by Roberta Kray
‘Sounds like a plan,’ Swann said. He leaned back and put his hands behind his head, exposing two damp patches in the armpits of his white shirt. ‘But for now I’m going to hit the Fox and have a pint. Fancy one, guv?’
Valerie shook her head. She could have done with a drink, but in the crowded confines of the pub there would be no escape from Swann’s perspiration or his interminable musings on the state of the world. ‘No thanks. I’ve got a couple of things to finish up and then I’m off home. I’ll see you in the morning.’
Swann yawned and stretched and then stood up. He took his jacket off the back of the chair and flung it over his shoulder. ‘Okay, see you tomorrow. Night, guv.’
‘Night.’
After he’d gone, Valerie sat for a while, her mind still focused on Dan Livesey. She tried to construct in her head a scenario for what had occurred last night. Had Livesey arranged to meet Becky at the entrance to Haslow House, or had he simply turned up unannounced? More likely the latter if he had intended to kill her. He wouldn’t have wanted to take the risk of her telling someone else about the meet.
‘And then what?’ she murmured to herself. If no one else was around, it would have been easy for him to grab Becky and push her away from the light and into the shadowy gloom beneath the stairs. Under the influence of alcohol her reactions would have been slow. Before she’d barely realised it, he could have pulled the long scarf tight around her neck and …
Valerie rubbed hard at her temples. It was all conjecture, when what they needed was good hard proof. Livesey’s presence on the estate, although highly suspicious, was circumstantial and wouldn’t be enough to convict him. They were still waiting on forensics. Becky Hibbert’s clothes had been sent for testing – it was even possible to lift prints and DNA traces from fabric these days – but it all took time. And of course, if Livesey had planned it, he would have been wearing gloves.
She had no doubt that they would eventually catch up with him. It wasn’t easy to stay on the run unless you had large sums of money, a smart brain or excellent contacts. Any withdrawals from an ATM would give away his location. If he’d gone abroad it would make him more difficult to find, but something in her gut told her that this was unlikely. He was a local boy, born and bred in Kellston, and in all likelihood wouldn’t stray far from his roots.
Valerie lifted her preliminary report out of the tray and leafed through it again. At least with Livesey in the frame she no longer had to worry about that complicating Minnie Bright connection. However, Harry Lind had been a great cop with excellent instincts, and she couldn’t afford to dismiss the information out of hand. Even though it didn’t seem to have any bearing on the case, she had logged his comments and sent a copy to Superintendent Redding.
Thinking of Harry immediately reminded her of Jessica Vaughan and their meeting a few hours earlier. It had been a short if not entirely sweet interview. Valerie, even though she’d been aware of behaving unprofessionally, hadn’t made much of an effort to hide her antagonism. She’d been stressed, under pressure and not especially interested in what Vaughan had got to say. Maybe the girl had been the target of an arson attack last night, but so what? That didn’t mean there was any link to the death of Becky Hibbert. Reporters, like police officers, must make lots of enemies.
Valerie could have, maybe should have, got someone else to talk to Vaughan, but a rather perverse curiosity had prevented her from doing so. It was a few years since they’d last had any contact and she’d wanted to take another look. The bottom line, and she wasn’t especially proud of it, was that she’d been checking out the competition. Although neither of them had mentioned Vaughan’s new status as Harry’s temporary flatmate, it had been forever present like a big fat elephant in the room.
Jessica Vaughan, she thought, wasn’t Harry’s usual type – that tended more towards the classic leggy blonde – but perhaps she had qualities that Valerie had yet to grasp. The girl was moderately pretty, intelligent enough and certainly possessed a streak of determination, but what did she have that Valerie didn’t? She knew it was pathetic making comparisons like these, but somehow she couldn’t help herself.
Valerie released a long and weary sigh. Perhaps what irked her most was that Harry hadn’t told her about his new guest. One simple phone call was all it would have taken. And yes, okay, so it had only happened last night, but he could have given her a ring in the morning to let her know what was happening. Instead, she had had to find out by default. How long would it have taken him to tell her if they hadn’t discovered that business card in Becky Hibbert’s flat? And he hadn’t exactly volunteered the information even when he’d come to see her. He’d only mentioned it when she’d said that she’d call Jessica herself.
