Stolen

by Roberta Kray

  ‘What are you even doing here?’ she asked. ‘Haven’t you got work to do?’

  ‘It’s the end of the summer. No one wants gardeners at this time of year.’ He had put a card up in the library in spring and got a few takers, mainly because he was cheap. He wasn’t an expert in the field of horticulture but he knew a plant from a weed and could do all the heavy work, the hedge cutting and the lawn mowing. The big advantage was that he worked for cash and so didn’t need to declare it to the social. He didn’t declare it all to his mother either; she’d only take the lion’s share and spend it on gin.

  ‘Well, you can’t sit round here all day cluttering up the place. If you haven’t got work, you should go out and look for it.’

  ‘I’ve not been here all day. And I have been looking. Been out all morning, haven’t I? I’m entitled to some dinner.’

  His mother curled her lip as though this entitlement was debatable. ‘Food costs money, Freddy. It doesn’t appear out of thin air.’

  ‘It does if you nick it from the Spar.’

  ‘I wouldn’t need to nick if you brought in a decent wage.’

  He stared at her, wondering not for the first time how it was they were even related. She was fat – or big-boned as she liked to put it – and he was thin. Her eyes were brown and his were grey. Her face was long and flabby, his round and flat. Even their hair was different: hers, dyed a curious gingery colour, was wavy and had a streak of grey at her scalp where the roots were growing out.

  Bored of the conversation, he went over to the window and stared down at the estate. Rain was spitting against the window, a steady drizzle that had been falling since the morning. From the second floor there wasn’t much to see but the wide concrete square and the paths that led to the other two towers. The Mansfield was a dump, a decaying, crime-ridden, rat-infested slagheap which even the law thought twice about visiting.

  ‘What are you looking at?’ she asked, worried that she might be missing out.

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘How can you be looking at nothing?’

  ‘What else is there to see here?’

  Freddy thought about Dana. Everything had been more interesting when she’d been alive. There had been a reason to get up in the morning, a sense of purpose. He’d liked all the sneaking around, the secret meetings, the clandestine nature of their relationship. Just for a while he had been important, even necessary, to somebody else. In many ways, he thought, Dana had been lucky: he often wished that his mother had left him on a church doorstep. At least then he wouldn’t have had to put up with her nagging for the past thirty years.

  He was about to move away from the window, to sit down again, when he saw her – the brown-haired girl from the library. It gave him a jolt. What was she doing here? For one irrational moment he thought that she was coming to see him, to accuse him, and he sucked in a breath and quickly shifted to the side.

  After a moment he peeked out through the window again. No, she wasn’t coming in this direction but towards Haslow House. She was walking slowly with her head down, as though she was deep in thought or checking out the ground for lost change. He did that himself sometimes. It was surprising what you found. Now the fear had subsided, curiosity was replacing it. What was she doing here? Who was she going to see? He had to know.

  Freddy grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair and slipped it on. ‘I’ve got to go out.’

  ‘You’ve only just got in.’

  That was his mother all over, never happy when he was there, never happy when he wasn’t. ‘I’ve just remembered. Mrs Barlow said she might have some odd jobs for me. When I was free. Which I am now. Might as well check it out.’

  ‘It’s raining.’

  ‘Not much.’

  ‘She can’t expect you to work in the rain. You’ll catch pneumonia. What sort of person . . . ’

  But Freddy was already shutting the front door. He jogged along the corridor and down the two flights of steps. When he reached the ground, he strode through the foyer and went out into the damp afternoon air. The brown-haired girl wasn’t far from Haslow now. She was acting differently to the way most women did on the estate, not scuttling along, not always glancing over her shoulder. As though she wasn’t afraid of anything or anyone. That was odd. It piqued his interest. She was either very stupid – the estate was a dangerous place – or unusually confident.

