The Lost

by Roberta Kray

  Jess was only a few yards from the car when she looked up and saw him. She frowned before coming forward and opening the passenger door.

  ‘What are you still doing here?’ she said.

  Harry gestured out towards the falling snow. It was coming in ever-faster flurries now, sweeping down against the windscreen. ‘Do you really want to walk home in this? Anyway, I thought we had a deal – as I understood it we’re supposed to be working together.’

  Jess gave a sigh and then climbed into the car.

  Harry was surprised. It wasn’t like her to just give in. He’d expected a lot more resistance, a show of indignation at the very least, a few choice words on the subject of listening to what people told you. But none of it was forthcoming. Instead she leaned back against the seat and briefly closed her eyes.

  Watching her, a small seed of dread began to take root in his guts. He had the feeling that whatever was coming next was something that he might not want to hear.

  ‘Do you know who that was, that woman I was talking to?’ she said.

  Harry shook his head.

  ‘It was Deacon’s ex, Charlotte Meyer.’ Jess turned her face to look at him. Her grey eyes were soft, almost pitying. ‘I hate to tell you this but I think Ellen may have skipped a few essential details when you had your little chat.’

  Fifteen minutes later Harry was still sitting with his hands on the wheel, gazing out across the cemetery. His head was spinning. So Ellen was Paul Deacon’s daughter. So she had conspired with Tony Keppell to blackmail her own father. So her father had killed her boyfriend. And Sharon had been up to her ears in all kinds of … God, it all just kept on going round and round! He couldn’t think straight. He wished he could just stop thinking at all.

  ‘How did Ellen find out about her real father?’ he said.

  Jess shrugged. ‘Through Tony, I suppose; he must have heard Jimmy talking. Or maybe Sharon told her.’

  Harry remembered standing in Berry Square when the dark car had come hurtling towards them, what Ellen had told him after they’d climbed those interminable steps to her flat. He remembered their next conversation in Covent Garden, the way she had looked at him, that final kiss before …

  ‘She lied to me,’ he said.

  ‘She’s been lying, one way or another, for most of her life.’

  Harry couldn’t argue with that. He was so confused, so frustrated, that if Jess hadn’t been there he’d have willingly banged his head against the wheel. The truth, it seemed, was in a constant state of flux. A part of him wanted to go straight to Camden; he needed to see Ellen face to face, to stand in front of her and demand some answers, but at the same time he knew that it was a purely emotional response. ‘So what do we do next?’

  Before she had the chance to answer, Jess’s phone started to ring. ‘Sorry, I’ll switch it off.’ She took it out of her bag but then noticed the caller ID and immediately lifted the phone to her ear. ‘Jess Vaughan.’

  It was a short conversation. Jess did more listening than speaking but eventually said, ‘Do you mean right now?’ There was a short pause. ‘No, that’s fine. I’ll be there.’ She glanced at her watch. ‘In about fifteen minutes.’

  She ended the call and looked at Harry. ‘That was Joan Sewell. She’s at Sharon’s house. They want to see me.’

  ‘I thought those two hated each other.’

  ‘With a vengeance,’ she said. ‘Do you want to drive or shall I?’

  Chapter Fifty-Five

  It was a while since Harry had last visited Burnley Avenue, back when he was on the Force, and it hadn’t exactly come up in the world. He parked near Sharon’s house. ‘I suppose I’d better stay here,’ he said reluctantly. He was eager to know what the two women wanted – it had to be connected to Ellen – but didn’t want to step on Jess’s toes.

  ‘Yeah, I think so,’ she said. She raised a hand to her face, bit on her nails for a moment and then changed her mind. ‘No, perhaps you should come in; I could do with a witness if they’re about to come clean – or someone to keep them apart if they start rowing. But don’t tell them you’re a private eye. I’ll just introduce you as a colleague.’

  ‘They might not be prepared to talk in front of me.’

  Jess gave a shrug. ‘Let’s see.’

  As they walked up the path, Harry noticed the split running down the side of the door. ‘Is that a legacy from your previous visit?’

  Jess grinned at him. ‘You know what I’m like; kick the door down first, ask questions later.’ She rapped on the rotten wood and then took a step back.

