by Roberta Kray
Kirsten briefly shut her eyes, trying to keep her anger at bay. She didn’t trust Paige, but she couldn’t afford to get on the wrong side of her either. ‘I suppose,’ she said eventually, through gritted teeth. ‘So long as you keep Becky in check.’
‘I’ve already said, ain’t I? She won’t be any trouble.’
‘Okay, but let me know if anything else happens.’
‘Nothing’s gonna happen, hun. We’re safe as houses. All that stuff, it’s in the past, finished with. They’ll soon get tired of asking questions – especially when they’re not getting any answers.’
‘They know we’re hiding something.’
‘So what?’ Paige said, impatience creeping into her voice again. ‘They can dig as much as they like, they’re not going to find anything. Look, I’ve got to go. Micky’s waiting for me. I’ll call you in a few days, right?’
‘But—’
But Paige had already hung up.
Kirsten hung up too, scowled at the mobile phone for a few seconds and then hurled it across the room. It bounced off the wall, skidded across the wooden boards and came to rest against the base of the sofa. ‘Fuck it!’
The man who was sitting there stared at her. ‘That make you feel better, babe?’
‘That bloody reporter, that Vaughan woman, has been round to see Becky again.’
‘Has Becky said anything?’
‘Paige reckons she hasn’t.’
‘So?’
Kirsten stamped her foot like a five-year-old. ‘So what the hell does Paige know? She takes the cash and then does sod all. What if that private detective finds out something? Maybe he’s already on to us, maybe—’
‘And getting hysterical is going to help how, exactly?’
‘I’m not getting bloody hysterical!’
‘Just listen to yourself.’
Kirsten put her hands on her hips, two thin strips of colour appearing on her cheeks. ‘Why is no one taking this seriously? This isn’t just a reporter we’re talking about. There’s a detective sniffing around, a bloody peeper. He’s not going to stop until he’s found what he’s being paid to find out.’
‘And how’s he going to do that? For God’s sake, stop acting like a bloody drama queen and start using your brains. The more you panic, the more mistakes you’re going to make. You don’t have to worry about Harry Lind.’
‘And how do you figure that out?’
‘Because he’s an ex-cop.’
‘What?’ Her eyes widened with new alarm. ‘He’s the filth. He’s the bloody filth?’
‘I said ex-cop. And he isn’t going to want to cause any trouble for his old mates in the force. All he’s investigating is the damage to Sam Kendall’s car and the threats that have been made against her.’
Kirsten shook her head in frustration. ‘For God’s sake, don’t you see? That’s the whole bloody point! Those threats are all about the past, and that’s where he’s going to be digging.’
The man gave a casual shrug. ‘Nah, I know his type. He’s just going through the motions. He’ll talk to the people who were connected to the case, tick all the right boxes and then put in his bill. Give it a few weeks and this will all be forgotten.’
‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’
‘Trust me, babe. I know what I’m talking about. Coppers don’t like people interfering in old cases. It makes them look bad, like they might have got something wrong. And this Harry Lind, he’s not going to want to piss off the law, is he? Start doing that and you’re inviting the kind of attention that you’d rather avoid.’ He leaned back against the sofa, his expression irritatingly smug. ‘The past is dead and buried, babe. You don’t need to worry.’
Kirsten felt a cold shiver run through her body. Dead and buried. That was what Minnie Bright was. Gone and never coming back. ‘And what if Becky shoots her mouth off? What then?’
‘She won’t. I’ll sort it.’
‘Oh yeah, like you sorted Lynda?’
No sooner had she uttered the words than she instantly regretted them. She saw his jaw tighten, his expression change. Instinctively, she took a step back, but already it was too late. He leapt up from the sofa, his arms snaking out, his hands grasping her tightly around the throat. He pushed her back against the wall, slamming her with so much force that she felt a sickening jolt of pain run down her spine.
‘Are you accusing me of something, babe?’
