by Roberta Kray
Nick pushed himself off the desk, relieved that he wouldn’t have to spend the next few weeks waiting for a knock on the door, but apprehensive about what lay ahead. ‘I take it that means we’re going down the nick.’
24
Tuesday 20 September. Kellston
Vinnie Keane left the Fox at one-thirty p.m. only to find himself faced with a reception committee. The four cops were probably the tallest Cowan Road could muster but he was still head and shoulders above them all. Not that he was planning on having a scrap. Being hassled by the law was part and parcel of his everyday life and he simply raised his eyebrows.
‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘What can I do for you?’
What he could do, apparently, involved accompanying them down the station with his hands cuffed behind his back to answer some questions about a shooting in the city. Being innocent of any such crime, Vinnie presumed they were just whistling in the wind, pulling in a few faces in order to make it look like they were doing something and hoping they might get lucky.
He only started to sweat when he found out who the victim was: Brent Sandler. That’s when he knew it was more serious, bloody serious in fact. He had over an hour to reflect on his predicament before his lawyer, Ross Perlman, showed up. By then his usually calm demeanour had begun to fray a little at the edges. Before the formal police interview took place he was allowed some time alone with his brief.
Perlman studied him over the rim of his glasses. ‘Tell me how you knew Sandler.’
‘I didn’t, not really. He did work for Terry, legal stuff. I don’t know all the ins and outs.’
‘Well, whatever he did, I doubt if much of it was legal.’
Vinnie didn’t argue the point. ‘You got any fags?’
Perlman took a pack from his pocket and slid it across the table along with a box of matches. ‘Any enemies you know of? Anyone he could have pissed off enough they’d want to see him down the morgue?’
‘I should think there’s a long list, especially amongst the toms of London. He wasn’t what you’d call the respectful sort. But no, I can’t point the finger at anyone in particular.’ Vinnie ripped the wrapper off the cigarettes, pulled one from the carton and lit it. ‘Why have the filth come up with my name? What’s going on here?’
‘You heard of a firm of PIs called Marshall & Marshall? Couple of ex-cops.’
And now Vinnie knew he was buggered. He felt his chest tighten as he pulled on the cigarette and blew a stream of smoke out of his nose. ‘Yeah, I’ve heard of them.’
‘According to plod, you were paying them to have Sandler followed. Is there any truth in that or are our boys in blue making up fairy tales?’
Vinnie could have denied the allegation but it wasn’t going to erase his signature from the contract he’d signed. He should have known better than to use the Marshalls. Cops, ex-cops, they were all the same, and they all stuck together. ‘Okay, so I arranged a tail, but that doesn’t have anything to do with his death.’
‘So what does it have to do with?’
‘It’s personal.’
‘So is a twenty-year stretch for murder. Personal doesn’t wash, Vinnie. You need to start talking and fast.’
‘Okay, so I didn’t trust the guy. Terry was getting in deep with him and I thought he was making a mistake. I figured have the bloke followed for a while, see what he’s up to, who else he’s getting cosy with. You’ve got to watch your back in this business. That’s all there was to it. I was just trying to prove a point to Terry.’
‘Pretty expensive point.’
Vinnie shrugged.
‘Where were you at eleven-thirty this morning?’
‘At home.’
‘Alone?’
‘Yeah, alone.’
‘No alibi, then?’
‘Christ, if I was going to waste Sandler I’d make sure damn sure I had one lined up. And I wouldn’t do it in broad daylight when I knew the guy had a tail on him.’
Perlman sighed. ‘You might not want to repeat that in the interview room. The thing is you knew all his movements, what he was doing, who he was seeing, his everyday routine.’
‘In general, but I couldn’t know he’d be outside his office at any particular time.’
‘Unless you’d set him up with a fake appointment. That’s where he was going when he was shot, to see a prospective client who doesn’t exist.’
‘How do you know all this?’
