by Roberta Kray
‘Just five minutes. Please. Stay and talk to me.’
‘About what?’
‘Anything,’ Silver said. She wrapped her arms around her knees and looked up pleadingly. ‘I’m scared. I don’t like being alone.’
Susan thought about all the times she hadn’t liked being alone. She should have felt some sympathy but instead all she experienced was a surge of irritation: a few days locked in a cellar was nothing compared to the years of hell she’d had to endure. The princess had a lot to learn. You’ll get used to it, she almost retorted but didn’t. Keeping Silver calm, no matter what the provocation, had to be her main priority. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Are you going to stay?’
‘I’ve got things to do.’
‘Please,’ Silver begged again. ‘Don’t go, please don’t go.’
Susan raised her eyes to the ceiling. She had no desire to talk to her but if she went back upstairs she’d just be pacing the rooms again, looking at her watch and counting off the hours. Of course there was that phone call she’d thought about making, but it could wait. Jo would be at work by now, not the best time to catch her.
‘Just a few minutes,’ Silver pleaded.
‘All right, okay.’ Susan leaned her head against the bars. Perhaps it wouldn’t do any harm to chat for a while. Marty wouldn’t like it – he’d given her express instructions not to speak any more than she had to – but what he didn’t know he wouldn’t grieve over.
Chapter Twenty-three
Jo was scrutinising Deborah Hayes from behind the counter. She’d been watching her, on and off, for most of the day. Now, once again, she was going through that typically female process of weighing up her looks and trying to decide where she rated in the attractiveness stakes. Being ten years younger, Jo had the advantage of age, but Deborah won hands down when it came to sophistication: tall, slim and impeccably dressed, she was the epitome of elegance.
Aware that she was staring, Jo quickly looked away. Even if Deborah had slept with him, did it matter? Not so long as it had stopped before they’d got married. But after Jacob’s reaction, she wasn’t sure that it had. And she was starting to remember those all-too frequent evenings when Peter had been late home, when he’d claimed he had meetings, when …
Of course the simple solution would be to take her aside and ask her directly but she couldn’t. She had the British disease, a congenital fear of embarrassment. Once said, it couldn’t be unsaid, and Deborah was hardly likely to confess to anything. And if she was wrong or, even worse, if she was right, then how could they ever work together again?
Jo’s gaze swivelled back to Deborah. She looked her up and down again. Love, as she knew, wasn’t rooted in appearance; that was just the superficial stuff, the lust, the initial attraction. It was the deeper connection that mattered.
Deborah was married and had a couple of kids. Her husband, Tom, came into the shop from time to time, a smart grey-haired man with a pleasant easy manner. Jo had made him a coffee only last week and they had stood and chatted in the kitchen. Was it possible that they had both been cheated on?
Jo turned, suddenly aware that she was being watched too.
‘Why don’t you go home?’ Jacob said.
‘It’s only two o’clock.’
‘Go home,’ he said again, this time more insistently. ‘We’re not busy. I’ll lock up. Get some rest, catch up on some sleep.’
What he was really saying, she thought, was Don’t do anything you may regret later.
If she’d been braver, she might have taken him aside and pushed him for an answer. But then this wasn’t just to do with courage, it was about common decency too. She had no right to put him in such an awkward position.
The afternoon was hot and sunny but Jo was barely aware of it. Walking slowly across the Green, she was thinking back to when Peter had died. It had been during the first week in July, a close, humid day when the air was heavy and thunder rumbled softly in the distance. He had told her in the morning that he was going to be late, that he had some work to catch up on, and she hadn’t bothered to enquire further. Why should she? She’d had no reason to distrust him.
It had been around seven-thirty when the speeding car had knocked him down. He had been across the other side of Kellston, a twenty-minute walk from Ruby’s, in a quiet residential street called Fairlea Avenue. The car hadn’t stopped. There were no witnesses, no descriptions of the vehicle, but a few of the residents had heard the impact. One of them had called an ambulance but it was too late: Peter was already dead.
