by Roberta Kray
Valerie gave her a thin smile. ‘But then Lynda’s brother went though her phone records and started asking difficult questions. If you hadn’t lied, he wouldn’t have got so suspicious.’
‘He was just trying to cause trouble for me,’ Kirsten said, her tone growing peevish again.
Valerie wondered at the girl’s ability to make everything revolve around herself. A consequence of the years of abuse, or part of her natural character? It was impossible to tell. She watched Kirsten closely as she made her next statement. And so you got Micky Higgs to sort it out.’
There was no reaction to the name other than genuine puzzlement. ‘What?’
Valerie had been hoping for an indication that Higgs might be their man, but Kirsten’s response told her otherwise. ‘You didn’t?’
‘I barely know him,’ Kirsten said. ‘I never met him before today.’
‘So why did he threaten David Choi?’
‘Maybe Paige told him to.’
‘And why would she do that?’
‘I dunno. You’d have to ask her.’ Kirsten wriggled in her seat. ‘Well, I may have said something. You know, like Choi was looking to blame me for what happened to Lynda. I don’t remember exactly.’
‘Try harder,’ Valerie said. For an actress, Kirsten was a pretty bad liar.
‘Okay,’ she admitted grudgingly. ‘I told her he was threatening to go to the police. And I’d already lied about talking to Lynda that night. All they had to do was check the phone records and … Well, I didn’t need the hassle, did I?’
‘And Paige offered to help you out?’
Kirsten gave a barely discernible nod of her head.
‘For a small fee, I’m presuming.’
‘Five hundred pounds.’
Swann let out a sigh ‘What a mess, eh?’
Anger flashed across Kirsten’s face. ‘If it hadn’t been for Hannah Bright, none of this would have happened. Why couldn’t she leave it? It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t want Minnie to get hurt. We didn’t—’
‘Shall I tell you something about Hannah Bright, Kirsten?’
Valerie glanced at Swann, knowing what was coming next. A piece of information that was about to shatter Kirsten Cope.
‘What?’
‘She’s dead, love. Hannah took an overdose more than twelve years ago. She was never trying to have you prosecuted. He’s been lying to you. He’s been lying to you from the first day you met.’
‘No,’ Kirsten said, shaking her head furiously. Her eyes darted wildly around the room.
‘It’s true,’ said Swann, sliding a sheet of paper across the table. It was the same document he’d shown Valerie at the door.
Kirsten stared down at the copy of the death certificate. Then, leaning forward she wrapped her arms around her body and started to rock. ‘He’s going to kill me,’ she whispered, as if the full ramifications of what she’d done were only just beginning to sink in. Her blue eyes grew wide as saucers. ‘When he finds out what I’ve told you—’
‘He won’t be killing anyone,’ Swann said firmly. ‘He’ll be banged up, Kirsten. He’ll be banged up for a bloody long time.’
Kirsten stopped rocking and looked across the table at him.
‘I promise,’ he said. ‘But first you have to state his name for our records, love. You have to say it out loud.’
There was a pause, a very long pause, but finally she did.
Valerie felt the shock run through her like an earthquake tremor. Her mouth fell open. And then, after a moment, she heard a soft, distinctive hiss escape from Swann’s lips.
58
Jess’s initial surge of excitement at positively identifying the mugshot of Paul Rafferty had quickly subsided. Even if he was still in London, it would be like searching for a needle in a haystack. ‘Where do we start looking?’ she’d asked Mac.
‘We don’t,’ he’d said. ‘We get other people to do it for us.’
For the next hour, Mac, Lorna and Warren were on the phone to every contact they had.
The old principle of never grassing up a fellow villain didn’t hold for long when money was involved, and with three grand up for grabs, the phones were soon ringing off the hook. After several false leads, the news they were hoping for was finally delivered at ten past two. A high-class escort called Jennifer Jay had spotted Rafferty in a hotel bar in Chelsea. After giving her strict instructions to keep him in her sights, Mac grabbed his car keys and turned to go.
