by Roberta Kray
Ellen slammed the car door shut and the Daimler roared off with a noisy screech of tyres. She stared after the car for a while before turning left and walking up Station Road. Jess only had a few seconds to decide what to do next. If she left it too long, she could lose her completely. Should she follow or not?
Although Jess knew that Harry was searching for Ellen Shaw, she wasn’t sure if she wanted to help him find her. That woman had caused him nothing but trouble. She could easily turn a blind eye, pretend she’d never seen her, but somehow that didn’t sit too easily with her conscience. Cursing softly, Jess grabbed her jacket and bag, got out of the car, locked it and set off in pursuit.
As she walked she pulled her phone from her pocket and called Harry. It rang about eight times before he finally picked up. She had the feeling he was trying to avoid her.
‘Jess,’ he said wearily. ‘What can I do for you?’
‘It’s more the other way round. I think I’ve just seen Ellen Shaw.’
There was a brief intake of breath from the other end of the line. ‘What? Where? Where are you?’
‘By the Fox.’
‘Is she in the pub?’
‘No, she’s just left the car park. Not in a car, on foot. She was dropped off by someone in a white Daimler.’
‘Was it Danny Street? It must have been.’
‘I don’t know. I couldn’t see the driver. I think she’s heading for the station.’
‘Can you follow her? Please, I wouldn’t ask, but I have to … I need to talk to her. Can you just keep an eye out until I get there?’
‘And how long is that going to take?’
‘Not long. Five, ten minutes.’
‘What if she gets on a train? What am I supposed to do then?’
‘Just stick by her. She won’t be going far.’
Jess thought about Hampstead and gave a sigh. ‘I’ve got plans, so shift your arse, okay? I’m not going on some magical mystery tour.’
‘I’ll be there. Thanks.’
Kellston wasn’t a big station. There were only two platforms and Ellen Shaw chose the one where the line went towards Dalston. With only four other people waiting, Jess pulled up the hood on her coat and kept as much distance between them as she could. It had been years since the two of them last met, but she didn’t want to take the chance of being recognised. She stared at the board – three minutes until the next train. Damn it! Harry was never going to get here in time.
Jess sneaked a few glances at the woman who was pacing impatiently along the length of the platform. She found herself dwelling on Len Curzon again. He had made the mistake of following Ellen Shaw once and look how that ended up. When she thought about his twisted corpse lying in a Camden gutter, a shudder ran through her.
As the train rolled in, Jess hesitated before she climbed aboard. Was she really doing Harry a favour – or was she doing the very opposite?
10
By the time Harry made it to Dalston, driving as fast as he dared, it was after ten o’clock. Jess had called earlier, sent a text with the address Ellen had ended up at and then caught a cab back to the Fox. He owed her one for making the journey, especially after everything else that had happened tonight. Although he remained convinced that Sylvie was safe, he knew she thought otherwise. What was Jess doing now? He preferred not to think about it. When she set her mind to something, she couldn’t be deterred. She wouldn’t stop until she’d come face to face with Sylvie again.
And he had someone to face too. His fingers tightened around the wheel as he drove up Stoke Newington Road. It was five years since he’d last spoken to Ellen, five years since he’d watched her walk out of his old office near the Strand and … Jesus, what happened next had been imprinted on his mind for ever. He could still visualise her stopping at the kerb, waiting and watching before she stepped out in front of the traffic, could still hear the dull cruel thump of metal against flesh. An accident? That’s what everyone said, but he didn’t believe it. There was something premeditated about the act, something shockingly deliberate.
Perhaps it was that memory that made him feel protective of her. Or maybe it had started well before that. He could still recall sitting in the flat in Camden, trying to find the right way to connect with her. She was a distant, complex kind of woman. Enigmatic, that was the word. The more he’d found out about her, the more mysterious she’d become. And yet eventually a bond had developed between the two of them. She’d grown to trust him, to like him, to … but whatever she had felt it had not been enough in the end.
