The Lost

by Roberta Kray

  ‘How’s the girlfriend?’ Harry asking, changing the subject. ‘Lisa, is it?’

  ‘Linda,’ Snakey said. ‘She’s good.’

  Harry had only met her once and that was several months ago. Linda was a striking brunette, an investment banker who worked in the City. She was the latest in a long line of classy women that Snakey had dated over the years. For some reason, and it was a reason Harry had never been able to fathom, Snakey always had attractive female company. It wasn’t as if he was especially handsome, witty or charming – and he certainly wasn’t rich. Perhaps it was something to do with those tattoos. Most of them were covered up this evening but the blue-green asp coiled around his right wrist was still clearly visible. The head of the viper lay on the back of his hand between his thumb and index finger.

  Harry stared at it. Maybe, if he split up permanently with Val, he’d get himself one too. She detested tattoos. She hated snakes even more.

  ‘I’ll get the truck,’ Snakey said.

  Ten minutes later the Audi was hitched up and ready to go. Harry took a piece of paper from his pocket and thrust it through the window of the cab. On it was written the registration number of a white Ford transit van. ‘Give me a call if you ever see this on your travels, will you?’

  Snakey looked down at the number. He opened his mouth and then closed it again. Some questions just weren’t worth asking. Instead he glanced over his shoulder, nodded towards the car and said, ‘I’ll give you a bell when she’s ready.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Harry said.

  He gave a wave as Snakey drove off and then took out his phone and called a taxi. Time to go home.

  Jess opened the front door as he approached the steps again. ‘Everything okay?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Harry stared after the tow truck until it turned the corner and disappeared from view. Then he followed her inside. He walked on through to the living room. ‘Could I ask you something?’ He paused. ‘Do you think Snakey’s attractive?’

  Jess laughed. ‘Hard to tell from a distance. Why, are you trying to fix me up?’

  ‘No. Just curious.’

  ‘Well,’ she replied, ‘six months ago I’d have probably said yes. He looks a little old but every woman with a car needs a good mechanic’

  ‘Right,’ Harry said. Perhaps that was the secret to Snakey’s success. ‘And who said romance was dead.’

  She gave a shrug. ‘No harm in being practical.’

  Harry took the keys from his pocket and passed them over. ‘Here, these aren’t much use to me at the moment. They’re for the white Vauxhall across the road.’

  ‘Really?’ she said, smiling widely. ‘Great.’ Her smile disappeared as she went to the window and looked out. There was a small intake of disappointed breath. ‘That?’

  ‘No point having a motor that’s going to get you noticed.’

  ‘No danger there,’ Jess murmured softly. She gazed out at its rusty battered frame. ‘Are you sure it even goes?’

  ‘According to Snakey.’ He reached out as if to take the keys back. ‘Although if you don’t think it’s suitable …’

  She quickly moved a sideways step away from him. ‘Hey, did I say that? I’m sure it’s just dandy.’

  ‘Let’s hope so.’

  ‘And thanks,’ she said, suddenly remembering her manners. ‘Having a car does make it easier to get around. The wonders of public transport begin to pall after a while.’

  ‘I can imagine.’ Harry shifted from one foot to another. He had the feeling that the advice he was about to utter wouldn’t be too well received. ‘Er …’ he began cautiously. ‘I was just wondering if … well, bearing in mind what happened tonight, whether it might not be a bad idea if you kept your head down for a day or two.’

  Jess was still staring through the window, trying to come to terms perhaps with the dilapidated wreck she’d be driving around in for the next few days. She swung her face sharply towards him, her eyes narrowing a fraction. ‘I see,’ she said, her voice distinctly tight. ‘And is that what you are going to be doing?’

  Harry tried to sound convincing. ‘Sure. I thought I’d go into the office and catch up on some paperwork.’

  ‘Yeah,’ she almost jeered, ‘and I’m a bloody super-model! Come off it. The first thing you’ll be doing tomorrow is checking out those addresses Ray Stagg gave you.’

