by Roberta Kray
‘You don’t get it,’ she said. ‘If this was straightforward, simple, he’d have run with it immediately. The fact that he didn’t, that he waited, means that he was on to something bigger.’
Harry glanced down at his watch.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Do you need to be somewhere?’
Harry thought about Val, about the shopping in the boot of the car, about the meal he had promised to prepare. He ought to go. But then he looked at Jess and couldn’t quite bring himself to leave her on her own. ‘No, I’m okay for a while. Although if that drink’s still on offer …’
She walked unsteadily to the kitchen, brought back a glass and poured him a large one. ‘I’m going to take some leave,’ she said.
‘Good. It’ll help to get away for a while.’
Jess sat down, curled her feet underneath her and softly shook her head. ‘Oh, I’m not going anywhere. I’ve made up my mind – I’m going to finish whatever it is that Len started. And I’m going to find out who killed him.’ She shot Harry a smile. ‘Which, as it happens, is where you come in.’
‘Me?’
‘I want you to go round and talk to Ellen Shaw.’
‘I can’t interfere with a police investigation.’
Jess made a growling noise in the back of her throat. ‘What investigation? They’ve let her go. She’s in the clear. They don’t believe she has anything to do with it.’
‘Okay,’ he said. ‘Then let me put it another way. Why don’t you go round and talk to her?’
‘Because I’m a journalist. She isn’t going to trust me.’
‘And she will trust me?’
‘Sure,’ Jess said. ‘You’ve got an honest face. With a bit of effort, you can probably win her confidence.’
‘I hate to mention this but I’ve already got a full-time job.’
‘Look, how long is it going to take? Half an hour at the most. And anyway, you owe me.’
Harry frowned. ‘How do you figure that one out?’
‘For refusing to take my calls, for mentally slandering my good name, for labelling me as a neurotic, man-stalking, weirdo female.’
‘Isn’t that what’s referred to as emotional blackmail?’
‘Call it what you like,’ she said. ‘I made you a copy of the files. They’re on the table.’
It was almost ten o’clock by the time Harry left. She was asleep by then, stretched out on the sofa. He took what remained of the bottle of vodka into the kitchen, poured a pint of water into a glass and placed it on the floor beside her. Then he went into the bedroom, collected the duvet and covered her over. She was going to have a stinking hangover tomorrow. Still, that was more than Len Curzon was going to experience.
Harry put on his jacket and opened the front door. Then he hesitated, walked back into the room and picked up the files. Hopefully, by the morning, she’d have forgotten all about his promise to talk to Ellen Shaw but just in case …
He’d only had one drink, and hadn’t even finished that, so it was safe enough for him to drive. Before he switched on the engine, he tried to ring Valerie. It went directly to voicemail. ‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘Hey, I’m really sorry about tonight. I got caught up with something and …’ Perhaps it would be better to save the explanation, along with the more abject apologies, for later. ‘Okay, well, I’m on my way back now. I’ll see you soon.’
He put the phone down, sighed and gazed out through the windscreen. He should have called hours ago. Why hadn’t he? Sometimes he was amazed by his seemingly limitless talent for bringing down grief on himself. Now she’d be mad as hell and he’d have to work twice as hard to put things right.
When he got home, the flat was in darkness. Val must have had a call-out or perhaps she was in bed already. Either way he felt a wave of relief that their next row would be postponed until daylight. He took the files and the shopping through to the kitchen and put them on the table. Turning on the kettle, he spooned some instant coffee into a mug. It was only then that he noticed the note propped up against the pepper mill. Gingerly, he reached out and picked up the scrap of paper. Have gone to stay with Jane for a few days. I need some time alone. Please don’t call. V.
Harry scowled down at the words. He found himself thinking that she wasn’t going to be alone if she was staying with Jane Anderson. Why couldn’t women just say what they meant? Then his heart began to sink. What she really meant was that she wanted time away from him. And what that really meant was …
Slowly, he emptied the shopping out on to the counter. The two fish gazed accusingly up at him. ‘Yeah,’ he said, ‘I messed up. You don’t need to rub it in.’ When they continued to stare, he scooped them up and dumped them in the bin.
