by Roberta Kray
She thought about this for a moment, but then shook her head. ‘I don’t know why you’re asking me. I don’t know anything. Why would I?’
‘Because you’re a smart girl and you keep your eyes and ears open.’
‘You know what else smart girls do?’ she said, pointing towards her mouth. ‘They keep this zipped.’
‘Even if it means Vinnie Keane going down for life? The law have got him right in the frame. If they have it their way, he’ll be spending the next twenty years behind bars.’
The girl wrinkled her nose. ‘I wish I could help but . . . ’
Before she could give him the brush off, he said, ‘Look, I’m just trying to find out some more about the man. Sandler, I mean. I’ve heard he wasn’t the most popular punter in the world.’
She left a long pause before she said, ‘I can’t stay here with you, not unless you buy me a drink. House rules, I’m afraid.’
Nick could already feel his wallet growing lighter. ‘Go on then, but I’m not Rockefeller so try not to go mad.’
She grinned, stood up and sashayed over to the bar in her high heels. A few minutes later she was back with a tray. One glass of beer and one glass of champagne. ‘Okay,’ she said, sitting down again. ‘Sandler. But this is off the record, right?’
‘Off the record,’ he agreed.
‘Well, he had a temper on him, I can tell you that much. None of the girls wanted anything to do with him.’ She glanced around the room, making sure nobody was paying attention. ‘Trouble is, you can’t pick and choose in this business. Yeah, he was a prize bastard. Liked to play rough if you get my meaning.’
‘Terry wouldn’t stand for that, would he?’
‘It depends.’
‘On what exactly?’
‘Let’s just say Terry gave him more leeway than the other punters. They did business together, didn’t they? He wanted to keep him sweet.’
‘Even if that meant overlooking his . . . erm . . . nastier tendencies?’
She sipped her champagne, or what passed for champagne in this joint, and nodded. ‘Within reason.’
‘Were you working last Thursday night?’
‘I work every night, apart from Sunday.’
‘Sandler was here, wasn’t he? He left his motor out in the car park, didn’t drive home. Do you know what time he left, who he left with?’
‘Last Thursday,’ she repeated, frowning. ‘Let me think.’
Nick drank some weak beer while she tried to separate this particular night from all the other probably identical ones. ‘It was the same night that girl was murdered in Kellston,’ he said, trying to jog her memory. ‘Dana Leigh.’
Her face tightened. ‘You think he had something to do with that?’
‘Not that I know of, although . . . but he didn’t take his car so it seems unlikely. Unless he got a cab to drop him off, did the deed and got another cab home. It’s not impossible but a bit risky. One of the drivers could have remembered him.’
‘He was the type,’ she said. ‘A real woman hater. I wouldn’t put it past the sod.’ More champagne disappeared down her throat. ‘You know, I reckon he might have spent some time with Candy. Or was that Wednesday? No, I think it was Thursday. That’s who you need to talk to.’
‘Is she here?’
‘No, not today. She only usually does Friday and Saturday but we were short last week so she covered for another girl. She’ll be at Dean Street this evening, after seven. I don’t know the number but it’s over a record shop. You’ll find it; her name’s on the bell.’
‘Okay, thanks. Will she talk to me, do you think?’
‘She might. I can’t make any promises. She likes Vinnie though, everyone does.’ A couple more customers came into the club and she pushed back her chair. ‘I have to go. When you see him, tell him Stacey said hello.’
‘I’ll do that,’ he said.
While Nick finished his beer, he looked round the room. It wasn’t any more appealing now than when he’d first come in. A different girl was on the stage, going through the same routine of taking off her clothing, step by step. There was nothing sexy about it, nothing even faintly erotic. Or maybe he just wasn’t in the mood. Murder tended to do that to you.
He paid on the way out, an outrageous bill that made his eyes water. But he didn’t argue. The bruiser on the door, although not quite Vinnie’s size, was built for trouble. Had it been worth the money? He’d find out later.
