The Pact

by Roberta Kray

  ‘They’ve operated and he’s out of danger. I don’t suppose he’ll be dancing the tango in the near future but Sonia says he’ll be fine.’

  ‘Sonia?’

  ‘She was the one who rang me. She read about it in the papers and recognized the name. She tried to get in touch but you’ve had your phone turned off.’

  Eve was still trying to absorb it all. ‘When did it happen? Where is he?’

  ‘Monday evening,’ he said. ‘And he’s in the hospital. I just told you.’

  ‘Which hospital? I have to go and see him.’

  ‘You can’t,’ he said. ‘He’s with his wife, his family. You think they’re going to want you there?’

  ‘I’m not his bloody mistress,’ she snapped. But she knew he had a point; she was the last person that Celia would want to see. Come to that, she wouldn’t be doing Henry any favours either. ‘I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m not thinking straight. It’s just been such a shock, you know, hearing about—’

  ‘Tell me something.’ He paused.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Please tell me this had nothing to do with you – with the Jimmy Reece business, the breakins, with all the weird shit you seem to have got yourself involved in.’

  She hesitated for a fraction too long.

  He expelled a long hissy breath down the line. ‘Jesus, Evie. What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘I mean, I don’t know all of it.’ She was tempted to tell him about the photo, the missing girl, to pour out all her suspicions, but decided against it. She had got Henry involved and look what had happened to him. Until things were clearer, she had to deal with this on her own. ‘Just do me a favour, okay? Keep your head down for a few days and stay away from your flat.’

  ‘I can’t just leave you to—’

  ‘I mean it,’ she said. ‘You can’t help with this. A few days and then I’ll tell you everything. I swear.’

  ‘Where are you?’

  She frowned out through the windscreen, at the prickly hedge that must have scratched a path across Jack’s immaculate silver paintwork. ‘I’ll call you soon,’ she said. ‘I promise. Oh, and Patrick – please don’t tell anyone you’ve heard from me.’

  ‘Call me tonight,’ he said.

  ‘Tomorrow,’ she bargained.

  ‘At least send me a text, let me know you’re okay.’

  ‘All right,’ she agreed.

  ‘And call me, call me any time if …’

  ‘I know,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’

  Eve put down the phone and leaned her head back against the rest. ‘Oh God, Henry,’ she groaned. ‘What have I done?’ She had to fight against the urge to spin the car around and head back to London. Just to see him … just to walk past the room, even if she couldn’t go in, just one quick glance to make sure that he truly was alive and breathing. But it wasn’t possible. Sod’s law dictated that she would run into Celia or Richard and some holy row in the middle of the hospital would hardly do much to aid his recovery. Or his marriage come to that.

  She screwed her fist into the centre of her temple. Damn it! Why had she ever dragged him into this? For all her precautions last Saturday, she had not been careful enough; someone had seen her passing over the envelope and that someone was almost certainly connected to Joe Silk. And then another more gruesome thought occurred to her: Henry had not just been shot because he had the photograph but because they thought he knew what it meant. What if they tried to finish the job?

  The idea shot a bolt of horror down her spine. Her head jerked forward again. Perhaps she should go to the police right now and tell them everything. Should she? Except she didn’t have any actual proof, any solid evidence; there were only her own purely personal certainties and a crumpled copy of an old blurry photograph. And she was well aware of what such a step would entail: not only the trip back to London (there was no point dealing with the local cops) but further hours stuck in a stuffy interview room while she endlessly repeated her story, answered their questions, watched them raise their sceptical eyebrows and waited for them to make their phone calls to Crete.

  No, it was all going to take too long. And surely, logically, if Silk had wanted to finish what he’d started, he’d have done it by now. It was already three days since the shooting. More likely he was taking a calculated gamble on Henry keeping his mouth shut. After all, what respectable lawyer would readily admit to withholding evidence of a murder? And, even worse, withholding evidence with the intention of blackmailing a major London gangster?

