by Roberta Kray
‘Oh great,’ she said. ‘My biggest fan. I’m sure he had plenty to tell you.’
‘Enough to give me an excuse to go down there. He seemed mad as hell and from how he was sounding off I thought Joe Silk might be right, that you might be …’
‘What, a threat?’
‘No.’ He frowned. ‘I don’t know. Maybe.’
‘But you didn’t even go in. Henry told me. It was Shepherd he saw.’
Jack didn’t reply.
‘So is he involved in this too?’
‘No.’ He reached out for his beer but it was empty.
Eve shoved the remains of her half-drunk bottle across the table. ‘Here, have this.’
‘Thanks.’ He took a swig. And then another. He stared longingly at the cigarette between her fingers as if, just for a moment, he wished he could find a similar way of occupying his hands. ‘I told Shepherd that there was a possible case of fraud. So far as he was concerned, that was all we were investigating.’
‘And when Henry told him that wasn’t true?’
Jack lifted his shoulders. ‘People often lie, especially to cops.’
She sensed there was more. ‘And Shepherd was happy with that?’
‘I had to keep him quiet. I told him that it might be connected to something else, something bigger.’
‘Bigger?’
‘That this wasn’t as straightforward as it looked, that there might be more to it, that you’d been visiting Martin Cavelli in prison.’
‘How did you …’ But she didn’t even bother to finish the sentence. There wasn’t much a cop couldn’t discover if he put his mind to it. And Jack had clearly been putting his heart and soul, not to mention various other parts of his anatomy, into trying to solve his problems. ‘So you already knew about that?’
‘I had to tell him something,’ he said.
‘But why should it matter that I was visiting Cavelli?’
‘He’s got a record,’ he said. ‘He’s violent. He’s got connections.’ He rolled the neck of the bottle between his fingers. ‘It was just something to say, an excuse to have a root around.’
She took a drag on her latest cigarette. A heap of butts was already lying in the saucer. She nudged her way through the ash, creating a small empty circle. ‘And then?’
‘I told Joe Silk what I’d found out,’ he said. ‘And that was it.’
‘Except it wasn’t,’ she said.
He laid his elbows on the table, lowered his gaze and then looked up at her again. ‘No, it wasn’t. I heard about the breakin, recognized the name and … and suspected Joe had to be connected. Too much to be a coincidence, right? I was worried about what he might be up to, about whether I was going to get dragged into it again, and so I made sure that I dealt with the call.’
Eve ground her latest cigarette into the grey ashy mess. ‘And made sure that we met.’
‘Hey,’ he said. ‘I’m not denying that. I wanted to see you, to meet you – I was curious apart from anything else – but I never pushed things further. You were the one who rang me, remember?’
Which was true, but then who was to say that he wouldn’t have rung her eventually, that he wasn’t just waiting to see if she made the first move? And most women probably did, drawn as she had been, towards those expressive blue eyes, the smooth handsome planes of his face, that soft seductive mouth that even now, perversely, still made her want to …
She shifted her chair back an inch. ‘So you haven’t been in touch with Silk since? You never heard from him again?’
He scowled and put his hand over his mouth.
‘Oh, Jesus. Jack.’ She was walking a thin line between love and hate, between sympathy and contempt.
‘Only once more. It was the last time, he said. It was before we … I mean, it was just after the breakin. He asked me to leave Peter Marshall alone, to make sure he wasn’t pulled in.’
‘It was Peter who broke in?’ She didn’t know why that startled her so much. Perhaps it was his connection to Sonia. But when she thought about it she could see that it was logical; Marshall had been in Crete as well. In fact, with his violent background, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that he had something to do with the disappearance of the girl.
‘Then Marshall suddenly turns up dead,’ he said. His voice was low, no more than a whisper.
She stared at him. His face had gone a greyish shade, the pale bronze all washed out, and his hands were wrestling on the table top. She reached out, placing her fingers lightly on his arm.
