by Susan Lewis
‘Isn’t this where the Ashbys were supposed to be buying?’ Gino asked.
‘No. Their place was further along towards Wapping.’ She gazed up at a huge arched window and watched the reflection of a plane cutting silently through a clear blue sky. ‘Mirrors,’ she murmured. ‘Funny, isn’t it, how they make things appear as though they’re moving in one direction, when reality is totally reversed?’
‘Are we still on the Ashbys here?’ he asked. ‘Or are we taking some kind of philosophical side trip?’
‘I was just thinking how often things aren’t what they seem, and that’s how this case is. It’s just not what it seems.’
‘So you hold a mirror up to it and what?’
‘I don’t know until we put it there, but we will.’
They walked on, passing a news-stand where Beth Ashby’s anguished face was emblazoned on the front page of every copy under the headline ‘Beth’s Personal Pain’. Laurie picked up a copy and scanned it quickly. Nothing new, except a lonely-looking stroll with her friend’s golden retriever. The rest was a rehash of a very private woman’s public torment. How she must be cursing the slow news days that were turning a mere walk in the woods into a front-page sensation. And God alone knew how horrible it might have been if she’d taken the friend’s baby instead of the dog, now everyone knew about the two she had lost. Anyway, she still hadn’t talked to any press, which was what mainly concerned Laurie, for that was an exclusive she’d do the proverbial for.
‘I wonder how she must be feeling,’ she said to Gino, as they walked on. ‘All those glad-to-blab mistresses, and the kind of friends you’d only want so’s you’d have someone not to piss on in a fire. Talk about “fuck me in the good times, fuck you in the bad times”! Then there’s the failed IVF and miscarriages, and you can just imagine what kind of support that revoltingly narcissistic mother was in time of her daughter’s crisis. I can’t see the mother-in-law being much better either. And to cap it all, here’s her husband, whose best chance of survival right now has got to be an insanity plea. Tell me, what does one person do to deserve that much bad luck? And she seemed so nice to me. Not that I speak from long association, you understand.’
Gino was pondering it all as she spoke. ‘Interesting, isn’t it?’ he commented eventually, ‘how she hasn’t let anyone from the press near her since it happened. Not even those she must have known for years.’
‘It’s still early days,’ Laurie reminded him. ‘It only happened two weeks ago.’
He shrugged. ‘I’m just making a point. No luck with the lawyer, I suppose?’
‘You mean Bruce Cottle? I call him every day. He swears he passes my messages on, but he’s never got any to pass back. Besides, my name’s probably way down there at the bottom of the list, after the Who did he kill? zinger. But it won’t stop me trying. I’ve also requested a visit with Ashby.’
Gino gave a shout of laughter. ‘I’ve got to hand it to you, Laurie, for a woman, you’ve got balls.’
Grinning, she pushed open the wine-bar door. ‘They haven’t got me anywhere, though, have they?’ she shouted over the noise as they looked round for Flaxie. ‘At least not with the Ashbys.’
Spotting their colleague hemmed in at a small round table at the back of the room, she began pushing through the happy hour crowd. ‘So where is he?’ she demanded, squeezing herself into one of the chairs he was fighting off the masses for.
‘I’m great. How are you?’ David Flaxton responded, his quirkily handsome smile appearing between the upper fluff of a moustache and lower frizzle of a beard.
‘Very funny. Gino, that’s my foot you’re standing on.’
‘You can feel that, through those steel toecaps?’ he cried.
‘No, you just got taller, that’s all. While you’re up there, get a waiter over here, will you?’
‘You imagined I was here for the view?’ he responded, waving frantically as a waiter’s head momentarily bobbed above the tide.
‘Could you have found anywhere noisier?’ Laurie asked Flaxie.
‘I tried, but this was the best I could do.’
‘So, I repeat, where is he?’
‘He’ll be here.’
‘What’s he going to tell us that we don’t already know?’
‘That he drove Ashby to Sophie Long’s flat more than once.’
‘Please tell me one of those times was the day of the murder.’
‘Yep.’
