The Lost

by Roberta Kray

  ‘It isn’t,’ she said, ‘and I’m glad.’

  He poured himself a coffee and dropped a couple of slices of bread into the toaster. He was feeling faintly nauseous but knew he had to eat.

  Valerie folded her arms across her chest and leaned back against the table. ‘So are you going to tell me why?’

  ‘I meant to come. Honestly, I did. I put on my suit, went out and …’

  ‘And then decided that you’d rather get smashed instead.’

  ‘Not exactly.’

  Valerie’s glare grew harder. ‘So how was it exactly?’

  ‘I bumped into …’ He paused, realizing it might be circumspect to leave Jess’s name out of this. He was in enough trouble already. ‘Just some guy that I haven’t seen for a while and we got talking and …’

  ‘And you decided that was way more important than attending a retirement dinner for a guy you worked with for over ten years.’

  ‘No,’ he said. His head was banging, a harsh persistent throb that set his teeth on edge. ‘I didn’t mean that. It was wrong. I was wrong.’ He rubbed at his temples. ‘The truth is that I just couldn’t face it – seeing them all again, having to make that endless small talk, having to act like everything’s just fine.’

  Her voice softened a little, sliding from anger into exasperation. ‘But these are your friends, Harry, your mates, people who care about you.’

  ‘Well, perhaps that’s what makes it even harder.’

  There was a short silence.

  Harry sighed into his coffee. ‘So how did it go?’

  Turning her back on him, she walked over to the sink and started rinsing a cup. ‘What do you care?’

  ‘I’ll call him,’ he promised. ‘I’ll call Scott and apologize.’

  ‘Sure. Whatever.’

  The toast sprang out of the machine with a sound that to Harry’s fragile brain sounded like a minor explosion. He flinched, picked it up and put it on a plate. Still talking to her back, he sat down at the table and said: ‘I’ve told you, I’ll call him. I’ll sort it out.’

  She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes heavy with reproach. ‘This isn’t just about a missed dinner. You know it isn’t. You’re always doing this stuff. Things have happened, terrible things, but you can’t let them screw you up forever. When are you going to sort yourself out?’

  ‘And since when did you become my counsellor?’ he snapped and then instantly regretted it. Dropping his gaze he stared guiltily down at his toast. ‘Sorry.’

  Slowly drying her hands, she came over to stand beside him. ‘Maybe that’s the problem,’ she said. ‘Maybe I’m not helping you at all.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sometimes I feel like I’m only making things worse.’

  Harry lifted his red-rimmed eyes and looked up at her. ‘And how do you figure that one out?’

  She shrugged, glancing away. ‘I don’t suppose it helps seeing me go out to work every morning or hearing me talk about what I’ve been doing. I can understand that. All we ever seem to do these days is row. And all I ever seem to do is nag and complain. I don’t want it to be like this, Harry. I don’t want us to be like this.’

  ‘No,’ he agreed. For all his thoughts about them splitting up, that was all they had been – just idle careless thoughts. Now he had a nasty sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. What if she was actually going to leave him? A wave of panic swept through his body. ‘I don’t want it either.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘I may be bitter about a lot of things but you doing your job isn’t one of them. I don’t begrudge you that. How could I?’

  ‘But it’s not just—’

  ‘I know,’ he interrupted. ‘I’ve not been thinking straight. I haven’t been for months. I’ve been behaving like a shit.’

  She laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘You’re not a shit,’ she said. ‘Well, not all the time.’

  He smiled and placed his hand over hers. ‘Look, why don’t we have a quiet night in, just the two of us? I’ll buy some food and cook. How does that sound?’

  ‘Do you mean it?’

  ‘Yeah. About seven thirty? It’ll be good to spend some time together.’

  ‘Okay. But you’ll definitely be here, won’t you? I don’t want to be stood up two nights in a row.’

  Harry nodded, the motion making his head ache even harder. ‘I promise.’

  It was the fourth time she had rung that morning and it wasn’t even nine o’clock. Harry glared down at the phone. Why couldn’t the woman leave him alone? It had only been a few drinks, for God’s sake, a quick fumble in the back of a cab, and now he couldn’t get rid of her.