Chapter Sixteen
Tommy Lake – known to all his mates as Tommo – was of a naturally cheerful disposition, a glass half-full type of man. The approach to Christmas usually improved his mood even more, it being the time of year when people liked to splash the cash and him being the sort of guy who could always provide something for them to spend it on. Today, however, he wasn’t feeling quite so optimistic.
‘Come on,’ he murmured. He glanced down at his watch. His customer was late. Ten thirty, he’d said, and it was already ten to eleven. Tommo stared at the rows of boxes as he paced back and forth. He kept all kinds of stuff in his warehouse. He liked to refer to it as a warehouse although really it was only an oversized lock-up with a tiny office attached. Still, it did the job all right, providing temporary storage for the illegal booze that came in from France, the hooky electronic goods, the cheap toys, the pirate DVDs and anything else he could lay his hands on.
He checked his watch again. Maybe he shouldn’t hang about. Ray had warned him to keep his head down for a while, to stay out of the way. Wise words, he was sure, but he still had a living to make. This stock wasn’t going to shift itself and the bloke who’d rung was talking bulk, talking cash and talking today. There were some opportunities too good to pass over.
Hearing a car pull up outside, he hurried over to the entrance. At last. He watched as a tall, fair, middle-aged man emerged from a dark green Mercedes.
‘Mr Lake?’
Tommo nodded.
The man approached, smiled and put out his hand. ‘We talked last night. How nice to meet. It will be a pleasure – I hope so – for us to do business.’
Tommo nodded again. His buyer had an accent, something he couldn’t quite identify but which was definitely foreign. Russian perhaps? He still hadn’t provided a name but that wasn’t unusual. Anyway, the bloke seemed polite enough and he was happy to trade with anyone who had a willing soul and a wallet full of notes.
It was only as they stepped inside that he felt a stirring in his guts. His nerves began to jangle. There was something wrong. He could sense it. His heart missed a beat. What if …? With a shudder of apprehension he glanced over his shoulder to find his worst fears confirmed.
Jimmy Keppell was standing right behind him.
‘Hello, Tommo,’ he said.
Tommo’s face turned white and his jaw fell open. He had to fight to prevent his bowels from moving in the same direction. He might have tried to leg it, to make a sprint for freedom, if three of Keppell’s henchmen hadn’t already blocked his path. Where they’d come from was anybody’s guess. They must have arrived in another car and parked round the corner. He watched, his eyes widening with fear, as they quickly pulled the wide steel shutters down and shot the bolts across.
‘Well, what have we got here?’ Keppell said. He looked around. ‘A real Santa’s grotto.’
Raising his hands, Tommo backed away. ‘I don’t want no trouble, Mr Keppell.’
The bearded man turned to his associates. ‘Did you hear that, boys? Little Tommo here doesn’t want any trouble.’
‘Of course he don’t,’ one of them said. ‘Who wants that?’
Keppell’s mouth crept into a cruel predatory kind of smile. Advancing, he slowly raised a hand, splayed his fingers and placed
them around Tommo’s skinny throat. He pushed his head back against the wall. ‘I don’t want trouble either. All I want to know is where my fucking gear is.’
Tommo swallowed hard. He should have listened to Ray. He should never have come here. ‘I dunno.’
Keppell tightened his hold. ‘Last chance,’ he said. ‘Where’s that bastard Al?’
‘I dunno. I swear I don’t.’
Jimmy Keppell turned and gave a nod. His three goons immediately set about trashing the place, pulling the boxes down and smashing them open. As they tore the lock-up apart, destroying everything they found, the sickly stench of alcohol began to drift through the air.
‘Please,’ Tommo croaked. ‘It weren’t me.’
For a second, as if he might almost believe him, Keppell released his hold. But then he casually reached into his pocket and held up an item for everyone to see. Tommo stared, his heart hammering, as the bright shiny blade slid smoothly apart from its ivory handle.
Keppell leaned forward again and placed the razor against his cheek. ‘Start talking, you little ginger shit.’