He took a deep breath as if he was struggling to keep control. ‘And I knew it couldn’t be an accident. Not a chance in hell. It was down to Joe Silk. And then when Shepherd started sniffing around, checking out the forensics, I knew I was going to have to try and cover that up too because if it all started to unravel … well, it was only a matter of time before one of the threads would lead back to me.’
She was quiet for a while and then she said: ‘When were you planning on telling me all this? I mean, if I hadn’t recognized the girl and …’
‘When were you planning on telling me?’ He forced a smile, small and pained. ‘We’ve both been less than free with the truth but I’ve never lied to you – not about … about us.’
Eve wasn’t entirely sure of what ‘us’ consisted any more. For which, she accepted, he was only partly to blame. It took two to spin the kind of web they’d got entangled in. ‘So what happens now?’
He expelled a long weary sigh, his shoulders sagging. ‘I don’t think we have much choice.’
She thought at first that he meant it would all have to come out, the whole sorry tale, but then she looked into his eyes and realized just how far off the mark she was. Her jaw fell open. ‘Christ, you’re not going back, are you?’
‘You can’t either. It’s not safe.’
‘Don’t be crazy,’ she said. ‘We can’t just go on the run.’
‘You got a better idea? We’re next on Silk’s list of problems to be rid of. We both know too much.’
‘Then I’ll go back. I’ll go to the cops. Don’t worry, I won’t mention you. I’ll keep you out of it, I promise. I’ll tell them about the photo, about the girl, about Joe Silk …’
‘You’re not thinking straight. You really want to open that can of worms? Joe Silk’s not the only person in that photograph, your brother’s in it too.’
‘He didn’t have anything to do with it,’ she snapped. ‘Not Terry. It was Silk or that psycho or Marshall. Maybe all of them. What do I know? How else would my dad have been able to use it?’
He barked out a laugh, a harsh almost scornful sound. ‘For God’s sake, Eve. It still incriminates him. He was there, wasn’t he, just like your father. What are you saying – that Terry didn’t know what happened to her? How many years do you think you get for covering up that kind of crime?’
‘Maybe he didn’t know,’ she said, desperately clutching at straws. ‘It’s possible, isn’t it? Or maybe he was forced to keep quiet.’
‘And I suppose he didn’t know about the photo either – the photo your father so conveniently used to save him from a twelve-stretch inside?’
She dropped her head into her hands. He was right. Terry must have known. And she recalled, with a thin unpleasant shudder, the way he had begged her not to clear out the flat without him. Please, Evie. No, it had been nothing to do with sentiment – and everything to do with the fact he believed the photo was still hidden there.
‘And apart from all that,’ Jack said, pressing home his point, ‘if you do go back, Joe Silk’s going to be waiting. By now he’s thinking that you’re a chip off the old block, just dying for another chance to screw him like your father did. He can’t take that risk. He’s already killed Peter Marshall and …’
He didn’t need to finish the sentence. There wasn’t much doubt about what Silk would do if he caught up with her. She squeezed her eyes shut. Opened them again. Nothing had changed. God, this was all such a nightmare.
‘But I can’t just leave Terry, can I? I can’t just abandon him.’
‘He’s not a child any more. He’ll be out in a few months. Wherever we are, he can join us there.’
‘And what if Joe Silk gets to him first? No, it’s impossible. Anyway, I need to know. Do you understand? I have to talk to him, to find out what happened. That girl … Andrea …’
She shook her head, got to her feet and walked out on to the balcony. Leaning against the railings, she gazed down on to the neat square of lawn. Everything so tidy. So normal. Other couples were strolling up the path, returning from the beach for some lunch, for an afternoon siesta. How odd that while her own little universe was splintering, falling apart, this other world was still turning, regardless.
After a while he came to stand beside her and she felt the light brush of his arm against hers. ‘Stay with me.’
‘I’m sorry.’
She saw his mouth open as if to protest, to try and dissuade her, but then his lips slowly closed together again. There was nothing he could say. He knew that it was hopeless.