Back on the street he pondered on what to do next. With time to kill before he could see Candy, he considered going back to Primrose Hill and putting in a few more hours. He weighed up the pros and cons, mainly cons, and decided against it. If Laura Sandler had been involved in the murder of her husband she wouldn’t be putting a foot wrong until she knew the law were off her case.
Eventually he decided to head for Harlow and see what he could find out about Hazel and Vicky Finch. It was one of those loose ends that needed tying up. He knew what Heather had told him, but what she had told him might not be the whole truth. If he’d thought he could have asked her for the address this morning, but then again that might not have been the best idea. It would only have alerted her to the fact that he was checking out her story.
While he drove, his mind was skipping from one subject to another and focusing on none of them: Esther’s murder, Sandler’s murder, Vinnie’s affair, Mal’s disappearance, Lolly’s trouble with Terry. It was hard to know what to prioritise. He still found it hard to believe in Mal Fury’s innocence and he wondered how Lolly would cope if he was found to be guilty. She would stand by him, he thought, no matter what he’d done.
Harlow was one of those post-war new towns in west Essex that had been built to offer decent living accommodation after the ravages of the Blitz. The housing estates were separated by green spaces, and there were plenty of recreational facilities: sports centres, a swimming pool, even a skating rink. It had been designed, Nick suspected, to some kind of utopian ideal, a place where the poor could prosper, but he wasn’t entirely sure they’d pulled it off. Although all seemed calm on the surface, he sensed a kind of fraying round the edges. Everything that had once been new and fresh was gradually starting to decay.
When he got to the town hall it was already after four. With less than an hour to spare before it closed he rushed inside the high-rise building, located the right floor, took the lift, entered the department, requested access to the electoral register and then began to trawl through the lists.
It was another twenty minutes before he found what he was looking for. Hazel Finch was registered as living at 41 Elmington Road. He scribbled down the address in his notepad and then checked out exactly where it was from the map on the wall. Once he had the directions firmly in his head, he headed back to the car.
Traffic was starting to build up as he negotiated the streets. People were returning home from work, tired and impatient and fractious. He drove carefully, keeping an eye on his fellow drivers. His car was battered enough without another prang to add to the collection. Anyway, he wasn’t in a hurry. If Heather was right, the Finches had already abandoned the nest.
Elmington Road was a yellow brick terrace of two-up two-downs with small front gardens. He found a parking space a few doors down from forty-one, turned off the engine and studied the house. It looked neat and tidy from the outside, the paintwork fresh, the net curtains white. No sign of life, although it was too early for any lights to be on. He peered up at the first floor – more nets along with dark-coloured curtains – and wondered if there was the slightest chance of Vicky Finch being Kay Fury.
A light smattering of rain fell against the windscreen. It would be a tragedy, he thought, if the long-lost child was to be discovered just as her birth mother had been murdered. Almost simultaneously another thought jumped into his head: if Vicky was Kay the one person who would want to stop the truth coming out would be Hazel. But, so far as he knew, she hadn’t been at the party, and anyway wouldn’t Heather be the more likely
target? Unless she was next on the list . . .
He pulled a face. Now he was getting into the realm of soap opera. Before his imagination could run away with him he got out of the car and strolled down to the house. He pressed the bell, stood back and waited. Unsurprisingly there was no response. He tried again. When it was clear that no one was home, he had a quick look round, established that he was not being obviously watched, moved over to the front window and pressed his nose against the glass.
The living-room walls were papered in a bright swirly pattern. There was a sofa and two chairs, a coffee table and a large TV in a cabinet. What there wasn’t was any sign of someone currently in occupation. No mugs on the table. No newspapers or magazines. No items of clothing left lying around. Nothing to suggest that someone might be back soon. But maybe they were just the tidy sort. Heather had suggested that mother and daughter had scarpered and if the property had been let out furnished this was entirely possible.
