The Pact

by Roberta Kray

  Trying not to flinch, she stared straight back at him. ‘You were the one who wrote. Shouldn’t you be—’

  ‘Joe Silk,’ he said.

  ‘What?’ Her heart gave a violent lurch.

  His fingers tightened a fraction. ‘So you’ve heard of him then?’

  She didn’t reply.

  ‘Do you think I’m fucking stupid?’

  She didn’t reply to that either.

  ‘Christ,’ he said. ‘Terry’s not the only one in trouble here. You’ve landed me right in it, sweetheart, right up to my bloody neck. Either you tell me what’s going on or all deals are off. You understand?’

  She nodded and looked down. His hands were still wrapped around hers. For the first time she noticed the damage to his knuckles, the purple bruises and the swollen broken skin. Could she trust him? She didn’t know. But she had come here for a reason, to try and get some help, and she was at the point where she didn’t really have that much to lose.

  ‘It’s a long story,’ she said.

  He abruptly released her, sat back in his seat and folded his arms across his chest. ‘Well, no rush,’ he said. ‘We’ve got two hours.’

  And so she told him. She told him everything from beginning to end. It had only been twenty-four hours since she’d done the same with Jack but somehow that seemed a lifetime ago. By the time she finished his eyes were half-closed and he was slumped unhappily in the chair. He was looking like a man who wished he’d never asked.

  ‘Fucking hell,’ he murmured.

  Which just about summed it up.

  She kept her voice low, her body hunched forward, while she talked. ‘So what do I do next – go to the cops? But if I do where does that leave Terry? He could be looking at another sentence and a far bigger one this time.’

  ‘That’s if it even gets to court. If Terry’s a witness to murder Joe isn’t going to let him give evidence.’

  Eve shuddered. ‘So what else can I do?’

  What’s it got to do with me? he would have had every right to say. But thankfully he didn’t. Instead he raked his fingers through his thick black hair and frowned. ‘Arrange a meet, make a deal? You’ve got something he wants.’

  ‘You think I should give him the photo?’

  ‘No, of course I bloody don’t! So long as you’ve got a copy of that picture, you’ve got a hold over him. He might not like it but it’s a fact. However, you could try and persuade him that his secret’s safe, that you’ll keep your silence if he stays away from you and Terry.’

  ‘But he had Henry shot.’

  ‘So do you have a better suggestion?’

  She sank her face despairingly into her hands. ‘I don’t know. There’s the girl too – she has a mother, a father somewhere. Someone killed her and—’

  ‘And Terry’s involved, one way or another. So I guess you just have to decide where your priorities lie.’ He threw her a glance that might almost have been sympathetic. ‘That father of yours has a lot to answer for.’

  ‘And why’s that?’ she retorted defensively. ‘Because he wanted to protect his son? That’s not so very terrible.’

  ‘Because he left you up to your neck in shit, darling. At least if he’d told you about it, you’d have understood what you were up against. You could have been prepared.’

  He was right up to a point. Her father’s actions had been odd, even reckless. ‘I don’t think he knew what he wanted. It’s as if a part of him wanted me to find the picture and another part didn’t. If Silk believed I didn’t know about it, he’d probably leave me alone – but then there was the girl.’ Her lips were dry and she ran her tongue along them. ‘Andrea,’ she murmured. Saying the name out loud suddenly brought the image of her laughing mouth, the long fair hair, flashing into her mind again. ‘Perhaps he couldn’t bear the thought of them getting away with it, of her lying out there somewhere …’

  ‘Why didn’t you see your brother today?’ he asked. ‘Why me?’

  ‘Because you said it was urgent and it didn’t take a brain surgeon to figure that it had to do with Terry. I suppose I wanted to make sure that he was still okay, that you hadn’t pulled out.’ She gave a small humourless laugh. ‘Although I guess this isn’t exactly the deal you signed up for.’