Snapping the file closed, Valerie leaned forward and dropped it back into the tray. It was time to go home, to head back to Silverstone Heights, make herself something to eat and recharge her batteries. Trying to second-guess Harry Lind was utterly pointless. She had lived with him for years and still wasn’t sure what make him tick.
She rose to her feet and put on her coat. It would help, she thought, if she could come to a decision about what she really wanted. The professional side of her life was sorted but the personal side was a mess. If she wasn’t careful, their on-off relationship could drift on for years. Before she knew it, she’d be drawing her pension, unmarried and childless and still waiting for Harry to make a commitment.
On impulse, she sat down again and picked up the phone. She dialled the number before she had too much time to think about it. It was picked up after three rings.
‘Wetherby.’
Valerie could hear music and voices in the background. She had a moment’s hesitation – should she? Shouldn’t she? – and almost hung up.
‘Hello?’
‘Hi,’ she said brightly. ‘It’s me. It’s Valerie.’
He sounded pleased to hear from her. ‘Ah, my favourite inspector. How’s things? Everything okay? Oddly enough, I was just thinking about you.’
‘Oh yes? Thinking what? Or shouldn’t I ask?’
‘I couldn’t possibly comment.’ He gave a light laugh. ‘Hang on a sec, I’m just going to go outside. I can’t hear myself think in here.’
As she waited, Valerie wondered if he was with a woman, someone he didn’t want eavesdropping on the conversation. She heard the sound of a door opening and closing, the noise of the music replaced by a dull drone of traffic before he came back on the line.
‘Sorry about that. It’s mayhem in there. One of the lads just got promoted, so we’re having a few pints. It’s always good to have something to regret in the morning. But enough of that. What can I do for you?’
Valerie hesitated again. She could still change her mind. It wasn’t too late. She could pretend she’d called about some work-related problem. But then she thought about Harry playing happy flatmates with Jessica Vaughan. Well, if he was moving on, so could she. ‘Actually, I was wondering if you were still up for that drink. Tomorrow evening, maybe? You were right, we should celebrate. We had a good result.’
‘Yeah, that sounds great. Where do you fancy?’
‘How about the Fox, if you don’t mind coming over to Kellston? Somewhere local would be better for me.’ And even better, she thought, if she happened to run into Harry. If he was going to play fast and loose with whatever remained of their relationship, then so could she. Having a good-looking man on her arm might help him to realise that she wasn’t going to wait around for ever.
‘The Fox is fine. What shall we say – seven o’clock? You can always give me a bell if you get held up.’
‘Good. I’ll see you then,’ she said.
‘And hey, Valerie?’
‘Yes?’
He paused. ‘I’m glad you called.’
‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She smiled and put the phone down. Immediately she thought of Harry again and felt a twinge of guilt. What was she doing? But she quickly pushed the question aside. It was onl
y a drink, nothing serious. She wasn’t planning on eloping with the guy.
35
Jess rolled over in bed, stretched out her hand and turned off the thin, annoying beep of the alarm clock. She rubbed at her eyes, still scratchy with fatigue. She had slept only fitfully, a part of her constantly alert to the night-time noises of a flat that was not her own. Every creak, every bump, even the patter of the rain against the window had lifted her out of her dreams and back into a nervous consciousness.
The scariest time had been just after one o’clock, when she had woken to the sound of footsteps. Her stomach had clenched, her heart starting to hammer out a thunderous beat. She had thought of the man who had strangled Becky Hibbert. She had thought of the man who had tried to kill her, here now perhaps to finish the job. Her whole body had gone rigid, sweat forming on her forehead, her pulse racing.
It had taken a long and terrifying thirty seconds for her to realise that it was only Harry coming in from his surveillance. His kind and thoughtful attempt at not disturbing her had backfired spectacularly. Mistaking his careful tread for that of an intruder, she had only realised her mistake when she’d heard him cough softly as he went into his room.
