by Roberta Kray
‘Of course it is. There’s plenty of hot water and you’ll find clean towels in the cupboard. And there’s a new toothbrush in the cabinet.’ He gestured towards the hallway. ‘The bathroom’s second on the left and the spare room is next door. Try and get a few hours’ sleep after. You’ve got a lot to do, and you’ll do it better if you’re not dog tired.’
Jess rose slowly to her feet as if every movement was an effort. Her eyelids looked droopingly heavy. ‘Thanks again,’ she said. ‘You’re a mate.’
While Jess was in the shower, Harry went through to the spare room and made up the bed. He put a fresh sheet over the bare mattress and threw on a duvet and a couple of pillows. The room was small but clean, and sparsely furnished with a single bed, a chest of drawers and a bedside table. The sunshine-yellow walls – reminiscent of the plastic shoes from the hospital – were overly bright, but didn’t seem quite as startling once the curtains were pulled across and the lamp was turned on. Finally, realising that she would need something to sleep in, he dug out one of his T-shirts and left it on the bed.
Returning to the living room, Harry picked up a notepad and pen and pulled out a chair at the table. If he was going to keep his word about helping her, there were things to be done and lists to be made. He scribbled car, phone, laptop, clothes, cash before pausing to look out of the window. The rain was still bucketing down, the water streaming along the gutters of Station Road. He thought of Jess trying to smash the window in her own flat, of the fear she must have felt, the gut-wrenching panic. And he remembered the question she had asked about whether the fire could have been arson. He had been cautious in his response, not wanting to add to her anxiety. But what if her suspicions were spot on?
He tapped the end of the pen lightly against his teeth. It was already clear that her intended article about the Minnie Bright case had ruffled some feathers. People weren’t happy, they weren’t happy at all. Threats had been made, anonymous messages sent, damage inflicted. Maybe someone had decided to sort out the problem once and for all, to go straight for the roots instead of the branches. He didn’t want to believe it, and yet he couldn’t dismiss it. His forehead crunched into a frown. It was not beyond the bounds of possibility that someone had tried to shut her up for ever.
25
Connolly’s is warm and steamy, smelling of fried bacon, coffee and damp coats. He’s certain now that he has no tail, but while he waits at the counter, he remains alert to everyone who walks in through the door. There is no such thing as being too careful. He asks for a mug of tea and chooses a table near the wall. All the window seats are taken, but there is nothing to see anyway. The rain is falling hard, thrashing against the panes, and the view of the street is obscured.
He blows on the surface of his tea before he takes a sip. He’s glad of the change in the weather, of the grey skies and chilly morning air. It suits his mood better. The sunshine belongs to Cadiz, to the towering castles of San Sebastian and Santa Catalina, to La Caleta beach and the boulevard. There is no place for it here.
It is seven o’clock in the morning and the café is busy. It is mainly men who are sitting at the tables, leafing through their tabloids, stocking up on calories before the day’s work begins. There is a low hum of conversation, the tinny sound of a radio and the steady scraping of knives and forks against plates. His eyes quickly scan the room, looking for features that might ring a bell with him. Although there is no one here he remembers, there is a familiarity about these men, about their tough East End faces, their stocky bodies and confident demeanour. They are comfortable in their own skin, devoid of self-doubt. Their lives are solid in a way his has rarely been, defined by the knowledge of who they are, of where they belong. Had things been different, he could have been one of them.
He feels the cold finger of the past trailing up his spine. He tries to shake it off, but it’s too late. He’s a young boy again. How old? Six or seven, he thinks. He’s sitting here with his mother, the long sleeves of her blue cardigan pulled down to hide the bruises on her arms. She is silent. Her eyes are empty, devoid of all emotion. Does she know how things are going to turn out? Perhaps she doesn’t care. His father has already squeezed her dry of all hope and trust and love. She has nothing left to give, nothing left to say.
No, he doesn’t wish to dwell on these things. He blinks hard, trying to erase the images from his mind. He doesn’t need old ghosts whispering in his ear. How he became the man he is today is irrelevant. Only the present matters now. He glances around the room again, searching for distraction. He watches the guy behind the counter frying eggs. He listens to the shrill hiss of the coffee machine.
