by Roberta Kray
‘What kind of things?’
‘Well, there’s Archie Rudd for starters.’ Eden put the mug down on the coffee table, picked up a carrier bag from the floor and took out a stack of photocopies. ‘I went to Colindale newspaper library again and did a search through the records. You wouldn’t believe how much form this guy has got. He’s been in and out of prison all his life.’
‘That’s why he’s turning Queen’s evidence. He doesn’t fancy another long stretch.’
‘I need to figure out why he’s accusing Tom.’
Caitlin glanced towards the heap of paper. ‘And you think the answer’s in there?’
‘I’ve no idea, but there could be something. He couldn’t have just plucked Tom’s name from thin air. Jack Minter must have given it to him.’
‘But I thought Minter didn’t meet Tom until after the robbery?’
‘He didn’t. But Rudd and Jack Minter could have seen each other since. Minter could have mentioned Tom’s name and… I don’t know. I can’t make any sense of it. Not yet. But there has to be an explanation.’
‘Maybe you need to find out who else was on the Epping job. There must have been what, half a dozen of them? If Rudd’s naming names, he’ll have to provide those too. And they’re not going to be happy about it. You should call Castor, see if he knows anything about the other members of the gang.’
‘If he’ll tell me.’ Eden sighed and put the papers down. She was quiet for a moment. The sound of traffic came through the closed windows, a perpetual roar she would have to get used to. ‘Annabelle said Tom was a liar and a cheat.’
‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she? She’s just trying to stir it. She’s hardly going to say anything nice after you just got rid of her.’
‘Unless she knows something I don’t.’
‘Do you think he has lied to you?’
Eden screwed up her face. ‘Not lied, exactly, but he hasn’t been what you’d call open and honest. I didn’t even know this flat existed until recently. It’s not normal to keep something like that from your own wife. And I only have to mention his family and he instantly clams up. He won’t tell me anything about them, not really.’
‘But that’s Tom, I guess. He’s always come across as a private sort of guy.’
‘Private or secretive?’
‘It’s a thin line,’ Caitlin said. ‘But don’t let that bitch get under your skin. She’s out to cause trouble. Don’t give her the satisfaction.’
‘I’ll try, but…’
‘But?’
Eden wouldn’t have been so honest with anyone other than Caitlin. ‘I don’t think he’s guilty, not for a second, but I’m starting to wonder if I actually know him at all. The things I’ve been finding out… not just the flat, but the Munich money, the way he started his business, his friendship with Jack Minter… I just… sometimes he feels more like a stranger than a husband. Is that a terrible thing to say?’
Caitlin reached out and pressed her hand. ‘No, it’s not terrible. Of course it isn’t. For whatever reason, he hasn’t been straight with you. Maybe that’s something the two of you need to talk about.’
‘Only I won’t be seeing him for ages. And God, what am I going to do about writing? I’m supposed to be in Edinburgh in a few days.’
‘What about your brother? Would he help you out, forward on your mail to Tom?’
Eden shook her head. ‘No, I don’t want him involved in all this. He’d have to lie to Dad and that isn’t fair on him. I’ll think of something else. Maybe I could tell Tom that Dad’s going abroad on business, that I don’t want to be alone in the house and so I’m staying with a friend instead, someone who lives outside London. Kent, perhaps. That’s not too far away, is it? Straight through the Blackwall Tunnel and I’m almost there.’
‘Expensive letters,’ Caitlin said. ‘Are you sure you want to lie to him like this?’
‘I know it makes me sound like a hypocrite. I complain about him not being straight and then… but I don’t have any choice. If I want him to stick to his side of the bargain, I’ve got to make him believe I’m sticking to mine.’
‘And what about his accountant – Elspeth, is it? – what if she tells him that you’ve moved in here?’
‘I’ll have to take the chance. I shouldn’t think he’s got that much contact with her at the moment. I could always say I thought about it and then changed my mind.’
Caitlin gave a small shake of her head. ‘I’m worried about you staying in London.’
‘Don’t be. No one’s going to know I’m here. I’ll be careful.’
‘Make sure you are. Don’t tell anyone else. I mean it, Eden.’
‘I won’t.’
‘Not even Denny. That Fiona can’t keep her mouth shut for more than five minutes.’
Eden nodded. ‘Especially not Denny and Fiona.’
‘Or that girl you’ve been giving a lift to.’
‘Tammy?’
‘Yeah, Tammy. Stick to the story and tell her you’re going up to Edinburgh.’
‘Tammy’s okay. She won’t say anything.’
‘I’m sure she won’t – not deliberately – but she’s going to the prison every week. She might let something slip. Tom’s not going to be too happy if he finds out you’re still in London.’
Eden wasn’t sure how Tom could find out if he was down the block, but it was probably better to be safe than sorry. However, she did feel guilty about abandoning Tammy. Having seen the bruises, she suspected the girl needed all the friends she could get at the moment. ‘All right. I promise.’