  As if someone had been waiting on the other side, there was instant movement, first the sound of a bolt being drawn and then the turn of a key in the lock. The door opened a few inches, restrained by a thick metal chain. A pair of sharp inquiring eyes peered through the narrow gap.

  ‘Hello, Joan. It’s me, Jessica Vaughan.’

  There was a short pause while the door was closed again and the chain removed. When the owner of the eyes was finally revealed, Harry saw a tall gaunt woman with iron grey hair. She looked at Jess and nodded. Her gaze transferred to him. ‘Who are you?’

  ‘This is Harry Lind,’ Jess said. ‘He’s a colleague.’

  Joan’s brows shifted up. ‘I thought you were coming on your own.’

  ‘I didn’t say that. We’re working together. That’s all right, isn’t it?’

  Joan Sewell hesitated. While she considered the options, she kept her arm protectively across the door. Eventually, as if sensing that Jess would not be moved on the matter, she nodded and stood aside.

  Harry followed Jess into the hall. His nostrils quivered. The place stank of stale cigarette smoke and old cooking. He tried not to breathe too deeply. They went along a narrow hall, passing a closed door to the right before entering the kitchen.

  ‘I was just brewing up,’ Joan said. ‘Sit down and make yourselves comfortable.’

  There didn’t seem much hope of that, Harry thought, as he viewed the four rickety chairs gathered round the table. While Joan fussed with the kettle and teapot, he made a quick survey of the room. It was a tip, every surface littered with used cups and plates and cardboard takeaway boxes. The lino floor was scuffed and so ingrained with dirt it was impossible to tell what the original colour had been. He caught Jess’s eye but she quickly looked away.

  ‘Where’s Sharon?’ Jess said.

  ‘She’s just nipped out. She won’t be long.’ Joan gave the tea a stir, put the lid on and brought the pot to the table. Three clean mugs were placed beside it, a sugar bowl and a carton of milk. ‘We’ll just give it a minute to draw.’

  Outside in the yard a dog whined and scratched at the door.

  ‘Should I let him in?’ Harry said.

  ‘Best not,’ Joan said. ‘He isn’t good with strangers.’

  Harry didn’t pursue it. He felt sorry for the mutt – it was cold out there – but he didn’t much welcome the prospect of being mauled either. Knowing his luck, the dog would go straight for his leg.

  Joan Sewell sat down, her spine as straight as a ramrod, and placed her hands demurely in her lap. She was the very image of respectability. Wearing a brown tweed skirt, a matching jacket and cream jumper, she looked more suitably dressed for a meeting at the Women’s Institute than a conversation in this squalid kitchen. A simple string of amber beads hung around her neck. It was the only jewellery she was wearing other than the worn gold band on her finger.

  ‘How are you?’ Jess said.

  ‘Quite well, thank you. It’s kind of you to ask. How was the funeral?’

  Jess looked at her, surprised. ‘How did you—’

  Joan tilted her head towards a copy of the local rag, lying folded on the table. ‘There was a notice in the paper, dear. I like to keep up with the local news. Was there a good turnout?’

  ‘Not bad,’ Jess lied. ‘It was a nice enough service.’

  ‘I remember him of course. I remember them all from … from when poor Grace went missi
ng.’ She gave a small weary sigh. ‘Oh yes. It’s been a long time but I never forget a face.’

  Harry started. Hadn’t Len Curzon said exactly the same thing? I never forget a face. He had a flashback to sitting in The Whistle, cynically raising his eyes to the ceiling as Len peered into his beer. He’d been such a fool! He should have listened to him. He should have taken the old soak more seriously.

  Joan poured out the tea. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’ She nodded at Jess as she passed her a mug. ‘It’s about time we all got together and had a little chat.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Jess. ‘I suppose it is.’

  Harry found Joan Sewell disconcerting. There was something not quite right; her eyes were too bright, her manner almost artificially composed. The whining dog was beginning to grate on his nerves too. And then he realized what else was bugging him – if Sharon had just ‘nipped out’ then why were there only three mugs on the table?

  ‘Where’s Sharon gone?’ he said abruptly.

  As if he were being deliberately rude, Jess turned and glowered at him.