  ‘Not one of my greatest negotiating moments.’

  Anyhow, Terry’s not very good with the truth. I wasn’t sure how much he’d actually tell me. I’m seeing him tomorrow.’

  ‘You need to see Joe Silk tomorrow,’ he said, as if her decision had already been made. ‘You’re running out of time, Evie. There’s trouble on the wing and Terry’s already been the target more than once. If this is coming from Silk, and I’m pretty sure it is, then you have to put a stop to it now. I can try and persuade him to go down the block, to go into solitary for a while, but I doubt if he will. I can’t protect him on my own – do you understand?’

  She nodded, her head feeling heavy as lead. The idea of meeting Joe Silk face to face was close to terrifying but there wasn’t any choice. She could see that now. Even if she went to the cops, he would still find a way to destroy Terry. She would spend the rest of her own life too looking over her shoulder.

  ‘So how do I find him?’ she said. ‘There’s a number in my dad’s address book but it’s back at the flat. I don’t really want to go there.’

  ‘No, keep clear of the place. I’ll get it – someone here will know – and call it through to you later. Arrange to meet him in public, somewhere busy. Don’t go anywhere alone with him. Don’t get in any cars, okay? And when you leave try and make sure that you’re not followed.’

  She forced her mouth into an uneasy smile. ‘And do you think he’ll go for it?’

  ‘That depends on how persuasive you are.’

  Eve was sitting on the bed in the pink room, her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, when Cavelli’s call came through at seven o’clock. He gave her two numbers, neither of which were direct lines but rather places where a message was likely to get through. He didn’t stay on the line for more than a couple of minutes. He didn’t wish her good luck either – a subtle reminder, perhaps, that the success or failure of this enterprise lay entirely in her own hands.

  She dialled quickly before she lost her nerve. They were both answering machines but she left her name and number, stressing that it was urgent.

  Then she stood up and started to pace the floor. As the smallness of the room dictated that she had to change direction every few steps this did little to ease her frustration. An hour passed and then another. She was thinking about getting in the car and going for a drive – anything to escape the claustrophobia of pink – when her mobile suddenly sprang into life. She froze for a second and then snatched it up.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Eve Weston?’

  ‘Speaking,’ she said.

  His voice was soft with a hint of an American accent. ‘Mr Silk will see you tomorrow morning at his office, ten o’clock. The address is—’

  ‘No,’ she interrupted smartly. ‘Not at his office. At Liverpool Street station. There’s a café at the top of the steps near the exit. I’ll meet him there at eight.’

  There was a pause, the sound of a hand being placed over the receiver and then a faint murmuring as he conferred with someone else. What would she do if he refused? But she didn’t have to worry; Joe Silk’s need, apparently, was as great as hers.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘Eight o’clock.’

  The line went dead.

  Eve released the breath she had been holding and sank back down on to the bed. What now? She felt exhausted, in need of some sleep but there was too much to do. Should she go to London by train or by car? The former was quicker but would leave her more exposed – and if things went badly she could easily be followed. No, it was safer to drive.

  She had chosen the time not only because the early morning crowds would provide her with protection but also in the hope that she could make it back for her visit with Terry.


  By tomorrow afternoon, God willing, this nightmare could be over.

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  She hadn’t slept well and when she woke it was to a feeling of disorientation. For a moment, tangled in crisp white linen, she had no idea where she was. Alarm jerked her upright before the recollection of her journey down to London gradually filtered back. She sank down on to the pillows and reaching for her watch peered down at the face. Six twenty.

  In less than two hours she’d be meeting Joe Silk.

  The horror of that thought was enough to propel her out of bed. She stumbled to the shower and let the hot jets of water bring her fully back to consciousness. Slowly, it all came back to her. Abandoning the pink delights of Primrose Cottage for the greyer but more welcome surroundings of the motorway, she’d finally booked in well after midnight. The hotel hadn’t been cheap, not much change from eighty quid, but had the advantage of being within walking distance of Liverpool Street and of having a place to park. She could have cadged a bed, or at least a sofa, from one of her friends but that would have come with a different price, and the prospect of ‘catching up’, of the inevitable question and answer routine, had been enough to deter her.