‘What about money?’ Caitlin asked. ‘Are you all right? It could be a while before the insurance comes through.’
‘I’ll be okay. Most of the mortgage is paid off on this place so there’s not much to pay every month. I reckon I can manage it now I’ve got a job.’
Caitlin looked surprised. ‘A job? What job? You didn’t tell me about that.’
‘I only got it this morning. It’s nothing much, just some shifts in the café down the road. I was walking past and there was a card in the window so I went in and… well, you’re now looking at the newest waitress in Connolly’s.’
‘Do you think that’s a good idea?’
‘If I want to eat and pay the bills, then yes.’
‘But working round here. Don’t you think it’s kind of risky? That Vera Lynch doesn’t live far away. What if she comes into the café and realises who you are?’
‘Why would she? Realise who I am, I mean. I won’t be wearing a name tag and no one takes much notice of waitresses. Anyway, I used my maiden name, so as far as John Connolly and anyone else who works there are concerned I’m Edie Shore.’
Caitlin grinned. ‘Edie?’
‘I know. It’s awful. But I don’t care so long as no one guesses who I really am. And I’ll be paid in cash. It’s not much but I get to keep any tips I make.’
‘Have you ever done waitressing before?’
‘No, but it can’t be that hard.’
‘Famous last words. Just make sure you’ve got some comfy shoes. It’s not easy being on your feet for hours.’ Caitlin paused before adding, ‘And for God’s sake be careful. I don’t know if it’s a smart idea working as well as living round here.’
‘It saves on travelling costs. I’ve only got to walk down the road and I’m there. There’s no point wasting money on bus fares or petrol. I’ve got to save every penny I can.’
Caitlin opened her mouth to say something else but was interrupted by the ringing of the phone.
Eden rose to her feet and quickly crossed the room. The only people who had the new number were Caitlin, her dad and Tom’s lawyer. She hadn’t given it to the police. So far as they were concerned, she was still in Finchley and that’s the way she wanted to keep it. She could do without any unannounced visits from the despicable Vic Banner. However, she had left a message for Castor, saying she was staying with a friend after the fire, and provided the Kellston number as the one sh
e could currently be contacted on.
‘Hello?’
‘Is that Mrs Chase?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Michael Castor here. I’m glad I caught you.’
Eden felt a sudden jolt of alarm. Castor had barely been in touch since Tom’s appearance in court and immediately she presumed the news must be bad. ‘Has something happened? Is Tom all right?’
‘Yes, yes, he’s fine. It’s nothing like that. Only I’ve just come out from a legal visit with him and… well, there have been some developments.’
‘What sort of developments?’
‘He wants to see you. Could you go to the prison on Monday? I’ve been able to arrange a special visit.’
‘What do you mean? What’s going on?’
‘If you turn up at the usual time and —’
Eden’s mouth had gone dry. ‘What developments?’ she repeated.
There was a brief hesitation from the other end of the line. ‘I’m afraid I can’t tell you that. Tom wishes to talk to you himself. But if there’s anything you want to ask afterwards, please feel free to give me a call.’
‘You have to tell me,’ Eden insisted, her voice rising up an octave as a heady cocktail of fear and panic rushed to her head. ‘You can’t just… You can’t leave it like this. What’s it about? Please, tell me something.’
‘I’m sorry. I wish I could help but —’
‘You can help. It’s another two days until Monday. How am I supposed to get through the weekend? I have to know.’
‘I’m afraid there’s nothing more I can say. I’m under strict instructions from my client. I know this is difficult, but Tom will explain everything when he sees you.’ And then, before she had the chance to make any more pleas, he said a formal goodbye and hung up.
Eden could feel the thumping in her chest as she put the phone down. She turned to look at Caitlin. ‘That was Castor. Tom wants to see me on Monday.’
‘What about?’
‘I wish I knew. He says there have been some developments, but wouldn’t tell me anything more. They can’t be good ones, can they? I mean, if it was good news he’d have told me straight out. Anyway, I could tell from the tone of his voice. Something seriously bad is going on.’
‘You can’t be sure of that, not yet.’
Eden walked back across the room and slumped down on the sofa. She covered her face with her hands and took long deep breaths, trying to calm down. ‘I am sure of it.’
Caitlin put an arm around her. ‘What are you thinking?’
But Eden couldn’t bring herself to say the words out loud. Even having them in her head made her feel cold and treacherous. Was it possible that Tom had confessed? Instantly, she stamped on the thought. No, it couldn’t be that. He was innocent. He’d sworn to her. Her husband wasn’t an armed robber, not the type of man to leave someone to die. He wasn’t. He couldn’t be. She closed and eyes and prayed. Please, God, don’t let it be that.
