by Roberta Kray
‘Put his size tens in it?’
He forced a smile. ‘Something like that. And we get enough bad press as it is.’
‘Well, if he did, he didn’t do it here. And I wouldn’t worry; Sonia’s more than capable of taking care of herself.’ She was about to add I think they have some history when she thought better of it. It was none of her business. ‘Anyway, he looked like he was about to drop.’
‘He always looks like that.’
Eve waited until he put down his glass before settling against his shoulder. Resigned to the fact that unbridled lust was temporarily off the agenda, she decided to embark on a few discreet inquiries of her own.
‘So how’s the investigation going?’
‘There is no investigation,’ he said. ‘It was an accidental death. There’ll be an inquest of course but there isn’t any doubt that he drowned.’
‘Not Peter Marshall,’ she said. ‘The other guy. Patterson, was it?’
‘Oh him. No, that’s nothing to do with us any more. It’s in the capable hands of MIT’
‘Really?’ Eve asked, confused. She opened her mouth to say, Perhaps someone should tell that sergeant of yours, but smartly closed it again. Whatever Shepherd’s motives for showing her the photograph, Jack clearly knew nothing about it. ‘So you’re completely off the case?’
‘Yeah, why?’
No reason.’ She ran a finger along the fine silky hair on his forearm. ‘I was just curious.’
Chapter Twenty-Four
Henry Baxter couldn’t put his finger on exactly what was bothering him. It was more an atmosphere than anything solid, a tension, a peculiar sense that the people around him were walking on eggshells.
Louise had come into the office twice, dropped off his typing, and then waited by his desk as if about to speak. On both occasions he had lifted his head and asked, ‘Was there anything else?’ But she had only paused, given him a vague smile and then scurried out again. He hoped she wasn’t about to hand in her notice. Despite his early doubts, she had settled in quite well. At least she was reliable; she didn’t spend the whole day filing her nails and didn’t even seem to gossip. Then again, this dusty basement was hardly the most exciting place for a young girl to be interred. He shouldn’t be selfish. Perhaps he should have a word, broach the subject with her …
But not right now. He wasn’t in the mood for awkward conversations; there were too many other things on his mind. And top of the list was Richard. He was being unusually solicitous which meant he either wanted something or had already done something he knew his father would strongly disapprove of.
This morning he had turned up with a frothy cappuccino from the local Starbucks. ‘Hey, how’s it going?’
‘To what do I owe the honour?’ he had said drily.
Richard planted his elegant backside on the edge of his desk. ‘Just thought I’d touch base, see how you are.’
‘I’m quite well, thank you.’
‘Good. Good, that’s excellent. I wanted to check that everything’s okay between us, you know, after all that rotten business with …’
Henry noticed how he couldn’t actually bring himself to say her name. ‘Eve Weston?’
‘Yes, right.’ His mouth shifted into a thin nervous smile. ‘And so it’s all fine down here?’
‘What are you after, Richard?’
‘Nothing,’ he said too quickly, his eyes shifting slyly to the side. He attempted a laugh that didn’t quite come off. ‘Lord, it’s a poor show if I can’t pop down and see the old man once in a while without being accused of having ulterior motives.’
Henry was tempted to claim that he always had ulterior motives but, recalling what he had promised Celia, took a deep breath and exercised the last remaining morsels of his paternal restraint.
‘No recriminations,’ she had insisted. ‘I don’t want you taking this out on our son.’ She had said it as if Richard was the innocent one, the victim, rather than the instigator of the current conflict in their marriage. ‘Do you promise?’
‘Yes, of course.’
So he’d held his tongue and as a result still didn’t have a clue what he was up to. Had Richard been a nicer person he might have given him the benefit of the doubt, believed that he was trying to make amends, perhaps even showing some signs of remorse – but Richard wasn’t nice. He didn’t even come close. And he certainly wasn’t sorry for telling Celia about Eve. No, whatever was going on, it had nothing to do with a guilty conscience.
