by Roberta Kray
‘Well, you certainly succeeded in that.’
Clare bowed her head again for a moment, her hair falling around her face like a curtain. ‘I’m sorry. It was a terrible thing to do.’
‘And then Becky Hibbert got murdered,’ Jess said.
As if she’d been slapped, Clare’s head jerked up, her eyes widening. ‘I had nothing to do with what happened to Becky. I swear on my mother’s life. I’d never … I wouldn’t … I sent the notes. I did the stuff to Sam’s car. I admit that. But I didn’t—’
‘I know,’ Jess said. ‘I believe you. You may be a lot of things, but you’re not a murderer.’
Clare’s eyes filled with tears. ‘So what happens now? I can’t go to the police, not tonight. I can’t leave my mum on her own.’
Jess couldn’t help but feel sorry for her despite what she’d done. ‘Maybe it won’t come to that.’
‘What do you mean?’
Jess wasn’t sure if she was doing the right thing, but she couldn’t see that having Clare dragged through the courts and ending up with a criminal record was the way to go either. ‘Well, I could talk to Sam and try and explain everything to her. Maybe if you apologised and offered to pay for the damage to her car, she’d be prepared to let it go.’
Clare leaned forward, her hands gripping her knees. Are you serious? Do you really think—’
‘I can’t make any promises. It’s not up to me.’
‘No, no, I understand. But thank you.’ As she forced a shaky smile on to her lips, a single tear travelled down her face. ‘I swear I’ll never do anything like this again.’
‘I know you won’t,’ Jess said, rising to her feet. ‘I’ll be in touch. I’ll let you know what she decides.’
They walked in silence through the front room. There was more Jess had wanted to ask – like what Clare’s relationship with her uncle had been like – but she sensed that the woman was already close to breaking point. Anyway, there were some old wounds that were best left alone.
‘Thank you,’ Clare said again as she opened the front door. She looked as though she was about to say something more but then shook her head.
Jess stepped outside and turned. ‘What is it?’
‘It’s nothing. It doesn’t matter. I suppose I’m just glad that it’s all out in the open now.’
‘Sometimes it’s better that way.’ Jess tapped the rolled-up newspaper lightly against her thigh. The atmosphere in the house had been charged with too much emotion and she gulped in the cool night air gratefully. ‘Do you still have my number?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, call me any time. Or come round to Mackenzie, Lind. They’re on Station Road, the high street end. I’m staying there for a while.’
Clare’s face had a crumpled look about it, as if she was about to start crying again. ‘Okay.’
Jess felt no sense of elation or triumph as she walked back to the car. She might have solved one part of the puzzle, but the discovery brought her no pleasure. She couldn’t condone Clare’s actions, but to some extent she could understand them. Panic and fear could do terrible things to a person.
When she reached the Mini, Jess glanced back towards the house. The door was closed. Clare was gone. Would she be all right? With a sigh, Jess unlocked the car and climbed inside. She threw the newspaper into the back, pulled her seat belt across and started the engine. But still she didn’t drive away. For a while she simply sat there, wondering why it was that some people’s lives were so full of misery. It was a while before she finally set off for the flat.
50
All he could do now was wait. He looked at his watch again, impatient for it to be over. Everything depended on timing, on phone calls, on traffic, on fate. No matter how well a job was planned, there was always that element of chance. He paced from one side of the room to the other. He had never been this worried, this anxious before. He wanted to view it as just another assignment, but he couldn’t. There was too much riding on it. The past was slowly creeping up on him, like a cancer.
He looked down at the bed, at the gun, and tried to get his thoughts in order. What he had done had been wrong and he’d had to live with it for too long. What kind of a man abandoned his wife and daughter? A weak one. A cowardly one. And the worst thing was that although he felt guilty and ashamed, he didn’t regret it. Not deep down, not where it really counted. No, he’d been relieved to get out of this place and make a new life for himself.
