by Roberta Kray
‘God knows. But it’s like I told you, he wasn’t forthcoming.’
‘I don’t get it. He’s a local cop. He’s from round here. Why would he travel all the way down to London from Norwich to make some inquiries about whether we might be more than good friends? It doesn’t make sense.’
‘It doesn’t,’ he agreed.
She had hoped he might say something reassuring like It’s probably nothing or I wouldn’t worry too much but Henry wasn’t one for offering false comforts.
‘First there was the police, then the breakin, and now …’ She stopped abruptly, staring into her glass. She hadn’t meant to mention the breakin, never mind what had happened in the alley.
He sounded alarmed. ‘What breakin? What’s been going on?’
She didn’t reply.
‘Eve?’
And then it occurred to her, a quick and disturbing thought. The goon had called her Evie. He had. She was sure he had. Don’t mess us about, Evie. She shuddered, feeling his damp filthy hand against her mouth again. Who else called her that? Not her friends. Not even Henry. Only her father, Terry, Patrick, and … Martin Cavelli.
She hugged the receiver closer to her ear. ‘Henry,’ she whispered, ‘I think I’m in trouble.’
Ivor Patterson wondered if he was getting too old for the job. It was a young man’s game, standing around in the cold and the rain, waiting for the rheumatism to creep into your bones. And for what? For bloody peanuts was what. He turned up the collar of his coat and headed for the café across the road.
He was becoming a regular, always choosing a table by the window where he could keep an eye on the door to the flats. Ordering a coffee he settled down on the torn red vinyl bench. She had gone inside a while ago and he doubted if she’d be going out again tonight.
Not after what had happened.
He hadn’t followed her to the supermarket. The passage was too narrow, too confined, for him to get close; most people glanced over their shoulders when they heard footsteps behind. Four times before he’d waited until she’d passed out of sight, before dashing in behind, catching her up, and trailing her across the car park to the store. Today, he’d decided that it wasn’t worth the effort just to watch her buy a pint of milk.
He’d been waiting in the car, reading a paper with the window open. The street was more or less deserted. In the previous minutes only a handful of shoppers had emerged from the passage and a trio of shifty-looking kids.
It was the sound of breaking glass that alerted him. He’d moved quickly, hauling his arse across to the entrance of the alley, in time to catch the end of the incident. He’d watched her sinking to the ground, hands outstretched to break her fall. He had seen the heavy man retreating.
Ivor had hesitated, waiting to see if she got up again, assessing the damage before committing himself. She had slowly turned her head in his direction, maybe spotted him, but it was doubtful that she got a clear view. He was only in her line of vision for a few seconds before he moved out of sight.
Did he feel guilty? Not really. It was only his duty to watch her, not protect her. He didn’t get paid for playing the hero. And anyway, she didn’t seem so much hurt as shaken up. By the time he had realized what was going on, it was too late to intervene, to make a difference. And it was hardly worth blowing his cover so he could help her pick the shopping up.
Ivor sipped his coffee. There were dull jobs and there were very dull jobs; this one, on the whole, had fallen into the latter category. Although having said that, there were worse people to tail than tall leggy redheads with their curves in all the right places.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a small black book. A divorce case he’d presumed, when he’d started the surveillance, although the office hadn’t been specific. Probably a husband looking for evidence of adultery. Perhaps it was the spouse she was going to visit at the jail; he’d followed her there twice.
By now he knew all the residents of Herbert Court, not just by sight but by name as well. He had searched through the mail, dumped into the rusting post boxes in the foyer, and taken note of all the details. There were only six flats. The ground floor was occupied by oldies, a Mr and Mrs Thorne and a Mrs Leonard, the first floor by a mousy pair called the Taylors and a single middleaged man, Jeremy Smith, with a penchant for blonde brassy tarts who he frequently brought home. The top floor, and the only one he was really interested in, housed Sonia Marshall and Eve Weston.
