by Roberta Kray
‘So they had a change of heart.’ Harry shrugged. ‘It’s not that surprising. Maybe they thought it through, decided not to open old wounds.’
‘Or maybe someone warned them off.’
‘That’s a bit of a leap. You got any evidence?’
Jess delved into the pocket of her jacket and took out her phone. She scrolled through the menu, found what she wanted and passed the mobile over to him. ‘Here, take a look at this.’
Harry stared down at the photo on the screen. It was of a dark blue minicab parked in a street. ‘What am I looking at exactly?’
‘It’s Sam’s car. The tyres have all been slashed and someone’s run a key along the paintwork. It was done a couple of days ago. She found it like that when she got up in the morning.’
‘Could have been yobs.’
‘Except it’s the second time in a fortnight.’
Harry still wasn’t convinced. ‘Or a disgruntled customer. Maybe she overcharged someone or nicked a neighbour’s parking space.’
‘Sure,’ Jess said, going into her pocket again, ‘and maybe a disgruntled customer sent these too.’ She pulled out two folded sheets of A4 paper. ‘These are only photocopies. The police have the originals. They were sent through the mail to her home address. The envelopes were typed and they were posted in Kellston.’
Harry reached out, took the sheets, unfolded them and flattened them on the desk. The first one read: Keep yer mouth shut BITCH, and the second: YOU killed Minnie Bright. They’d been put together from words cut from a tabloid – the Sun, he guessed, although he couldn’t swear to it. In this world of high-tech communication there was a curiously dated feel to the messages, as if the perpetrator had seen something similar done on an old TV crime show and believed it was the obligatory way to send threats. Or maybe they just had an overly heightened sense of drama. ‘Very nice,’ he murmured.
‘Aren’t they just.’
‘But she has reported it?’
Jess gave a nod. ‘Yes, but what can the cops do? They’ve put it all on record, but a few slashed tyres and a couple of poison-pen letters hardly make her a priority. Sam’s scared, and she’s not the type who scares easily. Someone wants to shut her up, and the question is why?’
Harry gazed down at the sheets again. ‘It could just be a crank.’
‘But how did they even know that she was speaking to me? And why should they accuse her of killing Minnie? That’s what’s so weird. It’s freaking Sam out. She’s had a few odd phone calls too, the sort where the person leaves a long, unpleasant silence and then hangs up. The number was always unidentified.’
‘I’m still not sure what you want me to do about it.’
Jess gave him one of her wide-eyed, pleading looks. ‘Just have a chat with her. Please. You can do that, can’t you? I don’t see why anyone should be this concerned about Sam talking unless they’re frightened of something incriminating coming out.’
Harry pulled a face, aware that he could be treading on sensitive toes if this all led back to the original investigation. DCI Saul Redding, now Detective Superintendent Redding, had been the officer in charge of the case. Although Harry was convinced that Peck’s conviction had been a safe one, he also knew that even the cleanest of cops could get antsy when their judgement was called into question. ‘What about the other girl? You’ve mentioned Paige and Becky and Lynda, but there were five in all, weren’t there?’
‘Kirsten Cope,’ Jess said. ‘Or Kirsten Roberts as she was back then. She’s an actress in one of those minor TV soaps, lives out in Essex now. She refused point blank to see me.’
‘Maybe she didn’t fancy the publicity.’
Jess gave a snort. ‘That would be a first. She spends most of her time falling in and out of nightclubs trying to be noticed. Barely a week goes by when she isn’t in the gossip column of one magazine or another.’
‘Yeah, but there’s publicity and publicity. Perhaps she doesn’t want to be reminded of the Minnie Bright murder. What happened back then must have been pretty traumatic for all those girls.’
‘I guess,’ Jess said. ‘Maybe that’s why she changed her name. But there’s something more going on here, I’m sure of it.’
‘Anyone else know about this article you’re intending to write?’
She shook her head. ‘If they do, it’s not come from me or Sam, but I’ve no idea who the others might have told. Look, I wouldn’t have come here unless I thought it was serious. I’m genuinely worried for Sam. I’ve got a bad feeling about all this.’
