The Talisman Read online

  Lynda La Plante was born in Liverpool. She trained for the stage at RADA and worked with the National Theatre and RSC before becoming a television actress. She then turned to writing – and made her breakthrough with the phenomenally successful TV series Widows.

  Her novels have all been international bestsellers. Her original script for the much-acclaimed Prime Suspect won awards from the BAFTA, British Broadcasting and the Royal Television Society as well as the 1993 Edgar Allan Poe Writer’s Award.

  Lynda La Plante has been made an honorary fellow of the British Film Institute and was given the BAFTA Dennis Potter Writer’s Award 2000. She was awarded a CBE in the Queen’s Birthday Honours list in 2008, and was inaugurated into the Crime Thriller Writer’s Hall of Fame in 2009.

  Visit Lynda at her website: www.Lyndalaplante.com

  Follow her on Twitter @LaPlanteLynda

  Also by Lynda La Plante

  Wrongful Death

  Backlash

  Bloodline

  Blind Fury

  Silent Scream

  Deadly Intent

  Clean Cut

  The Red Dahlia

  Above Suspicion

  The Legacy

  Bella Mafia

  Entwined

  Cold Shoulder

  Cold Blood

  Cold Heart

  Sleeping Cruelty

  Royal Flush

  The Little One: Quick Read 2011

  Prime Suspect

  Seekers

  She’s Out

  The Governor

  The Governor II

  Trial and Retribution

  Trial and Retribution II

  Trial and Retribution III

  Trial and Retribution IV

  Trial and Retribution V

  First published in Great Britain by Sidgwick & Jackson, 1987

  This paperback edition first published by Simon & Schuster UK Ltd, 2013

  A CBS COMPANY

  Copyright © Lynda La Plante, 1987

  This book is copyright under the Berne Convention.

  No reproduction without permission.

  ® and © 1997 Simon & Schuster Inc.

  All rights reserved.

  The right of Lynda La Plante to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  Simon & Schuster UK Ltd

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  222 Gray’s Inn Road

  London WC1X 8HB

  Simon & Schuster Australia, Sydney

  Simon & Schuster India, New Delhi

  www.simonandschuster.co.uk

  A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

  Paperback ISBN 978-1-47113-081-6

  Ebook ISBN 978-1-47113-082-3

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Typeset in Bembo by M Rules

  Printed and bound by CPI Group (UK) Ltd, Croydon, CR0 4YY

  Dedicated to my beloved sister

  Gilly Titchmarsh

  Acknowledgements

  My sincere thanks to Suzanne Baboneau and Ian Chapman for their constant support and encouragement over the many years we have worked together. I am so thrilled that Simon & Schuster are publishing The Talisman as it will breathe new life into the novel that is closest to my heart. It seems a long time ago when I first began to research the characters, and was led into the Romany world by some very special people.

  Jake ‘The rake’ Woodly, his manushi Eda, his docha Tina and his stories and dreams, made the writing an exciting journey. So much so, that I found it hard to finish the book as I literally fell in love with the characters and their lives – they became like family to me. I recall how their deaths affected me emotionally, as sometimes you reach into real events and release the words that you should have said long ago, but the timing never seemed right.

  The Legacy and The Talisman were the beginning of my writing career and to have Suzanne Baboneau, who along with the late Susan Hill, was so supportive throughout my early career as a novelist, I think was more than fortunate. I am sincerely grateful for my on-going relationship with Suzanne who remains enthusiastic and encouraging and a dear, treasured friend.

  ROMANY CURSE

  He must lie with his treasures, be they tin or gold.

  Resting in finery, his back to the soil.

  One wheel of his vargon must light up with fire.

  In the flame is the evil, his pain and his soul.

  But beware of his talisman, carved out of stone.

  If not in his palm, then a curse is foretold.

  For who steals the charm of a dukkerin’s son,

  Will walk in his shadow, bleed with his blood,

  Cry loud with his anguish and suffer his pain.

  His unquiet spirit will rise up again,

  His footsteps will echo unseen on the ground

  Until the curse is fulfilled, the talisman found.

  Contents

  Prologue

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Book Two

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Book Three

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Book Four

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Book Five

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Book Six

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Book Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Book Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  During the Second World War Blitz on the East End of London, Freedom Stubbs, the Romany ex-British Heavyweight Boxing Champion, was killed by his eldest son, Edward. Edward had just received confirmation that he had won a scholarship to Cambridge University, the fulfilment of a long-held dream of his mother’s. To enable him to continue his studies, his younger brother, Alex, agreed to confess to the killing of their father.

