The Pact

by Roberta Kray

  ‘I don’t mean to rush you,’ he said, ‘but it has been almost a minute.’

  ‘Are you as patient as this when you’re in the interview room?’

  ‘God no,’ he said. ‘The thumbscrews would be out by now.’

  ‘Well, thank you for your patience, Inspector.’

  Jack ran his fingers through his hair and stared plaintively at her. ‘Come on, Weston, show some pity and put me out of my misery. A simple yes or no will do. I won’t demand any explanations, I promise.’

  Why was it that every time she looked at him he made her want to smile? And the trouble was that she wanted to make him smile too. Now that was a worry. She hadn’t felt this way since … but look how that had ended. Even as she opened her mouth to reply she hadn’t quite decided what to say. Yes or no. Fifty-fifty.

  ‘No,’ she said.

  Seeing the disappointment flash into his eyes, she instantly regretted it.

  ‘Fair enough,’ he said.

  Eve waited a couple of seconds, hoping the temptation might go away, but she finally gave in. ‘What I meant is no, I won’t turn you down.’

  ‘What?’ That dazzling smile made its appearance again. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Would you like me to think about it some more?’

  ‘No!’ he exclaimed. ‘Your answer, I’m afraid, is legally binding. I wouldn’t want to have to drag you through the courts.’

  She shrugged. ‘I guess I’ll just have to make the best of it then.’

  While he went for more drinks, Eve pondered on the wisdom of what she’d done. Although what was the point? She couldn’t wriggle out of it now even if she wanted to. And did she? She glanced over at Jack, standing by the bar, and studied the back of his blond head, her gaze gradually descending over the curve of his neck, his shoulders, all the way down the length of his spine. She paused as she reached his peach of a butt. Well, even if she had made the wrong decision there were certain consolations …

  He came back with a bottle of cava and a couple of wine glasses. ‘Thought we may as well get in the mood,’ he said. ‘How do you fancy Spain?’

  Ah yes, there was still the small problem of their destination. She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so, mister. You’ll be suggesting the Costa del Sol next and I’m not sitting alone on a beach while you round up all the local gangsters.’

  As if,’ he protested. ‘I never mix business with pleasure.’

  ‘Never? As I recall you attended a certain breakin not so long ago and—’

  ‘Now that was different,’ he said. ‘And it was a one-off. That particular honey took advantage of my innocence and seduced me with her womanly wiles. I was powerless to resist.’ Grinning, he poured out the sparkling cava and passed her a glass. ‘So, if not Spain, then where?’

  ‘Er … how about Greece?’

  He didn’t look too keen on the suggestion. ‘Or there’s always Portugal.’

  ‘You know,’ she said wistfully, ‘whenever I go to Greece, I always have the urge to just rip off my clothes and swim naked in that warm blue sea.’

  This snippet of information generated an enthusiasm that had previously been lacking. ‘Come to think of it, Greece sounds like an excellent idea.’

  ‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’ll book the flights tomorrow.’

  It was ten minutes to bang-up. Cavelli had already spent more of his precious free time trying to get some sense out of Terry Weston than he’d wanted but he was either too doped-up or too scared to talk.

  ‘If I’m going to help you,’ Cavelli said softly, ‘I need to know about Joe.’

  All he got out of him was a shrug.

  ‘Terry?’

  But still he wouldn’t budge. He kept on sitting on the edge of his bunk, staring at him with those huge grey eyes, as if it all might go away if he just kept his sweet mouth shut.

  ‘You’re in the shit, mate. Surely you realize that?’

  Terry lifted and dropped his skinny shoulders again.

  Now patience wasn’t Cavelli’s strong point and anyway, he didn’t see why he should play nursemaid to some uncooperative, ungrateful kid who barely had the grace to acknowledge his presence. The fact that he was going out of his way, putting his fucking arse on the line didn’t seem to have registered. He rubbed on his knuckles, still aching from the day before, and tried another less diplomatic approach.

