Deadly Secrets: An absolutely gripping crime thriller

by Robert Bryndza

  ‘Could Marissa have got the earrings from an admirer?’ asked McGorry. ‘The boss… I mean, the other boss’ report, says that the girls in the clubs had a lot of admirers – rich guys, hanging around after shows in the hope that they’d get a bit more than a dance?’

  ‘Yes, but we need to rule all of this out. I want one of you to get back in contact with the girl who went with Marissa to the jeweller, and if needs be, one of us should take her back to Hatton Garden to see if she can remember which jeweller it was.’

  There was a pause, and Moss looked around at the despondent faces. She felt the same inside, but was determined not to show it.

  ‘Okay. Let’s get to work and we’ll reconvene back here at 4 p.m.’

  When the team dispersed and started to work, Peterson came over to Moss, and asked if they could speak privately.

  ‘You need to make it quick.’

  ‘Well done, by the way.’

  ‘Thanks. Although I thought she might ask you instead.’

  He shook his head, and pulled her over to the back of the incident room, next to the line of photocopiers.

  ‘She found out last night, about Kyle and Fran,’ he said in a low voice.

  ‘Found out?’

  ‘She dropped round, late, at bath time. Kyle’s bath time, I mean.’

  ‘Obviously…’

  ‘I opened the door holding Kyle; he called me Daddy. Fran was there too.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘I tried to talk to her, but she drove off in her car, swerving up the road. I didn’t know if I should follow, but I didn’t, and now she’s gone off sick.’

  Moss saw how worried he looked.

  ‘James, it’s nothing to do with you. It’s true that Mark’s dad had a fall and was rushed to hospital. He had to have an emergency hip replacement and there were complications. That’s why she’s gone.’

  ‘Oh, shit. She didn’t say anything to you about me?’ he said.

  ‘Her mind was on other things… As is mine.’

  He nodded. ‘Okay. And well done, I’m made up for you taking over.’

  ‘Thanks. I need you and Crane to keep things moving here.’

  ‘Sure.’

  Moss went over to Kay, who was sitting at her computer.

  ‘You’re with me today; I want to go and see the Pitkin family and ask some questions about Joseph.’

  Forty-Six

  The snow was melting when Moss and Kay arrived at Coniston Road, and they tried Don Walpole’s front door. Kay was ready with the portable DNA kit, but there was no answer.

  ‘Shit,’ said Moss. She pulled out her radio, and called into the station. ‘Crane, I need you to do a search for Don Walpole…’ Moss looked up and saw the old man in his usual spot, smoking a cigarette. ‘Hang on, I need to call you back.’

  They came out of the front gate and went over to the old man.

  ‘You looking for Don?’

  ‘Yes, we are,’ said Moss, showing him her warrant card. ‘My colleague said that you saw him and his wife leaving yesterday afternoon. Have you seen them today?’

  The man shook his head. ‘I’m out here a lot; the wife don’t let me smoke indoors. I was out just before six and again at seven-thirty and eight… And again at nine.’

  ‘So, you’re quite a heavy smoker?’ asked Kay.

  ‘You will go far as a detective,’ he said, pointing his cigarette at her and grinning with a set of yellow teeth.

  ‘You didn’t see any lights on, any movement?’ asked Moss.

  ‘Nope.’

  They came back to the car and Moss called back in to Crane at the station, telling him to keep trying Don’s phone and to put out a search on his number plate against the national database. They then drove the short way around the corner to David and Elspeth Pitkin’s house.

  David Pitkin opened the door; he was dressed in black, and had deep, dark circles under his eyes. They showed their ID and asked if they could come inside to talk.

  ‘Haven’t you people done enough?’ he said imperiously.

  ‘We have some more questions about Joseph, about his friendship with Marissa Lewis,’ said Moss, trying to be tactful.

  ‘I’m sorry, no. My wife is in a terrible state. She hasn’t left her bed since…’

  ‘I’m so sorry about what happened to your son,’ said Kay. ‘We just don’t want his death to be in vain. We think he may have known things about this case. He may have been able to help us with our investigations.’

