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

by Roberta Kray

  37

  Jimmy Taylor was in a cold sweat. He’d had a bad night’s sleep, his head full of horrors, his ears alert to the sound of cars stopping in the street. He’d been waiting for the knock on the door, for the law to come and arrest him. If one of the neighbours had seen him at the flat, they wouldn’t be slow to point the finger. That Taylor boy was hanging round, they’d say. Maybe he’d even been spotted following the waitress across the green. That wouldn’t be good. They’d have him right in the frame, no doubt about it.

  Daylight hadn’t brought much reprieve. Over breakfast, the murder was all his mum could go on about. It’s a terrible thing. Who’d do something like that to the poor girl? He could have told her there was nothing ‘poor’ about Elsa Keep – she’d been a nasty, sarcastic bitch – but had wisely kept his opinions to himself. So far as he was concerned, the mouthy cow had got what was coming to her.

  ‘Why aren’t you eating?’ his mum had said. ‘Those eggs don’t grow on trees.’

  But Jimmy couldn’t eat, not when he had the worry of a noose being placed around his neck. He was sure the redhead, that Judith Jonson, had clocked him in the crowd, but so what? That didn’t mean anything. Half the neighbourhood had gathered by then, full of ghoulish curiosity. He had as much right as anyone else to stand and gawp.

  He put down his pint and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. It was warm in the Fox, crowded, and a thin sheen of perspiration had gathered under his hairline. He wished he hadn’t come now. All anyone was talking about was the murder. The women were the worst, acting all shocked and upset but actually enjoying every minute of it, going over and over what had happened while they revelled in the gory details. He wanted to yell at them to shut the fuck up, to find something else to bloody talk about, but knew better than to draw attention to himself.

  Three girls were standing right behind him – he was perched on a stool at the bar – and their shrill voices put his teeth on edge. He didn’t turn to look at them but stared into the mirror instead. They were ordinary, plain, nothing to write home about. Factory girls, he reckoned. The leader, tall and mousy-haired, was wearing bright red lipstick. She was holding forth about the killing, repeating all the rumour and gossip and embellishing it.

  ‘I heard she were strangled with her own stockings and raped. Someone she knew, they reckon, a boyfriend or the like. It makes your blood run cold, don’t it? In her own home and all. He could be local, couldn’t he? He could be anyone.’

  There were things Jimmy could have told them, things that would have made their toes curl. He had been up close to death and seen what it looked like. He’d smelled it, touched it, breathed it in. Elsa Keep was departed, gone forever, and she’d never walk these streets again. They’d have her body at the morgue, laid out, still and cold, or maybe some bloke in a white coat was cutting her up right at this moment, slicing through her flesh, making notes on the obvious – that someone had caved in her skull. Did they work on a Sunday, these men who took bodies apart? Perhaps they did when it was a murder case.

  The cops were going from door to door, looking for clues, for leads, for anything that would give them the answers they wanted. Jimmy’s hand reached for the pint again, his fingers tightening around the glass. Maybe he should have stayed away from the pub today just in case he jogged someone’s memory. He hunched his shoulders, trying to make himself smaller, and scowled into his beer. None of it was his fault. He hadn’t known what was going to happen. It wasn’t fair that he should be made to suffer in this way. If he could turn back time, he would, but the deed was done. The dead couldn’t rise again.

  The crowd pressed in, hot-breathed, menacing, a great stifling weight of lies and suspicion. He imagined that people were already whispering about him, their eyes drilling into the back of his head. We always knew he was a wrong ’un.

  38

  Maud stood at the sink and stared out of the kitchen window at the scrappy back yard. Her red hands were poised half in and half out of the water while she listened to Mick moving around upstairs. It was five o’clock in the afternoon and he’d only just come home. She wouldn’t ask where he’d been – she never asked – but she could tell from his thumping footsteps that his mood wasn’t a good one. Her pulse quickened. She could feel her heart starting to hammer while she waited for him to come back down.

