by Roberta Kray
‘We’ll see,’ she said smugly.
As if dealing with a particularly stubborn child, Harry gave a slow shake of his head. ‘Okay,’ he said, ‘so let’s get started. Tell me your thoughts on the Deacon situation.’
Jess cupped her chin in the palm of her hand and took a second to deliberate. ‘Right, now my number one premise is that it’s unlikely that Deacon and William Corby ever knew each other. Paul Deacon was a right-wing politician. William Corby was an Irish Catholic train driver. I can’t see them having much in common.’
‘That’s a rather elitist view, isn’t it?’
She frowned at the interruption. ‘I prefer to think of it as a realistic one. I’ve done my research. Deacon was born in London, had a privileged upbringing, went to Harrow and then on to Cambridge University. He was stinking rich and very ambitious. He also had a pretty fancy lifestyle, expensive flat in London, big pile in the country, exotic holidays abroad; when he wasn’t in the House, he spent most of his time mingling with the glitterati. According to that press cutting, Corby worked on the railway for his entire life. So when and how exactly did they forge this unique and enduring friendship of theirs?’
‘Who knows?’ Harry said. ‘I agree that it’s unlikely but it’s not impossible. You can’t just dismiss it out of hand.’
‘I’m not. I’m only going on the laws of probability. And if you factor in the oddness of Ellen Shaw lying about the date her parents died—’
‘Then we’re simply back to the idea that she had another reason for visiting Paul Deacon. Maybe romance, maybe business, maybe anything she didn’t want her husband to know about. I don’t see how it gets you any closer to making a direct link between her and Grace Harper.’
‘Instinct,’ she said.
‘Which is hardly what you’d call a well-reasoned argument.’
Jess pulled a face. ‘It doesn’t mean I’m wrong either.’
That, in Harry’s view, was a typically female response but he desisted from sharing the thought. ‘So, putting Deacon aside for the moment, what else have you got?’
‘There’s the Theresa Neal murder,’ she said. ‘Everyone presumes that because she was murdered Grace had to be a victim too but …’ She stopped and shook her head. ‘I don’t know. Actually, I was going to ask if you knew the guy who worked on those cases. He was a superintendent called Alan Fielding.’
‘It was twenty years ago,’ Harry said indignantly. ‘Just how old do you think I am?’
Jess raised her eyebrows. ‘Probably best if I don’t answer that. So how would I go about tracking Fielding down?’
‘I could make some calls,’ Harry said. ‘If I felt that the person asking for such a favour was being suitably respectful.’
She smiled. ‘Consider me thoroughly chastened and full of respect.’
‘Bearing that in mind, I might just be prepared to help. Although if he is still alive, he’ll certainly be retired.’
‘And what are the chances, if Mr Fielding is still breathing, of his actually agreeing to talk to me?’
Harry found himself frowning. ‘Hard to say for sure. They’re both unsolved cases and that’s a sore point with most coppers. No one likes to be reminded of their failures. But then again, if there’s the chance of some new leads, some new information … Personally, I’d want to know but that doesn’t hold true for everyone.’
‘If you could try, I’d appreciate it.’
He nodded. Ever since he’d missed the dinner last Monday, he’d been meaning to ring Scott Hall and apologize. Now he had two good reasons to make that call. Scott had worked in Hackney for years; if anyone knew what had happened to Fielding then he would. ‘And is there anything else I should know about?’
She hesitated, fiddled with her hands and then glanced down at her coffee.
‘Jess?’
She slowly looked up. ‘Er … well, I did go and see Joan Sewell on Saturday. She was Grace’s aunt.’
‘You did what?’ Harry’s mouth dropped open.
Instantly, she was on the defensive. ‘Don’t worry. I was careful, I swear. You may find this hard to believe but I can actually do subtle and sympathetic. I didn’t mention a word about the possibility of Grace still being alive. I wouldn’t even think about going there with what I’ve got. All I told her was that I was looking into some past cases, going through the evidence etc. She was perfectly happy to talk to me.’
‘Happy?’ he said.
