by Roberta Kray
Jess crouched on the floor, stunned by the blows. The room stank of paint, of wine, of sweat and fear. Her lungs were heaving. Pain racked every part of her body. She doubled over, thinking she was going to be sick, but only a thin, dry retching came from her throat.
She wasn’t sure how long she remained like that. Time seemed to stretch out, to become indefinable. It might only have been minutes before she heard the sound of a key in the door, of voices, of people coming into the flat. And then there was an explosion of noise and activity, of people rushing past. Suddenly Harry’s arms were around her, gently pulling her up, holding her close.
‘Jess? Jess? Are you okay?’
She leaned in against his chest, relief flooding through her. Through the thin cotton of his shirt she could feel his heart beating.
‘Jesus,’ he said, his chin resting on the top of her head. ‘I go away for one night and you trash the damn place.’
She tried to speak, but no words came out.
Eventually, when her trembling had stopped, he lifted her chin and gazed at her face. ‘You hit him with a bottle, Vaughan. That wasn’t very original.’
Jess looked into his eyes and forced a faltering smile to her lips. ‘Well, hun,’ she croaked. ‘If it’s good enough for Aimee Locke, it’s good enough for me.’
Epilogue
It was three days since Kirsten Cope had come clean about the past, opening up a Pandora’s box of lies and deceit, murder and betrayal. Valerie was still seething about the way she’d been used and manipulated by Simon Wetherby. He had inveigled his way into her life, his only desire to keep a check on the progress of the investigation into Becky Hibbert’s killing, his only motive one of self-preservation. She remembered standing on the steps of the courthouse with him and shuddered. He had strangled Becky only twelve hours before.
Detective Superintendent Redding cleared his throat, and Valerie, who’d been gazing at the office floor, glanced up. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured. ‘I was just …’
‘It’s all right. This is a difficult time for all of us.’
Valerie nodded. She wasn’t the only one having to address the consequences of her actions. Fourteen years ago, a jury had sent an innocent man to jail. And that jury had based their verdict on the evidence provided by Redding and his team. Today, his face looked almost haggard. Did he feel guilty about the mistakes he had made, or was his only concern the protection of his own career? Already the wheels of spin were in motion, the facts being twisted, all the blame being shifted squarely on to Wetherby’s shoulders.
‘So, you interviewed Michael Higgs again this morning?’ Redding asked.
‘Yes, he’s told us everything.’ Like Paul Rafferty, Higgs had no intention of going down as an accessory to murder. ‘Apparently, on the day before Becky was killed, he was approached by a man claiming to work for the Streets. I’m presuming it was some lowlife of Wetherby’s acquaintance, but Higgs didn’t know that. And, of course, he was suitably impressed by the thought of playing with the big boys, even if it was only to act as their messenger.’
‘Messenger?’
‘Yes, this man told him that all he had to do was be at the Lincoln the following night. At some point in the evening he’d receive a phone call telling him what to say and who to say it to. In return, he’d receive a hundred pounds and the undying gratitude of Terry Street.’
‘Who could refuse?’
‘Who indeed. Anyway, Higgs, being the pragmatic sort, decided that rather than hanging around all night, he might as well change his shift and get paid twice. Wetherby must have called him right after he’d murdered Becky Hibbert. Higgs had never met him, so he didn’t recognise the voice. He was told to inform Dan Livesey that his ex was currently moonlighting as a prostitute and that the Streets weren’t happy about it. As you know, the Streets run all the girls on the Mansfield and they don’t like amateurs invading their patch.’
‘And Livesey was supposed to sort it out?’
‘Exactly. So he goes rushing off to the estate, mad as hell that the mother of his kids is working as a tom. I imagine that he’s none too happy either that he’s suddenly become the focus of the Streets’ attention. But when he gets there, Becky’s not home, or if she is, she’s not answering the door. He waits around for a while and then takes off.’
‘Which is when Wetherby picks him up?’