  David looked down at them from the step, chewing over what they were saying. ‘Where is she?’

  ‘Who?’ asked Moss.

  ‘That bloody awful detective with the blonde hair.’

  ‘She is on leave. I have taken over the case,’ said Moss.

  ‘Is this because of my formal complaint? I wrote to the assistant commissioner, asking for a full enquiry and that she be removed from duty.’

  ‘Yes, that’s in process. That’s why I am now on the case,’ said Moss. She was sure Erika would understand her playing along with David Pitkin.

  He took them through to the kitchen. ‘Would you like tea?’

  Kay looked at Moss for guidance.

  ‘We wouldn’t want to impose,’ said Moss. ‘We just need to ask you a few questions.’

  ‘Have some bloody tea!’ he snapped. ‘I need to keep busy.’

  They nodded and sat at the long table. Moss noticed that all the clocks, of which there were many on the walls, had stopped at 1.25 p.m. The room was silent.

  ‘It’s something I wanted to do,’ he said, noting her gaze. ‘That’s the time the doctor pronounced Joseph…’ He didn’t finish the sentence. They waited in silence as he made three cups of tea and then came to join them.

  ‘How long had Joseph been involved in photography?’ asked Moss. David Pitkin looked surprised at the question.

  ‘I don’t know, four or five years.’

  ‘And you bought him supplies?’

  ‘At school, his art teacher did a project where students made a pinhole camera out of lavatory rolls, tinfoil and photo paper. He found it fascinating, and pestered me to buy supplies so he could make his own pinhole camera.’

  ‘And he needed a dark room to process the photos?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Where did you buy the chemicals?’

  ‘I got them locally from a camera shop in Greenwich. Detectives, I’m not sure how relevant this line of questioning is, unless you are planning to start doing photography as a hobby?’

  ‘We are trying to establish where Joseph went in connection with his hobby.’

  ‘It’s wasn’t a hobby. He wanted to do it as a career.’

  ‘When did Joseph graduate to having his own camera, buying his own materials?’

  ‘I don’t know. As I said, a few years. I was still practising as a barrister back then and I rather neglected my home life. I wouldn’t see my family for days on end…’ David looked wistfully out of the window and sipped his tea. ‘Makes me think it wasn’t all worth it, my job. The law… It’s just a huge chess game.’

  Moss didn’t press him.

  ‘Was Joseph a member of any camera or photography clubs?’

  ‘Again. I don’t know.’

  ‘Could we speak to your wife?’ asked Kay.

  ‘No, you may not. The doctor had to come early this morning to give her something to sleep.’

  ‘Did Joseph get paid for any of his photos?’

  David gave a bemused smile.

  ‘No. He was signing on, for a long period. You must know this, officers.’

  ‘Did Marissa Lewis ever come to your house?’ said Moss. ‘I’m asking in particular about the past year?’

  ‘No. Not that I know of. We were always rather worried about him; he never seemed to have any interest in either sex.’

  Moss looked at Kay. They had exhausted all of their questions, and there was just one other thing they had to ask about.

  ‘Mr Pitkin. I need to show you
some photos we found on Joseph’s mobile phone. They may be upsetting, but I only ask you to look at them because they are vital to our investigation.’

  David’s eyes narrowed as Moss pulled out a cardboard file. She opened it on the table and took out the photos of Joseph tied up in the restraints. She also took out the note with the gas mask drawing.

  David looked through the photos, attempting to stop his emotions from showing. Finally, he looked up, and his eyes were full of anger.

  ‘Who the hell do you think you are, to come into my house and show me these?’

  ‘Mr Pitkin. Did Joseph ever mention a friend, or that he was scared for his life?’

  ‘Did anyone mention to you that Joseph looked at risk of taking his own life?’ he shot back.

  ‘No.’

  ‘But you must have seen that he was distressed when he was being interviewed? Did no one at your station think to call a doctor, or think that he shouldn’t have been put back in that cell, BY HIMSELF!?’ David swept the photos off the table. ‘NOW GET OUT OF MY HOUSE!’

  Kay hurriedly picked up the photos from the floor and stuffed them back in the file.