He stood back, not wanting to look like a burglar who was casing the joint. He glanced at the houses either side. Which one to try first? He retreated to the pavement, chose the one on the left, prepared his spiel and advanced up the path. There was no bell so he gave a couple of sharp raps on the door. Nobody answered. He looked at his watch – ten past five – wondering if it was too early. People who worked would still be travelling home. He’d try the house on the right and if that got no result he’d do one more either side and then go and wait in the car for a while.
Luckily, he had more joy this time. The door was answered by a middle-aged woman with a frizzy perm. She was holding a tea towel which she proceeded her wipe her wet hands on. ‘Hello,’ she said, her plump lips almost but not quite smiling, as though she hadn’t made up her mind yet whether he was friend or foe.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘I’m sorry to disturb you, but I’m trying to get hold of Hazel. Next door? I’ve been ringing for the past few days but nobody answers the phone so I thought I’d come over and . . . ’
‘You a friend, love?’
‘Her cousin,’ he said. ‘Tom. Tom Finch.’ He was counting on the fact that if Hazel hadn’t lived here for long, her neighbours might not be too familiar with the family tree. ‘I’ve been working up in Glasgow and haven’t seen her for a while so . . . She does still live here, doesn’t she? She hasn’t moved out or anything?’
‘Heavens, no. Think I’d have noticed if she had. No, they’re just away on holiday, love, having a bit of a break. We all need those every now and again.’
‘You’re not wrong there,’ Nick said, glancing up at the sky. ‘I wouldn’t mind a bit of sunshine myself.’
‘Oh, they’ve not gone anywhere fancy. Not abroad or anything. Only a caravan in Clacton but it’s better than nothing.’
‘I wouldn’t turn my nose up,’ he agreed. ‘Still, it’s a shame I missed them. I’m only back for a few days.’
She smiled, easy with him now. ‘I wish I had a niece who’d whisk me away – even if it was only to Clacton.’
Nick took a gamble. ‘Ah right, have they gone away with Heather?’
The woman looked blank.
‘Short fair hair,’ Nick said. ‘Drives a red Mini.’
‘That’s the one,’ she said. ‘Turned up . . . when was it now? Over a week ago. It must have been. Hazel popped round to let me know, asked if I’d feed the cat while they’re away.’
‘I don’t suppose you know when they’re due back?’
‘Monday, I think, or it could be the weekend. She didn’t seem too sure.’
‘Ah well, I’ll give her a ring next week, see how the holiday went. Thanks for your help.’
‘I’ll tell her you called by.’
Nick nodded and waved and walked back to the car. He didn’t hang about but started the engine straight away and set off back to London. He’d learned something that didn’t altogether surprise him – Heather had lied about the Finches doing a disappearing act. She had spirited them away, presumably so that neither Esther nor anyone else could find out the truth. But what was she trying to hide? That Vicky was Kay Fury or that she wasn’t? That small detail was still missing from the picture.
52
Thursday 22 September. Kellston
Lolly couldn’t settle in the flat. Her feet pounded the carpet as she paced from one side of the living room to the other. She felt angry and frustrated, angry at what Tony Cecil had done to her, frustrated by her lack of progress with Laura Sandler. How was she supposed to help Vinnie when she couldn’t even talk to the damn woman? Although she knew Nick was right, that she might do more harm than good if she confronted her, it went against her nature to just sit back and do nothing.
At half past five, unable to bear the confines of the flat any longer, she went out and dashed across the road to the phone box. It rang for a long while before a girl eventually answered.
‘Yeah?’
‘Is Stella there, please?’
‘No, hon, she’s not in.’
Lolly didn’t recognise the voice – someone new, someone to replace Dana, perhaps. ‘Is she at the Fox?’
‘I dunno. She could be.’
Sensing that this was the best she was going to get, Lolly thanked her and rang off. She picked up the change from the slot, pushed open the door and stepped back out into the rain. Pulling up the hood on her raincoat, she began walking down the road towards the pub. She needed some company, someone to talk to, and a drink wouldn’t go amiss either. Perhaps a few stiff voddies would silence the clamour in her head.
