by Roberta Kray
He hung up, still in a mild state of shock. It wasn’t like Anderson to forgo an opportunity to put the knife in. Her actually being helpful was even more remarkable. In fact, it was probably a first. Perhaps the old witch was finally mellowing.
Harry quickly got dressed. He ordered a cab and was already standing on the doorstep when it arrived ten minutes later. On the journey there he began to worry. What if she took objection to his turning up uninvited? Val wasn’t the sort to make a scene in public and could easily misinterpret the act as an underhand way of forcing her to talk to him.
The cab drew up outside the pub. Harry paid the driver and stepped out on to the pavement. He took a few determined strides forward but then hesitated again by the door. There was still time to change his mind. Even from outside, he could hear the rhythmic thud of the music, the sound of a party in full swing. He was growing dangerously close to bottling it – maybe this wasn’t such a great idea – when a couple of guys came up behind and forced him to make a decision. He either had to move forward or stand aside.
Harry took a deep breath, pushed open the door and walked in. The second thing that struck him, after the volume of the music, was how crowded the place was; finding Val might take some time. It was a large pub, spread across three interconnecting rooms, and there appeared to be several parties going on simultaneously. He didn’t recognize anyone in this particular section and, happy to delay the moment of reckoning, went over to the bar and ordered a double Scotch. He swallowed half of it before heading towards where he’d done most of his own drinking when he’d been working down the road.
After a while, the faces began to grow familiar. A few old colleagues smiled and asked how he was. ‘Good,’ he replied repeatedly, nodding over-vigorously and making the effort to smile back. As if in a hurry, he kept on walking and didn’t stop to chat. ‘Catch up later, yeah?’ He sensed a slight uneasiness in their looks but it was nothing more than he’d expected. Coppers rarely knew what to say to people like him; he was a limping reminder of how it could all go so horribly wrong.
Harry gradually forged a path through the crowd, glancing right and left at all the tables. It was a couple more minutes before he finally saw her. She was sitting on one of the long leather sofas in a shadowy corner of the room. Her long hair was flowing around her shoulders and she was wearing a low-cut, dark blue silky top that he hadn’t seen before. She looked beautiful, radiant, and her hazel eyes were shining.
He was about to approach when the full picture abruptly imprinted itself upon his brain. He stopped. Although she was sitting in a group of six, she was leaning especially close to one other person. And not just leaning … her hand was lightly placed on the thigh of the man beside her. Harry stared at him. It was Dean Chapman, the goddamn pathologist!
Harry’s eyes widened and his stomach flipped over.
Lifting the glass to his mouth, he continued to watch. It was just a passing touch, it had to be, just some casual trivial touch … but the seconds ticked by and her hand still didn’t move. Come on, he urged. He could feel the blood slowly draining from his face. This couldn’t be happening. This was just a bad dream, wasn’t it? Just another few seconds and she’d …
And then she did exactly what he’d been dreading most: laughing, she raised her wide pink mouth to Chapman’s and kissed him on the lips.
On the bloody lips.
Harry froze. He felt angry, sick, disgusted; he wanted to go over there, to confront them, but his pride held him back. There was only so much humiliation a man could take. As their mouths split apart, he stepped smartly back and merged into the crowd.
Knocking back his drink, he headed for the exit. Shit! How stupid had he been? Why hadn’t he realized? He was beginning to understand why Jane Anderson had been so keen to send him here; the bitch had wanted him to find out. Val was having an affair and she must have known all about it. It also accounted for some of the embarrassment he’d sensed as he’d walked through the pub. How long had this been going on for? Days, weeks, months?
Pushing his way through the crowd, he stumbled towards the doors. On the way out, he saw Frankie Holt leaning against the bar. The weasel looked at him and grinned. Did he know about it too? Harry felt angry enough to cross the room and take a swing but wisely resisted the temptation.
Out on the street, the cold evening air hit him with an icy blast. He pulled up the collar of his coat and began to walk. He didn’t know where he was going; he just had to get as far away as possible. The more distance he put between himself and Val, the less chance there was of him changing his mind and going back for one very public showdown.
