Exposed

by Roberta Kray

  Tamer had his back to her. He was quiet for a moment and then he said, ‘I don’t understand why he kept Ann-Marie’s letters. Why didn’t he get rid of them?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ She couldn’t help thinking it was a good thing they no longer existed. It could only be a torment to read love letters your wife had sent to another man. ‘Did Tom Chase – I mean the real Tom Chase – ever write back to Ann-Marie? He must have done. You could compare the handwriting to Larry Hewitt’s, make sure they’re not the same.’

  ‘I thought you were already sure of that.’

  ‘I am,’ she said. ‘It’s you I’m thinking about.’

  Tamer walked back to the sofa, seemed about to sit down again but then changed his mind and started wandering around the room. As if he didn’t know what to do with himself, he walked and frowned and walked some more. ‘No, I never found any letters from him.’

  ‘So she probably got rid of them. She’d moved on, hadn’t she? She’d found someone else.’

  ‘But she kept the photograph.’

  ‘So what? It was part of her past. We all keep stuff from the past.’

  Tamer stopped and heaved out a breath. ‘What happens to Larry Hewitt now?’

  Eden gave a shrug. ‘That’s down to the police. I presume they’ll charge him with perjury and identity theft and whatever else they can throw in his direction. It’s not my concern any more.’

  Tamer gave her a long, hard look. ‘He was your husband – or at least you thought he was. You must still have some feelings for him.’

  Eden’s lips slid into a faltering smile. ‘They’ll go away – in time.’ And then, because she’d drunk too much and was beyond censoring her inner thoughts, she added, ‘I could have forgiven him for most of it, you know, maybe even taking the money, but never for what he did to his family. He let his parents believe he was dead. How could anyone be so cruel? And Jackie too. He just disposed of her. She was an inconvenience, a millstone round his neck. He made her a widow and didn’t think twice. What kind of man does a thing like that?’

  But Tamer didn’t answer. Instead he asked, ‘When I was here last time, you said you thought I was the undertaker.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why would you think that?’

  Eden frowned at this sudden random change of subject. She took another gulp of brandy even though she’d had more than enough already. ‘Look out of the window,’ she said. ‘Across the road.’

  Tamer crossed to the window. ‘Ah,’ he said softly.

  ‘Tobias Grand and Sons. That’s where you were standing the first time I saw you. I don’t know… I thought you’d just stepped out for a cigarette.’ Eden gazed at him over the rim of her glass. Something was stirring in the back of her mind, a thought that was trying to spark. Why did he remember that? Why did it matter? A throwaway comment that had somehow got under his skin. It took a few seconds before the truth finally dawned. A shiver ran the length of her spine. ‘An eye for an eye. Was that what you were planning? A wife for a wife?’

  He didn’t look at her. He said nothing.

  ‘Your own individual brand of justice.’ The brandy gave her a kind of courage, albeit a somewhat reckless kind. ‘That’s what you were planning, wasn’t it? Except, as it turns out, you’ve got the wrong guy and the wrong wife.’ She gave a snort. ‘Not even a wife at all, in fact. So what are you going to do now?’

  Tamer turned to face her again, his eyes cold as ice. ‘Someone should pay for what happened to Ann-Marie.’

  ‘Yes,’ she agreed. ‘Someone should. The right person. But if it makes you feel better, just go right ahead. It’s not as though my life’s worth living anyway. It’s shit, an almighty pile of shit. So why don’t you just put me out of my misery?’

  ‘You’re drunk,’ he said.

  ‘So what?’

  ‘So you don’t know what you’re saying.’

  ‘I know exactly what I’m saying.’ Eden gestured towards his bandaged hand. ‘Are you going to tell me what happened to that?’

  ‘I’ve already told you.’

  ‘You told me something. You didn’t tell me the truth.’

  Tamer shrugged.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it? You were the one who got me out of the flat, out of the fire. It must have been. Geoff said the guy had cut his hand. But why did you save me? Why didn’t you just leave me there? If you wanted me dead… I don’t get it.’

  Tamer looked away, wouldn’t meet her eyes. ‘It’s complicated.’

  ‘It must be. Care to enlighten me?’

  ‘Another time, maybe.’

  Eden put the glass down on the table. ‘Well, never mind. Perhaps the truth’s not all it’s cracked up to be. I’ve had enough of it for one day.’

  ‘I should go,’ Tamer said.

  ‘What will you do now?’

  ‘Go home,’ he said.

  ‘No, I meant about…’ Eden stopped, already knowing the answer before she even asked the question. When it came to Ann-Marie, he’d carry on looking, searching, until he got some resolution. He wasn’t the type of man who would ever give up. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘And you? What will you do?’

  Eden had been trying not to think about it. What did a person do when their life had been ripped apart, when everything they believed to be true turned out to be one big stinking lie?

  Suddenly, she found herself thinking about her father. Despite all their difficulties, all the years of sniping, he was still her dad. And she suddenly felt like a child again, weak and defenceless, needing someone to put their arms around her and love her unconditionally. A small, trembling smile found its way on to her lips. ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘Perhaps I’ll go home too.’