  He was right, she thought, Henry wouldn’t talk – although not for the reasons Silk imagined. Rather he would keep quiet until he understood exactly what was going on. He would not bring her name into it unless he had to. This was partly because he was a cautious man, partly because he would try to protect her, and partly, she decided with a wry smile, because it would save Celia the trouble of slapping both their faces.

  Eve nodded. Right, so the choice was made. She would see Cavelli first before making any further decisions. Noticing a few curious glances from drivers passing by, she quickly leaned forward and turned the key in the ignition; she’d better get back on the road before some knight in shining armour decided to come to her rescue. The engine made a thin protesting rattling sound but eventually spluttered into life.

  It was just after nine when she booked into Primrose Cottage. Why it was called by that particular name she had no idea; it was a three-storey grey brick house with a concrete forecourt and not a flower in sight. The owner, a small plump lady in her fifties, showed her to a single en suite room on the first floor.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll be very comfortable here,’ she said, with the brisk confidence of a woman who was not used to being contradicted.

  Eve smiled and gave the obligatory response. ‘Oh, how lovely!’

  It was only when she was alone again that she allowed the smile to fade. The room, barely big enough to swing the proverbial cat, was painted in a bright sickly pink with matching curtains and duvet cover. The carpet was pink. There were pink scatter cushions, a pink tasselled lamp and an endless array of dried pink flower arrangements. She stared at it with horror. Even Barbie, she suspected, would have felt the urge to scream.

  A sudden yearning for a blank anonymous motel rose up in her. She longed for clear white walls, white sheets and space to think. Still, she would just have to put up with what she’d got. It was clean at least and she wasn’t going to be spending much time here.

  Putting her case on the floor, she sat down on the bed, took out her phone and dialled the jail. Engaged. She tried again. The same. It was always like this. Getting through entailed not just endurance but an infinite amount of patience too.

  It took another six attempts before she was put on hold and then a further two minutes before she finally got through. However, as she’d expected, she had no joy trying to negotiate a same-day visit.

  ‘Twenty-four hours in advance,’ he kept repeating smugly. ‘That’s the rule.’

  ‘But it’s important, I have to see him.’

  ‘Not without permission,’ he said.

  ‘And how do I get that?’

  He gave one of those sneering half-laughs. ‘You could try the Wing Governor, I suppose.’

  ‘Okay.’ But then, confident that she would think of something, she went ahead and booked a visit with Terry for the following day.

  It was another twenty minutes before Eve was back on the phone again. In the meantime, she’d taken a quick shower, washed her hair and dressed in jeans and a T– shirt. There were still over four hours before visiting began – plenty of time, if she played her cards right, to get access to Cavelli.

  She’d had an idea.

  Ringing the main prison line – this one was picked up after a couple of rings – she asked for David Hammond.

  ‘Who’s calling, please?’

  ‘Eve Weston.’

  She’d expected more questions, at least a minor interrogat
ion, but the line went directly to hold. There was only a thin buzzing sound, an emptiness that after a few minutes made her faintly wistful for a few reassuring bars of The Four Seasons. She was beginning to wonder if she’d been discreetly cut off when the phone suddenly sprang back into life.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Hi,’ she said. ‘Is that David Hammond?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘It’s Eve, Eve Weston.’ She paused, hoping that he remembered her, but when no sign of that was forthcoming quickly added: ‘You helped me out a while ago – when my friend’s car broke down?’ It was more likely that he’d remember her wrestling in the car park with the frenzied Kimberley but she preferred not to mention that particular incident.

  ‘Hi,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘Well, I’ve got a bit of a problem. I need to organize a visit for this afternoon. It’s urgent and I’m not sure who I should be talking to. I know it’s usually twenty-four hours in advance but I really need to see him.’

  ‘Er, right … It’s probably the Wing Governor you need to speak to.’