  But Joan Sewell wasn’t offended. She put the pot down, her thin mouth slowly widening. Her glittering eyes met his. ‘Well, not to heaven, Mr Lind, that’s for sure.’

  There was a short bemused silence.

  Harry’s heart gave a jolt. He hoped she didn’t mean what he thought she did. He could feel his throat start to dry. ‘Where is she?’

  Joan didn’t reply. She just continued to smile, her gaze sliding slowly sideways.

  Harry pushed back the chair, stood up and walked into the hall. ‘Where are you going?’ he heard Jess call out. He paused for just a second before pushing open the door to his left. He knew what he’d find but it still came as a shock.

  The breath stormed out of his lungs. Oh God!

  Sharon Harper was lying on the sofa. Stretched out on her back, she might have been asleep if it hadn’t been for those glazed brown eyes staring blindly up. Harry rushed forward and knelt down beside her. Pushing aside her hair, he quickly searched for a pulse. He knew, even as he went through the motions, that it was a waste of time. She’d been dead for a while. She’d been shot through the chest.

  From behind, he heard Jess’s swift intake of breath, followed by what might have been a stifled scream.

  He took out his phone and began to dial.

  ‘What are you doing?’ Joan said.

  ‘Calling 999.’

  ‘It’s a bit late for that.’ The words were cold but not as cold as the barrel of the gun that was pushing into his temple. ‘Put it down,’ Joan said. ‘She doesn’t require an ambulance and I don’t wish to talk to the police right now.’

  Harry did as he was told.

  Joan kept the gun pressed hard against his head. She reached out a foot and kicked the phone across the room. ‘We’re going back to the kitchen,’ she said. She looked across at Jess. ‘You want to hear the rest of the story, don’t you? You want to know the truth.’

  Jess’s face was white. She stood, her gaze flying between Joan and Sharon, her throat making fast gulping movements as if she was trying not to throw up.

  Joan took a few steps back. ‘Stand up,’ she said to Harry.

  He stared at the gun in her hand. It was a small Glock pistol. Where the hell had she got that? He stood up slowly.

  ‘The kitchen,’ she repeated.

  Jess went first, stumbling as she left the room. Harry walked behind her. He wondered if he should take a chance; he was taller and stronger than Joan Sewell. If he swung around fast enough he could probably disarm her … But what if he got his timing wrong? She was smart enough to be keeping her distance. All it would take was one slight squeeze on the trigger and …

  He had waited too long. The opportunity, had it ever been present, had now passed.

  ‘Sit together on the far side of the table,’ she ordered.

  Joan pulled out the chair opposite. She kept the Glock pointed at Harry. It was beginning to shake a little. He suspected that was more down to the strain of holding it than to any real anxiety. She had murdered once and from the cold expression on her face would not hesitate to do so again.

  Joan laid the gun down on the table but kept her finger on the trigger. The barrel was pointed straight at Harry’s abdomen. ‘Please don’t do anything stupid,’ she said. ‘I might be old but I’m not incompetent.’

  Harry nodded. The proof of that statement was lying in the room next door. His heart was still pumping. Had she lured Jess here to kill her too? No wonder she’d been less than pleased to see she hadn’t come alone. And now she had two people to get rid of instead of one. What he needed was a plan of action. Did he have one? No. In that case the only alternative was to play for time.

  ‘We’re not the only ones who know about Grace,’ he said. ‘If we don’t report back to the office, people are going to come looking for us.’

  Joan ignored him. The threat, had it even registered on her consciousness, appeared to have no impact. She directed what she had to say at Jess. ‘I guessed what you were up to on that day you came to see me. I could have sent you packing but I wanted to find out how much you knew.’

  Jess stared back. Still almost paralysed with shock, she was making a valiant attempt to pull herself together. ‘I didn’t know anything.’

  ‘No,’ Joan said. ‘But you had your suspicions. You thought Grace might still be alive even if you didn’t have the proof.’

  ‘When did you find out?’

  ‘About a year ago.’

  ‘How?’ Jess said.