‘I swear,’ Tommo said, trembling. ‘I wouldn’t steal from you, Mr Keppell. I wouldn’t. Never. I helped Al load the booze into the van. There were twenty cases. The charlie was hidden inside. It didn’t take long. He was out of here by six thirty.’
Tommo was aware of the movement, the swift easy slice, before he fully realized what had happened. He felt the pain a second later, sharp and fierce and then suddenly liquid as the blood poured down his face. Instinctively, he opened his mouth to cry out but Keppell’s huge sweaty palm crushed hard against his lips.
‘Tell me more,’ Keppell urged. He lifted his hand just enough for Tommo to be able to speak.
‘Al couldn’t have guessed,’ Tommo mumbled. ‘Someone must have told him. All the cases felt the same. I made sure of that.’ And he had been careful, comparing the boxes, lifting them and putting them down, removing and adding bottles until he was certain that there was no discernible difference in weight. ‘Someone must have tipped him off.’
‘And who could that of been?’
Tommo shook his head. His teeth were making a weird chattering sound. ‘I was only storing the s-stuff for the night. I didn’t say nothing, not a word, not to no one. I don’t go looking for grief, Mr Keppell.’
Jimmy Keppell smiled. ‘You know, if it was only me I might just give you the benefit of the doubt – but it’s not just me, is it?’ He looked across at the tall fair man who was standing, quietly watching, with his arms folded across his chest. ‘What do you think I should do?’
‘I think you should cut off his cock,’ the blond man said.
Tommo’s eyes widened with horror. ‘No,’ he begged. ‘What about Ray? Have you talked to Ray?’
‘Are you saying Stagg double-crossed me?’
‘He’s Al’s brother-in-law, ain’t he?’ Tommo had known Ray for most of his life but had reached that level of fear where loyalty no longer existed.
Keppell lowered the blade, took a step back and calmly lit a cigarette. ‘The thing is, Tommo, it’s a question of respect. You know how it is. I’ve been ripped off and … well, someone’s got to be seen to have paid. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Tommo sincerely hoped that he didn’t. But this wasn’t the time for misplaced optimism. As he stared into Keppell’s evil eyes, he knew exactly what was coming. He wanted to run but his legs were paralysed. He wanted to scream but no one was listening. A warm flow of piss began to run down his thigh.
Chapter Seventeen
It was almost three o’clock when DS Valerie Middleton arrived at the bland, sprawling industrial estate. It was a maze but she had no difficulty in finding the place she was looking for; already a set of spotlights had been erected, illuminating the inside and outside of the building. She parked the Citroën, got out and forged a path through the milling crowd of white coats. Holding her breath, she let her gaze roam slowly around the lock-up before reluctantly bringing her eyes back to rest on the gruesome remains of Tommy Lake.
Dean Chapman, the pathologist, placed his hand on her arm. ‘You’re not going to hurl, are you? Only we don’t want the site contaminated.’
Frowning, she threw him a sideways glance. ‘Do I look like I’m about to hurl?’
‘Do you want an honest answer to that?’
Val turned her face away, grateful that she hadn’t eaten breakfast or lunch. At least that was something she could thank Harry for. She had an instinctive urge to make a dash for the door but refused to give her colleagues the satisfaction. Even in these times of alleged equality, she still felt a constant obligation to disprove any lingering suspicions of women being the ‘weaker sex’.
As though he could read her mind, Chapman squeezed her elbow and laughed. ‘If it’s any consolation, Mr Holt’s still recovering outside.’
It was a consolation, if a small one. DI Frankie Holt was a sharp-faced, middle-aged, abrasive man who called himself ‘old-school’, a term which apparently precluded the use of manners, patience or any form of tolerance.
‘So what have we got?’ she said.
‘He’s been dead a few hours, no more.’
‘Right.’ Valerie took a deep breath and regretted it. It was the smell that made it worse, the repulsive combination of spilled booze, urine and that weird almost metallic odour of blood.
‘Death from a thousand cuts,’ Chapman said. ‘Very dramatic – but not the tidiest way to go.’