‘I’ll deal with this,’ he said.
Jess put a hand on his arm and frowned. ‘You’re going on your own? What if he does a runner?’ She was worried that if Rafferty took off and went to ground, they might never find him again.
‘He won’t,’ Mac said. ‘Not when I’ve explained what his options are. As he’s still in London, I’m betting he doesn’t have a clue about the shooting. When Stagg hired him to play the part of Martin Locke, I doubt he mentioned anything about the fact that the guy was going to be brown bread by the end of the week.’
‘Probably slipped his mind,’ Warren said.
Mac gave a grunt. ‘I’m sure it did. And our Mr Raffles is going to have loose bowels when he finds out what he’s really got himself involved in. He’s a con man, not a hardened criminal. Faced with a choice between being done for impersonating Locke and being an accessory to his murder, I sure as hell know which one I’d choose. I don’t think I’ll have too much difficulty persuading him to hand himself in.’
Jess let go of his arm. ‘So what are you standing around here for? Get over to Chelsea and start persuading.’
Mac raised his eyes to the heavens and headed for the door.
After he’d gone, Jess turned to look at Lorna and Warren. ‘Do you think he’ll manage it?’
‘Sure he will,’ Warren said. ‘Harry’s his business partner. He doesn’t want to waste time visiting him in jail when he could be bunking off to play a sneaky round of golf.’
‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,’ Lorna said as she returned to the reception area.
Jess paced over to the window and back again. It could be hours before they heard anything. What if Rafferty didn’t play ball? What if he was too scared of Ray Stagg to give evidence against him? She went back to the window and gazed down on the street. People were going about their business like there was nothing wrong: shopping, waiting for buses, nipping into the pub for a quick one. Meanwhile, Harry was staring down the barrel of a gun, wondering if he was going to spend the next fifteen years behind bars. She started pacing again.
‘Can you stop doing that,’ Warren said. ‘You’re making me nervous.’
‘Sorry,’ she said, pulling out a chair and sitting down beside him.
Warren handed her a sheet of paper. ‘Here, take a look at this.’
‘What is it?’
‘A copy of Aimee Locke’s birth certificate.’
Jess quickly scanned through the details. Born in Kellston twenty-nine years ago on 4 October. Mother: Karen Sage (née Lester). Father: David Sage. She glanced up at Warren. ‘What am I looking for exactly?’
‘It’s the father who’s interesting.’
‘Father’s occupation: bookmaker,’ she read out. ‘So he was a bookie. What’s interesting about that?’
‘Because it’s not the truth. Far from it in fact. Kieran Swann ran a PNC check for us earlier. It seems our Mr Sage has quite a colourful past. He used to work for Lennie Blackwood.’
Jess shook her head. ‘Never heard of him.’
‘Before your time, hun. Before mine, come to that. Lennie was a south London gangster with a short fuse. Nasty piece of work by all accounts. Got his head blown off over twenty years ago.’
‘So Sage was a villain too.’
‘More than that. He was Lennie’s disposal man.’
Jess looked at him. ‘Does that mean what I think it means?’
‘Yeah, Sage was Lennie’s personal hit man, and very good at it he was too. He’s still wanted on four counts of mu
rder, and they’re just the ones the cops know about. He disappeared back in the mid-eighties and hasn’t been heard of since. Rumour had it he was swimming with the fishes, but maybe the rumours were wrong.’
Jess thought back to her conversation with James Harley-Cunningham. ‘Which could explain the row between Aimee Locke and Stagg. Maybe he wasn’t too keen on the idea of using Sage.’
‘Or maybe he wasn’t that keen on bumping off her husband at all. I mean, Ray Stagg’s a villain, we all know that, but he’s a damned careful one. You get involved in something like this and the law’s bound to come sniffing round.’
‘Yeah, well I’m sure the lovely Aimee can be very persuasive.’ She dropped the certificate back on the desk. ‘But we can’t prove anything, can we? It’s just conjecture.’
