The Debt

by Roberta Kray

  ‘Not killers?’ she asks. ‘What, not even for a million quid? A couple of million?’ She wraps her arms around her knees. ‘Haven’t you heard? People will do anything for money.’

  I shake my head. ‘Some things, not everything.’

  ‘It’s obvious. It’s staring you straight in the face.’

  ‘It’s crap.’

  She glares at me. ‘Oh yeah?’

  I throw the towel down on the bed. ‘They wouldn’t have been so careless. The Fosters are old school, professional; they’d have covered their tracks. Fifty people, more, must have seen them talking to Eddie. They didn’t even try to keep it quiet. Whatever they were paying for, they were doing it openly.’

  ‘So maybe they were careless,’ she says, ‘or arrogant.’

  ‘But they’re not. They’re not stupid and they didn’t kill Eddie. We have to disconnect the two – I’m not convinced his murder is anything to do with what’s happening to Marc.’

  She looks up at me, astounded. ‘And you really believe that?’

  ‘Quigley doesn’t think the Fosters killed Eddie. If he did, he wouldn’t have said what he did tonight.’

  ‘And you trust him?’

  I shrug. ‘As much as I trust you.’

  Simone turns and swings her long legs over the side of the bed. I can see the contours of her breasts through the thin cotton. She focuses her cynical eyes on me. ‘And just how much, exactly, is that?’

  I take a moment. I’d like to be generous but there’s no point going overboard. ‘Enough,’ I eventually say.

  She gives me a long hard look before standing up. ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘Sure.’

  Switching on the kettle, she clatters a couple of cups down on the counter. ‘So if you’re right, then what was Eddie being paid for?’

  ‘I’m still trying to figure that,’ I tell her honestly. ‘Maybe they were paying him to keep an eye on the house, to follow me if I came out, to see where I went. Maybe all they were after was the lowdown on my movements.’ The more I think about this possibility the more probable it becomes. I try to work through the idea. ‘I mean, if Eddie was already hanging round, there wasn’t much point in them being there too. All they had to do was drop him a few quid and Eddie would keep them up to date. As soon as I showed my face he’d be straight on the blower.’

  ‘It’s just a hypothesis,’ she says.

  ‘A reasonable one,’ I reply, ‘if all they wanted was the opportunity to beat the shit out of me.’

  She adds the water, gives the coffee a stir, and passes me one of the cups. ‘Which leaves us where?’

  ‘Looking somewhere else.’ I stare down into the dense brown liquid. ‘Jeez, is this coffee or mud?’

  ‘You don’t like it, make it yourself,’ she retorts, climbing back on her bed and pulling the duvet round her knees.

  ‘You ever thought of the diplomatic service?’

  ‘You ever thought of saving your wisecracks for someone who’s listening?’

  I lean back, stretch out my legs and cross them at the ankles. Maybe I should cut her some slack. Like Quigley, she hasn’t had the best of days. And if she doesn’t feel those bruises now, she’ll certainly feel them in the morning. ‘Sorry Just trying to take your mind off things.’

  ‘Well, don’t. I’m not in the mood.’ Holding her cup with both hands, she sinks her face into the steam and takes a few tentative sips. ‘Two days,’ she says, as if I might have forgotten. ‘Two days. That’s all we’ve got left.’

  Well, strictly speaking, it’s all she’s got left, but now might not be the moment to share that unpalatable truth. By this time tomorrow, I intend to be a hundred miles away. I’ve done my bit, asked around, made the calls; it’s not my fault if no one’s talking.

  Suddenly my mobile goes off, an irritating scale of notes that makes me wince. ‘Yes?’ The voice is a familiar one. I keep my answers monosyllabic and the conversation lasts less than a minute. For the duration, Simone sits bolt upright, her eyes fixed expectantly on me.

  ‘What?’ she asks, as soon as I’ve hung up. ‘Who was it?’

  I throw the phone down on the bed. ‘Ted Ainsworth.’

  And?’

  I shake my head. ‘Nothing yet.’