Finally Richard had stood up. ‘Well, so long as you’re okay.’ But then instead of leaving, he’d continued to hover, his gaze roaming over the papers on Henry’s desk. ‘I don’t suppose … I mean, you haven’t been having any problems with your mail recently, have you?’
‘Not that I’ve noticed.’
‘Good. Glad to hear it. Only I’m not too sure about that new receptionist. She’s not exactly on the ball, is she? In fact she barely seems to know what day of the week it is.’
Henry couldn’t resist the easy jibe. ‘You employed her.’
‘Yes, well,’ he said, defensively. ‘I’m sure it’s only teething problems. She’s bright enough. I’m sure she’ll get the hang of it.’
‘Eventually.’
But still he didn’t leave. ‘It’s just that we got some of your mail the other day and you got some of ours.’
‘That’s hardly unusual.’ Henry stared up at him. He couldn’t figure out if this was his real reason for being here or simply an excuse for continuing the conversation. ‘Are you missing something?’
‘No. Absolutely not. Well, not as far as I know.’
‘Because I’m sure Louise would have dealt with any post that was misdirected.’
‘Yes, of course she would.’
There was a short silence.
Henry was the first to speak again. ‘Well, thank you for the coffee.’
‘It’s a pleasure.’
On his way out, Richard stopped to have a few words with Louise. Henry had strained his ears but the adjoining door was closed and he could only catch the occasional murmur. Were they discussing the post that wasn’t missing or something completely different? He would have liked to know – perhaps Richard was trying to lure her back upstairs – but couldn’t bring himself to ask her. It would have felt like he was spying.
Henry glanced at his watch. It was approaching mid-day now and he was having problems concentrating. He had always thought of himself as a mild-mannered man, content with his lot, but recently had been growing increasingly restless. Some kind of delayed mid-life crisis perhaps. A few more years and he’d be forced into retirement. The idea filled him with gloom and despair.
Surely there was still time for a little adventure before he put on his slippers?
He reached down into his briefcase, took out the sheet of paper he’d been working on last night, laid it on his desk and smoothed it down with the back of his hand. Eve’s troubles were preying on his mind. He had called her yesterday after she’d been to visit Terry.
‘Can you talk?’
‘Hold on a minute.’
‘What’s wrong?’
‘I’m okay,’ she’d claimed.
But he could hear from her voice that she wasn’t. She sounded flustered, out of breath, as if she’d been running. ‘What’s happened?’
‘I’m fine, really I am.’ She had gone on to mention about a woman having picked a row with her at the prison, a misunderstanding to do with that Cavelli character, but then had instantly dismissed it. ‘It was just one of those things. It’s not important. What I really wanted to tell you is that he was right, Terry was more involved than I realized. He came clean. He was there at the robbery but it’s not connected to the other stuff. I’m sure it’s not.’
Henry knew most of the ‘other stuff but still sensed she wasn’t telling him everything. It had taken another few minutes to squeeze out the information about the warning on the door. And when she’d finally told him he had drawn in his b
reath. ‘God, you can’t let this carry on. You have to—’
She had cut him off mid-sentence. ‘What? Go to the cops? I don’t think so. That’s only going to make it worse.’
‘How could it get worse?’
‘Because that sergeant’s already been sniffing around. You know, Shepherd, the one that came to see you, the one that was asking all the questions. He showed me a photo, a picture of a guy who was killed a few days ago. And, it’s just that …’ She hesitated.
Henry held his tongue, not interrupting, understanding that it was best to wait.
‘He was a private detective,’ she said eventually. ‘Ivor Patterson. And I think I recognized him. I couldn’t swear to it, I could be wrong, way off the mark, but he may have been the man who followed me to Blakeney.’
What kind of danger did that put Eve in? A wave of panic, of bile, had risen sourly from Henry’s stomach to his throat – a man who had followed her, a man who was now dead – but he had quickly swallowed it down. He tried to keep his voice calm and reasonable. ‘But surely that’s even more reason to go to the police.’
