Streetwise

by Roberta Kray

  DS Higgs loomed into her thoughts and she instinctively flinched. What the sergeant had done wasn’t legal, but she could hardly report her. Not when her dad was guilty as accused. Should she ring him, tell him about the threat? But what would that achieve? There was nothing he could do about it, other than sit and worry about when the cops might turn up. He wasn’t the type to try and make a run for it.

  She squeezed a pool of shower gel into the palm of her hand and lathered every inch of her body. She felt dirty, and not just from the dust and grime of the city. There was a more subtle pollution that came from sitting in a police interview room and telling lies for two hours. She washed her hair and scrubbed her fingernails, trying to purge herself of all the horror of the day.

  Eventually, when she was as clean as she would ever be, she turned off the shower. She stepped out on to the cool lino, wrapped a towel around her, brushed her teeth, put on her watch, picked up her discarded clothes and then padded to the bedroom. The light was fading fast. She glanced down at the square, at the people passing through, before pulling the curtains across and switching on the lamp.

  Ten minutes later, dressed in jeans and a white long-sleeved T-shirt, she sat curled up on the sofa. The story she was telling Tash was a highly edited version of the day’s events, almost identical to the one she had told the cops. She didn’t like lying to her, but what else could she do? Sometimes the truth was a burden that shouldn’t be shared.

  ‘The police went to see Hannah too,’ Tash said. ‘They turned up at her office.’

  ‘I bet she was well pleased about that.’

  ‘About as pleased as she’ll be when she finds out that we’ve polished off her whisky.’

  ‘And very nice it is too,’ said Ava, taking another sip from her glass. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and the malt was going straight to her head. The sensation was a pleasant one, softening the sharp scary edges of her fears and anxieties. She knew that it was only a temporary reprieve – tomorrow her problems would still be there – but even a short escape was welcome. There was only so much anyone could take in a day.

  ‘Do you think he did it?’ Tash asked. ‘Do you think Chris Street murdered her?’

  ‘No. Why should he? He wasn’t overjoyed about Jenna seeing Guy Wilder, but he wasn’t going to kill her for it.’

  Tash didn’t look convinced. ‘So why’s he disappeared?’

  ‘Because he knows he’ll be top of the list when it comes to suspects.’ Ava gave a light shrug. ‘Well, I presume that’s the reason. From what I can gather, he was supposed to meet up with her last night. It puts him the frame, but that doesn’t mean he did it.’

  ‘It doesn’t mean he didn’t either.’

  ‘I suppose not. It just… it doesn’t seem to add up. It doesn’t feel right.’

  Tash peered at her over the rim of her glass. ‘Sometimes feelings can get in the way of the truth. It’s easy to see people the way you want to see them.’

  ‘Do you think Lydia killed Jeremy Squires?’

  Tash hesitated, mulling it over before she answered. ‘I didn’t want to, not at the beginning. I couldn’t believe she was capable. I thought I knew her, but I didn’t, not really. I only saw what she wanted me to see.’

  ‘You think I’m kidding myself about Chris?’

  ‘I’m not saying that. But you never really know what goes on in someone else’s head. He and Jenna had history. He might have only meant to threaten her, to scare her, and then…’

  Ava wanted to protest his innocence, but instantly dismissed the idea. Tash might grow suspicious and start to realise that she knew more than she was saying. ‘Maybe you’re right.’

  Tash glanced at her watch, leaned down and picked up her mobile from the coffee table. ‘I’ve just got to make a quick call. I was supposed to be taking some samples over to that new hat shop in Covent Garden, but I can change it, go another day.’

  ‘No, don’t do that. You should go. You’ve got to go.’

  ‘I don’t want to leave you here on her own, not when —’

  ‘I’ll be fine, Tash. Honestly I will. Please go. I’ll feel really bad if you don’t.’

  Tash frowned at her. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘You have to. Hey, there’s been enough bad stuff happening recently without you throwing away this opportunity as well. It won’t look good if you cancel at the last minute. They might not even agree to see you again.’

  ‘Do you think?’

  ‘Just go, will you? Oh, and brush your teeth before you leave. You don’t want to turn up stinking of whisky.’

  The flat seemed unnaturally quiet after Tash had left. It was twenty past four and dark outside. Ava thought about making something to eat, but couldn’t summon the energy to get off the sofa. She poured herself another glass of whisky and gazed into the amber liquid. Drowning her sorrows in booze probably wasn’t the greatest idea, but she didn’t have a better one at the moment.

  Although she tried to control them, her thoughts inevitably drifted back to Chris. That kiss. That soft shivery meaningless kiss. Why had she allowed it to happen? It complicated things. Confused things. It confused her. She sighed into the silence of the room. There were some men it was better to stay away from. Alec Harmer was one of them and she’d learned that lesson the hard way. She wasn’t about to make the same mistake again.

  Ava lay back, closed her eyes and felt the tiredness wash over her. She hungered for release, for a chance to forget everything for a while. She turned on her side, yawned and curled up her legs. Two minutes later, she was asleep.

