by Roberta Kray
Roberta Kray was born in Southport. In early 1996 she met Reggie Kray and they married the following year; they were together until his death in 2000. Through her marriage to Reggie, Roberta has a unique insight into the world of the London gangland.
Also by Roberta Kray
The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Non-fiction
Reg Kray: A Man Apart
Copyright
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 9781405511254
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Roberta Kray 2009
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
www.hachette.co.uk
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Chapter Sixty-four
Chapter Sixty-five
Chapter Sixty-six
Chapter Sixty-seven
Chapter Sixty-eight
Chapter Sixty-nine
Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy-one
Chapter Seventy-two
Chapter Seventy-three
Chapter Seventy-four
Chapter Seventy-five
Chapter Seventy-six
Chapter Seventy-seven
Epilogue
Chapter One
Jo Strong gazed down at the sheet of paper. There was nothing new typed on it, nothing she hadn’t read before, but the words still made her stomach turn over. It was almost two years now and the notes kept on arriving with unnerving regularity.
‘You know what I think?’ Carla said.
Jo’s sister-in-law had her back to her and was standing by the sink, her plump hips gently swaying to a song on the radio. As such, Jo felt safe in raising her eyes to the ceiling. It was a gesture born of resignation rather than anything more hostile. She knew what was coming next.
‘It’s pure nastiness, that’s all. Rip it up and chuck it in the bin.’ Carla looked over her shoulder. ‘Put it where it belongs. You have to move on. It’s what Peter would have wanted.’
Would he? Jo frowned. Surely, if what the writer claimed was true, that might not be the case. But then again, how could it be true? It was a question she often asked herself but which she no longer repeated out loud.
Two mugs were placed on the table. It was her kitchen but whenever Carla came round she always made the coffee. This had started shortly after Peter had died and had somehow grown into a habit. Pulling out a chair, Carla sat down and nodded towards the note.
‘You shouldn’t even open them. What’s the point? It’s just some sad old cow who gets her kicks out of tormenting people. How many has it been now?’
‘A few.’
‘More than that. And you know what the cops said.’
Jo shrugged. She wound a strand of pale blonde hair behind her ear. She remembered exactly what the police had said, even though it was eighteen months since she’d last talked to them. They’d been keen at first, taking the letters away for analysis, but when they’d found no fingerprints, no clues, their interest had soon waned. ‘A crank,’ one of them had suggested. And then, four weeks later, when she’d taken the latest communication down to the station, a pasty-faced sergeant had looked her up and down. ‘Do you have a computer, Mrs Strong?’
It had taken a moment for the implication to sink in.
‘They thought it was me,’ Jo said, still astounded after all this time. ‘They thought I was writing them myself, that I was some kind of neurotic, grief-stricken, attention-seeking widow who couldn’t accept the findings of the inquest.’
Carla shook her head. ‘I’m sure they didn’t, love, not really. No one who knows you could ever … I mean, it’s just ridiculous.’
‘Try telling that to Sergeant Hannon.’ Jo could still recall her initial burst of indignation at the policeman, followed by the anger and humiliation. A light flush rose to her cheeks. Even now the memory had the power to upset her. She had turned on her heel and walked out. She hadn’t been back since.
‘You have to stop reading them,’ Carla said briskly. ‘It isn’t good for you. Whoever she is, she’ll get sick of it eventually.’
‘What makes you so sure it’s a woman?’
‘It usually is. They’re more spiteful than men, more persistent.’
‘Maybe.’ Jo lifted the mug to her lips, blew on the surface and took a sip of her coffee. ‘Unless it’s a double bluff, someone who wants me to think that.’
Carla raised her brows.
As soon as Jo had said it, she wished that she hadn’t. She didn’t want her to know just how much she dwelled on it all. ‘You’re right. I should get rid.’ Standing up, she grabbed the note and its envelope, walked across the kitchen and dropped them in the bin. She would retrieve them later after her sister-in-law had gone. She would put them in the drawer with the other twenty-two. Eventually she would find out who was doing this and when she did, she intended to have the evidence to confront them with.
‘Best place for it,’ Carla said approvingly.
Jo sat down again and swiftly changed the subject. ‘So how are the kids?’
As Carla embarked on what was likely to be a long and detailed account of the achievements of twelve-year-old Mitch and his younger sister Lily, Jo smiled absently. She was fond of them both but today her thoug
hts were elsewhere. Her gaze drifted towards the window.
