by Roberta Kray
By half past twelve the unpacking was finished. He took the empty crates out to the corridor and stacked them against the wall for the delivery company to collect next week. Then he went downstairs and unlocked the office. The pungent smell of paint was still in the air and so he opened the windows again.
Sam Kendall arrived punctually at one o’clock. She was a small, slender girl, about five foot two in height, with an elfin face, short, spiky brown hair and brown eyes. There was a smattering of freckles across her turned-up nose. She was wearing a pair of grey jeans and a long-sleeved black-and-grey-striped T-shirt.
‘Thanks for seeing me,’ she said, shaking his hand. ‘I really appreciate it.’
Harry took her through to his office and gestured towards the chair. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘No thanks,’ she said, sitting down and crossing her legs. ‘I’m fine.’
He walked around the desk and sat down too. ‘Jess has explained what’s been going on, but why don’t you go through it again for me.’
Sam gave a nod, took a few seconds to gather her thoughts together and then started. As she recited the details, pretty well repeating everything that Jess had said, Harry listened closely, absorbing not only her words but the careful way in which she delivered them. Quickly he began to form an impression. She seemed intelligent and thoughtful, certainly not the type who was prone to hysteria, attention-seeking or exaggeration.
When she got to the end, Sam delved into the pocket of her jeans and pulled out an envelope. ‘Here,’ she said. ‘I got another of those notes. This one wasn’t posted; it was pushed through the door to my flat. It was there when I got home last night.’
Harry reached across and took it from her. He sat back, pulled the sheet of paper from the envelope and stared at it. Like the others, it had been compiled of cut-out letters from a newspaper. YOU GONNA DIE LIKE MINNIE YOU BITCH. Glancing up, he saw the worry in Sam’s eyes. ‘Did you talk to the neighbours, ask if they noticed anything?’
‘Only the woman upstairs, and she didn’t see anyone. But it would have been dark. And it’s a busy street; people are passing by all the time. I went to work at seven so it must have been delivered after that.’
Harry leaned forward again, folded the note and laid it on the desk. ‘So who do you think is responsible?’
‘I’ve no idea,’ she said, looking slightly startled. ‘That’s why I’m here.’
‘But what was your first instinctive thought?’
Sam gave a shrug, frowning briefly before her brow cleared again. ‘I don’t know. Someone connected to Minnie, I guess. Her mother or some other member of the family?’
‘But why should they blame you for Minnie’s death?’
Sam worried at her lower lip, gazing down at the floor for a moment before looking up again. Her voice had a slight tremor in it. ‘Because we were to blame, partly at least.’ She hesitated before continuing. ‘Do you know what happened that day?’
Harry didn’t divulge that he was one of the officers who had found the body. He was careful to keep his voice neutral. ‘You were with Minnie Bright, yes? You and four other girls.’
Her face twisted a little. ‘We should never have let her go inside that house. We should have stopped her.’
Harry found himself wondering what it was like to carry that sense of guilt around. It was a burden, he suspected, that would never be lifted. ‘You were just kids. You couldn’t have known what was going to happen.’
Sam gave a small, dismissive wave of her hand, as if that was an argument she’d heard before, and one that didn’t sit well with her conscience. ‘We were old enough to know that Minnie wasn’t … well, that she wasn’t like the rest of us. She was kind of young for her age, a bit odd, the kind who never really fitted in.’ She paused again. ‘In all honesty, we weren’t very nice to her.’
‘Kids are often cruel to each other.’
‘I know,’ she sighed. ‘But I was mean and cowardly. I knew it was wrong, what she was being asked to do, but I didn’t have the guts to try and stop it. I was too scared of being picked on myself.’
He could understand what she was saying. He still recalled his own daily panic at school, the constant fear of doing or saying the wrong thing. Although he already knew the answer to his next question, he asked it anyway. He wanted to see how she’d respond. ‘So one of the other girls dared her to go inside?’