‘Because I’ve done my homework, Vinnie, pulled in a few favours. I don’t want us facing any nasty surprises when we go into that room. Talking of which, did you ever meet Sandler’s wife, Laura?’
It was a question Vinnie had been dreading. ‘Once or twice,’ he said casually. ‘At least I think it was his wife. Sandler wasn’t the faithful type. He liked to spread the joy if you know what I mean.’
‘That can’t have made her happy.’
‘I’ve no idea how it made her feel.’
‘You sure about that?’
Vinnie smoked some more, staring at his brief. ‘What are you getting at?’
‘Plod’s been busy over the past few hours, Vinnie. And not just with Marshall & Marshall. They’ve been talking to the grieving widow too.’
‘And?’
‘If you’re trying to protect her, I wouldn’t bother.’ Perlman tapped the end of his pen against his teeth. ‘You’re involved with her, right? There’s something going on between you.’
‘I didn’t say that.’
‘You’re not saying much. From what I’ve gathered, she’s being very vocal, though. I get the impression she’s going to throw you to the dogs.’
‘Bullshit!’
‘Tell me the truth, Vinnie, or how the fuck am I supposed to help you?’
Vinnie stubbed out his fag in the ashtray and immediately lit another. ‘What do you mean, throw me to the dogs?’
‘She doesn’t want to go down for conspiracy to murder. That’s a long time out of a young woman’s life. She’s denying having any kind of a relationship with you.’
‘She’s telling the truth.’
‘Is she?’
Vinnie knew that Laura must have panicked when she was told about her husband’s death. Of course she wasn’t going to admit to the affair; it would put her right in the frame. The wife, the nearest and dearest, was always first on the list of suspects and he didn’t intend to make things worse for her. When you loved someone, you took care of them. ‘Like I said, I barely know the woman.’
Perlman glanced at his watch. ‘Time’s almost up. You got anything you want to add before we go in?’
Vinnie shook his head.
‘You know the drill. Just keep your cool, right? I get the feeling this won’t be plain sailing.’
Perlman had been right. Two hours later Vinnie was sitting in a police cell, still reeling from the interview and wondering how his day had gone down the toilet so fast. He hadn’t been charged yet, but it was only a matter of time. The law were already convinced of his guilt, were already building a case. A few more hours and they’d throw the bloody book at him.
Jail was an occupational hazard of his job, but this was something different. He was staring down the barrel of a life sentence. The evidence might only be circumstantial but it could be enough to convict him. His big mistake had been in agreeing to organise the tail on Sandler so Laura could get the information she needed to file for divorce. No, that wasn’t exactly right. His big mistake had been getting involved with Laura in the first place.
Denying the affair was one thing – he understood that – but she’d gone a step further. Now, apparently, she was saying that he’d harassed her for months, that he’d been obsessed with her, that he’d seen Brent Sandler as an obstacle to them having a relationship. Delusional was the word being bandied about. She was claiming she knew nothing about the surveillance, that she’d loved Brent, that they’d had a happy marriage.
Vinnie put his head in his hands. There were only two explanations for what s
he was doing: either Laura had arranged to have her husband killed, or she thought he had. He wanted to believe the latter – at least that explained the betrayal – but slowly, minute by minute, he was coming to a different conclusion. He had no alibi because he’d been waiting at his flat for her, waiting for an eleven o’clock liaison that had never materialised. Why hadn’t she come? There was only one answer. He screwed up his face as the truth hit him full square in the guts: he’d been a sucker, he’d been taken for a ride, he’d fallen for the oldest trick in the book.
25
Tuesday 20 September. West Henby
Heather had been building up a picture of Teddy Heath, trying to get him fixed in her head, to understand his actions, his motives, what made him tick. What she had learned so far was that he’d been a shallow, careless sort of man, driven by his own wants and needs. Handsome, amusing, narcissistic. A womaniser. A drunk. A gambler. Charming in a louche sort of way, but without morals or principles. Bitter at his own lack of success and resentful at the success of others.