  She had spent most of last night trying to think of what she’d say to him, of the best approach and the best arguments to use. Should she be aggressive or submissive, dictatorial or appeasing? Something in between seemed the most appropriate. Appropriate? She leaned back her head, letting the water run through her hair, and groaned. God, there was no response to this situation that could be termed even remotely appropriate.

  Rubbing the sting of shampoo from her eyes, she tried to work out how afraid she actually was. Then wished that she hadn’t. On a rising scale from one to ten, she had already bypassed the lower regions of anxiety and shot straight up into major terror. Joe Silk was a gangster, a killer … and she was about to try and make a deal with him.

  Turning off the shower, she quickly dried herself and brushed her teeth. She ran a comb through her hair, made some minor repairs to her sunburnt nose, and frowned at the smattering of tiny freckles that had seemingly broken out overnight. Carefully, she applied foundation, blusher, eyeshadow and mascara, creating a kind of mask and the illusion – she hoped – of a woman of confidence.

  Back in the bedroom she rooted through her suitcase. Her choice of clothes was limited to what she’d taken on holiday and what was still reasonably clean. She found fresh underwear and then, settling for the practical (best to pick something she could run in) she pulled on her jeans and trainers and a slightly crumpled white cotton jumper.

  Eve looked at her watch. It was only five past seven. She dried her hair and then, still with time to spare, went down to the breakfast bar. She wasn’t hungry – her guts were too churned up with fear – but she placed toast and coffee on her tray hoping to tempt her stomach into some small quota of nourishment.

  The room was barely a quarter full. She sat down at an empty table well away from the window and set to work buttering the food she didn’t want. She sipped the coffee, strong and black, and forced herself to nibble on a corner of the toast. Surreptitiously, she lifted her gaze to study the other guests; there was no reason why anyone should know that she was here – she had booked in under a different name and paid cash – but the tentacles of Joe Silk probably coiled into every corner of the city. It was interesting how many people could appear suspicious if you examined them closely enough – the way they glanced up from their newspapers, the way their eyes roamed idly over the room, even the way they ate their bacon.

  Before she became too paranoid she turned her mind to other things. Where was Jack now? What was he doing? She gave a small shake of her head. No, she didn’t want to think about him. She racked her brains for something else but other than her forthcoming appointment (and she really didn’t want to think about that) it was the only subject capable of holding her attention for more than a few fleeting seconds.

  She wondered if Jack would resign or simply disappear. The former, she thought, but quickly, before his sins caught up with him. By doing that, and if he came up with a good enough excuse, he might not arouse too much suspicion. And then she realized that if she was going to make this deal today then his connection to Joe Silk, his destruction of the evidence against Terry, might never be discovered. Perhaps she should call him before he made an irrevocable decision.

  Or was she just searching for an excuse to contact him again?

  She knew in her heart that he wouldn’t change his mind. There was no going back now. And she understood that in some ways it had come as a relief to him, the constant dread of discovery being too great a burden to bear. For as long as he was a cop he would never be out of Joe Silk’s clutches; there would always be one more favour asked of him.

  Eve finished her coffee. She would need to go soon. She mustn’t be late. A cold unsteadying dread was creeping through her body. She became aware that everything she was doing she could be doing for the last time – putting her cup down on the saucer, nudging aside the spoon, crushing her paper serviette into a small tight ball. It was as if the most mundane of actions were suddenly imbued with a new significance.

  As she stood up her knees buckled and she had to hold on to the edge of the table, taking long deep breaths, until her legs steadied and she could make the journey across the room.

  Cavelli had tried again that morning to get through to him. He had gone to his cell and put his head round the door. ‘You got a minute?’

