by Roberta Kray
‘Good man,’ Stagg said, patting him on the back.
Together they left the storeroom and walked silently along the corridor. They parted at the corner, James heading in the direction of the music and the main area of the club, Stagg pausing for a moment to watch him. He frowned as his partner strode quickly away, hoping that he’d done enough to smooth things over. He didn’t need Harley-Cunningham taking the moral high ground or poking his nose into things that didn’t concern him.
After a while Stagg moved off too. He unlocked the door to his office, went through to the private bathroom and took a slash. As he was washing his hands, he peered at his face in the mirror. Yeah, not a mark on him. Looking good. In fact, better than good. He might be forty-seven, but he could pass for ten years younger. And when push came to shove, he was still fit enough and strong enough to get the better of any dirty little scrote who trespassed on his territory.
Stagg dried his hands and went back to the office. There he poured himself a large brandy before sitting down behind the wide glass desk. He lit a cigarette and inhaled the smoke, the act made ten times more enjoyable by the knowledge that it was illegal to smoke on the premises. Well, the law could go fuck itself! It was his office and he’d do what he damn well liked.
He picked up the phone, hesitated for a second and then punched in the number. It was answered after a couple of rings. ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘You okay?’
‘What are you doing? I told you not to call.’
Stagg swept his sleek fair hair back from his forehead. ‘Sorry, babe. I was worried about you.’
‘And you’ll have good reason if he catches me talking to you.’
From the other end of the line he heard the sudden click of a door closing and then the tapping of heels on a wooden floor.
‘Just tell me you’re all right.’
Her voice softened a fraction. ‘I’m fine. Really, I am.’
‘I want to see you. Can you get away? Can you come to the club?’
‘Are you crazy?’ she said.
‘Yeah, I’m crazy. I’m crazy about you.’
She whispered her reply. ‘Don’t.’
‘Everything’s in place. Just tell me that you haven’t changed your mind, because once the ball starts rolling—’
‘I haven’t,’ she said. ‘Why should I? Look, I have to go. I’ll call you Monday.’
‘Take care of yourself,’ Stagg said. But he was talking into emptiness. She’d already hung up. He replaced the phone in its cradle and sighed. Sitting back in his chair, he linked his hands behind his head and gazed at the wall. She was trouble, he knew she was, but that was the appeal: it was what made her so completely irresistible.
12
At seven o’clock on Sunday morning, Harry’s sleep was abruptly interrupted by a series of loud clattering noises coming from the floor beneath. Worried that someone was breaking in, he leapt out of bed, pulled on his jeans and a T-shirt and dashed out of the flat. It was only as he was taking the stairs two at a time that he realised that he hadn’t grabbed anything that could be used as a weapon – or even thought about picking up his phone. Well, it was too late to do anything about that now.
As he rounded the corner of the stairwell, his heart pumping at the prospect of interrupting a burglary, he came across two middle-aged men huffing and puffing as they heaved an old metal filing cabinet along the corridor. It took his brain a second to register that they were taking it into the office of Mackenzie, Lind rather than out.
Squeezing past them, he padded along the landing and found Lorna Green standing in the main reception area waving her arms, barking out orders and conducting what looked like a military operation. ‘Over in the corner. Not there, there! To the left. No, not right up against the wall.’
Lorna was their PA and receptionist, as well as Mac’s other half. She was forty-six, a prettily plump woman with an apple-cheeked face and shoulder-length wavy fair hair. Usually more the sympathetic than the strident sort, today she was revealing her inner steel. She stopped mid-orders when she saw Harry, and smiled.
‘Hi’ she said, glancing down at his bare feet. ‘Sorry, we didn’t disturb you, did we?’
He gazed back at her, confused. ‘I thought you were coming on Monday.’
‘That was the original plan, but I told Mac it was a bad idea. We’d never get the van parked outside, not with all the morning traffic. I mean, we’re supposed to be opening tomorrow and I don’t want to have to spend half the day organising things. No, it makes more sense to get it done now.’
