Deceived: THE BRAND NEW NOVEL. No one knows crime like Kray.

by Roberta Kray

  ‘When?’

  ‘September the fifth. There’s a flight in from Zurich in the late afternoon. The tom’s going to be stored in a warehouse overnight before it gets delivered in the morning. Hull’s probably planning the raid for the early hours, three or four o’clock.’

  ‘It doesn’t give us much time to get organised.’

  ‘Enough,’ Alf said. ‘Let’s face it, if Hull can plan a job like this, a monkey can. I don’t know all the ins and outs yet, but I reckon if we play it right, we can slip right in there before him. All we need is some more information, and we’ve got a few weeks to get it. That firm’s as leaky as a bleedin’ sieve. Mick Bishop can’t keep his mouth shut when he’s had a few bevvies.’

  ‘I take it they’ve got an inside man?’

  ‘Security guard by the name of Temple. Gerry Temple. I’ve checked him out – he’s got no form. An amateur. He’ll break as soon as the law get their hands on him, realise he’s looking at a long stretch and sing like a canary. And that’s the sweet thing about it, see? He’ll put the finger on Hull and his men. So long as we get our timings right, and keep our faces covered, Temple won’t be any the wiser as to who’s turning over the warehouse.’

  The more Alf thought about it, the more he was liking the idea. It would be one in the eye for Hull, and a good earner too. Double the satisfaction. He glanced at Doyle, who looked distracted.

  ‘You don’t think it’s got legs?’

  Doyle shrugged. ‘I’m up for it if you are.’

  ‘What’s on your mind?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Does nothing mean a redhead who likes to call herself your cousin?’

  Doyle turned his face away and glanced up at the grand houses overlooking the square. ‘She’s gone. She won’t be coming back.’

  ‘You sure about that?’

  ‘I’m sure. She’s a small-town girl. London’s not for her.’

  Alf still hadn’t got to the bottom of the Judith Jonson business. Doyle hadn’t told him much, only that she was some broad he’d met on his travels. But there was more to it, much more. Even a blind man could see that. No one turned that shade of grey just because an old flame had shown up on his patch. The redhead had put the wind up him, no doubt about it; she’d come bearing trouble, and trouble, like a bad smell, had the habit of lingering. He didn’t give a damn about Doyle’s love life, but he needed him to be on his game if they were going to take on Pat Hull.

  ‘I hope you’re right. You ain’t been yourself since she put in an appearance.’

  ‘I’ve sorted it. We won’t be seeing her again.’

  Alf dropped the subject, but he wasn’t convinced. In his experience, women usually did the very opposite of what you wanted them to do.

  21

  Although Saul Hannah had only lived in London since the war, he already knew the streets of Soho like the back of his hand. If someone had put a blindfold on him, he could still have hazarded a guess as what part he was in purely by the smells and sounds: the aromatic food shops of Wardour Street; the fruit and flowers of Rupert Street; the hum of machinery in the sweatshops of Poland Street; the cooking smells of the restaurants on Greek Street; the sounds of Dean Street where musicians of every ilk rehearsed for their shows.

  He knew every dive, every club and pub, every theatre and restaurant. He knew the pimps and prostitutes, the pickpockets, the hoisters, the bookmakers and the spivs. Quietly he moved amongst the population, watching and listening, harvesting information and sowing seeds of doubt. The underbelly of London with its filth and degradation, its lies and treachery, had become the place he felt most at home.

  Tonight, however, he was preoccupied by other things. The faces drifted past him largely unseen. He was thinking about the Ghost Squad coming to an end, and he was thinking about Judith Jonson. It was her eyes that were haunting him, those green-grey eyes full of hurt. When he’d told her about Nell McAllister, it was as though he’d stabbed her through the heart. He wasn’t proud of himself, but it was better she knew the truth. Ivor Doyle had moved on and left her behind. She was old news. Was she going to let it drop? He didn’t reckon so. When she said she was coming back, he believed her.