‘No,’ she insisted. ‘Because I don’t know, I’m not sure he was the same man and even if he was, if he is related to everything else, then talking to the cops isn’t going to help. It’s a murder inquiry and if I step forward then I’m going to put myself bang in the middle of it all. The minute they think I might be connected they’ll latch on to me and never let go. And apart from the fact that being dragged in and questioned for hours on end isn’t my idea of a great time, they’re going to want to know everything, all the finer details, and that’s bound to lead back to Terry and I just can’t afford to go there at the moment.’
He listened as she lit a cigarette and exhaled.
‘I’m not saying never, I promise, but I need a few more days, some time to think about it.’
‘Anything can happen in a few days.’
‘I’ll be careful.’
‘You can’t deal with this on your own.’
‘I can deal with it in whatever way I like,’ she snapped. And then she’d sighed and said: ‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound so … I’m sorry, I know you’re only trying to help. It’s just that I don’t feel it’s the right way forward. There are too many unknowns, too many blanks. I don’t like Shepherd and I don’t trust him.’
Henry couldn’t argue with that. He hadn’t been too keen on the man himself. But he was even less keen on Eve being exposed to unnecessary risk. ‘I don’t like to think of you alone in the flat. Isn’t there anyone who could come and stay with you for a while?’
‘Sonia’s back tonight. She’s only across the hall. I’ll be okay. Honestly, don’t worry.’
But of course he was going to worry. How could he not? He had promised to give her a call at the weekend. If he could think of a good enough excuse he might even get down for a day. In the meantime, all he had to offer was his brains and his logic. He carefully smoothed out the piece of paper again and stared down at it.
The initials AW, for Alexander Weston, lay at the top of the sheet. From there two lines descended to EW and TW, Eve and Terry. Under Eve he had listed Cavelli, Ivor Patterson, and an X for the man who had attacked her in the alley. There was also Paula (Cavelli’s former wife – or was she still his wife?), Nadine, and Barry, the man who had fixed the door. As a final thought he had added Patrick, Sonia, and Peter Marshall, none of them particular suspects but all connected to Eve. Under Terry’s initials he had written The Rowans, and then Lesley and Vince Player. In the blank space between the two lists he had put Joe with a question mark and then directly underneath him, Shepherd.
So there it all was in black and white. And four of these people were already dead. Henry ran over the names again and thought about it. Was anyone missing? He raised his eyes to glance at Louise through the glass window in his door. It reminded him of Richard’s visit this morning, which in turn reminded him of what he’d done to Eve. But his own son couldn’t have anything to do with this business, could he? He might hate Eve but he’d already achieved what he’d set out to do – to banish her forever from the hallowed ground of Baxter & Baxter. Unless he’d somehow found out that he was still seeing her and … But no, Richard might be a lot of things, vindictive being just one of them, but even he wouldn’t go this far. However, it couldn’t be denied that he had been acting oddly and …
Reluctantly, Henry picked up his pen and added Richard’s initials in tiny print and in brackets to the bottom of the list. He felt an instinctive urge to strike them out again – but didn’t. No matter how uncomfortable it might make him feel, it wasn’t entirely out of the bounds of possibility that in some minor way, hidden in the murky depths of this whole despicable mess, Richard might be playing a part.
Henry had given up smoking over thirty years ago but suddenly felt the urge to take a pack from his pocket, run a cigarette between his fingers, lift it slowly to his mouth and light it. He wondered what Philip Marlowe would do in the same circumstances. Probably exactly that, while he drank a pint of bourbon, put his feet up on the desk and tried to piece it all together. But then Marlowe hadn’t been an old-fashioned solicitor and he hadn’t had a wife called Celia.
She had come quietly into his study last night and peered over his shoulder. ‘Dinner’s almost ready. What are you working on?’
It was fortunate that he’d only been using initials. ‘Oh, nothing important. Bit of a tricky problem with a will. I’m working through the family tree.’
Since when had he learned to lie with such ease? The answer came back with surprising rapidity: since they had ceased to confide in each other, since she had taken Richard’s side over his, since she had stopped trusting him.
