Strong Women

by Roberta Kray

  Jo could see what he was angling for. ‘So you want to know if I’ll do it.’

  ‘Will you?’

  Jo leaned back and looked at him. At least he couldn’t be accused of being indirect. She tried to keep focused on his face, to not allow her gaze to slide back down to those very distracting arms. He had a somewhat lugubrious face, a pair of sad brown eyes and a soft wide mouth. ‘You’re asking me to lie.’

  Harris gave a shrug as if her interpretation of a lie might differ slightly from his own. ‘I’m asking you to help prevent an innocent man from going to jail.’

  ‘How long do you get for perverting the course of justice these days?’

  ‘Not half as long as you get for murder.’

  Jo gave a low groan. She could see why the two of them were friends; they had the same annoying ability to turn an argument on its head and manoeuvre you into the nearest corner. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘I understand that but … well, even if I did agree, why should the police believe me?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t they?’

  This time it was Jo’s turn to shrug. ‘I could have been paid off. I could be trying to protect him. I could be working for—’ She stopped as Harris began to laugh. ‘What?’

  ‘Sorry, but you don’t exactly strike me as that kind of woman.’

  Jo, although aware that there was nothing uncomplimentary about the comment, was less than pleased by his levity. She was the one, after all, who was being put on the line, who was being asked to sacrifice her reputation. God, she could imagine Ruby’s response if she ever got to hear about it. ‘But I am the kind of woman who picks up strangers in hotel bars?’

  ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Is that what’s bothering you?’

  ‘No,’ she said abruptly, suddenly realising how trivial and selfish it sounded in the greater scheme of things. ‘It’s not just that. It’s much more complicated. Look, how much do you actually know about what’s been going on?’

  ‘Not much,’ he admitted. ‘Gabe turned up at the garage on Saturday morning and asked me to help him out. He needed a car. He told me he was in trouble but he didn’t tell me why.’

  She’d suspected as much. ‘Well then.’

  ‘Only that it had something to do with Susan.’

  Jo stared at him, surprised. ‘He told you about Susan?’

  ‘He didn’t need to. Gabe’s more serious problems tend to have a habit of revolving around that particular lady.’

  ‘Have they?’ The question leapt out before she had time to consider it.

  Harris took a sip of his coffee. ‘That’s the thing about ex-wives. Much as you try, you’re never entirely free of them.’

  Jo’s mouth fell open. Ex-wives? She glanced away and quickly clamped shut her jaw. He had been married to Susan? She racked her brains, trying to recall what Gabe had told her. They’d been together for a year or so – wasn’t that what he’d said? He had certainly never mentioned the M word. So what did that mean? Well, that he’d lied, that was for sure, or had at the very least deliberately avoided telling her the truth.

  Harris looked at her, his pale brows arched. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Yes, yes I’m fine. I’m just trying to think.’ Then before he could start realising what she was trying to think about, she rapidly changed the subject. ‘Emerson believes that I haven’t come forward because I’m worried about my husband finding out. He doesn’t know I’m widowed.’ She lifted her left hand, showing him the gold ring. ‘He made a presumption and I let it pass.’

  ‘That’s not a problem. We can put him straight.’

  ‘Won’t he think it’s odd?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter what he thinks. He’s a lawyer. He’s paid to believe whatever his client asks him to believe.’

  ‘But if I’m not married, what reason would Gabe have for not telling the police about me right from the start? What would he have been protecting me from?’

  Harris thought about it. ‘We’ll figure something out. You could have a boyfriend, perhaps? Or you could have told him that there was still a husband on the scene.’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  ‘Because you were only after a quick …’ He hesitated, clearly searching for a more acceptable phrase. ‘Er … you weren’t interested in anything serious.’

  Jo raised her eyes to the ceiling. ‘Oh great, this just gets better and better. And if that was the case, why would I have met up with him again on the Sunday?’