  Harry couldn’t deny it. Fortunately, he didn’t need to. His cab, with perfect timing, was drawing up outside the flats. ‘That’s for me,’ he said. ‘Got to go.’

  Jess walked into the communal hallway ahead of him. She opened the main front door and stood aside.

  Harry strolled down the steps and then turned to look back up at her. He knew she was old enough, and smart enough, to take care of herself but he still felt responsible. She had no real idea of what she was doing, of the world she could be entering. Men like Jimmy Keppell were no respecters of age or gender. ‘At least do me one favour,’ he said. ‘Don’t answer the door to anyone you don’t know.’

  ‘Are you telling me to be careful?’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m just asking you nicely.’

  She stared down at him. Her mouth gradually curled up at the corners. ‘I’ll pick you up at ten,’ she said.

  Harry looked down at his watch. ‘I won’t hold my breath.’

  ‘Make it eleven then,’ she said.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Friday was always a busy night at Vista. Ray Stagg knew he should be there but for now he had more important things to do. He glared at the security screen, watching the car that was idling at the entrance to the house. He lifted the glass to his mouth and took another drink. He glanced at his watch; it was almost seven thirty. He deliberately made the driver wait, tapping out the seconds with his fingers before finally pressing the button that unlocked the electronic gates.

  The car, an old green Rover, rolled up the drive. It came to a stop and a moment later Frankie Holt stepped out.

  Ray stopped to light a cigarette before going to meet him. Scowling, he took a few deep drags and let the smoke hiss out through his lips. Lord, he hated the filth and Holt was dirtier than most. Bent cops were useful, sometimes even essential, but they still made his flesh creep. It was the pretence as much as anything. All that hypocritical crap made his guts turn over. Good or bad, take your pick, but you couldn’t have it both ways. He was careful, however, to wipe the worst of the distaste from his face before opening the door.

  Frankie Holt nodded at him.

  Ray stared blankly back. He didn’t make an effort to be pleasant – there was no point arousing suspicion – and simply jerked his head to invite him in.

  Holt, expecting nothing more, silently followed him inside.

  Ray led him along the length of the hall, through a rarely used drawing room and then into the den. It was slightly larger than its name suggested, a windowless soundproof space towards the rear of the house. The walls were cream, the carpet a beige deep pile and the brown leather sofa was large and comfortable. There were shelves covered with DVDs. There was a widescreen TV, an expensive music system and a bar full of booze. Porn magazines were scattered across a glass-topped coffee table. Enclosed within these four walls was everything a man needed to get away from the stresses of life. He watched as Holt’s eyes roamed greedily around.

  ‘I need to know what’s happening,’ Ray said brusquely. ‘Why aren’t you calling me?’

  Frankie sank down on the sofa. ‘It’s not easy,’ he said. ‘It’s not safe, either. Not while all this shit’s going down.’

  Ray poured a couple of neat whiskies, making Holt’s especially large. ‘Don’t fuck me about, Frankie. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one little fucking bit.’

  Holt grabbed the drink that was offered and instantly swallowed half of its contents. He leaned forward, cradling the glass in his hands. ‘You think it’s easy trying to keep a lid on it all? I’m a copper, for God’s sake.’

  Ray felt his usual revu
lsion as he heard the familiar self-pitying whine in Holt’s voice. ‘Please don’t start on that again. We’ve all got our problems.’

  ‘Keppell’s out of control. I can’t keep covering his tracks.’

  ‘Isn’t that what he pays you to do?’ Ray said.

  There was a short silence while Holt knocked back the rest of his drink and then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Yeah, well, Tommo was one thing but …’

  Ray flinched at the casual dismissal of his friend’s murder as a ‘thing’. His chest tightened. His fingers automatically curled into two tight fists. Quickly, before it was noticed, he unclenched them again. It took an effort to keep his response sounding neutral. ‘But what?’

  ‘Now we’re investigating the murder of your bloody barman too.’

  Ray was still on his feet. He took the glass from the Inspector’s hand, went across the room and refilled it. He gazed for a second at the pure amber liquid. The bottle of malt was a good one and wasted on the unrefined palate of a primitive like Holt. Still, there were times when sacrifices had to be made.