  56

  DI Valerie Middleton leafed through the results of the autopsy on Jenna Dean. There was nothing unexpected there. The woman, thirty-one years of age, had been in good health at the time of her demise. Time of death: between ten and eleven last night. Cause of death: a single gunshot to the chest. No evidence of any sexual assault or of any kind of a struggle. The bullet had been removed from the body and sent to ballistics.

  Forensics hadn’t come up with anything useful either. With all the heavy rain overnight, parts of the green had turned into a quagmire. Mud could often be a good medium for the retention of footprints, but not on this occasion. The piece of ground where the body was found had been churned up first by the dog that had sniffed her out and then by its owner.

  She looked across the desk at DS Laura Higgs. Although she had her own office, she preferred to be present in the incident room when a major inquiry was on the go. ‘Anything more on Chris Street yet?’ They had put out an appeal on the lunchtime news, requesting information on his whereabouts. There had been plenty of ‘sightings’, ranging from Portsmouth to Glasgow, from airports to ferry terminals, but nothing solid and nothing that could be verified.

  ‘I don’t reckon he’s gone that far. He’ll be hiding out somewhere, waiting for the dust to settle. We need to find a way to flush him out.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’m still working on that. If he left in a hurry, he might not have much money on him. He’ll need to find a way to get hold of some. Maybe he’ll get in touch with his father or Danny or Ava Gold.’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Valerie said. ‘Men like him usually keep a stash at home, a few grand just in case of emergencies.’

  ‘A few grand doesn’t go far – not when you’re on the run. He wouldn’t dare stay in a hotel – too much chance of getting recognised – so someone’s probably hiding him. And that kind of protection, unless it’s your nearest and dearest, tends to cost a bomb.’

  The door to the incident room opened and Jeff Butler came hurrying towards them. ‘Have you heard?’

  ‘What is it?’ Valerie asked.

  ‘I just got a call from my mate in ballistics. It was the same gun. The same gun was used to kill Jeremy Squires and Jenna Dean.’

  Although the news was a breakthrough, Valerie was irritated by the fact that he had heard before she had. An old boys’ club was in operation in the force, a club from which sh
e felt permanently excluded. ‘Really?’ she said, trying to keep the tightness from her voice. ‘Now that’s interesting.’

  ‘Isn’t it just?’ If he noticed her annoyance, he didn’t show it. ‘Exactly the same striation pattern on the bullets. No doubt about it.’

  ‘Why don’t you grab a chair, Jeff?’

  Butler looked around, took a chair from an empty desk and sat down beside her. ‘I don’t get it, though. Chris Street kills Jenna Dean. Yeah, that’s straightforward enough. But shooting Danny Street, shooting his own brother. Why would he do that?’

  Valerie raised her eyebrows. ‘Oh, I don’t know. I’d probably want to shoot him if he was my brother. But, putting that personal prejudice aside, perhaps it was just a mistake. It was dark in the car park and he wouldn’t have had much time.’

  ‘But why kill Squires anyway? We already know that he’d pulled the money out of the bank.’

  ‘So maybe he changed his mind, got to Belles and decided that he wasn’t going to pay up after all. Threatened to go to the police and blow the whole blackmail scam out of the water. Danny couldn’t risk that, so he put in a call to his brother and kept Squires talking until Chris had a chance to get to the club.’

  Butler nodded. ‘And then Danny took the money before the ambulance arrived, passed it on to Solomon Vale and hey presto, problem solved.’

  ‘It has a certain kind of logic to it.’

  ‘It does,’ Butler agreed.

  ‘Although we can’t be sure that the same person did both the shootings. If that gun belonged to the Streets, it could just as easily have been Terry that finished off Squires.’

  ‘That guy doesn’t know what day of the week it is,’ said Higgs, glancing up at the other two. ‘When I interviewed him, he kept getting confused, thinking that it was his wife who’d just been killed. He kept saying: “Is Lizzie dead? Has someone killed Lizzie?” He couldn’t get it into his head that it was Chris’s ex I was talking about.’

  Butler gave a nod. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard some rumours. Terry’s been doing a few odd things lately.’

  ‘For real, you think?’ Valerie asked. ‘Or is it just his way of avoiding difficult questions?’

  ‘Well, you never know with Terry, do you?’ Butler leaned back and frowned. ‘And where does this leave us with Lydia Hall? It looks like she didn’t kill Squires after all.’

  ‘Unless…’ Valerie said.

  ‘Unless?’

  ‘Well, I suppose it’s not impossible that she dropped the gun at the scene. Solomon Vale could have picked it up, taken it into the club and then given it to Chris Street.’

  ‘Which blows the Chris Street shooting Jeremy Squires scenario out of the window.’

  ‘It does. But it would explain how the same gun was used for both of the killings.’ Valerie gave a sigh. ‘Although we still haven’t got a motive for Lydia killing Squires.’

  Butler stood up and gave Valerie a nod. ‘I’ll leave you to mull that one over. I’d better get off. I’ve got someone to see. You still on for that drink, later?’