  Harris smiled. ‘I don’t know. Because you were overwhelmed by his boyish charm? Look, the cops won’t care why. You just need to make it sound believable.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘That’s what I’m worried about.’

  Jo knew that she had to make a decision one way or the other. She could see how the odds were stacked against Gabe but did she trust him enough – especially after that revelation about Susan – to walk into a police station and lie through her teeth? But then again, this wasn’t just about him. There was a teenage girl out there somewhere. She was the one Jo needed to be concentrating on. And Silver surely stood a better chance if Gabe Miller wasn’t behind bars for the foreseeable future.

  Harris, sensing that she was close to making up her mind, didn’t interrupt her thoughts. He sat quietly and drank his coffee.

  The seconds ticked by.

  Jo stared down at the table. Eventually, she lifted her head and said, ‘If I do this, how are we going to make our stories tally?’

  ‘It’s easy,’ Harris said, looking relieved. ‘First we get the story straight and then we talk to Emerson. Emerson then gets a little private time with Gabe and repeats what we’ve told him.’

  ‘Is he allowed to do that?’

  ‘To do what? He’s only informing his client that an alibi has come forward.’

  ‘Right,’ Jo said dubiously.

  ‘We just need to keep it simple.’

  ‘Simple,’ she repeated.

  ‘Don’t go into any unnecessary detail.’

  ‘What do you suggest?’

  Harris put his mug down on the table. ‘Are you absolutely sure you want to do this?’

  Jo wasn’t. She had never been less sure about anything. She took a deep breath and nodded. ‘Just talk me through it. Just tell me what I need to say.’

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  It was getting on for eleven by the time Jo emerged from the police station. She lifted her face to the sky and drank in the air like a newly released prisoner who’d been languishing in a dungeon for the past twenty years. Her legs were still shaking. What had she done? Well, nothing that could be undone without landing herself in a whole heap of trouble.

  John Harris was waiting round the corner in his van. She climbed in, shut the door and leaned back with a sigh.

  ‘Well,’ he said. ‘How did it go?’

  She wasn’t sure how to respond. It had been one of the most nerve-racking hours of her life, an hour that had seemed to stretch on for ever as she answered the same questions over and over again.

  ‘To be honest, I don’t know. I told them what we’d agreed, that I first met Gabe on Friday night, that he came back to the flat, stayed the night and that we arranged to meet up again on Sunday evening.’

  Harris nodded, listening carefully. He put a skinny roll-up in his mouth, lit it and waited for her to go on.

  ‘I told them he arrived at about seven, that we had something to eat and shared a bottle of wine. And then we …’ Jo cleared her throat, wondering how she could still feel awkward after having already repeated it so many times. ‘And then …’

  ‘And then you went to bed.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and stayed there until the morning.’

  ‘Do you think they went for it?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said again. ‘They certainly gave me a grilling.’ There had been two of them, a male detective sergeant and a female constable. It was the latter who had taken her statement and asked most of the questions.

  ‘They asked me what w
e ate, what we talked about, if I was absolutely sure that he didn’t leave the flat at any time during the evening.’

  ‘And what did you say – I mean, about what you talked about?’

  ‘Just what we agreed. Nothing too specific: my job, his job, life in general. And, of course, the most important point – that I have a steady and rather possessive boyfriend who is currently working abroad.’

  Jo had chosen the absent boyfriend scenario in preference to the other option of her simply being in search of a ‘quickie’. Out of the two evils, it had seemed marginally less disgusting. However, her shame had felt real enough when she was forced to publicly declare her act of betrayal. It was, perhaps, the only occasion when her tendency to blush had actually worked for rather than against her. She had, without much effort, been able to play the part of a woman almost crippled by embarrassment.

  ‘Okay,’ Harris said. ‘Good. Well, none of that sounds like a problem.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  He switched on the engine and pulled away from the kerb. ‘Now it’s down to Gabe. So long as he sticks to the story …’

  ‘You think they’ll release him?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘They’ll have to check you out first, make sure that you’re a credible witness, that you haven’t got a criminal record or a habit of providing false alibis.’