  ‘From what I’ve heard,’ Ray said cautiously, ‘and it’s only a rumour, Troy Jeffries might have been dealing. He was only a kid, probably didn’t know what he was getting into. Perhaps he got out of his depth, tried to turn someone over and—’

  ‘Someone?’ Holt interjected. ‘I saw the body. It had Keppell’s calling card all over it.’

  Ray picked up the bottle and the glass and carried them across the room. He placed them on the coffee table, within easy reach of his guest, and then settled down into the adjacent leather armchair. As if Holt had provided a particularly insightful response he took a deep breath before gradually releasing a well-rehearsed but thoroughly convincing sigh. ‘You could be right.’

  The room was warm, the central heating turned up high and a film of sweat – perhaps only partly down to the heat – was breaking out on Holt’s forehead. ‘So what’s he playing at?’

  ‘Fuck knows,’ Ray said. And that was the honest truth. That Keppell was angry at being ripped off by a small-timer like Al was understandable but his response was rapidly becoming disproportionate to the crime. Killing Tommo should have been enough to prove his point, to let his enemies know that he couldn’t be messed with, but it hadn’t stopped there. The murder of Troy Jeffries was like some macabre icing on the cake.

  Frankie Holt leaned forward and poured himself another whisky. He was still clearly anxious – his hand was trembling – but his eyes were starting to glaze. Ray studied his face carefully. Another few minutes, he thought, and the idiot’s mouth would begin to run away with him. That was when he’d have the bastard. All he needed was for Holt to condemn himself without damning Ray’s own ass to a lifetime in the slammer too.

  ‘Keppell’s always been trouble,’ Ray said softly.

  ‘I never trusted him,’ Holt said. ‘Not since …’

  Ray Stagg glanced slyly towards the row of DVDs. The camera, a tiny piece of hi-tech genius, was invisible. No one could ever suspect that it was there.

  Maddie Green looked in the full-length mirror, made a few last-minute adjustments to her make-up and then stood back to view the results. A pair of wide black-lined eyes returned her gaze. She tilted her head to one side. Not bad. She definitely looked a good few years older than she was. Her long brown hair, shining and freshly straightened, hung down to her waist. The foundation had smoothed out the imperfections in her teenage skin and the blusher, applied exactly as the magazines instructed, was discreetly highlighting her cheekbones. Her mouth was painted a deep provocative red.

  She pursed her lips and stared hard at her reflection. Gradually, her gaze dropped down to the clothes she was wearing, skinny blue jeans and a simple scoop-necked red designer T-shirt with the slogan Scandalous scrawled across the front. It was scooped a little too low perhaps but the push-up bra gave her small developing cleavage the extra boost it needed.

  Maddie turned sideways to the mirror and swivelled her slim hips. The borrowed highheeled slingbacks made her legs look a few inches longer. Her mouth crept into a smile. Her mother would kill her if she saw her now … but of course she wouldn’t see her – she was still at the office and wouldn’t be home for another hour at least. By then Maddie would be well on her way to Chingford and her uptight mother would be none the wiser. This was one party that she couldn’t afford to miss. It was Zane’s sixteenth birthday and come hell or high water she was going to be there.

  Chapter Forty-Five

  Harry ordered a drink, a Scotch on the rocks, and then returned his attention to the evening paper. He wasn’t really reading it, just scanning through the headlines while he waited for Jess to arrive. They’d arranged to meet at eight and it was barely seven thirty. Three days had passed since the car had almost run them off the road and nothing untoward had happened since. In fact, nothing much had happened at all.

  Al Webster and Agnes were both still missing.

  Val hadn’t called.

  Ellen Shaw hadn’t been in touch either.

  As promised, Jess had turned up on Wednesday morning and driven him over to Stoke Newington. The Vauxhall, cleansed of all its superficial dirt (she must have put it through the carwash), had been looking marginally better. Although it wasn’t going to win any beauty contests – no amount of soap and water could disguise its fundamental flaws – the engine was running smoothly enough.

