by Roberta Kray
The waiter came by and took his plate. ‘Would you care for—’
‘No,’ Henry said. ‘Just the bill. Thank you.’
He poured another glass of wine and gulped it down.
Later, he had tried to speak to Celia again but it had all gone wrong. Somehow the truth was even more incriminating than the lies she had heard. How to confess? His lunches with Eve, their long Sunday walks and intimate conversations, were harder to explain than some sordid little affair with his office secretary. He hadn’t been able to find the words.
So it was accepted that he’d slept with her. Celia believed it. Richard believed it. The whole bloody world believed it.
He glared down at the table.
He thought of his son and shook his head. It was wrong to hate him. It went against nature. As his father, he must himself be partly responsible for whatever Richard was, whatever he’d become. But Richard had driven Eve away. He wasn’t sure if he could ever find it in his heart to forgive him.
Henry made a decision. He picked up his pen and started to write.
Richard sat forward and listened to the phone ringing at the other end of the line. He smoothed back a lock of chestnut hair, exposing the frown on his forehead. He was still seething from his recent encounter. No one talked to him like that, especially not some jumped-up piece of authoritarian shit like Shepherd.
Fuck the police. He had a right to know where she was. The bitch had bailed out before he’d had the chance to confront her.
‘Yes,’ he said, when the call was finally answered. ‘Put me through to Paul Clarke. It’s Richard Baxter.’
There was a short pause.
‘Paul? Yes, fine thanks. Listen, I’ve got a job for you. Woman by the name of Eve Weston. I think she might be in Norwich. I need her tracking down. It’s important. I’ll fax through the details.’
Chapter Four
Eve was riding a tentative wave of relief. In the two weeks since she’d made her secret pact with Cavelli, Terry had not just been surviving but positively flourishing. There were no fresh bruises and the old ones had started to heal. If it went on like this, there was every chance he would roll through his sentence.
But would it last? Cavelli, to date, hadn’t asked anything more of her than a promise to visit every time he asked. But there had to be a greater price. She was still waiting for the final bill.
His second visiting order had arrived in the post a few days ago.
This time, as she walked through the doors, her nerves were dancing to a different tune. He was sitting on the far side of the room. As she negotiated the tables, she watched his cold slate eyes move to follow her.
He didn’t stand up. Sitting forward, with his large hands resting on his thighs, he said sarcastically: ‘Hey, you didn’t need to get dressed up.’
She looked down at her faded jeans and T-shirt. ‘Sorry, I didn’t realize it was cocktails.’
‘You don’t think it’s nice to make the effort occasionally?’
Eve shrugged. If he wanted dress-up, she would do dress-up. ‘Next time,’ she promised, sitting down beside him. She found her leg situated too close to his and casually shifted it away.
‘So, have you seen Terry?’ he asked.
‘I came on Monday.’
‘And …?’
She nodded. ‘He’s okay. Pretty good. What do you think?’
His answer wasn’t what she expected. ‘I think he’s lucky to have someone watching his back.’
Eve swallowed hard. ‘What are you saying?’
He lifted his large hands and slapped them down emphatically against his thighs. ‘No one’s ever a hundred per cent safe, love. Not in a place like this. All you can do is to try and keep the odds in your favour.’
Was he deliberately trying to scare her? That wasn’t too hard when it came to Terry. He’d always been her weak spot, the chink in her armour. At twenty-one, he was thirteen years her junior and in many ways still worryingly childlike. The thought of prison had terrified him.
He added smugly, ‘So, you keep to your side of the bargain, Evie, and I’ll keep to mine.’
She had the feeling it was coming at any moment – payback time. She made a feeble attempt to change the subject. ‘And how are you?’
He tilted his head and stared at her. ‘Thirsty.’
Obediently, she got to her feet again and walked over to the kiosk. No sign of Amber. Not that many visitors at all. It was the weekends that were busy, the room always packed, the place swarming with kids. During the week it was quiet. Today there was only a low steady hum, a gentle wave of conversation.
She ordered the teas and carried them back.
As if she might have added cyanide, he slowly stirred the dark brown brew with a look of suspicion in his eyes. ‘There’s something I want you to do for me.’
‘Sure.’
‘I haven’t told you what it is yet.’
‘Whatever,’ she replied firmly. She had to convince him that their contract was binding, watertight. ‘We’ve got a deal, haven’t we?’
As if the idea amused him, his mouth curled up at the corners. ‘Apparently so.’
‘So tell me.’
He sat back in his seat, stretched out his long legs and folded his arms across his chest. For a second she thought he might have changed his mind but then he leaned forward again and began to talk softly. ‘I need some … some things picking up from a friend in London. I need them kept safe until I get out. Do you think you can manage that?’
‘What kind of things?’ she asked automatically and instantly wanted to bite her tongue. Anything was what had been agreed. ‘No, it doesn’t matter. Of course I can. That’s fine.’
‘A couple of packages,’ he added ominously.