  ‘You couldn’t help?’ she asked pleadingly, lowering her voice. ‘I – I wouldn’t ask but I’m worried, really worried. My boyfriend, Martin Cavelli … well, my ex really, it’s kind of complicated – he sent me this letter and he just sounded so …’ She allowed her voice to break, giving the tiniest of sobs. ‘I don’t want to wait until tomorrow. I’m concerned that he might … I’ve never known him like this before. He’s not the type to … I mean … but you know when something’s not right, don’t you?’

  ‘What are you saying, that—’

  ‘I just need to see him, to talk to him. Please. Is there any way you can help?’ She took another clearly audible breath. ‘The thing is, I don’t want to have to explain all this to someone else, to have to go through it all again and …’

  She waited, biting on the knuckle of her free hand.

  ‘Look, do you want me to have a word with the Governor?’

  ‘Oh, would you? I’d be so grateful.’

  ‘I can’t promise anything,’ he said.

  ‘I understand – but thanks, thanks ever so much.’

  She gave him her number, said goodbye, and then lay back on the bed to wait.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  DS Eddie Shepherd launched himself up from the plastic seat, grunted, yawned and stretched his arms. It was three days since Henry Baxter had been brought into the hospital and twenty-four hours since he’d been, theoretically, fit to talk. But Eddie hadn’t got a word of sense out of him. He was claiming he couldn’t remember anything about the intruder, about the breaking of his hand, about the shooting. Short-term memory loss, the doctors said.

  Eddie wasn’t convinced.

  There’s gratitude, he thought. Especially as he’d been the one who’d saved his bloody skin. Twenty minutes, that’s all it had taken, to drag the truth out of a rattled Paul Clark on the Monday afternoon. And then it had all come pouring out: how Richard Baxter had hired them to follow Eve Weston, how the panic had set in when Ivor Patterson was murdered, how all the papers relating to the surveillance had been destroyed.

  That was when Eddie had taken what he’d got to MIT.

  Calls had been made and Richard Baxter had been picked up by the local cops in London. He had, by all accounts, gone quietly, still hoping perhaps to avoid any whiff of a scandal. By the time Eddie had arrived with DI Locke – a good three hours later – he was just about ready to spill his guts. Coming clean, he’d decided, was clearly a better option than being suspected of murder. So yes, he’d admitted, he had arranged the surveillance on Eve Weston but it was only to protect his father. He had followed this with a lengthy and colourful diatribe as regards her moral deficiencies. By the time he paused for breath his face had turned a dangerous shade of puce.

  ‘She’s a bitch, a gold digger. I was worried they might still be meeting,’ he said. ‘I just wanted to make sure that she didn’t still have her claws in him.’

  ‘So why not have him followed?’ Shepherd asked. ‘Why her?’

  Baxter gave an angry shrug. ‘Because she was probably at it with someone else, playing some other poor sod in the same way, taking him for every penny he had.’

  ‘So you were looking for evidence to use against her?’

  ‘I was trying to protect my father,’ he said again.

  Shepherd, recalling the first time they’d met, remained untouched by this sudden outburst of filial loyalty. Baxter, he was sure, had been driven by motives of a far sleazier nature; he had wanted a hold over Eve Weston and hadn’t cared how he got it.

  ‘Why the cover-up, then? Why ask Paul Clark to destroy the records?’

  ‘I didn’t,’ he protested. He paused and stared at the two men in front of him. ‘I simply suggested that as the surveillance was unconnected it could only muddy the waters.’

  DI Locke leaned forward and smiled. ‘Just trying to make our jobs easier for us, huh?’ He glanced at Eddie. ‘Isn’t that nice? A good true citizen. Maybe we should give him a medal.’

  Baxter squirmed in his seat. ‘Look, I’m sorry, all right? It was a mistake, a big mistake, but I swear his death had nothing to do with me.’

  They had let him go eventually, albeit with the prospect of a charge for obstructing a murder inquiry hanging over his impeccably coiffured head. Richard Baxter was a Class A shit but, disregarding some of the more fanciful details, the kernel of his story was believable. He had no reason to kill Patterson.