Chapter Thirty-Five
She had changed her mind a hundred times before she reached the airport, on each occasion shifting forward intending to tap the taxi driver on the shoulder, to ask him to turn around, and then slowly, silently, sinking back into her seat. Then there had been the long wait, over six hours before she’d finally managed to get on a flight. Although she shouldn’t complain about that – it could have been days in peak season. But the hours had dragged on forever. How often she had looked up expectantly, a flash of pale fair hair appearing in the periphery of her vision, only to be disappointed yet again.
The plane was beginning its descent. Eve stared out at the grey misty dawn of Stansted. Almost home. Did she resent him for not coming with her? No. Well, only a bit. And in his position she suspected she’d have done exactly the same. He didn’t just have Joe Silk to contend with, he had the Law as well – if one didn’t get him, the other eventually would. And she knew what happened to cops in jail.
The worst part of leaving had been the pretence, the way they had both chosen to act as if it was only a temporary separation, that one day – not so far off perhaps – they would be together again. She could see it in his face, his expression a mirror image of her own, that it was only a way of getting through. Acknowledging the truth would have been even harder. So they had said their goodbyes quickly in a false light-hearted kind of manner and with one fleeting slight embrace. It was only then, holding him for the last time, that she realized the finality of it all. As she climbed into the taxi, tears had risen to her eyes. She had dug her nails into her palms and forced herself not to look back.
The plane jolted on to solid ground and cruised along the runway. Twenty-five minutes later, Eve found herself in the car park. Curiously, she had no memory of the time between landing and getting here, as if someone else, some benevolent stranger, had taken over the tedious proceedings of getting off the aircraft, collecting her luggage and clearing Customs. She dug into her bag and pulled out the car keys. A gift from Jack.
‘Take them,’ he’d said. ‘They’re not much use to me.’
‘Thanks.’
‘And promise me something.’ He’d touched her chin then, forcing her to look up at him. ‘Promise that you won’t go back to your flat. Keep away from there – you understand? At least until … It isn’t safe, okay? Go and see Terry, do whatever you have to do, but find somewhere else to stay.’
She stood on the tarmac, staring at the silver Peugeot. He was right – it was too risky to go to Herbert Street; Joe Silk’s skinny spy had probably been replaced by someone with a few more brain cells. But she still had to head back to Norfolk. She had to see Terry as soon as she could. She took out her phone and turned it on. It gave a few angry beeps – missed calls – but she ignored them. She glanced at her watch. It was too early to ring the prison and book a visit; the lines didn’t open until nine. And she still had to negotiate that tricky problem of how she was going to get to see him today – visits were supposed to be booked twenty-four hours in advance.
She unlocked the boot, threw in her case, and got into the car. It was only as she turned the key in the ignition, as the engine purred swiftly and obediently into life, that the full force of what had happened, everything that had happened, seemed to suddenly descend on her. As if a lead weight had hit her squarely across the shoulders, she slumped down over the wheel, her lungs deflating, a sob rising in her throat.
She turned off the engine and cried for five solid minutes.
And then, still sniffling, she raised her head and scowled and glared at the damage in the rearview mirror. It wasn’t a pretty sight. Her eyes, a good match for her sunburnt nose, were liquid pink, her nose running, her mouth pinched. Even her hair was hanging in thin straggly strands around her face.
What’s wrong with you?
But what was wrong, apart from the obvious, was that the whole car smelled of Jack. Or at least she thought it did. Maybe it was just her imagination. But even if it was, even if that warm musky scent had sprung purely from memory, there were still other reminders – a few blond hairs on the floor by her feet, a St Christopher on a silver chain hanging from the mirror …
Stop it!
He was gone. That was it. People came into your life and then slipped away again. She knew that better than anyone. There was no point getting too attached. Love, that kind of love, was nothing more than an illusion, a kind of madness, a freak wave rolling over you, something that took away your breath, swept you off your feet – and then left you well and truly stranded.