Harry picked up a biro off the desk and tapped his teeth with it. He was silent for a while. Unlike Jess, he was more inclined towards the view that the threats against Sam Kendall were malicious rather than dangerous, but it wouldn’t do any harm to hear the girl out. ‘Okay. How about if I see her tomorrow?’
Jess’s face lit up. ‘You mean it?’
‘But like I said earlier, no promises, right?’
‘No promises. I get it.’ She glanced at her watch, pushed back the chair and rose to her feet. ‘I’ve got to go, but thanks, Harry. I really appreciate it. Sam works late on Friday nights, but she could be here by … say, one o’clock?’
‘That’s fine.’
Jess took a business card from her bag and put it on his desk. ‘We should get together sometime, go for a drink and have a proper catch-up.’
‘Yeah, that sounds good.’
‘Are you on the same number?’
‘Same number,’ he said.
Jess turned to go, then stopped. ‘Oh, I meant to tell you. I think you may have a more profitable client loitering outside. I noticed him on the way in, middle-aged geezer, grey hair, smart suit and tie. He was pacing up and down the street, kept stopping to stare at the door and then walking on again.’
‘You probably scared him off.’
‘Yeah, I tend to do that to men.’ She grinned, raised a hand and gave him a wave. ‘Thanks again, Harry. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
After she’d gone, Harry went to the open window and gazed down. The office was on the first floor, above a newsagent’s. He couldn’t see anyone matching her description hanging around. After a minute Jess appeared and began walking towards the station. He stared at the top of her head for a moment, wondering if she’d glance up. She didn’t.
He took off his jacket and sat back down at his desk. So, the first client of the new business, if he agreed to take the case, was probably one who’d still be paying the bill five years down the line. Still, it could be worse. They could have no clients at all.
2
It was another half-hour before Harry heard the buzzer again. Going through the same procedure as he had with Jess, he got up from his desk, put his jacket back on, went into the reception area and waited. There was a long delay, as if whoever had come in had stopped on the stairs and was in two minds as to whether to proceed. Harry had to fight against the temptation to put his head round the door and give them some friendly encouragement.
The man who finally entered the room was in his early fifties, almost as tall as Harry, with cropped steel-grey hair, a squarish face, a strong jaw and a pair of piercing dark eyes. He had the kind of upright stance that suggested he might once have been in the army – maybe even still was – and was sporting an authentic deep tan. His grey suit, perfectly tailored, had probably been made in Savile Row.
‘Are you Mackenzie?’ The voice was gruff, with a hint of a southern Irish accent.
‘The other one.’ Harry put his hand out. ‘Lind, Harry Lind.’
‘Martin Locke.’
As they shook hands, Harry noticed the gold Rolex watch on the other man’s wrist. ‘Come on through to my office. Would you like a tea or a coffee?’
‘No,’ replied Locke brusquely. ‘Let’s just get on with it, shall we.’
As Locke pulled out the chair and sat down, Harry was already aware of what the problem was. He’d seen plenty of husbands and wives over the past few years, all desperate to find ou
t if their spouses were cheating on them. Of course, deep down, most of them already knew the answer, but they still felt the need to see the evidence in black and white. Harry watched while Martin Locke crossed his legs, stared down at the floor and began to twist the gold band on the third finger of his left hand. ‘So, how can I help?’
‘It’s a delicate matter.’
‘I understand.’ Harry waited patiently. It was the first few steps that were always the hardest, saying it out loud. There was no point in pushing for the information; it was better to let people take their time.
Locke lifted his head and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I can rely on your discretion?’
Harry gave a nod. ‘Naturally.’
Locke thought about it for a while longer. ‘It’s my wife, Aimee. I think she may be seeing someone else.’ As if it was a relief to finally say the words, he heaved out a breath. ‘We’ve been married five years. We’ve had our ups and downs, what couple doesn’t, but I thought we were all right. Only recently …’
Harry nodded again. ‘Recently?’
‘I could be wrong, I don’t know.’ He glanced quickly towards the window and then back at Harry. ‘It’s just a feeling.’