Ivor flipped back through the pages. Today was Friday. Until the breakin on Wednesday, until the cops had arrived, there hadn’t been much to report. Apart from her trips to HMP Hillgrove, Ms Weston had kept herself to herself: a few brief walks into town, some window shopping, nothing of interest. If she was playing away then she was being bloody discreet … unless the person she was cheating with happened to be a glamorous brunette with a very flashy sports car.
He shifted in his seat, trying not to focus too hard on that uplifting scenario …
Something less appealing was nagging at his thoughts. He sank his face into his coffee again. On her second journey to the jail he hadn’t gone the full distance; as soon as he’d realized where she was headed he’d turned around and come straight back. No point wasting petrol. Finances were tight. He had debts, bills to pay – and he could add what he hadn’t spent to his expense account.
Which was how he’d come to see what he’d seen – a stranger entering and later leaving Herbert Court, the man who must have broken in. The same man, he’d swear, who’d assaulted her today. The very same man he had captured with five consecutive shots on his digital camera. This time he hadn’t got a look at his face but it hadn’t been necessary. Even from a distance, he was distinctive: tall but heavily built, laden with blubber, his walk splay-legged.
He chewed on the edge of a ragged fingernail. Maybe there was more than one person interested in Eve Weston. If her spouse had arranged for her to be followed, he’d have to be a fool to have her publicly threatened too; he’d know there was a witness watching from the wings. So it was possible this had nothing to do with divorce at all. Perhaps Eve Weston was being pursued for other reasons.
Was she hiding out, on the run, involved in something dodgy? Either way, for a good-looking woman she was keeping a remarkably low profile. Her social life was worse than his. The office had been vague, too vague now he came to think of it, his only instruction to record her movements and the people she met. It could be worth a little extra digging. If he played his cards right, there could be a bonus to be had, a way to make some easy cash on the side.
All information had its price.
It was knocking on seven. He looked up towards the second-floor windows where a thin gleam of light was visible. It was doubtful she’d be going out again. Anyway, his relief would be turning up soon, that lazy bastard Charlie May who’d buy his supper from the Chinese takeaway, smoke twenty fags, and then fall asleep before the last of the drunks had even staggered home. If his own reports contained an element of fabrication, they were nothing compared to May’s; he should be up for the Nobel prize for fucking fiction.
Ivor had a choice. When Charlie arrived he could either go home and put his feet up or start touring some of the less desirable pubs. It shouldn’t take him long to find her assailant; with two visits in three days, he was most likely local, a thick-brained and familiar heavy hired to do the dirty work. A few greased palms and he’d have his name before last orders were called.
But was it worth the bother?
A quiet evening in front of the TV with a few beers and a curry was calling out to him. He was tired, filled with that kind of dull fatigue that comes from doing nothing much. Was there any point in wasting the rest of the evening? For all his suspicions, this could easily be a dead end, a mundane case of jealousy, of revenge, of payback from an angry and disappointed husband.
A night in or out?
Ivor scratched his head, finished his coffee, stood up and walked out of the café. Standing on th
e street, he stared up at a darkening pink-striped sky and smiled.
Chapter Seven
Eve picked up the phone again. Henry’s final words of advice were right: she had to face this head on or not at all. And ‘not at all’ meant packing her bags and running for the hills, an option that was hardly open to her while Terry was still in jail.
And why should she run? She had nothing to hide from … apart from her past.
Reluctantly, she dialled the mobile number and waited. While the phone rang, she nervously flipped the card between her fingers. One ring, two, three, four …
‘Jack Raynor,’ he eventually answered.
She hesitated.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s Eve. Eve Weston.’
‘Hi,’ he said. ‘How are you?’
‘Fine, thanks.’ She tried to sound fine. ‘I was wondering if we could meet. There’s something—’
‘Sure,’ he said. ‘Are you free now?’ He didn’t wait for a reply but promptly added, ‘Do you know The Drifting Swan, down by the river? I can be there in half an hour.’
