The Pact

by Roberta Kray

  ‘You’re a Weston,’ Lesley snapped back.

  As if trouble was their middle name.

  Eve let the implication slide. And anyway there was an element of truth in it. She could have reminded her that she’d been a Weston once herself but from there it would only be one short step towards the fatal quicksand of old resentments.

  Perhaps Lesley had the same idea. She flapped a hand and forced an apologetic smile on to her pink Cupid’s bow mouth. ‘I was sorry to hear about your father.’

  Was she? Eve doubted it. And certainly not sorry enough to come to the funeral. Or to even send a card. But now wasn’t the time to go into that. She nodded. She might have managed a thank you if the words hadn’t stuck in her throat.

  There was a brief uncomfortable silence.

  As if on cue the phone rang and Lesley leapt up to answer it. ‘Vince, darling.’ She cradled the receiver against her pearl-studded ear and glanced over her shoulder. ‘No, no, don’t worry. It’s fine. I’m not doing anything important.’

  Eve’s brows shifted up a fraction. Good thing she wasn’t the sensitive sort. While Lesley walked over to the window and murmured sweet nothings to husband number four, or was it five? – there had been so many she’d lost count – she sipped at her tea and grabbed the opportunity for some surreptitious scrutiny.

  How old was she now? About forty-three, she estimated, but wearing it well. Small and slim, she had barely a line on her face. It was uncanny how similar she was to Terry: same build, same silky golden hair, even the same angelic butter-wouldn’t-melt-in-her-mouth expression. They both looked as fragile as porcelain dolls. Only the eyes were different. Lesley’s were a soft hazel whereas Terry, like herself, had inherited the Weston shade of grey.

  All in all, she didn’t appear that different to when they’d first met over twenty years ago. Of course, back then, Lesley hadn’t been quite the lady she aspired to be now. It was Eve’s father who had helped smooth out those rough Cockney edges, who had paid for elocution lessons and classes in deportment. It was her father who had taught her how to behave in polite society.

  And back in those days the sly ambitious Lesley had been far from averse to a spot of trouble …

  Eve knew what they’d done, how the two of them had generated an easy source of income. It was the oldest trick in the book. Although it wouldn’t work so well now, adultery being virtually compulsory for anyone in the public eye, twenty years ago there were still plenty of men who preferred to keep their indiscretions private. Easy pickings for an angelic-looking girl with a small bank account and a big smile. A bit of research, an accidental meeting, and next thing the mark was lying stark naked in a hotel room. All it took from there was a distraught ‘husband’ bursting violently through the doors and it wasn’t long before the wallet came out.

  Everyone had their price.

  She sighed. It had been a cheap trashy kind of con but Lesley had played it to perfection.

  ‘Love you too, darling,’ she whispered into the phone.

  Eve watched as she came back across the room and replaced the receiver. She was dressed in a pale pink dress to match her car. Or maybe, with the exorbitant cost of designer clothes, it was the other way round.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ she murmured. Then, as if she didn’t intend to be sitting for long, she perched down on the very edge of her chair. ‘Look, Eve, I know what you want, why you’ve come here, but the answer’s no. I told Terry, any more trouble and that was it. I’ve got Tara and Zak to think of now.’

  Eve nodded, trying to look sympathetic. ‘He’s let you down, I realize that. He’s let himself down. He made a big mistake and he knows it. But with everything that’s happened … with Dad dying and … Couldn’t you just go and visit him once? That’s all he’s asking.’

  Lesley shook her head. ‘I’ve told you.’

  But he’s your son, she wanted to protest. Instead she persisted with the more practical approach. ‘Hillgrove’s only down the road. You could be there and back in a few hours.’

  ‘I’m sorry’

  ‘One afternoon. Even if it’s only for half an hour.’

  Lesley didn’t reply. Instead she looked down at her watch, a deliberate gesture intended to convey that time was running out.

  Eve’s patience was starting to run out too. ‘Why not? Come on, what harm can it do? Just one short visit. He only wants to see you, to tell you how sorry he is.’

  As if the concept of Terry’s repentance was beyond ridiculous, she gave a small scornful laugh. ‘The only thing he’s sorry about is getting caught.’