Jo had never found out what he was doing there. Perhaps he had just fancied a stroll, an opportunity to stretch his legs after a long day in the shop. Or perhaps he had gone to meet someone. She tried to block out her misgivings – she didn’t want her memories sullied with any ugly suspicions – but her brain refused to co-operate.
She had believed the police when they’d put it down to a hit-and-run. A stolen car, they assumed, which was why the driver hadn’t stopped. An unfortunate case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time. It was only later, when the first anonymous letter arrived, that she’d begun to have her doubts.
But why should anyone want to kill him? It didn’t make sense. Unless it had been a crime of passion. Maybe he had finished his affair with Deborah or threatened to tell her husband and in a moment of madness, of rage, she had … Jo took a deep breath and instantly dismissed the theory. It was ridiculous! She might not like Deborah Hayes but she was an unlikely murderess.
So could it have been someone else, another woman? She’d thought they were good together but Peter hadn’t been the easiest man to read. He had told her he was happy but that wasn’t necessarily the same thing as being happy. And they had married so quickly, only six months after meeting. Perhaps he had been repenting in a less than leisurely fashion.
Jo’s hands clenched in her pockets and guilty tears rose to her eyes. What was she thinking? Peter had never given her a reason to doubt him and now, two years after his death, she was busily accusing him of adultery without a single shred of evidence. It was wrong, shameful. He deserved better.
Jo passed through the gate and crossed over Barley Road. She was almost home when she saw Constance Kearns coming towards her. As they grew closer, she tried to decide whether she should mention Leo, apologise for what had happened on Friday night, but then wondered if she even knew about the incident and if she didn’t … By the time she had considered all the options, Constance had already passed by with her usual nod and small tight smile.
Relieved, Jo dug her keys out of her bag and walked up the drive. She had enough on her mind without having to explain why Miller had launched an attack on her son. She had just opened the door when she heard the approaching footsteps. Glancing over her shoulder, she gasped. Gabe Miller was standing right behind her. As if just by thinking about him she had managed to conjure him up, Jo blinked her eyes twice and frowned.
‘What are you doing here?’
‘It’s good to see you too.’
He looked rough, as if he hadn’t washed or shaved since she had last seen him. She grasped her keys tightly, feeling the hard edges dig into the soft flesh of her palms. ‘You haven’t answered my question.’
‘I thought you might have heard.’
Jo knew it was bad news. Her immediate thought was of the girl. ‘Please don’t tell me she’s—’
‘It’s not Silver,’ he said.
She relaxed a little. ‘Then—’
‘It’s Ritchie Naylor, the boy she was seeing. He’s … he’s been … look, can we go inside? I really don’t want to have this conversation here.’
Jo didn’t want to have it at all. And she didn’t want him in the flat. But in this matter, as in so many others, what she did or didn’t want was apparently irrelevant. Without waiting for a reply, he had already moved past her and was climbing up the stairs.
Chapter Twenty-four
As Jo reluctantly followed him up, she noticed
he was dressed in the same clothes he’d been wearing on Friday. His jacket was creased and the hems of his trousers were lined with a fine, grey film of dust. He stank of stale cigarette smoke and sweat.
‘What’s happened?’
‘I thought you might have heard,’ he said again.
‘If I had, I wouldn’t be asking.’
Miller walked into the living room and sat down on the sofa. Hunching forward, he put his head in his hands. ‘He’s dead. Ritchie’s dead.’
Even though she’d been expecting it – she had known from his expression that it was going to be serious – she still felt a jolt of shock. Jo swallowed hard. ‘So what was it, some kind of overdose? It was drugs, right? You said he was a junkie. You said—’
‘No.’
Still hoping, against all the odds, that the death might have been accidental, she opened her mouth to ask but the question wouldn’t come. Her throat was tight and dry.
‘Yeah,’ he said, looking up. ‘He was murdered – battered to death with a crowbar.’