‘You want a hand with anything?’
Lorna seemed about to make a suggestion when she was distracted by one of the removal men trying to dump a tall potted palm in an inconvenient or perhaps visually undesirable spot. Quickly she hurried over to take control of the situation.
Harry walked through reception in search of Mac. He found his partner lurking in his new office, standing by the window and peering down on to the street.
‘Keeping your head down?’
‘I had to cancel my game for this,’ Mac said with a sigh. ‘I don’t see what was wrong with the original arrangements.’
Since being forced to give up his two favourite pursuits – heavy drinking and reckless gambling – Mac had begun playing golf. It was a game he’d previously viewed with contempt, the pastime of boring bank managers and senior police officers, but he had now taken it up with enthusiasm. Harry suspected this was more to do with the crafty Scotch at the nineteenth hole than any real appreciation of the fresh air and exercise.
Mac left the window, pushed his hands into his pockets and perched on the corner of his desk. He was an ex-cop like Harry, a large man knocking on sixty with wide shoulders and a receding hairline. What was left of his grey hair was shaved close to his skull.
‘I don’t understand what the rush is. We could have done all this tomorrow.’
Harry knew, despite the grumbling, that Mac and Lorna were tight. If it hadn’t been for her, Mac would have ended up in the gutter. She’d saved him from himself – or at least from his self-destructive habits – and got his life back on track.
‘Well, if it makes her happy. After all, she’s the one who keeps things running smoothly. Best to let her do it her way.’
Mac shot him a look, as if to suggest that a little more loyalty to the male cause might be in order. ‘You’re not the one who was dragged out of bed at the crack of dawn.’
‘Not far off,’ he replied, glancing at the clock on the wall. ‘How on earth did she manage to get that lot on the job at this time of day?’
‘You know Lorna. If she makes up her mind about something, there’s no stopping her.’
‘I need a shower,’ Harry said, ‘and some breakfast. Have you eaten yet?’
‘Good idea,’ Mac said, pulling himself upright. ‘Let’s get out of here. You got any bacon, any eggs?’ He rubbed his hands together, instantly cheered by the prospect of food. ‘I can throw something together while you take a shower.’
‘There’s eggs, but if you want anything else you’ll have to get it from the newsagent’s. You could grab some milk while you’re there; I’m sure the removal guys will be expecting a brew before too long.’
‘I’ll do that,’ Mac said.
‘What about Lorna?’
‘She won’t mind. She’ll prefer us out of the way.’
They went back through to the reception area, already half filled with crates and boxes.
‘Ten minutes,’ Mac said to Lorna. ‘Just nipping upstairs to get some fuel. Do you want anything?’
She shook her head, preoccupied by the job in hand. ‘No, I’m fine. I’ll grab a sandwich later.’
‘Okay, I’ll bring you back a coffee.’
But Lorna was no longer listening. Another filing cabinet was being lugged through the door, and it demanded her immediate attention.
By the time Harry had taken a shower, shaved and got dressed, the pungent smell of frying food was driftin
g through the flat. He went into the kitchen, where two hefty portions of sausage, bacon, eggs, mushrooms, fried bread and beans were sitting on the counter. He stared at the plates.
‘God, Mac, what is this? Some kind of suicide attempt?’
Mac made a huffing noise. ‘There’s nothing wrong with a decent breakfast.’
‘Sorry, my sincere apologies. Thanks very much for clogging up my arteries.’
‘It’s a pleasure. Now stop whining and grab a plate before it goes cold.’
Harry cleared a space on the living room table and they both pulled out chairs and sat down. Mac took a large mouthful of his food and grunted appreciatively. ‘Ah, you can’t beat a good fry-up.’ He glanced at Harry. ‘Oh, and if Lorna asks, we had scrambled eggs on toast.’
‘Like she’s going to believe that. She’s not stupid. She’s going to have you on lettuce for the rest of the week.’
Mac was quiet for a while, digging into his breakfast with all the eagerness of a half-starved man. When the plate was almost cleared, he looked up at Harry and said, ‘So, have you thought any more about what I suggested?’
