by Roberta Kray
She could imagine what Reece saw when he looked at Henry: someone old, dull, grey, non-threatening. And Henry knew it too. And had used it to his full advantage. She smiled. He’d done her proud!
And Patrick, although she was loath to admit it, had been smart too in introducing her as his wife. Jimmy Reece clearly liked to take what he perceived as belonging to other people. For him, that was the challenge, the kick, the thrill. He wasn’t interested in anything available. He was a thief of the lowest kind, the sort who stole only for the hell of it, for the power, the control, for the hurt he could inflict – before he carelessly threw it all away. Had Nadine imagined it was some great romance? What a fool! But then as soon as Eve thought it, she was sorry. When it came to love, everyone made mistakes, and if anyone had paid the price for following their heart, it was that poor girl.
Frowning, she looked down at her watch again. ‘It’s getting late,’ she said.
‘Ah, you’re not going,’ Jimmy objected. He wrapped his hand possessively around her wrist. ‘Don’t go. I know this club, just down the road. You should come. You really should. It’s delightful. You’d love it, it’s—’
‘I wish we could,’ she said, ‘I really do. But we’ve got an early start in the morning.’
‘A very early start,’ Patrick added, finally coming to her rescue. ‘We’re supposed to be on set at six.’ He stood up. ‘But look, keep in touch. It’s been great to see you again. Perhaps we can meet up for dinner.’ He took a small white business card from his pocket and passed it across the table.
Jimmy, releasing his hold on her wrist, stared at it for a while. Then he took a pen from his pocket and scrawled a number on the back. He passed it deliberately, almost provocatively, back to Eve. ‘I always lose cards,’ he said. ‘It’s probably better if you hold on to it.’
She smiled and slipped it into her bag. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
As they made their way out of the bar, Eve glanced back. She looked first at Jimmy, his face stuck firmly in his glass, and then at the corner where the two guys had been sitting. The space was empty now. Good. Thank God. She’d been right; there was nothing to worry about.
Out on the street, they gave the first cab they came across to Henry. Eve insisted that he took it. There were three of them, safety in numbers and all that, and he had a wife to go home to – Lord knows what he’d tell Celia. Working late at the office would hardly cut it. She put her hand on his arm as he climbed in. ‘Thanks.’
‘I’ll give you a ring,’ he said.
‘We’ll talk tomorrow. Take care.’ She would have kissed him on the cheek if the others hadn’t been there. Instead, she gently squeezed his arm and retreated.
‘Smart guy,’ Patrick said, as the taxi disappeared round the corner. ‘That was quite a performance. Very smooth. If I didn’t know better, I might almost think he was a pro.’
‘He is,’ she said softly, ‘but not in the way you think.’
Patrick opened his mouth as if to respond but thought better of it, paused, and said instead: ‘So where are you staying? Have you got a hotel booked? You won’t get a train back at this time of night.’
‘We’ll head towards Liverpool Street, find something there.’
‘It’ll be expensive. Look, why don’t you stay at the flat? I think we can just about squeeze in – and there’s no point wasting cash on a bed you’re only going to sleep in for a few hours.’
Eve was about to refuse but then changed her mind. It had been a long evening; Sonia was yawning and she was tired too. And he was right about the money; she shouldn’t be throwing cash away needlessly. ‘Okay,’ she agreed, rather grudgingly. ‘Thanks. If you’re sure.’
They flagged down another cab a few minutes later.
And if Eve had glanced over her shoulder one last time she would have seen the dark estate pulling carefully out from the kerb behind them.
Chapter Sixteen
She stared out of the window, gazing at the night lights of the city. Patrick and Sonia, their voices low, were talking about Jimmy Reece, a conversation which in turn led to Terry, and which eventually led on to the subject of her father.
It was inevitable that in her flimsy construction of secrets and lies a few nails would eventually fly loose. She just hadn’t expected them to come adrift in a black cab on the Kingsland Road. It was Sonia who let it slip, first about the breakin, and then about the manner of her father’s death. Too much champagne had loosened her tongue. Although neither was exactly a secret, Eve had privately been hoping Patrick wouldn’t find out.