Harry counted off the streets on the left until he came to Pelham Road. It took him a while to find a parking space and as he hurried back he tried to figure out what he was going to say. After her reaction at the hotel, he guessed that she wouldn’t be overly pleased to see him. She had not asked for his help and yet he felt compelled to offer it.
Pelham Road was a Victorian terrace of three-storey houses, most of them converted into flats. The ground floor of number nine still had a light showing behind the closed curtains of the bay window. He found the right bell, pressed it, stood back and waited. Would she even answer? Most women would be cautious at this time of night.
But surprisingly the door opened quickly. It was as if Ellen had been expecting someone – although that someone clearly wasn’t him. Her face fell as she realised who it was. ‘Oh, it’s you.’
‘Hello, Ellen.’
‘What are you doing here? How did you … What do you want?’
‘Just to talk. Can I come in?’
Ellen shook her head. ‘We’ve got nothing to talk about. And it’s late. I was about to go to bed.’
‘Five minutes,’ he said. It was strange to be standing in front of her again, as if the years were slipping away, taking him back to another place, another time. He felt the stirring of old feelings and tried to push them aside. ‘I can help if you’ll let me.’
‘I don’t need your help,’ she said bluntly. ‘Did I ask you for it? Did I ask you to come here? No. So please leave me alone.’ Her fingers gripped the side of the door as if he might try and force himself in. ‘Just go home, Harry.’
Harry, not wanting her to feel threatened, took a step back and put a little more space between the two of them. ‘Why won’t you tell me what’s going on? Danny Street, for God’s sake. What’s all that about?’
‘It’s none of your business.’
‘And last night. Why did you run off like that?’
Ellen gave a thin smile. ‘Because I didn’t want to have this conversation.’
Harry raked his fingers through his damp hair and frowned. There was an awkward silence and he became aware of the soft pattering sound of the rain as it fell on the path. ‘I’m worried about you.’
‘I’m not your responsibility.’
Someone’s got to take care of you, he wanted to say, but realised it would sound both patronising and wrong. ‘That doesn’t stop me from worrying.’
‘Well, you don’t need to. I’m fine, okay?’
‘What made you come back to London?’
Ellen exhaled a long exasperated sigh. ‘Please go home, Harry. It’s late. I’ve got nothing more to say to you.’
Harry noticed her glance quickly over her shoulder as if someone inside might be listening to the conversation. For the first time he thought about her husband. ‘Is Adam here?’
Ellen’s face twisted, her eyes growing cold. ‘No.’
‘He’s not with you?’
She left a long pause before answering. ‘Adam’s dead.’
Harry sucked in a breath. ‘Christ, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry. I didn’t realise. How did … What happened?’
‘It was over a year ago. He died of cancer.’ Then, before he could say anything else, she moved back into the hallway and finally dismissed him. ‘Goodnight, Harry. Please don’t come back here again.’ The door closed with a firm click and a second later he heard a bolt being pulled across.
11
Jess yawned and stretched out her arms and legs as far as she could, which wasn’t very far as she was sitting in a Mini. She’d been parked in Leonard Close for over two hours and there was still no sign of Joshua Keynes. She was starting to wonder if he’d got there before her and was already in the house, slouched down on the sofa watching CSI with a sandwich in one hand and a mug of cocoa in the other.
The close consisted of twelve cottage-style properties, six on each side, none of which could have provided the owners with much change from a million quid. She’d done a quick recce of number six, but it was too dark to see much. There was still a light on in one of the ground-floor rooms and a silver Porsche was parked in the driveway. But did the car belong to him or her? And anyway, if it was his, he would have left it at home if he’d known he’d be drinking.
All the front gardens had hedges which provided her with cover. Unless someone actually came out on the close, she wouldn’t be noticed. She could sit there all night and no one would be any the wiser. And, if the truth be told, she’d probably be none the wiser either. What exactly was she hoping to achieve? Joshua Keynes was hardly likely to come back with Sylvie in tow.