‘You know what I mean. Not happy, exactly, but okay with it. She could have thrown me out but she didn’t. She wanted to talk.’ Jess gave him one of her full-on antagonistic glares. ‘And what’s wrong with that? Some people are prepared to share their feelings, rather than bottling them all up.’
Harry suspected she was having a dig at him but wasn’t prepared to rise to the bait. ‘And she told you what?’
Jess provided a brief synopsis of her conversation with Joan Sewell, of how Michael Harper had been placed under suspicion, of how Sharon had allegedly been a less-than-ideal mother and wife. She let it all out in a few long sentences, took a deep breath and then sat back. ‘It’s not proof of anything and I’m not jumping to any of those hasty conclusions you detest so much but it does suggest that Grace might not have had the most perfect of parents.’
‘But it doesn’t really get you any further. All you’re talking about here is rumour and gossip. How does it relate to Grace’s disappearance?’
‘I’ve no idea but it’s a start. And once people begin to talk you never know where it might lead. If I keep digging around for long enough, something useful is bound to come up.’ Jess tilted her head and gave him a small provocative smile. ‘It’s called investigating,’ she said. ‘You should try it sometime.’
Chapter Thirty-Two
Denise Webster jumped at the sound of the chimes. Every time the doorbell went she couldn’t help wondering if it was the police. Al was dead. She was sure of it. Her stomach twisted as she walked along the hall.
She paused for a moment, trying to distinguish the shape behind the opaque glass. There only appeared to be one person standing there. For this kind of job, didn’t they usually come in twos, one to break the bad news, the other to make the obligatory cup of tea? She allowed herself to relax slightly. Perhaps, on this occasion, she was safe.
It was a thought that evaporated the instant she opened the door.
Jimmy Keppell was standing right in front of her.
She stared at him, her eyes widening.
‘Hello, sweetheart,’ he said.
Denise, although she knew him by reputation, had only met him once before. It had been at one of Ray’s parties and he had been charming enough then, the perfect gentleman, but she hadn’t liked him. She had liked him even less since hearing the rumours about who was responsible for the dreadful murder of Tommy Lake. Her heart began to hammer. ‘W-what do you want?’
He smiled. ‘Mind if I come in for a minute?’
‘Er …’
Before she had the chance to say anything more, he had pushed straight past, pulled her away from the door and slammed it shut. ‘You and me,’ he said, breathing heavily into her face. ‘I think we need a little chat.’
‘I don’t … don’t understand.’
‘Don’t you?’ Grabbing hold of her arm, he dragged her through to the living room. ‘Didn’t Ray tell you to expect me?’
She struggled, tears coming to her eyes. ‘Why should he—’
Keppell tightened his grip before pushing her roughly on to the sofa. He looked her up and down, his expression a combination of anger and contempt. ‘Please don’t make me hurt you, sweetheart.’
Denise stared up at him, terrified. What had she done? What did he want? None of this made any sense.
‘Where’s Al?’ he said. ‘Where is he?’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t know.’
Keppell leaned down, his thick arms stretching either side of her body. He pushed his face into hers again. His breath s
melled old and sour. ‘Wrong answer,’ he whispered.
Denise’s voice broke into a sob. ‘I don’t know,’ she wailed. ‘I swear I don’t.’
He continued to hang over her, his cold inquiring eyes staring fixedly into hers, before abruptly standing upright again. ‘Perhaps a drink will help jog your memory.’
She watched as he went over to the cabinet and examined the bottles.
‘What would you like?’ he said.
‘Nothing,’ she said.
‘Oh, that’s not very hospitable.’ He turned to look at her again. ‘I don’t like drinking on my own. What are you having?’
Denise heard the underlying threat in the request. ‘Vodka,’ she said quickly. ‘Vodka and tonic’
‘That’s better,’ Keppell said, smiling. ‘There’s no reason why we can’t sort this out in an amicable fashion.’
He came back with a couple of drinks and placed them on the coffee table. When she made no move to pick up her glass, he picked it up himself and thrust it into her hand.
‘Cheers!’ he said.
