Exposed

by Roberta Kray

  ‘But it won’t go to trial,’ Eden insisted. ‘How can it? Once we’ve proved that Tom isn’t this Jack Minter guy they’ll have to let him go.’

  Caitlin gave her a reassuring smile. ‘I’m sure you’re right. Of course you are. It’s just that the legal system doesn’t move quickly and no matter what happens you’ll still have the bills to pay and the mortgage, not to mention food and the rest. And solicitors don’t come cheap either. All I’m saying is that you should be prepared in case it takes a bit longer than you expect.’

  For Eden, who already had so much on her mind, this was one more unwelcome thing to worry about. ‘How much longer?’

  ‘Months, probably. And if you can’t get the proof together, it could be six, perhaps even nine before the trial gets under way.’

  Eden couldn’t imagine being apart from Tom for that length of time. The thought made her stomach turn over. ‘Jesus,’ she murmured.

  Caitlin bent and kissed her on the cheek. ‘I’m sure it won’t come to that,’ she said. ‘And if you need anything – it doesn’t matter what – just let me know. Are you sure you’ll be all right? I don’t like leaving you on your own.’

  ‘I’ll be fine. I will, honestly. And thanks again for staying over.’

  After Caitlin had left, Eden returned to the kitchen, sat down and put her head in her hands. She hadn’t even thought about money. How much was in the joint account? About two thousand, she thought, enough for now but if it all dragged on… No, she wasn’t going to start stressing about that. There were more important things to be worrying about at the moment.

  Quickly she stood up again, found a couple of aspirin, washed them down with the rest of the coffee and began searching the flat for evidence of what Tom was really doing on 4 November 1966. She could understand his vagueness on the subject. What had she been doing on that particular day? Well, she had probably been at school – she’d only been ten – but as to what lessons she’d had or who she’d talked to or whether it had been dry or rainy she didn’t have a clue.

  Eden began with the bureau in the living room, rooting through drawers full of folders, old bills, takeaway fliers, keys, elastic bands and fluff. It didn’t take her long to find his current passport. She flipped it open and looked at the picture, her heart missing a beat as she stared at the face she knew so well.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she murmured as if he could hear her. ‘You’ll be home soon. I promise.’

  She turned over the pages, but the passport was only a couple of years old and the single stamp was the one for Italy where they had spent their belated honeymoon four months after they’d got married. Rome, Florence, Milan. The memory of those happy days swept over her. Tears rose to her eyes but she smartly brushed them away. Strength was what was needed now, a bit of courage and a lot of determination. She had things to do and drowning in self-pity wasn’t one of them.

  Carrying on the search she sifted through a heap of papers: mortgage statements, house insurance, car insurance, MOT, rates, guarantees and warranties. There was nothing that went back further than a couple of years. No old passports, letters, diaries or appointment books. It was possible, though, that she would find some of these at the studio.

  The next thing she came across was Tom’s birth certificate. She unfolded the wide narrow slip of paper and read the details. Thomas James Chase. Born in Norwich on the seventeenth of April. Father: Clive Chase. Mother: Andrea Elizabeth Chase. Clive’s occupation was listed as ‘Train driver’ and Andrea’s as ‘Housewife’. Why hadn’t she known their names? Because she’d never asked and he had never volunteered the information. He rarely talked about his family and when he did it was only to say there had been problems. He’d left home at fifteen, after the death of his mother, and never gone back.

  Eden refolded the certificate and put it on top of the bureau. She wasn’t sure what use it was – probably none – but she laid it to one side anyway. Although she wondered what had caused the rift with his family, she knew from personal experience that people couldn’t always live together. She only had to be in her father’s company for an hour or two before the inevitable row broke out. Chalk and cheese. They rubbed each other up the wrong way and that was the beginning and end of it. Still, for all that, she wouldn’t want to be completely disconnected from him.

  The phone rang and she crossed the room to answer it. ‘Hello?’

  It was Annabelle. She didn’t bother saying who it was but just asked brusquely, ‘Is Tom there?’

  ‘No, he isn’t.’

  ‘Is he coming into work today?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So can you get him to call me? I don’t know what I’m supposed to be doing. I’ve got clients ringing up for appointments. What do I say? Do I book them in or not?’

  And Eden suddenly realised that she couldn’t put things off any more; she had to stop procrastinating and take control. ‘No, don’t take any more bookings and cancel everything that’s already in the book.’

  ‘What, everything?’

  ‘Yes. Apologise and tell them that Tom’s been taken ill, that we’ll be in touch when he’s back at work.’

  There was a long pause before Annabelle asked, ‘Is this to do with the police? What’s going on?’

  ‘I’ve just said, haven’t I? Oh and there’s no need to come in tomorrow. I’m afraid we’ll have to close the studio for a while.’

  ‘So what am I supposed to do?’ Annabelle whined. ‘You’re going to pay me, yes? You can’t just —’

  ‘I’m sorry but I have to go,’ Eden interrupted. ‘I’ll call you on Monday. Don’t worry; we’ll sort something out.’

