Exposed

by Roberta Kray

  Eden finished the coffee, reiterated her heartfelt thanks for Geoff’s contribution to her rescue, and left. It was starting to rain and as she jogged along the pavement to the car her thoughts were preoccupied by the mystery man. She was still sure she hadn’t spoken to him, sure she hadn’t come round, and if that was the case then how could he have known Tom wasn’t in the flat?

  It had to be someone who knew Tom was in jail. Either that or someone who’d been watching the house all evening. And the military angle – if it was true – ruled out the likes of the reporter Jimmy Letts. Not that he’d really crossed her mind as a likely candidate. Letts was more likely to get out his notebook than climb up a ladder.

  ‘Who are you?’ she muttered as she got into the car.

  Her problem was she didn’t know what to feel, what to think. She was torn between gratitude and suspicion. On the one hand she was indebted to the man for saving her life, but on the other couldn’t help wondering if he was the one who’d put her life in danger in the first place. Why hadn’t he stuck around to talk to the police? There was something odd about that.

  Eden sighed and turned her mind to more immediate concerns. She took out the list she had made and studied it, wondering where to start. Clothes were the most pressing requirement: jeans, trousers, tops, sweaters, coat, socks, tights, underwear and shoes. And these were just the basics. She also needed a handbag and a purse. Not to mention a watch if she was ever going to get anywhere on time. Caitlin had bought her a new toothbrush, but she still needed make-up, cleanser, moisturiser, cotton wool, shampoo, conditioner and a comb. Eden knew she had to buy carefully, thriftily, if she was going to make her cash last. It would be a while before any insurance money came through and with limited funds in the bank she couldn’t afford to splash out on anything that wasn’t strictly necessary. She thought of Chapel Street market but then remembered it was closed on Mondays. Still, there were other cheap places to shop in Islington. She stared through the windscreen at the rain – and mentally added an umbrella to her list.

  Two hours later, tired, wet and hungry, Eden was making her way back to the car laden with carrier bags. There was nothing much to excite her about the purchases she’d made, but at least she’d got the essentials. And she’d struck it lucky at one of the charity shops, managing to buy a new-looking black wool coat and a pair of slightly scuffed but still serviceable leather ankle boots for less than a tenner.

  Eden was passing the Tube station when a solution to her housing problem suddenly occurred to her. Why hadn’t she thought of it before? The Kellston flat was empty and there was no reason why she shouldn’t move into it. She dived into a phone box, dumped the carrier bags at her feet and dialled Directory Enquiries. Thirty seconds later, having got the number she wanted, she was talking to Elspeth Coyle.

  ‘So you see,’ Eden said, after having explained about the fire, ‘I need somewhere to stay, but I haven’t got any keys. The spares were in the flat in Pope Street.’

  ‘You can pick some up from the letting agents: Weston’s. They’re on Kellston High Street, about halfway down. I’ll give them a call, explain the circumstances and tell them to expect you. What time do you think you’ll be there?’

  Eden glanced at her watch. ‘About half an hour? Say two o’clock?’

  ‘Okay, that should be fine. Have you had any more thoughts on the studio?’

  ‘I think we’re going to hold on to it for now. I’ll let you know if anything changes.’

  After Eden had expressed her thanks, said her goodbyes and hung up, she started thinking about the studio. There had to be a negative of the lost ‘Jack Minter’ photograph sitting somewhere in the filing cabinets. But it could take for ever to find it. Still, it was worth a go if it meant she could finally put a face to the man who had given Tom the bracelet.

  Eden returned to the car, piled the bags into the boot and set off for Kellston. When it came to places to live, the East End wasn’t exactly top of her list, but it was better than nowhere. Although she knew Caitlin wouldn’t mind her staying on, the flat was really too small for two. Plus there was always the nagging fear that just by being there she might be putting Caitlin in danger.

  By the time Eden was driving down Kellston High Street, however, she was beginning to have second thoughts. There was something menacing about the area, something dreary and grey and depressing. She had to fight against the impulse to drive straight through and head back to Finchley.

  Eventually she pulled herself together, found the office for the letting agent and picked up the keys. Then she drove up towards the top of the high street and found a place to park. She sat for a while gazing up at the three concrete towers before getting out, crossing the road and unlocking the door to the flat.

  It was icy inside and she rubbed her hands together as she ran up the stairs. She went into the living room and gazed round. It’s not so bad, she told herself. With a bit of effort – and a lot of imagination – she could make it nice enough. And anyway, it wouldn’t be for ever. If Tom could cope with a prison cell, she could cope with this.

  Eden walked over to the window and gazed down at the funeral parlour. She almost expected the man to be there again – was he the undertaker? – but the space to the side of the door was empty. She turned away, faced the room again and sighed.

  ‘Home sweet home,’ she murmured into the emptiness.

  35

  DI Banner needed his star witness to be word perfect by the time the trial came round, all the wrinkles and inconsistencies in his story ironed out so there was nothing for the defence to jump on, but sometimes Archie wasn’t as cooperative as he might be. There were occasions when he’d hardly speak at all, when he’d stare at the floor with a stubborn, almost sly expression on his face. It was the kind of expression Banner didn’t want a jury to see.