In Harry’s experience, it was rarely just a feeling. There were usually more practical reasons why people suspected their partners. ‘She’s been acting differently?’
Locke’s face tightened. ‘I need to know the truth. She’s younger than me, you see, and … Well, no man likes to be made a fool of, does he? I want to know where she goes, who she sees.’
‘You’d like us to mount a surveillance operation. That’s no problem.’ Harry opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a form. He passed it over to Locke along with a biro. ‘If you could fill this out. I’ll need your address and a contact number. Does your wife work?’
Locke ignored the biro and took a gold fountain pen out of his inside jacket pocket. ‘Only on Wednesday and Friday nights. At a club called Selene’s. I presume you know it.’
‘Yes,’ Harry said, although he’d never actually been inside. The club was in the West End and hadn’t been open that long. About ten months or so, he thought. He remembered reading an article about it in a magazine. It was one of those exclusive joints where the glitterati hung out, ordering cocktails at a hundred quid a pop and partying until they dropped.
‘There’s a casino there too. That’s where my wife works. She’s a croupier.’
Harry was surprised.
Locke must have seen the expression on his face, because he said, ‘I don’t keep her on a leash, Mr Lind. She’s free to work where she wants – and to do what she wants. Within reason, naturally. She was a croupier when I met her and she enjoys it, so why not?’
‘You’ve got a photograph?’
Locke dived into his pocket again. He took out a small head-and-shoulders shot and passed it over. ‘This was taken a few months ago.’
Harry gazed down at the picture. Aimee Locke was an attractive woman in her late twenties, with wide grey-green eyes, a full mouth and shoulder-length blonde hair. There was, however, something forced about her smile, as if she hadn’t really wanted to have the photo taken.
‘I’m away on business next week,’ Locke continued. ‘I’ll be gone from Monday morning until Friday night. What I want is a full report of what she does, where she goes and who she sees.’ Now his voice was more forceful, the earlier uncertainty gone. This was suddenly a different man, one who was used to giving orders and having them obeyed. He glanced up from the form and stared hard at Harry. ‘You think you can manage that?’
There was an edge to his tone that Harry didn’t like. Martin Locke, he decided, probably wasn’t the nicest guy in the world. But that didn’t matter. He wasn’t paid to like his clients, only to do the best job he could for them. ‘Yes,’ he replied shortly.
Locke finished filling out the form, signed it with a flourish and pushed it back across the desk. Harry noted the address: 6 Walpole Close. The street was on the south side of Kellston, part of an exclusive enclave of detached modern houses with the kind of security – high walls, electric gates and multiple alarms – that discouraged the local riff-raff from even attempting a break-in. His eyes scanned down the page. Aimee Locke was twenty-nine and drove a white Ford Mustang. Lucky Aimee. ‘So you want us to start first thing Monday morning.’
‘No, I want you to start this evening.’ He paused briefly, his lips thinning into a tight straight line. ‘She told me she was working, but I know she’s meeting someone at a restaurant. Adriano’s on the high street. I heard her making the arrangements on the phone.’
Harry had been planning on doing his unpacking tonight – the upstairs flat, overflowing with boxes, looked like it had been hit by a bomb – but it could wait. He gave a nod. ‘That’s no problem.’
‘I’ll book a table for two in your name. For eight o’clock. She should be there by half past.’ He paused again. ‘It’ll be on expenses, naturally.’ Reaching back into his pocket, he retrieved his wallet, flipped it open and took out a folded piece of paper. ‘Here, this is a banker’s draft. I presume it’ll be enough for now.’
Harry took the cheque from his hand and opened it. It was for two thousand pounds. He had to fight against the impulse to raise his eyebrows. Most of their clients, and especially the wealthier ones, had a tendency to wrangle over even the most moderate of retainers. They wanted results, but rarely wanted to pay for them. He kept his voice neutral as his gaze flicked up towards Locke again. ‘That’s fine. I’ll write you out a receipt.’