Why? She wasn’t sure why. Because it wasn’t any of his business? She breathed a heavy sigh against the glass. Or perhaps because she just didn’t have the answers to the questions she knew he would ask.
The burglary, of course, didn’t faze him too much – living in London, it was almost an occupational hazard – and there was no reason for him to connect it to her current business with Cavelli. But her father’s suicide was another matter altogether.
He sounded shocked, stunned. ‘Evie?’
And she knew he was hurt, pained not just by its dreadfulness but also by the fact she hadn’t told him. Cancer, she had said. She hadn’t mentioned anything about his lonely midnight walk into the river.
‘What?’ she said, huddling closer to the door, pretending that she hadn’t been listening. And perhaps there was something in her tone of voice, something he recalled from years past, that made him decide not to pursue the matter.
At least for now.
And she was grateful. Although she knew it was only an agony postponed and not cancelled.
Sonia, aware that she’d inadvertently put her foot in it, did her best to make amends. For the next few minutes, acting as if nothing had happened, she made enough idle small talk to fill what might have become an uneasy silence. By the time the cab drew up beside the old Victorian terrace, a faint sense of normality had returned.
Patrick, despite his alleged shortage of cash, miraculously produced a twenty-pound note and passed it over to the driver. Eve had intended to pay half but instantly changed her mind. A few hours ago, he’d only had a tenner. What was that all about? She didn’t need to ask. Once a hustler, always a hustler. But as he’d been so generously wined and dined, courtesy of Henry and herself, she saw no reason at all why he shouldn’t make a small contribution to the evening’s expenses.
She made her way along the short drive towards the basement flat they’d once inhabited together. As she descended the flight of six stone steps, it was like slipping back into the past. Even the lamp above the door gave off the same thin slightly flickering light.
‘How come you never moved?’
He rummaged in his pockets for his keys. ‘I could never do that,’ he said. ‘What if you’d wanted to come back and couldn’t find me?’
She snorted.
‘You know your problem?’ he said, grinning. ‘You’ve got no sense of—’
‘Don’t say it,’ she interrupted, raising a hand. ‘I don’t respond well to criticism. Just unlock the door and get the coffee on.’
But for all her attempts at flippancy, she couldn’t deny that it felt odd, disconcerting, to be here again, to step inside the narrow hallway, to walk slowly through into the living room. She turned on the light and looked up. Even the same long crack was on the ceiling, an ominous zigzag that ran precariously from one corner to another. The back windows, like the ones at the front, were protected with strong iron bars. Everything was familiar. She knew the whole place inside out, not just this room but the others too – the bedroom barely big enough to hold a double bed, the tiny kitchen, the bathroom with its chipped blue tiles.
‘As you can see,’ he said, walking in behind her, ‘in deference to your memory, I’ve kept everything exactly as it was.’
‘Very touching,’ she replied. ‘I’m sure Miss Havisham would be proud. But I hope that doesn’t extend to a lack of milk in the fridge.’
It was only after
Sonia had gone to bed that he raised the subject of her father again. She was sitting in the easy chair. He was sitting on the sofa with his boots up on the coffee table.
‘I can’t believe he did that.’
She buried her face in her mug and sighed. ‘Do we have to—’
‘Not Alex,’ he insisted, as if she hadn’t spoken. ‘He wasn’t the type. I don’t get it. I don’t understand.’
‘He was sick,’ she said.
‘But why that? Why would he do that?’
‘You know why. He was ill, tired, maybe he … maybe he just couldn’t face what was coming.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘No, he never ran away from anything.’
She glared at him, suddenly angry. ‘He wasn’t running away. How can you call it that? He made a decision, a choice, and until you’re placed in the same position, until you’re facing a bloody death sentence, you shouldn’t be so fast to pass judgement.’