She looked at what she had written but still felt like she hadn’t truly grasped him. Perhaps he was beyond reach, one of those people who lack any kind of empathy or soul. An empty vessel. Frustration tugged at her. It was important that she understood him and yet she couldn’t. She had spent the morning with Esther, discussing her affair. How had it happened? Why? She had been looking for answers but the ones she’d been given seemed evasive and inadequate.
Esther had assumed a role, that of the unloved, abandoned wife, and played it to perfection. Mal was often away, working in London while she was left on her own in the country. It had always been about the chase for him she’d claimed, and once he’d got his prize, once they were married, he had rapidly lost interest. She’d been lonely and Teddy had paid her attention. It had been a terrible mistake, of course it had, and she had ended things almost as soon as they’d begun.
Heather had no idea how much of this, if any, was true. She glanced up from the desk in the library and gazed out across the garden. Women like Esther needed constant adoration. It was the oxygen that kept them going, their lifeblood. Teddy and Esther had had a lot in common – both indifferent to the feelings of others, both self-obsessed. Together they’d created a noxious situation that had eventually ended in tragedy.
For a while Mal and Esther had been the golden couple, the handsome jeweller and the glamorous actress. One of those power couples like Mick Jagger and Jerry Hall. Heather had a pile of newspaper articles and photographs printed at the time of the Fury marriage. She lowered her gaze and slipped some pictures out of her file. The pair looked happy, beautiful, the way people are supposed to look on their wedding day, but she didn’t think they’d have stayed together if it hadn’t been for what happened to Kay. Grief had bound them in a way love never could.
She caught a movement outside and glanced up. Jude Rule was crossing the lawn with his hands in his pockets. His expression was cross and sulky, more like a teenage boy than a twenty-something adult. He was probably still brooding over the Cecil business. He’d come storming into the library this morning with a face like thunder.
‘Leave me out of your damn book!’ he’d demanded. ‘What do you think you’re doing? What’s it got to do with me? Why are you poking your nose into things that don’t concern you?’
‘Who said I was putting you into the damn book?’ she’d replied coolly. ‘Don’t flatter yourself.’
‘So why have you been talking to Brenda Cecil about me?’
‘I didn’t bring the subject up, she did.’
‘And Lolly? You’ve been talking to her too.’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, stop being so paranoid. We were just chatting. I didn’t have her strapped to a chair with a gun to her head. That’s what people do, Jude: they talk to each other. There’s nothing sinister about it.’
Heather kept her eyes on Jude as he walked to the end of the lawn, stopped and stared through the trees. She wondered if he really did have something to hide or was just afraid of rumours getting out of control. Neither of them had mentioned Amy Wiltshire but they’d both known that was what the confrontation was all about.
It struck her as odd that Lolly – or should she call her Lita? – had mentioned their conversation to Jude. On the whole the two of them seemed to avoid each other. There was a kind of weird tension between them, defensive and antagonistic at the same time. Sometimes she caught Lolly looking at Jude, as though she hated him, a fierce sort of loathing that possibly had its roots in something less hostile. There were old feelings, perhaps, on Lolly’s side at least.
Jude was different to Teddy Heath but equally destructive in his own way. Teddy, she imagined, had not harboured strong emotions for anyone or anything. He had drifted through life, grabbing what he could, indifferent or oblivious to the consequences of his actions. Jude, on the other hand, dwelled on everything, obsessing over the smallest detail. There was something dark about him, something slightly dangerous.
Heather gave a small shake of her head, freeing her mind of him. She put the photos of Mal and Esther back in their folder, pulled the Stanley Parrish file towards her and opened it at the familiar place. She must have read this part fifty times already but kept returning to it, studying each line, each word, each sentence, as though there could be meaning she had missed on the other occasions.