He stopped pacing and sat down on the edge of the bed. Playing happy families had never come naturally to him, not after what had happened to his mother. He felt a shrivelling inside as he thought about her suffering. It had been worth coming back just to spit on the grave of the man who had killed her. She had not died from a single blow, not cleanly or quickly, but only after years of abuse. His father had broken her down bone by bone.
He thought of Anna in Cadiz. She had never asked about his past, never tried to delve into the darkness of his soul. Perhaps she had her own secrets. Most people did. Small parcels of shame and pain, tied up with string and pushed to the back of a cupboard that was only rarely opened.
With his fingertips he traced the zigzag pattern on the duvet cover. There was no good way of explaining the path he had chosen all those years ago. Only that it had suited him, that it had met some inner need. He felt nothing when he fulfilled a contract. It was a job, nothing more, nothing less. And now, for the last time, he was about to kill again.
His gaze flicked over to his watch. Not long now.
51
Harry knew that the first thing he should have done after Aimee Locke had approached him on the high street was to call Mac, explain how he’d been rumbled and abort the surveillance. He should have shifted the van and gone back to the office. That was what business partners did. They kept each other in the loop. So why hadn’t he followed the usual procedures? Why was he still here, still watching the house and still watching the time?
There was only five minutes to go before nine o’clock. Aimee was in trouble. He’d seen it in her eyes. And she had turned to him out of … panic, fear, desperation? Whatever the source, he felt unable to ignore it. He remembered the meeting with her husband and the bad feeling he’d had about the man. Martin Locke was at best a bully and at worst … Well, he was about to find that out.
Harry raked his fingers through his hair and pulled on his jacket. If he thought about it any more he’d probably talk himself out of it. There was no harm, surely, in spending a little time with her to try and find out what was wrong. It was, he knew, a disingenuous argument. His desire to help was rooted in something more than a vague concern for her safety. He was attracted to her. She was not just beautiful, but enigmatic too. It was a fatal combination.
He got out of the van and strode across the road to number 6. He peered through the high wrought-iron gates at the floodlit garden and the front of the house. Everything was quiet. He stared at the bell embedded in the right-hand pillar. Last chance to change his mind. He could still turn around, go back to the van and get the hell out of here. While he was considering this option, it occurred to him that he was in full view of the cameras. Was she watching him now, watching him dither like some teenage schoolboy on a first date? The thought of it was more than mortifying.
He quickly reached out and pressed the bell. There was a short delay before it was answered.
‘Hello?’
‘It’s me,’ he said. ‘It’s Harry Lind.’
She didn’t say anything else. The next sound he heard was the smooth swoosh of the gates swinging open. Harry took a deep breath and started walking up the path. A chill breeze sent a rustle through the pink and white rhododendrons, making him jump. He turned and peered into the shrubbery, but all he saw was shadow.
Aimee Locke was opening the door as he arrived. Her face looked pale and drawn. She had changed out of the linen suit and was wearing a pair of slim black trousers and a silky blue shirt. There was a tiny gold cross on a chain ar
ound her neck.
‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you for coming.’
Harry nodded as she stood aside to let him in. Are you all right?’
A faltering smile quivered on her lips. ‘Come on through.’
Harry found himself in a large tiled hall with pure white walls and timber beams. A pale wood stairway curved grandly up to the next floor. At the base of the stairs a vase of lilies stood on a table, their heady scent permeating the air. As he followed her through to the rear of the house, he tried to keep his gaze fixed on the back of her head rather than on the seductive sway of her hips.
The living room, built on a grand scale, was designed to impress. The walls were a pale shade of green and were covered with abstract paintings. Harry had no idea of the artists or whether they were originals or not. There were numerous sculptures scattered around too. Everything was ultra modern – the furniture and the fittings – as if any hint of the past was to be avoided.
‘Sit down, please,’ Aimee said, gesturing towards one of the wide leather sofas.