He stared at her before getting to his feet. Walking over to the cabinet, he kept his back turned as he took out a bottle of brandy and poured two stiff measures. Then he slowly looked over his shoulder. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘I didn’t mean—’
She raised her eyes. ‘I know. Forget it. I’m sorry too. I shouldn’t have snapped. It’s just hard to deal with.’
He placed the two glasses on the table and sat back down. ‘So how’s Terry coping with it all?’
She picked up the brandy and took a gulp. ‘I’m not sure if he is.’
‘You see, that’s what I don’t get. Not so much why he did it, but why he would do it while Terry was still inside. I know they had their ups and downs but …’
She felt her stomach sink. That was it. That was what didn’t make sense to her either. And it was why she’d never wanted to have this conversation with Patrick in the first place. He had a nasty habit of cutting straight to the chase. He knew her too well. He knew them all too well. There was every chance her father could, probably would, have survived the length of Terry’s sentence. So why had he chosen to take the path he had? ‘Maybe the cancer was more advanced than he said. You know what he was like, never one for hospitals. He couldn’t stand the places.’
As if this might be a feasible explanation, he nodded. ‘God, Evie. It must have been devastating. Did he …’ He hesitated. ‘Did he leave a letter or anything?’
She frowned as his question hit yet another emotional sore point. ‘No. Most suicides don’t, apparently. Perhaps he didn’t plan it.’ But even as the suggestion spilled from her mouth she knew the notion was ridiculous. Planning was her father’s middle name. ‘I mean, perhaps he didn’t plan it for that particular night, he just went for a walk and …’ Her explanation petered out. She’d run through it a thousand times in her head, churning through the possibilities, but saying it out loud just made her realize how wrong it all sounded.
‘Maybe,’ he said. ‘Or maybe, when it came to it, he just couldn’t find the words.’
There was a short silence. Eve could feel the tears pricking her eyes. It was still tormenting her: how he could have left, how he could have done that, without so much as a farewell note. If this carried on she’d be crying on Patrick’s shoulder before the night was out. And that wasn’t such a good idea. Kicking off her shoes, she curled her legs under her, stared down at her feet and quickly changed the subject. ‘So how did you know all that stuff about Jimmy Reece – about his films, about that Bill Morton guy?’
It wasn’t the most skilful diversionary tactic but he let it pass.
‘I go to the movies,’ he said.
‘Right,’ she replied. ‘Don’t we all. But since when did you become such an expert?’
His mouth broke into a smile. ‘Be prepared. Isn’t that what they say? Okay, so I might have done a bit of research. I thought I was being helpful. Whatever happened to old-fashioned gratitude?’
She shrugged. ‘Hey, I am grateful, but I didn’t ask you to come with us. You were the one who insisted on doing that.’ She took another sip of her drink and gazed around. Her eyes were searching, although she would never admit it, for any signs of a new female influence – the presence of silk cushions or a vase of flowers or any of those other accessories that so many women use to establish their territory. But there was nothing. Other than a couple of new prints on the wall, the room was unchanged. Even the damp patch by the back door was still there.
‘I live on my own,’ he said.
She glanced quickly back at him. ‘Did I ask?’
‘You didn’t need to.’ He laughed, lifting his arms and placing his hands behind his head.
It was such a familiar gesture that she felt a brief pang of … of what? She struggled to identify it, worried for a moment that it might be regret, but then gradually relaxed as she accepted it was only a sense of sadness, a faint nostalgia for what had been lost and could never be recovered. She sighed into her brandy.
‘How about you?’ he said.
She looked up at him.
‘Are you and Henry …’
‘No, God, of course not. He’s just a friend.’ She noticed his brows shoot up and added, ‘Please. Not that kind of a friend. Henry’s a good man, someone I can talk to.’
Patrick lowered his arms and then raised a hand again to sweep his fingers through his hair. ‘That’s nice,’ he said.