Jess shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the last eight hours. She got out of bed and padded out to the bathroom. There she stood for a long while under the shower, letting the hot water slough away the night terrors. Then she brushed her teeth and examined her face in the mirror. Frowning at the dark shadows under her eyes, she hoped that a layer of concealer might disguise the worst of the damage.
Back in the bedroom, she wondered what to wear for her meeting with Ralph Masterson. Not that she had a whole lot of choice. Her wardrobe still only consisted of a few essential items. Jeans, she decided, were out of the question, and she eventually settled on the black trousers, white shirt and black jacket. Although she had only talked to him on the phone, she had the impression that Masterson would respond better to someone who was smartly dressed.
She checked her watch as she put on her clothes. It was only eight o’clock, another two hours before the appointment. She would spend them going over her notes so that she was fully prepared when she arrived at his house. A faint flutter of excitement tugged at her insides. Masterson, she was sure, was not convinced of Donald Peck’s guilt. Why else would he have agreed to see her? And if he was right, then the Minnie Bright murder case would be blown wide open. It would be a scoop, there was no doubt about that, but her motives in pursuing the truth had shifted from the professional to the personal. She could not shake off the nagging guilt that she was responsible for Becky Hibbert’s death. If it was the last thing she did, Jess was determined to uncover the truth.
In the kitchen, she made coffee and toast and carried them through to the living room table. She sat by the window and gazed down on Station Road. It was another grey day, the rain falling steadily. The sunny weather of a few days ago already seemed like a distant memory. Still, the greyness suited her mood. After reaching for her notes, she bent her head and started to read.
Fifteen minutes later, she heard the door to Harry’s bedroom open, and he wandered into the living room wearing his dressing gown. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘You sleep okay?’
‘Like a baby,’ she lied.
‘Good. You want a coffee?’
‘I’m sorted, thanks.’
As he went through to the kitchen, Jess noticed the deep scars on his left leg. They were the result, she knew, of a blast at a crack factory, a blast that had destroyed his police career. She thought how hard it must have been for him to have his life shattered in such a way. The scars, she suspected, were more than just physical.
Harry came back a few minutes later and sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what are your plans for today?’
‘I managed to track down Ralph Masterson, Peck’s probation officer. I’m seeing him at ten o’clock.’
Harry paused for a moment, then said, ‘So you’re carrying on?’
Jess looked at him. ‘Of course I am. Whoever torched my flat is still out there somewhere. What else can I do?’
‘Leave it to the cops?’ he suggested.
‘They’re too busy searching for this Livesey guy. They don’t think there’s any connection to the fire.’ She remembered Valerie Middleton’s curt conversation with her yesterday. ‘And they certainly don’t think that Becky’s death has any link to the Minnie Bright case.’
‘Maybe it hasn’t.’
‘Or maybe they’ve got the wrong guy. Or maybe someone paid Livesey to kill her.’
Harry’s eyebrows shifted up.
She saw his expression and said, ‘Yes, I know. It sounds kind of far-fetched. But doesn’t it strike you as mighty convenient that Becky gets murdered the minute she opens her mouth and starts talking? And that someone tries to cook my arse on the very same night? That’s just too weird to be a coincidence.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘There’s no perhaps about it.’
Harry opened his mouth but then closed it again, probably realising that once Jess’s mind was made up, no one was likely to change it in a hurry. He drank some of his coffee, glanced out of the window then looked back at her. ‘So have you thought any more about tonight?’
‘Tonight?’
‘The casino,’ he said. ‘An opportunity to mingle with the big spenders and see how the other half live.’
Jess had forgotten all about his invitation. She was about to turn him down when she had a flashback to the evening before, of how jumpy and nervous she had felt. Harry probably wouldn’t get back until the early hours, and as a result she was likely to have another anxious night. At some point she would have to get used to living alone again, but right now – at least while there was a killer on the loose – she preferred to be in company.