As Harry walked across the room, he took in the large plasma TV and a bank of expensive-looking music equipment. A computer in the corner, linked to the surveillance system, showed a picture of the empty space outside the gates on its screen. Long white drapes, pulled closed against the night, ran almost the entire width of the far wall. Behind them, he surmised, were French windows leading out to the garden.
He sat down on the sofa, sinking into the plush leather. ‘You have a lovely home.’
She looked around as if seeing it for the first time. Her soft lips parted in a sigh. ‘The gilded cage,’ she murmured.
Harry wasn’t sure how to respond. He thought about it for a moment, and then said, ‘Is it that bad?’
Aimee sat down in a nearby chair, glanced over at him and immediately stood up again. ‘I need a drink. How about you?’
‘No, thanks,’ Harry said, thinking it best to at least try and keep a clear head.
‘A small one?’ she suggested, clearly not wanting to drink alone.
He gazed up into her wide grey-green eyes. They were the kind of eyes that could break a man’s resolve in less than five seconds flat. ‘Go on then, just a small one.’
Aimee glided over to the corner, where an ebony cabinet held enough bottles of booze to stock a nightclub bar. She didn’t ask what he wanted but poured neat malt whisky into two thick-bottomed glasses. ‘You must think I’m crazy,’ she said, as she returned with the drinks.
She handed him one of the glasses, sat down again and crossed her legs. ‘I mean, I don’t even know why I asked you to come here.’
‘Because you need help,’ Harry said.
‘Yes, but what kind of woman turns to the guy who is being paid to follow her around?’ She took a large gulp of the whisky and frowned. ‘That doesn’t make any sense, does it? It’s madness. You don’t owe me anything, whereas—’
‘I owe him everything?’
That faltering smile appeared on her lips again. ‘Not everything, perhaps, but something.’
Harry carefully studied her face. Although he thought her fear was real, a small part of his brain was still trying to work out if he was being played. Aimee Locke might be a vision of loveliness but he wasn’t blind to the possibility of ulterior motives. ‘So what made you do it? What made you invite me here tonight?’
‘Desperation,’ she said.
‘You want to start at the beginning?’
Aimee downed what remained of the whisky and jumped up again. She went back over to the drinks cabinet. ‘I will,’ she said. ‘I just need another of these first.’
Harry took a sip from his own untouched glass. The whisky was golden and smooth as silk. He watched as she poured herself a large one. Her hands were shaking slightly. With her back still to him she moved in front of the computer, obscuring the screen. His gaze ran the length of her body and then back up again. From somewhere distant he thought he heard the soft purr of a car engine.
Aimee Locke turned suddenly and smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.
Harry wasn’t quite sure what the apology was for. But he didn’t have to wait long to find out. First came the sound of the front door slamming and then the heavy tread of footsteps across the tiled hallway.
‘Aimee?’ a male voice called out.
Harry shot to his feet. Jesus Christ! Martin Locke was back! He glanced over at Aimee. The expression on her face was of neither shock nor surprise. Her mouth was partly open, her eyes gleaming. With a sinking heart he realised that he’d been set up. She had brought him here so she could confront her husband with the living, breathing evidence of the tail he had put on her. God almighty! He was about to find himself in the middle of a very nasty domestic.
The door to the living room was open. Harry could feel his heart thumping as the footsteps grew closer. What to do? There was nothing he could do. And then suddenly the man was there. As the two of them came face to face, there was mutual confusion. Harry had only a few seconds to absorb the short, slim body, the white hair, the unfamiliar features of a stranger, before it happened. The noise wasn’t loud but it was distinctive – the sound of a silenced gun going off. A small red rose blossomed on the man’s chest and he crumpled to the ground.
Harry whirled around to the windows behind him. There was a wave of chill night air as the long drapes billowed out. Whoever had fired the gun had escaped into the garden. He turned quickly back but then found himself frozen. For all his years of experience, for all his police training, he was temporarily paralysed. Aimee Locke didn’t move either. She didn’t scream, didn’t shout, didn’t even cry out.
