by Roberta Kray
‘What you’ve got is a hangover, and what you need is aspirin. Why don’t you go and find Mrs Gough? I’m sure she’ll have a stash somewhere.’
‘I will,’ he said. ‘Once I’ve had some coffee.’
Under normal circumstances Lolly would have told him to make the damn coffee himself but she didn’t want him hanging round for any longer than necessary. It was too risky to pick up the bag and walk out. He might wonder what was in it. He might even start asking awkward questions. She glanced down at the carrier, praying he wouldn’t stretch out his legs and come into contact with it.
‘I think Esther’s with Heather,’ she said. ‘Have you tried the sun room?’
‘I suppose they’re working on that bloody book again.’
Lolly found a jar of instant coffee and shovelled a few spoonfuls into a mug. ‘You don’t approve?’
‘Why should I care? It’s nothing to do with me. I just don’t see what good it’s going to do raking everything up again. There’s nothing to be gained by it. You’ve got to move on, haven’t you, leave the bad shit behind.’
Lolly wondered if he was only thinking of Kay or whether Amy Wiltshire was on his mind too. Had he moved on from the ‘bad shit’ he’d been involved in, a girl he’d been obsessed with, a murder that had never been solved? ‘Here,’ she said, placing the mug of coffee in front of him. ‘I’m presuming you want it black.’
‘Ta.’
Lolly leaned against the range and folded her arms. Her head was full of Mal, of what he might do, and it was a struggle to contain her impatience. She had to get back to him but couldn’t do that until she’d got rid of Jude. ‘You don’t think there’s anything in this Vicky Finch business then?’
‘What are the odds?’
‘Heather Grant seems to think it’s possible.’
‘Well, she would, wouldn’t she?’
She heard the edge in his voice and said, ‘You don’t like her.’
‘Do you?’
Lolly shrugged. ‘I barely know the girl.’ And then, because a bit of stirring never did any harm, she added, ‘She seems very interested in you, though.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She was asking about you this morning, what you were like when you were younger.’
‘And what did you say?’
‘That you were just the same as you are now. She asked about you and Esther too, said it was strictly “off the record” but I don’t believe that for a second. And she’s been talking to Brenda Cecil.’
If Lolly had wanted to shock him she couldn’t have made a better job of it. Jude started, his face turning greener than it already was. ‘Brenda Cecil? What? Why the hell has she been doing that?’
‘I’ve no idea. Perhaps you’ll have a nice little cameo in her book.’
This suggestion clearly didn’t make him feel any better. ‘She’s got no right. That book has nothing to do with me.’
‘Seems she thinks otherwise.’
Jude leapt up from the table. ‘We’ll see about that.’ Abandoning his coffee, he strode out of the kitchen and stomped up the stairs.
Lolly took her opportunity. Reaching down, she grabbed the bag and dashed through to the utility room. As she was opening the door she noticed an old tartan rug, probably used for picnics in the past, and quickly draped it over her arm so it covered the carrier. If she ran into anyone or if someone was watching from a window it would just look like she was going out to sit on the grass.
It was an effort to walk at a leisurely pace. The fear of being watched made her feel self-conscious and suddenly putting one foot in front of the other in an orderly fashion seemed like the most difficult thing in the world. It took all her willpower to resist glancing back over her shoulder.
It was a relief when she rounded the corner and was out of view of the house. But she didn’t relax entirely. Instead of going straight to the summerhouse she stopped at the bench, sat down and listened. Was anyone following her? She kept her ears pricked for footsteps, for the snapping of twigs, for anything that would indicate she had a tail. Only when she was sure she was alone did she stand up again and continue on her way.
There was no sign of Mal when she arrived. She tried the door but it was locked. She rapped lightly with her knuckles, thinking that they should have arranged a code – but then again, who else was likely to come knocking? A few more seconds passed before she heard movement from inside. There was a click as the key turned in the lock and then the door opened.