The flat was a first-floor conversion in an old Victorian house on Barley Road. The front rooms, well-proportioned and bright, overlooked Kellston Green. The Green was not as grand as it sounded; about twice the size of a football pitch, it was really no more than a basic expanse of grass with a central concreted path, several wooden benches and a few spindly trees and bushes dotted around the perimeter. At the moment it was almost empty. Only three boys, dressed identically in grey hooded tops, jeans and pricey trainers, leaned idly against their bikes but in a few hours, when the trains and buses discharged their cargo of commuters, it would be heaving. How many times had she watched Peter walk across? If she half closed her eyes, she could almost imagine him striding towards her now …
Jo quickly blinked the image away. On the far side of the Green was the High Street, with its organic food stalls, its fancy designer outlets and overpriced coffee shops. Kellston was one of those East London boroughs, nestled between Bethnal Green and Shoreditch, which had recently been ‘discovered’ by the middle classes. The old and the new, the dilapidated high-rises and the smart executive homes, the well-off and the struggling co-existed, although not always in a state of harmony. Relations between the residents gently simmered and occasionally threatened to boil over.
Her gaze shifted to the red pillar box along the road. All the letters had been posted locally, maybe even there, right under her nose. Could her unwanted correspondent be one of her neighbours? Could it be someone she saw every day, maybe even someone she spoke to? Her mouth began to dry. She had considered moving away but couldn’t quite find the will to do it. To sell the flat would mean leaving a part of Peter behind and she wasn’t ready for that yet.
‘… not that he’s the slightest bit interested in anything I have to say.’
Jo caught the end of the sentence and guiltily refocused her attention. Despite missing the start of the complaint, she had no doubt as to whom Carla was referring. Her husband Tony was, to put it mildly, a philandering drunk, and it had all got much worse recently. She reached out a hand and touched her lightly on the wrist. ‘Are you okay?’
Carla forced a weak smile before she subtly withdrew her arm. She was a giver of sympathy, not a receiver. ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.’ Expelling one of her familiar sighs, she slowly rose to her feet. ‘I’d better make a move. I’ll see you on Sunday unless the old witch has croaked by then. Not that we’d ever be so lucky. You are coming, aren’t you?’
Jo pulled a face. ‘Er …’ She looked forward to these monthly lunches with the same level of enthusiasm she reserved for the mail dropping through the door. Ruby Strong was a sly, bitter old woman and a bully to boot. Unfortunately, she was also Peter’s mother.
‘Please say you’ll be there. I can’t cope on my own.’
She had been thinking about making an excuse, any excuse, to get out of it, but seeing Carla’s growing look of horror, she didn’t have the heart to abandon her. She knew what it was like to be at the receiving end of Ruby’s relentless snipes and criticisms. ‘Of course I will.’
‘Thank God for that.’
After they had said their goodbyes, Jo stood by the window and watched as she walked along the street and climbed into the brand new, gleaming red Toyota. Carla, she noted, had her own pricey way of making her husband pay for his infidelities.
When the car was out of sight she turned, flipped open the bin and plucked out the letter and its envelope. She took them over to the table and straightened out the creases. The note was soggy, stained brown by lying on wet tea bags. She was not entirely convinced that the letters were intended to be hurtful. Yes, they were anonymous. Yes, they were disturbing. But were they actually malicious?
Jo stared down at the limp sheet of paper. The typed words, read so many times before, were already seared into her heart: Your husband’s death was not an accident.
Chapter Two
The Speckled Hen was at the end of a short cobbled alley running off the High Street. They had managed to find a table in the busy courtyard garden and the evening air, retaining the heat from a glorious June afternoon, smelled of hot dust, exhaust fumes and spicy cooking.
Laura had called in the afternoon. ‘Are you free tonight? Please say you are. Something’s happened. I have to talk to you.’
So here they were – and if Jo thought she had problems, they were rapidly paling into insignificance.
‘This is him,’ Laura said.
Jo put down her glass and picked up the small black and white photograph. The man who returned her gaze was on the wrong side of forty, with the frown lines to prove it. It wasn’t a handsome face but one that in a dim light might just pass for interesting.
‘How did you ever get involved with him?’
‘Don’t ask,’ Laura said. ‘It was a big mistake and one I haven’t stopped regretting since.’ She sank her head into her hands. ‘It was a moment of madness. I mean, what was I thinking? I should have had more sense than to get entangled with the likes of Gabe Miller. I’m such a bloody fool.’