  ‘Aren’t you going to answer that?’ Lorna said.

  ‘It’s not important.’ He turned it off. If Jess didn’t give up, he’d have to call her back, but it wasn’t a prospect he could face right now. Despite three black coffees and a couple of aspirins, he still felt too fragile to go through the process of letting her down gently. Perhaps, if he kept on avoiding her, she’d eventually take the hint.

  He dug into his briefcase and handed a sheaf of papers over to Lorna. ‘The insurance job, the Westwood case,’ he said. ‘Mac’s going to replace me with somebody else.’

  ‘Yes, I heard. That must be a blow.’

  ‘Pure heartbreak.’

  Lorna grimaced. ‘Unfortunately there’s been a slight change of plan. Mac can’t get anyone else on to it until this afternoon so if you could just cover for the morning …’

  Harry shrugged back into his overcoat. ‘No can do, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Why? Where are you off to?’

  ‘Romford market. I need to track down some of Al Webster’s pals.’

  ‘It’s Tuesday,’ she said.

  Harry frowned, struggling to grasp the connection. ‘Yeah?’

  She grinned, her blue eyes dancing with amusement. ‘My, you must have had a good time last night. You don’t have a clue what I’m talking about, do you?’

  ‘Am I missing something here?’

  ‘Only one useful little fact. The market isn’t open on Tuesdays.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’

  ‘I’m afraid not. Only Wednesday, Friday and Saturday. Well, apart from the two weeks before Christmas and we’re not quite there yet.’

  Harry rubbed at his temples and thought about it. That was his plan for the morning straight out the window. It also begged the question of what Al did when he wasn’t flogging DVDs on his stall. Perhaps he was a gentleman of leisure. But somehow he doubted it; the upkeep of that house in Loughton, not to mention a well-dressed wife and two demanding kids, wasn’t likely to come cheap.

  He’d better call Denise and check it out. However, that meant switching his phone back on. Did he dare? Tentatively, he pressed the button, hoping it wasn’t about to start ringing again. When it didn’t, he gave a sigh of relief and smartly looked up the number.

  As if she was sitting next to the phone, Denise answered promptly. ‘Hello.’

  ‘It’s Harry Lind.’

  ‘Have you found him?’

  He winced at the desperation in her voice. ‘Sorry. There are just a few details that I need to go over.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘It’s about what Al does when he isn’t working on the market. I mean, it’s only open three days a week, isn’t it?’

  There was a short pause. ‘Er …’

  ‘I was wondering if he had another job.’

  Again, that hesitation. ‘Nothing steady,’ she said cagily.

  Harry gazed up at the ceiling. How did people expect you to help when they only told you half the story? ‘Look, I need to know everything, Denise. So, if there’s anything you’re keeping from me, however unimportant you think it may be …’

  ‘There isn’t.’ She cleared her throat, a slight nervous kind of sound. ‘He sometimes does a bit of work for Ray, that’s all, helping with deliveries and stuff at the club.’

  A smil
e crept on to Harry’s face. The morning may have started under a cloud but the sun was slowly coming out. Funny how Stagg hadn’t mentioned that Al worked for him; the odds of his being involved had just shortened considerably. ‘You should have told me. How often is “sometimes”?’

  ‘A couple of days a week, an evening or two. But this has nothing to do with Ray or Vista. Al wasn’t even there last Saturday.’

  ‘I know,’ he said casually. ‘I’m sure you’re right. It just helps if I have all the facts.’

  ‘Okay,’ she murmured. ‘Is there anything else?’

  You tell me, he was tempted to respond – there was probably a good deal more Denise wasn’t sharing – but he didn’t want to push her. ‘No, that’s it for now. Thanks. I’ll stay in touch.’

  Harry switched off the phone – better safe than sorry – and grinned down at Lorna.

  ‘Good news?’ she asked.

  ‘Could be. I think it may be time to pay Ray Stagg another visit.’

  ‘Well, seeing as I just saved you a wasted journey to Romford, can it wait until this afternoon?’