‘Jesus,’ she said. It emerged as no more than a whisper. Feeling her legs start to shake, she stumbled over to a chair.
‘And there’s worse.’
She curled up, wrapping her arms around her knees. She wasn’t sure how much worse it could get.
No sooner had she sat down than Miller jumped up and walked over to the window. He placed his hands against the glass and gazed out over the Green. She heard him take a few deep breaths. When he turned, his face was grey and twisted. ‘I’m in trouble, Jo. They found him at my flat.’
‘What?’
‘Ritchie was killed in my flat.’
‘But how could he—’ As the logical conclusion sank in, she shrank back against the chair. Her eyes widened with alarm.
Miller gave a low groan. ‘Oh, please ! I wouldn’t. I couldn’t. I haven’t been near the place. Why would I with Delaney’s goons still searching for me? A mate of mine heard it on the news and—’ He paused, his dark eyes boring into her. ‘Please don’t say you think it was me.’
‘I don’t,’ she said quickly.
‘You believe me?’
She nodded. ‘Of course I do.’ In truth, she wasn’t sure what to believe. And until she’d made up her mind, the wisest course of action was to go along with him.
‘Good. Only I need somewhere to stay for a few days.’
Her stomach lurched. Reserving judgement was one thing, harbouring a possible killer quite another. ‘No, you can’t. I’m sorry but …’ Unable to meet his eyes, she looked desperately around the room. Her gaze alighted on the picture of Peter. ‘My husband will be back soon and—’
‘And what?’ he said.
‘How am I supposed to explain what you’re doing here?’
‘You could tell him you picked me up in a bar.’
Jo stared at him. ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’
He crossed the room and stood in front of her. ‘Come on,’ he said. ‘We both know there’s no one coming back. There’s no one living here but you.’
‘That’s not …’ she began, but didn’t have the heart to continue. He must have figured it out. One sneaky look in the bathroom cabinet last time he was here would have been enough to reveal her solitary status.
‘I need your help. All I’m asking for is a few days. You must see what’s going on. I’ve been framed, Jo. I’ve been set up. Someone wants me out of the way.’
‘Then go to the police.’
‘I can’t.’
‘You can,’ she urged. ‘You have to. There’s forensics and stuff. There’s DNA. They can do tests. They’ll prove it wasn’t you.’
‘And how long do you reckon that’s going to take?’ He turned and strode back to the window. ‘Anyway, I can’t take the chance. Not right now. The forensics could be inconclusive and the circumstantial evidence all points to me – it was my damn flat he was murdered in.’
‘But if you tell them about Silver, about Delaney—’
‘No, I need to be out here looking for Susan, not stuck down the cop shop trying to prove my innocence.’
‘Well, what about an alibi?’ Her voice grew more cautious. ‘You do have an alibi for when he was killed, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ he said. He hesitated. ‘No, not really. I’ve spent the last couple of nights kipping in a car I borrowed. I couldn’t risk going back to the Lumière and picking up my own. Delaney’s men would be crawling all over the place.’ He put his head in his hands and groaned. ‘Shit, the hotel’s probably had it towed by now.’
Jo gave a sigh. ‘I think you’ve got more important things to be worrying about than that.’
‘Yeah,’ he agreed, looking up again. ‘You’re right. Anyway, after I left here, I went over to Dalston, picked up a pal’s Mondeo, and then spent the rest of the weekend driving around Kellston looking for anything that might give me a clue as to where Susan might be. It doesn’t help much, does it? To be honest, I don’t even know exactly when Ritchie was killed.’
Jo shook her head. As far as alibis went, it wasn’t the most convincing she’d ever heard, but it was its lack of substance that somehow gave it the ring of truth. Perversely, she’d have been less inclined to trust him if he’d come up with a cast-iron alibi. But that didn’t mean that she was sure of his innocence. She racked her brains, trying to think of other reasons why he should be at the police station rather than holed up in Barley Road. Then something occurred to her. ‘What about your clothes?’ she said excitedly. ‘You’re wearing the same things you were on Friday. If you’d killed him, there’d be evidence, blood stains, wouldn’t there? You can’t bludgeon someone to death without …’
‘Good theory,’ he said, ‘but how am I supposed to prove they’re the same clothes?’