She heard the edge to his tone; although not blatantly sarcastic, it wasn’t far off. She had a sudden almost perverse impulse to ask if he had been faithful to her when they were married. The question rose in her throat but she smartly swallowed it down. What was she trying to do – rake up old ghosts, pick a fight? She already knew she’d resent any answer he gave: ‘Yes’, because it would be a lie; ‘No’, because it would dredge up all the old hurt and betrayal. Some agonies, like old scars, were best left alone. And anyhow, they had both lived a life so full of falsehoods, of such easy casual deceit, that perhaps neither was capable of any real kind of truth.
She studied his face, still so ridiculously beautiful, his soft blue eyes and wide seductive mouth. It was a face she had once loved to distraction. He didn’t look back. He was staring at the ceiling. There was something in his expression, something … and then it came to her, a touch too late, that her comment about Henry – someone I can talk to – might have been less than diplomatic. He had interpreted it, possibly, as a subtle dig, a reminder of what she hadn’t revealed, of what she hadn’t felt able to confide. Bother. She hadn’t meant it like that. She hadn’t meant to suggest … She’d only been trying to keep things simple, uncomplicated, but of course there was no such thing when it came to emotions.
Should she apologize? No, that would only make it worse.
Instead, searching for another way to make amends, she reached for her bag, took out the small white card, and examined it. ‘Patrick O’Connell,’ she said, reading off the name on the front. She laughed. ‘I can’t believe you’re still using that one.’
He dropped his gaze to her again and smiled. ‘Now, what’s wrong with that?’ he said, deliberately emphasizing his lilting Dublin brogue. ‘What objection can you possibly be taking to such a decent, solid, Irish name?’
She grinned back. Apart from his phone number, there was nothing else on the card. ‘You’re slipping. What’s the matter, didn’t you have time to print up the film producer version?’
He flapped a hand, sliding back into his more natural accent. ‘Hell, no. That would just be showing off. These days I go for the more economical approach. Less is more. A successful man doesn’t need to brag about his achievements.’
She flipped the card between her fingers, turning it over to see the number Jimmy Reece had scrawled across the back.
‘Pass it over,’ Patrick said, reaching out his hand.
She gave it to him. He laid it down on the table and copied out the number on the corner of a magazine.
‘What are you doing that for?’
‘Better safe than sorry,’ he said. ‘What if you lose
it and want to get in touch with him again? It’s always good to have a back-up.’
The thought of having to get in touch with Jimmy Reece again made her stomach turn over. She could still feel the dirty crawl of his fingers on her skin. Rubbing her hand along her thigh, she made a futile attempt to wipe it away. ‘Do you think I will?’
‘Who knows,’ he said, passing the card back to her.
She placed it carefully in the inside pocket of her bag. ‘And you’re not keeping his number for any other reason?’
‘What do you mean?’
She hesitated, assailed by another wave of guilt. After her earlier transgression she was reluctant to reoffend, to compound her mistakes, but then again she knew how Patrick worked. Once he’d discovered a door, he could never resist walking through it. And if he got involved in this particular mess, it might do more than just muddy the waters – it could be positively dangerous. ‘You know what I mean.’ She forced herself to look directly into his eyes. ‘If you’ve got any intention of … well, pursuing any ends of your own, then I’d rather you didn’t. At least not for the moment.’
As if,’ he said, smiling broadly.
‘Promise?’
‘I swear,’ he said, crossing his fingers religiously across his chest. ‘On my honour.’
Did she believe him? Not entirely. But it was the best she was going to get unless she told him the whole damn story. And she was way too tired, not to mention unwilling, to go down that road. But perhaps she could ask his advice on another issue.
‘Patrick, do you think I’m doing the right thing? I mean this whole Cavelli business. I don’t know if I should tell him about what we found out. What if it all goes wrong? What if I’m putting Reece’s life in danger?’
‘I wouldn’t worry about that,’ he said. ‘On tonight’s evidence, I’d say the world would be a better place without him.’