  ‘Should be. Unless Chris Street pops up in the meantime.’

  ‘We live in hope.’

  After he’d gone, DS Higgs looked over at Valerie. ‘DCI Butler seems to be spending a lot of time here.’

  Valerie frowned at her. ‘He’s investigating a murder, a murder involving the Streets. Why shouldn’t he be here?’

  ‘Oh, no reason. I was just wondering if he prefers the company at Cowan Road to all those big burly guys down at Shoreditch.’

  Valerie gave her an icy stare. ‘Meaning what exactly?’

  ‘Not meaning anything, guv. He’s a nice guy. You could do worse.’

  ‘What? It’s not like that. There’s nothing…’ Valerie stopped abruptly, realising that she didn’t need to explain herself to the likes of Higgs. But then, fearing that she might be the subject of office gossip, she couldn’t resist adding, ‘It’s a purely professional relationship. He’s married, for God’s sake.’

  ‘Was married. His wife cleared off to Oslo over six months ago. Dumped him for some Norwegian banker. Although banker probably wasn’t the word the DCI used.’

  It was news to Valerie, but she tried not to show her surprise. ‘Well, it’s none of our business, is it? His private life is his own. So shall we just get on with the job in hand?’

  Higgs gave her a smug smile, before lowering her gaze to the heap of papers in front of her. ‘Yes, guv.’

  A few minutes later, DC Preston came over to the desk, loitering for a moment until Valerie raised her head.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’ve just finished interviewing two of the customers who were drinking in Wilder’s last night.’ He looked quickly at his notes. ‘Jane Wainwright and Tessa Marsden. They were sitting near the door and claim that Guy Wilder left the bar at about ten thirty and didn’t come back until about ten, fifteen minutes later.’

  ‘They’re sure?’

  ‘Absolutely sure. They say they remembered because he got back just before closing. And he was wet, guv, like he’d been out in the rain.’

  ‘You think they’re reliable witnesses?’

  ‘Seem to be, guv. Neither of them has got any kind of record; I ran a check.’

  ‘Okay,’ Valerie said. ‘Why don’t you organise a car, get down to Wilder’s and pull him in again.’

  As Preston walked off, Higgs stared across the desk at Valerie. ‘You don’t really think he had anything to do with it? Chris Street killed Jenna Dean. He must have done. We should check out those girls properly. Who’s to say that Danny Street or his old man hasn’t paid them to put Wilder in the frame?’

  ‘We will check them out if Guy Wilder denies it, but let’s hear what he has to say for himself first.’

  57

  DS Higgs turned up her collar against the rain and hurried along to the end of Cowan Road where Franny Keats was waiting for her in his clapped-out Cortina. She climbed into the passenger seat and closed the door, wrinkling her nose at the smell of the interior. It stank of dope, fag smoke, lager and sweat.

  ‘You ever think about cleaning this heap of crap?’ she asked, shifting away the debris at her feet.

  ‘What’d I want to do that for?’

  ‘I dunno. So you don’t catch the plague?’

  Franny Keats lit a fag and glared at her. He was one of her regular snitches, a junkie off the Mansfield who supplemented his benefits with regular payments from informing on the lowlifes of Kellston. ‘What do you want?’ he asked. ‘Or did you just come here to have a pop?’

  ‘Got a job for you – that’s if you think you’re up to it.’

  ‘What sort of job?’

  ‘The sort that involves drinking lager all night in the local pubs and bars. Should be right up your street.’

  Franny took a draw on his fag, releasing the smoke in a long thin stream. He narrowed his eyes. ‘What’s the catch?’

  ‘No catch. I just want you to spread some news around. I want you to tell every local villain you come across that Chris Street is in the clear over Jenna Dean. I want you to tell them that you’ve heard Guy Wilder’s been charged with her murder.’

  Franny thought about this for a while. ‘That true?’

  ‘What difference does it make if it’s true or not?’ She pulled fifty quid out of her pocket and handed it over to him. ‘Here. This should be enough to keep you going. And don’t fuck me about, Franny, ’cause I’ll be checking up on you. If that rumour isn’t going strong in a couple of hours, I’ll hunt you down and make you pay.’

  ‘No need to be like that,’ he said sulkily, folding the notes and slipping them into his pocket. ‘When have I ever let you down?’

  ‘Don’t get me started. Just do it, okay? And make it sound convincing.’

  Franny stroked the wheel with the palms of his hands. ‘Fifty quid don’t go far,’ he said. ‘Not in some of the joints round here. What if I run out of cash? Can’t stand there with an empty glass, can I?’


  Higgs hissed out a breath. ‘Jesus, I’m not the bloody Bank of England.’

  ‘Ah, come on,’ he wheedled. ‘Just another score. That’ll see me right.’

  Although she’d been expecting the request, she pretended that she hadn’t. ‘A score? You’re taking the piss!’

  Franny’s hungry eyes gazed back at her. ‘Ten, then. And I’ll make sure the word gets around real good.’