22
Tuesday 20 September. West Henby
Mal, who was starving, tried to eat with a modicum of restraint. He could feel Lita’s eyes on him as he devoured the food. Hunger could turn into a form of madness, he thought, a dangerous desperate craving that drove everything else from your mind. Even in prison he’d been fed and watered on a regular basis. Jed’s supplies had soon run out and the pains had been gnawing at his guts ever since.
‘There must be somewhere else you can go,’ Lita said. ‘Anywhere else. You’ll end up back in jail if you stay here.’
Mal shrugged. He didn’t care about jail; he’d survived it before and he would again. What he did care about was getting caught before he found out the truth, but there was no point dwelling on that. What choice did he have? He’d come this far and there was no turning back. He talked between mouthfuls, chewing too quickly. ‘A few days, that’s all. I have to know what’s going on.’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. Why can’t you get away from here while I do it? Lie low for a while. What about London? No one’s going to notice you there. A hotel or a B&B. I can help sort something out. You could get lost in the crowd, disappear.’
Mal smiled but shook his head.
Lita sighed. ‘What exactly did Heather say to you?’
‘That she’d tracked down Hazel Finch and the woman was pretty jumpy when the subject of Teddy came up. That she has a daughter called Vicky about the right age to be Kay.’ Mal picked up the bottle and took a gulp of water. ‘And that she’d seen Esther leaving here with Vicky Finch.’
This last piece of news seemed to startle Lita. ‘What? When? She never told me that. Do you believe her?’
‘Why would she lie?’
‘I don’t know. To provoke a reaction? To get you to do exactly what you have done? It’s all good publicity for her book. And Jude never said anything about Vicky being here.’
‘Perhaps he doesn’t know – it was a couple of weeks ago – or perhaps Esther’s told him to keep his mouth shut.’
‘Or perhaps it’s all a pack of lies.’
Mal didn’t want to believe this. He had a single thread of hope left in his life and wasn’t about to relinquish it. ‘We’ll see.’
‘What else did Heather tell you?’
‘Not much. Let me think. That Esther had stopped cooperating on the book, that she didn’t want to be involved any more.’
‘There!’ Lita said triumphantly. ‘That’s not true! The two of them are inside right now, cooperating till the cows come home. Heather’s even staying here. Doesn’t that prove something?’
‘Only that Esther must have changed her mind. There’s nothing new about that.’
Lita shifted on her chair, crossing and uncrossing her legs. She frowned, probably turning over fresh arguments in her head. ‘Look, even if this girl does turn out to be Kay, you’re not going to be able to spend any time with her if you’re on the run. How’s that going to work?’
‘Ten minutes, that’s all I want. Just so she knows I care, that I care enough to give up my freedom for her. God knows what Esther’s told her about me. I just want a chance to put the story straight and then I’ll hand myself in. It’s not too much to ask, is it?’
‘And what if it’s all for nothing?’
‘Then at least I’ll know. I’d rather sit in a cell with the truth than always be wondering.’ Mal sat back and looked at her. ‘You shouldn’t be involved in this. I don’t want to drag you into trouble.
You don’t owe me anything. You do understand that, don’t you?’
Lita made a dismissive gesture with her hands. ‘You’re not dragging me into anything.’
‘All I’m asking is that you keep quiet about my being here. Just for now.’
‘Of course I will.’
‘And thanks for the food. I’ll save some of it for later. You shouldn’t hang about. Someone might notice you’re missing.’
‘I’ll come back as soon as I can.’
Mal opened the door to the summerhouse, just a crack, and peered along the path. He waited for a while, listening. ‘Okay.’
Lita slipped out and set off back along the bank. He watched her progress, thinking about the first time he’d seen her in the flesh, the evening Stanley Parrish had brought her to West Henby. She was still as slight, as skinny, as she’d been then, and as hard to read. She was loyal, though, sticking by him through all the bad times. He loved her like a daughter although he never told her that. It was impossible to say whether her life would have been better or worse if he’d left her in Kellston; that was something he would never know.