He had a point. Still, at least the idea had the useful effect of making her feel a little better. His suit was crumpled and his shirt wasn’t quite as white as when she’d last seen him but there wasn’t a blood spot in sight. She felt her body relax. Perhaps he was being straight with her.
‘So what are you thinking?’ she said.
‘If I’m right, whoever’s working with Susan was responsible for Ritchie’s death. The kid must have been involved in some way and was killed to shut him up. Doing it at my flat had the advantage of taking me out of the picture too.’
Jo’s heart flipped over. ‘But you swore Silver was safe, that no one would hurt her. If this guy, this maniac, has her, then God knows what he’s going to do next. You can’t let this carry on. You have to go to the police.’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. If you’re really worried about the girl, help me find her.’
‘I can’t. I mean, I want to but I don’t see how I can.’
‘She’s round here, somewhere,’ he said. ‘I’m sure of it.’
‘Kellston’s a big place. We could be searching for ever.’
‘I’ve got a few ideas but …’ He bent his head and sniffed at his clothes. ‘Look, would you mind if I took a shower first and got cleaned up? I must smell like a skunk.’
Jo shrugged. It was hardly polite to agree but she couldn’t deny it either. And if he was locked in the bathroom, he wouldn’t be out here. That was a definite plus. It would also give her the opportunity to think about what to do next. She could still call the police if she chose to.
‘Help yourself,’ she said. ‘There are clean towels in the cupboard.’ Then she had another thought. ‘Oh, and leave out your clothes; I can put them through the machine.’
‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘I appreciate it.’ He went to the bathroom, opened the door, looked back at her and grinned. ‘And don’t worry, I won’t be offended if you check them for evidence. If I was you, I’d do the same. Better to be safe than sorry, huh?’
Jo blushed. ‘That wasn’t why …’
But he’d already closed the door.
She got up and retraced his steps to the window. The kids were out of school, milling around on the grass. It
was mainly boys but there were a few teenage girls too. She immediately thought of Silver. Jo wanted to do what was best for her but still wasn’t sure what that was.
The bathroom door opened again and Miller deposited his clothes in a pile.
She approached them with caution. First she picked up his jacket and trousers – they would need to be dry cleaned – and, after a brief examination, laid them over the back of a chair. His black shoes were dusty but had no suspicious marks. She took longer to study his shirt, slowly turning it over, but found nothing more offensive than a couple of grease stains. Finally, with the tips of her fingers, she gingerly lifted up his socks and underwear, dropped them on to the shirt and took the bundle through to the kitchen.
Throwing it into the machine, she felt reassured by the absence of any obvious blood stains. Although that didn’t mean he hadn’t done it. He could have changed out of his suit, committed the gruesome act and then … She quickly dismissed the thought. She had to try and stay calm and she couldn’t do that if she thought a psycho was showering in the bathroom.
Jo could hear the water running. If she was going to make a decision, she had to make it fast. Would calling 999 be likely to help or hinder Silver’s release? Surely, with all their resources, they stood a better chance of tracking her down. On the other hand, Susan and whoever she was working with might panic if they realised the police were involved. And she could imagine just how cynically the Law would react to Miller’s story. Perhaps she should give him a few days, a chance – slim as it was – to find Susan.
She weighed up the pros and cons but couldn’t decide. Whatever path she chose could have terrible consequences. In the end, doing nothing seemed the most attractive option. At least that gave her time to think things through. Forty-eight hours, she decided, and nothing more. If he hadn’t made any progress by then, she would definitely call the police.
Having made up her mind, she went to the study and dug out an old pair of tracksuit bottoms and a T-shirt. The thought of him in Peter’s clothes was abhorrent but she had to find something for him to wear. He would hardly fit into anything that belonged to her.