Her eyes widened in surprise. That was not the answer she’d been expecting. ‘So,’ she demanded, sitting in even closer.
‘So he drops Ashby off.’
‘And?’
‘And that’s it.’
‘Jesus Christ, Flaxie. You got me –’
‘Wait! Wait! There’s more, much more, but not about that day.’
‘Go on,’ she said, drawing out the words.
‘Quick, what are you having?’ Gino demanded.
‘Lemonade,’ Laurie answered.
‘Another Kronenbourg,’ Flaxie added.
Laurie’s eyes hadn’t let go of Flaxie.
‘The driver’s name is Pinkton,’ he told her. ‘Brad Pinkton. He’s got his own minicab, just one driver, namely him, just one account, namely … Well, he’s not prepared to grass ’em all up, but basically, he runs a taxi service for some of the highest ranking civil servants our fair land can boast, who he takes to certain shall we say, Bacchanalian events around our fair city and beyond.’
‘No kidding,’ Laurie murmured, liking the sound of this a great deal. ‘And I suppose there are girls at these Bacchanalian events?’
‘Oh yes, lots of them.’
‘Who are paid to be there?’
‘Very possibly.’
‘And I presume many of Mr Pinkton’s clients are married men?’
‘I think that would be a fair presumption.’
‘Is he prepared to name any of them?’
‘Any of who?’ Gino said, finally sitting down. ‘What are we talking about?’
Laurie quickly filled him in.
Gino’s eyes goggled. Then feigning ecstasy he sighed, ‘A prostitution ring. The feather bed of all scandals. And Sophie Long was one of the girls?’
‘According to Pinkton,’ Flaxie replied.
Gino and Laurie looked at each other. ‘It still doesn’t tell us why Ashby would have killed her,’ she pointed out.
‘But it does open up the possibility of another motive and a cover-up,’ Gino countered.
Laurie was nodding. ‘So does this Pinkton know anything about the murder?’ she asked Flaxie.
‘I don’t know. If he does, he’s either staying shtoom, or saving it for you.’
Laurie looked at her watch. ‘It’s a quarter past six,’ she declared. ‘You said he’d be here at six.’
‘He’s probably stuck in traffic. I’ll try his mobile.’
As he dialled Laurie turned back to Gino. ‘Whether he knows anything about the murder or not,’ she said, ‘this is a story we definitely want.’
‘It’ll be connected, somehow,’ Gino assured her. ‘It has to be.’
‘I’m sure you’re right.’ She grinned widely. ‘Boy, this is really going to piss off the boomers. The upstart Laurie Forbes gets another Ashby exclusive.’
Gino cocked an eyebrow. ‘You’re right, it will,’ he agreed, ‘but just don’t make too many enemies. The boomers have been at it a long time, and you never know when you might need them.’
She snorted. ‘As if they’d do an SOS on me! Bastards!’
‘No reply,’ Flaxie said, clicking off his phone. ‘Probably in a tunnel, or one of the multistoreys parking his cab.’
Laurie stared at him harshly.
‘He’ll be here,’ he promised. ‘He’s a good bloke. You’ll see.’
Tearing her eyes away, she struggled to her feet. ‘Fill Flaxie in on what we think about a cover-up,’ she said to Gino, ‘and Wilbur’s instruction to back off.’
As she forced a path thr
ough to the ladies room she was trying to come up with a feasible scenario that would start with the procurement of young girls – a crime in itself – for the titillation and fantasy fulfilment of ugly old geezers – possible crimes here too depending what the old goats were into – and ended with one of the girls being throttled with her own tights by the youngest and handsomest of the old geezers, who could have got sex anywhere without paying for it. However, that, once again, depended on what he was into, though none of the many mistresses so far had mentioned anything particularly bestial or barbaric.
