by Roberta Kray
Replacing the book, Jess wondered what she would do or say if she did finally get to meet her. Everything was so confused, so messy. The only thing of which she was certain was that the past was a web of lies and deceit. Could Jimmy Keppell have been responsible for Len’s death? Was Ellen Shaw really who she said she was? Then she found herself thinking about Harry. What had been bugging him tonight? There had been something odd, weird, about the way he’d been behaving. Or had there? Her brow creased into a frown. She couldn’t really claim to know him that well: a few drinks, a smooch in the back of a cab, a return trip to Maidstone and the mutual discovery of a corpse were hardly grounds for a profound understanding.
She was brought back to earth by a nudge to her shoulder. Jess turned to see Gerry Holland standing beside her. He was a reporter from one of the tabloids, a small round forty-something male with a mop of bright red hair.
‘Well,’ he said, grinning. ‘What brings you here, sweetie? Don’t tell me – the Herald is going upmarket?’
‘You can talk,’ she said. ‘That rag you work for is hardly renowned for its love of the arts.’
‘I only came for the champagne,’ he said, lifting his glass.
Jess grinned back at him. ‘And the chance of some gossip.’ Holland, who could bitch for Britain, made his living from recycling rumour and hearsay. ‘So, has anyone made a fool of themselves yet?’
‘Early days,’ he said. He nodded towards a young petite girl with arms like sticks and long dark hair. She was waving a glass around and already seemed well on the wrong side of sober. ‘I’ve heard that little honey does a good floorshow after a bottle or too.’
‘Who is she?’
‘An actress – of a sort.’
‘And what sort would that be exactly?’
‘The minor sort,’ Holland said snidely. ‘She’s got a bit part in one of the soaps but her boyfriend’s a foot-baller, premier league, so she could be worth a line or two.’
Jess looked at her. She had a pretty face but was abysmally thin; her collar bone was jutting sharply through her flesh and her waist had the span of an adolescent’s. ‘The poor kid looks like she hasn’t eaten in a month.’
‘Probably hasn’t,’ he said.
Jess sighed and returned her attention to her own problems. ‘Well, seeing as you’ve got nothing better to do at the moment you might just be able to help me. I was hoping to get a quote from one of the publishers – Charlotte … er, Meyer, is it? Some of the photos were taken in Hackney,’ she lied, ‘local interest and all that. You don’t know where she is, do you?’
‘I wouldn’t bother,’ he said dismissively. ‘Just make something up.’
‘That might be the way you do things,’ she said, ‘but at the Herald we aim for the bright shining clarity of the truth.’
‘As if,’ he sniggered, but had the grace to lift his head and give the impression of looking around. ‘I saw her earlier. She’s wearing a black dress.’
‘Oh right,’ Jess said. ‘Well, that certainly narrows it down.’
Holland pursed his fleshy lips. ‘For someone who’s begging for help, you could at least make the effort to sound grateful.’
‘Gratitude comes with results,’ she parried. ‘And I never beg for anything.’
He grinned again. ‘You local hacks are way too tetchy.’ He had another glance around the room and then, taking hold of her elbow, tilted his head towards the bar. ‘She’s over there, the tall one, the blonde with the handbag.’
Jess gazed over and saw her for the first time. She was impressed. Charlotte Meyer was in her early fifties but was still undeniably striking. Her eyes were clear blue, her hair sleek and shiny, her face elegantly sculptured. She looked a good ten years younger than she actually was although whether that was down to some fortunate DNA, a rigorously healthy lifestyle or the skilful intervention of a surgeon’s knife was impossible to tell from a distance. Like a predatory male, Jess let her eyes roam down the length of her body. She had good legs too, long and shapely, ending in a pair of designer high heels.
‘Well?’ Holland said.
‘Well what?’
‘I thought you wanted to talk to her.’
‘I do,’ she said. ‘I will … later. There’s no hurry.’ Whether she would actually approach her or not, she still had to decide. How exactly did you open a conversation about a woman’s former husband and his conviction for murder? It wasn’t a subject that rolled easily off the tongue. It was hardly a subject Charlotte would want to be reminded of either. No, it was better not to rush headlong into anything she might regret. This was going to take some thought.