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Why not? What’s the dress code, though? I’m a bit short on tiaras at the moment.’
Harry smiled. ‘Just something smart, I guess. Are you okay for cash, only I could—’
‘No, I’m fine. I sorted things with the bank yesterday and I’ve got my credit cards.’ The other advantage of going to the casino, she thought, was that it would give the two of them the chance to have a proper conversation after she’d seen Masterson. It helped to have someone to bounce ideas off, especially in a situation as complicated as this one.
‘Right,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I’m off for a shower. I’ll be leaving about seven, so I’ll meet you back here then.’
‘Seven it is. I’ll be ready.’
Jess finished her toast, thinking idly about the lovely Aimee Locke. She wondered what it was like to be married to a man who had so little trust he employed a private detective to spy on you. What kind of a relationship was that? But then when it came to honesty, she was hardly in the Premier League herself. She hadn’t exactly lied to Neil, but she hadn’t told him the whole truth either. She knew that when he heard about what had happened he’d be afraid for her safety and would try to persuade her to back off from the investigation. But she’d come too far to pull out now. Whatever the cost, however long it took, she was committed to seeing things through to the end.
36
Banner Road was only a short distance from Bethnal Green tube. Knowing that Ralph Masterson was the kind of man who would not appreciate tardiness – he’d made that perfectly clear on the phone – Jess had left herself plenty of time. Once she’d worked out where the road was, she went around the block, parked and waited there until it was almost time for their appointment. She used the ten minutes to take another look at her notes and to consider the questions she would ask.
As she drove slowly down the cul-de-sac, Jess saw a series of neat two-storey red-brick houses and realised from a For Sale sign that these were retirement homes. The buildings looked fairly new, and the front gardens, although small, were all carefully tended. Number 24 was at the end of the road. She pulled in to the kerb and turned off t
he engine.
As she got out of the Mini, she was instantly aware of being observed. At least three pairs of curtains twitched as she headed for Masterson’s house. The Neighbourhood Watch scheme was in full swing here, the residents zealously guarding themselves and their properties. And who could blame them? London had plenty of junkie scumbags who wouldn’t think twice about robbing or attacking the elderly.
Jess walked up the short driveway, pressed the bell and heard it ring inside. The door was answered almost immediately by a small, wiry man with more wrinkles than a walnut. A few thin grey hairs had been brushed back from his forehead in a vain attempt to cover the pink scalp underneath. His face, however, was full of character, and despite his age, the brown eyes were bright and alert.
‘Hello,’ she said, smiling and extending her hand. ‘Mr Masterson? I’m Jessica Vaughan. Thank you for seeing me.’
He took her hand and shook it, his palm dry and papery but the grip still firm. ‘Ms Vaughan,’ he said, simultaneously giving her a nod. ‘You’d better step inside before my overly vigilant neighbours raise the alarm.’
‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Do I look that suspicious?’
He stood aside to let her in. ‘Banner Road, I’m afraid, abounds with Miss Marples, all ready and eager to fear the worst. Already their tongues will be wagging ten to the dozen.’ He expelled a thin sigh. ‘In a community like this, every unknown visitor provides an opportunity for endless conjecture.’
Jess smiled again. ‘Still, it must be nice to know that someone’s watching out for you.’
‘If you don’t mind being under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.’ He closed the door and led her into a room off the hallway. ‘Please take a seat,’ he said, gesturing towards a dark blue sofa. ‘I took the liberty of making tea. I hope you drink tea. Or would you prefer coffee?’
‘Tea would be lovely. Thank you. That’s very kind.’ She sat down in the corner of the sofa closest to the matching easy chair and had a quick look around the room. It was hardly generous in its proportions, but it was light and clean, the walls painted cream, a beige carpet adorned with a rectangular rug patterned with deep blues and greens. There was a small mahogany table by the window. Uncluttered by too much furniture, it was a very male room, purely practical and without any of the softer feminine touches. An alcove to the right had been lined with shelves, and these were full of books, the spines revealing volumes of criminal law, biography and serious fiction.