by Roberta Kray
His mobile began bleeping again, this time more insistently. ‘Damn, my phone’s about to die. Look, I’m on my way home. I’ll call you back in an hour or so.’
Harry plugged the phone into the charger connected to the car’s cigarette lighter, switched on the engine and headed back towards Kellston. While he drove, he went over his conversation with Kirsten again. He recalled her reaction when he’d raised the subject of what had happened on that fateful day fourteen years ago. He’d got her rattled, if only for a moment, and that didn’t make him happy. On the contrary, it worried the hell out of him. It meant that Jess’s hunch could be right, that not all the truth had come out about the murder of Minnie Bright – and that could mean trouble from all kinds of quarters.
Harry dwelled on this uncomfortable thought all the way back to Kellston. It was too early to go jumping to any rash conclusions, but not so early that he couldn’t toss a few ideas around in his head. Kirsten Cope was lying. So too was Paige Fielding. Perhaps something else had happened, something the girls had omitted to mention to the police, or even deliberately covered up. Now the past was coming back to haunt them. Although he was still convinced that Donald Peck’s conviction was safe – along with all the circumstantial evidence, his DNA had been found on Minnie’s clothing – there could be more to the case than he’d previously thought.
He wasn’t in a rush to return home. Doubtless Lorna would still be trying to create order out of chaos in the office. On reaching the northern end of the high street, he veered off to the left instead of driving south towards the station, went half a mile past the high-rise towers of the Mansfield and drove on to the industrial estate. Already it was busy, the local DIY enthusiasts, the compulsive shoppers and the eager gardeners all out in force.
He parked the Vauxhall and went into B&Q. After grabbing a trolley, he wheeled it through the aisles until he reached the painting and decorating section. There was only so much time a man could live with bilious green walls. He didn’t spend any time dwelling on a colour scheme – white would do just fine. He dumped three large tins of matt white paint into the trolley, then added a couple of rollers with plastic trays, two tins of white gloss, sandpaper, a brush and a bottle of turps. Did he need anything else? He decided not, went to the checkout, joined the short queue and paid.
After placing his purchases in the boot, Harry got into the car and checked his watch. It was ten past ten. He’d better get back and make that call to Jess. As he moved off, he lowered the window and leaned his elbow on its base. The car park smelled of old dust, exhaust fumes and something more acrid that maybe came from one of the factories on the estate. He breathed in the warm tainted air and wrinkled his nose. Some smells, no matter how old, never went away.
At Station Road the removal van had disappeared, but Mac’s dark blue Freelander was still parked outside with two of its wheels up on the kerb. Harry disconnected the phone and slipped it in his pocket. He put Jess’s brown folder under his arm, retrieved the carrier bags from the boot, unlocked the front door and went quietly up the stairs. Even before he reached the top he could hear Lorna issuing instructions, only now they were directed solely towards Mac.
Harry peered cautiously around the corner of the stairwell. The landing was empty, but the door to the office was wide open. There was no one in his line of sight, so he quickly made his move. As he headed up the second flight, he heard the soft repetitive whoosh of the photocopying machine.
He opened and closed the door to the flat as quietly as possible, and walked carefully across the room, grateful now for the dark green carpet. Shabby and threadbare as it was, it would hopefully disguise his footsteps. He felt a tiny twinge of guilt, but nothing persuasive enough to make him change his mind about helping out downstairs. Lorna was a detail person, and if past history was anything to go by, she’d still be fretting over those details when the sun went down.
After putting the carrier bags on the table, he went through to the kitchen and got a cold beer out of the fridge. He leaned against the door jamb and took a few long pulls from the bottle. Looking out at the living room, he wondered how long it would be before he felt at home. It was probably a mistake, financially speaking at least, to opt out of the property market, but needs must. Anyway, it was too late to start stressing over that now. He’d already sold the flat in Kentish Town, given some of the profits to Valerie and used the rest to buy into the business.
Harry took a couple more swigs of beer and then picked up the landline phone and dialled Jess’s number. She answered quickly.
‘Hi.’