For a moment, Harry felt as if the world had stopped turning. His legs, made of stone, refused to move. The reality of what had just happened refused to penetrate his brain. But then, finally, the adrenalin kicked in. Rushing forward, he crouched down and reached out a hand to feel for a pulse on the man’s neck. There was nothing. The kill had been quick and clean and professional.
‘The police,’ he yelled. ‘Call the police!’
From the edge of his vision he was aware of Aimee coming towards him. He didn’t realise until it was too late. There was a soft whooshing sound, a shifting in the air, before everything went black.
52
It was twenty past eleven when Jess left the Fox. After her encounter with Clare, she had felt in need of a drink, and one drink had turned into another until closing time had finally come around. She had spent the evening perched on a stool at the bar chatting to the landlady, Maggie McConnell. After a while the conversation had turned, inevitably, to Donald Peck and what he had done.
Maggie, who seemed to know everything about everyone, had filled her in on more of the details. ‘I dread to think what happened to him when he was a boy. There were all sorts of rumours about what went on in that household. Social Services took the two of them into care, you know. Stella was just a toddler then, but he was about eight. She was adopted into a nice family but … Well, nobody wants them when they’re older, do they? And especially not the damaged ones.’
‘I suppose not,’ Jess had said.
‘I think Stella felt guilty about it, that she was lucky enough to get a fresh start – and that she couldn’t remember anything much about the past. She always loved Donald despite the things he did. She’d try and help him out, do a bit of cooking and cleaning for him, but she couldn’t solve his real problems. Nobody could.’
Jess had sipped her glass of red wine and pondered on how some people seemed doomed before their lives had properly begun. ‘So what was Alan Towney like? Did you know him?’
‘Oh sure, I knew Alan.’ Maggie had given a snort. ‘That man didn’t have the backbone he was born with. Upped and left the minute there was a hint of trouble. He wanted Stella to stay away from Donald, but of course she wouldn’t. It caused all sorts of rows. He didn’t like it, you see, being related – even if was indirectly – to someone like that.’
&nb
sp; ‘So he just pissed off?’
‘Yeah, that’s exactly what he did. And he never came back or got in touch. Never sent the poor woman a penny either. She was left on her own with a kid to raise. It wasn’t easy for her.’
Standing on the pavement outside the pub, Jess went over the conversation again. She was still wondering if it was possible that Alan Towney had finally returned home. Clare might have confessed to sending the notes, but somehow it was difficult to associate either her or Masterson with the actual words that had been written. The threats went beyond mere bitterness. There was something hard and nasty and vengeful about them.
As she was waiting for a car to go by, she glanced up towards the windows of the flat. They were in darkness, but the ones beneath were blazing with light. Her first thought was that Harry must be home and working in the office, but then a more sinister explanation occurred to her. She shivered in horror. What if it was the arsonist? What if he was splashing petrol around the rooms and preparing a fuse to set the place alight as soon as she got back?
No sooner had the thought jumped into her head than she realised how ridiculous it was. No self-respecting arsonist was going to announce his presence to the world by leaving all the lights on. She was stressing over nothing. But still she got out her phone and dialled Harry’s mobile, just to be sure. It went straight to voicemail, so she tried the office number instead.
It had barely rung once before it was answered.
‘Yes?’ a male voice said with more than a hint of impatience.
‘Is that Mac?’
‘Who is this?’
‘It’s Jess,’ she said. ‘I’m outside and I saw the lights. I was just—’
‘You’d better come up,’ Mac said brusquely and immediately hung up.
Jess’s heart sank. What the hell was going on? She crossed the road at a brisk pace, unlocked the front door and jogged up the stairs. As she walked through the empty reception area and into Mac’s office, four heads turned to look at her. She recognised Mac and Lorna and Warren James, but the fourth – a lean middle-aged man in a business suit – was a stranger to her.