  The address for Agnes, as Stagg had predicted, proved to be a dead end. The people living there, a Polish family, claimed to have been in residence for over a year and there seemed no reason to doubt their word. They had never heard of Agnes Bondar or received any mail for her. A local and time-consuming house-to-house hadn’t yielded any useful information either. If anyone had recognized her description, they weren’t willing to admit it. Harry wasn’t surprised. This was London after all; people had a tendency to keep their eyes averted and their mouths shut.

  They’d had no more success at Troy Jeffries’ place. His flatmate, a shy ruddy-cheeked nineteen-year-old called David Stanforth, had invited them in but had nothing to add to what Harry already knew. The boy, clearly horrified by what had happened, had answered the questions with a dull dazed expression on his face.

  ‘We’d only been sharing for a couple of months. I didn’t know him that well. I think he worked at some nightclub.’

  And that was about the extent of his knowledge. David hadn’t met any of Troy’s friends, had never heard of an Agnes, and if he had realized that his flatmate was dealing then he certainly wasn’t prepared to admit to it.

  When he’d asked if they could look in Troy’s room, David had waved a willing hand towards one of the doors, only informing them after they’d stepped inside the spare empty bedroom that Troy’s parents had already been to pick up all his things.

  Harry remembered thinking, another dead end, and then feeling an instant stab of guilt, not just for the unintended pun but for the awful coldness of the response. Whatever Troy Jeffries had been – and from his experience it couldn’t be described as anything particularly pleasant – he was still someone’s son.

  It was after six when Jess had dropped him off and they had finally parted company. Harry hadn’t seen her since. The car had been hers for the Thursday, free to do with as she wished. She’d had it all day today as well. Was she taking advantage? Perhaps. But he didn’t much care. She’d had the courtesy, at least, to call and ask if he wanted to be driven anywhere.

  Harry wasn’t exactly sure why he’d suggested meeting for dinner. Ostensibly it was to catch up, to exchange news on their respective cases, but he suspected it was more to do with the rather bleak prospect of dining alone on a Friday night. Valerie, he was sure, would have company. At this very moment she was probably sitting in a fancy West End restaurant with an over-starched white napkin in her lap. He could imagine the kind of place Chapman would take her to, somewhere showy and expensive, and felt a spurt of anger at the thought of the two of the
m together.

  The waitress arrived with his drink. Harry forced a smile and thanked her. Reaching for his glass, he wondered if he was becoming just a little too reliant on the comfort of alcohol. A brief image came to him of the empty bottles piling up in his recycling bin. It was only a temporary measure, he reassured himself, just a way of getting through these difficult times. Then, attempting to bury any further thoughts of Val’s treacherous dinner date, he took a generous gulp of the Scotch and resumed his superficial reading of the paper.

  Several minutes later, aware of a presence lurking to the right of his shoulder, he looked up again. It was Jess.

  ‘You’re early,’ he said.

  She threw her jacket over the back of the chair and sat down. ‘Not as early as you.’

  There wasn’t much he could say to that and so he turned to get the waitress’s attention instead. The girl arrived promptly and Jess ordered a Miller Lite. Harry flirted with the idea of refreshing his Scotch but decided against it.

  Jess gazed around the room. ‘I’ve never been here before.’

  Harry had chosen the location, a small informal restaurant in the back streets of Camden, specifically as a place that couldn’t possibly give the wrong impression. It served decent food at reasonable prices but could hardly be described as romantic. The light was too bright, the furniture too basic and the clientele too casual. He didn’t actually suspect Jess of harbouring any secret yearnings but didn’t want her to think that he might be either.

  The waitress returned quickly with the beer and a glass, took out her notepad and asked if they’d like to order yet. Jess glanced down at the table. ‘Is there a menu?’

  ‘It’s on the board behind the counter,’ Harry said. ‘The Special’s good. That’s what I’m having.’ The dish of the day, chicken stew with dumplings, was not especially kind on the waistline but was almost as comforting as the Scotch.

  ‘Okay,’ she said, without bothering to read the rest of the list. ‘That sounds fine.’