Why couldn’t she trust him?
Then again, had their situations been reversed – had she been taking secret walks with a charismatic good-looking man, leading a private life apart from him – would he have believed that it was completely innocent, that nothing was going on? The idea made him shudder, as if by simply thinking about it he might inadvertently make it happen.
He did feel bad about deceiving her, about still being in contact with Eve. Of course he did. Through all their years together, Celia had taken care of him, supported him, loved him. They were a partnership. He loved her too but didn’t know what to say or how to behave to make things better. And he didn’t want to have to tell more lies. By constantly apologizing he could only be admitting to a crime he wasn’t guilty of – adultery had never been on the agenda – but the truth was something he could barely begin to explain.
And so they sat on either side of the dining table, making small talk, discussing his day, discussing hers, while this massive obstacle – like some almighty elephant they were both ignoring – remained firmly lodged between them.
The only way forward was to give Eve up. He would have to do it eventually. But not yet. It wasn’t possible yet. He was too involved. He couldn’t just walk away. They were friends and to abandon her now, whatever the cost, would be the ultimate betrayal.
So what next? Henry picked up the piece of paper, folded it over and thrust it into his pocket. He needed to get out of the office. He needed some fresh air.
Micky had been following Patrick Fielding for most of the morning. Although the word following was somewhat of an exaggeration: at ten o’clock he’d watched him go and collect some groceries from the shop across the road and return to his flat where he’d remained for the next couple of hours.
He’d been about to give up hope – perhaps the bastard was going to spend the rest of the day indoors – when he’d finally appeared again, walked down the street and hopped on a bus to Islington. Micky had stuck on its tail until Fielding got off. Pulling up the car by the busy Upper Street bus stop, he watched him cross the road and enter one of the local fancy bars. He turned to stare at the man beside him. ‘You ready?’
He didn’t look ready. He looked grey, sick, like a man who was suffering from one almighty
hangover. But then Jimmy Reece always looked like that before the clock struck one. A few stiff drinks and he’d be back to his own charming self.
‘So what am I supposed to ask him?’
Micky sighed. ‘We’ve been through it, haven’t we? How many more times? You’re not supposed to ask him fucking anything. Don’t try and lead him, just let him talk. Let him ask you what he wants to ask. And don’t take your jacket off.’
Reece immediately felt inside his jacket to the wires that were running under his shirt.
‘And don’t do that either,’ he said. ‘You want to draw attention to yourself?’
Reece frowned. ‘What if he’s already meeting someone? What am I supposed to do then?’
‘Since when did you become so bloody shy? I’m sure you’ll think of something. I’ll park the car and come back. Make sure you keep him here, okay. If he’s not already ordered, be friendly and offer to buy him lunch.’ Micky reached into his pocket and took out three twenty-pound notes. ‘And we’re not a fucking charity,’ he said, ‘so don’t even think about taking the piss. No champagne, stick to the house wine, and I want the change and a receipt.’
Jimmy nodded, the incentive of free booze brightening his eyes. He grabbed the cash, got out of the car, and then stood for a second on the kerb before walking straight across the street. A couple of cars screeched to a halt, their horns blaring. Micky closed his eyes. Jesus! Just how crazy was this guy? It was only when he opened them again that he was able to relax. By some miracle – perhaps with the help of the patron saint who looks after useless drunks – he had managed to make it safely across to the other side.
By the time Micky had dropped off the car and walked back, they were sitting outside together. If Fielding was meeting anyone else they hadn’t turned up yet. A bottle of wine, unsurprisingly, had been opened and Jimmy’s first glass was almost empty. Micky took a seat a few tables away and settled down with his paper. He deliberately avoided looking at Reece; the jerk was edgy enough already. A waitress came out and he ordered a sandwich and a coffee. Then he got on the phone and quickly passed the message on to Gruber. ‘Go for it,’ he said softly. ‘We’re all clear. You should have an hour or so.’