  The two detectives had sat in the interview room for a while contemplating this latest dead end. Eddie was the one who was most subdued. He was still convinced that Ivor Patterson had stumbled on something, something relating to the Weston girl, and had then been silenced for it. Which, if they discounted Richard, only left two immediate suspects – Eve Weston herself and her sugar daddy, Henry. The former, as Eddie had discovered earlier in the day, was away for the week. ‘On holiday,’ Sonia Marshall had said, appearing from the door across the hall and glaring at him. ‘I don’t know where so there’s no point asking.’

  So that only left Baxter senior.

  ‘Why not?’ he’d said to Locke. ‘Seeing as we’re here, it’s worth a try.’

  A call to his home had established that he was ‘working late’ at the office. They had gone to Covent Garden and found the front door closed but unlocked and instead of pressing the intercom had stepped into the foyer unannounced. Eddie had been sure as his feet sank into the deep pile carpet that Henry would be with the delectable Ms Weston – but whether they would still have their clothes on was another matter altogether. Working late? Well, that was one way of putting it. His mouth had slid into a grin.

  Henry’s office was in the basement. Eddie had quietly opened the door and peered down the steps. From below there were some muffled sounds, the faint murmur of voices. It was only as they began the descent and Locke let the door click shut behind him that all hell broke loose. There was a sudden scuffling noise, the beginnings of a shout and then …

  The man had come flying out and hurtled up the steps between them. They had made no attempt to stop him – he had a gun in his hand. And while Locke had reached for his phone, Eddie had rushed through the outer office and into the next room.

  Henry Baxter was lying on the floor and the door to the safe was open.

  Eddie walked along the corridor and pushed a few coins into the drinks machine. He pressed a button, requesting coffee, and watched as the brown sludge poured into the cup. He was still thinking about that night. It had been a robbery but not for money, he suspected. There were no substantial amounts of cash kept on the premises and no reason why anyone should imagine there were. So what was of such importance that someone was prepared to kill for it?

  Baxter wasn’t saying.

  Was that because he didn’t dare or because he was protecting someone?

  And that broken hand hadn’t happened accidentally. He’d been ‘persu
aded’ to open the safe and pass over whatever was inside. If he and Locke hadn’t come along, Henry Baxter would be six foot under by now.

  He sipped at the coffee and scowled. This whole business left a bad taste in the mouth. They were still waiting for the files on the surveillance to be retrieved from Paul Clark’s computer but he wasn’t holding out much hope; whatever Patterson had discovered he’d have kept to himself.

  What in God’s name was going on?

  The one person who might have been able to answer that question had conveniently disappeared.

  Did that make her the prime suspect – or yet another victim?

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  She had never been on a Thursday before. The other visitors were strangers to her, not even one familiar face. Eve spread her arms and let the female officer pat down her body. She was so relieved to be here, so grateful that David Hammond had managed to secure a visit, that she almost thanked her when she’d finished.

  Moving into the hall, she hesitated on the threshold and glanced around. It only took a few seconds to spot him. Cavelli was on his feet and waiting. He nodded, his mouth moving but not quite achieving a smile. As she walked towards him she tried to read his eyes but they were coldly blank.

  There was a confusing moment as they came together in a bizarre shuffling dance – should they touch, shouldn’t they? – before they side-stepped, separated and sank down awkwardly into their seats.

  ‘I got your letter,’ she said.

  He looked at her, those dark eyes narrowing a little.

  She stared back. ‘You said it was urgent.’ She had meant to play it cool but her resolve was slowly crumbling. She could hear the fear in her voice. ‘It’s about Terry, isn’t it?’

  Cavelli leaned forward, reached out and took her hands in his. To anyone who was watching, it would have seemed a loving gesture, but she was more than aware of the tightening crushing pressure. ‘Seeing as this is supposed to be a heart-to-heart,’ he said softly, ‘and seeing as you took so much trouble to be here today, how about you tell me what’s going on – and cut out all the bullshit.’