As if he’d been repeatedly punched in the stomach, Harry’s guts were aching. His head was spinning too, that image of the two of them going round and round, the moment when she had lifted her face to Chapman’s and … How could she? Okay, so things hadn’t been so great recently – they hardly qualified for Couple of the Year – but that was no excuse for … Deep in his pockets, his hands clenched into two tight fists. He growled down at the pavement. She could have had the decency to talk to him at least, to finish it properly instead of skulking around behind his back. It was the betrayal, perhaps, that hurt the most.
And why Chapman, for God’s sake? Why had she chosen him? Harry couldn’t grasp what any self-respecting female could see in a man who preferred the company of the dead to the living. At that thought, he gave a soft bitter laugh. Clearly, for all the time Dean Chapman spent in the presence of corpses, he was a still a more attractive option.
Harry was walking too quickly, forcing his right leg forward in a rapid jerky motion that was starting to cause him serious pain. Spotting a passing black cab, he raised his hand, flagged it down and crawled into the back seat.
‘Kentish Town, please,’ he instructed the driver.
As the cab made a U-turn, Harry leaned forward and rubbed his shin. The pain had become a dull relentless throb. Frowning, he thought about what he’d do when he got back – pack up what remained of her stuff, perhaps, stuff it into bin bags and chuck it on the doorstep. The thought of such revenge was only momentarily satisfying; it wouldn’t change the fact that she would still be sitting in the bar with her new lover, her shoulder leaning too close against his, her hand still resting on his thigh …
He slammed his hand hard against the seat. Why should he spend the rest of the evening stressing over her? She wasn’t exactly grieving over the end of their relationship so why should he? There were other, more important things, he could be doing.
He got out his phone, ran through the menu and found Jess’s number.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Harry was sitting at the bar, sipping on his second pint of Guinness, when Jess arrived.
‘This had better be good,’ she said. ‘I’ve got somewhere to be and I’m already running late.’ As if reminding herself of what she was missing, she glanced around the dreary interior of The Whistle.
Harry raised his eyes to the ceiling. ‘Hey, no one twisted your arm. I didn’t make you come.’
‘As good as,’ she said, taking off her long coat. Attired in a flimsy rose-coloured top, a black skirt and highheeled leather boots, she was certainly dressed for somewhere a little more salubrious than this dingy back-street pub. ‘You knew perfectly well that I wouldn’t be able to resist.’
He grinned, looking her up and down. ‘As it happens, you’re not the first woman to have said that.’
Jess wrinkled her nose, her eyes darting towards his glass. ‘Just how many of those have you had?’
‘Only one,’ he said, ignoring the earlier brandies and the two strong whiskies he’d already downed.
She didn’t look convinced. ‘Well, get me a red wine,’ she said, ‘and make it a large one. I have the feeling that I’m going to need it.’
As Harry caught the attention of the barman, she waltzed off towards the far side of the room and the trio of empty tables that were gathered round the fireplace. He smiled. By the t
ime he’d finished divulging his news, he wouldn’t be the only one feeling like a fool tonight.
While her drink was being poured, he glanced over his shoulder and saw her hesitate before finally choosing the table in the middle. And then it struck him … that was the very same table he’d been sitting at with Curzon the first time he’d met her. And this was also the very same pub that they’d been drinking in the evening Len had failed to turn up and …’
Suddenly, he didn’t feel quite so smug. Quickly paying for the wine, he picked up the drinks and went over to join her. ‘I just realized,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry.’
She looked up at him, bemused.
‘This was where we were last week when … before … before you heard about Len. I should have thought.’ He put the glasses on the table and frowned. ‘Look, if you’d rather go somewhere else …’
Jess shook her head. ‘For God’s sake,’ she said, ‘if I’m going to avoid every watering hole that Len ever frequented, there isn’t a bar in London I’ll be able to drink in. And where’s that going to leave me?’ Reaching out, she picked up her glass and smiled. ‘But thanks for the thought. I appreciate it.’