‘Well, we don’t know for certain, but it seems the most likely scenario. Forensics are still checking over his car, and hopefully we’ll pick up some traces. Wetherby needed a scapegoat, and Livesey fitted the bill perfectly. He probably killed him before going on to his flat. He wanted to make it look as though Livesey had done a runner, so he took his passport and cleared the place out.’
Redding’s eyes closed for a moment. It was bad enough knowing that a murderer had run rings around them, but when that murderer was a member of the force … His next statement had a sharp accusatory edge. ‘I don’t understand how he got on and off the Mansfield without being caught on camera. I thought the CCTV footage had been checked.’
‘It was,’ Valerie said defensively, aware that her own professionalism was being called into question. ‘He didn’t go in or out by the main gate. According to Micky Higgs, there are other ways to get on to the estate, especially if you don’t mind climbing over a few walls.’
‘And that didn’t occur to anyone?’
Valerie knew what was going on. Redding was trying to cover his own back, but it wasn’t going to be at her expense. ‘Dan Livesey was there at the right time. He was Becky’s ex, he was angry with her on the night on question and he subsequently disappeared. We had every reason to view him as a major suspect.’
Redding’s face tightened a little. He straightened the folder on his otherwise empty desk.
Valerie ploughed on. ‘Higgs and his girlfriend, Paige Fielding, both backed up the rumours about Becky working as a tom. They had their own reasons for wanting us to believe it. They didn’t want us to look too closely at the money we found in Becky’s flat. Kirsten Cope was a useful source of income, and after Becky was murdered, they could see a way of tightening the screws. Ms Cope wasn’t going to want to answer any awkward questions about why she’d been doling out cash to Becky Hibbert.’
Valerie sat back, trying to keep her cool. She might have been fooled by Wetherby, but then so had everyone else. Despite her reservations at the time, she was relieved now that she’d inserted a possible connection to the Minnie Bright case into one of her earlier reports. That, at least, was one decision that wouldn’t come back to haunt her.
‘Wetherby still refuses to talk,’ Redding said.
‘Yes, I heard.’ Simon Wetherby was sticking with a no comment response to every question that was asked. He would either deny everything when the case came to trial, or opt for an insanity plea. Was he mad? He was certainly sick, sick and twisted. But he was also clever. He was one of those psychopaths who moved easily through society, charming and entirely plausible.
‘Well,’ Redding said brusquely. ‘Keep me informed.’
Valerie stood up and left the office, closing the door carefully behind her. ‘Bastard!’ she muttered under her breath as she stormed along the corridor. Part of her rage was directed at Redding, the rest at Wetherby. There was nothing worse than being used. She walked through the incident room, went into her own office and closed the door with a lot more force than she’d used on the superintendent’s.
It was a couple of minutes before Kieran Swann knocked and put his head round the door. ‘Safe to come in?’
Valerie was still fuming. ‘What do you want?’
He held up a plastic cup of coffee. ‘I thought you might be in need, guv.’
‘Only if it’s got half a pint of whisky in it.’
Swann came in and put the coffee on her desk. ‘That bad?’ Without being asked, he pulled out a chair and sat down on the other side of the desk. ‘Want to share the grief?’
‘Redding’s doing what he always
does – covering his own back.’
‘Hey, everything was by the book. And anyway, he’s the one with the problem. This all started with the Minnie Bright investigation. If that hadn’t been such a botch-up, none of this would ever have happened.’
Valerie shook her head. ‘You thought Peck was guilty too. Everyone did. Wetherby knew exactly what to do to make sure there was no doubt about it.’ She took a sip of the coffee – it was thin and watery and tasted of plastic – before putting the cup down on the desk. ‘Do you think Kirsten Cope knew that he’d murdered Becky?’
‘I’m not sure,’ Swann said. ‘She’s not exactly the sharpest knife in the drawer, but she knew his capacity for violence. It must have crossed her mind.’
Valerie was quiet for a moment. Then she said, ‘I went for a drink with him on Wednesday.’