The word packages had the unpleasant suggestion of drugs about it. God, if she wasn’t careful she’d end up serving a prison sentence herself. But still she smiled and nodded. ‘Okay.’ How far would she go for Terry? She reckoned the answer only just fell short of murder.
He let her sweat for a while before saying smugly, ‘You don’t have to look so worried, love. It’s nothing bad. Just some stuff of mine, some clothes and papers. My friend – well, she’s going abroad, doesn’t know when she’ll be back.’
‘Your girlfriend?’ Eve wasn’t sure why she asked.
He ignored the question. ‘Could you do it tomorrow? She’s leaving on Friday.’ He produced a slip of paper from his pocket and passed it over. ‘Her name’s Paula. These are the details. She’ll be expecting a call.’
Eve looked down at the address. Hampstead. Well, there were worse places to spend the morning. And as long as she stayed well away from Covent Garden … ‘All right. I’ll ring her when I get back.’
‘Good,’ he said. Then, as if the serious business was over, he picked up his tea and started to drink.
Eve wasn’t sure what to do next. Barely fifteen minutes of the two-hour visit had passed. Was she expected to stay or go?
The decision was taken out of her hands.
After a short silence he said, ‘You don’t look alike, you and Terry.’ He seemed to consider the uttering of this statement as a perfect excuse to blatantly scrutinize her body again. How exactly he expected to find similarities between Terry’s chest and hers was a mystery – but it didn’t stop his gaze from lingering.
‘He’s my half-brother,’ she admitted. ‘Same father, different mothers.’
‘Ah.’
Seizing the chance to push Terry’s cause, she continued, ‘He’s a good kid at heart. It’s not been easy for him. He’s had a tough time and—’
‘Please,’ he interrupted swiftly, raising his palm. His face had taken on a severely bored expression. ‘Don’t bother going there. I’ve heard enough sob stories in this dump to last me a lifetime.’
‘I was only trying to explain why—’
‘I’d rather that you didn’t.’
She was clearly wasting her breath. ‘Okay.’
; ‘Why don’t you tell me about yourself, instead?’ That sly smile was playing round his lips again. ‘I mean, we should get to know each other, now that we’re officially partners …’
As if he’d just unexpectedly announced their engagement, she flinched. Immediately, she tried to cover it by crossing her legs, by fidgeting on her seat, and then by the gift of her widest smile. But it was too late. He’d already seen the involuntary movement, the revelatory spasm of disgust.
‘Of course we should,’ she said, repentantly.
But like some bloke who’d propositioned her in a bar, and got a knockback, he refused to meet her gaze. He shook his head. ‘Forget it.’
Eve knew that she’d made a mistake. Men’s egos, especially those confined within four walls, were infamously fragile. Anxiously, she stared at him, trying to think of a way to put things right. She searched for a subtle compliment but found herself at a loss. He wasn’t a good-looking man: his dark eyes were too scathing, his cheeks slightly pock-marked, his mouth too cruelly knowing to be attractive. He did have muscles, however. She could trace the biceps of his arms through his striped cotton shirt. Flattery sprang to her lips: I can see you work out. But she quickly dismissed it. It was too bland, too obvious. Which only left his character.
And there was no hope of salvation there.
So she resorted instead to the old It’s not you, it’s me routine. She didn’t even have to lie. ‘Sorry,’ she murmured, cupping her chin in her hands. ‘I’m just on edge. It’s been a tough few months. First Terry getting into trouble, then my father dying …’
Eventually he met her gaze again but his voice was hard with no hint of compassion. ‘Yeah, it must have been a shock. What your father did.’
Eve frowned. How did he know about that? Not from Terry, that was for sure; he wouldn’t even talk to her about it. She felt at first surprise and then a faint uneasiness. It wasn’t as if his suicide was a secret but it was hardly common knowledge either. There was no reason why Cavelli should be aware of it – unless he’d made it his business to find out …
He finished his tea and crushed the plastic cup between his fingers. ‘Alexander Weston.’ He rolled the syllables slowly over his tongue.
A shock of alarm jolted through her. ‘You knew him?’
‘No, I can’t say our paths ever crossed.’ He paused. ‘He was a fraudster, wasn’t he?’
She stared at him, her throat tightening. Her father had been called a lot of things: grifter, swindler, conman, cheat. Fraudster was one of the more polite descriptions.
‘Retired,’ she answered grimly.
He gave a small indecipherable nod. There was a flicker in his eyes – amusement, perhaps, it couldn’t possibly be sympathy – but it was fleeting, there and gone before she had time to interpret it.
‘And Eve Weston,’ he continued softly. ‘What about her? Thirty-four years old. Born in Stepney on the third of March. Raised by her father. Lived – well, all over the place but mainly in London. Married Patrick Fielding, a small-time Irish hustler, at twenty-three. Separated two years later. No kids. As regards a career, well, how shall we describe it? Perhaps we’ll just settle on financially rewarding. Most recently worked for Baxter & Baxter. Would you like me to go on?’
She didn’t reply. Her mouth was too dry.