When she got to the Fox the first thing she did was check out the car park to see if Terry’s motor was there. It wasn’t. This was good news although she was still wary as she stepped inside the pub. Immediately her gaze flew over to his usual table but it was empty. Relief flooded through her. She didn’t want to see Terry’s accusing eyes tonight or listen to any more of his angry words. She’d done wrong, she knew that, but what choice had she had? Without the ring, Mal wouldn’t have stood a chance.
The girls were seated near the back. Stella was there along with Jackie and Michelle and a few other faces she vaguely recognised but couldn’t put a name to. She bought herself a vodka and tonic at the bar – she couldn’t afford to fork out for a round – and then went over to the table.
‘Hello, love,’ Stella said, shuffling to the right so Lolly could squeeze onto the bench beside her. ‘Come and sit beside me.’
‘You okay?’ Lolly asked, although the question was redundant. She could see that Stella was already drunk, her eyes glazed and unfocused, her hand struggling to light the cigarette hanging from her lips.
‘Oh, I’m fine and dandy. You know me. Nothing gets me down for long.’
‘Try telling your face that,’ Jackie said.
‘Oh, fuck off,’ Stella muttered, although not with her usual spirit. ‘How are you doing, hon?’ she asked Lolly.
‘I’m good, ta.’
‘Glad to hear it.’
Stella gave no indication of knowing about Esther’s murder, and Lolly decided not to enlighten her. No one needed another violent death to think about. She was aware of the atmosphere at the table. There was a brittle quality to the girls’ voices, a false boldness and bluster as they tried to blank out the fear that what had happened to Dana could just as easily happen to them. They were joking and bantering, exchanging stories about punters – weird cocks, floppy cocks, the rough men and the quiet ones, the blokes who liked to pee on them.
Nothing the girls said shocked Lolly. She had heard it all before, and worse. The conversation flowed over and around her. There was a chance, she knew, that she could have ended up working the Albert Road if Mal hadn’t taken her away from Kellston. Few of the women actually chose the occupation but slipped into it through poverty or abuse. Without a decent education, without support, when you were emotionally damaged, options were always limited.
Lolly’s knowledge of sex, at least in a practical sense, was also limited. However, she was no l
onger a virgin and was pleased about that. It was a label she had worn around her neck for too long. Sometimes she had imagined she would stay intact for ever, that she would never meet anyone she would even want to share a bed with. Well, no one apart from Jude and that had always been a non-starter. Pascal, a French student, had been refreshingly different from the blokes she usually met: funny and gentle and smart, away from home for a year and as lonely as she was. It had not been a sweep-you-off-your-feet romance, but they had enjoyed each other’s company and that, at the time, had been enough. He was back in Rouen now and although she had said she would visit she knew she never would.
‘I’m sticking with my regulars,’ a pale red-haired girl said. ‘Least till they catch the bastard.’
Stella puffed on her cigarette and said softly, ‘He probably is somebody’s regular.’
There was a collective shudder as this thought sank in.
‘I’ll tell you something for nothing,’ Jackie said. ‘Joe Quinn wouldn’t have stood for it, not on his patch. He’d have caught the shithead by now, cut off his balls and rammed them down his throat.’
Stella gave a snort. ‘In the good old days, huh? Joe only ever got off his arse when there was something in it for him.’
Lolly wondered if Stella had made any progress in tracking down the mysterious Freddy but suspected not. It was like searching for a needle in a haystack. She decided not to mention her abortive visit to the library. There was still the Gazette to try but she didn’t really fancy it. With everything else that was going on she was better off staying away from reporters.
‘I spend the whole time looking sideways at them,’ Michelle said. ‘I’m always wondering, you know, if it could be him. You start imagining all sorts.’
‘He’ll do it again,’ Jackie said. ‘That type always do.’
Stella emptied her glass and rose unsteadily to her feet. ‘I need a pee.’
‘You’ll need a fuckin’ stomach pump if you go on knocking them back like that.’