  As she put down the phone, she wondered if she’d done the right thing. A cancelled appointment could be a client lost for ever. But if Caitlin was right – and she usually was – then it would be a while before Tom was free to work again. In the meantime all she could aim for was damage limitation.

  Eden went on with her search, checking the bedroom and kitchen, but found nothing more of interest. It occurred to her as she returned to the living room that there was very little evidence that Tom had even had a past. There were no mementoes, no letters, not even a postcard from a friend. But then maybe all his memories were wrapped up in his photographs and those, apart from the two on the wall, were all at the studio. That would be her next port of call, but not until this evening after Annabelle had left.

  It was a quarter past eleven before the phone rang again. This time it was Michael Castor informing her that Tom had put in his plea of ‘Not guilty’ and had been remanded not to the Scrubs or Wandsworth but to HMP Thornley Heath.

  Eden, although she’d been expecting the news, felt a stab of disappointment. A part of her had still been hoping for a miracle, that the judge would glance at the evidence and throw the case out of court. Or if that didn’t happen that Tom might at least get bail. ‘Where’s Thornley Heath?’ she asked glumly.

  ‘It’s not that far. Near Chingford.’

  Still London, then. That was a relief. She’d suddenly had visions of him being taken halfway across the country to some strange place she’d never been to before. ‘How is he? Is he okay?’

  ‘Bearing up,’ Castor said.

  From the glib way it fell from his tongue, Eden suspected that this was a stock reply he was used to giving. Still, what else could he say? The truth wasn’t what anyone wanted to hear. ‘Will he be able to call me?’

  ‘It might take a day or two. He’ll have to be processed first.’

  Processed, she thought, like a piece of meat. ‘So what happens next?’

  ‘We get to work proving that Tom isn’t an armed robber and never went under the name of Jack Minter. And he needs to start figuring out where he was and what he was doing in November ’sixty-six.’ He paused and then added, ‘Can you think of anyone who Tom has fallen out with recently, anyone he might have upset?’

  Eden didn’t need to think twice about it. ‘No, he’s not that type of person. Really, h
e isn’t. He’s a photographer, for God’s sake. Who is he going to fall out with?’

  ‘Even photographers have enemies, Eden – professional jealousy, an unhappy client?’

  ‘So unhappy they’d want to frame him for murder?’

  ‘It’s a long shot, but we have to consider every possibility. Look, maybe you could talk to some of his old friends, see if they can recall what Tom was doing back then.’

  ‘I will,’ she said.

  It was only after she’d hung up that she realised how hard that was going to be. For one she wasn’t sure how far back any of them went, and for two she was going to have to explain the reason for the call. And as soon as she did that it would be public knowledge that Tom had been arrested and charged with manslaughter. Not that word wouldn’t get out eventually, but she dreaded having to break the news. What if they all turned their backs on him, believing he was guilty? The thought was too awful to contemplate.

  Eden flicked through the address book, scanning the entries. If she’d been asked to identify Tom’s best friend, she wouldn’t have been able to come up with one name in particular. Denny Fielding? Andy Marsh? Jerry McClean? John Simms? Although he hung out with all of them, she’d never got the impression that he was especially close to any one of them. Denny, she decided, was probably the best bet. He owned a camera shop on Tottenham Court Road and of the four men was probably the most approachable.

  Eden took a deep breath and picked up the phone.

  8

  As she crossed the piazza in Covent Garden, Eden was relieved to see that every floor of the building on Henrietta Street was in darkness. There hadn’t been much doubt about the studio – Annabelle had probably left well before five – but the two other offices, above and below, could still have been occupied. The theatrical agency, especially, often kept late hours.

  By now, of course, everyone would be talking about how the police had come and taken Tom away… and how he had not come back. And Annabelle no doubt had been busy fuelling the gossip. How much would she have told them? Well, enough to keep the tongues wagging. She’d have enjoyed holding forth, being the centre of attention, adopting a wide-eyed expression as she embellished every detail of the story.

  It was ten past seven and the piazza was full of people, some on their way to the theatre or cinema, others just heading for one of the bars. It was Friday night, the end of the week and she could feel the anticipation, the buzz in the crowd; two whole days of freedom lying ahead. Normally she’d have felt it too… except there was no normal now. Everything had changed. Everything was strange and wrong and scary.

  Eden hurried over to the door, opened it with her key, switched on the light in the foyer and locked the door behind her. As she climbed the stairs she went over the conversation she’d had with Denny Fielding. He’d laughed out loud when she’d told him that Tom had been arrested.

  ‘No way. You’re having a laugh. You’re kidding me, right?’

  And it had taken her a further five minutes to explain the situation and convince him that this wasn’t some bizarre and tasteless joke. ‘So this guy – and we don’t even know who it is yet – has named Tom as being part of the gang who did the robbery. It’s completely crazy. And he says Tom was using the name Jack Minter. Does that mean anything to you?’

  ‘Sorry, love. Not a clue. I’ve never heard it before.’