  A woman scorned could cause a heap of trouble, and trouble was what Saul revelled in. The whole Doyle business was a can of worms, and who knew what might slither out once it was opened. She was going to shake things up, and that could only be good. But it was risky too – for her at least. Doyle wouldn’t be happy, and neither would Tombs. The latter relied on his locksmith and wouldn’t want to lose him. If Doyle was under threat of being arrested, Judith could find herself in serious danger.

  Saul went into a pub and bought a whisky, then sat down at the bar and lit a cigarette. During this process, he surreptitiously scanned the room, but couldn’t see any familiar faces. That was good. He’d arranged to meet with Bernie Squires, a colleague from the Flying Squad, in fifteen minutes. While he waited, he smoke and drank and thought some more about Judith Jonson.

  She’d declined his offer of a lift to the station until he’d pointed out that the car would take half the time of the bus, and that he was going in that direction anyway. He hadn’t been, but what the hell. He’d wanted an opportunity to get to know her better away from the watchful eyes of Elsa.

  Judith hadn’t said much for the first five minutes, staring glumly through the windscreen. Still coming to terms, or trying to, with the utter duplicity of her ‘husband’. Hearing about Nell had knocked her for six, even though she must have guessed that Doyle would hardly be living as a monk. Still, it was one thing suspecting it and quite another to hear the brutal truth.

  ‘Are you married?’ she’d asked eventually, turning to look at Saul.

  ‘Widowed.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry.’

  ‘Portsmouth,’ he’d explained, ‘in the Blitz.’

  ‘That’s terrible. You must miss her.’

  Saul never usually talked about his wife, never even mentioned her, but he’d sensed he’d have to bare at least a little of his soul if he wanted to win her confidence. ‘Every day. I was in North Africa when it happened, fighting the good fight. It didn’t seem right still being alive when she wasn’t. It tears you apart, doesn’t it? Like there’s just nothing, no one, to carry on for. When I came back after the war, I couldn’t face going home – well, I didn’t have a home to go to – so I came to London instead. I’ve been working here ever since.’

  She had left a respectful pause before saying, ‘Sometimes the hardest thing is just carrying on.’

  ‘I can’t believe what he did to you. It was beyond cruel.’

  She’d turned away again, said nothing.

  ‘Just promise me something, all right? Promise you won’t do anything rash.’

  ‘Like blowing out his brains, do you mean?’

  ‘You wouldn’t be the first. What I mean is doing anything that will result in your life being ruined any more than it already has been. He’s done enough damage. Don’t let him do any more.’

  He had dropped her off at Euston and watched her walk into the station, her head bowed, her red hair resting on her shoulders. The best thing, for her at least, would be to never come back, to stay in Westport and find a new future for herself. But he knew that wasn’t going to happen. She hadn’t finished with Ivor Doyle yet, not by a long chalk.

  He ordered another drink and sipped it slowly. He still wasn’t sure how any of this would pan out. It could be weeks, months even, before she returned. He had given her a phone number, told her she could ring any time and leave a message. She had stared at the piece of paper for a while before thrusting it carelessly into her pocket. He didn’t expect her to call. She didn’t trust him, and she was right not to.

  It was after seven when Bernie Squires turned up and slid onto an adjacent stool, bringing with him the smell of Brylcreem and a faint whiff of cigars. He was a slender, dapper man in his late forties, a sergeant with the Flying Squad and probably the n
earest thing to a friend Saul had on the force.

  ‘Drowning your sorrows?’ Bernie asked. ‘I heard about the Ghosts being disbanded.’

  ‘Bad news travels fast.’

  ‘And it is bad news, the bloody worst. What are they thinking? With you lot out and about, we’ve virtually halved the crime rate in the past few years.’

  ‘And that, apparently, is one of the reasons we’re no longer required.’ Saul smiled wryly. ‘What can I say? A victim of our own success.’

  ‘They’re morons.’

  Saul bought Bernie a pint of bitter, and they moved away from the bar to an empty table where they wouldn’t be overheard. The two men bad-mouthed the top brass for a while, venting their frustrations. Once this subject had been exhausted, Saul moved on to the Hull job.