  Terry had been perched on the edge of his bunk with a magazine in his hands. ‘Huh?’

  Taking that as a yes, he’d stepped inside. ‘Look, have you thought any more about what I said? Maybe you should go down the block for a while, until things calm down.’

  As usual his comments were met with that familiar casual shrug. ‘I’ve got a visit.’

  ‘You can still have your visit.’

  ‘Why should I go down the block?’

  ‘I’ve told you before. You’re in trouble, mate. It might be best if you just … well, kept your head down for a bit.’

  The block, although more often used for reasons of punishment – the cells were small and relatively bare – could also be entered voluntarily. If nothing else it would offer some temporary protection until Evie had sorted out a deal with Silk – that’s if she could sort it out. But even if she did it might still take a few days for the news to filter through to Bryant.

  ‘I’m not in trouble.’

  Cavelli sighed in despair. ‘Christ, Terry, Joe Silk’s a dangerous man. You don’t want to mess with him.’

  ‘Joe won’t hurt me.’ Terry’s tone was incredulous, as if the very idea was beyond the furthest limits of his comprehension.

  Not for the first time, Cavelli wondered at the fact that this kid and Evie were related. The two of them didn’t even look similar. Whatever part of Alex Weston’s gene pool had been inherited, it clearly wasn’t his intelligence or his charm. He was tempted to just walk away – banging his head against a brick wall had never been a favourite pastime – but gave it one last shot.

  ‘Come on, your sister’s worried. Can’t you do this one small thing for her?’ He thought about raising the subject of Crete or, even more dramatically, of Andrea Banks but to have done either would have ruined the chance of Evie getting any honest answers to her questions. He had to bite his tongue. Forewarned, as they said, was forearmed.

  Terry grinned. ‘I know why you’re doing this.’

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Sure.’ He glanced down at his magazine and then looked up again. ‘But believe me, mate, whatever you may think, she’s not interested in you. You’re really not her type.’

  ‘And what is her type exactly?’

  ‘Good-looking guys,’ he said smugly. ‘Blonds.’

  ‘What – like you?’

  It took him a moment – he was hardly the sharpest knife in the drawer – before he finally grasped the meaning. Then he was up off his b
unk like he had a rocket up his arse. ‘What the fuck …’

  Cavelli laughed. Having some tiny angry punk spitting in his face made a change from the vicious lumps of lards he’d been dealing with recently. He could have floored him in the time it took to raise his fists – but he didn’t. There wasn’t much satisfaction to be found in flattening a kid who barely came up to his chest and weighed as much as the sandwiches he ate for lunch. Instead he moved back and lifted his palms in a calming gesture. ‘Hey, cool it,’ he said.

  And Terry had – although only to the extent of stepping forward, raising his sharp little elbow and providing a painful jab to the ribs. Pushing past, he’d bolted out on to the landing and headed for the stairs.

  Cavelli called after him. ‘Where are you going?’

  But, unsurprisingly, he hadn’t bothered to reply.

  The station, firmly in the midst of rush hour, was heaving. As she forged a path through the mass of commuters, she had another brief flurry of panic – it was as easy, surely, to eliminate someone in a crowd as it was down a deserted alleyway. Her eyes flicked nervously across the faces of the people she passed. Perhaps she should have rung Patrick. He could have watched her back at least. But it was too late now.

  Or was it? Her hand reached into her jacket pocket for the phone but then stopped. No, it wasn’t fair to drag him into this. She couldn’t fail to be reminded of the last time she’d been here or of the responsibility she felt for the attack on Henry. Her conscience, she decided, was already overloaded.

  As she turned the corner, the café came into view and she would have stopped dead in her tracks if the force of the crowd hadn’t continued to propel her forward. He was there already, sitting alone at a table on the outer edges. She recognized him instantly although whether it was from the photograph or the past she couldn’t really say. She simply knew that it was him.