  ‘That’s not fair,’ Eve retorted, springing to his defence. Although, deep down, she knew there was an element of truth in it. He always had been a handful – forever in one kind of bother or another – but then he’d hardly had the perfect upbringing. In various ways, they had all let him down. After Lesley and her father had split up, the sixyear-old Terry had been passed between them like some unwanted parcel; he may as well have had ‘return to sender’ tattooed on his forehead.

  Lesley glanced at her watch again. ‘I’m afraid I really have to—’

  ‘Is it because of Vince?’ Eve interrupted, desperately trying to defer her dismissal. She had the feeling that if he hadn’t rung she might have made more progress. ‘Would he rather you didn’t see Terry?’

  ‘It’s nothing to do with Vince. It’s my decision not his.’

  Eve sensed she’d hit a sore spot. Perhaps he didn’t want his wife mixing with the riff-raff in prison – even if one of the riff-raff was her own flesh and blood. ‘I mean, surely he couldn’t object to you seeing your own son.’

  ‘You don’t understand. You have no idea how much …’ Lesley stopped abruptly and stared down at the carpet.

  Eve mentally attempted to finish the sentence: How much it would affect his social standing? How much it would affect his opinion of his wife? In the end, she just came straight out and asked: ‘What don’t I understand?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  ‘Of course it matters.’

  But as if she’d already revealed too much, Lesley declined to elaborate. Instead, she stood up and primly smoothed down her dress. ‘Well, it’s been nice to see you again.’

  Their conversation, apparently, was over.

  Eve dragged herself up, carefully testing her foot before she put her full weight on it. It still hurt but so long as she didn’t indulge in any sudden braking she should be able to drive home. She limped slowly out into the passage where Lesley, who’d been walking beside her, suddenly rushed forward to open the door.

  She had the vague sensation of being ‘escorted off the premises’.

  Eve passed obediently into the courtyard and then turned to look at her. She took a deep breath. There was nothing else for it. When all else failed, there was only the final resort – emotional blackmail. Lesley had never been the doting mother but surely there must be a few tiny threads of maternal instinct lurking somewhere in her DNA.

  ‘Please,’ she pleaded. ‘At least say you’ll think about it. You can ring me any time. He needs you. You’re his mother, his family.’

  She thought she saw a vague flicker of uncertainty in those wide suspicious eyes but if Lesley hesitated it was only for a second.

  ‘Goodbye, Eve.’

  She was still standing there when the door closed firmly in her face. It was only a slightly more cautious slam than the one that had originally greeted her.

  Chapter Nine

  If it hadn’t been for Eve Weston’s reckless driving, Ivor Patterson wouldn’t have been at a loose end. And if he hadn’t been at a loose end he might never have followed up the lead he’d got the night before. As it was, he had nothing better to do. She had managed to give him the slip and unless he was prepared to waste the rest of the day searching for a needle in a haystack he may as well do something productive.

  Naturally, he wasn’t going to tell the office that he’d lost her. Wherever she’d been going, she
’d be back – hopefully before he changed shifts with Charlie May. As far as his notes were concerned, she hadn’t stepped out of the flat. Who was to say otherwise?

  It was bad news, though, that she’d sussed him. He was growing careless. Now she’d be watching out, making his job twice as hard. And there was no saying how she might react if she spotted him again – maybe even call the cops. What he was doing wasn’t illegal but it would mean the end to any chance of an earner on the side.

  No, if he was going to follow through it had to be today. He had to move quickly if he was going to make this shakedown work. Be a shame to let the opportunity slip through his fingers.

  He drove back into Norwich and headed towards the pub where he expected to find the man who had attacked her. For the price of a few drinks, it hadn’t taken him long to put a name to the face or to find out his regular haunts. The name had surprised him at first. Perhaps he’d got the situation all wrong? But the more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that he hadn’t.

  Ivor had his instincts – and he knew what he’d seen.

  A cosy little chat was what was called for next, with a few visual props to help aid concentration. A nice clear set of prints in a plain brown envelope. Not the sort of snaps that his burglar cum assailant would want turning up at the local cop shop.