‘So what? He was a colleague. There’s nothing wrong with that.’ Seeing her expression, his mouth dropped open. He stared hard at her. ‘Ah, Jesus, you two didn’t …?’
‘No, of course not!’ But at the same time, she was aware that she might have done. She’d been charmed by him, and she’d welcomed the attention, especially after all that business with Jessica Vaughan and Harry.
‘Well, then,’ he said. ‘What’s the problem?’
‘The problem is that I talked to him about the Becky Hibbert murder.’
Swann gave a shrug. ‘So what?’ he said again.
She gazed back at him. ‘So we’re not supposed to discuss ongoing investigations with anyone who isn’t involved with the case. He was digging for information and I told him everything he wanted to know.’
‘You think Wetherby’s likely to mention it?’
‘I’ve no idea.’
‘He won’t,’ Swann said, smiling. ‘It would only make him look more devious. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
Valerie smiled thinly back at him. Nothing apart from her own bad judgement. That was something she and Harry had in common. She’d been taken in by Wetherby’s slick charm and he’d been ensnared by the seductive Aimee Locke. They had both made mistakes and would have to live with the consequences. But as she thought about it, her mouth gradually widened into something less cynical. Her relationship with Harry would never be easy, but that was no reason to walk away. Perhaps, despite their differences, they weren’t such a bad match after all.
The sun was shining in Cadiz, the thin morning rays warming his body as he strolled beside the sea. He was home, and relief flooded through his bones. Even as he’d been checking in at the airport, as he’d been boarding the plane, he’d been holding his breath and praying. Everyone’s luck ran out some day.
From where he was walking he could see the bar with its tables and chairs set out for the morning customers. It would be another couple of hours before they opened for business. He couldn’t see Anna, but he knew that she was inside, drinking her usual cup of black coffee while she read through the local paper. There would be no news of Martin Locke in it, no news of a murder in London. Spain had its own problems, its own murders, its own secrets and lies.
It was a few days now since he had stood in Kellston High Street, waiting until his daughter had parked her car and walked away. Then, as arranged, he had made his way down Market Road and climbed into the back of the unlocked white Ford Mustang. Fifteen minutes later, lying down on the seat, he had passed, unobserved by the security cameras, straight into the garage of the house in Walpole Close.
He thought about the long, brittle hours he had spent with Aimee while they waited for the man called Lind to arrive. He had asked no questions and she had said nothing either. Her eyes had looked at him with pure contempt. He had abandoned her when she was a child and there could be no forgiveness. They were strangers, linked by blood but not by love.
Anyway, it was over. Done and finished with. He had no idea of what was happening in London. He didn’t care. It didn’t matter. His daughter’s fate was no longer any concern of his. It was time to get on with his life. The bill had been paid, the debt discharged. He was free.
Jess counted the houses in the alleyway that ran behind Morton Grove until she came to number 14. There was a high wrought-iron gate fixed into the wall, and she peered through its bars at the terrace behind. It looked very different now to how it once had; the house had been smartened up, the trim neat and fresh, the windows gleaming. Even the yard was immaculate, strewn with pots of yellow daffodils.
Jess wasn’t really sure what she was doing there, except she felt that the fate of Minnie Bright had somehow got lost in everything that had happened recently. One little girl who was never going home. Who was left to remember her? In her mind, she could hear the voices of the girls egging Minnie on, urging her to haul her skinny body through the tiny bathroom window.
Jess drank in the cool, damp air. It was three days since Simon Wetherby had turned up in Station Road, planning on silencing her for ever. Since then she’d been putting the pieces together. She understood now the relevance of the light, the reason why Paige and Becky had changed their minds about talking to her, and Kirsten Cope’s part in it all. She knew too how Wetherby had managed to get her new phone number to torment her in the supermarket: Clare had got it from Masterson and passed it on to her old lover.
What had started as a casual conversation on a cab ride home had turned into an unearthing of terrible lies, terrible deeds. Becky Hibbert had been strangled, Dan Livesey murdered too. And what about Lynda Choi? Perhaps no one would ever know the truth about what had happened to her that night.