There was no disputing that. The evidence of Tommy’s slow and painful demise was splattered all over the floor and walls. Valerie stared at the damage, at the multiple slashes to his face, arms and legs, but the very worst was something she could barely bring herself to look at – his left foot, hanging by a thread, had been almost completely severed from his ankle.
‘My God,’ she said, half-closing her eyes and sinking her chin into her scarf. She didn’t understand it. Tommy Lake had been a villain but only ever small-time; he’d dealt in stolen goods, smuggled booze, a bit of puff but nothing more. Why should anyone want to do this to him? He had been one of those strangely likeable guys, never aggressive, always polite, even when they’d pulled him in, as they so often had, on one minor charge or another. Avoiding his bloodied contorted face, Val made another rapid survey of his body. His T-shirt that had once been white was stained a bright disgusting shade of scarlet.
‘Some kind of cut-throat razor,’ Chapman said. ‘From what I can see, he died from—’
‘Yes,’ Val said. ‘I don’t think you need to spell it out.’
‘I’ll have a full report by tomorrow.’
It was a relief when she could step outside again. Valerie gratefully drank in the air. It was hardly fresh but even the traffic fumes were better than what she’d recently been breathing. DI Holt was giving out instructions to a group of uniformed PCs. A small crowd of onlookers had grown since she’d arrived, the news of a killing having spread rapidly around the neighbourhood. It never ceased to amaze her how people liked to come and gawp; as if murder was a spectator sport, there was always a dubious minority who wanted to share in the experience.
‘You okay?’ Holt said as she joined him.
She nodded. ‘Just about. It’s not the prettiest sight in the world. And it’s odd too, don’t you think?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Why anyone should do this to Tommo.’ She found herself automatically using his nickname. ‘I mean, this is more like a gangland killing, isn’t it? And he was never in that league.’
Holt shrugged. ‘Maybe he got over-ambitious.’
‘No,’ she said. ‘He wasn’t the type.’
‘The place is full of illicit booze.’
‘Of smashed illicit booze,’ she corrected him. The lock-up had been trashed but this was no robbery. ‘And it wasn’t worth that much when it was all in one piece. Do you think this could be connected to Ray Stagg?’
‘What makes you say that?’<
br />
‘Just that they were mates, always have been since they were kids. Tommo had plenty of opportunities to go the same way, to move up into the seriously big money, but he didn’t. That’s why this is so odd. Maybe someone’s using poor Tommo to send a message to Stagg.’
Holt didn’t look impressed. ‘He probably just got greedy.’
‘Yes, but—’
‘And idle speculation isn’t going to get us anywhere. So start asking around, see if anyone saw anything. Let’s do some proper police work before we go jumping to any conclusions.’
‘Yes, guv,’ she said obediently.
Chapter Eighteen
Jess had woken up as the early morning light spilled through the window. Feeling like an axe had been embedded in her skull she had drunk some of the water from the glass she had found on the floor, pulled the duvet over her head, curled up and gone back to sleep again. It was after noon before she’d finally surfaced, dragging herself off the sofa and stumbling into the bathroom.
Now, three hours later, she was hunched over her fifth cup of strong black coffee trying to make sense of the day before. The atmosphere in the office was heavy and subdued. No one could quite believe what had happened. Jess had only come in to clear her desk, to make sure everything was in order before starting her leave, but she hadn’t yet been able to drag herself away. It was at times like these that you needed company and she couldn’t bear the thought of going home to an empty flat.
She missed having someone around, someone to talk to. What was her ex, Callum, doing now? Probably lounging on a beach in Goa, his long brown legs entwined around some sun-bronzed hippy chick. Perhaps she should have gone with him to India. The problem was she hadn’t wanted to. It was his big adventure not hers. She hadn’t wanted to see the world, to live out of the meagre resources of a rucksack, and she especially hadn’t wanted to ‘find herself’. She had decided, seven days before their departure date, that she had a different dream – she was going to train as a journalist instead. That decision had made her one of the oldest junior reporters in town but she didn’t care. It was a job that she loved and she knew she’d made the right decision. From the moment she’d got here, Len had taken her under his wing and …