  ‘For Christ’s sake,’ he said, raising his voice. ‘This isn’t just about you. Don’t you ever think about anyone else? What about Evie?’

  It was a smart move. The mention of her name prompted an instinctive response. Terry’s eyes flickered, closed, and then swiftly opened again. ‘What?’

  Cavelli almost cheered. It was the first word he’d got out of him. ‘You’re not the only person involved in this. You want her to suffer too?’

  ‘She’s …’ His brow crumpled into a frown. ‘Evie’s not … She’s okay.’

  ‘Oh yeah? Because from what I’ve heard Joe’s making her life a fucking misery.’

  Terry stared at him, the tip of his tongue sneaking out to dampen his lips. He took a good few seconds to think about it while his hands continued to wrestle on his thighs, a constant nervy tussle that made Cavelli want to shake him. Then suddenly his childlike mouth broke into a smile. ‘Nah, you’re just saying. She’d have told me. So I know, right? I don’t need to worry about Evie. She’s safe.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Cavelli gave up. Perhaps she would have more luck. The visiting order and the letter telling her to come might have arrived by now. If not, it should reach her by Monday. He’d tried calling too but had only ever got that damned answering machine.

  He returned to his cell. As he walked through the door Isaac glanced up, made a hasty appraisal of his mood, and went back to rolling his cigarette.

  ‘Stupid little fucker!’

  Isaac looked sharply up at him again. His voice sounded aggrieved. ‘What, man? I ain’t done nothing!’

  ‘Not you,’ Cavelli said, slumping down on his bunk. And then, because he wasn’t in the best of moods, added sarcastically, ‘Not this time.’

  There was a short pause while Isaac debated whether it was prudent to proceed. He sealed his skinny cigarette, placed it between his lips and lit it. However, when no further slights to his character were forthcoming, he took the risk of speaking again. ‘So you ain’t got it sorted.’

  ‘What do you think?’

  Isaac decided it was a rhetorical question and smartly shut up again. What he thought wasn’t anything Cavelli wanted to hear. He’d made that plain enough ever since his run-in with Bryant’s boys. No point reminding him that he was headed for trouble. Anyhow, headed was hardly the word; he was already in it, right up to his neck. The moment he’d floored that bastard Hales, there was no going back. Rumour had it his jaw was broken. He hoped it was true.

  ‘Well?’ Cavelli asked.

  Isaac raised his hands in protest. ‘Hey, what did I say? Did I—’

  ‘That’s what I meant. You’ve usually got an opinion – what’s so different about today?’

  Isaac took a long drag on his cigarette, peered at him through the smoke and said, ‘Thought you might be in need of some quiet contemplation.’

  Cavelli grinned. For all his annoying habits, Isaac was one of the few people in this godforsaken place who could actually make him laugh. ‘Oh yeah, and since when did you come over all considerate?’

  ‘Since I learned what was good for me,’ he said. ‘And I figure you don’t need no other fucker pissing you off right now.’

  ‘I can’t argue with that.’

  Cavelli checked his watch. It was almost five. He didn’t mind the early bang-up at the weekend. It was a long haul through to when the doors were opened again at eight but at least it gave him a break from watching Terry Weston’s back – not to mention his own. He lay down, stretched out his long legs and put his hands behind his head.

  By rights he should have been spending this time reflectin
g on the midweek visit. Jesus, Kimberley was always good value for money – just wind her up and watch her go. He wasn’t even sure why he’d done it. No, that wasn’t true, he knew exactly why. He’d wanted to wind Evie up too, especially after that letter, to make her understand that she wasn’t the one in control, that she couldn’t take the piss, that he was the one who was pulling the strings. Except he wasn’t – not any more. It had all gone pear-shaped.