43
Max Tamer bent down and collected the mail, a heap of fliers and the free local paper, and put it all on the hall table. It was only then that he noticed the pale blue airmail envelope lying half hidden between a couple of bills. He picked up the letter and turned it over, looking at the address on the back even though he already knew it was from Ann-Marie’s mother, Juliette. Her letters came less often now. What was there left for her to say? He hesitated, almost tore it open, but then changed his mind.
After putting the letter and bills to one side, he took the junk through to the kitchen where he dropped it into the bin. Then he made a rapid tour of the flat, checking that everything was in order after the recent bad weather – no burst pipes, leaks or other emergencies that needed his attention.
The place smelled musty and abandoned. A fine film of dust covered every surface. He rarely slept here these days. He couldn’t bear the silence or the constant reminders of Ann-Marie. In the bedroom, her clothes still hung in the wardrobe, coats and dresses, blouses and jackets that would never be worn again. There was make-up, a hairbrush and bottles of perfume on the dressing table. He winced and quickly looked away.
Max couldn’t live in the flat but he couldn’t get rid of it either. It was all he had left of her. Sometimes, if he stood very still, held his breath and listened, he could hear the sound of her voice echoing though the empty rooms. He would imagine her walking barefoot across the pale green carpet, her tread as soft and sure as a cat’s. And then… surely, if he waited long enough, she would once again appear in the doorway with her beautiful smile and her long red-gold hair tumbling over her shoulders. Ann-Marie: his wife, his lover, his other half. Just for a moment, he would be whole again.
But the pain of such desire, such empty hopes, was always too much to bear. Cold reality would slice through him like a blade, bleeding him dry, emptying his heart of everything but pain. Max cleared his throat, just to make some noise in the silence. Then he walked rapidly back to the hall, swept up the mail, shoved it into his pocket and left the flat.
Outside, the rain was still falling. The cars swished past, their headlights striping the road, their tyres kicking up water from the gutter in long sideways sprays. He bowed his head, keeping in to the wall to avoid getting soaked. He breathed in the damp evening air, feeling a faint rasp in his lungs. Too many cigarettes. He smoked heavily these days, careless of his health, indifferent to the consequences.
It was only a short walk to his mother’s house. He didn’t call it home, even though he had spent his childhood there. Home was the flat he and Ann-Marie had bought together, decorating the rooms one by one, carefully painting the walls, scouring the flea markets at weekends for interesting pieces of furniture, for old Persian rugs and fabrics to make curtains and cushions. Her tastes were quirky, his more traditional. It had been an eclectic mix, but somehow it had come together. Now he paid the mortgage for a place he never used, unable to live in it, unable to let go.
The lights were on in his mother’s house, his car parked on the drive. He had taken the Tube into the office this morning. He paused on the doorstep, gathering himself in, giving the mask time to settle over his features. The mask was as much for his benefit as hers, something civilised to hide behind, something to disguise his cold, primitive rage. She wasn’t fooled by it, of course, but went along with the pretence, hoping perhaps that one day what was acted would become real, that he would eventually be healed and find a way to move on.
As he put the key in the door, Max felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his palm. He had a fleeting flashback to the night of the fire, the smoke and confusion, the weight of Eden Chase across his shoulder. He blinked a couple of times, trying to clear his mind of the memory. He didn’t want to think about her. The cut had been cleaned, stitched and bandaged at A&E, but still made him flinch if he curled his fingers too quickly.
It was warm inside and the smell of cooking floated on the air. One of his mother’s better days, then. Sometimes she barely ate at all. She would shake her head at everything he offered, saying she wasn’t hungry, claiming she’d eaten earlier although he knew she hadn’t. He would have to coax her with soft boiled eggs and soldiers – as if she were the child and he the parent.
Max found her in the kitchen, stirring a pot of beef stew. ‘That smells good. Can I do anything?’
‘There are bowls in the oven. Be a love and get them out, will you?’
He put the warmed bowls on the counter and got the cutlery from the drawer. They chatted as she dished out the food, keeping to safe and mundane subjects like the dismal weather and how crowded the Tube had been. Simple, soothing conversation, the actual words less important than the comfort they provided.
It was only after they’d eaten that Max remembered the post he’d picked up from the flat. While his mother watched television, he collected the mail from his overcoat pocket, returned to the living room and began going through it. He opened the bills first, water rates and electricity, the latter for so small an amount it had bar
ely been worth the cost of the invoice.
He saved the airmail letter to last, girding himself, for although Juliette tried her best not to burden him with her grief, no artfully constructed sentences could even begin to disguise that dreadful sense of loss, the awful yearning of a mother for her daughter.
What he found inside the envelope, however, was completely unexpected. There was only a short note from Juliette, written in English and explaining that a letter – enclosed – had recently arrived for Ann-Marie. The tone was flustered, bewildered. Do you know anything about this woman? Does this mean anything to you?
Max briefly studied the outside of the second airmail envelope, already opened by a neat slice across the top. Although he didn’t recognise the writing, the return address was familiar to him. He frowned as he pulled out the single sheet of crisp white notepaper and began to read.