‘Hi, it’s Harry.’
‘Good,’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re back. I’ve got some news for you. I rang Sam, and guess what?’ She didn’t wait for an answer before carrying on. ‘Lynda Choi’s older brother is called David. I’m presuming he’s the person Kirsten was talking about. Sam gave him a call and he’s agreed to meet us in Connolly’s at half twelve. Is that okay with you?’
‘What, today?’ he said.
‘Why, don’t you hotshot investigators work on Sundays?’
Harry grinned. ‘And who was it slogging over to Chigwell while you were still wrapped in your duvet this morning?’
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’
‘I’ll see you there.’
Harry hung up. With a couple of hours to spare before the meeting, there was time for him to make a start on the decorating. He went into the bedroom, stripped off his clothes and put on an ancient pair of jeans and a T-shirt. Then he dug out some old sheets from the bottom of the bathroom cupboard and laid them over the living room floor. He unhooked the curtains and shifted the furniture into the middle of the room. After opening the windows, he prised the lid off the first can of paint, poured a quarter of it smoothly into the tray and set to work.
An hour and a half later, it was clear that the green wasn’t going to give up without a fight. He’d finished the first coat on the wall opposite the windows and started on one of the adjacent walls, but he could see now that he’d need two coats and maybe even three to hide the darker colour underneath. He dropped the roller into the tray and stood with his hands on his hips, studying his handiwork. Well, it might not qualify for Ideal Home, but at least there was a part of the room that didn’t make him wince every time he looked at it. The rest would have to wait.
He went through to the kitchen and washed his hands and arms. Then he got changed again, putting on a clean blue shirt, cream chinos and a pair of trainers. Connolly’s was only round the corner, so it wouldn’t take him long to walk there. As he crept downstairs with the same care as when he’d arrived, the painting and the Minnie Bright case mingled together in his thoughts. The word whitewash sprang into his head, and the corners of his mouth turned down.
15
Harry arrived fifteen minutes early. Connolly’s was quiet and there were plenty of tables to choose from. He picked a fourseater by the window, a good place to watch the world go by, and when the waitress came over he ordered a chicken salad sandwich on wholemeal and a cold bottle of water. Another beer would have gone down well, but the café wasn’t licensed.
While he waited for his sandwich, Harry looked around. Connolly’s had been trading in Kellston for over thirty years, a family-run business that had inevitably changed with the times. It had started life as a typical greasy spoon serving up hot strong tea and heart-attack fry-ups in a permanent fug of cigarette smoke. Now it had adapted to suit the changing tastes of the local population. The killer breakfasts hadn’t been abandoned, but now the café catered for the lunchtime trade as well, office workers and shoppers who wanted pert little salads with rocket leaves and healthy dressings. Not to mention the usual selection of lattes, mochas and Americanos.
Connolly’s, he thought, was like a chameleon, cleverly changing its menu and its atmosphere to suit the time of day. It was the only all-night café in the district, and in the early hours, while others slept, the local toms would gather to warm themselves
up and exchange gossip over a hot cup of tea. Cab drivers, doormen, clubbers and cops all frequented the place too.
Jess arrived when he was halfway through his sandwich. She gave him a breezy wave before going to the counter and ordering a black coffee. As she stood with her back to him, her elbows on the counter, he had a flashback to that cold rainy night when they’d first met. He remembered her leaning on the bar at the Whistle, her tight cashmere jumper accentuating her curves. She’d been mad at Len Curzon – an old hack from the Herald, who’d earlier plonked himself down beside Harry and spent the next half-hour bending his ear – and not the slightest bit shy in showing that displeasure. While Jess had been doing unpaid overtime, working on the Grace Harper story, Len had disappeared to the pub.
Harry had liked her feistiness, her confidence, liked it enough in fact to take her on to a jazz club in the West End. They’d talked until the early hours, drunk too much and even indulged in a reckless snog in the back of a black cab. A thin sigh escaped from between his lips. There’d been a lot of water under the bridge since then.
Jess put her cup down on the table and slid in opposite him. ‘What are you looking so pensive about?’