  She sinks back into the duvet. ‘So we’re no better off,’ she says, despondently. ‘We don’t know any more than we did before. What if we don’t find out, what if—’

  I have to interrupt before she sinks into a pit of despair. And that, as experience has taught me, will inevitably be followed by tears. ‘Sure we’re better off. It’s a matter of elimination, isn’t it? There’s no point chasing down blind alleys.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ she replies, ‘and now you’ve eliminated the Fosters, who exactly is next on your extensive list of suspects?’

  She’s got a point. Maybe I have been too fast to dismiss them. But whatever way I look at it, it just doesn’t feel right, doesn’t fit. ‘Come on, even Ted doesn’t think they’re responsible for this.’

  And who’s Ted Ainsworth – the bloody Oracle?’

  I lean over the side of the bed. Reaching into my bag, I pull out a bottle of whisky. ‘I need a drink.’

  ‘For God’s sake.’ She looks at me with contempt. ‘Is that your answer to everything?’

  Ignoring her, I go to fetch some glasses. To be honest, it’s a welcome opportunity to turn my back. I’m skilled at lying, expert, but that doesn’t mean I always like it. Ted’s done the rounds and there’s not even a whisper. Silence. That’s all there is out there. And that’s not good news. Whoever’s holding Marc, they’re tight, professional and smart. They’ve brought the lid down on this kidnap, sealed it like some fucking coffin.

  I need to think. I need some whisky. I need some whisky to think.

  Without bothering to ask, I pour two generous measures and place one glass on her bedside table. She can drink it or not. It makes no odds to me. I leave the bottle on the floor and then slide back on to my bed and stare up at the ceiling.

  I close my eyes. Whatever’s going on, there must be something to grab hold of, a name, a place, a piece of string that winds back into the past. There’s a loose end somewhere, I’m sure of it. I slide through the roll call of names, everyone who was on the job – Dixie, Roy Foster, Eddie Tate . . .

  All dead, except for me.

  Which isn’t encouraging.

  Back to the Fosters. Maybe that whole assault routine was just a cover to put me off the scent, some kind of clever double bluff? Then there’s Quigley – do I really trust that piece of shit? And who else might Eddie have been in league with? I’m so paranoid that even Melanie springs into my mind. Quickly, I shake her out again. Then there’s Patrick and Alan. Even Dean’s inscrutable brows lifted when I mentioned the ice. He could know more than he’s letting on.

  A few minutes pass before Simone speaks to me again. Her voice is smaller now, almost apologetic. ‘So what next?’

  I open my eyes and look at her. She’s curled up in a ball. I have the impression that if she could, she’d transform herself into something tiny, a marble or a coin, and roll away into the night. I need to keep her occupied, distracted.

  ‘We wait. Plenty can happen in forty-eight hours.’

  ‘But you’re sure you’ll get the diamonds?’

  I nod. I even manage a reassuring smile. ‘Hey, don’t worry. It’s under control.’

  She sips her whisky, unconvinced but unwilling to press me. When push comes to shove I’m still her only realistic option. Slowly, she uncoils and stretches out. I wonder what she’d do if I made a pass at her? It’s a sordid thought but then I’ve never been renowned for my gentlemanly qualities.

  For a while I let my thoughts wander into places they shouldn’t. If anything’s going to happen between us then it has to happen tonight. A farewell shag for all the good times we’ve had together? Maybe she just needs a bit of encouragement, an opportunity to let me know how grateful she is . . .

  The
n, out of the blue, she suddenly says something guaranteed to cool my ardour. ‘Who was Dixie?’

  ‘Who told you about Dixie?’

  I must have snapped because a frown gathers on her forehead. ‘Alan mentioned him. He just mentioned him, that’s all.’

  I wonder what else Alan told her. He’s got a gob on him the size of the Blackwall Tunnel. I knew it was a mistake to leave them together. I gaze into my whisky. Best to keep it short and sweet. ‘He was a friend. Someone in the past.’

  As if I might elaborate, she waits.

  But I’m not falling for that old trick. Silence doesn’t bother me. I can hold my tongue until the fucking cows come home.

  ‘Was Dixie with you on the Hatton Garden job?’

  Jesus, is she guessing or did Alan tell her that too? Perhaps she got my whole bleeding biography while I was standing at the bar. I say abruptly, ‘He’s dead, okay? He died in prison. Can we drop it now?’