Harry pulled up a chair and sat down beside her. ‘Sorry,’ he said again. ‘It’s not been the best of days.’
Jess’s brows arched up. ‘We’ve all been there at one time or another.’ She paused, giving him the opportunity to share his woes if he so desired. When nothing was forthcoming she said, ‘So, you’ve been to see Ellen Shaw. Are you going to tell me what you found out?’
Harry took a swig of his Guinness, followed by a deep breath, and then recited an only slightly edited version of his meeting. She listened carefully, absorbing each sentence and not interrupting – even when he told about the near-miss with the car – until he’d come to the end. By then over ten minutes had passed and her brows had shifted into two tight knots.
She stared down at her glass while she pondered on the information. Slowly, she raised her eyes. ‘So, do you really think Keppell was behind the wheel?’
‘Not in person,’ Harry said, ‘but he may have been the one giving the orders.’
‘Jimmy Keppell,’ she murmured. ‘Could he have known that Len was watching her?’
Harry shrugged. Jess had made the same connection that he had made himself a few hours ago. ‘It’s possible.’
‘But I don’t get it,’ she said. ‘If what she’s told you is true, why should Keppell be so keen to shut her up? She isn’t saying anything new, anything that could impact on him. This is all old history.’
‘Old history that he doesn’t want raking up again. His schoolboy son was sleeping with Deacon for money. The man has his reputation to consider.’
‘No,’ she said firmly. ‘It’s not enough. That was more or less implied at the trial. If he’s so concerned about her talking to the press, he must be worried that she’s going to tell them something else, something much more dangerous.’
‘Like?’
‘I don’t know. Why didn’t she give evidence back then? I mean, she didn’t, did she? I haven’t read anything about her in the court reports.’
‘She was only fifteen. I doubt if the police were even aware of her existence.’
‘But Jimmy Keppell was. Perhaps he persuaded her to stay out of it – paid her off or simply threatened her. Deacon was never going to admit to what had really been going on – the boy was underage, wasn’t he? – but Keppell could have been worried that she’d crack in the witness box and spill out all the sordid details.’ She frowned, not completely persuaded by her own reasoning. ‘Or maybe she had other information he wanted her to keep quiet about. She must have heard all kinds of incriminating stuff from Tony.’
‘I suppose,’ Harry said.
‘But why kill Len?’
‘Hey,’ Harry said, leaning forward over the table. ‘We don’t know for sure that he did. It was the first conclusion I jumped to but the more I think about it, the less likely it seems. Why would he? Len might have been the one poking around but what were the chances of his working alone? Half the staff on the Herald could have been aware of the story he was working on.’
‘But they weren’t,’ she said.
‘Yes, but Keppell couldn’t have known that. Killing Len, and especially on Ellen Shaw’s doorstep, would have been way too risky. He’d only be drawing attention to whatever it was he wanted to keep hidden.’
‘He didn’t seem too bothered about that today.’
Harry thought back to how the car had abruptly stopped, those few terrifying seconds when it seemed the driver might be about to reverse … and then the way he had just flashed his lights and taken off. ‘I’m starting to think that she was right, that it was more of a warning, a way of showing her how vulnerable she is.’
Jess frowned again. ‘Maybe Ellen Shaw hasn’t told you everything.’
Harry was less than thrilled at the idea that yet another woman had been lying to him. ‘Or maybe she has,’ he argued.
They were both silent for a few seconds. ‘Okay,’ she said. ‘But I still don’t trust her. Do you really believe that tale about Deacon? Why should she wait all that time before going to see him?’
‘I’ve told you why.’
‘Huh,’ she snorted. She waited for a moment but then, seeing the expression on his face, smartly changed the subject. ‘Anyway, aren’t you going to ask how I got on today?’
Harry had almost forgotten about her meeting with Scott Hall. ‘Oh yeah,’ he said. ‘How was it?’
‘Interesting,’ she said. ‘He was only a sergeant back then but, unlike Fielding, he had his doubts about the two cases being connected. He always suspected that the Theresa Neal murder was completely separate from the disappearance of Grace.’
