by Roberta Kray
‘His style though; he’s a nasty bastard.’ She paused. ‘You know Paul Deacon killed Keppell’s son?’
‘And?’
‘And so Len was looking into the case again. Maybe he was on to something, something that Keppell didn’t want him finding out about.’
Harry’s brows shot up. He sympathized with her need for answers but this latest theory was stretching it a bit. ‘I thought Ellen Shaw was your number one suspect. What are you suggesting now – that it was Jimmy Keppell?’
‘There’s no need to sound so sceptical.’ She stared at him accusingly. ‘I’m simply keeping an open mind. Isn’t that what all good detectives are supposed to do?’
Harry sat in the car and stared up at the top-floor windows of number twelve Berry Square. He still thought this was a bad idea. Jess was clutching at straws and if Ellen Shaw wasn’t prepared to talk then he wasn’t going to push her. He didn’t intend to end up on a harassment charge.
According to Curzon’s notes, she didn’t usually work on Thursdays. Harry had tried the bell but got no reply. Rain was starting to spatter against the windscreen, the heavy drops heralding the onset of a storm. In the distance he heard a faint rumble of thunder. Well, he wasn’t going to wait around forever. He had things to do, people to see – and Ray Stagg was top of the list. It could be useful to catch him today, off-balance and still reeling from Tommo’s brutal death. Not the nicest of considerations perhaps but then Stagg, with his history of inflicting misery on others, was hardly deserving of an excess of compassion.
He’d give her fifteen more minutes, he decided, and if she hadn’t shown up he’d head over to Shoreditch. Or maybe it wasn’t even worth waiting that long. She could be gone for hours. He leaned forward to put the key in the ignition but then glanced up into the rearview mirror and saw a small female figure hurrying down the street.
Was that her? The woman was wearing a red coat but her face was disguised by a large black umbrella. Even if her features hadn’t been covered, he wasn’t sure he could have recognized her from Curzon’s blurry set of snaps. He waited until she’d walked through the gateway before jumping briskly out of the car.
‘Excuse me. Ellen Shaw?’
She turned, cautious enough not to say yes or no, but her response was as good as any affirmation. He quickly joined her at the foot of the steps. Then, as she lifted her umbrella, he saw those wide dark eyes for the very first time. There was something about their intensity that caught him off guard. In fact, her entire face was amazing, not beautiful perhaps but so thoroughly striking as to be quite unforgettable. He found himself stumbling over his words. ‘Er … my name’s … er … Harry Lind. Could you possibly spare a minute?’
She stared silently up at him.
‘It’s about Len Curzon.’
‘I’ve already told you everything I know.’
He stared back at her, bemused. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘I came down the station on Tuesday. I gave a statement.’
Harry wondered if he had ‘cop’ indelibly engraved across his forehead. ‘No,’ he explained, ‘I’m not from the police.’
He noticed her mouth tighten, suspicion flying instantly into her eyes. ‘Who are you then?’
‘My name’s Harry Lind,’ he said again, feeling slightly foolish as he realized he was repeating himself. ‘I knew Len. I just wanted to—’
She shook her head, at the same time pulling out her keys from a small leather bag. ‘I’ve got nothing to say to you.’
‘I’m not a journalist,’ he said. ‘I promise. I’m not after any story, any lurid Sunday exclusive.’ He rummaged in his pocket, found a business card and passed it over to her. ‘Actually I’m a private investigator. A friend of mine was close to Len and this has all been very hard for her.’
She looked at the card, looked at Harry and then abruptly shook her head again. She passed him back the card. ‘I don’t see how I can help. I wish I could but, as I told you, I’ve already given a statement.’
‘I know,’ he said, ‘and I appreciate the awkward position this has put you in. I really wouldn’t ask but it’s been such a shock for her. I think it would help if she could just tie up a few loose ends and draw a line under it all. She knows that you had nothing to do with Len’s death but because you were the last person to see him—’
‘Not exactly the last,’ she said.