  The kids were in the front parlour, listening to the radio. Hopefully they’d stay there, stay quiet and keep out of their father’s way. When he was in one of his black tempers, there was no saying what he might do. Or rather there was plenty of saying, and all of it was bad. He had no regard for anyone, including his own flesh and blood. He was scum, the pits, the lowest of the low, and the drink only made everything worse.

  Maud had been dreading this moment all day, ever since she’d found out about the murder of Elsa Keep. She was regretting going to see Saul now. Had she told him too much? She’d have been better off staying out of it, but it was too late for regrets. It was the shock that had sent her flying through the front door to the phone box on the corner. She should have stopped and thought. If Mick ever found out …

  It was over five minutes now since he’d stomped into the kitchen, stinking of booze, throwing her a dirty look before he went upstairs to do whatever he was doing. Getting his gun, perhaps. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d pushed the cold, hard barrel of the revolver into her throat because she’d done something to displease him. Or even if she hadn’t.

  Stay calm, she told herself. Don’t say anything to provoke him. It was only a couple of weeks until the Heathrow job. All she had to do was keep him sweet until then. But keeping Mick happy was harder than pushing a camel through the eye of a needle. He could pick a fight in an empty room, and this one wasn’t empty.

  When she heard the tramp of his boots on the stairs, she stood back from the sink, wiped her hands on a cloth, took a few deep breaths and prepared herself for the worst. He swaggered in with his hands in his pockets, reintroducing that stink of beer and sweat and tobacco. His gaze took in the room, flicking left and right in a vague, unfocused way before finally settling on her.

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ she said. ‘There’s nothin’ wrong.’

  ‘You got something to tell me?’

  Maud shook her head. ‘You want a brew? I was just putting the kettle on.’

  ‘If I want a fuckin’ brew, I’ll ask for one.’ He sat down at the table, fumbled for a cigarette and lit it. ‘You ain’t answered the question, love. You got something to tell me?’

  Maud’s eyes widened. She probed at the empty space in her mouth where he’d knocked out two teeth last week. The gum was still sore and swollen. She knew that anything she said would be the wrong thing, and so she just shook her head again.

  ‘What’s the matter, cat got your tongue?’

  ‘What could I have to say?’

  Mick drew on his fag and glared at her. ‘What about that waitress who got topped last night? Ain’t you got nothin’ to say about that?’

  Maud felt the dread gathering inside her. ‘Elsa Keep, you mean?’

  ‘How many dead waitresses do you know?’

  ‘Yes, I heard about it. Her at number four told me. She were passing by this morning, going down the alley and she … Yes, that was terrible. Poor girl. A burglary, that’s what they’re saying.’ Maud’s hands had started to shake. In order to disguise it, she went to put the kettle on, but immediately changed her mind. Mick and boiling water weren’t a good combination. ‘I … I didn’t know her that well. Elsa, I mean.’

  ‘You worked with the woman, didn’t you?’

  ‘Well, yes, sometimes, but I was in the kitchen and—’

  ‘So you must have known her well enough. You bitches always talk to each other. Bleedin’ gossips, the whole damn lot of you. Couldn’t keep your gobs shut to save your lives.’

  ‘Elsa wasn’t the chatty kind.’

  ‘Sure she was. You all are. Pa
t’s heard a whisper that she knew something about Lennie, about who did for him. You ever hear her talk about that?’

  ‘No,’ Maud said smartly. ‘Never, not a word. How would she know anything?’

  ‘That’s what I’m fuckin’ asking you.’

  ‘No,’ she repeated. ‘And even if she did, she wouldn’t say nothin’ to me, would she? She’d know I’d come straight home and tell you. I wouldn’t keep quiet, would I? I wouldn’t.’

  For a moment she thought she’d got away with it as his booze-fuelled brain worked through the logic of her argument. He had to come to the conclusion, surely, that her fear of him outweighed anything else. But then a cruel smile slid onto his lips.

  ‘You’re a fuckin’ liar, Maud. You think I can’t tell when you’re talking shit?’