‘You mean the honeytrap idea?’
‘There’s money in it. Women want to know whether their partners can be trusted or not. We’re missing a trick if we don’t get on board.’
‘I don’t know,’ Harry said. ‘It still makes me feel uncomfortable. You take some ordinary Joe, a guy who’s basically the faithful type, he has a few drinks too many, gets propositioned by the sort of girl who wouldn’t normally look twice at him and suddenly all his judgement flies out of the window.’
‘A cheat’s a cheat. It doesn’t matter what the circumstances are.’
‘Says the man who’s been divorced three times.’
Mac grinned. ‘So I know what I’m talking about.’
‘Yeah, but this honeytrap stuff is just a form of entrapment, isn’t it? That guy could have gone on and been faithful to his wife until death did them part if he hadn’t been set up.’
‘I don’t see what you’re stressing about,’ Mac said, waving his fork in the air. ‘The woman wants to know if her man’s open to temptation, half-cut or not. If he does it once, he’ll do it again.’
‘But that’s my point. Maybe he wouldn’t have done it, or rather agreed to do it – I’m presuming these girls make their excuses and leave before the serious fumbling begins – if it hadn’t been presented to him on a plate.’
Mac huffed out a breath. ‘Perhaps you’re taking this too personally. Just because you wouldn’t refuse a beautiful blonde offering to make herself at home on your lap doesn’t mean that no one else would.’
The image of Aimee Locke sprang suddenly into Harry’s head. He could visualise her long legs, her languid walk across the restaurant. ‘Yeah, but I’m not about to be married. All beautiful blondes are welcome on my lap.’
Mac laughed, but then swiftly returned to plugging the idea. ‘All I’m saying is that there’s a demand. And if we don’t respond to it, there are plenty of others who will. Plenty who already have, come to that. You checked out the competition recently? It’s market demand, Harry. We either go with it or we get left behind.’
Harry could see that Mac had already made up his mind, and suspected that no amount of reasoning would make him change it. Having won the argument on the move to Kellston, he decided to be diplomatic and give in gracefully on this one. ‘Well, if it’s what you want.’
‘Good, that’s decided then.’
‘So long as I get to sit in when you interview the girls.’
‘It’s a deal,’ Mac said. ‘I’ll get Lorna to place an ad in the paper.’
Harry took the dirty plates through to the kitchen and dropped them in the sink for later. He made a strong brew for Mac and a coffee for Lorna, and carried the two mugs back to the living room. ‘Here, you’d better get downstairs before she sends up a search party.’
Mac hauled himself out of the chair with a groan. ‘Why do I get the feeling that today’s going to be a long one?’
‘Because it is, for you at least.’
Mac narrowed his eyes as he took hold of the two mugs. ‘Tell me you’re not doing a runner?’
‘Got it in one.’ Harry picked up Jess’s brown folder from the corner of the table and waved it at him. ‘Things to do, people to see and all that. And I’ve already done my fair share when it comes to this move. I sorted out all the stuff that came over last week, remember?’ He knew that if he hung around, Lorna would find something for him to do, a something that would probably involve rearranging every piece of furniture as soon as the removal firm had left.
‘What’s so important that it can’t wait?’
‘Nothing,’ Harry said, ‘but you even think about telling Lorna that and I’ll tell her all the gruesome details of what you just shovelled down your throat. I know whose shoes I’d rather be in.’
Mac took a slurp of tea and stared gloomily over the rim of the mug. ‘Deserter,’ he murmured.
Harry grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. He’d been intending to have a lazy Sunday, but now that prospect was out of the window he might as well follow up on the Sam Kendall case. A nice drive over to Chigwell should blow the cobwebs away. The soap actress, Kirsten Cope, was about to have the pleasure of his company.