‘No, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—’
Suddenly a flash of lightning split open the sky. A few seconds later a loud clap of thunder made them both jump. Then the heavens opened. As the rain hammered against the pavement, Harry conceded defeat. If she wasn’t prepared to cooperate he couldn’t make her, and standing here doing an impersonation of a drowned rat was hardly likely to improve his chances.
But then, unexpectedly, she raised those wide dark eyes and smiled. ‘You’re getting soaked. You’d better come inside.’
‘Thank you,’ he said. He had no idea what had made her change her mind but he wasn’t complaining. He followed her up the steps and then, on the doorstep, took a moment to wipe his feet and shake off the rain.
‘It’s the top floor.’
‘Right,’ he said, hoping that his leg could endure a mountaineering expedition. But his spirits sank as she started up the stairs, taking them two at a time and at the kind of pace he couldn’t possibly keep up with. Gripping the rail of the banisters, he watched as her slim shapely ankles disappeared round a bend in the stairwell.
She must have realized he was lagging because on the first-floor landing she stopped and glanced over her shoulder. ‘Are you okay?’
‘Fine,’ he said.
‘You’ve hurt your leg.’
‘It’s nothing,’ he said, halting for a moment to catch his breath. ‘You go on ahead. I may be slow but I usually make it in the end.’
She nodded. ‘We’re almost there.’
By the time Harry reached the flat she had switched on a couple of lamps. The living room, with its tall panelled windows and front-facing view over the central square of green, was spacious and pleasantly warm. He shrugged off his dripping overcoat.
‘Here,’ she said, ‘let me put that over a radiator.’
‘Thank you.’
She gestured towards a wide red velvet sofa. ‘Please, take a seat. Would you like a coffee?’
‘Tea,’ he said, ‘if it’s not too much trouble. I’ve been on the caffeine all morning. It doesn’t do much for the stress levels.’
As Ellen went into the kitchen, Harry settled gratefully into the soft plump cushions and examined his surroundings. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected but certainly nothing as unusual as this. Although the walls were painted a pale shade of cream, that was the only nod towards neutrality; the rest was a riot of colour, brilliant splashes of ruby, emerald and gold. At his feet a slightly tattered Persian rug lay across the bare polished boards. There wasn’t anything that looked especially new or expensive but that was part of its charm. It was dramatic, even exotic, but also comfortable and inviting, the kind of place you could relax in. He thought of his own bland flat and was suddenly aware of how little effort he had put in to making it a home.
Ellen came back with two mugs of tea and passed one over to him. She sat down at the other end of the sofa, crossed her legs and gave a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sorry about your friend,’ she said. ‘And I wish I could help but apart from what I told the police …’
‘Even that would be useful,’ Harry said.
‘I take it they haven’t found anyone?’
‘It’s early yet but no, it seems there hasn’t been much progress.’
She sighed into her mug. ‘That’s a shame.’
Harry couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was wearing a simple round-necked sea-blue jumper, a black skirt and a pair of black highheeled shoes with tiny bows on the front. He couldn’t say what it was that attracted him. The odd thing was that she wasn’t his type at all. Tall leggy blondes had always been the ones to pr
ess his buttons and Ellen Shaw was the complete antithesis: small and dark, she was almost doll-like with her smooth porcelain skin and silky black hair.
‘I understand Len talked to you on the morning before—’
‘We had a brief conversation.’ She looked down into her tea before slowly lifting her gaze again. ‘To be honest, it wasn’t an entirely pleasant one.’
‘No,’ Harry said. From his own encounters with Len Curzon, he could well believe it. ‘I’m afraid journalists aren’t exactly renowned for their tact and diplomacy. I’m sorry if he upset you.’
As if to convey that it was all water under the bridge, Curzon’s suffering being ultimately much greater than her own, she gave a small dismissive shrug. ‘I suppose you know that he was asking about Paul Deacon?’
Harry nodded. ‘From what I can gather, he was researching the original trial and somehow his inquiries led him to you.’