  But in a way I’ve already answered her question.

  Alan seemed nice,’ she says. ‘I suppose you two go way back.’

  I’m not sure if she’s still digging or just making general conversation. ‘Far enough. He used to work at the club. His wife was a friend of Sarah’s.’

  ‘Really? She must have been upset when—’

  ‘Everyone was upset.’

  There’s a short silence.

  ‘Those diamonds,’ she murmurs, ‘don’t you ever wish that you’d never set eyes on them?’

  The diamonds are in my pocket. I reach down, automatically, to touch them. Perhaps I should have got rid, hidden them, posted them, shifted them somewhere safe, but I couldn’t bear to let them out of my sight. They’re my future now. The only prospect I’ve got left.

  She sighs into her glass. ‘There’s a curse on those things.’

  ‘Yeah, right.’ I give a short brusque laugh. ‘You really believe in all that garbage?’

  Simone swings round to face me, her eyes bright. ‘So how many people have died because of them already?’ She counts them off on her fingers: ‘Roy Foster, Eddie Tate, Dixie . . .’ but then her voice starts to crack and she suddenly stops.

  And we both know what she isn’t able to say, that there might yet be a fourth.

  I hear her take a deep breath. ‘Are they really worth it?’ she continues softly. ‘Do you really imagine those diamonds will make anyone happy?’

  But nothing she says is going to change my mind. I understand what she’s trying to do. If she can’t appeal to my conscience, can’t guilt me into handing them over, her only alternative is to spook me into it. Villains are big on superstition, on signs – they’ve got more fucking rituals than the witches in Macbeth. But not me. I don’t believe in all that shit. You make your own luck, face your own fate.

  I take a moment, as if I’m inwardly debating the mighty forces of karma. I sip earnestly on my whisky. Eventually, I turn to her and smile. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  She smiles back with a gratitude I don’t deserve.

  Which sets me back to thinking about the night’s possibilities. It would be a shame to waste our last evening together. It’s good to talk but there are plenty more enjoyable things we could be doing. ‘Here’s to happier times,’ I declare, leaning forward and refilling her glass.

  She chinks it lightly against mine.

  I’m not trying to get her drunk. Well, not exactly. Okay, I’m kind of hoping that the whisky might lower her resistance, cloud her judgement a little, remind her of how much she owes me, but that’s all. I’m not the type to take advantage but if she should decide to show her appreciation then who am I to deny her?

  I lean back and put my hands behind my head. ‘Do you remember the first time we met? You were soaked, drenched. God, you looked so miserable.’

  ‘I was.’

  ‘And not overly pleased to see me.’

  ‘I was tired,’ she says.

  ‘You hated my guts.’

  She turns, insistent. ‘I didn’t hate you. I didn’t even know you.’

  ‘Enough to realize that you didn’t want me there.’

  She shrugs. ‘Maybe. But it wasn’t personal. There are only so many problems you can deal with in a day.’ Then she quickly adds, ‘Not that I thought you were—’

  I start to laugh. ‘It’s okay,’ I say, holding up my hands, ‘I get it.’

  Slowly her lips widen into a tentative smile.

  She’s not beautiful. Not perfect. But it’s her flaws that turn me on. I like her sulky mouth, the way it naturally turns down at the corners. I like her wary eyes. I like the way she doesn’t always think before she speaks; there’s something impulsive, challenging, about her. At another time, in a different place, perhaps we might have . . .

  Anyway,’ she says, ‘as I recall, you weren’t all that impressed with me either.’

  Ah, first impressions. They can’t always be trusted, can they? I’d like to think we’ve moved on since then.’

  I’m hoping she might throw me a compliment, a scrap of hope, but instead she replies, ‘So tell me about Sarah.’

  Christ, she certainly knows how to kill a mood. What is it about women – always wanting to resurrect the past, to drag your traumas into the light? They can’t let things lie. All I was after was a quiet drink, a little flirtation, but all she wants to do is conduct a fucking post-mortem. Why did she have to go and mention Sarah?

  ‘I’ve got a better idea. Why don’t we talk about you?’