Clearly, in order to help connect the opening scene of procurement to the dastardly denouement of death they needed Pinkton, who, though he might not have all the answers, could certainly put them on the right road. Already he’d thrown a whole new light on Sophie Long, whose only claim to fame prior to all this was as runner-up to Miss Essex at the age of nineteen. Since then, as a victim she’d been the darling of the press, her image squeakier than holy, despite having an affair with a married man, but of course she’d been corrupted so that didn’t count. Laurie wondered what this new little grenade was going to do when she took out the pin and let fly. Well, one thing was for certain: Sophie Long’s new persona as a professional escort, if she wanted to put it nicely, wasn’t going to change the fate of Colin Ashby, for his goose had been stuck in a thousand-watt microwave the minute the cleaner burst into the room. No, Laurie wasn’t in any doubt about the fact that he’d done it, it was the why that was intriguing her now – in fact, it was outright fascinating her. So please, God, don’t let Pinkton turn into a no-show because if his story panned out there was no way Wilbur, or anyone else, would hold up the order for her to back off, and the glory that could come with the exposure …
‘Have you tried him again?’ she demanded, sliding back into her chair.
Flaxie nodded. He was looking uneasy. ‘He swore he’d be here,’ he said, ‘and he seemed like a really good bloke. Something must have happened.’
They looked at each other, and in less than a heartbeat all three had arrived at the same alarming scenario. Gino was the one to voice it. ‘You don’t think he’s going to turn up face down in the ferry lane, do you?’ he said shakily.
‘No, don’t be ridiculous,’ Laurie snapped. ‘This isn’t a Bond movie.’ She looked to Flaxie for something more convincing.
‘If anyone wanted to silence him they’d have done it before he spoke to the police,’ he pointed out reasonably.
Liking the logic of that Laurie was about to speak again when Flaxie’s mobile started to ring.
‘That’ll be him,’ Flaxie declared, snatching it up. ‘Hello,’ he bellowed down the line, while blocking his other ear. ‘Yeah, it’s me.’ He gave the thumbs-up. ‘Where the hell are you?’ He listened, screwing up his eyes as though it might improve his hearing. ‘What!’ he suddenly exploded. ‘You’re kidding me. Tell me you didn’t do that. Oh shit, man. Oh shit. No, I don’t fucking well understand … We had a deal … Yeah, I hear you.’ He listened again, then said, ‘You’ve really stitched me up here. Why didn’t you …? No, tomorrow’s no good.’
As he snapped off the call Laurie’s heart was thudding.
‘Someone else got to him,’ Flaxie said, sounding as wretched as he looked.
‘What do you mean?’ Gino demanded.
‘I mean, he’s been paid for his story. We had diddly to offer, so he went to someone who had dough.’
‘That someone being …?’ Laurie said, feeling the icy burn even before his eyes told her the answer.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said.
‘Oh God, no,’ Gino groaned.
They both looked at Laurie.
Not only her lips, her whole face had turned pale. ‘What I’d like to know,’ she said through her teeth, ‘is if that bastard got to him before you did, Flaxie, or if he let you set up the meeting, then snatched him right from under my nose.’
‘You’re making it personal, Laurie,’ Gino warned.
‘You’re damned right it’s personal,’ she spat. ‘Where Elliot Russell’s concerned everything’s personal.’
‘Laurie, he’s a seriously heavyweight player,’ Gino reminded her. ‘I know you’ve got your issues with him, but professionally, you’ve got to face it, you’re a minnow and he’s …’
‘A shark. I hope that’s what you were going to say,’ she butted in, her face tight with fury. ‘But he’s worse than a shark. So never underestimate him, Gino, and never, ever trust him.’
Knowing Laurie couldn’t be rational where Elliot Russell was concerned, Flaxie said, ‘Pinkton’s willing to talk to us tomorrow, tell us everything he’s told Russell. No fee.’
‘By midnight tonight Elliot Russell will have sold the exclusive to the highest bidder,’ she seethed, ‘and every other paper in town will have it in time for second edition, including ours. He’ll do a deal with one of the boomers who’ll write it up as though it were his and we’ll be sitting right there, sick as pigs, and twice as stupid. Well, to hell with that,’ she snarled, grabbing her bag. ‘This is war, and while he might have won this round, he’s not going to bloody well win the next.’