In the meantime she might as well take advantage of being in the presence of one of the most indiscreet people in the country. When it came to premium bitching, there was no one to compare to Gerry Holland.
‘I’ve just realized,’ she said. ‘Wasn’t she married to that politician? What’s his name, Paul … er …’
‘Deacon,’ he said.
‘Yeah, that’s it.’ She nodded and then puckered her brows, pretending she couldn’t recall much about him. ‘Wasn’t he involved in some kind of murder case? Or was that a different guy?’
Holland’s mouth slid quickly into another of its wide greasy smirks. ‘That was him all right. And he was heading straight for a place in the Cabinet before he shot his pretty little boyfriend straight through the chest.’
‘No!’ she said, acting astounded. She glanced over towards Charlotte Meyer again. ‘That couldn’t have made her too happy.’
Gerry gave a snort. ‘She’d have bloody killed him if she’d had the opportunity.’
‘I can imagine,’ Jess said. ‘Didn’t she have any idea about what was going on?’
‘Not a clue. She knew about the other women of course – Deacon wasn’t the most monogamous of men – but he’d managed to hide his darker side. His liking for boys was his own dirty little secret.’
‘Boys?’ she repeated. ‘So there was definitely more than one?’
‘What do you think?’ he said. ‘A rich man like Deacon doesn’t get to be forty-odd before deciding what he likes.’
‘I suppose not,’ she said.
Holland took a swig of his champagne and licked his lips. ‘Don’t get me wrong but it’s not natural, is it? Gay, straight, I don’t give a damn. Men, women, take your fancy – but fifteen-year-old schoolboys … well, what’s all that about?’
Jess, thankfully, didn’t need to think of an answer. To the left of them, the skinny dark-haired girl was kicking up a row. Hands were flying, voices had risen and a glass suddenly shattered on the floor. Gerry was off like a shot, eager for his next tabloid scoop.
She looked back towards the bar. Charlotte Meyer was heading for the Ladies.
Jess followed her.
The bathroom was almost as large as her flat but smelled ten times better. It was like entering a perfumery. Women were lined up under the stark lights of the mirrors, adjusting their hair and reapplying their lipstick. Jess saw her own reflection and flinched; her cheeks were flushed bright pink from the heat and her mascara had melted into two dark smudges under her eyes. She was still trying to repair the damage when Charlotte Meyer emerged from one of the cubicles.
Jess watched as she washed and dried her hands. For a moment she thought that she was going to walk straight out but then she laid her Gucci bag on the counter and took out her comb. As soon as the two girls between them had moved away, Jess shifted along until she was standing beside her.
‘Hello,’ Jess said, smiling. ‘Congratulations on the book. It’s very impressive.’
Charlotte glanced at her, a swift casual glance, before she nodded and said, ‘Yes, thank you.’
Jess watched as the cool blue eyes made a quick practised survey of her face and clothes and knew that she’d been assessed, judged and dismissed within a matter of seconds. She was no one important. She wasn’t worth wasting time on.
‘And a good turnout,’ Jess persisted. �
�You must be pleased.’
This time Charlotte didn’t bother to look at her or even properly open her mouth. ‘Mm,’ she said instead, leaning forward to focus her attention on the mirror.
Up to this point Jess had been feeling reasonably sympathetic – being married to a murderer couldn’t be easy – but that emotion was rapidly draining away. Stuck-up bitch, she thought. She despised people, men or women, who couldn’t make the effort to even pretend to be nice. And okay, Charlotte must have been making small talk all night, and it must have become disgustingly tiresome, but that was still no excuse for blatant incivility.
Jess was so annoyed that the words came out before she had time to think about the consequences. ‘I hear your ex is writing a book too. It seems he has a little more to say about Tony Keppell – and the blackmail.’
Charlotte’s face turned a satisfying shade of white. ‘What?’ she snapped. Her neck twisted round so fast she was in danger of breaking it.