  He lowered a hand, wound his fingers around the coarse grey blanket and stared at the wall. There was no chance of seeing his plan through now. And it had all seemed so simple, so possible, the ideal opportunity to fit up Jimmy Reece. She would have done it too … with a little persuasion. He was sure of that. Anything to protect that runt of a brother. Once she’d got to know him, gained access to his house, she could have planted enough Class A drugs to send him down for a good long stretch. Intent to supply – that would have done the trick nicely. He felt the old familiar rage coursing through his veins. He might have disappointed Nadine but Jimmy Reece had destroyed her. That filthy bastard had promised her the earth and delivered her to hell. He was the one who deserved to be inside, to be counting the days, to be forever watching out for his precious aristocratic arse …

  A breeze floated in from the window. From his position on the bunk Cavelli could see the sky, a filmy square of grey. The rain had started to fall again, a fast patter against the glass, the drops gradually obscuring his view. He closed his eyes.

  ‘So what do you reckon, Isaac?’ He tried to keep his voice light. ‘You think I’m fucked?’

  ‘Nah,’ he said. ‘Not fucked, just …’

  It was that sudden pause that confirmed all his worst fears.

  Joe Silk was sure she would panic and he’d been right. It was the only good news he’d had all week. Lifting his glass, he sniffed at the whisky before tilting the glass and taking a large self-congratulatory swig. His decision to wait had been justified. The merchandise had changed hands; there was no doubt about it. Micky had seen an envelope passed discreetly across the café table at the station; too slim to contain cash, it had to be the photo. What else could possibly justify a four-hour round trip to London?

  He hadn’t really expected Gruber to find anything in Patrick Fielding’s flat – the odds had been long – but the outcome remained more than satisfactory. This second breakin had been enough to shake her, to make her aware that the net was slowly closing, to provoke her into action. She must realize by now that time was running out.

  Little Evie was well and truly on the ropes.

  He smiled. He’d make her pay – and not just for her own treacherous ways. He felt a resurgence of anger at Alex Weston’s betrayal. So much for friendship, for respect. That low-life grifter hadn’t known the meaning of loyalty. If he hadn’t already been six feet under …

  ‘Please,’ he had said, sitting across from this very desk, his palms laid open, his grey eyes earnestly beseeching. ‘You do this for me, Joe – this one thing – and I swear that’ll be it. The end. No one else will ever see it.’

  He had stared at him in disbelief. ‘You’re threatening me?’

  ‘No, not threatening, asking. You think I want to be here, to be doing this? I’ve got no choice. Terry’s looking at ten years, maybe longer. I can’t let that happen.’

  ‘And what do you think I can do about it?’

  ‘You can sort it. You’ll find a way.’

  Joe had shrugged, trying to hold his temper. When he spoke it was through gritted teeth. ‘I wish that was true but I don’t have that kind of influence. It’s impossible.’

  ‘If my son’s going down, he’s not going down alone.’

  And there was something in Weston’s expression, in the icy coldness of his voice, that told Joe he wasn’t bluffing. And he only had to look at that photograph to understand how damning it was. ‘And if I do as you ask, then you’ll hand it over?’

  He nodded. ‘When it’s done. I give you my word.’

  ‘You’ve given me your word before. We made a pact, the five of us. You’ve already broken it.’

  ‘I’m a father. What would you do in my position?’

  Joe could have taken him out there and then – shit, he’d been tempted – but the risk was too great. Weston wasn’t a fool; he would have made copies. Also, if Daddy met with an accident the kid might start squealing, the cops would be crawling all over the place and it would only be a matter of time before …

  So he had grudgingly gone along with it, called in a few costly favours, and managed to get the major charges dropped. Then he’d sat back and waited for Weston to fulfil his side of the bargain.

  And what had the bastard done? Joe’s fingers tightened around the glass. Walked into a fucking river was what. Broken yet another of his empty worthless promises. And bequeathed the only item he had of value to his stinking bitch of a daughter.

  He glared down into the whisky, his eyes narrowing into two thin slits. She should have known it was a legacy that could only destroy her. Didn’t she realize who she was dealing with? He’d been patient, more than patient. He had even sent Peter Marshall round with a few gentle reminders as to where her obligations lay, giving her every opportunity to think things through, to make the right decision – but there had only been silence.

  Was she completely mad? All she’d had to do was hand the damn thing over.

