaked with sweat. I release a short sigh. If Arthur's been fighting again, I'll have no choice but to have a word with him.

"The... The Kimber girl..."

My attention immediately piques. "What's she done?"

"She left... on horseback..." His face reddens. "Saw me tailing her. Dismounted and kicked me in the groin, the little bitch."

The words sink in. Little bitch. Anger burns through me as I smile coldly. It's amusing, really — how fucking stupid this man is. I stand from my desk, slipping my jacket off rather than buttoning it. Slowly, I walk to the bookie, and clap my hands on the man's shoulders.

Then I shove him against the wall and grip him by the collar. Blue veins bulge visibly across my hands, skin tight at my jaw. There's a roaring in my ears, but I don't lose myself — I can never afford to lose myself.

"Talk about her like that again and I'll cut out your tongue," I threaten, my voice forming a thick oath. "Alright?"

"Okay!" He chokes out, straining beneath my grip. "Okay!"

I wait until he's really struggling for air, then I release him. Now the anger's dissipated, it's time for personal inventory — why the fuck had his words affected me so strongly? I don't even like the girl. In fact, I actively dislike her.

I learned long ago that it's a slippery slope to go poking around the depths of my own brain. Better to cast it aside, before I end up with an opium pipe between my lips just so I can sleep.

"Where was she headed?" I ask, heat evaporating from my skin as I light a cigarette.

"South of the city. By the time she saw me, she'd reached some shitty little town. Nothing there but a few high street shops."

I frown. "No residents?"

He shakes his head. "Not on the main strip, sir, no."

What is she up to?

"I need the name of the town."

***

Clever fucking girl.

I fix my gaze on the small shop sandwiched in the row of adjacent buildings. Peeling paint, hanging sign lopsided from one vandal or another. The weather's uncharacteristically bright, bright enough to warrant sunglasses that tint the world in a dark film. I bring a cigarette to my lips. Small clumps of people pass me, and a car trundles up the narrow street.

R.D. Spiegler's. A small, black-painted storefront with the name written in cursive. I've never even heard of it. Is Kimber here to meet someone? Are they in on the plot? Or, as I'd first suspected, is she simply clever enough to have tracked down the name from the diary page?

Unable to tame my curiosity, I head inside. A tinkling bell sounds out as I push the door open, announcing my presence. The shop's a hovel — full of boxes and shelves, leather-bound diaries and notebooks stacked clumsily and haphazardly across every surface. I have to step over a pile taller than my knees to get through the room, like navigating a maze until the counter finally comes into view. A small, rickety desk. A cash register that's more rust than function.

And Kimber.

Waiting with her hands clasped, hair tumbling down her back, dress hanging neatly from her shoulders. She turns, polite smile on her lips, to see who entered.

It quickly turns to a scowl.

"Would you stop stalking me?" she hisses, glancing around.

I consider it for a moment. Is that what I'm doing? I shrug.

"You like seeing me," I reply in the most blasé voice I can manage. "Admit it."

"I would rather die."

"That can be arranged."

She doesn't squeak with fear as I'd hoped, but crosses her arms angrily and taps her foot, impatient as we wait in silence.

"Worker not here?" I ask.

"She's fetching me something from the back room."

"Ah. I'll be interested to see it."

"You're not seeing a thing," she says. "I offered you a chance to work together. You blew it."

I try not to roll my eyes as I rearrange my posture. "We need to be impartial on this, Kimber."

"Exactly. Find your own clues."

The room's so small and cramped, between the musty smell of old books and wooden furniture, a wave of her scent washes over me — like vanilla and spiced berries. Fuck. It hits like an assault, invading each of my senses. Distracting. Tugging at my attention, demanding my gaze to roam across the way her hair falls, the way her clothes hug every curve below her waist...

I clear my throat softly, shifting the fabric of my trousers. Regaining control over myself. Maybe John's right — I need to fuck more often. If I'm becoming this desensitised, like a bloody school boy over a woman's scent — a woman I can't stand, at that — I'll have to start seeing whores again. At least that's transactional. Nobody gets hurt, nobody crying because I can't give what they want from me.

I try to focus back on the matter at hand. "Whatever she brings you, I'll just order myself."

She scowls. "There's only one copy."

"Then I'll have her give it to me."

"I asked first."

"I think you'll find I can be persuasive when I want to be." 

"Why? Because you're a big, scary man?"

I roll my eyes, but before I can reply, a store worker emerges behind the counter.

"Sorry, 'snot here," she says. "Daniel must have taken it with him."

She glances at me, stilling. Her eyes widen a little. I consider this for a moment — does she recognise me? Worried I'll blow up the whole store? I could make that work in my favour.

"Who's Daniel?" I ask in my smoothest voice.

Kimber answers instead. "The owner, Tommy, do keep up." I can do no more than stare in disbelief as she continues. "Where might I find him?"

"He comes in on Thursdays," the worker says blankly. "Or you could try the directory."

"Alright. Thank you."

Kimber heads out, clambering over the boxes without so much as a glance back. I wait for a moment, sensing the worker's conspiratorial smile moments before it breaks across her lips.

"Are you interested in our... other services?" She asks.

Ah. Things all make sense now. She doesn't think I'm about to rain down hell on her store after all — and she wouldn't care if I did. This store's nothing but a money laundering front.

Ironic, that only moments ago I'd decided I need to sleep with whores more often, and now I have a whole bloody agency of them at my fingertips.

But I'm not here for that. My gaze hardens. "No."

I find Kimber loitering outside, pretending to walk away, but clearly lingering until I catch up with her. I'm prepared to utilise all my favourite threats to get answers out of her, but surprisingly she speaks as soon as the fresh air brushes across my face.

"They sell only to other businesses," she says. "Which means whoever left that page in the car must work for one of them."

Interesting. "Or own one of them."

"Precisely." We walk along the high street as she continues to speak. "I'm after a list of all their clients. It can't be a long one. We can start there."

"We?" I ask, reaching for my cigarette packet. "Still hoping we'll be partners in crime, eh?"

"I'd rather choke on my own vomit than be your partner."

But she doesn't quite meet my eyes as she says it. And I begin to think it might not be a bad idea to investigate together, after all. She made it this far on her own. Further than any of the Peaky Blinders I had trying to find Spiegler. And unless she planted this evidence herself to send me on a wild goose chase — which I still haven't ruled out — it'll be useful to see her reactions with every clue we unearth. To see if she panics as we get closer to the truth.

And it definitely has nothing to do with the effect she had on me in the store.