by Roberta Kray
With due care and attention he scrutinized the features in front of him: a fleshy pallid face, its nose crossed with a maze of tiny red veins, the forehead slightly bulbous. The eyes were a dull shade of brown, the mouth sulky. In his early fifties, he estimated, a cynical and disappointed man, too used to the privileges – and abuses – of power.
Shepherd waited too, expecting clarification. When it became clear that this wasn’t going to be forthcoming, his lips winced into irritation. With the kind of exaggerated tone he might use with a confused and elderly witness he said very slowly, ‘I understand that Eve Weston was your secretary.’
‘Yes.’
‘But no longer?’
As if she might still be lurking in a corner, Henry glanced cautiously around the room. ‘It would appear not.’
The sergeant paused, perhaps to allow time for further information but more likely to hide his growing impatience. He tried to keep his voice controlled. ‘Perhaps you could tell me why she left?’
Henry paused too as if grappling with the depth of the question. In fact he was only considering his options. He could see where this was going and was in two minds how to proceed. The solicitor in him was tempted to raise the barricades, to shut him out, but that would hardly help Eve. If she was in trouble, then he wanted to know why. Accordingly, he gazed up at the ceiling and sighed. He raised a hand to his head and raked his fingers through his fine sparse hair.
‘Of course,’ he finally said, apologetically. ‘The thing is, Sergeant … well, this is slightly embarrassing.’
Shepherd grinned as if he knew exactly how embarrassing it was going to be. It had taken a while but they were finally getting there. Old men and their secretaries – he’d heard it all before. ‘It’s all right, sir,’ he urged reassuringly, ‘we’re both men of the world.’
‘Indeed,’ Henry replied, twisting his hands on the desk. ‘Indeed we are.’
His interrogator shifted forward a fraction.
Henry tried to keep his own expression benign. ‘Yes,’ he declared, ‘it’s unfortunate but sadly my son made it impossible for Ms Weston to remain here. He was – how can I put it? – somewhat enamoured of her. Unfortunately, she didn’t feel the same way. It made for … well, a certain awkwardness in the workplace.’
DS Shepherd fought hard to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘But I understood that she was your—’
‘My secretary?’ he interrupted smartly. ‘Oh, she was. That’s right. She was. But we’re a small unit here and it’s pretty hard to avoid each other. If we had a little more space, perhaps, then it wouldn’t have mattered but, in a building of this size …’ He tilted his chin and frowned. ‘She’s not in any kind of trouble, I hope?’
The sergeant glared at him. ‘If I didn’t know better, I might think you were trying to protect her.’
‘Protect her from what?’ Henry asked innocently. And he felt a faint frisson of delight as he went up against The Law. He had spent most of his life devising ways to circumvent the minor inconveniences of the British legal system but this was a battle of a more direct kind. Face to face. It made for an interesting challenge.
‘I understood from your son—’
Henry quickly interrupted again. ‘My son’s been upset, Sergeant, not acting altogether rationally. I believe it’s what’s referred to in common parlance as a mid-life crisis. A touch premature perhaps but then Richard always has been ahead of his time.’
Shepherd glanced down at his watch, a gesture specifically intended to convey how precious his time was. He hadn’t come here for a biography of Baxter junior. ‘But you knew Eve Weston well,’ he persisted, placing his knuckles on the desk and thrusting his head forward. ‘You were close.’
Henry leaned back in his chair, resenting the intrusion into his personal space. He resented the implication even more, the way he said close, the ugly leer on his face. As if Eve was nothing more than a piece of meat.
‘She worked hard,’ he replied firmly. ‘She was a good secretary.’ He wondered if Richard had filed a complaint against her, an accusation of theft or fraud or perhaps the more heinous crime of attempting to seduce a man over sixty. ‘Look, officer, perhaps if you could explain what this is about …’
He noticed with distaste how his interrogator sat with his legs splayed open. An aggressively masculine pose. Like the men on the tube who took up two thirds of the seat, who always refused to relinquish an inch.
Shepherd frowned at him, releasing a clearly audible sigh into the room. ‘Miss Weston is part of an ongoing investigation.’
‘What sort of an investigation?’
But the sergeant shook his head and said, with the kind of stiff formality of a bad actor reading from a card, ‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that information.’