  ‘You think he’s getting cold feet?’ DC Steve Leigh asked.

  ‘No, it’s too late for that. He’s just pissing about, trying to make sure he gets the best deal he can.’

  ‘Let’s hope you’re right.’

  Vic glared at him. ‘Lesson number one, son. I’m always fuckin’ right.’ He lit up a fag, puffed on it and thought some more about Archie. ‘You got anything on that Albert Shiner yet?’

  ‘Still dead,’ Leigh said drily. ‘The Shiners didn’t have any kids, but I managed to track down a niece. The studio was sold after Albert passed on. Unfortunately, she doesn’t know what happened to the books so there’s no way of proving that Tom Chase was actually working there in ’sixty-six.’

  ‘Or that he wasn’t.’ Vic didn’t care whether they could prove it or not, so long as the defence was in the same situation. What he didn’t want were any nasty surprises when the trial was in progress. ‘Check out the surrounding shops, see if any of the owners were trading at the same time as Shiner. Someone might remember Chase. Take a photo with you, show it around.’

  ‘Yes, guv.’

  Vic waited, but the constable didn’t move. ‘Today would be good, if you’re not too busy. And don’t bother coming back until you’ve found out something useful.’

  After Leigh had left, Vic opened the Hackney Herald and flicked through the pages until he came to the story about Vera Lynch and her long-dead husband. He grinned at the picture; despite the photographer’s best attempt to take a sympathetic portrait, she still looked capable of ripping the head off any poor sod who happened to cross her.

  He read through the article, noting that it didn’t mention Tom Chase by name; he was referred to only as a man from Islington who had been charged with the manslaughter of Paddy Lynch. There were a few choice quotes from Vera, one of them accusing the police of failing to properly investigate her husband’s death at the time because he’d ‘occasionally’ been in trouble with the law. Vic gave a snort. Paddy had never been out of trouble from the moment he left his mother’s tit.

  It was the last part of the story that really pissed off Vic, in particular the reference to a suspected
‘squealer’ currently being held at a London police station. Where the fuck had that come from? A lucky guess or a tip-off? He’d had the whole case on lockdown ever since Archie had agreed to spill his guts. There were only half a dozen people who knew about it apart from Rudd’s immediate family – and the latter were hardly likely to be shouting their mouths off.

  It wouldn’t be long now before it became common knowledge that Archie Rudd was turning Queen’s evidence. The East End rumour mill would already be in full swing, the local villains rapidly putting two and two together. The squealer had to be someone who was active back in the sixties, someone who knew Paddy, someone who had recently been caught on another job. Word would soon get around that Archie had been ghosted out of the Scrubs and hadn’t been seen since. The fact that Rose had left the area would only add fuel to the fire.

  Vic pondered on how this development would affect the case. Archie wouldn’t be best pleased that the cat was out of the bag – for as long as it remained a secret he’d always had the choice of changing his mind, but now that option would be closed to him. On the one hand this was a good thing. It might help focus Archie’s mind if he understood there was no going back. On the other hand, there was every chance that Tom Chase would get to hear the name of his accuser sooner than Vic would have liked. The defence now had more time to try and discredit whatever Archie Rudd was going to claim in court.

  Vic stubbed out his fag in the ashtray and immediately lit another. He pushed the paper to one side, picked up a brown folder and flipped it open. Inside was the original statement from the security guard, Roger Best, who’d been at the Epping warehouse during the raid. His description of the robbers was too vague to make a direct link to Tom Chase. All of them had been wearing balaclavas, their faces obscured. The only thing he could say for sure was that the guy in charge hadn’t been Cockney. That was something, but it wasn’t enough. Vic would have to interview him again, try and jog his memory as to what he’d really seen and heard that day.

  ‘Guv?’

  Vic looked up to see DC Steve Leigh standing in front of him. ‘Jesus, what are you still doing here? I thought I said —’

  ‘You’re going to want to hear this, guv. There was a phone message left yesterday from a DS Nicholls over at Islington. It was supposed to be passed on but… Anyway, here it is.’ He dropped the slip of paper on to Vic’s desk. ‘There was a fire in Pope Street in the early hours of Saturday morning, Tom Chase’s place. Arson, they reckon. No fatalities, but Eden Chase was taken to hospital.’

  Vic glared at him. ‘Yesterday? For fuck’s sake. Why have I only just got it?’

  ‘I think there was some confusion over who it should go to. Apparently the desk wasn’t sure who was dealing with the Tom Chase case so —’

  ‘She still there?’ Vic interrupted. ‘Is she still in hospital?’

  Leigh shook his head. ‘I dunno, guv.’

  ‘So find out. Do something fuckin’ useful for once.’

  Vic picked up the phone, dialled the number on the slip of paper and asked to be put through to DS Nicholls. ‘Hey,’ he said when the officer finally came on the line. ‘DI Vic Banner, West End Central. I just got your message.’

  ‘Thanks for calling me back.’