  Harry thought about it. He didn’t relish another shift staring at Karl Westwood’s curtains but it could be more productive to go to Vista later when other members of staff would be around. He smiled at her. ‘Go on then,’ he said. ‘Seeing as it’s you.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  BJ stood shiftily by the door and peered into the cell. It wasn’t the first time he’d wandered past but it was the first real chance he’d had to stop and stare. Deacon was distracted, his head in his hands, gazing at the letter he’d received. From the bleak expression on his face, it was clear that he didn’t like what he was reading. A Dear John, perhaps? No, his wife had left him years ago, although there was still that dark-haired little cutie who had come to visit …

  Over the past week, ever since Curzon had been down, BJ had been taking an interest in Paul Deacon. He had seen the way Len had watched him, how he’d pretended not to be interested. And that, in BJ’s eyes, was enough to warrant a few inquiries of his own. He’d asked around and discovered, much to his amazement, that the solemn, dull, silver-haired man – the guy he had never noticed before – had once hit the headlines. The geezer had been a celebrity. Not just a successful Tory politician (politics didn’t interest BJ much) but also, incredibly, the man who had murdered Jimmy Keppell’s son over twelve years ago.

  Everyone who was anyone had heard of Jimmy K and from all accounts he wasn’t slow to exact revenge. That Deacon was still breathing was a miracle. How come he wasn’t six foot under already? It was a question that no one seemed willing or able to answer.

  BJ was beginning to understand Curzon’s fascination.

  Still unnoticed, he grabbed the opportunity to look around. As a lifer, Deacon had a cell to himself. The room was sparse, unadorned with the usual pictures and posters. There were no pictures, no bare flesh, no glossy centrefold bums or tits. Still, that was hardly surprising if the rumours were true about him and the Keppell kid. He probably preferred the boys to the girls. However, there wasn’t any evidence of that either. There wasn’t even a respectable display of family photographs. The entire space was as blank and anonymous as the four walls of a motel.

  ‘You okay, man?’

  Deacon looked up, startled. ‘What?’

  BJ nodded towards the letter. ‘Bad news, huh?’

  As if to hide what he was reading, Deacon quickly lowered his hand and laid it over the sheet of paper. ‘Did you want something?’

  BJ leaned against the door. ‘Only asking.’

  Deacon stared back at him. ‘I’m not interested,’ he said.

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In whatever you’re selling.’

  BJ looked hurt. ‘Hey, I’m just trying to be friendly, man. I’m not selling nothing.’

  ‘Good,’ Deacon said. ‘Because there’s nothing that I want from you.’

  ‘It don’t hurt to be polite,’ BJ said, rolling his massive shoulders. He turned and walked away down the passage. From now on he’d be keeping a close eye on Paul Deacon; the guy wouldn’t be able to take a shit without him knowing about it.

  BJ understood how the world worked, how to trade, how to barter. If he had something important he could offer Len, then Len would have no choice but to give him something back. And what he wanted – and it didn’t seem too much to ask – was to see his name in print. He already saw that book in his dreams, its spine a glittering band of gold, its title a glowing homage to the glory that was BJ Barrington.

  Chapter Fourteen

  It was late afternoon before Lorna managed to organize a replacement. Harry, parked along the road from Westwood’s house, had nothing to report to the young black guy who arrived to take over. Warren James was one of Mac’s techno geeks, a specialist who normally spent his days hunched over a computer retrieving wiped data and sniffing out frauds.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ Harry asked.

  Warren climbed into the passenger seat and grinned. ‘It’s good to see you too, pal. But hey, if you’d rather hang around here for another four hours …’

  ‘Sorry. I’m just surprised, that’s all. I mean, you don’t usually do this kind of stuff.’

  ‘Lorna twisted my arm. I don’t mind though. It makes a change to get out of the office. So what’s the deal with our invisible friend? Any sign?’

  They both looked towards the large modern semi. There was a BMW and a 4x4 sitting in the drive, the spoils no doubt of Westwood’s numerous insurance claims.