His hot breath was in her face and his eyes were wild with anger. Kirsten parted her lips to try and speak, to try and appease him, but his fingers were already choking her, pressing hard into the soft flesh around her windpipe. Her arms flailed weakly, her fingers clawing uselessly at his wrists. She spluttered out a sound, a stifled cry.
‘What was that? I can’t hear you properly, darlin’. You trying to apologise?’
He glared down at her, his face a mask of cruelty.
Like a dying fish on a line, Kirsten’s mouth gulped open and closed as she gasped for oxygen. He was going to kill her. She was sure of it. Please, she pleaded with her eyes.
She felt his fingers tighten, saw tiny black spots dancing in front of her. His body, taller and stronger than hers, had her firmly pinned against the wall. There was no escape, nothing she could do. She tried to nod, to say yes, yes, yes, but even that was impossible.
‘You think I pushed her into the river, babe? Is that what you think?’
Kirsten used the last fragments of her energy to try and struggle free. It was no good. And she had no hope of a reprieve. He was beyond reach, beyond any human feelings of pity or forgiveness. Silently she prayed to a God she had never believed in. Then, just as she was sure that her life on this earth was about to end, he released his grasp and shoved her brutally down on to the floor.
She lay there panting, her chest heaving at the sudden rush of air into her lungs. Then, instinctively, she rolled up into a ball. All she could see was his feet, his ankles, and she was sure that the kick would come before long, the boot in her ribs, in her face, in her groin. She closed her eyes, waiting for the killer blows, but instead, incredibly, he started laughing.
‘What’s wrong with you, babe? Look at me.’ He leaned down, took her by the shoulders and gave her a shake. ‘I’m talking to you. Don’t just ignore me.’
Kirsten blinked open her eyes. Her throat felt tight and sore and her chest was still heaving. She stared up at him, still afraid, still unsure of what was going to happen next.
‘Now you don’t want to be starting any nasty rumours, do you?’
‘No,’ she mumbled.
‘I can’t hear you.’
‘No,’ she said again. It came out as more of a squeak than a word.
His mouth slid into an unpleasant smile. ‘Good girl. Because when it comes to rumours … well, I’m sure our little journalist friend would be more interested in your sick little secret than anything I might or might not have done.’
‘I didn’t mean it,’ she said quickly. ‘I’m sorry.’
He grabbed hold of her chin and tilted it up. ‘Who takes care of you, Kirsten?’
‘Y-you do,’ she stammered.
‘Yes, I do. And don’t you ever forget it.’ He let go of her chin, stood upright again and placed his hands on his hips. Gloatingly, he gazed down at her. ‘You’re mine, Kirsten Roberts, mine until the day you bloody die!’
She raised a hand to her mouth and bit on her knuckles. Tears began to roll down her cheeks. One mistake, one lousy mistake, and she would have to pay for it for the rest of her life.
21
Harry had spent the last hour in Hackney making enquiries about the damage to Sam Kendall’s car. She lived in the ground-floor flat of a three-storey house in Chelling Road, and that had been his first port of call. There had been no reply when he’d tried the doorbell, and her phone had gone straight to voicemail. There had been no sign of her cab either. He presumed that she was working, on the day shift rather than the night. Even before he’d started asking around he had k
nown that it was a long shot, but it had to be done. Sometimes, just occasionally, the long shots paid off. Not on this occasion, however.
After trying the bells of the two flats above her – again, no joy – he had worked his way methodically along the road, stopping at every house that had a view of the parking space outside Sam’s flat. The results had been much as he’d expected. Even those who’d answered the door – and they had been few and far between – had given him short shrift. Not getting involved seemed to be their main priority. He was met with responses ranging from the indifferent to the outright hostile. If anyone had seen anything suspicious they weren’t prepared to tell him.
Harry was reminded of those door-to-door enquiries he had made as a copper. It all seemed such a long time ago. Then he’d been ringing on bells trying to get information on murders, on assaults, on missing children. Most of the kids were eventually found safe and well and duly returned to their frantic parents, but some were not so fortunate. The memories of the few stayed with him like small trembling ghosts in the back of his mind. Minnie Bright was one of the unlucky ones, a little girl who had never gone home.