  He walked quickly to catch up with her. Perhaps she was going to see a client. Was she a whore? He still wasn’t sure. She didn’t dress like a whore – she wasn’t even wearing high heels – but that wasn’t proof one way or the other. He couldn’t think of any other reason why she’d have been in Albert Road. No respectable woman went near the place. The reporter angle came back into his head, the idea that she could be some busybody journalist, but he didn’t think that was the case. If pressed, he couldn’t have explained why not. It was just a hunch.

  By the time she went inside the building he was only a short distance behind. As he reached the entrance he saw her step into a lift, saw the metal doors closing. He walked into the foyer and stood watching as the little red light charted the ascending lift’s progress up the floors. It was unlikely, he thought, that it would stop anywhere else before it reached its destination. Who else would want to go up rather than down? No one unless they had a friend higher up.

  The lift stopped at the twelfth floor. He stared at the light for thirty seconds. Nothing happened. When he was sure that this was where she must have got off, he got into another lift and pressed the button marked 12. He didn’t know which flat she’d gone to but if he hung out on the walkway she would emerge eventually. He would simply watch and wait. Why not? It was what he was good at.

  48

  Thursday 22 September. Kellston

  Everything about the Mansfield estate, from the cracks running through the tall concrete blocks to the stink of the lifts, was familiar to Lolly. Despite the oppressive atmosphere, the dark air of despair and hopelessness, she still felt comfortable here, at home. This was where she had lived until she was thirteen, a place she knew like the back of her hand, and although she was aware of its dangers she felt impervious to them. It was as though the past protected her from any current threats, wrapping her in a blanket of safety and giving her a free pass. There was only so much bad stuff that could happen to a person and she’d already used up her quota.

  She still paused, however, when she got out of the lift. Too many memories were flooding her mind, a torrent of history. Jude’s flat had always been her haven in difficult times, a refuge from the emptiness and loneliness of her own home. It had not been her mum’s fault – she hadn’t been a bad person, only a tormented one – but she had needed solace and Jude had provided it. He’d given her food and shelter and company. Through a constant stream of old movies, he’d transported her to another world and for a while she had been able to forget about this one.

  Being back here reminded her of something else too: how much she had cared for him. She was loath to call it love and yet it had been more than a childish crush. At the time she would have died for Jude, would have laid down her life, but such dramatics were never called for. In the event all that had been required was that she lie for him and this she had done with skill and alacrity. It was too late for regrets. She had chosen to believe in his innocence over the death of Amy Wiltshire and any doubts she might have now were futile.

  It was odd, she thought, how much harder it was to face him here than at West Henby. She was afraid of what she might feel when she walked into that flat, anxious that the past might overwhelm her. For a second, she was almost tempted to turn tail and run, but then she remembered why she was doing this: if she couldn’t find out who really killed Esther, Mal’s name would never be cleared.

  As she walked on she tried to wipe everything but that from her mind. She went up to the door and knocked before she could have second thoughts, three determined raps that echoed along the empty corridor. There was a long delay
before she heard signs of movement from inside, a period of time she had to force herself to wait.

  Jude eventually opened the door. He looked a mess, unshaven and unwashed, his cheeks sunken. He was wearing jeans and a shirt with stains down the front. She could smell the alcohol on him but couldn’t tell if it was from last night or today. He stared at her through bleary eyes.

  ‘Lolly,’ he said. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I just came to check you were okay. Heather said she dropped you off here.’

  ‘No, I’m not okay. Why the fuck would I be okay? In case you’ve forgotten, Esther’s just been murdered.’

  ‘No, sorry, I didn’t mean . . . Can I come in?’

  He hesitated but then shrugged and headed towards the living room.

  She closed the door behind her and followed him. The room was sparsely furnished with hardly anything in the way of furniture, just a sofa, a small table with a typewriter on it, and a chair. He clearly hadn’t spent much time here recently. The house at West Henby had become his home and all that was left in the flat were the bare essentials.

  ‘Is there news?’ he asked. ‘Have they caught the bastard yet?’

  Lolly bit her tongue, not wanting to get in a row. ‘If you mean Mal, then no. But he didn’t kill her. He wouldn’t have.’