Jess had worked on her notes for a while, using the iPad to provide her with light. She’d made a list of things to do and placed them in order of priority. Had Harry even been back to Wilder’s to ask about Sylvie’s phone? She presumed not. He had other things on his mind at the moment. He was probably with Ellen right now, warm and dry and comfortable, chatting about old times.
An hour ago, just after eleven, she had tried to call Neil but his phone was turned off. In bed already or out on the town? Not in bed, she thought, not at this hour on a Saturday night. He’d be out with his new mates, having a few beers, checking out the Liverpool pubs. It had been her turn to travel this weekend, but she’d cried off after organising the interview with Sylvie.
She had thought that a long-distance relationship wouldn’t be a problem, not for six months, but they were only three months in and already starting to miss weekends. Last time, a fortnight ago, it had been Neil who’d cancelled, and now it was her. She wasn’t sure how much it mattered. Maybe it didn’t. Absence makes the heart grow fonder and all that.
Jess was pondering on whether there was actually any truth in this when a black cab turned into the close and drew up outside number six. She quickly slid down the seat, trying to keep out of sight. Sneaking a peek over the dashboard, she saw Joshua Keynes climb out, pay the driver and head for his front gate. He was alone – of course he was – and seemed to be acting in a normal fashion.
But that didn’t mean he wasn’t guilty. Where had he been between leaving Wilder’s and coming home? Four hours in which he could have been doing anything. But if he had abducted Sylvie, he must have had some form of transport; he could hardly force her into the back of a cab without anyone noticing that something was amiss. And it couldn’t have been planned. Keynes would have had no way of knowing that Sylvie was going to walk into the bar tonight.
Jess was about to give up and go home when something odd happened. After the cabbie had driven off, Keynes glanced furtively up and down the close and then got his phone out. Instead of going through the gate, he paced alongside the hedge. It was, she surmised, a call he didn’t want his girlfriend to overhear. Why else would he be standing out in the rain when he could be warm and dry inside?
But, suspicious as his behaviour was, it still didn’t prove he’d done anything to Sylvie. He could just be ringing his bit on the side, whispering sweet nothings before he went inside to join his fiancée. She curled her lip, wondering why it was that some men just couldn’t keep it in their pants.
Keynes finished his call, gave a smug smile and returned the phone to his pocket. He swung open the gate and disappeared from view. Jess hung on, waiting for … Well, she wasn’t quite sure what she was waiting for: perhaps for something dramatic to happen or for a flash of inspiration, something that would give her a lead as to what had actually gone on tonight. The minutes ticked by. Eventually, she had to accept that this was it. She gave one last glance towards the house, sighed, started the engine and set off for home.
‘I’ll be back,’ she murmured in her best Schwarzenegger accent. ‘You can count on it.’
12
Harry woke up on the sofa on Sunday morning with a thick head and a mouth that tasted like last week’s rubbish. The smell of whisky floated on the air. A half-empty bottle was still on the coffee table and he squinted at it resentfully, remembering the self-destructive indulgences of the evening before. Whisky and self-pity was never a good combination for someone with a man-sized dent in his pride.
Slowly, with a groan, he pulled himself into an upright position. What had he been thinking? Ellen had made her feelings clear when she did a bunk from the hotel. He’d thought it might be different when they came face to face, but it wasn’t. He winced as he thought about the moment she told him that she was widowed. Perhaps if he’d responded differently, said something else, done something else … but what?
Harry dragged himself to the shower, stripped off his clothes and gave himself up to the stream of hot water. He stood there for a long time, trying to wash his hangover away. When it became apparent that this wasn’t going to happen, he got out, dried himself, brushed his teeth, shaved and dressed.
In the living room he tidied up and opened all the windows to let in some fresh air. He made coffee and toast, took two aspirin and resolved to keep busy. Anything was better than slouching around feeling sorry for himself. Top of the list was to go round to Wilder’s – something he should have done last night – and check if Sylvie’s phone had been found. After that he’d go for a long walk and try to clear his head.