Jess tried to keep her grin in check. At least she’d finally got her full attention. ‘Oh, sorry,’ she said disingenuously. ‘Hadn’t you heard?’
Charlotte’s voice rose by a few harsh decibels. ‘Heard? Heard from whom, exactly?’
Jess shrugged. Taking a tube of hand cream from her bag, she squeezed it, and began to slowly massage the cream into her fingers. ‘You know, I can’t remember. It’s just something that’s been doing the rounds, something on the grapevine.’
‘Who are you?’ Charlotte said. Her eyes had narrowed and her tone was viciously sharp.
Jess had been raised with the principle that honesty was always the best policy. Fortunately, it was a legacy that she’d managed to overcome. ‘Rachel Evans,’ she said brightly. ‘I’m a freelance journalist.’
Charlotte glared at her.
Jess calmly put the cream back in her bag and turned away. ‘It’s probably just a rumour. I shouldn’t worry about it.’
‘Just a moment,’ Charlotte demanded. Realizing that her waspish tone wasn’t getting anywhere, she forced out a smile. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I was just a bit surprised, that’s all. What are we talking about here?’
‘Perhaps you should have a word with him about it.’
Charlotte didn’t look too enamoured of the idea.
Jess walked towards the door. ‘I have to go.’
‘Hold on,’ Charlotte said.
Jess didn’t. She couldn’t take the risk of being interrogated too closely. Quickly, she made her way through the crowd. At the exit she briefly glanced back. Charlotte was already at the bar, talking to a couple of bland grey-suited men. They looked suspiciously like lawyers. As their gaze swept the room, Jess slipped outside.
On the street, she headed for the tube. Did she regret what she’d done? Not at all. It was time to shake things up … and there was nothing like a bit of stirring if you wanted the truth to rise to the surface.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
It was late Tuesday morning and Harry was still waiting for Val to call. Surely someone must have told her that he’d been in The Fox last night, that he’d seen her with Chapman. Perhaps her silence was an indication of how little she cared. Perhaps she was even pleased that he’d been a witness; it saved her the trouble of relaying the good news herself.
Harry knew how easily he could play the injured party but was aware too that the breakdown of the relationship was not entirely down to her. And, if he was being brutally honest, his resentment was tinged with just a touch of relief. The past months had been a battleground – now, bar the compulsory shouting, it was virtually all over. Or was it? If he was so glad that it was finished, why did he feel so bad and why did his stomach keep churning? Why did he so desperately want to hear her voice again?
His phone began to ring and he quickly picked it up.
‘Lind?’ a male voice asked.
‘Speaking,’ Harry said.
‘Ray Stagg. I need to see you.’
‘What for?’
‘What do you think?’ Stagg said brusquely. ‘You’re supposed to be looking for a missing person, aren’t you?’
Harry snorted down the line. ‘As I recall, you’ve already fired me from that job.’
‘Yeah, well,’ he said dismissively. ‘I was probably a bit hasty there, heat of the moment and all that. With what happened to Tommo and then … well, let’s just say that my usual good judgement might have been impaired.’
‘Right. So now you’ve changed your mind and I’m just expected to jump?’
‘Don’t be like that,’ Stagg said. ‘I’ve had some time to think about it, that’s all. If you don’t want the job, just say so. You’re not the only private detective in town.’
‘No,’ Harry agreed. ‘But I am the only one that Agnes rang.’
There was a short silence. ‘You want the job or not?’ Stagg snarled.
Harry was tempted to say ‘not’ but he’d only be cutting off his nose to spite his face. He needed to get back to work. He was worried about Agnes and his best hope for a lead must surely lie with the other girls at the club. Without Stagg’s cooperation, however, it wouldn’t be easy to talk to them. ‘I’ll have to run it past Mac’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ Stagg said, as if this was a mere formality. ‘Meet me tonight at Vista. Ten o’clock. Don’t keep me waiting.’