Martin Locke shook his head. ‘No need.’ His eyes narrowed a little, his mouth crawling into a smile. ‘It’s not as though I don’t know where you are.’
Was he joking? Harry thought not.
‘After tonight,’ Locke continued, ‘you can leave off until Monday morning. We’re spending the weekend together, so there’s no point you being there.’
‘Monday morning, then,’ Harry said.
Locke rose to his feet and stared grimly down. ‘Oh, and I’d rather you didn’t call. I’ll come and see you when I get back. You can update me then.’
‘As you like,’ Harry said as he stood up too, and the pair of them shook hands across the desk.
Harry watched as the older man left the office. It was only when he heard the front door close that he sat down again. He picked up the photograph and stared appreciatively at Aimee Locke. She was certainly a looker, the kind of woman who could turn any man’s head. But was she a cheat? Only time would tell. He didn’t enjoy sneaking around after adulterous wives, or husbands – it all made him feel faintly dirty – but a job was a job, and in the present economic climate he couldn’t afford to be fussy. At least Mac would be pleased. The office wasn’t strictly open yet and already there was money coming in.
Harry glanced at his watch. It was almost three o’clock. He’d better organise some company for tonight or he’d be eating dinner alone. Grabbing his phone, he called a couple of the part-timers who worked for Mackenzie, Lind, first Debbie and then Elaine, but both of them were busy. He wondered if Valerie was free, but instantly dismissed the idea. As a copper, she wouldn’t be too keen on taking part in one of his undercover operations. No, he’d better ask someone else. As he ran through the possibilities, his eyes alighted on the card Jess had left him. Why not? He’d just agreed to help her out; maybe she’d return the favour.
She answered after a couple of rings. ‘Hello?’
‘Hey, Vaughan. It’s me, Harry.’
She sighed down the line. ‘Oh, please tell me you haven’t changed your mind about seeing Sam Kendall.’
‘No, of course not, but how do you fancy dinner tonight?’
There was a distinct hesitation. ‘Dinner?’
‘Don’t worry,’ he said quickly. ‘I’m not trying to get into your pants. It’s purely business, a surveillance job. I need someone to share the table with so I don’t stand out like a sore thumb.’
Jess
laughed. ‘Jeez, you really know how to make a girl feel special.’
Harry smiled down the phone. ‘Years of practice, hun. I know this is short notice, but you’d really be helping me out. Would it be any more tempting if I said it was dinner at Adriano’s?’
‘That fancy Italian on the high street?’
‘That’s the one.’
‘And you’ll be paying?’
‘I’ll be paying.’
Jess thought about it for a moment. ‘Well, I did have plans, but seeing as you’ve asked so nicely, I suppose I could change them. Okay, you’ve got yourself a date. When do you want me there?’
‘Better make it eight. She’s due at eight thirty, and I’d rather we were there before she arrives.’
‘Eight it is. I’ll see you then.’
‘Thanks. You’re a pal.’ Harry put the phone down, leaned back, laced his hands behind his head and stared up at the ceiling. His gaze slowly dropped to focus on the picture of Aimee Locke. Innocent or guilty? In a few hours, he could be finding out.
3
At six o’clock Harry left the office and drove his slightly battered silver-grey Vauxhall down the high street. The lull between the departure of the shoppers and the arrival of the Friday-night crowd provided a good opportunity to grab a parking space near the restaurant. He needed to be prepared in case Aimee Locke and her dinner companion went on somewhere else after eating.
After locking the car, he strolled slowly back to Station Road. It was only the beginning of May, and what remained of the afternoon’s spring sunshine fell weakly against his face. He felt a slight ache in his right leg, but it was nothing serious. After endless sessions of physiotherapy, and multiple hours in the gym, his limp was now barely noticeable. The flashbacks had become rarer too, although occasionally that terrible day still crept into his dreams.
Harry pushed the thought to the back of his mind. He wanted to look to the future, not the past. He might not be a cop any more – the blast at the crack factory had put an end to that career – but he was still alive, still healthy and well beyond the tedious stage of feeling sorry for himself. Part of him would always miss the police force, but that was something he was learning to live with.