Ellen frowned. ‘The trial? Wasn’t that over twelve years ago? I didn’t even know Paul then. I can’t claim to know him that well now. We only met for the first time six months ago. He was a friend of my father’s.’ She paused and her dark eyes, welling with tears, took on a liquid quality. ‘My father died last year and I wrote to let Paul know and … well, he asked me to visit.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Harry said. He seemed to be doing nothing but apologize and felt a sharp pang of guilt at inflicting even more distress on a woman who had clearly been through enough already. Why on earth had he ever let Jess talk him into this?
‘It’s all right,’ she said, as if reading his mind. ‘Don’t feel bad about it. I understand what it means to want answers. I’d feel exactly the same if I was in your friend’s position.’
Her voice, with its hint of an Irish lilt, was extra-ordinarily seductive. Harry smiled back at her. ‘That’s very kind of you.’
‘The trouble is that I’m not sure how much I can really help. When it comes to Mr Curzon, all I can presume is that he must have seen us at Maidstone prison, seen me with Paul, and jumped to some rather fanciful conclusions. In fact, he may even have followed me back here.’ A visible shiver rippled through her body. ‘Oh, that’s a weird thought, isn’t it? Do you think he did?’
‘It’s a possibility,’ Harry said.
‘And so he could have … I mean, he could have been watching me for months.’
Harry, recalling Curzon’s sketchy surveillance notes, quickly shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. I got the impression it was something rather more recent.’
Her red lips slipped into the semblance of a smile. Am I being paranoid? This has all been so … I’m not even sure how to explain it.’ She stared down at the floor. ‘But do you know what I can’t help thinking? If I had gone to meet him that day, if I hadn’t left him sitting in that café, then he might not have—’
‘Christ,’ Harry said. ‘You can’t think like that. Whatever happened to Len wasn’t your fault.’
‘I should have told him the truth there and then, when he asked me. Why didn’t I?’ She slid her hands down her thighs in a flat-palmed gesture of frustration. ‘I panicked. I imagined the kind of story he was intending to write, realized how upset my husband would be and just wanted to shake the guy off. That’s why I agreed to meet him later, so he wouldn’t go ahead and write anything before I had the chance to talk to Adam. I never thought …’
‘So your husband didn’t know that you were visiting Paul Deacon?’
Ellen slowly lifted her head. ‘I should have told him. I wish I had. But Adam’s a decent man, respectable, and I knew he’d hate the idea of me going into a prison. When I went to see Paul for the first time I didn’t expect to go back. It was just a one-off, something I thought my father would want me to do, but then when I realized how few visitors he got I felt sorry for him and … I couldn’t see the harm in going again.’ She stopped, took a few deep breaths and gazed directly into his eyes. ‘I don’t suppose you approve of wives having secrets from their husbands.’
‘I’m not a husband,’ he said.
‘But you’re no stranger to secrets.’
Harry flinched at the remark, instantly reminded not only of what he was doing here but also of the evening he’d spent with Jess, the wine and the music, the laughs and the fumbled kisses in the back of a cab – while Valerie was waiting for him and Len was already lying dead on a cold grey pavement. None of it sat too easily with his conscience.
As if sensing his discomfort, she quickly continued, ‘What I mean is that you must stumble across plenty of secrets in your line of work.’
‘A few,’ he agreed, relieved that she hadn’t been referring to anything more personal. ‘So have you been married for long?’
‘Seven years. We met when I came over from Ireland.’
He glanced around the room but there were no wedding pictures on display. He would have liked to have asked why she’d got hitched to a man so much older than herself – he had read the marriage certificate – but it was too personal a question and anyway he would then have to explain how he knew about the age difference and that in turn would lead back to Len Curzon’s somewhat disturbing scrutiny of her life. ‘So what made you come over to London?’
She smiled again. ‘Oh, the usual reasons: itchy feet, wanting to see somewhere else, to meet new people. You know what it’s like when you’re young; you can never wait to get away.’
Harry smiled back, understanding exactly what she meant. He had escaped from the suffocating claustrophobia of his own home when he was seventeen and it had felt like a major liberation. ‘So what part of Ireland do you come from?’