  ‘I’m not, I swear. Come on, Mick, I’d never keep somethin’ like that to myself, not in a hundred years. I’d never do that. I’d never—’

  He moved so quickly, she didn’t have time to react. Suddenly he was off the chair and lunging at her. He grabbed hold of her throat with his left hand, forced her back and pushed his face into hers. She felt the cold hardness of the sink against her spine. She smelled his stale, beery breath and saw the mad look in his eyes.

  ‘You know more than you’re telling, you lying cow! Come on, spit it out!’

  And Maud knew that unless she came up with something fast, words wouldn’t be the only thing she was spitting out. ‘You should ask the girl, the redhead, the one who found her. Those two were thick as thieves.’

  ‘Who the fuck are you talking about?’

  Maud’s voice was growing hoarse as his fingers tightened round her throat, squeezing her windpipe. She spoke as quickly as she could while she still could. ‘I don’t know her name. She was staying with Elsa, though. I saw them in the caff together. She turned up last week, and then all this … She’s the one you need to ask.’

  Mick’s eyes flashed with suspicion. Saliva had gathered at the corners of his mouth, pale and glistening. He already had her pinned, but he pressed his body harder against hers. Then he lifted the cigarette and wafted it close to her face. ‘Her name. What’s her fuckin’ name?’

  Maud flinched, feeling the heat. She tried to dredge up what Betty Wharton had told her this morning, but she’d been so shaken by the news of the murder, she hadn’t taken much else in. ‘I don’t know. I don’t know.’ Suddenly something came back to her, a fragment of information, which she flung out in desperation. ‘She’s at the Gillan place on Silverstone. You can find her there.’

  Mick moved slightly, removing the pressure on her throat. Then, just as she released a thin, premature breath of relief, he placed the tip of the cigarette against her ear lobe. She yelped in pain, her head jerking back, her hand rising to try and cover her ear. She could smell the stink of the flesh, feel the agony of the burn. He slapped her hand away, grabbed her by the shoulders and hurled her across the kitchen. She hit the wall with a dull thump and slithered to the ground.

  He stood over her, shaking his head. ‘Why do you make me do this, Maud? If you just told the fuckin’ truth in the first place.’

  Maud didn’t move other than to gently cup her ear. A soft groan escaped from her lips. She made no attempt to stand up, knowing this would only make matters worse. She gritted her teeth against the pain, waiting for the next onslaught, for the boot in the guts or the ribs, and was surprised when it didn’t come. Instead he gave her one last sneering glance before leaving by the back door and slamming it behind him.

  Maud didn’t immediately get up. She rocked back and forth, wishing she was dead. No, wishing he was dead. And he’d be as good as when they put him behind bars for the Heathrow job. She thought about the girl she’d just thrown to the wolves, but she didn’t feel any remorse. Why should she be sorry? Pat Hull would have found out about her anyway. It was every man for himself in this world.

  39

  At half past five, Judith had forced herself to go downstairs to the dining room, hunger finally getting the better of her reluctance to face the other guests. There had been six of them in all, four elderly ladies and a couple of middle-aged men. The former had shared one large table, while the latter had sat at a smaller one. A place had been set for her with the female contingent, and there had been polite smiles, introductions – she could only recall a couple of the names now – followed by a rather stilted conversation, most of it about the weather.

  Her fellow guests had possessed that typical British reticence when it came to finding out what they wanted to know. Politeness forbade them from asking any straight questions, although clearly Elsa Keep’s murder was the only thing on their minds. They had shot Judith quick, furtive glances, perhaps hoping that she would be the one to raise the subject, but she had disappointed. She’d had no desire to talk about the killing or her discovery of the body.

  The conversation, such as it was, had been interspersed with long silences. There had been some chat between the men about a local cricket match, but even that had fizzled out after a couple of minutes. All that had been left was the scrape of knives against plates and the weight of words unsaid. The atmosphere, bordering on the oppressive, had added to the gloom of her mood.

  After the meal, coffee had been served in the lounge, but Judith had made her excuses, gone upstairs to get a jacket and escaped outside to catch the last of the evening sun. She felt as though she hadn’t had any time yet to even begin to come to terms with Elsa’s death. First there had been the police, then Saul, then the police again and finally Doyle: everybody wanting answers from her, answers that she didn’t have.