  The two brothers were parted: Alex going to jail to await sentence and Edward to university. Neither of them went to their father’s burial, but many East Enders showed their respect, saying farewell to their gentle champion by walking silently behind the hearse. The mourners were joined by gypsies who came from all parts of England. Freedom had been not only their champion, but also the son of a dukkerin, and a prince of royal Romany blood.

  In the past, Romanies of high rank were buried with their most valuable possessions. All their other belongings were burnt to ensure that the soul of the dead would rest in peace and not haunt the living. Freedom was buried in his best and only suit. During his life he had become a kairengo, a house-dweller, so there was no vargon or caravan wheel to burn, but, ironically, his house had burned down in the Blitz. His wife, Evelyne, left alone with the gypsies by her husband’s grave, was asked if a talisman could be buried with Freedom, as
was their custom. It should be something gold, and honoured by the dead man.

  Freedom had no talisman, but Evelyne promised that she would return to place in his grave the one item of value the family still had. This was a gold necklace, and was accepted by the gypsies as appropriate for their royal prince.

  Freedom Stubbs had given the necklace to his wife, given it with pride and love when he was the British Heavyweight champion, when the long-awaited World Championship was to be his next fight. The necklace represented his success, and even when he lost the title, along with his winnings, even when the family had sunk into poverty, it was never sold. The gypsies were right; it was Freedom’s talisman, and with it in the palm of his hand it could be seen that he had once achieved something, he had been somebody. So it was right that he should lie in his grave with the gold that he had fought so hard for; it was right he should be given the dream that was so very nearly his.

  The promise was made in good faith, but the forthcoming trial of Evelyne’s younger son, Alex, made it appear wasteful, even sinful, to bury such a valuable possession in a grave. Evelyne felt that when Alex was released from jail they would need the financial security the necklace could bring them.

  The unquiet soul of Freedom began to weep, reaching out to the son who had inherited the powers of the dukkerin. The restless spirit with soundless footsteps began to haunt the living . . .

  Book One

  Chapter One

  Two weeks after the burial of his father, Alex Stubbs was sent to a remand home, Rochester House, a large Victorian building with a six-foot wall and another six feet of barbed wire on top. Not exactly a prison, yet it still had the feel of one, and for those boys sent there Rochester House was anything but homely. They all wore grey shorts and socks, with navy blue pullovers over white vests, and black plimsolls. There were strict rules and regulations. Rochester was an assessment point, a halfway house until the boys went before the ‘beak’ to be sentenced for their crimes. It was therefore imperative that they obey the strict regime. Many of them would, after assessment, be released, but those with a past record would be sentenced and transferred to the reform schools.

  The boys’ hair was cut short to avoid nits spreading, and they all smelt of carbolic from the showers, and of mothballs from their institutional sweaters. Their ages ranged from ten to sixteen. Alex, being fifteen, was placed in a dormitory with the older boys, all of whom were already hardened to reform school life, having been in and out of institutions since they were ten.

  Alex was terrified, but he never showed it. His fear made him silent, a loner. His manners, his gentleness and his obvious intelligence set him apart. He was a grammar-school boy, and that was something in itself. During classes, Alex soon learned not to answer all the questions put to them by the teacher. Any boy standing out as ‘different’ or ‘special’ would be tormented. He learned fast, even going so far as to make deliberate spelling mistakes in his essays. At grammar school he had been at the top of his class in maths, but at Rochester House he made sure he achieved only average marks.

  The boys had little or no privacy. Throughout their waking hours they were watched and monitored by the warders. The head warder of the school, Major Kelly, was a threat to all the boys living under him. If they didn’t behave, the staff would report them to ‘The Major’, whose name was enough to instil order.

  Even at night Alex could find no comfort in sleep. He tried to blank out from his mind the terrible pictures of his dying father wrapped in his mother’s arms, tried not to hear the sounds of his mother’s weeping. He willed himself once more to conjure the dream he had dreamed when he had first been held in jail. The dream that had given him peace, had comforted and cleansed him.

  In the dream Alex had been running up a mountain bathed in sunlight, lush green grass beneath his feet, and above him a brilliant blue sky. It was surreal and yet tangible, and running he had felt free, heading towards the very peak of the towering, magnificent mountain. Then he heard the thunder of hooves, ringing and echoing around the mountainside. Still he ran on, filled with joy, breathing the sweet, clean air . . . and then he saw, breaking through the clouds with his raised hooves, a black, shining stallion galloping towards him. Astride the horse sat a man with flowing, blue-black hair, at one with the beast. Alex lifted his arms to the man, calling to him as if he represented his own free spirit. The rider was his father, he was Freedom . . . ‘Don’t go, don’t go,’ Alex cried. But the rider had passed by, into the clouds, which closed like a grey curtain behind him.