  ‘Quiet as the grave,’ Harry said. ‘No one in, no one out.’

  Warren nodded. ‘It’s been over a week. He’ll make a move soon; he must be going stir crazy.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘Maybe when it gets dark …’

  Already the light was fading, the dusk settling over the street like a thin grey blanket. Soon the street lamps would come on and then, one by one, the houses would be illuminated too.

  ‘Anyway, you go,’ Warren said, opening the door. ‘I’ll move the car and grab your space.’

  ‘Thanks. Are you on for the evening?’

  ‘Only until eight, then Mac’s taking over.’

  ‘Mac?’ Harry said, frowning. Things must be tight. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out on surveillance.

  Warren shrugged. ‘That’s what Lorna told me.’

  Harry glanced at the clock on the dashboard as he manoeuvred the Audi through the entrance to Vista. After the extended shift at Finsbury Park, he was running late, the shopping still no more than a scribbled list in the back of his notebook. A quick dash round the supermarket was next on the agenda. He had the feeling that a takeaway wouldn’t quite cut it with Valerie; this evening was all about making an effort.

  The car park was busier than the last time he’d been here; some of the night staff must be working already. He found a space between a blue van and a Metro and squeezed in. The flashy yellow Lotus was parked up at the far end. Good, at least Stagg was on the premises.

  Walking in, Harry found the desk at reception unattended. The gum-chewing blonde was nowhere in sight and nor was anyone else. He stood for a moment, undecided, and then strolled over to the office door and knocked. There was no response. Cautiously, he reached out and tried the handle – unsurprisingly, the door was locked.

  Harry gazed around the foyer and then, hearing the distant sound of music, pushed open the set of heavy fire doors, went along a short corridor and entered the main space. All freshly cleaned and polished, it looked almost respectable. Except he knew otherwise; Vista was renowned for its hookers and its drugs. Although Stagg was careful to keep the business at least superficially on the right side of the law, it was common knowledge as to what really went on.

  Without its usual crowd of sleazy customers, the club seemed larger than he remembered. As Harry surveyed his surroundings, his expression gradually grew darker. Five times they’d raided this place and every time S
tagg had been ready for them: no obvious drug-dealing, prostitution or even a hint of anything illegal. Some bent shit of a copper was clearly tipping him off.

  There was a restaurant area over to the right and a wide stairway leading up to a balconied second floor. The only sign of life, however, was coming from the bar, a wide chrome monstrosity stretching almost the entire length of a wall. Behind the counter, three young men in matching red vests were busy bottling up while a slim pretty blonde sat on a stool smoking a cigarette. Harry instantly felt his mood lighten. The girl was wearing a tiny white dress, so short and flimsy that an idle breeze could have blown it away. His gaze was slowly roaming the length of her long brown legs when one of the men looked up and noticed him.

  ‘We’re closed,’ he said sharply. He was a thin-faced kid, about twenty, with gelled-up spiky hair. A barbed-wire tattoo encircled his upper arm. The name Troy was emblazoned across the top left corner of his vest.

  ‘The door was open,’ Harry said.

  ‘And? It’s a nightclub, mate. The clue’s in the name.’

  Harry noticed him glance towards the girl as if hoping that his smart response might have made a favourable impact. But she was staring impassively down at her pale pink nails. ‘Very witty,’ Harry said. ‘Did you learn that in school today?’

  Troy’s cheeks flushed red, his fingers tightening round the bottle he was holding. ‘We’re closed,’ he repeated. ‘You want to leave voluntarily or do I need to show you the door?’

  ‘Fine. Go ahead. And then you can explain to Mr Stagg why you tried to throw me out. I’m sure, if nothing else, he’ll appreciate your good intentions.’

  There was one of those prolonged confrontational silences. The other two men, unwilling to get involved, sidled down towards the far end of the bar. The blonde, sensing a drama, stayed put. She looked up, took a drag on her cigarette and exhaled the smoke in a long fine stream.

  ‘So?’ Harry said.

  Troy hesitated, the confidence slowly draining from his face. His tongue nervously licked his lower lip. ‘So what do you want?’