  There had been a brief moment when he’d started to doubt if she even had the photograph, had wondered if Weston had maybe got rid of it. But then she’d hired that two-bit private eye and tried to blackmail him through Marshall. That told him all he needed to know.

  No more second chances.

  Evie Weston’s time was up.

  Chapter Thirty

  Eve interrupted her packing for the third time, went through to the living room and without standing too close to the window peered down at the street. Her stomach took another dive. The car was still there, parked outside the café, a battered green Vauxhall with a crack running across one corner of the windscreen. And the driver was still inside, flicking idly through a newspaper. He was youngish, not much over twenty, but his face was hard, angular, unusually thin and sharp as if all his features had been sculpted by a razor blade. Occasionally he raised his head and glanced over at the door to the flats.

  He was waiting for her. She was sure. Was he one of Joe Silk’s men?

  She drew quickly back, sheltering behind the curtains. He’d been there for the whole afternoon or maybe longer; she had only noticed him a few hours ago. Frowning, she looked at her watch. It was getting on for six. The plan had been for her to drive over to Jack’s and for them to travel in his car to Stansted. She still had some time – the flight wasn’t leaving until midnight and the Sunday evening traffic should be light – but how was she going to get herself, never mind her suitcase, safely across the road and into the Honda?

  Maybe she should call Jack and get him to pick her up. But that would only solve the most immediate of her problems. It might guarantee her safe passage out of Herbert Street but it wouldn’t prevent her guard – if that’s what he was – from informing Joe Silk that she was leaving. And if he realized what she was doing, and guessed where she was going then …

  She was still turning over the dilemma, chewing on a fingernail, when the phone rang. Thinking it was Jack, she hurried over to pick it up. ‘Hello.’

  There was a short pause. ‘Eve?’

  At first she didn’t recognize the soft female voice. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Lesley.’

  ‘Oh!’ she said, surprised.

  ‘Can we talk?’

  Talk? Lesley never wanted to talk – Eve’s toes were still bruised from the last time she’d attempted a conversation. And there was something odd about her tone, something slightly off-key. She couldn’t quite figure it out. ‘Er, sure,’ she said, glancing at her watch again. Eve waited but the line had gone quiet, not cut-off quiet, just a non-speaking pregnant kind of hush. She knew
that Lesley was still there; she could hear her breathing. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Not now. Could you come over tomorrow? In the afternoon, about two.’

  ‘I can’t,’ she said. ‘I’m sorry.’ Although even as she apologized she wondered why she was bothering. She frowned down the line. And it was typical of Lesley to ask her to drive over – couldn’t she get in that fancy pink Mercedes and use a little petrol of her own? ‘I’m going away for a few days. Well, a week in fact.’

  ‘Away?’ she repeated dully.

  Eve, thinking she detected a faint slur in her voice, decided that she must have been on the booze, a few stiff cocktails to make a dull Sunday afternoon pass more swiftly. Life might be comfortable with Mr Player but she doubted he rated that highly in the excitement stakes. ‘A holiday,’ she said.

  ‘Oh, right. I see.’

  Lesley sounded disappointed, but kind of puzzled too, as if she couldn’t quite see anything clearly.

  ‘I’ll be back in a week,’ Eve told her again. She paused but no further comment was forthcoming. ‘Look, is this about Terry?’

  ‘Of course it’s about Terry,’ she snapped, instantly roused into her more usual irritability by the ludicrous notion of them having anything else to discuss.

  ‘So can’t you tell me now?’

  Eve heard the rustle of her hair against the receiver as Lesley shook her head. ‘No, I need to talk to you.’

  You are talking to me, Eve wanted to snap back. She had the feeling this was more to do with Lesley’s guilt than anything else, some alcohol-induced impulse to justify her behaviour and salve her dodgy conscience. Perhaps she had even changed her mind about going to see him. But Eve didn’t have time to prise out the details. She still had her packing to finish and that other even thornier problem of a mean-looking stranger lurking just across the street …