Chapter Forty
Jess stared at the computer screen and nodded. She had finally got what she wanted: some good clear pictures of Ellen Shaw. Two hours she’d been sitting in the car, half freezing to death in Berry Square, but it had been worth the wait. She didn’t care what Harry thought – the delightful Mrs Shaw, she was certain, was still hiding something.
After carefully choosing the photos she wanted, she pressed the button and printed them out. She was about to stand up and make herself a coffee when she had another thought. Slotting a CD into the computer, she saved all the pictures, along with her notes. It was never a good idea to keep all your information in one place; she’d drop the disk off at the office later.
Jess went to the kitchen and switched the kettle on. For the next few minutes, she tapped her fingers impatiently against the sink while she waited for the water to come to the boil. ‘C’mon,’ she murmured. Everything, from the case to the kettle, was moving too slowly. Was she making any progress? She was starting to feel like she was wading through sludge.
Back in the living room, she laid the photographs of Ellen across the table and compared them to the press pictures of the eight-year-old Grace Harper. She still couldn’t say if Len had been right or wrong. There were similarities, especially around the eyes, but Ellen’s hair was much darker and her mouth slightly different. Jess shrugged. The natural ageing process, a bottle of hair dye and a few shots of collagen could easily account for that.
Her mobile went off and she picked it up. ‘Hi.’
‘It’s Scott,’ the voice at the other end said. ‘Scott Hall.’
‘Hey,’ Jess said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Look, I remembered something after you’d gone. I wasn’t able to check it out until this morning but I thought it might be useful.’
‘Great,’ she said. ‘Fire away.’
‘It’s about Sharon Harper. I had this vague memory of … Well, it was getting on for a year ago and we got a call about a disturbance, a couple of women going at it hammer and tongs in the street. A real barney by all accounts and getting violent too. I didn’t deal with it myself but I recognized the name.’
Jess’s eyes lit up. So Sharon was still living locally. ‘And it was her?’
‘Yeah, it was her all right. Anyway, it didn’t come to much; by the time the car got there, it was over and done with. Sharon had a few cuts and bruises but nothing too drastic and the other woman had done a bunk.’
‘Do you know who she was?’
‘No,’ Scott said, ‘and Sharon apparently refused to say.’ He gave a soft laugh. ‘If I was a betting man I’d put my money on an irate wife. She never was to
o fussy about the men she slept with.’
‘Right,’ Jess said. ‘But no one got a description of her? Young, old, middle-aged?’
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sharon didn’t want to press charges so …’
Jess frowned, disappointed. The first name that had sprung into her head was Joan Sewell – she certainly hated her sister-in-law enough – but somehow the idea of that prim restrained woman brawling in the street like an angry fishwife didn’t quite ring true.
‘However,’ Scott continued, ‘what I did manage to get is the address. I can’t guarantee Sharon’s still living there but the odds are pretty good.’
‘Brilliant,’ Jess said. ‘Hang on a sec.’ She reached across the table and snatched up her notepad and a pen. ‘Okay, I’m ready.’
‘Burnley Avenue. Number sixty-one.’
‘That’s not far away,’ she said, scribbling it down. ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’
‘Are you going to talk to her?’
Fearing a Harry Lind-type lecture on her moral obligations when it came to digging up the past, she hesitated. ‘Er … I’m not sure. Maybe. I haven’t quite decided yet. Of course if I do, I’ll be careful what I say. I know it’s a sensitive subject.’
Scott Hall gave another of his soft laughs. ‘Actually, I was going to suggest that you be careful – but more for your sake than hers. If Sharon gets even a hint that you might have ulterior motives … well, I’d make sure you’re wearing your running shoes.’
Jess grinned. ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’
‘Let me know how it goes,’ he said.
‘I will. And thanks again.’
Jess put down the phone and sat back in the chair. It was reassuring to know that she wasn’t the only person in the world with doubts about the fate of little Grace Harper. She had been cautious about what she’d told Scott at their meeting, revealing only that she was doing some research on the case, but he’d said nothing to try and dissuade her. On the contrary, if today’s phone call was anything to go by, he was actively encouraging her to go for it.