  ‘Any progress on the Heathrow heist?’

  ‘We’ve got a date: Monday the fifth of September. There’s a consignment of watches flying in from Zurich. Seems like your snout knows what they’re talking about.’

  ‘I think he’s reliable.’ Saul was always careful to protect the identity of his informers, even to the likes of Bernie. That way there couldn’t be any mistakes, any accidental slip-ups that might lead back to the source. And he always referred to them as ‘he’ whether they were male or female. ‘We should get a better idea of the time nearer the date.’

  ‘It’ll probably be the early hours of the morning, if Hull sticks to his usual MO. And let’s face it, the bloke’s not renowned for his imagination. Or his subtlety. They’ll be in there, waving shooters about like it’s the bloody Wild West.’

  ‘And that will be the end of Pat Hull’s career.’

  ‘Let’s hope so. When it comes to charm, he’s in the same league as the dearly departed Lennie.’

  ‘I never had the pleasure. What’s your take on who killed him?’

  Bernie laughed. ‘There’s a list as long as my arm. He wasn’t what you’d call Mr Popular.’

  ‘Would you put Ivor Doyle on that list?’

  ‘There was bad blood between them, that’s for sure. But then there was bad blood between Lennie and half the East End. Whether Doyle was actually in London at the time is debatable. He certainly turned up shortly after.’

  Saul nodded. ‘Yes, that’s what I heard.’ He found himself thinking about Judith Jonson again. She was already aware that the man she’d loved was a liar and a cheat, but what if he was a murderer too?

  22

  There were delays on the railway and Judith didn’t reach Westport until after eight o’clock. She had spent the journey in a daze, gazing out of the window at a landscape that was nothing more than a blur to her. Now, as the bus travelled through town, night was falling. She was relieved to be home, away from the madness of London and back in familiar surroundings. So much had happened in one day, she was barely able to digest it.

  By the time the bus reached Trafalgar Road, she was ready to drop. She was worn out, exhausted, as though the very life had been wrung out of her. There was a tightness in her chest that refused to go away, a squeezing-out of all hope and happiness. She had left Westport full of expectation and had returned with her dreams shattered.

  She walked slowly along the road, weighed down by despair. Her suitcase, although barely half full, dragged on her arm. It was an effort just to put one foot in front of the other. Glancing up at the house as she stepped through the gate, she noticed a light on in Annie’s front room. Right now, she didn’t want to talk – the mere thought of any kind of conversation filled her with dismay – and so she entered the property with all the furtiveness of a burglar.

  She climbed the stairs with the same level of care and stood on the landing for a moment, holding her breath while she slid the key softly into the lock, opening and closing the door as quietly as she could. Once inside, she paused for a moment and then hurried through to the kitchen, where she dropped the case, switched on the boiler for a bath and put the kettle on the hob.

  While she was waiting for the water to boil, she wandered into the living room, her eyes taking in all the details of her home. It was then that it struck her: she couldn’t carry on living here. The flat was too full of memories, too full of him. This was the home they had chosen together, and he seemed to lurk in every part of it – that was the place he’d always sat, that was the spot where he’d often stood – like a mocking ghost that wouldn’t leave her alone, a constant reminder of everything she’d lost.

  Yes, she would find somewhere new, a fresh space, a home untainted by his presence. Although she’d miss having Annie just across the landing, it was for the best. She didn’t have to move far away; there were plenty of affordable flats in the area. As soon as she got back from London, she’d give notice to the landlord and start looking.

  She winced even as she thought about returning to the city. Could she really go through with it? But she had no choice. It was either that or let him get away with his betrayal. She had no firm plan as to what she would do when she saw Ivor Doyle again, but the thought of doing nothing was out of the question. She had to fight back. She had to find a way to shake up his life the way he had shaken up hers.

  Taking the slip of paper out of her pocket, she gazed down at it. Saul’s handwriting was thin and spidery, but the phone number was legible. What was it she wanted? Recompense, she supposed, for everything Ivor had put her through. But no, that wasn’t really the word. Revenge was what she was actually after.