  Jo frowned, wondering about her credibility. She thought back to the last time she’d stepped inside a police station. It hadn’t been here, in north London. It had been at Kellston, eighteen months ago, when she’d been virtually accused of being some crazy woman who wrote letters to herself. But neither of her interrogators, thank God, had raised that particular subject. But then they probably hadn’t found out about it yet. Perhaps they never would. She crossed her fingers, closed her eyes and offered up a silent prayer.

  ‘There’re still the DNA tests,’ he continued. ‘There’s bound to be some cross-contamination with Naylor’s body being found in his flat but it won’t be enough for the CPS to prosecute.’

  ‘You must like him to go to all this trouble,’ Jo said.

  ‘What trouble?’

  ‘Turning up on my doorstep first thing in the morning, talking me through everything, persuading me to go to the police.’

  Harris took a drag on his cigarette and glanced at her. ‘You didn’t take that much persuading.’

  She could imagine what he was thinking. ‘It’s not like that. It’s …’

  ‘Complicated?’ he said.

  Averting her face, Jo looked out through the window. She wished she could talk about it but she couldn’t. Whatever Harris was doing, he was doing because he was a mate. Her motives weren’t quite so straightforward.

  They didn’t speak again until he pulled up in Barley Road.

  ‘If it’s any consolation,’ he said, ‘I think you’ve done the right thing. Gabe’s a decent bloke.’

  Jo got out of the van and looked back at him. ‘I hope so.’

  Thirty minutes later, pacing around the flat, she was still hoping. It could be hours, even days, before she learned the outcome of her false testimony. In the meantime, she had no idea of what to do with herself. All she did know was that doing nothing was guaranteed to send her crazy.

  She went into the study and started tidying up. First, she stripped the covers off the duvet and the pillows and threw them on the floor. She picked up the clothes Gabe had left on the bed and draped them over the back of a chair. She stared down at the futon. Should she fold it up? If she did, it was like saying that she thought he might not be coming back. If she didn’t, she could be tempting providence.

  Unable to decide, Jo walked across the room. The keys to the white Mondeo were lying on the desk. She’d forgotten to ask John Harris if he wanted the car back. Still, that was the least of her worries. Opening the top drawer, she dropped the keys inside. She was about to close the drawer when she realised that some of Peter’s papers were still lying there. She had looked through them briefly after he’d died and now she casually rifled through them again, looking for … for what? It was only when she came to a pile of credit card statements that she stopped and slowly eased them out.

  Laying them on the surface of the desk, she ran a finger down the first page, down the list of payees: Tesco, the local petrol station, Amazon, the Italian restaurant on the High Street, more food, more fuel. She flicked through the next few sheets but they were all equally innocuous. Not for the first time that day, she felt ashamed. What was she expecting to find? She wasn’t sure. Maybe just some shred of evidence that could connect him to Deborah Hayes. But why should she want to do that? A horrible shiver of guilt ran through her.

  Perhaps she’d always been aware that she hadn’t been as close to Peter as she’d wanted to be. Although that didn’t mean that he’d … Shoving the statements to one side, she delved back into the drawer. But there was nothing else to discover, only a few more bills, some magazines and a slim Kodak folder of photographs.

  She drew out the folder and slid out the prints. She’d seen them before. There were only three of them. The first was of Peter when he was a child, a wide-eyed, fair-haired infant standing by his parents. It was one of those posed studio portraits where everyone stood upright and gazed into the camera. Ruby, holding a new baby, was smiling but Mitchell wasn’t. Peter, as if undecided what to do, had his mouth slightly open and his arms fixed firmly by his sides. How old was he? Four or five? She stared at it for a moment, the strings pulling at her heart – he looked so young and innocent – before carefully putting it to one side.