Harry frowned as he gazed along the length of the road. He’d been hoping to come across one of those useful neighbours, elderly perhaps, or just incurably inquisitive, who spent large amounts of their time looking out of the window. Unfortunately, they appeared to be in short supply round here. He glanced at his watch, saw that it was 2.25 and decided to call it a day. He’d made a note of the properties where he’d got no reply and would try again one evening when people were more likely to be back from work.
Walking round the corner, he got into his car and wondered if he should stop by Jess’s place. She was only a five-minute drive away. He took out his phone, intending to give her a call, but then changed his mind. Mac was none too pleased with his involvement in this case, and his continued absence from the office would only provide further cause for complaint.
Instead, Harry returned to Kellston and began making background checks on a shortlist of prospective employees for one of their regular clients, a large finance company in the West End. He wasn’t overly fond of such deskbound employment – he’d had enough paperwork in the force – but it had to be done. The window was open and a fly buzzed relentlessly around his ear as he ploughed through the list.
It wasn’t until after four that David Choi returned his call. He sounded tentative and wary. Harry suspected it taken him a while to pluck up the courage to ring.
‘Thanks for getting back to me. I just wanted to run something by you. Do you think it’s possible that Lynda went back to the house on the day that Minnie Bright died? I mean, after she and Sam had left the other girls.’
‘Back to Morton Grove? Why would she do that?’
‘Maybe to check that Minnie was okay? She never said anything to you about it?’
‘No, nothing. Do you think she did?’
‘I don’t know,’ Harry answered honestly. ‘Look, can you remember anything Lynda might have said, might have mentioned, in those last few weeks? No matter how trivial it may seem.’
There was a long pause on the other end of the line. And then an elongated sigh. ‘She wouldn’t talk to me, Mr Lind, not about what happened. But I know that she was dwelling on it.’
‘When you say dwelling …’
‘She’d started going over things, the whole case, the trial, everything. She was even collecting copies of newspaper reports from the library. She had hundreds of them, and every night she’d read through them again and again.’
Harry wondered if that had been down to Lynda’s inability to come to terms with what had happened, or if she’d been searching for something specific. If the latter was the case, then on the night she died, the night she’d made all the phone calls, she might have found what she was looking for.
‘Hold on,’ David Choi said. There were some voices in the background, a faint burble of conversation. The sound of footsteps followed and then the distinctive click of a door being closed. ‘Sorry about that. I’m at work.’
‘It’s okay, I won’t keep you. If I find out anything else, I’ll let you know.’
There was another short pause, and then David said quickly, ‘Are you sure she went back to the house?’
‘No, I’m not sure of anything at the moment.’
‘Was it one of the other girls who told you? Was that what Lynda called them about? Is that what they’re trying to cover up, her going back there? It must be. Why else would they—’
‘Hey, hey, slow down,’ Harry said. ‘Don’t start jumping to conclusions. People lie for all kinds of reasons. It doesn’t always mean that they’ve got anything to hide.’
David’s voice tipped up an octave. ‘So why threaten me? Why put a knife to my throat? Tell me which one it was.’
But Harry had no intention of going there. David Choi, despite his fears for his family, might be tempted to take matters into his own hands. ‘I can’t tell you that. Just stay away from the girls, keep your head down and trust me, okay?’
There was a short silence.
‘David?’
‘Okay,’ he replied eventually, somewhat grudgingly.
‘I’ll be in touch.’ Harry put the phone down, hoping that he hadn’t said too much. The last thing he wanted was for David Choi to start ruffling feathers again. If Micky Higgs had been responsible for the last attack, he might not stop at mere threats this time. And then there was Becky Hibbert to think about. If the other girls thought she’d grassed them up, she’d be none too popular either.
Harry sat back, linked his fingers behind his neck and gazed up at the ceiling. He still didn’t buy into Jess’s big cover-up theory, but something was wrong. There were things coming out now that should have been revealed fourteen years ago. Thinking of Jess reminded him that there had been no news from her yet on the Sam Kendall front. Should he call? No, she’d get in touch if and when she had some information.