  Vic listened carefully while Nicholls gave him the low-down on the fire. ‘So it was definitely arson, yeah, no doubt about it?’

  ‘No doubt at all.’

  ‘You got any suspects?’

  ‘I was kind of hoping you could help me out there. I spoke to Eden Chase at the hospital and she told me her husband, Tom, was on remand.’

  ‘Armed robbery and manslaughter. It’s an old case.’

  ‘Who was the victim?’

  Vic hesitated, not wanting to say too much over the phone.

  ‘Bit of a sensitive one, is it?’

  ‘You could put it that way,’ Vic said. ‘How about we meet up later? I’ll come over to Islington. The Cat and Whistle, the small bar at the back? Six o’clock any good for you?’

  ‘I’ll see you there.’

  Vic hung up. He hadn’t decided yet how much he was going to tell the guy. He still wanted to try and keep things under wraps for as long as he could. His eyes darted towards the Hackney Herald. Had the reporter tipped off Vera Lynch, given her the name of the man accused of leaving Paddy to die? It seemed more than likely. And it seemed likely too that Vera had passed on the information to her son.

  Vic hissed out a breath as he thought about Pat Lynch. The bloke was a fully paid-up member of the psychopath club, a vicious monster who preyed on women. And he wouldn’t let the minor inconvenience of being banged up stop him from wreaking revenge. Although Lynch would be unaware of what jail Chase was in at the moment, it was only a matter of time before he found out. The prison grapevine stretched far and wide.

  Vic sucked on his cigarette. He was pretty sure the fire was down to Lynch. The psycho had probably decided that if he couldn’t get to Chase then his wife and home would do instead. No, not instead. Just in the meantime. It wouldn’t be long before word got back as to Tom Chase’s whereabouts, and then Lynch would exact a more direct form of retribution. There’d be a bounty on Chase’s head. He’d be dead meat within the month.

  Vic couldn’t allow this to happen. If Chase was topped, there would be no trial, no publicity, no triumph and no bloody promotion. All his hard work with Archie would have been for nothing. Well, he wasn’t having it. No way. He wasn’t going to sit back and let Pat Lynch ruin all his plans. He had to keep Chase safe until the trial.

  Vic opened his address book, picked up the phone and dialled. ‘Hey, Tammy. How are you doing, sweetheart?’

  ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Yeah, try not to sound so happy about it.’

  ‘What’s there to be happy about?’

  Vic rolled his eyes. ‘I need to see you.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘Soon as. Half an hour.’

  ‘I can’t. I’m busy.’

  ‘It’s not a request, darling.’

  But Tammy was still resistant. ‘Look, I’ve got Mia to take care of. I haven’t got anyone to leave her with and I can’t drag her out to some shithole pub in Soho.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll come over to your place, then.’

  ‘No way! I’m not having that. Are you mad? What are you trying to do? If anyone sees you here, I’ll be for it.’

  Vic grinned, aware that the idea wouldn’t be appealing to her. ‘So tell me where, then. Only make it snappy ’cause I haven’t got all day.’

  ‘All right, let me think.’

  There was a long pause on the other end of the line. Vic smoked his fag, small impatient tugs while he waited for her to make a suggestion. ‘Jesus, Tammy, just name a place.’

  ‘I’m trying to think, ain’t I?’ She sighed and said, ‘Okay, I’ll meet you at Malt Street. On the corner, where they’ve pulled those old houses down.’

  ‘Malt Street,’ he repeated. ‘Half an hour. Don’t keep me waiting.’

  Tammy hung up.

  Vic put the phone down, still grinning. He looked across the incident room to where DC Leigh was just finishing a call of his own. The constable stood up and came over to him.

  ‘Well?’ Vic asked.

  ‘Nothing serious. Some smoke inhalation, but she got the all-clear. They let her out of hospital yesterday afternoon. She’s staying with a woman called Caitlin Styles.’ He dropped a slip of paper on to Vic’s desk. ‘Finchley. Here’s the address.’

  ‘Right. Good. Now get your arse out to Essex and sort out that Shiner business.’

  Vic watched him leave and then stubbed out the fag, grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and set off for Shoreditch. While he drove he went over the whole Pat Lynch problem, figuring out the best way to deal with it. Come what may, he wasn’t going to let some no-good lowlife get the better of him.

  The traffic was bad – an accident blocking the roundabout at Old Street – and by the time he got to Malt Stre
et, Tammy was already there. She was standing on the corner, shuffling from foot to foot. The hood was up on her coat and she had the hunched, furtive look of a dealer. He pulled up next to her. She hesitated, having a quick glance round before climbing into the passenger seat.

  ‘You’re late,’ she whined. ‘I’ve been here for ages.’

  ‘So where’s the kid?’ he asked, coming straight back at her. ‘You’ve not left her on her own, have you?’

  Tammy glared at him. ‘She’s with a neighbour. I haven’t got long. What is it? What do you want?’

  ‘We’ve got a bit of a situation as regards Eden Chase.’

  ‘What sort of situation?’

  ‘A tricky one. I need you to do something.’

  Tammy wrinkled her nose as if there was a bad smell in the car. ‘Like what?’