Sam’s face flushed red and her hands briefly wrestled in her lap. ‘Yeah, that was when me and Lynda legged it. We could have taken Minnie with us, but we didn’t. We left her there and …’
She didn’t need to finish the sentence. Both of them were aware of what had happened next.
Harry left a short silence and then tapped his fingers on the note. ‘So do you know if any of the other girls have received threats like these?’
Sam shook her head. ‘I haven’t seen them for years. My mum moved us to Hackney after the court case. Lynda was the only one I kept in touch with, and she … she passed away last year.’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I heard. I’m sorry.’
Sam suddenly sat forward, putting her elbows on the desk. ‘I think Lynda had found out something, or remembered something. She called me on the night she died. I was working and had the phone turned off, so I didn’t get her message until after I arrived home. That was about two o’clock, and I didn’t want to ring at that time, but when I called her later that morning she didn’t pick up …’ She raked her fingers through her hair and rubbed at her face. ‘I was too late.’
‘What did she say in the message exactly?’
Sam wrinkled her brow. ‘It wasn’t very clear. I think she’d been drinking and she sounded upset. She said she had to talk to me about that day. That’s what she always called it. She thought about it a lot, even after all these years.’ She paused. ‘I think about it too, of course I do, but for Lynda it was like a great dark shadow that was always hanging over her.’
‘And that’s all she said, that she had to talk to you?’
‘No, there was more. She said that it was important, that it changed things. I think those were her words. I didn’t keep the message. I was going to ring her back, so I deleted it.’ Her face twisted, her eyes becoming bright with tears. ‘I know it doesn’t sound like much, but I’ve got this feeling that whatever it was might have been the final straw, the thing that pushed her over the edge.’
‘You don’t believe it was an accident?’
‘I don’t know what to believe. She’d been depressed, I mean really depressed, and back then I thought she might have … I know what the police thought, and what the coroner said, but …’
‘You suspected suicide?’
She bowed her head before slowly lifting it again. ‘No … yes … Christ, I don’t know. Yes, I suppose I did. She’d been drinking heavily, that’s what they said at the inquest, so I thought she might have decided to end it all. And she might have wanted to make it look like an accident so her family wouldn’t feel so guilty. I mean, people always do feel guilty, don’t they? How can they feel anything else? But now, with these threats and everything, I’m starting to wonder if it was something else, if someone might have …’
Harry could see where she was going without her having to spell it out. Not an accident, not suicide, but murder.
Sam gazed at him pleadingly. ‘Please help me, Mr Lind. You probably don’t think I’m in any real danger, but I can’t think straight with all this going on. I can’t eat. I can’t sleep. I’m always looking over my shoulder, wondering what’s going to happen next. I have to find out who’s doing this. I have to make them stop.’
Harry, although he didn’t entirely buy into the murder theory, could see how upset she was. Lynda’s death must have knocked her for six, and now she was the target of a malicious campaign. He didn’t have the heart to refuse, even though he still had reservations. If he started digging around in the Minnie Bright case, he was likely to upset the Kellston police, and tha
t was hardly smart when Mackenzie, Lind had only just moved into the area. On the other hand, the wrath of the local constabulary was nothing compared to the grief Jessica Vaughan would inflict on him if he refused to help. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll make some enquiries, see what I can find out.’
Relief instantly spread across Sam Kendall’s face. ‘You will? Thank you. Thank you so much.’ She rose to her feet and shook his hand again. ‘I’m so grateful. I really am.’
After she’d gone, Harry wondered if he’d made the right decision. It was all very well doing favours for a friend, but this one could land him in a heap of trouble. Lynda’s death, no matter how it had happened, was inextricably linked to the murder of Minnie Bright. He swivelled the chair round and gazed dolefully out of the window. The sun was out, the sky was blue and everything seemed peaceful. A good omen, or simply the calm before the storm?