Then, as if the intervening monologue had never taken place, he murmured, almost reminiscently, ‘Your father liked a game of cards. Poker. That was his game.’
She took a deep breath and tried to garner what remained of her crumbling self-assurance.
Their eyes met across the table.
Cavelli leaned forward with a low, almost menacing laugh. ‘But what about you, Evie? Do you like to gamble too?’
She drove with her foot firmly on the accelerator. Hell, she’d never been more glad to get out of anywhere. Opening the window, she welcomed the cool rush of air. The rain slanted in, dampening her right arm and shoulder. Who did he think he was, reciting her life history, talking as if he knew everything? He didn’t! Although he appeared to know a damn sight more than he ought to.
Eve turned the radio up loud and scowled.
What did it mean? She screwed up her eyes. It wasn’t too hard to figure out. If he’d taken the trouble to do this kind of research, then he must have a reason for it – and some serious expectations. He might not want cash but that wasn’t the only way to pay off a debt. And she owed him. She owed him big time. Their deal was a two-way agreement and her pick-up from Paula was just the beginning. If she wanted to keep Terry safe, there was clearly worse to come.
She wondered again how he’d managed to find out so much. About her. About her father. About how he’d died. Ever since it had happened, she’d been in a daze. Henry had sympathized, Sonia had fussed, Terry had clammed up, but she had just carried on. Coping – wasn’t that what it was called? But how do you cope when your father fills his pockets full of stones and walks into a river in the middle of the night?
By just not thinking about it.
Eve glared at the road ahead. There had been no goodbyes. Not even a note. She slammed her palms resentfully against the wheel. How could he? How could he have left her like that? They’d always been close, always able to talk. Even about the cancer.
‘Don’t worry. I’m not ready to go yet,’ he’d promised.
And she’d believed him.
What had happened to change his mind? And only days after Terry had been sentenced. Just when she needed him – when they both needed him. She didn’t want to feel angry but she couldn’t help herself. She wanted to scream and shout. ‘How could you? How could you desert me?’ But then she felt guilty for the rage and tried to suppress it, to drive it back into that dark hidden recess of her soul.
Eve groaned. Now she didn’t even have Henry to turn to. Richard must be rubbing his hands with glee. She’d been driven away like a scarlet woman. Smarmy, charmless, Dickie had got his revenge. Well, at least she had the consolation of not having to look at his face every day.
That thought took her mind off Cavelli for a while. But not for long enough. By the time she was back in Herbert Street, his dark gaze had started to haunt her again. She could feel her heart banging against her ribs. What was it he really wanted from her?
She found a space fifty yards from the flats and squeezed between a grubby white van and a silver-grey Peugeot. It was only as she started to walk back that she noticed the cop car parked near the entrance. There was no reason at all to presume it had anything to do with her but as she traipsed up the stairs she began to experience a familiar sinking sensation: there was trouble ahead.
The lock had been broken and the door stood wide open. From the hallway, Eve stared at the wreckage inside. The flat had been trashed. All the furniture had been overturned, her father’s desk ransacked, and his books pulled from their shelves and strewn across the threadbare carpet. The glass from two smashed framed photographs lay glittering at her feet. Stunned, she stood in silence. Only her eyes swept over the damage, absorbing what seemed like a cruel desecration.
A pair of uniformed officers, both wearing gloves, were lethargically picking through the debris. But it was Sonia who saw her first and came dashing over. ‘Sweetheart,’ she said, grasping her arm. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘What …?’ But it was hardly a question that needed asking.
‘I got home half an hour ago,’ she said. ‘Found the door like this and – I tried to call you but your phone wasn’t on, and I didn’t know when you’d be back so …’ She lowered her voice. ‘Well, I had to ring them.’
‘Of course. That’s okay.’
‘Kids, probably,’ she continued. ‘You know what they’re like round here. It looks bad but don’t worry, we’ll get it sorted. Soon have it back to how it was. I don’t think they’ve taken much.’
Eve bent to retrieve a thin green paperback, dragging Sonia down with her.
An authoritative voice rang out from behind. ‘We’d rather you didn’t t
ouch anything.’
Rising quickly to her feet, she turned and saw a stern fair-haired man in a suit.
‘And you are?’ he asked.
‘This is Mr Weston’s daughter,’ Sonia replied, as if she wasn’t capable of answering for herself. ‘Eve Weston. She’s been staying here since …’
‘Detective Inspector Raynor,’ he said. He sighed and looked around the room. ‘Bit of a mess, I’m afraid.’
‘I don’t understand,’ Eve murmured. ‘Why would anyone want to do this? I mean, it’s not as if … it’s not as if there’s anything worth stealing.’ Her father had never been one for material possessions. Oh, he’d liked the high-life all right, expensive hotels, champagne and all the luxuries, but when it came to his home he’d been careful never to accumulate more than could be thrown into the boot of a car.
Raynor drew a notebook from his pocket. ‘Perhaps if I could take a few details?’
‘Her father’s only just passed on,’ Sonia said defensively, tightening the hold on her arm. ‘She’s got enough to deal with, without this.’