Eve hadn’t expected an instant appointment. She’d been thinking more along the lines of Monday, a few days’ grace while she worked out her approach. She was tempted to try and postpone it but then changed her mind. That would only be cowardice. Better to bite the bullet and get it over and done with. ‘Okay. I’ll see you there.’
After ordering a cab, she went to the bathroom and brushed her teeth again. She cupped her hand over her mouth and sniffed, hoping her breath didn’t still smell of brandy. Turning up stinking of alcohol would hardly create a favourable impression.
While she flicked through the wardrobe she wondered just what kind of an impression she was intending to make. One of innocence, she thought wryly, instantly dismissing any article of clothing that had even a hint of vamp about it. In the end she settled on a pair of black jeans and a simple stripy jumper, casual but not too coy. She didn’t want to overplay it.
By the time she’d applied a discreet amount of makeup and pulled on a jacket, the cab had arrived.
Ten minutes later she was standing on the gravel forecourt.
Eve knew this place. She’d been here a few times with her father. Part pub, part restaurant, it served good but rather expensive food, and had a large conservatory at the rear where customers could sit and admire the river without the inconvenience of the cold and damp.
She took a moment to get her thoughts in order and then walked swiftly through the door.
Raynor was already waiting at the bar. He smiled as she came in and raised a hand.
She wasn’t sure what caused that tiny jolt deep inside. It was hardly as if she’d forgotten what he looked like: with his high cheekbones and striking blue eyes, he was way too handsome for that. Perhaps the response was more to do with fear than attraction.
‘Inspector,’ she said.
‘Jack,’ he insisted. ‘Please, call me Jack. It’s good to see you again. Let me get you a drink.’
‘Thanks. A dry white wine, please.’
He passed the request on to the barman.
While they waited, he turned and asked, ‘So, have you managed to get it sorted?’
‘Sorted?’ she echoed faintly. What had happened this afternoon came back to haunt her, followed by an unwelcome image of Cavelli’s two heavily taped and infinitely suspicious boxes. She felt a flurry of panic. How did he know about them, how did—
‘The flat,’ he said, filling the silence that her hesitation left. ‘It was rather a mess when I left. It must have taken some clearing up.’
The flat. He was only talking about the flat. She nodded with relief. ‘Oh, yes. Just about.’
‘Got a new lock?’
Eve nodded again, thinking of Barry’s two-ton fortification. ‘You don’t have to worry about that. I think the place is pretty secure now.’
‘Good,’ he said.
Her drink arrived. She tried not to grab at it.
‘Shall we go through?’ he said, gesturing towards the back.
She got a vague whiff of aftershave, a subtle but expensive aroma, as she walked beside him. He was taller than her, by a good four inches. Which made him about six foot two. The same height as Patrick. There was something about his mouth as well, that slightly lopsided smile. He was wearing a dark grey suit, nicely tailored, and a crisp white shirt unbuttoned at the neck. No tie. He had nice hands. She always noticed hands. His were fine and slender, long fingers with short clean nails. Not manicured, thank God. She couldn’t stand men who spent too much time on personal grooming.
It was busy, a typical Friday night, but the waitress showed them to a prize table overlooking the water and produced a couple of menus before leaving.
‘Are we going to eat?’ she asked, surprised.
‘Why not?’ He lifted his eyebrows. ‘Please don’t tell me you’re one of those fanatics who never lets a lettuce leaf pass their lips after six o’clock.’
She laughed. ‘And what if I am?’
‘Then I hope you’ll take pity and break the rules – just this once. I’m in serious danger of starvation, no breakfast and no lunch, and I don’t much care for eating alone. Please say you’ll join me. You’ll be doing me a favour.’
Eve glanced mock-solemnly down at the menu. The food on offer was mainly Thai and it all looked good. After her earlier nerves, hunger was kicking in. She took a sip of wine before raising her eyes to meet his again. ‘Well, if it’s for purely humanitarian reasons …’
His mouth curled into a smile. ‘You’re a kind and generous woman, Ms Weston.’