Warren shifted in his seat, as incapable as Jess of staying still. Frustration was biting at them both. ‘Except who better to get rid of an unwanted spouse than a true professional. Sage fits the bill perfectly. No mistakes, no botch-ups, satisfaction guaranteed. And with the added bonus of him being the one man who’s never going to grass her up.’
‘God, that’s a weird thought.’ Jess felt a thin shiver travel down her spine. ‘Can you imagine it? Getting your dad to murder your husband.’
‘Maybe it was payback time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, if he did just disappear all those years ago, maybe she figures he owes her.’
‘One hell of a bill,’ she murmured.
Warren picked up a pen and tapped it against the desk. ‘Anyway, conjecture or not, it’s something else to throw at the cops. Anything that might cast doubt on Harry’s guilt has to be useful.’
Jess glanced at her watch, hoping that the traffic wasn’t too bad and that Mac would make it to Chelsea before Raffles melted into the crowd. ‘If this Rafferty does come clean about being paid by Stagg, do you think they’ll let Harry go?’
‘Hopefully,’ Warren said. ‘But you can never tell with that bloody lot.’
‘You don’t sound too enamoured of the boys in blue.’
Warren pulled a face. ‘Really, what gave it away?’
‘But you work with two ex-cops.’
‘The clue’s in the ex,’ he said. Then he grinned at her and heaved out a sigh. ‘Oh, don’t mind me. I’m just sounding off.’
Lorna put her head round the door. ‘That’s not all you’ll be doing if you don’t get a shift on. You’re due at the Turner surveillance in less than fifteen minutes.’
‘Christ,’ he said, shooting up out of the chair. ‘Is that the time?’
‘And don’t worry,’ Lorna said. ‘I’ll give you a call as soon as we get any news.’
Warren laid a hand on Jess’s shoulder as he passed. ‘Stay cool, babe,’ he said. ‘In a few hours’ time this whole nightmare could be over.’
Or just beginning, she thought. If Rafferty didn’t come good, Harry would be charged with murder.
59
Harry sat in the holding cell with his head buried in his hands. How had it come to this? No matter which way he turned, no matter how hard he struggled, he could see no escape from the intricate web of guilt into which he’d been drawn. And what made it worse was the knowledge that he’d been the master of his own downfall. He had stepped willingly into the trap laid by Aimee Locke, and now he was going to pay the ultimate price. Will you walk into my parlour? said the Spider to the Fly. And like an idiot he had done exactly that.
‘Bloody fool!’ he muttered.
Why had he gone to that goddamn house? It was a decision that would haunt him for the rest of his life. His future thrown away in a moment of recklessness. Anger merged with his shame and humiliation. He’d been photographed, fingerprinted and had a DNA sample taken. His name was chalked on the board outside the cell. He was no longer Harry Lind, ex-cop, private detective. He was defined now only by his alleged crime: Murder.
Racking his brains, he tried to think of anything, anyone who could help him. He replayed the events of the past week, rolling through the visit to Adriano’s, to the casino, to the conversation on the Green. A week, that was all it had been, since the man who called himself Martin Locke had walked into the office. Seven days before his life had begun to disintegrate.
It was hours now since his last interview. He was expecting the door to be unlocked at any moment, for the charges to be laid against him. His solicitor, Richard Morris, was trying to remain optimistic, but Harry could see defeat in his eyes. It was over. The case would go to trial and he would stand in the dock and …
Harry thought of his father and how he would feel. His only son convicted of murder. He let out a low groan. He should have made that phone call after he moved into the flat. He should have gone to visit him. Now the only visiting would be done by Henry Lind in the grim surroundings of a prison. And it was not only his father he had let down. There was Mac to consider too, the one person who had offered him a second chance after his police career had been blown to hell. Not to mention Valerie. What would she be thinking? Did she believe in his innocence, or was there a tiny seed of doubt nestled in the back of her mind?
He shook his head. No, there was no point in torturing himself this way. Whatever the future held, he had to find a way of coping. But the words life imprisonment cut like a scythe across his good intentions. The breath caught in his throat. He thought of Donald Peck, continuing to protest his innocence until desperation drove him to place a noose around his own neck. He wondered how strong he himself would be when faced with the ultimate challenge.