Jess thought of the girl with the long red hair. Clare Towney had carried her guilt around for fourteen long years. Now she was dead too. One single step as the tube train slid smoothly into Bethnal Green station. Had the driver had time to realise, time to avert his gaze? And what of Clare – what had she thought of in those final few seconds? Her mother, perhaps, her mother’s scared, bewildered eyes?
Jess raised her own eyes to the cloud-filled grey sky. It was time to move on, to put it all behind her. She had bridges to build in Pimlico. Neil was still resentful about being kept in the dark, still annoyed that she had chosen to go it alone. And perhaps he was right. The best relationships were based on honesty and trust. After giving the house one last glance, she set off down the alleyway and didn’t look back.
Harry peered at his face in the mirror, searching for signs that it had changed. He felt different on the inside, altered in a fundamental way. His experiences had taught him a valuable lesson about what was important and what wasn’t. He thought of the small holding cell and shuddered. He was lucky, he’d got a second chance and he didn’t intend to throw it away. Next weekend he was going to see his father, and in the meantime he was going to put his head down and concentrate on work.
Jess and Mac had saved his skin and he would never forget it. Paul Rafferty had been paid generously by Stagg to impersonate Martin Locke. He’d also been paid to leave the country immediately afterwards. But by a stroke of good fortune, Rafferty had latched on to a rich American widow and decided not to use his ticket to Spain. Rafferty’s greed had proved to be Harry’s get-out-of-jail card.
He found himself wondering why Ray Stagg had chosen him as the scapegoat. There were hundreds of private detectives in London. Had it been pure chance, or something else? Perhaps it was simply that Stagg understood his weaknesses. By throwing him out of the casino, by ordering him to leave Aimee alone, he had ensured that Harry would do the very opposite. He frowned into the mirror. Or maybe it was to do with the past. They had made a deal once, a deal that still rankled with Harry and that maybe played on the other man’s mind too. Had Ray Stagg been worried that one day he’d be made to pay?
Harry would probably never know the answer, but there was one thing he was sure about. When the case came to court, Stagg and Aimee Locke would try and tear each other’s throats out. If there had been love, it would turn to hate. If there had been loyalty, it would quickly turn to betrayal. Each would blame the o
ther but both would end up behind bars.
Of David Sage there was still no news. He had probably slipped out of the country on the night of Locke’s murder. Having evaded justice for the past twenty-six years, there seemed little chance of the law catching up with him now. Would he have any sleepless nights about the part he had played in his daughter’s downfall? Somehow Harry doubted it.
He turned away from the mirror, left the bedroom and went through to the living room, where he gazed for a while at the bare floorboards. Another job to complete. Yesterday he had taken up the paint-smeared carpet and rolled it out into the hall. Perhaps he would sand down the boards and leave them bare.
Although she hadn’t been with him for long, the flat seemed curiously empty without Jess. He kept expecting to see her seated at the table or curled up on the sofa. And then he wondered if it was specifically Jess he missed or simply having someone else around to share the good times and the bad. Valerie had called, suggesting they meet up for a drink. It was time for him to work out what he really wanted.
Harry gave the living room one final glance before he locked up and went downstairs. As he entered the office, he was surprised to find the reception area wizzing with extremely attractive women.
Mac was standing at the desk with Lorna.
Harry walked over. ‘Hey, what’s going on here?’
‘We talked about it,’ Mac said. ‘The honeytrap venture, right? We’re checking out some likely candidates today. You’re going to sit in on the interviews, aren’t you?’
Harry looked over at the women. A cool, classy blonde with eyes you could drown in met his gaze and smiled. His lips were on the verge on responding when an image of Aimee Locke’s swaying, seductive hips appeared in his mind. He patted his partner softly on the shoulder. ‘You know what, mate. I think I’ll pass on this one.’
Harry walked over to his office, opened the door and closed it firmly behind him.