  ‘Mr Pitkin, please, do you have any idea who might have sent Joseph a note like this?’

  ‘DID YOU HEAR ME?’ he bellowed. He grabbed Moss by the back of her coat and dragged her up out of her chair and into the hallway.

  ‘Sir. Please, stop this,’ said Kay, moving after them as David dragged Moss to the front door.

  David let go of Moss, leaned across, turned the handle and pulled it open. Moss put up her hand when he tried to grab her again.

  ‘That’s enough,’ she said, stepping outside. Kay was no sooner out of the door behind her than it was slammed shut. They walked out onto the pavement.

  ‘You okay, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, and please don’t call me “ma’am”. I’m not a member of the royal family,’ said Moss. She straightened her jumper under her jacket. ‘What else were we expecting? I just thought it was worth a shot, in case he knew something.’

  ‘Do you think he knows anything?’ asked Kay.

  ‘No, I don’t. But I’m not much good with my gut instinct. That’s Erika’s speciality.’

  Forty-Seven

  McGorry had been tasked with following up on Ella Bartlett, the burlesque dancer who had been to the jeweller with Marissa. Earlier in the morning, he’d spoken to an extremely camp man called Martin, who had given him Ella’s number. She had agreed to meet him after her workout, but she was now late. He had been waiting for her outside the Gym Box in Farringdon for twenty minutes. It had stopped snowing, but the air was damp, and his feet were starting to go numb. The Gym Box was on a busy road on the edge of the Hatton Garden jewellery district in central London, and as he’d drunk his coffee next to an old-fashioned red phone box, he’d seen six security vans move past.

  ‘Hi, are you John?’ said a voice. He turned to see a petite blonde woman in her early twenties. She was breathtakingly beautiful, with long honey-coloured hair, and big blue eyes.

  ‘Yes, I’m Detective Inspector John McGorry. I take it you’re Ms Bartlett?’ He realised how ridiculously formal he sounded.

  ‘Call me Ella. Can I call you John?’ she said. ‘And can I see your ID? You know you can’t be too sure, these days.’

  He pulled out his warrant card and passed it to her.

  ‘You’re much cuter in real life,’ she said, handing it back.

  ‘Let’s get started,’ said McGorry.

  ‘Do you have a gun?’

  ‘No. Detectives don’t carry guns.’

  ‘Cuffs? Pepper spray?’ she asked, her eyes wide and innocent.

  ‘Sometimes. In my car.’

  ‘How did you get here?’ she asked, looking around.

  ‘I came on the tube; I travelled on the tube…’ McGorry suddenly felt flustered and stupid.

  ‘So you’re unarmed? Vulnerable? Sorry, I’m kidding.’

  ‘I need you to help me find this jeweller’s shop. It’s very important to our investigation. It’s not a big laugh.’

  ‘Sorry… I thought she was alright, Marissa. I’ve thought about jacking it all in and going to L.A or New York. I haven’t got the guts. She had guts.’

  They started walking down the road, and then turned right onto Hatton Garden, where the first jeweller’s windows looked out over the street. They glowed brightly against the cold grey day, showing fabulous displays of gold and silver. The two of them walked for a few minutes. Ella kept stopping at intervals to peer into windows and look down the street.

  ‘We were talking loads, and we were coming from the other direction; I wasn’t paying attention,’ she said. ‘They all look quite similar after a while.’

  They went a little further, and then she stopped at a red post box.

  ‘I think it was here,’ she said, pointing at a door opposite.

  ‘What makes you think it’s this one?’ asked McGorry.

  ‘The post box. It’s a really old one.’

  McGorry looked up at the frontage. It said: ‘R.D. LITMAN & SONS FINE JEWELLERS EST. 1884.’

  They went inside, where a comfortingly old-fashioned bell rang above the door. There was a hushed elegance to the interior, and a long glass counter, which gleamed. An elderly balding man with a slightly hunched back came out from a door at the rear of the shop. He sized them up with a practised glance, but waited for them to speak first.

  McGorry showed his warrant card and explained why they were there. Ella didn’t seem to recognise the man, but he recognised her.