‘Cheers,’ she echoed miserably. Her fingers were shaking as she raised it to her lips. She took a sip and shuddered. The vodka was neat.
Keppell laughed. ‘Shame about what happened to Tommo. Friend of yours, was he?’
Denise took another gulp of vodka. She swallowed hard and nodded.
‘There you go,’ he said, his face becoming serious again. ‘We have got one thing in common. We’ve both lost something that matters to us.’
Unsure of what else to do, she nodded again.
Keppell sat down beside her and stretched out his legs. ‘I’m surprised Ray didn’t mention it.’
‘Ray?’
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘Surely he’s spilled his little secret by now.’
Denise stared down at her trembling knees. She was so scared she could barely think, never mind speak. ‘No,’ she finally mumbled.
‘Shame,’ he said softly. ‘Only, Al’s taken something that belonged to me and I want it back. And if you don’t know where he is, if you can’t tell me where to find him, then surely it’s only fair that I take something of his in return.’
Denise glanced across at him. It took a moment for her to comprehend what he meant and when she did the understanding came with an accompanying jolt of horror. Instinctively, she shifted sideways but found herself trapped against the arm of the sofa.
Keppell quickly leaned over, took her chin in his left hand and jerked her frightened face towards him. ‘Where’s Al?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘Last chance,’ he snarled, his fingers digging hard into her cheeks.
‘Please,’ she cried. She tried to twist away but his grip held fast.
Suddenly his right hand shot up. He grabbed the gold hoop in her ear and with one violent tug wrenched it clear of the lobe. A fierce agonizing pain shot through her. As she opened her mouth to scream, his hand moved to stifle it. Clamping his palm across her lips he pushed back her head and spat into her face.
‘Shut up, bitch!’ he said. ‘Shut the fuck up!’
Shivering, she could feel the blood running down her neck. The blood was warm but she felt cold, colder than she’d ever felt. The pain throbbed in her ear. Nausea rose from her stomach to her throat and she fought to keep it down.
Keppell slowly removed his hand. ‘Tell me where he is.’
Denise shook her head. ‘I can’t. I don’t know. I swear I don’t.’ The faint taste of vomit hovered in her mouth. She started to cry, a silent heaving kind of sobbing. Why was this happening to her? A stream of tears flooded down her cheeks.
Keppell grasped hold of her arm, then her legs, and in a couple of swift brutal jerks dragged her round so she was lying flat on her back on the sofa. Now she was trapped beneath him. His bearded face loomed over her, his lips pulled back over his teeth in a sneering grimace.
In a situation like this, she had always presumed that she would struggle, fight like a demon, but fear had completely paralysed her. She didn’t dare move. She hardly dared breathe. Keppell was much older than her but much stronger too. She turned her head and saw the picture of her children on the mantelpiece. If she was to struggle, to try and get away then … The thought of Tommo drifted into her head. Please God, help me. She closed her eyes, a low groan of despair escaping from her lips.
Keppell forced her legs apart, his body bearing down. She could feel his weight on her. She could smell the stink of stale sweat, whisky and tobacco.
‘Please,’ she pleaded.
‘What’s the matter?’ he taunted. ‘Haven’t you ever wanted to fuck a real man?’
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
‘Look at me!’ he demanded.
Her terrified eyes flickered open again.
Keppell was staring down, his gaze hard and cruel.
‘Don’t hurt me,’ she begged.
He pressed harder against her. ‘Where’s Al? Where is he?’
All she could do was shake her head.
Then, just as she’d resigned herself to the nightmare that was bound to come, Keppell suddenly rolled off her, sat on the edge of the sofa and began to laugh. Standing up, he smoothed down his hair and straightened out the wrinkles in his jacket.
‘Oh, don’t worry, sweetheart,’ he said mockingly. ‘I’m not that fucking desperate. You might have been a looker once but personally I prefer my girls on the younger side.’
Denise lay very still, gazing up at him.