‘I see,’ Harry said. ‘Although I guess it’s kind of academic now.’
‘I don’t follow.’
He wondered if she’d actually taken in anything he’d told her. ‘Because it’s pretty clear that Ellen Shaw is who she says she is. We know why she was avoiding Len, why she didn’t want to talk to him, and it has nothing to do with some poor child who went missing over twenty years ago.’
‘We don’t know any such thing,’ she vehemently protested. ‘All we “know” is what she’s decided to tell you. You might choose to believe her but that doesn’t mean that I have to.’
‘For God’s sake, Jess,’ he sighed. ‘You have to let this go. Len was wrong. Why can’t you accept it? There are people, relatives, out there who are going to get hurt if you keep digging up the past. It isn’t fair on them.’
Her eyes flashed bright. ‘And it isn’t fair on Len that he’s laid out in the bloody morgue.’ She glared at him. ‘Is this why you asked me here – just so you could say I told you so?’
‘Of course not,’ he retorted. ‘And I’m not suggesting that you should give up searching for whoever killed him, not for a minute, only that it might be better if you don’t get sidetracked by …’ He stopped. An odd shivery sensation had suddenly erupted on the back of his neck. He had a flashback to sitting with an agitated Curzon who was trying to decide whether to talk to him or not. You ever see a ghost, Harry?
‘What is it?’ Jess said.
Harry glanced over his shoulder as if Curzon’s drunken spirit might still be lurking in the pub. He rubbed the base of his neck. ‘Nothing.’
‘You should go easy on those,’ Jess said, nodding towards his glass before rising to her feet and putting on her coat. ‘Look, I’ve got to go. I’ll call you tomorrow.’
Harry had been hoping that she might stick around but she clearly had better things to do. He watched her walk out of the pub and then went to the bar to order another drink. His popularity with the female sex had apparently hit rock bottom. In the past few hours he’d been dumped by Valerie, bundled out of Ellen’s flat in favour of her husband, and now even Jess Vaughan couldn’t wait to be rid of him. Three in one day. Even for him, that had to be a record.
Ch
apter Thirty-Eight
Jess was on her second glass of champagne, holding the flute in one hand while she tried to fend off Toby’s unwanted advances with the other. Persuading him to pull some strings, to secure an invitation to the book launch, had been the easy part; keeping his clammy palms off her backside was proving infinitely more difficult.
She finished her drink and smiled sweetly at him. ‘Be a love and get me another, would you?’
As Toby obediently trotted off, Jess waited until he was out of sight and then swiftly dived into the crowd. The do was being held in one of the large reception rooms of a swanky Mayfair hotel. The place was packed and with a bit of luck he wouldn’t find her again in a hurry. She refused to feel guilty about the abandonment. Okay, so she may have told a few white lies to get him to bring her here – that she was a huge fan of the photographer’s work, that she could do with a night out to help take her mind off what had happened – but that did not give him the green light to spend the entire evening trying to get into her pants.
Anyway, she could hardly have told him the truth. That she was here to check out Charlotte Deacon, or Charlotte Meyer as she was now called, was hardly information that she wished to share. Jess had found the woman’s details in the files that Len had left behind, proof that he hadn’t spent all of his time sitting in the pub. Ms Meyer, having dumped Paul Deacon the minute he went down, had married again and was now the successful director of a publishing house. It was the type of company that produced overpriced coffee table books for the idle rich to put on their overpriced coffee tables.
Hoping she’d achieved a safe enough distance from Toby’s roaming hands, Jess stopped at a stand to have another flick through the big glossy hardback. There was no denying that the pictures were stunning but then so was the price. She winced. At eighty quid a copy, she wouldn’t be rushing out to buy one.
Glancing up, she saw a waiter passing with a tray and managed to grab another drink. The room was full of faintly familiar faces, politicians, businessmen, broadcasters and journalists, as well as a host of B-list celebrities. She scanned the surrounding area for Charlotte, not sure if she would even recognize her. All she had to go on were the old press photos from twelve years ago. Then she had been a tall slim blonde – and twelve years younger.