She had no real sense of Stanley Parrish, other than his having been a meticulous man. He’d recorded every detail, every conversation and summarised his own view in short, pithy paragraphs. She wondered where she’d been on the day he’d come to see her parents. At school, perhaps, or in another room. Why had they even agreed to see him? There was only one answer she could think of: because it would have looked suspicious if they hadn’t, as if they had something to hide. She didn’t recognise the London address he had listed. It must have been before they’d moved.
For all Stanley’s care and attention, he had still been fooled by them. He hadn’t looked beneath the surface, hadn’t probed deeply enough, hadn’t asked the right questions. They had got away with it and she was the one who had paid the price. She would have remained in ignorance if it hadn’t been for that envelope and its shattering, explosive contents. Why had her mother, her so-called mother, kept it all? Out of sentiment? Conscience? Or maybe she’d simply forgotten she had it, stuffed as it was in the back of a drawer that was hardly ever opened.
Heather swung her chair round and stared at the shelves full of books, at the wood panelling, at the fittings and fixtures of a rich man’s sanctuary. She gazed at the leather chair Mal must have sat in, at the small Chippendale table he would have placed his drink on. Mistakes had been made and she was here to rectify them. She couldn’t stop thinking of how things might have been. It occupied her day and night like a craving that could never be satisfied.
26
Tuesday 20 September. West Henby
Lolly was spending the afternoon on military manoeuvres. It was all very well finding her four targets, but she also had to establish whether they were likely to stay where they were for the next fifteen minutes. Esther seemed settled in the sun room and Heather was hard at work in the library. Jude was sitting on the grass outside. Mrs Gough, however, remained a worry. Although she was currently down in the kitchen, there was no saying how long she’d stay there. The woman patrolled the house at regular intervals like a guard dog sniffing out irregularities.
Confident that the coast was at least temporarily clear, Lolly dashed up the stairs to the second floor, walked as quietly as she could along the landing and stopped outside the door. Lolly had never been inside Mal’s bedroom before and even though she had permission it was not the kind of permission she could readily use to explain her presence to anyone else. The fear of being caught made her heart race.
‘Get on with it,’ she murmured.
The longer she stood here, the greater her chances were of being discovered. Before nerves could give her second thoughts, she t
urned the handle, stepped inside and closed the door behind her. The room was very much a man’s space, simple and uncluttered, with only the essentials. It was comfortable and elegant without any kind of ostentation. There was a view over the garden from the two windows.
Lolly went straight to the wardrobe, grabbed a shirt, trousers and a sweater and threw them on the bed. She added a jacket and a decent everyday pair of shoes. If he had to leave in a hurry, and was wearing these clothes, she figured the shoes would look less conspicuous than the boots he had on. Next, she raided the drawers for black socks and underpants, the latter making her feel less than comfortable. There was something not quite right about rummaging through your guardian’s pants, even in an emergency.
Lolly made a quick sortie into the bathroom, wondering whether or not to take his shaving gear. There was an electric razor in the cabinet but the battery was probably flat. She didn’t dare try it in case she was wrong and it buzzed into life, creating a noise that might travel. Anyway, perhaps he was better off growing a beard, some form of disguise. In the end, all she took was a comb and a bar of soap.
Now Lolly had collected everything, the only task left was to get it downstairs to her own bedroom. It would help if she could find something to put the items in, a bag or a suitcase, but a fast search revealed nothing suitable. She should have thought to bring one with her. In the end she dug out a sheet from a drawer under the bed, wrapped it around the clothes, gathered the ends together and lifted it up like a sack.
Lolly listened at the door before she cautiously opened it, peered out and listened some more. Silence. When she was sure it was safe she stepped tentatively out of the room and tiptoed along the landing. She was almost at the head of the stairs when she heard the sound of ascending footsteps. Jesus! Talk about bad timing.
Frantically, she looked around. Esther’s room was the nearest but she didn’t dare go into that. What if it was Esther coming up the stairs? Just the thought of being found inside turned her blood to ice. With no other choice she doubled back to Mal’s room, flew inside and pressed her ear to the door.