  ‘Yes. You came in with another young lady with dark hair. Diamond earrings, princess cut: 1.62 carats of exceptional purity, set in 24 karat gold.’

  ‘You can be sure of all that?’ asked McGorry.

  ‘It’s my job to remember,’ said the man, sniffily. ‘And of course, I always remember a pair of beautiful ladies. Did your friend reconsider selling? What was her name?’

  ‘Marissa? No. She died,’ said Ella.

  ‘I see. I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘Do you wish to sell?’

  ‘No, we don’t want to sell,’ said McGorry. ‘I need to verify that they existed. Is there any chance you could be mistaken about their value?’

  The look on the old man’s face told him in the negative.

  ‘I valued them at… The exact figure escapes me… Ten…’

  ‘Ten and a half thousand,’ finished Ella.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked McGorry.

  ‘Peter Litman.’

  ‘Do you have much contact with the other jeweller’s shops around?’

  ‘Contact?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘This is a tight-knit community of traders which goes back a long way. Family businesses – but we remain businesses. With business relationships.’

  ‘Can I give you my card, in case you remember anything else?’ said McGorry.

  ‘Yes.’ He took the offered card. McGorry thanked him, and they left.

  * * *

  Peter Litman watched McGorry and Ella from the window, with his hands neatly behind his back. When they had receded from view, he went out back to an office, where there was a huge walk-in safe.

  ‘Charles, that was a police officer, Detective Inspector McGorry. He was asking about the princess-cut earrings belonging to the dead girl.’

  Charles Fryatt looked up from where he was working at a computer and a desk piled high with paperwork.

  ‘I heard everything.’

  ‘You would have also heard that I told them the truth. I won’t lie to the police. I’ll ask you again. Are you involved with the death of that young woman?’

  ‘No,’ said Charles, shifting in the seat. ‘It’s to do with the earrings. Nothing more.’

  ‘They were your mother’s earrings?’

  ‘Yes.’ Charles kept working at the computer and didn’t look up.

  ‘Charles, as your father-in-law, you have my loyalty, but only to a point.
If anything comes back to me that embarrasses me or my daughter…’

  ‘It’s nothing!’ said Charles, raising his voice. ‘And you didn’t lie, and it’s fine.’

  Peter looked at his son-in-law for a long moment, and then went back out to the shop front to rearrange the displays, a deep feeling of unease rolling over him.

  Forty-Eight

  It was early afternoon when the man who called himself ‘T’ left work. The shop he worked in had been quiet all day, apart from a man and woman who had come in with some enquiries.

  He felt lucky that he worked for a private family business; he was able to come and go as he pleased when business was quiet. He took the short train journey into central London.

  As he walked up Rupert Street and into Soho, the derelict facade of the Raymond Revue Bar rose up in front of him. His heart began to hammer in his chest, and he felt his penis grow hard. There was always a frisson of excitement when he entered the sex district, with its garishly lit bars and sex shops. It was a place where one could be both anonymous and coveted, and in this small quadrant of streets, all vestiges of polite British upper-class reserve fell away. The gays felt they could hold hands; people could express themselves. As he passed the Prowler store a couple of young guys emerged and did a double take, admiring his height. He waited for a council road sweeping machine to rumble past, the brushes working frantically on the filthy street. He crossed the road, heading past the sex shop on the corner and along Walker’s Court. It was a narrow, pedestrianised street made dingy by the tall buildings rising up either side. Sex shops and lap dancing clubs packed each side, with gaudy neon lights illuminating the gloom.

  Meltwater from the rooftops ran into a broken gutter and then spattered the floor next to a sex shop with blacked-out windows. A neon teacher’s cane with the word ‘SPANKING’ repeated in flashing rows, advertised the shop’s specialist sex gear and porno vids. T felt his excitement grow, and almost without noticing, put his hand down to his groin, feeling the leather through the thin material of his dark trousers. He always imagined that the street had looked pretty much the same two hundred years ago, just without the garish lights and blacked-out windows. Back then, young men or women could go missing, and little would be said about it. Life was cheap.