As she scrabbled in the depths of her bag for a comb and a lipstick her hand came across the mail she’d put in there and forgotten. She pulled it out, more as a way of clearing some space than with any intention of dealing with it, and dumped it on the passenger seat. It was only after she’d made some repairs to her face, when she was feeling vaguely human again, that she glanced down and saw the envelope with Cavelli’s handwriting.
Certain that it contained no more than a visiting order, she carelessly tore it open. But there was also a note inside. She unfolded the flimsy sheet of paper and read it.
Evie, I need to see you. It’s urgent. Please book a visit as soon as you can. You know what it’s about. This is serious. Martin.
She read it again, her hands starting to tremble. It was postmarked last week, last Friday, almost a week ago. Urgent. Damn, why hadn’t she opened it before she’d left? Starting the engine again, she put her foot down and sped as fast as she dared out of the car park and towards the motorway.
She didn’t know why she was rushing – there was nothing she could do until this afternoon and even that was dependent on whether she could sweet talk her way into a visit. And now she had the additional problem of having to make a choice. Who was she going to try and see, Cavelli or Terry? She desperately wanted it to be the latter – she had to find out about Crete, about Andrea Banks – but that could wait another day. Perhaps Cavelli was more important. Also, she knew what Terry was like: if she started asking awkward questions there was every chance he’d withdraw into one of his sulks and she wouldn’t get another word out of him.
Eve had demolished half a pack of cigarettes by the time she was on the winding country lanes that led towards Hillgrove. There was a village about a mile from the jail; she had noticed a couple of B&Bs there. Her plan was to book in, grab a shower and a change of clothes and then put a call through to the prison.
The sky was overcast and grey, a fine drizzle smattering the windscreen. She wondered if Jack was still in Crete, if he would stay for the rest of the week, or whether he’d already packed up and moved on.
‘What will you do?’ she had asked. ‘Where will you go?’ But then had instantly raised her hand and said, ‘No, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
She was still considering whether she really didn’t want to know – and if she didn’t, why she was think
ing so much about it – when her phone began to ring. Keeping one eye on the road, she dug down into her bag again. ‘Hello?’
‘Where the hell have you been?’
‘Patrick?’
‘Don’t you ever check your bloody messages?’
‘I’ve been away,’ she sighed. ‘I only just got back.’ She could tell he was in a scratchy sort of mood and hoped he wasn’t going to have another go about the breakin at his flat. ‘What do you want?’
‘Haven’t you heard about Henry?’
‘What?’
There was a short grotesque kind of silence. She clamped the phone closer to her ear. ‘Patrick?’ She could only hear him breathing, a thin uneasy kind of sound. Her heart began to pound. ‘Patrick?’
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘There was some kind of burglary at the office. He was … he was shot. I’m sorry, he’s—’
She must have let go of the wheel for a second and veered across the road. The driver behind her put his hand on the horn and held it there. She swerved back, mounted the bank, put her foot on the brake and screeched to a halt.
‘Evie? Are you there?’
She couldn’t speak. She could barely catch her breath.
He was almost yelling now. ‘Evie?’
‘Oh, Jesus,’ she eventually murmured. ‘Not Henry.’ She had her head down over the steering wheel and could feel a scream slowly forming in her throat, an agony of pain and guilt. It was her fault. It was all her fault. She had given him the picture, dragged him into her mess, and now …
‘Will you just listen for a minute?’
But all she could hear were own recriminations. ‘He’s dead, isn’t he?’
‘He’s not dead, okay? He was hurt pretty badly, shot in the stomach, but he’s in hospital, right? They’re taking care of him.’ He paused again. ‘Are you listening, Evie? Can you hear me?’
Gradually, as his words sank in, she felt the relief wash over her. She slowly raised her face. What he was saying seemed unbelievable, like the news of some modern-day resurrection. Only seconds ago Henry had been … and now he was alive again. ‘Yeah,’ she eventually managed to mumble. She wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. ‘Are you sure? Are you sure he’s okay?’