7
The plane touched down at twelve thirty, and within half an hour he had gone through passport control, retrieved his suitcase and strolled through customs without so much as a second glance from the uniformed officials who were standing there. He’d expected nothing less. In all his travels through Europe – and they’d been wide and varied – he had never once been stopped. In the early years he had viewed this as a sign from above, a symbol of his strength and his invulnerability, but now he wondered if that had simply been the arrogance of youth. A more likely explanation perhaps was that he’d had the good fortune to be born with the kind of face that did not invite suspicion.
As he walked through the terminal, he paused by a bookshop, pretending to examine the rows of novels displayed in the window. His eyes quickly sought out the reflections of the travellers behind him. Was he being followed? It was unlikely, but in his line of work you could never be too careful. When he was as sure as he could be that there was no one on his tail, he refocused his gaze on himself.
He was a commonplace middle-aged guy of average height and average build. His eyes were grey, as was his thinning hair. He was neither handsome nor ugly, but perfectly ordinary. The word bland could have been invented to describe him. For some men this objective evaluation of their looks might have been disheartening, but for him it provided a solid reassurance. His features were so mundane that they attracted no attention whatsoever – and that was exactly how he liked it.
Turning, he strode towards the train station. In his left hand he carried a black nylon suitcase, not too large, not too small. Under his beige raincoat he was wearing an off-the-peg navy suit, a white shirt and a blue-and-white-striped tie. As he walked, he lifted his right hand and patted the upper left pocket of his jacket. Fake passports didn’t come cheap, and he needed to keep this one safe. He had many identities, but on this occasion he was travelling as Ian English, a retired expat home to visit his family.
As he stepped on to the station platform, mingling with the crowd, he thought of his real family back in Cadiz. He looked up at the clock, knocking off an hour for Spanish time. The lunchtime rush at the bar he owned would be in full swing now. His wife, Anna, would be serving the food and drink, clearing the tables, stacking the dirty plates and glasses on the counter and looking forward to a sit-down. He could imagine her smiling as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, a fondly remembered gesture that made the breath catch in the back of his throat. Immediately he brushed the image aside. He was no longer a husband. He was another man, with another man’s responsibilities.
From Gatwick there was a Service every fifteen minutes to Victoria, and he didn’t have long to wait for a train. As he made his way through the compartments, he took note, as always, of the people around him. He could sniff out a copper at a hundred paces, but it wasn’t just the filth he had to worry about. If there had been a leak – and he prayed to God that there hadn’t been – then his shadow could be much harder to spot.
He lifted his suitcase on to the overhead rack after choosing a seat beside a pretty blonde girl with an iPod round her neck. She glanced sideways, instantly dismissing him as of no significant sexual interest before shifting a fraction of an inch closer to the window. He was certain, even if pressed, that the only facts she’d be able to recall about him were that he was old and that he was male. Girls of her age – what was she? – nineteen? twenty? – viewed most men over forty as being in their dotage.
Before settling down, he glanced casually over his shoulder to see if anyone, especially anyone without luggage, was taking a seat behind him. He was instinctively more wary of the male passengers, but fought against the prejudice; there were plenty of female cops these days, plenty of women involved in all kinds of undercover work. It was best not to make any assumptions.
He passed the half-hour journey staring at a paper he had picked up at the airport. War, famine, political scheming. He flicked over the pages, but he wasn’t really reading. It was all bad news and he didn’t need reminding of the dire state of the world. He had problems of his own. It was these more personal problems that he dwelled on as the train rattled towards its destination.
Knowing when to quit was the trick to his game, and he’d made that decision years ago. Being back on the job made him uneasy. It was over a decade since his last assignment, and had he been given the choice he would not have come out of retirement, but a favour had been called in, and it was the kind of favour that couldn’t be refused.
What if something went wrong? Past mistakes – made more notable by their rarity – rose into his mind. He felt a shifting in his chest, a spasm of anxiety. But no, he had learned by those mistakes. They would not happen again.