Mal stepped out of the summerhouse, closing and locking the door behind him. He had meant to ask how she had persuaded Esther to let her stay but the question would have to wait. Lita hadn’t been back here, so far as he knew, since she’d been thrown out after his arrest. Perhaps Esther just wanted to rub her nose in it when she produced their real daughter. It was the type of malicious thing she’d do.
He walked with care, making as little noise as possible, and circled round until he had a view of the front of the house. Then he crouched down in the undergrowth. From here he could keep an eye on all the comings and goings. Patience was what was needed and he had plenty of that. He wasn’t going anywhere.
23
Tuesday 20 September. Old Street, London
Nick Trent ate a bacon sandwich as he sat in his car and flicked through the local paper, one eye on the news and the other on Sandler’s office. Three hours had passed since the solicitor had shown up for work and he hadn’t budged since. Nick had the feeling it was going to be one of those days where sod all happened and boredom turned his brain to mush.
In order to keep the little grey cells exercised, he turned his attention to Lolly and the Mal Fury business. He wasn’t happy about leaving her alone at the house; there was something about the place that made him uneasy. There was too much pain within its walls, too much anger and grief. Or perhaps it was just Esther who disturbed him with her cool beauty and imperious ways.
He couldn’t think about the Furys without thinking about Stanley too. The last part of his uncle’s life had been defined by the case and there was little doubt in Nick’s mind that he would still be alive today if he’d never accepted Mal Fury as a client. It was odd how a single decision could change your life for ever. And now he felt like he was following in his uncle’s footsteps, getting involved in something that would never work out well.
Nick closed the paper, whistling out a breath between his teeth. He wasn’t, strictly speaking, involved in anything other than looking out for Lolly. Not that she’d appreciate the sentiment. She was the type of girl who believed in taking care of herself, and she’d had plenty of practice. From an early age she’d learned that other people, even those you were closest to, couldn’t be relied upon. Would she call him? He hoped so. Perhaps he should call her. Or would that seem too pushy? Perhaps he’d give it a few days.
Nick was saved from any further agonising on the subject by the appearance of Brent Sandler. At last, some movement. Although negotiating London traffic wasn’t his favourite pastime it was better than doing nothing. He threw what remained of his sandwich onto the passenger seat and started the engine.
Sandler was only feet from the yellow Jensen-Healey, briefcase in hand, when it happened. A dark-coloured Jaguar with tinted windows passed Nick’s car and slowed as it approached the office car park. There were two loud bangs like the sound of an exhaust backfiring. It was over in a matter of seconds. By the time the car had accelerated away, Sandler was lying on the ground with two holes in his chest and no further use for his briefcase.
Shock rendered Nick temporarily immobile. He stared through the windscreen, trying to process what he’d just seen. ‘Shit!’ He switched off the engine and jumped out but already passers-by were gathering round the body. A woman started screaming. He stood and watched, knowing there was nothing he could do. Sandler was dead, beyond help. What he’d just witnessed was a professional hit and those guys rarely got it wrong.
He quickly got back in the car and set off in pursuit of Sandler’s killers. He wasn’t planning any heroics, just a registration number if he could get it. The reality of the cold-blooded murder was only just beginning to sink in. He should have paid more attention to the Jag and it was probably too far ahead of him now to catch up. But he tried anyway. It was only when he came to Old Street roundabout and realised he had no idea which exit they’d taken that he knew it was a waste of time. He could drive around for ever and not catch a sniff of them.
So what next? What he should do is return to the scene of the crime and report to the attending officers. He’d have to identify himself and explain why he’d been tailing Sandler. What would follow would be hours down the police station, the writing of a witness statement and a bucketload of grief. Most cops didn’t like private investigators at the best of times and this certainly wasn’t one of them.