  Epilogue

  Six months later

  In the time since Larry Hewitt had made his confession, a war had been fought and won in the Falkland Islands, and a different battle – one that had been going on for years – had finally resulted in a peace treaty between Eden and her father. As she sat in the garden of the house in Edinburgh, she reflected on the journey they had made. It hadn’t been an easy one, fraught as it was with so much history, so many misunderstandings and false perceptions, but they had both conceded ground and in the process come to understand each other better.

  Eden raised her hand and shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun. When she’d made the decision to come home, she’d been at her lowest ebb, bereft of all hope, looking only for somewhere to shelter for a while. But what she had found was more than a sanctuary. She had formed a bond with her dad, establishing a connection that had not been there before.

  Eden thought back over their recent conversations. She realised now that she’d never really considered the impact her mother’s death had had on him. Widowed and grieving, he had struggled with bringing up a daughter as a single parent, his anxiety too often coming across as impatience or control.

  ‘I didn’t know how to talk to you, how to make things better when you were unhappy or upset. It was easier with Iain. I could cope with a boy but you… You needed your mum and she wasn’t there.’

  ‘I thought you loved him more.’

  ‘How could you think that? I love you both the same.’

  ‘That’s what parents always say.’

  ‘That’s because it’s true.’

  ‘But you liked him more,’ Eden insisted.

  Her father had pondered on this for a while. ‘He was easier to deal with, but that’s not the same thing.’

  Eden knew she’d behaved badly in the past, particularly as a teenager. Looking back, she could see how she’d been constantly trying to get his attention, even if it was the wrong sort. She’d wanted him to notice her, to praise her, to be proud of her, and yet had done everything in her power to provoke the very opposite response. Over the years they had both got in the habit of taking up positions and refusing to budge. Only now, in admitting to their mistakes, were they finally able to move forward.

  Eden
gazed up at the sky. There had been sun, rain, wind, even a few thunderstorms during the month of August. There had also been a trial, although not one relating to the Epping bank robbery or the death of Paddy Lynch. That had been blown out of the water by Tom Chase’s confession to theft, identity theft and bigamy. The real ‘Jack Minter’ was dead and couldn’t be called to account for his crimes.

  Eden still couldn’t think of Tom as Larry Hewitt. Thankfully, she hadn’t been needed at court – he’d pleaded guilty to all charges – and Caitlin had called her with news of the sentence: eight years. It was a long time, but less than he’d have got if the jury had believed Archie Rudd. There had been stories in the papers, sensationalist double-page spreads about the secret life of the Covent Garden photographer. Her name had been mentioned but no reporters had managed to track her down.

  Iain had proved to be a godsend in dealing with the practicalities of cutting ties. He had arranged, among other things, for the car and the keys to the two flats and the studio to be returned to Tom’s solicitor. Caitlin had visited the Islington flat, but hadn’t managed to salvage anything from the fire. A clean break, then, or at least as clean as it could be in the circumstances. There would be no need for a divorce because there had been no legal marriage. She had called John Connolly herself to terminate her employment and to apologise for leaving without giving notice. He hadn’t sounded too disappointed; she was, she suspected, no great loss to the world of waitressing.

  The practical ties were one thing, the emotional ones quite another. When you’d invested so much love in a person, it was hard to look to the future without them. And it wasn’t healthy, she knew, to replace love with hate. Anyway, she didn’t hate him. She hated what he’d done, all the lies and deceit, all the hurt he’d inflicted. It had been like falling for a mirage, for someone who didn’t actually exist. She would eventually get over Tom Chase but it would take a while. A day at a time, she thought. It was the only way forward.

  Archie Rudd made himself a brew, settled down in the armchair and lit a fag. All things considered, it had worked out pretty well for him, although it had been touch and go back in March. Tom Chase’s revelations had turned everything on its head. With Jack Minter dead and buried in Budapest, Archie’s so-called evidence had been thrown into question. He had identified the wrong man to DI Banner.

  But there was a reason why Archie paid his solicitor a small fortune. Ben Curran was smart and as slippery as an eel. His client, he’d claimed, had been unsure about the photograph – after all, it was sixteen years since the robbery and the two men had only met on a few occasions – but Banner had convinced him it was the right man. There’d been no identity parade, no opportunity for Archie to take a closer look. It was a genuine mistake.

  With the Epping trial dropped, Archie could have been in the proverbial if Curran hadn’t already brokered a watertight deal with the police over the Shepperton robbery. In the event, he’d got a three-stretch of which he’d only serve half, minus the time he’d spent on remand, which meant he should be out in less than eighteen months.

  Archie puffed on his fag, relieved he’d got away with it. Despite Banner’s intensive coaching, he hadn’t been looking forward to giving evidence against Tom Chase. The defence could have easily tripped him up, blowing holes in his story. And there were big holes to be found, a bleeding crater in fact, because the truth was he’d never actually taken part in the Epping warehouse job.

  Everything Archie knew about the blag had come from his mate, Don Shepherd. He could remember it all clear as day. At the time, back in November ’66, he had just got out of hospital. Gallstones, it had been. Bloody agonising. Even the thought of it made him wince. So he hadn’t been in any fit state to be running around with a sawn-off. But Don had come over to the house and given him the low-down.