13
The Sunday traffic was light and it took less than forty minutes for Harry to make it to Chigwell. The morning sunshine glittered on the windscreen as he cruised along Manor Road, peering at the numbers until he found the flats he wanted. He pulled in and let the engine idle while he gazed across the road. The three-storey building was new, probably only built in the last year or so, and had tall, narrow windows, an arched doorway and a steeply slanting roof. It had been constructed of red brick faced with sections of vertical timber panelling. It wasn’t to his taste – a cross between mock-gothic and an alpine chalet – but then he didn’t have to live in it.
Harry wondered if it was still too early to call. The clock on the dashboard was nudging on 8.30. Perhaps he should try and find a café, and sit down and sip on a cappuccino for a while, but then again, if Kirsten Cope had fallen out of a nightclub at three in the morning, the combination of a hangover and lack of sleep might just give him the edge.
He killed the engine, but didn’t immediately get out of the car. Instead he flicked through Jess’s file until he came to the relevant pages. There was a brief summary – name, date of birth, address, phone number, etc. – and then a bunch of press cuttings, a few pertaining to Kirsten’s acting career but the majority from the gossip columns of the tabloids.
Kirsten Cope was clearly the kind of girl who liked to court publicity. In the past she’d been romantically linked to a couple of actors, a pop star and a TV presenter, but she was now dating a Premier League footballer called Nico Polvani. Harry pondered on what was so alluring about men who kicked footballs around. The money must be part of it, of course, the bulging weekly pay packet, but he guessed it was as much about the exposure. Once a girl had bagged a player, she’d also booked her slot in the publicity machine. Harry was still hoping for the time when it would be fashionable for every young starlet to have a private eye on her arm.
He turned over the pages, examining the numerous photographs. Cope was attractive in a mundane sort of way – slim, long fair hair, blue eyes. Or at least he presumed they were blue. The pictures were all in black and white so he couldn’t be sure. Yes, she was pretty enough, but nothing outstanding, nothing to blow your socks off. He’d have had a problem picking her out from a line-up of similar-looking wannabes.
Harry shoved the file under the seat and got out of the car. He strode across the road, walked up the short drive to the flats and stepped inside the porch. He tried the glass door, but it was, unsurprisingly, locked. Next he checked out the names on the bells. There were six flats in all, and the name Cope was on the third one down.
He pressed the buzzer and waited.
It was answe
red after about thirty seconds. ‘Hello?’
From the briefness of the greeting he couldn’t work out if he’d woken her up or not. He leaned in towards the speaker on the wall. ‘Kirsten Cope?’
‘Yeah?’
‘I wonder if I could have a word. My name’s Harry Lind. I’m a private investigator.’
‘What do you want?’
Harry wondered if she ended every sentence with a question mark. ‘It’s about the Minnie Bright case.’
‘No comment,’ she said brusquely, as if responding to some tabloid hack trying to get the lowdown on her love life.
He heard the click as she terminated the connection. He pressed the buzzer again, but didn’t have time to say anything before she snapped down the line, ‘Just leave me alone or I’ll call the police.’
‘You won’t need to,’ Harry lied. ‘That’s where I’m heading next if you won’t talk to me.’
There was a long pause while she thought about it. Too long, Harry thought, for someone who had nothing to fear.
‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she said eventually.
‘Do you want to have this discussion over the intercom – I’m sure your neighbours will be fascinated – or can I come in? Ten minutes, that’s all it will take.’
There was another pause, this one slightly shorter than the last, before the buzzer finally went and he was able to push open the door. Inside, the foyer was clean and tidy, smelling faintly of disinfectant, as though someone had recently mopped the floor. Sunlight streamed through the narrow windows and fell against the tiles in mote-filled stripes. He climbed the stairs, walked along the landing and tapped lightly on the door to number three.
Even though she was expecting him, she didn’t respond immediately. Getting dressed, perhaps, or just deliberately making him wait. When she finally deigned to open up, it wasn’t with a smile. She gave him a look that would have made Medusa proud before stretching out a hand. ‘Got any ID?’
‘Sure,’ he said, taking his wallet from his jacket pocket, removing a business card and passing it over to her.