  The second picture was of Mitchell Strong, standing in front of his shop in Hatton Garden. Perhaps it had been the day it opened. He was a tall, solid man without any of the physical grace of his sons. His shining eyes stared defiantly into the camera. He looked inordinately pleased with himself.

  The last photo was of Peter in Thailand. She knew where it was from the writing on the back and knew from the date that he had been thirty-one when it was taken. He was leaning against a wall with a rucksack on his back. He was laughing and she couldn’t help but smile too. Happiness seemed to leak out from the picture. It was only as she was staring at it that her smile slowly faded and she thought of the questions she had never thought to ask before: Who was standing in front of him? Who had taken the picture? Who exactly was he laughing with?

  Jo laid the print back down on the desk. She leaned down and opened the other drawers, even though she knew they were empty. It was the physical lack of history that bemused her, as if Peter had just wiped each period of his life away after it had happened. Hardly any pictures, no letters, no old calendars or diaries.

  She sat down on the bed and put her head in her hands. The truth was that she was still angry – angry that he had gone and died on her. And how mad was that? There were, apparently, seven stages of grieving and she still hadn’t got past stage three. She’d done the first two, the shock and the denial, but hadn’t come to terms with the anger. Did that make her some kind of psychological freak? It wasn’t as if he had gone out and got himself run over deliberately.

  She thought about the first time they’d met on a busy station platform, a low murmur of dissent emanating from the waiting passengers as the speakers announced yet another delay. In frustration Peter had turned around, accidentally bashed his briefcase into her knee, and apologised. People joked about love at first sight but that was how it had been. She had looked up to see a shock of fair hair, a striking sculpted face, a pair of piercing blue eyes. And then …

  Jo leapt up. She couldn’t do this, she mustn’t. Soon the tears would start to flow and then she’d be lost. She had to get out of the flat. She had to get some fresh air and clear her head. Grabbing her bag, she ran for the door.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  There was a limit to the amount of time anyone could roam aimlessly around Kellston and by two o’clock Jo had reached it. Her feet were s
tarting to ache but her head was still buzzing. Faced with the prospect of returning to an empty flat, she decided to go to Ruby’s instead. Emerson had her mobile number. If there was any news, he’d call her.

  Jacob gave a sigh as she walked in. ‘What are you doing here? You’re supposed to be taking time off, to be having a break.’

  ‘What can I say? I’m a workaholic.’

  He followed her through to the office. ‘Don’t you think—’

  ‘I’m all right,’ she said, ‘really I am. You don’t have to worry. And I know you don’t need me out front. I noticed the storeroom was in need of a clear-out so now seems as good a time as any.’

  ‘I can get one of the students to do that.’

  ‘What and have them think that the boss never gets her hands dirty?’ She gave him a rueful smile. ‘To be honest, Jacob, I just want to keep busy. I’ve got things on my mind. You know what it’s like.’

  He gave her a long enquiring look but, sensing perhaps that she had no wish to discuss it further, simply reached out and gave her a paternal pat on the arm. ‘Don’t go lifting anything heavy.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  For the next couple of hours Jo folded up empty cardboard boxes, jumped up and down to flatten them and piled them up outside for recycling. Over several journeys, she carried reams of paper through to the office and stacked them in a neat pile. She found a new toner cartridge for the printer. She sorted out the numerous gift boxes by size, shape and their suitability as regards weddings, anniversaries, birthdays, christenings etc. After unpacking the latest delivery of little velvet pouches, she separated them into the three different colours, midnight blue, claret and black, and took them through to the shop and placed them under the counter.

  It was only when she’d swept the floor, dusted the shelves and given the place a blast of air freshener that she finally stopped. She gazed around the storeroom. It had never been so tidy. But her sense of satisfaction began to leak away. What was she doing? If she wasn’t careful, she’d develop one of those obsessive cleaning disorders. Before she knew it, she would be round at Carla’s house offering to clear up after the kids and give the kitchen a good scrub.