Jo shook her head. ‘Don’t beat yourself up about it. It’s like you said, you just made a mistake.’
‘Not the kind of mistake that the senior partners are ever going to forgive me for. I’m supposed to be a lawyer, for God’s sake! Number one rule – never get personally involved with the clients … and especially not with the lowlife like Miller. If I want to save my job, my career, I’ve got to get that laptop back. It’s got all my files on it, all the information about my cases. Apart from the fact that I need the damn thing, how am I going to explain how it’s gone missing? The bastard even took my memory stick.’
‘You could just tell them it had been stolen.’
Laura gave a low frustrated groan. ‘Yes, I could if it hadn’t been gone two days already. It’s too late now. If I suddenly report it as stolen, it’s going to look suspicious. I’m either going to have to explain exactly how, where and when it was taken – and my sleeping with Gabe Miller is hardly going to go down too well with the bosses – or lie about it. And if I lie about it and the cops start asking difficult questions then …’
‘It could be a bluff. Are you sure he’s serious?’
Laura’s fingers tightened around her glass. ‘Oh, he’s that all right. When it comes to payback, no one’s more serious than Gabe Miller. He knew I was on the brink of finishing with him and he doesn’t take kindly to being dumped. He wants two grand or he’s going to stroll into the office with my laptop and make sure the whole firm knows about our little liaison.’
‘Blackmail,’ Jo said softly.
‘It’s not that he even needs the money. It’s just revenge or control or whatever it is that drives that twisted brain of his. So what choice do I have? I’ve already agreed to pay.’
Jo frowned. ‘But even if you do, that won’t stop him from coming back for more.’
‘I know. And he could still tell the world but I don’t think he will. Once I’ve got the laptop, he won’t have any solid evidence – it’s all password-protected.’
‘So when are you seeing him?’
‘I’m not. At least I won’t be if it all goes according to plan.’
‘But I thought—’
The corners of Laura’s mouth curled up. ‘I said that I’d agreed to pay. I didn’t say that I meant it. As it happens, I’ve had a much better idea. He’s staying at that new hotel near Euston, the Lumière. I’ve arranged to meet him in the bar tomorrow night at seven.’
‘And then?’ Jo said tentatively. She had the feeling that she wasn’t going to like what was coming next. Laura James had what could only be described as an impulsive nature, an interesting trait in some respects – she could never be described as boring – but one that was almost guaranteed to get her into trouble.
‘And then, while he’s waiting for me, I’m going to go to his room and snatch the laptop back!’
‘What?’ Jo’s response was so lo
ud that a couple at a nearby table turned their heads to look. She quickly lowered her voice. ‘You must be kidding. You’re going to do what?’
‘It’s the only way. He won’t have it on him, I know he won’t. He likes to play games; he’ll want to try and screw with my head for as long as he can. Nothing’s ever simple or straightforward with him.’
‘But you can’t break in,’ Jo insisted. ‘I mean, apart from anything else, what if you get caught? In fact you will get caught. That kind of hotel’s bound to have cameras, CCTV.’
‘Who said anything about breaking in?’
Jo stared back at her.
‘I’ve thought it through,’ Laura explained, ‘and I’m sure it’ll work. Once Miller’s safely in the bar, I can turn up at reception with some fancy luggage and claim that I’m his wife. So long as I look the part, so long as I’m suitably dressed and utterly charming, why shouldn’t they let me into his room?’
Jo opened her mouth to object but then smartly closed it again. It was true that Laura could be extremely persuasive when she put her mind to it. With her long auburn hair and hazel eyes she was also stunningly attractive, a bonus when it came to fooling any unsuspecting person on a hotel desk, especially if they were male.
‘He’ll have a double room,’ Laura continued. ‘He always does, just in case he gets lucky. I’ll say that there must have been some misunderstanding over the booking, that it should have been for Mr and Mrs Miller. I’ll be disgustingly polite and sweetly patient. I’ll even ask them to ring up and check with him if necessary. But of course he won’t be there. He’ll be in the bar waiting for me.’
‘And if they still say no?’
‘They won’t.’
‘They might,’ Jo said. ‘You can’t take it for granted. Security can be tight in these places. What if they ask for identification?’
Laura shrugged. ‘You know me. I’ll think of something.’
Jo finished her wine, reached for the bottle and quickly refilled their glasses. This wasn’t a plan they should even be discussing. The whole idea was crazy. Or was it? Perhaps not completely crazy but it was hardly foolproof. ‘There must be a better way of dealing with this.’