  What were they worth? Now that was a hard one to figure. Other than that they proved he’d been at the flats, right time, right place, there was nothing specifically incriminating about them. But he’d have a record, was bound to, and that would be reason enough for the Old Bill to give him a tug. And if there was one thing Ivor was sure of, it was that this thug was way down the food chain, a lackey being paid by someone else – and that someone else, hopefully, wouldn’t want the cops sniffing around.

  It wasn’t the first time he had offered to lose the evidence but there was always an added risk when you didn’t know exactly who you were dealing with. Probably best to stray on the side of caution.

  A moderate amount, he decided, nothing too greedy.

  DS Shepherd glanced up over the rim of his polystyrene cup. ‘I don’t see the problem, guv.’

  Raynor slammed down an armful of files on his desk. ‘Does anyone ever listen to a word I say? I told you. I told you to stay away from her.’

  ‘I didn’t go near her.’

  ‘And how exactly is going round to Herbert Street and crossexamining her neighbour, staying away?’

  Shepherd frowned. ‘It was hardly a crossexamination.’ He shoved a couple of aspirins in his mouth and took a sip of black coffee, a cure-all for his post-Friday-night hangover. Christ, with his head thumping like a jackhammer the last thing he needed was Raynor screaming in his ear. ‘And as it happens, I had a reason.’

  ‘It had better be a bloody good one.’

  ‘It is, guv. I think it was Marshall, Peter Marshall, her ex, that did the breakin. Used to live there, didn’t he? Just his style too. Hears about Weston snuffing it, knows the place is empty and decides to try his luck.’

  Raynor didn’t look impressed. ‘You’ve got no proof.’

  ‘Let me bring him in. I bet his alibi’s as leaky as the bloody Titanic.’

  ‘It’s a waste of time.’

  Shepherd gulped down the rest of his coffee. ‘Just give me ten minutes with him and I’ll—’

  Raynor could imagine what he’d do. ‘No, I don’t want him brought in.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘You heard.’

  ‘Why the fuck not?’

  Jack Raynor leaned over his desk and lowered his voice. ‘Because I fucking say so, Sergeant. Is that good enough for you?’

  It wasn’t good enough – not even approaching it. Shepherd narrowed his eyes. A bit of pressure, a bit of gentle persuasion, and he could have Marshall banged to rights, get the idle beggar off the streets for a few months. And that, as he understood it, was his fucking job.

  ‘Sergeant?’

  He tried not to snarl. ‘Yes, guv.’

  His status re-established, Raynor sat down beside him and sighed. ‘Look, okay, I see where you’re coming from but there’s more to this case than some opportunistic breakin. I mean, what are you actually planning on charging him with – breaking and entering and causing a mess? You’ve got no proof and it’s not worth the paperwork. It’s not as if anything was even taken.’

  ‘So far as we know.’

  ‘So far as we know,’ he acknowledged. ‘But if we bring Marshall in now, they’re going to get spooked. Every other door is going to close double quick.’

  Eddie wasn’t convinced there were any other doors. As far as he was concerned this was a straightforward case, open and shut, no complications. Still, with a headache like the one he’d got, it wasn’t worth arguing the toss. ‘Cavelli?’ he said wearily.

  ‘Trust me, there’s more to this.’

  Eddie shrugged. The inspector, he was sure, was talking through his over-educated arse; whatever was going on between Eve Weston and Martin Cavelli had nothing to do with Herbert Street. But what the hell! Give him enough rope and he’d eventually hang himself. ‘Fine. If that’s what you think.’

  Raynor got up from the chair. ‘So we’re agreed. We leave Peter Marshall alone?’

  He nodded. ‘Whatever you say, guv.’

  It was almost one o’clock by the time Eve arrived home. She parked the car and limped across the road. It hadn’t been the most productive of mornings. Apart from another injury to add to her collection, she’d come away with very little. What was she going to tell Terry: that his mother didn’t want to see him or that she was thinking about it? She wasn’t sure which was worse – dashing his hopes or giving him false ones.