  Judith had a restless night’s sleep despite her exhaustion. She tossed and turned until the first light of dawn slid through the window. As her eyes flickered open, the first thought she had was of payback. It slithered into her mind like something cruel and venomous. She had always considered herself a decent person, honest and open-hearted, but now her head was filled with the prospect of vengeance.

  She got out of bed, padded into the bathroom and stared at her reflection in the mirror. If she had expected to see a change, nothing was instantly obvious. Her face, apart from some shadows under her eyes, seemed unaltered. But there had been a shift inside her, something seismic. She was no longer the same person.

  ‘Judith Jonson,’ she said aloud.

  But that wasn’t who she was. Jonson was a fake name, a name that had been assumed. She wondered if he’d picked it himself or had had no choice in the matter. And how had he felt when he’d spoken his marriage vows using an identity that wasn’t even his? Nothing, she imagined. The man was beyond guilt, beyond conscience.

  A wave of disgust flowed over her. How had she been so blind, so stupid? She had never suspected, not even for a second, that he wasn’t exactly who he’d said he was. Quickly she turned away from the mirror. There was no point to all this endless introspection. She had things to do, people to see.

  This morning she would have to go into work and try to persuade Mr Gillespie to let her have more time off. How exactly she was going to achieve this was still unknown to her. She couldn’t tell the truth, but she didn’t want to lie. Perhaps she could find a middle ground, say that she was feeling unwell – she was, after all, sick to her stomach – and hope he would be sympathetic.

  She washed and dressed, but couldn’t face breakfast, which was probably fortunate as there was little in the larder and the shops weren’t open yet. A cup of tea with powdered milk was the best she could manage. She drank it standing by the window. The door to Annie’s flat banged shut at half seven, and she appeared on the front path thirty seconds later. Judith watched her walk down the street towards the bus stop. She was unsure as to how much she would eventually tell her, but that decision could wait. Annie wouldn’t be home again until after six.

  It was still too early to head into town, so she started sorting out the flat instead. She pulled out her aunt’s old trunk from the back of the pantry, with the intention of filling it with her possessions. That wouldn’t take long. She owned very little other than clothes and shoes, some jewellery, a few books, and a lamp she had bought at Westport market. The
flat had come fully furnished and so she didn’t have to worry about chairs and tables or the bed.

  It was only when she opened the wardrobe that she stopped short. On the far right were all the clothes he had left behind: a suit, three shirts, a pair of trousers and a couple of ties. She had never had the heart to get rid of them. In fact, she had grown so used to them being there that most days she barely noticed their presence.

  Her first impulse was to grab a pair of scissors, to vent her fury and frustration by shredding the lot. The thought was an appealing one and she let it simmer for a while before eventually changing her mind. It wasn’t worth the effort. He wasn’t worth the effort. She had more important things to do with her time. Instead, she roughly pulled the garments off the hangers and dropped them into the trunk.

  She then divided her own clothes into what she would take to London with her and what she would leave behind. With no clear idea of how long she’d be in the city – two weeks, three? – she erred on the side of caution and packed more than she would probably need. Recalling the expensively tailored suit Ivor Doyle had been wearing, she chose the smarter items she owned to put in the suitcase. She refused to feel shabby in his presence; it was a matter of pride.

  When all the packing was done, she cleaned the flat from top to bottom, dusting, scrubbing the kitchen and bathroom floors, running the vacuum over the carpets and polishing the windows. By the time she had finished, it was after ten o’clock. She looked around, pleased with the result. Then she sat down and wrote a letter of notice to the landlord, enclosing a cheque for the rent.

  Judith took a deep breath as she arrived at the offices of Gillespie & Tate. Was she ready? Not exactly. But it had to be done. Unpaid leave was what she was going to request; a few weeks to recover from some vague under-the-weather malady. And if he said no? Well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it. But when she stepped into the reception area, she got a surprise. Sitting behind her desk wasn’t the plump Mrs Gillespie, but an attractive blonde in her mid twenties. The girl, dressed in a stylish pink suit, looked her up and down with an expression that could only be described as disdain.