For the next half-hour Harry carried on with the background checks he’d been making before David Choi rang. At twenty to five, he switched off the computer, put on his jacket, picked up Jess’s file and went through to reception. Lorna was standing in the centre of the room, making a three-hundred-and-sixty-degree turn with her hands on her hips. She tilted her chin and looked at him.
‘Do you think the sofa would look better against the wall?’
‘I think it looks just fine where it is.’
Lorna narrowed her eyes. ‘Are you humouring me?’
‘As if,’ he said, grinning.
‘It matters, you know. First impressions are important. I want the office to look right.’
‘And it does,’ Harry said. ‘You’ve done a great job.’
‘Yeah, sure. You two wouldn’t notice if I painted the whole place pink and hung a chandelier from the ceiling.’ She walked back behind her desk and sat down. Are you off to Walpole Close?’
‘Yes, I told Warren I’d take over at five.’
Lorna nodded towards a sturdy carrier bag on the table beside the water machine. ‘There’s a flask of coffee for you there, and some sandwiches.’
‘Ah, you’re an angel,’ he said, leaning over the desk to give her a peck on the cheek. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Fall asleep most probably. Now push off and leave me in peace.’
Harry picked up the bag, gave her a wave and headed for the door. Once outside, he was in two minds as to whether to take the car or not. In the end he decided not. It was only a fifteen-minute walk, and it was still warm; he might as well make the most of the sunshine. As he crossed the road and passed the station. The commuters were already streaming out. They had a tired, slightly bedraggled look about them. The term rush hour, he thought, was a complete misnomer; in London the crush seemed to have been extended to include most of the day and half the evening too.
As he squeezed his way through the crowd, Harry turned his attention back to David Choi’s phone call and
what it had revealed about Lynda’s preoccupation with the Donald Peck trial. A part of him – the part that didn’t want to upset the applecart – considered that it was simply a reflection of her disturbed state of mind, an attempt to reconcile her actions with the facts of the case. When she’d made the calls to the other girls, there had been no suggestion that she’d thought Peck was innocent – at least not to Harry’s knowledge. So surely there was nothing to suggest that the law had got it wrong. And yet that conclusion didn’t sit comfortably with him. He had one of those uneasy feelings shifting around in his guts.
Harry took a left and strode along the high street. As he walked past Wilder’s, the door opened and a young couple emerged. A few bars of jazz drifted out with them into the evening air and he was suddenly reminded of Valerie. What was she doing now? Still at Cowan Road, perhaps, or on her way home, or heading for the pub with some of the guys from work. Maybe he would give her a ring later.
He headed south and started to wind through the back streets. After a further ten minutes he found himself in the more exclusive part of Kellston. The houses set back off the road lay behind high walls, but he caught glimpses of them, along with their large manicured gardens, as he passed the gates. It was quieter here, and the air smelled cleaner, as if the atmosphere, like the fancy cars and the exotic plants, had been especially imported.
Harry, even if he had the money, doubted that he’d choose to live in a place like this; it seemed cut off from the realities of city life, from the very things that had always made London so appealing to him – the cultural and economic mix, the hustle and bustle, the sheer unpredictability of it all. There was something artificial about this exclusive enclave, something that left a bad taste in his mouth.
As he turned the corner into Walpole Close, he took out his phone and let Warren James know that he was almost there.
‘Good timing,’ Warren said. ‘I was just dreaming of a nice cold beer. The door’s open. Come on in and make yourself comfortable.’
Harry took a good look around as he approached the white van. There was no one else on his side of the road. Across the other side, however, coming from the opposite direction, there was a smartly dressed middle-aged woman walking a pedigree pooch. She stared quite blatantly at him, her expression stern and accusing, trying to judge perhaps if he was the sort of man likely to break into her house while her back was turned. He gave her a neighbourly nod, but she ignored him.