She didn’t contradict him. This was starting to feel more like a date than a fateful appointment with destiny. Surely she couldn’t be in too much trouble if Raynor was prepared to wine and dine her. Unless he was just lulling her into a false sense of security …
The waitress returned and they ordered a selection of dishes – ginger prawns, fish with tamarind sauce, spicy chicken, spring rolls, rice … Eve couldn’t recall the last meal she’d had that hadn’t been pasta or pizza. Probably weeks ago – her last lunch in London with Henry. And thinking of Henry served as a useful reminder of what she was actually supposed to be doing here.
She took a deep breath. ‘You haven’t asked why I wanted to talk to you.’
Ah, yes. That. Well, I kind of assumed it was about the breakin, about how much progress we’ve made as regards your uninvited visitor.’ He paused, his lips sliding into a grimace. ‘I’m sorry, but there’s not a great deal to report. We don’t have much to go on.’
‘You could have told me that over the phone.’
‘You said you wanted to meet.’
Eve kept her tone light as her grey eyes widened. ‘Meet, yes, but I didn’t expect to be wined and dined as well. Do you invite all your victims of crime to dinner?’
He put his elbows on the table and leaned forward a fraction. ‘Actually it’s a new police initiative, still in its early days. It works on the premise that if we’re too stupid to solve a crime we can at least offer the solace of a decent meal to our disappointed public.’
‘The Police Initiative for Gluttony,’ she quipped. ‘Nice acronym.’
He laughed. ‘If I didn’t know better, I might suspect a hint of scepticism.’
Eve noted the seductive contours of his mouth. She also noticed that he had that kind of skin that wasn’t quite olive but close to it, a shade of pale honey that would never suffer, unlike hers, from the horrors of winter pallor.
When the food arrived, twenty minutes later, she realized that neither of them had made the slightest attempt to readdress the original question of why she’d called. Her excuse was simple: she didn’t want to face the music before she had to. But what was his? Was he deliberately avoiding the issue or treating this as a purely social encounter? If the latter was true, she wasn’t quite sure how she felt about it. Jack Raynor was amusing, good-looking – no, more than that, almost dangerously attractive – but
he was also, first and foremost, a cop.
And the Westons and the Law had a less than happy history.
The steaming dishes descended on the table, accompanied by a glorious smell of herbs and spices. She sat back, placed her napkin politely in her lap, and tried to recall her table manners.
It seemed a shame to spoil the moment with her nagging anxieties. Perhaps, for the duration of the meal, she could consign them to the back of her mind. It was a while since she’d been treated to a candlelit dinner, even longer since she’d actually fancied the man she was sharing it with. But then again it was hard to appreciate even the most harmonious of flavours when the world might be about to come crashing down around you …
The words spilled out before she could contain them. ‘So, is it also part of this new initiative to treat your suspects to a final supper?’
He stared at her. ‘Suspects?’
To give him his due, he looked suitably bewildered. Not that that necessarily meant much. Cops came in all shapes and sizes, and with varying degrees of intelligence, but they all had the same unwavering ability to lie through their teeth.
‘Isn’t that what I am?’ She put down her fork.
He shook his head. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘I don’t understand either,’ she said, glancing regretfully at the dishes in front of her. ‘I don’t understand why a local officer has been making inquiries about me in London.’
‘Has he?’
She sighed. ‘A sergeant called Shepherd. I presume you know him.’
‘Eddie? Sure. What’s it about?’
‘I was hoping you might be able to answer that. It’s why I wanted to talk. He visited my ex-employer, Henry Baxter, told him it was part of an ongoing investigation.’
‘That could cover a multitude of sins.’
Which was exactly what Eve didn’t want to hear. She had hoped to keep her multitudinous sins firmly in the past. ‘For instance?’
He frowned. ‘Hard to say. What do you feel most guilty about?’
‘I don’t feel guilty about …’ she began, before she noticed the smile creeping on to those sensual lips again. She forced herself to smile back. He clearly wasn’t taking this too seriously. Perhaps she should lighten up too. ‘Ah, so this is how you squeeze out all those reluctant confessions.’