  In the foyer, she paused to check the mailbox. There were three flyers for the local pizza place, a generous invitation to take out a crippling loan, and a letter sent by first-class post. She quickly tore it open. It was a visiting order from Cavelli. Well, that saved her the bother of chasing him up; it seemed he wanted to see her as urgently as she wanted to see him.

  Eve had just turned towards the stairs when old Mrs Leonard emerged from the flat to her left. She was a tiny bird-like woman with bright dark eyes, wrinkles as deep as a walnut, and a long grey ponytail. In her usual eccentric style, she was dressed in a pair of violet dungarees and a skinny yellow polo neck.

  ‘Hello, dear,’ she chirped. ‘Lovely day!’

  Lovely hadn’t been quite her experience to date but Eve managed to paint a smile on her face. ‘Beautiful,’ she agreed.

  ‘And how are you?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  ‘And how’s that delightful father of yours?’

  Eve felt her heart sink. On two previous occasions she had gently explained that her father, sadly, had ‘passed away’ but the information clearly hadn’t registered. Unwilling to go through the traumatic process yet again, she found herself murmuring, ‘Oh, just the same.’

  Her neighbour’s beady eyes gazed quizzically up.

  Eve quickly veered back to the less emotive subject of the weather. ‘It’s really quite warm out there, like spring. It’s good to see the sun again. Are you going for a walk?’

  Mrs Leonard nodded. As she bobbed her head a pair of dangling silver earrings made a soft tinkling sound like wind chimes. ‘I’m slipping out before they come back, dear. They’re watching the house, you know.’

  Eve knew better than to inquire. Sometimes it was espionage, other times a minor revolution. Last week she’d been insistent that secret messages were being relayed into her kitchen. The source, if she remembered rightly, had been that hotbed of subversion, Just a Minute on Radio 4. She smiled. ‘Well, I won’t keep you. Enjoy yourself.’

  Eve tucked the mail into her bag before starting her slow ascent of the stairs. She sighed into the silence. As her father would have put it, Dorothy Leonard was a few pence short of a sixpence – but maybe, all things considered, that wasn’t so bad. A world where the BBC was intent on infiltration,
and the dead, apparently, remained immortal was surely more alluring than any dreary day-to-day existence on Herbert Street.

  Her foot had become a dull heavy throb – perhaps driving back hadn’t been quite such a good idea after all – and she clung on to the banister, half stumbling, half dragging herself up the two flights.

  She was barely through the door when the phone started ringing. Answer it or not?

  Not, she decided.

  If it was her heavy breather, she could do without the aggravation. And if it was anyone else they could leave a message or try her mobile.

  Eve went through to the bathroom, poured some hot water into a bowl and added a capful of antiseptic. Back in the living room, she slumped down on the sofa, carefully eased off her sandal and with a wince lowered the foot into the water. It looked even more swollen than when she’d left Blakeney.

  Sitting back, she tried to concentrate on what she should do next. At the top of her list was confronting Cavelli – she needed some answers and fast – but the lines for booking would be closed by now. She could ring on Monday but still wouldn’t be able to get a visit until the Wednesday. If her foot didn’t improve over the next few days, she’d be catching the bus out to Hillgrove, in fact two buses and a cab. She frowned at the prospect. Without a car that place was hell to get to.

  The phone started to ring again but Eve continued to ignore it. The way her life was going it was hardly likely to be good news. Was the man who had tailed her in the car the same person who had made the threatening call? She didn’t think so. And she was certain he wasn’t the brute who’d attacked her in the alley: that man had been bigger, wider, more solid than today’s pursuer. Perhaps they were working together. Or perhaps not. And if they weren’t, that meant there were at least two people out there, three if she included the mystery ‘Joe’, who had an unhealthy and frightening interest in her.

  And then, of course, there was Jack Raynor. God alone knew where he lay in the scheme of things.

  She took her foot out of the water, peered down, and tried to flex her toes. It was painful but possible. If she rested up, she might be able to drive again by midweek. In the meantime, the best thing to do would be to sit tight. She’d be safe enough here. Glancing over her shoulder, she checked to make sure she’d shot the bolts across. At least no one was coming through that door in a hurry.