  Jude gave a hollow laugh. ‘What’s wrong with you? Jesus! Can’t you see what’s staring you in the face? Of course he bloody killed her. And now he’s run away like the pathetic coward he is.’

  She studied him, trying to work out if he really believed this or was just trying to cover his own tracks. In truth, she couldn’t tell. He was obviously upset, distraught even, but that didn’t mean he was innocent. ‘So where’s the evidence? There’s nothing to say he was even at the house. Did you see him there? Did anyone?’

  ‘He was there, right under our bloody noses. The law were sniffing round that old summerhouse this morning. They reckon that’s where he’d been hiding.’

  ‘What?’ She was shocked by the fact they’d discovered this so quickly. ‘Are you sure? They told you that?’

  ‘Didn’t need to, did they. It was obvious. Someone had got in there and they hadn’t forced the lock. I heard that DS Barry talking. There’ll be fingerprints and everything.’

  ‘Fingerprints don’t mean anything,’ she said, aware that her own would be in there too. ‘It’s his summerhouse. There are bound to be prints.’

  ‘Mrs Gough said it hadn’t been used for years.’

  Lolly wondered if the police could tell if prints were old or new. Did they change, alter with age, deteriorate? She had no idea. ‘What would she know? She wasn’t following him around twenty-four hours a day.’

  Jude lifted and dropped his shoulders again. ‘That woman knows everything. You should realise that by now.’

  ‘Thinks she knows everything,’ Lolly corrected him. ‘And what she doesn’t know, she just makes up. She’s a spiteful old cow. She hates Mal and she’ll do her best to get him locked up again.’

  ‘I reckon he’s doing a pretty good job of that himself.’

  Lolly looked at him for a moment before her gaze shifted to the window and the magnificent panorama; you could see right across London from this height, even to the dome of St Paul’s. But she hadn’t come to admire the view. ‘Anyone at that party could have killed her. We’re all suspects.’

  ‘So who stole the car if it wasn’t Mal?’

  She looked back at him. ‘Someone else,’ she said stubbornly.

  ‘Well, that’s handy. Bit of a coincidence though. And if Mal was at the summerhouse, why did he clear off?’

  ‘Wouldn’t you?’ she retorted. ‘He’d get the blame and that would be that.’ Then she rapidly added, ‘That’s if he was ever there in the first place.’

  Jude pushed his hands into his jeans pockets and leaned against the table. ‘He’s the only person who wanted her dead,’ he said flatly. ‘Did you hear anyone arguing down by the lake? When you went there to look for her.’

  She shook her head. ‘There must have been some kind of altercation though. A row. Don’t you think?’

  ‘Not if he took her by surprise.’

  ‘But why would she even go there? That’s what I don’t get. She hated the place.’

  ‘How would I know?’ he snapped. ‘Maybe she saw him, saw Mal in the garden, and followed him there.’

  ‘She’d be more likely to call the law. Or at least tell someone. You or Mrs Gough.’

  ‘Maybe she would, maybe she wouldn’t. She’d had a few drinks. She might not have been thinking straight.’

  ‘What do you know about that announcement she was going to make?’

  Jude glared at her. ‘What’s with all the questions? Shit, I’ve already been interrogated by the cops and now you’re at it too. I’ve had enough. What the hell do you want, Lolly?’

  ‘The truth, I suppose.’

  He snorted and turned away from her, going over to the window.

  She stared at the back of his head. She wondered what a guilty person looked like, sounded like. Scared, angry, defensive? Perhaps not that different to an innocent one. There was always the fear of being falsely accused in circumstances like these. And there was always guilt and regret – things that should have been said, should have been done. She couldn’t tell whether his conscience was clear or not, just as she hadn’t been able to after Amy had been killed.

  ‘Maybe those forensics people will be able to shed some light. I mean, whoever did it must have left some clues. They can find out all sorts these days.’ Lolly studied his body language but it told her nothing, other than the fact that he would rather she wasn’t there. ‘What will you do now?’

  Jude glanced over his shoulder. ‘Do?’