He almost told her, but then thought better of it. He nodded towards the black coffee. ‘Heavy night?’
‘You could say that. We went for dinner with a couple of Neil’s friends.’ She pulled a face. ‘Turned out to be a boozy one. We didn’t make it home till three.’
‘So this Neil, he’s the new man, is he?’
Jess grinned. ‘You make it sound like I change them every five minutes. He’s not that new as it happens. We’ve been together for almost a year now.’
‘It must be love,’ he said drily.
She scrutinised him with her wide grey eyes. ‘You’re in an odd mood.’
‘Am I? Yeah, maybe I am.’
Jess lifted the cup and blew gently on the surface of the coffee. ‘So come on, we’ve got five minutes before David’s due. Let’s have the lowdown on your meeting with Kirsten.’
Harry gave her a quick synopsis of the conversation he’d had that morning. Jess listened intently, sipping her coffee, until he’d finished.
‘You see?’ she said. ‘There’s something not right about that day, about what happened with Minnie Bright.’ She put the coffee down, placed her right elbow on the table and cupped her chin in the palm of her hand. ‘They’re definitely hiding something.’
‘Yeah, but whatever it is, it didn’t originally bother Paige or Becky. That’s what I don’t get. If they’re covering up, and they want to keep whatever it is hidden, then why would they agree to talk to you in the first place? It doesn’t make sense. Surely they’d run a mile?’
‘Perhaps it’s because I stressed that the article wasn’t about the murder but the effect it had on other people. I was concentrating on the present rather than the past. They might not have seen that as any kind of threat. So long as I didn’t go digging into the original case …’ She frowned as she thought about it, her pale brows knitting together. ‘Kirsten must have been the one who made them change their minds. She’s had more experience of the press than the other two. She’s bound to be more cautious.’
‘More aware, you mean, that journalists can be a touch economical with the truth.’
‘Some journalists,’ Jess retorted smartly.
‘Apologies,’ he said. ‘I stand corrected.’
‘And how on earth did you manage to get her to talk to you? She just kept slamming the phone down on me.’
Harry sat back, trying not to look too smug. Ah, now that would be down to the famous Lind charm.’
‘Really?’
‘There’s no need to sound so surprised.’
‘And was it that famous Lind charm that also got you thrown out of her flat?’
He grinned. ‘Only after I’d found out what I wanted. And I wasn’t thrown out exactly, more … encouraged to leave.’
‘Right,’ she said, smiling back. ‘That’s one way of putting it.’
He glanced at his watch and then towards the door. It was almost twelve thirty. ‘So what do we know about David Choi?’
‘Not much. Sam met him occasionally when she and Lynda were kids, but he was three or four years older so their paths didn’t cross that often.’
‘Choi. Is that a Chinese name?’
‘No, the family was originally from South Korea, but Lynda and her brother were born here. The Chois have a dry-cleaning business over on the industrial estate, quite a successful one by all accounts. They’ve got a few City hotels and restaurants on their books now, but things were pretty tough while Lynda was growing up.’
‘Hence the Mansfield,’ he said.
Jess nodded. ‘Not the greatest place to raise your kids. Anyway, according to Sam, David called her a few weeks after Lynda’s death – he got her number from Lynda’s phone – and asked if Sam’d talked to his sister on the night she died. She said he was very softly spoken, very polite. She told him about the message, expressed her condolences and that was the last time she heard from him.’
‘So he could have called some or all of the other girls too.’
‘Seems likely, although from what Kirsten said, it sounds like her conversation with him wasn’t quite so amicable. Didn’t she mention him making accusations? I wonder what all that was about.’
‘Well,’ Harry said, seeing the door to Connolly’s open and a young guy of Asian appearance walk in. ‘Now’s our chance to find out.’
David Choi was a thin man in his late twenties, his short black hair slicked down with gel. He was wearing a pair of beige trousers, a white shirt and a worried expression. His dark eyes darted nervously around the café before eventually coming to rest on Jess and Harry. Harry gave him a nod and he quickly approached the table.