He took slow deep breaths, trying to free his mind of all the niggling doubts. Clarity was what he needed now, clarity, discipline and focus. As he breathed in, he caught a subtle hint of perfume from the girl sitting beside him. The smell, redolent of blowsy old-fashioned roses, triggered something in his subconscious, a disturbing reminder of the past. He quickly turned his head away.
The journey felt like a long one, but eventually they arrived at Victoria. He got off the train, strolled along the platform and entered the busy main forecourt. Here he bent down by his suitcase, unzipping a side pocket while he surreptitiously took stock of the faces around him. Did he have company? He didn’t think so.
There was a café to his right, and he considered getting a coffee, but decided to push on. He had to find the offices of the car rental company, and then make his way to the East End. For the first time in years he was going back to where he’d been born. He felt a shiver of revulsion roll down his spine. Would it have changed much? On the surface perhaps, but not underneath. It had been rotten when he lived there and would still be rotten now.
8
Jess answered the phone and smiled broadly as Harry Lind gave her the news. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘You’re a star. So what shall we do first?’
There was a short hesitation. ‘What’s with the we?’
‘Well, there’s no point in us working separately. We may as well pool our resources. Sam’s absolutely fine about it, so you don’t have to worry about client confidentiality.’
‘Maybe that’s not what I’m worried about.’
She snorted. ‘Oh, charming as always. Are you trying to say that I’m difficult to work with?’
‘As if,’ he murmured.
‘So what’s the problem?’ She didn’t give him time to answer before pleading her case. ‘Look, I’ve already got a file on this, a heap of papers. Why don’t I just bring them round? Or even better, why don’t we meet at the market. Paige Fielding has a stall there. Perhaps we can find out what made her change her mind about talking to me.’
‘You mean right now?’
‘Sorry, are you busy?’
There was another brief hesitation. ‘No, but—’
‘Okay,’ she said, before he could think of something he’d rather be doing. ‘That’s good. Let’s meet by the monument in half an hour. See you in a bit.’ She hung up quickly, reached for her jacke
t and pulled it on.
Neil was lying on the sofa, drinking from a can and watching the TV. On it two teams of burly rugby players were throwing a ball around. He looked over at her. ‘I take it you’re deserting me, then?’
She walked across the room and bent down to kiss the top of his head. ‘Sorry, hun. There’s something I’ve got to do. It’s important. But I won’t be long, only a couple of hours.’
‘And I’m not important?’
Jess grinned, knowing that he wasn’t being serious. One of the things she liked about Neil was that he never complained when her job took priority. She didn’t work nine to five, five days a week, but had to chase her stories whenever and wherever they arose. ‘Of course you are. Your importance goes beyond mere words.’
‘Prove it,’ he said, reaching up and pulling her down so he could kiss her on the lips.
‘I will,’ she replied as she reluctantly broke away from his embrace. ‘Later.’
‘Promises, promises.’ He lay back, gazing into her eyes. ‘So what’s the emergency? What’s so pressing that you have to sacrifice a Saturday afternoon with the man of your dreams?’
She turned away and grabbed her bag, a brown folder and the car keys. ‘For one, the man of my dreams doesn’t taste of lager and cheese and onion crisps. And for two, it’s a matter of striking while the iron’s hot. If I don’t grab Harry Lind’s attention now, this whole thing could go off the boil.’ Jess knew that Harry had at least one other case he was currently involved with – finding out how faithful or otherwise Aimee Locke was – and she didn’t want him to get so completely sidetracked that he lost all interest in Sam’s problems. Thinking of Aimee reminded her of the woman she’d been having dinner with. ‘Hey, I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a lawyer called Vita Howard?’
Neil was a senior barristers’ clerk for a large law firm in Lincoln’s Inn. He worked half as many hours as Jess and earned three times as much. ‘The lovely Kavita? Yes, I know her.’