Chapter 5
DID PEOPLE THINK she was guilty too? As the murderer’s wife she had somehow to be involved? Was that why they all stared? Or was it just that she felt guilty? But she mustn’t allow herself to feel that way. Above all she had to resist that common failing in women, the way they assumed blame for events beyond their control. And they had been beyond her control, she must always remember that; if she didn’t she’d be on a sure route to breakdown or something even worse. No, what she felt was tainted. Yes, tainted, because there wasn’t much about the past three weeks that hadn’t felt like a contamination.
Beth didn’t think anyone had followed her from the station. She hadn’t noticed anyone, but they weren’t always easy to spot, like the day she’d taken Dillon, Georgie’s dog, for a walk. She’d had no idea a photographer was stalking her until Dillon had suddenly run at him barking. He’d got his picture, though; it had made the late edition of the London evening paper, and had appeared in a couple of the tabloids the next day too. Since then there hadn’t been very much, which might have been more of a blessing were she not so afraid that it was just a lull as the eye of the storm passed over.
She’d taken a taxi here, hidden behind dark glasses and a large straw hat, which was OK since it was the middle of June. She was wearing a long, pale blue linen dress, loosely belted at the waist, with a matching overshirt and brown leather sandals. She hadn’t been sure whether to carry a briefcase or her usual roomy shoulder bag. Beth Ashby had never had much use for a briefcase, but maybe Ava Montgomery did. She wasn’t sure, because she didn’t know much about Ava yet. In the end she’d opted for both, though the briefcase was empty.
She was in the small reception area of a third-floor office suite in one of the large Regency buildings, just off Piccadilly. The shelves were stuffed full of books, brand-new glossy editions of the latest in commercial and literary fiction, travel and sports. A few were propped up on the coffee table, with an assortment of catalogues and magazines. She could hear the traffic outside, while along the hall telephones buzzed and disembodied voices answered. The receptionists, just a few feet away, behind their horseshoe desk, were trying not to stare. Were they wondering if it was really her, or did they already know? She considered doing something outrageous, like picking up a couple of the books and stuffing them into her briefcase; or launching into a tango with an imaginary partner. Instead, she crossed one leg over the other and sat primly waiting. She’d never had the courage to be extreme or eccentric, though she and Colin had frequently made each other laugh with those kinds of absurd imaginings.
These past three weeks had been the most peculiar time of her life. Nothing had ever affected her like this, not even the loss of her babies. There was so much that she no longer understood. It was as though she’d stepped outside of her normal self into a confusion of persecutio
n and paranoia – and endless, persistent questions from Bruce, Giles Parker and the police. What had really happened in Sophie Long’s flat that day? Why was Colin denying the murder when even he couldn’t argue with the facts? They were convinced he was holding something back, and if she knew what it was, she must tell them. But what reason would he have to hold anything back? Surely if there was anything that might clear his name he wouldn’t even hesitate to tell.
The police were leaving her alone now, but Bruce and Giles Parker had increased the pressure. They didn’t seem to hear her answers. Why would she hold back anything that would help him, she’d asked them. He was her husband, she loved him, and she’d give anything in her power to turn back the clock. They kept asking her why he was refusing to see her, or speak to her, when they should have been asking him. Bruce still hadn’t brought home even so much as a message, and no visiting order had been issued either. If Colin had any idea what his silence was doing to her, he either didn’t care or it was what he intended. But why would he want to torment her like this? What reason could he have for pulling away when he surely needed her more now than he ever had? Since Bruce was asking her the same questions she was inclined to believe him when he claimed not to know why Colin was behaving this way.
‘He just says it’s for the best,’ he told her each time she asked why Colin didn’t call or let her visit. ‘He won’t discuss it any further than that.’
So now, in an effort to deal with a rejection that actually felt worse than all the others, Beth was trying to detach herself too. In the past, whenever she’d tried to move forward alone, her resolve would crumble the instant she saw him. But now she must consider only the extraordinary coincidence, and indeed blessing, of how Ava Montgomery’s existence had achieved its first recognition a mere few hours after Colin had lost his freedom. There must have been some exceptional universal power at work that day, she thought, and all she could do was thank it, for in giving her Ava it had given her something to hold on to – some small chance of survival.