His mind drifted back to that day fourteen years ago, to the shabby terrace in Morton Grove, to the rickety creaking staircase that led up to the bedrooms. One foot in front of the other until he reached the landing. Grey light coming in through a small window. The delicate pattering sound of rain against glass. A brief pause before his hand reached out to turn the handle, to push open the door … and then the sudden wafting stench of death.
It was then, suddenly, that Harry remembered what he’d done next. The room had been dim, the curtains pulled partly across. He had looked for a light switch but there hadn’t been one, only an old pull cord that had frayed and broken and been tied up high.
‘Jesus,’ he murmured, a shiver running through him.
And instantly he knew what Lynda Choi had been so distressed about. She must have found a photo of the bedroom in an old newspaper. She must have realised what it meant. The cord was way out of reach of Minnie Bright’s tiny hands. And if Minnie hadn’t turned on the light, then …
Harry jumped up, walked across the cell and hammered on the door. ‘Hey!’ he called out. ‘I need to see someone. I need to see someone now!’
60
It was getting on for five before the news came through that Mac was on his way to Cowan Road with Paul Rafferty. Jess was relieved, but she knew that Harry wasn’t off the hook yet. The law would need to be convinced that Rafferty’s story was true before even considering the release of a major suspect. Too restless to wait any longer in the office, she decided to continue her pacing upstairs.
Out on the landing, she saw that the cameras had finally been installed. They must have been there when she’d come back with Mac, but she’d been too preoccupied to notice them. They were fixed high up on the wall, their tiny red lights blinking. It was an odd feeling to know that she was under scrutiny, that her every expression, every movement was being recorded.
She climbed up the stairs and went into the flat. Once inside, she didn’t know what to do with herself. How was she going to pass the next few hours without going completely crazy? She put the kettle on, intending to make a cup of coffee, but then changed her mind and opened a bottle of red wine instead. Caffeine was only going to add to her jitters. Alcohol probably wasn’t the answer either, but at least it might calm her nerves.
Taking the bottle and a glass through to the living room, she looked around. What now? She needed a project to keep her occupied. The
Minnie Bright file was on the coffee table, but she instantly dismissed the idea of reading through it again. She was too distracted to be able to concentrate. No, what she needed was something more physical, some way of exhausting all her nervous energy.
It was then that her eyes alighted on the cans of paint stacked up in the corner. Harry had started the decorating but hadn’t got round to completing it. On a couple of walls the old colour was still clearly visible beneath the new layer of white. Now there was a project! It would also be a way of repaying him for everything he’d done for her. She poured herself a glass of wine, took a couple of swigs and set to work.
First she moved the furniture to the centre of the room and covered it with the dust sheets. Then she prised open the lid of one of the cans, poured a couple of inches of paint into the tray and slid in the roller. Starting with the left-hand wall, she began working fast and furiously, the sheer physical effort draining her mind of everything but the task in hand. She realised too late that she should have changed her clothes, but as her jeans and shirt were already spattered with paint, there wasn’t much point in doing it now. With luck, it would all come out in the wash.
An hour later, her arm aching, Jess stood back to view her progress. Yes, it was already looking much better. When Harry got back – not if, she insisted to herself, but when – the newly decorated living room would be ready and waiting. She was about to resume work when there was a light knock on the door.
‘Hi, it’s only me,’ Lorna called out.
Jess rushed over and opened the door. ‘Is there any news?’
Lorna shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, luv, nothing yet. Mac’s still down at Cowan Road.’
‘Okay,’ Jess said, swallowing down her disappointment.
‘I just wanted to let you know that I’m off home now, but I’ll give you a ring as soon as I hear anything.’ Just as she was about to go, Lorna stopped and stretched out her hand. It contained an A4 brown envelope. ‘Oh, I almost forgot. This was dropped off for you about ten minutes ago.’