  It turned out she’d been right about him not having known Tom for that long. They’d only become friendly four years ago when Denny first opened his shop. He hadn’t been able to help when it came to mutual friends either. None of them, so far as he was aware, had been acquainted with Tom in the sixties.

  ‘I’ll have a think about it though. I’ll give you a bell if anyone comes to mind.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Although he shouldn’t have too much trouble figuring out where he was back then. At least in July.’

  ‘Shouldn’t he?’ Eden asked.

  ‘Course not. Four–two.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Four–two,’ he repeated.

  ‘Is that supposed to mean something?’

  ‘The score,’ Denny said. ‘The World Cup. The football. It was 1966. Anyone of a certain age knows where they were when England thrashed Germany.’

  Eden had put the phone down feeling that some progress had been made. Tom, even though he wasn’t an ardent football fan, must have been following the national team. It hadn’t been November but it was surely close enough to jog his memory.

  As Eden unlocked the studio and went inside, she recalled how she hadn’t told Denny everything. She hadn’t mentioned, for example, that a bracelet from the robbery was found in the safe. Why not? Because she hadn’t wanted to plant a seed of doubt in his mind. Tom being accused was bad enough, but having stolen property found on his premises could be seen as damning. Sometimes it was all too easy for people to believe the worst.

  The light flickered on and she gazed around. The reception area wasn’t too bad – she’d helped Annabelle clear up most of the mess yesterday – but a big heap of photographs still lay on the desk. She walked over and flicked open the appointments book. A hard black line had been put through every name for the next two weeks. She winced, knowing how hard Tom had worked to build up his client list. If he didn’t get out of jail soon he could lose some of his customers for good.

  It had been a risk for him setting up in Covent Garden – an expensive risk – but the gamble had been starting to pay off. Gradually his popularity and his reputation were growing. Word was getting round and some of the more fashionable magazines had started to hire him. He had an extraordinary talent, an ability to get beyond the surface, to strip back and reveal. His portraits were more than just faces or poses; they had the power to capture the very essence of the person who was sitting.

  Eden walked through to the studio. She had never been here on her own before and there was an odd eerie feel to the room. Like a place abandoned, she thought. The air was still, as if it was holding its breath. She had the sensation of dust gathering, dust settling, even though it was only a day since Tom had been taken away. His Leica, poised for action, was sitting on the tripod. She reached out and touched the smooth cool surface of the metal.

  For a moment she sank into despair and was too overwhelmed to move. What if he was never coming back? What if the very worst happened, if the law got it wrong and he was condemned to a life behind bars? She closed her eyes, trying to block out the prospect. It couldn’t happen. It wouldn’t happen. Her fingers slid from the camera, her arm falling back to her side.

  Before she could be defeated by fear, Eden quickly opened her eyes again. What was she doing? Wasting precious time, that was what. She had to pull herself together and stop imagining the worst. Evidence was what was needed if she was to get Tom out of the hole he was in. Her gaze alighted on the filing cabinets lined up along the wall. That was the place to start.

  Eden began opening and closing the drawers, checking out what was inside each of them. They were mainly client files, ordered alphabetically with folders containing prints and negatives. The accounts were in one drawer with letters and invoices, advertising material in another. She continued until she came to a cabinet that seemed more promising. This one, containing a pile of shallow white boxes, envelopes and unused film, had a more haphazard feel to it, as if the contents hadn’t been properly organised yet.

  She pulled out all the boxes, put them on the floor, knelt down and began to rifle through them. Quickly her heart sank. There must be thousands of photos. A few of the boxes had Tom’s writing on the front, a scrawled Paris or Madrid, but most were blank. She could take a guess at some locations while others were a mystery. And there were hardly any dates.

  ‘Damn it,’ she murmured.

  After a while she came across a box containing photos of London: people walking through Carnaby Street, Piccadilly, Victoria station. And pictures of the East End too, black and white shots of Bethnal Green, Whitechapel a
nd Hoxton. She thought they had a sixties feel to them, was almost sure of it as she studied the faces and the clothes. But when in the sixties? Early or late? She put the boxes to one side, intending to take them home and examine them more carefully.

  It was another half hour before she found the Budapest pictures. At least she presumed they’d been taken in Budapest. Her Hungarian was non-existent but she knew the language on the street signs wasn’t German. She picked up the first few photos, scrutinising the faces: five guys in a bar, a man and a woman sitting outside a café, a couple strolling along a moonlit road. Was Jack Minter in any of the shots? How would she know? She didn’t have a clue what he looked like. After putting the photos back, she closed the lid on the box and placed it beside the London one.

  Eden stood up, crossed the room to the far wall and swung back the framed print to reveal the safe. She turned the dial, hoping that Tom hadn’t changed the combination. It was a relief when she heard the reassuring click. Inside were three more cameras – a Nikon, a Minolta and a Polaroid – as well as spare lenses, two worn leather cases and a large amount of film, some of it waiting to be developed, some of it unused. She pushed it all aside and delved into the back, hoping to find something more useful.