Leaning down, he whispered in her blood-soaked ear. ‘Although I do have some friends who aren’t quite as fussy. Next time you see Ray, be sure to give him my best.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
Harry stared at the thin black hand travelling around the clock face. Time appeared to slow as he watched it, to deliberately drag. It was ten past three and he was at a loose end again. Jess had taken the car and gone to see Scott Hall, a meeting that had been arranged almost as soon as it had been suggested.
It had been agreed that Harry would try and talk to Ellen Shaw tomorrow, but with nothing better to do he decided to bring the assignation forward. She only lived down the road, a twenty-minute walk at most, and even if she wasn’t there the exercise would do him good.
He went into the bedroom, stripped off his jeans and T-shirt and changed into a white shirt and dark grey suit. He’d been aiming for reassuringly professional but had his doubts as he slipped the red tie under his collar and looked in the mirror. Was it all too formal? From what he’d seen of her flat, Ellen could hardly be described as conventional. But then the same couldn’t be said of her husband. Perhaps she preferred her men dressed like ageing accountants … but then again, perhaps she didn’t. Should he put his jeans back on? He instantly whipped off his tie, took off the suit and threw it on the bed.
For the next fifteen minutes, he raided the contents of his wardrobe, trying on clothes and as quickly discarding them. A heap of rejected garments soon lay scattered over the floor. He stared at the pile and sighed. In the end he settled on a pair of smart dark trousers, a crisp pale blue shirt and an expensive Armani jacket with a blue silk lining.
It was almost four by the time he reached Berry Square. In all his efforts to achieve the perfect look the one thing he’d forgotten was the weather. The heavens had opened when he was halfway down Rochester Road.
As he climbed the steps to number twelve, he bent to sniff his wet crumpled jacket. It had acquired the whiff of something that had been left in a cellar too long. Not a great smell, or a great look, for anyone who was hoping to make a favourable impression.
Harry was about to press the bell when he glanced over his shoulder and saw Ellen turn the corner. He had one of those déjà vu feelings. The same large black umbrella was raised over her head. Backtracking down the steps, he felt the breath catch in the back of his throat. The light was grey and grainy and her bright red coat stood out against the dimness of the afternoon.
Walking towa
rds her, he tried to think of what it was he was going to say. Although he had the press cutting in his pocket, proof that she had lied to him, he had no intention of making any accusations. Unlike Jess, he was willing to give her an opportunity to explain.
Harry was only a few yards away when he became aware of the car crawling slowly along behind her. It was a vague kind of awareness, an everyday object in the periphery of his vision, but not anything he was taking much notice of. He was more concerned with how he was going to persuade her to talk to him again. It was only as the engine began to rev that he became aware of the driver’s intention and by then it was almost too late. Suddenly the headlights were shining brightly, a foot was depressing hard on the accelerator and the car was heading straight for her.
‘Ellen!’
Half-blinded, Harry lurched forward, grabbed hold of her shoulders and pushed her back against the wall. Her umbrella clattered to the ground. He felt her fright and surprise, heard the strangled gasp as she opened her mouth to scream – for that moment she must have thought that he was the one in the process of attacking her – and then there was nothing but the roar of the engine.
The car mounted the pavement and came so close they could have reached out and touched it. Only inches lay between themselves and the cold hard metal. He felt the harsh rush of air and then the splatter of water against his legs as the rear tyres kicked back a wave of rain from the puddles. Careering back on to the street, the driver smartly braked and squealed to a halt. For a few terrifying seconds Harry thought he was going to reverse and try again.
His pulse began to race, the adrenalin rushing through his veins. Did they have time to move? The nearest gateway was yards away and Ellen, rigid with shock, would probably need to be dragged there. He was about to do just that – they were far too exposed where they were standing – when the car suddenly flashed its lights and sped off into the distance.
As he slowly released his breath, Harry loosened his hold on her. ‘Are you all right?’
She was staring straight ahead, still frozen to the spot.
‘Come on,’ he urged. He gave her arm a gentle shake. They needed to get off the street as soon as they could. Although it was unlikely that her crazy assailant would take a turn round the block and then come back for a second go, he wasn’t prepared to take the risk.