  ‘You don’t know nothin’ about this guy,’ Archie had said.

  ‘I know plenty. Calls himself Jack Minter, but his real name’s Tom Chase. He works for a snapper, Albert Shiner, in Chigwell. I’ve checked him out, Arch, followed him home.’

  And then after, when it had all gone so wrong, Don had been straight round. His old mate had been in a panic about Paddy Lynch getting shot and then, later, about his body being found in the back of the van.

  ‘You mustn’t tell no one, Arch,’ he’d said. ‘Not even Rose. You’ve got to keep schtum. If this gets out…’

  So everything Archie had fed to DI Banner had been second-hand information. He’d never, in his entire life, set eyes on Jack Minter or Tom Chase or whatever he was really called. But when the photo had been put in front of him, he’d known it was the geezer who’d been arrested just from what Banner had said.

  ‘This is the guy, yeah? This is the guy who called himself Jack Minter?’

  And Archie had made a show of staring at it. ‘Looks like him but it’s been… you know, it’s been a while.’

  With two of the gang dead – Don and Paddy – and Rossi living it up in Spain, there was no one other than Ned Shepherd and Minter to challenge his claim that he’d been on the job. By keeping Ned’s name out of it, there’d be no comeback there. Which only left Jack Minter. And he could hardly stand up and say that Archie hadn’t been a member of the gang if he was denying having done the crime himself.

  Archie sighed into the room. He’d really thought the bloke was guilty: a photographer with the right name in possession of a stolen bracelet from the Epping warehouse. What could be more damning? The guy was bang to rights. How was he to know that this Tom Chase had nicked someone else’s identity?

  Archie knew he’d taken a mighty risk, a gamble that might not have paid off. But it had been his only way out. It all stemmed from that night when Lee Barker and his mates had looked at him with the kind of contempt that some young men reserve for anyone over fifty. In order to try and raise his status, to save face, he had told a pack of lies about being on the Epping job. It had been sad and stupid, pathetic even, but as it turned out it had also been his salvation. After their arrest at Shepperton, Barker had grassed him up and all Archie had to do was run with it.

  He grinned. He’d got lucky. Sometimes it went that way. The fates smiled kindly on you and all was sweet with the world. Of course he’d still have to square things with Vera Lynch – he didn’t want that mad fucker Pat on his back for the rest of his life – but he reckoned he could talk her round. When push came to shove, all he’d actually done was lie to the police and that wasn’t anything she’d care about. And yes, okay, so he’d known who had been on the job with her Paddy but he hadn’t taken part himself.

  Archie leaned back and relaxed. Rose was none too pleased that he hadn’t been straight with her, but she’d forgive him for it eventually. She always did. At the start he’d been worried she’d remember about the gallstones, about how he couldn’t have been in Epping, but it hadn’t clicked into place. She’d known something was wrong without being able to put her finger on it. He should have come clean but he’d been too embarrassed, too ashamed, to explain how he’d been trying to impress some no-good wankers. Pride comes before a fall? Well, sometimes, but in this case it had saved him from fifteen years in the slammer. Not such a bad result after all.

  Jimmy Letts limped past the colourful stalls at the St James’s summer fair, his left leg still dragging despite all the physiotherapy he’d had. It was six months since he’d been on the verge of a major scoop only to have it snatched away at the very last moment. Now he was back to reporting on the sort of events that wouldn’t challenge the brain of a five-year-old.

  He muttered under his breath as he made his way towards the refreshment tent. ‘Why me? Fuck it! What did I do to deserve this?’

  What he remembered from that day at the Mansfield estate was vivid until the point he’d looked up to see something dark, something heavy, hurtling through the air towards him. There had been a split second as it registered in his brain before he hit the deck. Now he knew he’d been hit by a piece of rusting balcony, altho
ugh whether this was accidental or deliberate remained open to debate. He was more inclined towards the latter. Somewhere in the fuzzy depths of his memory, he was sure he’d heard voices, laughter, just before it had all gone black.

  ‘Bastards!’

  When he’d come round at the hospital it was to find his leg broken in two places and a lump the size of a golf ball on the back of his head. Morphine had seen him through the next few days but even that strong opiate hadn’t been enough to dull the pain of seeing Bob Rich’s double-page exclusive in the Evening News. The Tom Chase story was out of the bag. There was nothing left to tell. Jimmy had well and truly missed the boat.

  From across the other side of Hackney Fields, carousel music floated in the air. He could imagine the ride going round and round, the riders getting nowhere. To his ears the music sounded like mockery, as though even the wooden horses were laughing at him. All the work he’d done, all the research, all the thinking and talking and wheedling, and for what? To have it all snatched away from him in the blink of an eye.

  Jimmy walked past the raffle stall, stopped and retraced his steps. Sitting right in the centre of the trestle table, surrounded by numerous other prizes, was a large bottle of whisky, a bottle that was big enough to drown any man’s sorrows. His eyes lit up. It was a sign, perhaps. Digging into his pocket, he found some change and bought a row of tickets. One day his luck had to change. Why not today?