  Hearing the sudden change in my tone, she sits back a fraction. ‘What’s there to talk about?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I shrug. ‘Why don’t you tell me your plans for the future? I mean, you’re getting on a bit – are you really going to spend the rest of your life playing flower-girl?’

  Women don’t like it when you mention their age; it’s one of those taboo subjects like their weight, the size of their arse or how much they spend on their shoes. They don’t take kindly to their career choices being mocked either.

  She makes an angry exasperated sound in the back of her throat. ‘And are you going to spend the rest of your life breaking the law?’

  ‘God, have you ever listened to yourself?’ I shake my head. ‘Sanctimonious isn’t the word for it. You’re married to a fraudster. He’s hardly the Angel bloody Gabriel.’

  Simone glares at me. Then, with more self-restraint than I’ve given her credit for, she turns her back and switches off the bedside lamp. ‘I need some sleep.’

  So much for a night of passion.

  She may be able to sleep but I can’t. Four hours later I’m still lying supine, wakeful, gazing up at the ceiling. The curtains are open and my eyes have adjusted to the dark. We’ve got a room at the back, overlooking the car park, and occasionally I hear the sound of a vehicle pulling in, of an engine being cut, then the hurry of footsteps on the concrete. Some late-night traveller looking for shelter. Someone with nothing more to worry about than a shower and a bed with clean sheets.

  I’m still dressed, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. All I have to do is pull on my jacket, pick up my bag and leave.

  The time has come, hasn’t it?

  A few feet away, Simone breathes softly. I try not to think of how she’ll feel when she finds me gone. That’s her problem, not mine. Serves her right for giving me so much grief. I won’t miss her, not for a second. Why should I? I’m better off on my own. Still, it’s a shame it had to end like this, with scowls and bitter words. But there’s no point hanging around. There are three stations down the road, Euston, King’s Cross and St Pancras; surely I can get a train to somewhere.

  ‘So long, sweetheart,’ I whisper.

  Simone stirs slightly but doesn’t wake.

  I mean to get up, to make a move, but instead I light another cigarette.

  It’s cold outside. I can see the frost on the window. Maybe I should wait a while. What’s the point of freezing my bollocks off on an icy platform when it’s warm in here, safe and comfortable?

&n
bsp; And unable to stop myself, I start going through the facts again, rolling through events, trying to piece the fragments of this ransom mess together. Somewhere, in an obscure corner of my brain, there’s a clue I’ve overlooked. I’m sure of it. I’m certain. If I delve hard enough, root around, I can find that loose thread, give it a yank and . . .

  After all, it’s a matter of pride. There’s some bastard out there, some scumbag who thinks he has the right to steal my diamonds. I need to keep searching. Dig deep enough, turn over enough stones, and something nasty will eventually crawl out. That’s reason enough to keep on digging. Although, truth is, I’ve got another reason too. Just call me sentimental but I would like to leave Simone with something – even if it’s only a glimmer of hope.

  I begin with Ted Ainsworth. Okay, we go way back but we were never bosom buddies; contemporaries rather than friends. He might owe me a favour but he’s shown an unusual interest, an unexpected enthusiasm, in helping me out. Twice today – or rather, yesterday – he got off his fat arse, picked up the phone, and talked to me. Was that down to respect, to history or something else? Perhaps he and Dean both know more than they’re letting on.

  Then there’s Eddie Tate. What secrets has he taken to the grave? Perhaps if I hadn’t been so determined to avoid him, he might have told me something useful. He never got the chance because I never gave him the chance. And then Carl stepped in. What did he say to him, do to him? I close my eyes. Jesus. I know what he did. I don’t want to think about it.

  And of course there are the Fosters – angry and resentful. Instinctively, I place a hand over my ribs; they’re still sore, bruised and tender, an uncomfortable reminder of just how far they were prepared to go.

  And finally there are the people I trust – Melanie and Patrick. I shiver. Could either of them hate me enough, despise me enough, to do this? It’s not an easy question to answer. If it hadn’t been for me, Dixie would never have ended up in jail – and Melanie would not have lost her father. That’s motive enough. And Patrick’s got good reason too. I made his daughter’s life a misery, condemning her to a life of empty hope and prison visits. But would he have handed over the diamonds if he . . .