  ‘Will you still go to the States?’

  He waved a hand towards the room and said dismissively, ‘There’s nothing to stay here for.’

  Once upon a time the comment would have stung but now it barely touched her. Their futures had diverged long ago and anyway she had never held the place in his life that he’d held in hers. To him she had always just been the scrawny kid from upstairs, at worst someone to be pitied, at best someone to sit and watch a movie with. Back then he wouldn’t have realised how she felt about him but later . . . yes, later, she was sure he would have known.

  ‘Esther’s announcement,’ she said. ‘You never told me what it was about.’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’re not curious?’

  He looked over his shoulder again. ‘What does it matter now?’

  Lolly was about to ask about the film, about what Esther had allegedly said to Mrs Gough, but a knock on the door interrupted their exchange.

  As though he hadn’t heard it, Jude didn’t move for a moment. Then he sighed, took his hands out of his pockets and walked towards the hallway. ‘I bet that’s the bloody law again.’

  But it wasn’t the law. And by the time Lolly realised who it was the two Cecil brothers had forced their way past Jude and were standing right in front of her.

  49

  Thursday 22 September. Kellston

  ‘Well, look who it is,’ Tony Cecil said, pushing his ugly face into Lolly’s. ‘It’s the filthy little liar who said she didn’t know where Jude Rule was. Got your memory back, I see.’

  She didn’t immediately respond but kept her eyes on him. She felt afraid, intimidated, but was trying her best not to show it. It was one thing to stand your ground in public, where there were other people around, witnesses, quite another behind closed doors.

  ‘You lay one finger on me and you’ll regret it.’

  ‘Oh, I doubt that, sweetheart. I doubt it very much.’ Tony turned to his brother. ‘You reckon I’ll regret it?’

  ‘Nah, I don’t reckon so.’

  ‘Get out of my flat,’ Jude said, ‘or I’ll call the law.’

  Tony withdrew his face from Lolly’s and grinned. ‘He’s going to call the filth, FJ. Are we worried?’<
br />
  ‘Yeah, dead worried. I’m going to pee my fuckin’ pants.’

  Jude made a move towards the phone but he wasn’t fast enough. FJ was already there, yanking out the cord from the wall. ‘Ah, shit,’ he said, holding the dead receiver to his ear. ‘There seems to be a fault on the line.’

  ‘So what now?’ Tony asked, his gaze shifting between Lolly and Jude. ‘Doesn’t look like the filth are going to make it after all. You got a back-up plan?’

  ‘Just get out,’ Jude said weakly. ‘Leave us alone.’

  Tony started strolling round the room, looking at everything. As there wasn’t much to see this didn’t take long. ‘Christ, and I thought I lived in a dump. Can’t you afford any furniture, mate?’

  Jude didn’t reply.

  ‘What’s the matter, you deaf or something?’ Tony raised his voice, speaking loudly and slowly. ‘I said can’t you afford any furniture?’

  ‘I’m moving out,’ Jude said.

  Two red spots had appeared on his cheeks, but Lolly wasn’t sure if that was down to anger or humiliation. She hoped he wasn’t going to do anything stupid.

  ‘Not without saying goodbye though? I mean, you wouldn’t just leave without letting us know, would you? We should throw a party, celebrate. Have a few beers. Everyone likes a party, don’t they?’

  Jude suddenly launched himself at Tony, swinging wildly with his right fist. It was a clumsy attempt. Tony easily blocked him, laughed and then pushed him away. Jude staggered back, lost his balance and ended up in a heap on the floor. Quickly he scrambled to his feet, his pride more damaged than anything else.

  Lolly wondered if the Cecils had heard about the murder, about the party last night, but so far as she was aware they didn’t even know about Jude’s connection to Esther. She grabbed hold of Tony’s arm. ‘What do you want? You’ve already beaten the shit out of him once. Isn’t that enough?’

  ‘Ah, look at that, FJ. The little slapper’s trying to protect her man. Ain’t that sweet?’