Nick saw a phone box and pulled up beside it. He got out of the car, digging in his pockets for change. He put through a call to Marshall & Marshall and it was the older of the brothers, Phil, who answered.
‘It’s me, Nick. There’s no easy way of saying this but someone just took Brent Sandler out. He’s been shot. He was leaving his office and—’
‘Fuck! Where are you?’
‘Still on Old Street. I went after the vehicle but no joy.’
‘You sure he’s dead?’
‘Yeah, I’m sure. I’m just on my way back there now. Thought I’d better warn you before I talk to the cops.’
‘Hang on,’ Phil said. ‘Give me a minute. I need to talk to Roy.’
Nick waited. Phil must have covered the receiver with his hand because he couldn’t hear the ensuing conversation. He looked out of the phone box at the traffic going by. He tapped his fingertips on the metal shelf and went over the shooting in his head. He’d have to be clear about things, exactly what he’d seen, before he gave a statement. The pips went and he slid another coin in the slot.
Eventually Phil’s voice barked down the line. ‘Nick?’
‘Yeah, I’m still here.’
‘Get yourself back to the office.’
‘What, now? I can’t just leave the scene of a crime.’
‘You’ve already left it, haven’t you?’
‘Well, yeah, but I’m not far away.’
‘Far enough. Get your arse back here now!’
Nick didn’t have an opportunity to open a debate. He heard the click of the phone going down and the connection was cut. This wasn’t good news, not for him at least. It was possible the Marshalls were going to keep shtum about the surveillance and try to protect their client.
And that wouldn’t go down too well with the law if they found out.
If or when? Nick pondered on this as he drove towards the office. He was a direct witness to a crime and the police would hang him out to dry if he didn’t come forward and they later found out he’d been right on the spot. He had no idea if anyone had noticed his presence; he’d been parked about ten yards from the solicitors’, close enough for someone to have clocked him, but with all the fuss he couldn’t be sure.
‘Shit, shit, shit,’ he muttered.
There was an air of controlled panic at the office of Marshall & Marshall. Roy was on the phone and Phil was pacing, fag in one hand, sheets of paper in the other. They both glared at him when he walked in, as though he was personally responsible for Brent Sandler t
aking two bullets to his chest.
Roy slammed the phone down. ‘This is a real mess. The bloke wacked in broad fuckin’ daylight. He is dead, by the way. Died instantly. I just checked it out. Tell us what happened.’
Nick leaned against a desk while he talked. It didn’t take him long to run through events and when he’d finished he said, ‘Look, are we going to the law or not? Because if we don’t and they find out I was there, there’s going to be hell to pay. I mean, Christ, we’ve been following the guy for over a week. Withholding evidence: it’s a crime, right? And I’m the one who—’
‘Aagh,’ Roy said, ‘stop fuckin’ stressing. Of course we’re going to let them know. Haven’t got much choice, have we? We just need to get a few things straightened out first.’
Nick didn’t much like the sound of that. ‘Straightened out?’
‘We have to decide whether we tell the client or not.’
‘Who is the client?’
Roy and Phil exchanged a look before Roy shook his head. ‘You don’t need to know that. Probably better if you don’t at the moment.’
Nick knew what was going through their minds. ‘You think the client could have arranged the hit, right? But they’d have to be pretty stupid to do that. As soon as the police find out Sandler’s been under surveillance, they’re going to be first on the list of suspects.’
‘Perhaps they are stupid. Or perhaps they think we won’t divulge that kind of information to the law. Client confidentiality and all that. They could be counting on us keeping our mouths shut.’
‘That’s a big risk to take.’
Another look flew between the brothers. Phil sucked on his cigarette, seeking solace in nicotine. ‘It won’t do much for our reputation if we start handing over the names of our clients.’
Roy was quick to respond. ‘And it won’t do much for our business if we don’t. We can’t afford to have Old Bill on our backs. If they think we’re holding out on them . . . No, we’ve got no choice. We’re better off cooperating.’