The door opens and a bull-necked man walks in with an attractive willowy blonde. Cops. He knows it instantly. Even out of uniform they have a look about them, an aura. He feels a frisson of alarm, a tightening in his chest, but quickly breathes again. There is nothing to be concerned about. They’re not interested in him. Cowan Road station isn’t far away; they’ve only come here to grab a coffee on their way to work.
Work. That is what he should be thinking about. Everything has gone smoothly to date. The first part of his task has been completed, but he can’t afford to relax. Every potential problem has to be examined, every obstruction removed. There is a thin line between success and failure, one wrong step and he could still …
A dull throbbing has started up in his temples. He rubs at his forehead. He never gets headaches in Cadiz. It is only when he’s away that the old affliction returns to haunt him. In Spain, anchored by Anna, by his daily routine, he is always calm and contented. He stirs his tea, just for something to do. Soon, he’ll be home soon. In the meantime he has to focus, to concentrate on the job in hand. His freedom came at a price and the bill still has to be paid.
26
Harry took a shower, ate some breakfast and then went downstairs and opened up the office. The first thing he did was to call Snakey Harris, a guy with a garage in Dalston, and persuade him – or rather bribe him – to get out of bed, go round to the flat in Hackney, pick up the Mini Cooper and bring it over to Kellston. Snakey was the kind of mechanic who always had spare keys for any make of car.
‘I’ll see you in an hour then,’ Harry said.
‘Two,’ Snakey said. ‘And that’s stretching it. What’s the registration?’
Harry didn’t have a clue. He racked his brains, thinking back to the Fox, when he’d been standing beside the car with Jess, but still couldn’t remember the number plate. ‘Sorry, but there can’t be that many bright red Mini Coopers parked in the street.’
Snakey made a snorting sound. ‘You’d better be right, man, or you’ll be paying for a fancy lawyer on top of everything else.’
‘Just give me a call if you have any problems.’
‘You can bet on it.’
After ensuring that Jess would have transport, Harry raided the computer room and requisitioned a laptop that she could use until she got herself a new one. He also dug out an old mobile phone and started charging it up. He might not be top of anyone’s list when it came to emotional support, but at least he could help with the practicalities.
Lorna and Mac arrived at eight thirty. Mac, predictably, raised his eyes to the ceiling on hearing the news, as if Jess had put a match to the building herself.
‘Didn’t I tell you? Wherever that girl goes, trouble’s never far behind.’
‘Have a heart,’ Harry said. ‘She’s lost everything, her home, her clothes, all her worldly possessions.’
‘Poor girl,’ Lorna said sympathetically, peeling off her jacket and draping it neatly over the back of the chair. She gave Mac a glare. ‘And I don’t know why you’re so down on her. You’re hardly a stranger to trouble yourself.’
Mac, sensing a lecture coming on, gave a shrug of his burly shoulders and headed for his office. ‘Some of us have got work to do.’
‘Don’t mind him,’ Lorna said to Harry. ‘I think it’s great that you’re helping her out. People need friends at a time like th
is. Let’s make a list of what she might need and I can nip down the high street when we’re done.’
‘Thanks,’ Harry replied. ‘You’re a star.’
Within twenty minutes, Lorna had compiled a comprehensive list of what she considered to be essentials. This included underwear, clothing, tights, socks, shoes, make-up, an array of toiletries – shampoo, conditioner, cleanser, toner, moisturiser and cotton wool – and a toothbrush and comb.
‘Right,’ she said, surveying the page. ‘I think that’s it. Anything else spring to mind?’
Harry gazed down at the list of items. ‘You women take a lot of maintenance.’
Lorna laughed. ‘These are just the basics, sweetie. But I guess she can pick up the rest as she goes along. Now, what about size for the clothes? I’ll just get a few T-shirts and a pair of joggers. Oh, and perhaps a sweater. It’s turned a bit cold today. What is she – a ten, a twelve?’