  She walked at a brisk pace up the high street, trying to make sense of it all. But, of course, there was no sense to murder, to that sudden and irrevocable action. In truth, she had hardly known Elsa – their friendship had been a brief one – but that didn’t stop the swell of emotion inside her. Now that the initial shock was wearing off, other feelings were taking its place. She sighed into the warm evening air. Elsa had been there when she needed someone, and for that she would always be thankful.

  She came to the green, stopped and then made her way over to the bench. She sat down and looked towards Connolly’s. It was closed, although she wasn’t sure if that was because it was a Sunday or out of respect for Elsa. She closed her eyes, fighting back the tears. There had been too much loss in her life recently, and her sense of bereavement over Elsa was all jumbled up with the loss of Dan.

  As she opened her eyes again, she became aware of a man crossing the road towards the green. Judith had no idea where he’d come from – she’d been too preoccupied to pay much attention to anyone else – but something about him made her nervous. This nervousness grew into a more defined anxiety as he came closer. He was in his forties, tall and broad with a jowly, unshaven face. And it wasn’t just his appearance that put her on edge – it was the fact that he seemed to be heading straight in her direction.

  By the time she realised she was right, it was too late to do anything about it. The man was looming over her, massive and menacing.

  ‘You’re Elsa Keep’s friend, right?’

  ‘Er, yes, I knew her,’ Judith replied hesitantly.

  ‘Yeah. Sorry for your loss,’ he said, his voice devoid of any sincerity. ‘Don’t mind if I sit down, do you?’

  Judith, sensing that any rebuttal of this suggestion would be futile, merely shrugged. ‘Do I know you?’

  ‘The name’s Pat Hull,’ he said. ‘You may have heard of me. Or my brother, at least. Lennie. Ring any bells, love?’

  Judith shrank back as he sat down next to her. Her mouth had gone dry. She thought about standing up, trying to walk away, but that probably wasn’t the best of ideas. Ivor Doyle had warned her, but she hadn’t listened. And now she was face to face with a monster who, if Doyle was to be believed, took the utmost pleasure in hurting women. How did she answer the question? Deny any knowledge of his brother? No, that wouldn’t be sensible.

  �
��Yes,’ she eventually managed to say. Then, deciding that attack was the best form of defence, she quickly added, ‘Look, I don’t know what you think I know, but it really isn’t anything. I barely knew Elsa. We only met recently. She never even mentioned your brother to me. I understand there’s a rumour that there could be a connection between the deaths, but as far as I can see, there isn’t any evidence to back that up.’

  ‘No evidence, huh?’ His voice sounded harsh and mocking. ‘You sure about that?’

  Judith, feigning ignorance, assumed a puzzled expression. ‘None that I know of.’

  ‘So why does the law think otherwise? Don’t you forget I have eyes and ears everywhere, darlin’.’

  ‘I wasn’t aware they did.’

  Pat Hull’s mouth twisted into a sneer. ‘You may think you’re clever, sweetheart, but you’re not. What’s your fuckin’ game? What’s in it for you?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’

  He grabbed hold of her left wrist, his fingers pressing into the flesh. ‘Don’t mess with me,’ he hissed into her face. ‘You and that Elsa bitch were up to something and I want to know what it was.’

  Judith tried to wrench her arm away, but to no effect. ‘Let go of me!’

  ‘I’ll let go when you tell me what’s going on. What did that tart know that got her killed?’

  ‘Nothing. I’ve already said. I barely knew her. Why would she tell me anything?’

  ‘Because you were in it together, the two of you.’

  Judith gave up the struggle to free her wrist, aware that she was only causing herself additional pain. ‘In what? For God’s sake, this is crazy. There was nothing going on. Nothing. It’s all just rumour and gossip and rubbish. How many times do I have to tell you?’

  ‘Until I start believing you.’

  ‘Elsa’s dead. She was a decent person, kind. She’d never have done anything bad.’

  ‘Keep talking. Maybe you’ll eventually say something that interests me.’