‘Ah,’ Henry murmured.
Silence fell between them. In the background the clock ticked monotonously. Then the questions resumed.
‘How long was Miss Weston here?’
Henry was tempted once again to bring the exchange to a close … but he had found out precisely nothing. Perhaps he should run with it for a while longer. Shepherd might inadvertently let something slip.
‘Six – no, I tell a lie, seven months. She left several weeks ago.’
‘And she left because …’
‘I believe I’ve already explained that, Sergeant.’
‘Ah yes,’ he said drily, ‘because she found the attentions of your son uncomfortable. And yet, she’s a good-looking woman, isn’t she? Used to the attention of men. Not the type, surely, to be fazed by a few unwanted compliments?’
Henry lifted his shoulders in a slight dismissive shrug.
‘Would you say Miss Weston was a trustworthy person, Mr Baxter?’
‘Very,’ he lied smoothly. ‘I’d say she was one of the most scrupulously honest people I’ve ever known.’ Recalling their conversations and her intimate confessions, he felt an urge to snigger but wisely stifled it.
Shepherd snorted. ‘Honest, huh?’
But Henry, refusing to rise to the bait, simply raised an eyebrow. ‘I don’t understand where this is going. Perhaps, if you could—’
‘Did you ever meet any of her friends – or her family?’
‘No.’
‘Were you aware that her brother was in prison?’
‘Of course,’ he replied calmly.
Shepherd scowled, his wide forehead crumpling into waves. ‘And that didn’t bother you?’
Henry almost embarked on a short speech about the sins of the brother not being visited on the sister but thought better of it. ‘I didn’t see that it had any bearing on her position here.’
‘Even though he’d been charged with armed robbery?’
The actual conviction, as Henry understood, was of handling stolen property. But now probably wasn’t the time to get into that particular debate. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, that she had something to do with it, that she—’
‘No,’ Shepherd retorted, as jumpy as a gossip in danger of a libel suit. ‘No, I’m not saying that.’ His mouth took a sly upward turn. ‘Only that the family had something of a … reputation.’
A sudden thought came to Henry. ‘Are you investigating her father’s death?’
‘Alex Weston committed suicide,’ the sergeant replied, with a rather too obvious look of satisfaction. ‘Why should we be investigating his death?’
‘Why should you be investigating Eve Weston?’
But Shepherd wouldn’t answer directly. ‘Have you seen her since she left, met up, talked on the phone?’
‘No.’
‘So you have no idea where she’s currently living?’
‘No,’ Henry lied for the second time that morning.
‘And why exactly is that, Mr Baxter? You became friends, didn’t you, spent time together? Odd that you no longer keep in touch.’
Again the barely disguised insinuation. Henry felt a growl roll over his tongue. His friendship with
Eve was private. ‘We worked together, had the occasional lunch. That’s all.’
‘Your son seems to believe that you were having a “relationship” with her.’
So Richard had been talking! Well, that was hardly a surprise. ‘My son has a very active imagination.’
‘So you’re denying it?’
‘Unless my personal life has some direct bearing on your case, Sergeant, I really don’t see that it’s any of your business.’
As if he’d just confessed to the affair, a gleam came into the officer’s eyes. He coughed. It was a noisy phlegmy sound that might have been covering a laugh. ‘I see.’
Henry played with the papers on his desk, shuffling them from side to side. He didn’t often get angry but his reserves of patience were rapidly running out. One more minute and he might just lose his cool. It was definitely time to pull the plug. Before he did something he might regret.
But Shepherd, fortunately, was already lumbering to his feet. He scraped his chair back and hauled himself into an upright position. ‘Well, thank you for your time,’ he said. ‘We’ll be in touch if we need to talk to you again.’
Henry felt that tyrannical ‘we’ like an implicit threat.
It was a while before he heard the sergeant’s heavy tread on the concrete steps outside. Henry went to the window and peered up. He could only see the bottom of his legs, his creased dun-coloured trousers flapping over a pair of damp unpolished shoes.