‘Cork originally,’ she said, ‘but we moved to Dublin when I was a baby and that’s where I grew up. How about you? Have you always lived here?’
‘More or less,’ he said evasively. With his father now residing comfortably on the south coast there was no need for Harry to ever return to, or to even think about, the small northern town he had been raised in. Along with the accent, he had long since managed to consign that painful part of his existence to the dim and distant past.
But Ellen Shaw was unwilling to let him off so easily. ‘More or less?’ she repeated, her dark brows arching.
With anyone else, Harry would have clammed up. It’s what he usually did. That era of his life was over – he never talked about it – but there was something about her, about her dark eyes and the lilting softness of her voice, which made him eager to confide.
‘I grew up in the north,’ he murmured, ‘but I haven’t been back in years.’
‘Why not?’
Harry opened his mouth with every intention of explaining but then, like a warning, another loud clap of thunder shook the room and he had second thoughts. ‘Oh, it doesn’t matter. It’s a long story.’
She paused, waiting a few seconds before she finally nodded. ‘Maybe you’ll tell it to me one day.’
‘Maybe I will.’ Like a shy teenage boy who had just been offered the vague chance of a date, Harry felt a thrill run through his body. Immediately, he tried to quash it. She was a married woman and he was … he wasn’t quite sure what he was but certainly not in the position where he should be having any thoughts like these. God, he had to get back on track before he lost the plot completely.
The pause that had occurred was gradually growing into a silence. Harry tried to recall what else Jess had asked him to find out. She had specifically told him not to mention Grace Harper’s name. In case she realizes that we’re on to her. But Jess, he was sure, was barking up the wrong tree. Ellen was no more Grace Harper than he was. Still, unless he wanted major earache for the rest of the day, he’d better try and get some answers to her questions.
‘Look, I hope you don’t mind me asking,’ he said, ‘but have you ever heard of a man called Jimmy Keppell?’
Ellen hesitated, a shadow passing over her face. Her voice was more cautious when she spoke again. ‘Of course I have. Paul shot his son.’
‘Do you have any idea why?’
She looked at him, astounded. ‘Why should I? We’ve never talked about things like that.’
‘And you’ve never been curious?’
Ellen thought about it and frowned. ‘I’ve always presumed that it was some kind of lovers’ tiff.’
‘ Is Deacon gay?’
‘I don’t know.’ She shrugged. ‘It’s hardly the kind of subject that comes up in general conversation. He was married but …’ As if she’d already said too much, Ellen glanced down. She ran her hands nervously along the length of her thighs again. ‘I suppose some men find it difficult to accept who they are. What they are. My father always thought that Paul was a little … ambiguous about what he wanted.’
‘Ambiguous?’
Ellen sighed. ‘He didn’t spell it out. My father was a good Catholic man and the word “bisexual” never crossed his lips. He’d have rather drowned himself in the Liffey. It was only hints, you know, things he said occasionally.’
‘Right,’ Harry said. ‘And do you have any idea what happened to Paul’s wife?’
‘Charlotte?’ She gave another tiny shake of her head. ‘She divorced him as soon as she could. She may still be living in London but I’ve no idea where.’
There was an even longer pause while Harry racked his brains for other questions he could ask.
Ellen glanced at the clock on the mantelpiece. ‘I don’t mean to be rude, Mr Lind, but unless there was anything else?’
‘No,’ Harry said, reluctantly getting to his feet. ‘I don’t think so. But thank you for your time. I appreciate it – and I’m sure my friend will as well.’ Actually he wasn’t sure if Jess would appreciate it; he had the feeling she wouldn’t be too impressed with the outcome of this particular encounter but there wasn’t much he could do about that.
‘Well, I hope they find whoever did it.’ She retrieved his coat from the radiator, now only slightly damp and passed it over to him.
‘Thanks,’ Harry said again. In the hallway, he took a card from his pocket and laid it on the small mahogany table. ‘Just in case you think of anything else.’