Once he’d forced down breakfast, Harry grabbed his jacket and left the flat. On the first-floor landing he glanced along the corridor but there was no sign of life from the office. They were closed on a Sunday but Lorna occasionally came in to do the books. There were advantages and disadvantages to living over the job, he thought; the upside was that he was never late for work, the down that it wasn’t always easy to get away from it.
Outside, a thin drizzly rain was falling. The street had that Sunday morning hush about it and even the usually bustling station was quiet. He walked round the corner to the bar, tried the door and found that it was locked. Checking the times, he saw that they didn’t open again until midday. He pressed his face against the window and peered inside, hoping that someone – maybe a cleaner – would be there. But the bar was empty. He rapped on the glass. Nobody came.
Harry turned round and began walking north up the high street. He had no real destination in mind, at least not when he started off. It was only when he reached the three tall towers of the Mansfield Estate that he realised he was heading for the Lincoln Pool Hall in the hope of finding Danny Street. Ellen had made her feelings clear, but somehow he still couldn’t let go of it.
The Lincoln was a low-slung two-storey building that doubled as a thieves’ den. It was a regular haunt of most of the local villains, drug dealers and other assorted lowlifes. The less savoury residents of the estate congregated there like bees round a honeypot. As he approached, Harry saw the white Daimler parked outside and knew that the man he wanted to see had to be inside.
The smell hit him as soon as he walked through the door, a potent odour of male sweat, beer and dope. The place wasn’t busy, but a few tables were in use, the click of the balls resounding through the room. Danny was standing at the bar with a spaced-out redhead draped over his shoulder. Harry strolled over and gave him a nod. ‘Morning.’
‘Fuck off,’ Danny said.
‘Can I have a word?’
‘What don’t you understand about “fuck off”?’
‘It’s to do with Ellen Shaw.’
Street sneered at him. ‘Give it a rest, man. I’ve already told her. There ain’t no deal. I’m not interested.’
The redhead narrowed her eyes – they had a weird va
cant expression – and stared at Harry. ‘You the filth? Is he the filth, Danny? He looks like the filth.’
‘As good as,’ Danny said.
Harry had to find a way of finding out what was going on, and as Ellen wasn’t going to enlighten him the only person left was Street. ‘What’s the matter? Not up to the job?’
Danny gave a snort. ‘What’s your fuckin’ game, man? Trying to set me up or what? I don’t do nothing illegal. I’m clean as the driven snow, me.’
‘Yeah, right.’
‘Tell him, Jodie,’ Danny said, nudging the girl.
‘He’s clean,’ she said obediently. ‘He’s as clean as …’ She wrapped a strand of long red hair around her fingers and gazed off into the middle distance as if searching for a suitable simile. When nothing came to her she began to make a humming sound, her body swaying in rhythm to an unknown song.
Harry wondered what she’d taken, but not for long. He had more important things on his mind. ‘Not like you to renege on a deal.’
‘How many times do I have to tell you? There is no fuckin’ deal.’
‘That’s not what she thinks.’
Danny glanced around, making sure there was no one within earshot before replying. ‘I don’t give a rat’s arse what she thinks. She wants a shooter, she can go someplace else to get it.’
Harry drew in a breath. A gun! A bloody gun! What the hell was Ellen playing at? But he did his best to hide the shock. ‘I’ll be sure to pass on the message.’
‘Yeah, you do that,’ Danny drawled. ‘And next time you lot try and stitch me up, don’t take me for a fuckin’ mug, eh?’
Harry gave a shrug, turned his back and walked away. He’d got what he came for and didn’t want to spend a second more in the company of Danny Street than he had to. If the guy thought he was working for the law that could only be a good thing. It meant he’d never, not in a hundred years, give Ellen what she wanted.
Harry’s chest felt tight and his head had started to throb again. Outside, he raised his face to the grey sky and took a few deep breaths. What now? If his blood alcohol levels had been lower he’d have driven straight over to Stoke Newington, but he couldn’t take the chance. Losing his licence was the last thing he needed.