Shortly, he was joined by another more expensively clothed pair of limbs. Richard’s. The two men shuffled on the pavement. By bending his knees and cricking his neck, Henry could just see their faces. They appeared to be having some kind of an argument, or rather his son was arguing while Shepherd gazed back with stolid indifference, his hand occasionally rising to his mouth as if to stifle a yawn. It was only when Richard grabbed him by the arm that he briefly became more animated. As if swatting a fly he deftly brushed off the fingers and then leaned forward to hiss menacingly in his face.
Although Henry couldn’t hear what he said, the words were enough to make Richard jerk back. His lips straightened in anger, his nostrils flaring. But he didn’t retort. He knew better than to provoke a man like Shepherd. Muttering under his breath, he clattered back up the steps and slammed the door behind him.
Henry saw Shepherd grin before he lit a cigarette and strolled off down the street.
Eddie Shepherd rolled his eyes towards the heavens and then spat down towards the kerb. What a pair! Couldn’t wait to put the knife in. That was the middle classes for you. No sense of family loyalty.
He rounded the corner and slid clumsily into the passenger seat of a silver-grey Peugeot parked beside a meter. ‘Jesus,’ he muttered.
The driver turned and glowered at him. ‘Put that stinking fag out. I’ve told you before. I’m not going to die of your fucking cancer.’
Reluctantly, he wound down the window and threw the half-smoked cigarette out. He sighed as it rolled into the gutter. At over five quid a packet, it was a diabolical waste.
‘So?’
‘It’s like you said. The old guy was clearly screwing her but he’s not going to admit it. Married, isn’t he? Doesn’t want his missus traipsing down the divorce courts. Claims he hasn’t been in touch since she left.’
‘You believe him?’
He shrugged. ‘Maybe. Although he’s hiding something. I reckon she left with a golden handshake – but not the kind that comes with vol-au-vents and heartfelt speeches. More like a farewell gift she helped herself to.’
‘She ripped them off?’
‘I reckon. But not to the extent where Baxter’s prepared to get the law involved. He’d rather cut his losses than open that particular can of worms.’ He looked out of the window at a tall good-looking blonde walking down the street, his gaze focusing on the tight stretch of her sweater over her breasts.
‘And the son?’
He tore his eyes away. ‘Oh, he’s convinced she was always out to con them – but then he’s bitter as hell and not the most reliable of witnesses. From all accounts, he spent most of his own time trying to get into her knickers.’
‘You think she might have been sleeping with them both?’
Eddie thought about it but slowly shook his head. Richard was just a resentful shit, still seething with his failure to get her into bed. He wondered why a piece like Eve Weston had chosen to shag a dry old stick like Baxter – but then some women would do anything for money. ‘Nah, she wasn’t stupid. She went for the one who was writing the cheques.’
‘Give me back the photo.’
Taking it out of his top-right pocket, he passed it over. ‘You going to tell me what this is all about, guv? I mean, we’re hardly the fraud squad, and even if we were this isn’t exactly the crime of the century.’
‘It’s not about what she’s done. It’s what she might be planning to do.’
Eddie looked at him.
There was a short pause.
‘She’s been visiting Martin Cavelli – and I want to know why.’
Henry picked up his pen and started to write. Dear Eve was as far as he got. He screwed the paper into a tiny ball, hurled it into the bin and then instantly bent down to retrieve it. Shoving the crumpled note into his trouser pocket, he stood up, grabbed his jacket, and went through to the outer office. He smiled at the secretary Richard had so generously bestowed on him. ‘I’m going out, Louise. I’ll be back in an hour.’
‘Yes, Mr Baxter.’
Then, quickly lowering her face, her fingers flew again across the keyboard.
He gazed down at her. Quite clearly, she would rather be with her friends on the more glamorous upper floors, brushing shoulders with the soon-to-be-divorced rich and famous, than consigned to the stuffy depths of the basement.
Poor Louise: pretty and efficient but undeniably dull. Donated by his son because he thought she was a safe choice, because he thought that the old man’s libido could never be roused by such an uninspiring woman. And he was right. Although, just to spite him, Henry was tempted to treat her to a very expensive lunch.
But not today. He had more pressing matters to attend to.