Jess stood up and shook his hand, making the introductions at the same time. ‘Hi, David, thanks for coming. I’m Jess, Jessica Vaughan, and this is Harry Lind, the private investigator Sam told you about.’
David Choi leaned forward and shook Harry’s hand too, but he didn’t sit down. His gaze jumped from the window to the table and then back to the window again. His mouth twitched at the corners. He slipped his hands into his pockets and immediately took them out again.
Harry, seeing his anxiety, rose smartly to his feet. Realising that their position was in full view of any passers-by on the high street, and that for some reason David Choi was unhappy about this, he said, ‘Let’s find somewhere less public, shall we.’ He picked up his glass and the plate with the remains of the sandwich and headed towards the back of the room. Here, hidden by the long steel counter, was a small alcove with two empty bench-seat tables. He chose the one closest to the wall. Jess slid in beside him and Choi took the seat opposite.
‘Would you like a coffee?’ Jess asked.
Choi shook his head. ‘I can’t stay long. I’ve got to get back to work.’ He glanced warily over his shoulder, as if someone might be eavesdropping. Although no one was within listening distance, he still dropped his voice to something barely above a whisper. ‘I shouldn’t even be talking to you.’
‘Why’s that?’ Harry said.
Choi looked at him, met his eyes for a second and then abruptly dropped his gaze. ‘I was told, wasn’t I?’
‘Told what?’
‘To keep my mouth shut.’
Harry felt Jess tense beside him. She was remembering perhaps the note that had been sent to Sam. Keep yer mouth shut BITCH. She leaned forward, her eyes gleaming with that singularly intense look that journalists get when they think they’re about to make a breakthrough.
‘You’ve been warned off?’ she said.
‘In your own time,’ Harry said softly, concerned that the guy was about to take fright and do a runner. He was clearly scared, his chest heaving and falling, his hands twisting restively on the tabletop.
Choi took a few deep breaths before he spoke. Slowly he raised his gaze to look at the two of them agai
n. ‘This is just between us, right?’
‘Of course,’ Jess said quickly. ‘You’ve got our word on it.’
Harry, unwilling to make any reckless promises, wasn’t quite so fast with the reassurances. If what Choi said turned out to have a bearing on the original Minnie Bright investigation, it might be impossible to keep quiet about it. ‘So long as it isn’t evidence of a crime being committed.’
Jess nudged her knee against his and threw him a what-the-hell-are-you-doing type of glance.
Harry ignored her. ‘But we’re not here to cause problems for anyone. Your name won’t be mentioned unless it’s absolutely essential. We’re just trying to get at the truth. I’m sure that’s what you want too.’
‘Yes,’ Choi said, giving a terse nod of his head. ‘Okay, I understand.’
‘You said you were told you to keep quiet,’ Jess prompted. ‘Quiet about what?’
There was a short pause while his eyes darted over to the counter and back again. ‘It was the phone calls,’ Choi said eventually. ‘The calls Lynda made on the night she died.’
‘So it wasn’t just Sam Kendall that she rang,’ Jess said.
‘She called all of them, all the girls who were with Minnie Bright that day.’ David Choi raked his fingers through his hair, the pain clearly visible on his face. ‘I wanted to know what Lynda had said to them. I was trying to understand, to make some sense of what she did.’
‘You don’t think her death was an accident?’ Harry said, recalling Sam Kendall’s thoughts on the subject.
‘She’d have wanted to make it look like one,’ Choi said. ‘For our parents’ sake. Lynda never got over what happened. She couldn’t move on. She couldn’t build a proper life for herself. She blamed herself for leaving Minnie there. They gave her counselling, therapy and all that, but … it didn’t make any difference. She lived with the guilt every single day of her life.’
‘It must have been tough,’ Harry said. ‘Tough on all of you.’
Choi took another deep breath. ‘She was a good girl, kind, but she was always sad. As she got older, the doctors called it depression. They gave her pills, lots of them, but nothing helped. It was like a disease inside her, like a cancer that just kept on growing. In the end …’