He stared blankly back at her. ‘You’ve met her, haven’t you?’
‘That was years ago, Harry. And it was only the once.’
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Well, she’s about five foot five, slim and er …’
Lorna gave a sigh. ‘Try and think of someone who’s about the same size. Debbie, Elaine, the girl who works in the newsagent’s, an actress off EastEnders?’
Harry, who never watched EastEnders, had to peruse his brain bank for women closer to home. ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘I suppose she’s about the same size as Debbie. Only Jess has a bit more, you know, on top.’
‘How much more?’
Harry frowned, not entirely comfortable with discussing breast size with Lorna. ‘A few inches,’ he said vaguely.
Lorna shook her head. ‘Oh, don’t worry about it. I’ll just buy stretchy stuff. Can you take care of reception while I’m gone?’
‘Sure,’ Harry said, rising to his feet. ‘And take the money out of petty cash. I’ll square up with you later.’
As soon as Lorna had gone, Harry returned to his own office, leaving the door open so he could hear if anyone came in off the street. He had another call to make, this time to the Fire Service. He didn’t know anyone at the Hackney station, but he did have a contact in Shoreditch.
Jeff Bryant finally came on the line after he had been on hold for five minutes. ‘Hey, Harry mate. Sorry to keep you waiting. Long time no see. How are you doing?’
They had a quick catch-up, exchanging the usual banter and agreeing that a drink was well overdue. Once the preliminaries had been completed, Harry explained about the fire at Jess’s flat. ‘I was wondering if you could check as to whether it was accidental or not.’
‘I’ll make a few calls, see what I can find out. If it’s suspicious it will have gone to the Fire Investigation Unit. I’ll ring you back later.’
‘Thanks. I owe you one.’
‘You can buy me that pint sometime.’
Harry put the phone down. There was nothing he could do now but sit and wait. He glanced out of the window. The rain had eased off a little, but the sky remained dark and gloomy. There was no sign of Snakey Harris, but that was hardly surprising. The traffic was bad, the cars and buses crawling slowly along Station Road.
Mac walked out of his office, put his hands on his hips and stared at the empty reception desk. Frowning, he looked over his shoulder at Harry. ‘Is anyone planning on doing any work round here today?’
‘I’m sure she won’t be long.’
‘Jesus,’ he muttered. ‘Why does that woman feel the need to mother every waif and stray she comes across?’
Harry grinned, silently thanking God for Lorna’s maternal instincts. Left to his own devices he wouldn’t have had much of a clue as to what to buy. At least Jess would have something to wear when she woke up.
Before Mac could get the hump about two members of Mackenzie, Lind being overly preoccupied with something other than the business, Harry reached across his desk, picked up the file on Aimee Locke and flipped it open. It made for slim reading. Apart from the cleaner, and the one visit from her crimper – the jury was still out on whether that was personal or professional – there had been no other activity. Still, it was early days. The surveillance had only just begun.
Harry rubbed at his eyes and suppressed a yawn. Although the lights in the Locke house had gone out at midnight, he had stayed in Walpole Close until one o’clock. He’d only been home for a few hours when the call had come from the hospital. He was due to take over the watch again at five. If he was going to stay awake tonight, he’d have to dose himself up with black coffee.
He put the Locke file to one side and reached into his in-tray, retrieving Jess’s file on the Minnie Bright case. Last night he had gone through it from cover to cover and found not one jot of evidence that might point to Donald Peck’s conviction being unsafe. Yet something was still niggling in the back of his mind. Slowly, he started leafing through the pages again.
27
DI Valerie Middleton strode out through the doors on to the wet steps of the courthouse. Here she stopped for a moment, ran the palm of her hand over the top of her head to wipe away the rain and took a few deep satisfied breaths. That was one more predator off the streets, although she was realistic enough to know that the space wouldn’t remain vacant for long. Still, at least the women of Kellston could sleep a little more soundly tonight knowing that Colin Faulkner was safely behind bars. Twelve rapes that they knew about, but there were probably more. Her only regret was that they hadn’t caught him sooner.