  Alex had recaptured his dream, but now it turned into a nightmare. There was no rider, no stallion, just the suffocating, grey cloud enveloping him. He was awakened by his own cry, his body drenched in sweat. He pulled the rough blanket around him, shivering now, afraid his cry had been heard by the other boys in the dormitory. He was not alone. Around him he could hear the muffled sobs of boys as frightened as himself hiding beneath their sheets, all of them afraid of tomorrow.

  Fights broke out in class, and in the yard at recreation time. Bullies, already hardened to the system, took delight in tormenting first offenders.

  Alex watched closely and remained apart, ignoring taunts, ignoring any incitements to argument. He had heard the whispers behind his back. Somehow the boys had learned why he was there, that he had committed murder. This gave him some standing among them, and a slight aura of menace.

  Wally Simpson was the same age as Alex but only half his size, which earned him the nickname ‘the Shrimp’. He had the next bed to Alex. A cheeky, cocky little chap, he took a lot of beatings from the bigger boys, but he always fought back, if not with his fists then with his sharp wits.

  Often during the long, lonely nights Wally would try to make contact with Alex. ‘Psssst, hey, Alex, can yer ’ear me, mate? Yer got anyone visitin’ yer? Psssst . . .’

  Alex feigned sleep, facing the wall, glad he was in the last bed.

  ‘Is it true what they say? You in fer murder? Alex . . .?’

  With one eye on the door, Wally slipped out of his bed, crept over to Alex’s and tapped him on the shoulder. Alex whipped round, and Wally stepped back sharply.

  ‘Stay away from me, stay away.’

  ‘All right, mate, only offerin’ ter be friendly – sod ya!’

  Alex drew his blanket over his head and snuggled down. He wished his brother, Edward, was with him, wished it was all a nightmare, but the stink of the blanket brought it home to him that this was reality. No matter how hard it was, he would do just as his mother had told him.

  Alex’s mother, Evelyne, had come to the police station on the morning after Freedom’s death. Only twenty-four hours had passed since the murder, and yet she seemed to have aged. Her son was deeply shocked by the change in her. Evelyne had always been thin, but her tall, angular frame had never stooped before. She had always stood upright, her big-boned hands strong, a firmness and strength to her that had set her apart from an early age, even in the small Welsh mining village where she had been born. She had never been known as a beautiful woman; her cheekbones were too prominent, her face appeared carved rather than moulded, and her face had always lacked youthfulness. But her dark green eyes, set off by wild red hair – her ‘crowning glory’ as her mother used to say – made one turn to look again. She was striking, and with that hair one knew she had a fiery temper. She could be disdainful, even arrogant, when she wanted, but when she smiled that fierceness disappeared, and then she was simply lovely.

  It was this picture of her that Alex had held in his mind since the murder, the face he loved so much and was so desperate to see again.

  The twenty-four hours since Freedom’s death were etched in her face. The brightness was gone from her eyes, her shoulders were bent and her hands constantly fumbled with the strap of her worn handbag. He reached out to hold her, but she stepped back, hugging the bag to her chest. There was no colour to her, she was drab and empty, and even her lovely, lilting voice had changed. When she spoke she sounded
hoarse . . . he could hardly believe that this was his mother; all her strength had seeped away.

  ‘I’ve a lawyer. He says for you to tell him everything. They’ll send you to Rochester House. You’ll be evaluated there, so it will be up to you, son. Do whatever they tell you, and don’t mix with the other boys – keep yourself apart. When it’s over we’ll start afresh, you and me – when you come out.’

  Although distraught with worry for her, he was so upset himself he couldn’t think how to comfort her. She continued to hug her handbag, hunched in the chair.

  ‘I’ll visit. I know the truth, I know it was Edward, I know, but you tell the lawyers what you have to.’

  Alex bit his lip so hard he almost drew blood. ‘How’s Edward, Ma? How’s he taking it?’

  Her face twisted, her mouth turned down. ‘It’s just you and me now, Alex, just you and me. Don’t ever mention his name, not yet. I can’t stand the sound of his name.’

  He choked back the tears and his lips trembled. There was an awful, heartbreaking silence, then he remembered his beloved dog, Rex. His father had bought him the puppy one Christmas. He leaned forward. ‘Will you take care of Rex for me, Ma? Tell him I’ll be home soon to take him for walks.’

  Evelyne shook her head and made a strange, small moaning sound. Then she pushed her chair back and walked away, without touching him, without kissing him. When she finally spoke, there was the strange hoarseness in her voice again.

  ‘Rex followed the ambulance, after your Da, followed it until he dropped. They said his paws were bloody. God knows how many miles he must have followed . . . He loved him so, he loved . . . He’s not come home, nobody’s at home.’

  The warder opened the door to let her out, and Alex knew she was crying. He shouted after her.