  For the first time Joan produced what could almost be described as a genuine smile. ‘I saw her coming out of the cemetery. It was raining, pouring down; she had an umbrella up and she walked straight past me. I only caught a glimpse of her face but that’s all it took. Apart from the hair, she looked just like Sharon had at her age. Like two peas in a pod.’

  ‘Why didn’t you stop her?’ Jess said. ‘Why didn’t you say anything?’

  ‘I was too … too shocked, too confused. I thought it was her but … how could it be? It wasn’t until I got to Michael’s grave, until I saw the flowers on it, that I was certain. I was the only one who ever went there. By then it was too late. She’d already gone.’

  ‘And then?’ Jess said.

  ‘And then I came round to see Sharon.’ Joan gave a small high-pitched laugh. ‘She told me I was mad, that I’d been seeing things. She told me I was crazy. She said that Grace was dead. But I knew she was lying – it was in her eyes. I could see the fear in her eyes.’

  ‘You had a row,’ Jess said. ‘The police were called.’

  Harry glanced at her. It was the first he’d heard about it.

  ‘She’d lied to me,’ Joan said. ‘She’d let me go on grieving for all those years. What kind of a woman could pretend that her own child was dead? She let everyone think that Michael was responsible, that he might have … Do you have any idea how many times my brother was interviewed by the police? Do you know what it’s like to have the finger of suspicion pointed at you, day in, day out, for months on end? She killed him. That bitch killed him with her lies!’

  Harry was tempted to respond that if it hadn’t been for Michael Harper Grace would never have had to be hidden in the first place, but wisely kept the comment to himself. He wondered why Ellen had left the flowers: A gesture of forgiveness perhaps?

  ‘Sharon had to be punished. It’s only right.’

  ‘The Law could have punished her,’ Harry said sharply. ‘Why didn’t you go to the police?’

  Joan’s eyes narrowed into slits. ‘The police,’ she repeated contemptuously. ‘What would they have done?’

  ‘They could have—’

  Jess kicked her foot against his ankle. ‘I can understand,’ she said sympathetically. ‘They made a lot of mistakes.’ She threw Harry a warning glance as if to tell him to shut his mouth. ‘They got it all wrong about Michael. They didn’t have a clue, did they? I don’t suppose they treated you
or Francis too well either.’

  ‘Francis didn’t understand what was going on. He was only a boy but the police would have blamed him too if they could have got away with it.’ While she spoke, Joan continued to glare at Harry, her thumb gently stroking the handle of the Glock. It was apparent that she hadn’t exactly taken to him. She was toying, perhaps, with the idea of closing his mouth on a more permanent basis.

  ‘How terrible,’ Jess said. ‘It must have been hard for him – hard for all of you.’ Her voice sounded croaky. She paused, her eyes fixed on the gun, before clearing her throat. ‘So what did you do next?’

  Harry released his breath as Joan’s attention finally returned to Jess. He slowly unclenched his buttocks. Just for a moment there his bowels had become worryingly loose.

  ‘I waited. I was patient.’ She gave another of her thin, slightly hysterical laughs. ‘I’d already waited twenty years; a little longer wasn’t going to make much difference. Sharon had to be in contact with her. Oh, I knew she’d keep her distance for a while – after seeing me, she’d have warned Grace off – but it was only a matter of time.’

  ‘And eventually you saw them together?’

  Joan nodded. ‘About six weeks ago. They met in a café in Camden. I followed Grace back to Berry Square.’

  ‘But you didn’t approach her?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Why not?’ Jess said.

  ‘I needed to think, to decide what to do. I didn’t want to scare her off. I didn’t want her to disappear again. Once I knew where she lived, there wasn’t any hurry.’

  Harry kept very still while he listened to the exchange between the two of them. Jess was doing a pretty good job of keeping Joan Sewell talking. He wasn’t sure if this was a delaying tactic or if she had a different agenda; perhaps she was simply intent on hearing the rest of the story.

  ‘Why do you think Sharon hid Grace away in the first place?’ Jess said.

  Joan’s mouth twisted into an ugly grimace. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? She hated Michael, wanted to hurt him, destroy him. She always was the vindictive sort. She took away the one thing, the only thing he ever really loved; she took away his baby girl and then tried to suggest that he might have killed her.’