As she put up her umbrella, she was joined on the steps by DI Simon Wetherby. He was based in King’s Cross – another of Faulkner’s hunting grounds – and the two of them had worked together on the case for the past three months.
‘Good result,’ he said, smiling widely.
‘Not too shabby,’ she agreed. The jury, having slept on it overnight, had come straight back into court with a verdict of guilty.
‘Fancy a drink?’
‘What, now?’ Valerie glanced at her watch and saw that it was ten past ten. ‘Tempting, but it’s a bit early for me.’
‘Tonight then,’ he said. ‘Come on, I can’t celebrate on my own. And we deserve a reward after all the hours we’ve put in.’
Valerie couldn’t argue with that, but still she hesitated. Unless her female intuition was failing her, she suspected that Simon was after more than just a pint of bitter. Although she had grown to both respect and like him in the months they’d been working together, she couldn’t see it going any further. She was still involved with Harry Lind, albeit in an ill-defined, confusing kind of way, and didn’t need any more complications in her life.
‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘I’m not really sure what I’m doing. Maybe some other time.’
‘Well, the offer’s open. Give me a call if you ever find yourself at a loose end.’
She nodded. ‘Thanks, I will.’
‘Well, it’s been a blast. We should do it again.’ He touched her briefly on the shoulder. ‘Take care of yourself, Valerie.’
She watched as he jogged down the steps, a small twinge of regret tugging at her insides. It was odd to think of not seeing him every day; they’d spent so much time in each other’s company that she’d grown used to having him around. Wetherby was a tall, broad-shouldered guy, confident and amusing, although perhaps a touch too handsome for his own good. He also had a reputation for being a ladies’ man. Not that you could always trust station gossip. She wondered if she’d made a mistake in turning him down, but instantly pushed the thought away.
Switching her attention to her phone, Valerie discovered that she’d missed a couple of calls from her sergeant, Kieran Swann. Now there was a man who could irritate the hell out of her without even trying. He’d left a message, but she didn’t bother listening to it. Instead she rang him straight back.
‘It’s me. What’s happening?’
‘We’ve got the body of a young woman, guv, on the Mansfield. Strangled by the looks of it.’
Valerie felt
the familiar sinking sensation she always got when hearing that a life had been prematurely snuffed out. ‘Okay,’ she said with a sigh. ‘I’m on my way. Tell me where you are.’
She walked quickly to the car park, got into her black BMW and twenty-five minutes later was driving down the main thoroughfare of the Mansfield Estate. She needn’t have bothered asking Swann for the exact location, as a large crowd had already gathered around the entrance to Haslow House. ‘Ghouls,’ she murmured. What was it that drew people to murder scenes? Part of it was just natural curiosity, but there was something more. It was a kind of morbid fascination, she thought, a desire to share vicariously in the horror of it all.
Valerie pulled the BMW up next to a couple of squad cars and switched off the engine. She paused a moment to prepare herself, taking a few deep breaths. Every time she came back to this place she was reminded of the Whisperer. It was here that he’d left one of his sinister notes, tucked beneath her windscreen wipers, the last message before … No, she wasn’t going there again. If she allowed him to crawl back inside her head, then she’d never be rid of him. She had to get on with the job and leave the past where it belonged.
Adjusting the rear-view mirror, she glanced at her reflection. A pair of hazel eyes gazed solemnly back at her. In a few years’ time she’d be forty, and already some fine lines were beginning to show. She frowned. That was something else that she didn’t want to dwell on. Her long fair hair, sleek and shiny, was neatly tied back, but still she lifted her hand to make an unnecessary adjustment. Then, with a final sigh, she got out of the car and began to walk in the direction of the crowd.
The Mansfield Estate was depressing at the best of times. She reckoned that at least ninety per cent of the local crime emanated from the three tall towers. Too many struggling, blank-eyed people crammed together in an environment that was drenched in hopelessness. Her gaze took in the crumbling concrete, the litter and graffiti. She hated the goddamn place but at least she didn’t have to live in it.