Outside, the rain was falling in a cool drizzle. He turned up the collar on his coat and headed for his favourite place, an excellent bistro that he and Eve had once frequented. As he walked, he reviewed his interview with Shepherd. Was her past catching up with her? Was that why they were asking questions? An ongoing investigation. God, this was all she needed after the loss of her father. Or were Shepherd’s words just a blind, a cover for something else?
Henry had almost walked past the entrance when he realized his mistake and doubled back. Pushing open the doors, he stepped inside and found an empty table by the window. He picked up the menu and stared at it.
A waiter arrived, a familiar man with a friendly smile. ‘Good afternoon, sir. Would you like to order?’
He chose the ‘dish of the day’ and then, as an afterthought, added a half-bottle of red wine. He could do with a drink.
While he waited, he took a notepad from his pocket and started to draft another letter. But again he got no further than Dear Eve. He stared down at the page and tapped his pen against his teeth. What was he doing? Why didn’t he just call her? Except that would mean ringing either from the office or from home. He considered these two options but dismissed them both. The office walls were thin and he didn’t trust Louise; her loyalty, he suspected, still lay with Richard. And as for home, well, Celia rarely let him out of her sight; she watched him with the concentration of a hawk, her bright eyes constantly searching for further signs of infidelity.
The waiter arrived with the bottle.
‘Thank you.’ Henry nodded and waved him away.
He poured himself a glass of wine.
There was always a phone booth but he shied away from having such a private conversation in public. For the first time, Henry could see the advantage of a mobile. Until now, he had viewed them with suspicion,
almost with contempt, not understanding why anyone should choose to be at the beck and call of those demanding metal boxes. On the train, on the bus, even on the street, they constantly shrieked for attention.
But perhaps he should take the plunge. There was a shop down the road, a place he passed every morning, its window filled with a glittering display, small phones, skinny ones, pink, black and silver ones. If he bought one he could ring from a quiet spot, maybe even the archive room. He could talk to Eve and tell her what had happened. He wouldn’t be able to take it home, however. If Celia found it, she would be suspicious. It would have to be locked in his desk at night. His heart sank. The thought of all that subterfuge, as if he were about to embark on an illicit affair, made him feel weary.
Henry’s food arrived. He pushed his notepad to one side and began to eat.
He sighed as he chewed. If it hadn’t been for Richard, he wouldn’t be eating alone. And his life would not have returned to this dull monochrome. Eve had been the colour of his existence.
Gossip, that’s all it had been. As if a man can’t have lunch with a woman without … But in Richard’s world perhaps they couldn’t. He spent his working day dealing with betrayal and divorce, and his evenings with his mistress.
‘People are talking, Father.’
‘Let them talk. I’ve nothing to be ashamed of.’
How he had managed to produce such a hypocrite remained a mystery to him. And he still wasn’t sure what had irked his son more: his belief that his father was betraying his mother, or that Eve had rejected his own advances.
‘Dickie’ she had always called him to his face. Henry smiled at the recollection. Richard had hated that slightly mocking diminutive, visibly wincing whenever she used it, but had never found the nerve to correct her. He was accustomed to women finding him desirable. He was used to his fawning secretaries, to the girls he picked up at parties, to the wives who came to his office, vulnerable and needy after their husbands’ desertion. Eve’s immunity to his charms had left him angry and bemused.
Was that why he had done what he had done?
Or perhaps it went deeper than that. Perhaps his son’s anger had its roots in something more profound. The smile faded from Henry’s lips, along with his appetite. He laid down his fork. Whatever Richard’s motivation, telling Celia that he’d been having an affair was unforgivable. How could he? His hands curled into two tight fists. He could still see the hurt, the frantic pain spreading slowly from her mouth to her eyes. He caught his breath. That had been one of the worst days of his life. There had been no shouting, no demands for explanations or apologies, only a long recriminatory silence. After thirty-two years of marriage, she had looked at him as if he were a stranger. And the more he had tried to refute it, the less convincing he had sounded. Eventually, his vehement denials had trailed off into whispers. She didn’t believe him. Why should she? Richard had presented her with enough ‘evidence’ to damn even the most innocent of men. And although he was innocent – he had never gone to bed with her, never even thought of her in that way – he was still guilty of another kind of infidelity. His platonic relationship with Eve was more intense, more captivating, than any naked moment spent between a pair of sheets. And how could he explain that without …
