by Roberta Kray
‘He—’ Jo began angrily but then abruptly stopped. There had been an edge of bitterness, she thought, to the last comment. Perhaps Susan cared more about Gabe Miller than she liked to admit. ‘That’s really no concern of yours, is it?’
There was a brief telling silence before Susan snorted. ‘My,’ she said, ‘is the little kitten turning into a cat? You’ll be telling that bitch of a mother-in-law to mind her own business next.’
‘Perhaps I will.’
‘Well, good luck with that – and with the prison visits. They can be a bit trying at first but I’m sure you’ll get used to them.’
‘You’d really let an innocent man go to jail?’
‘I’d hardly describe Gabe as innocent. Perhaps you don’t know as much about him as you imagine.’
Jo’s fingers tightened around the phone. ‘So why don’t you tell me?’
‘I don’t think so,’ Susan said. ‘I’ll leave that up to him – if he ever gets around to it. He tends to grow a touch shy when he’s talking about his past. But hey, close as you are, I’m sure he’s already told you about the more colourful aspects of his history.’ She deliberately paused. ‘Or maybe not. Personally, I’ve found it’s never a good idea to interfere in other people’s relationships. In fact, it’s never a good idea to interfere, full stop. I was kind of hoping that you’d gathered that by now.’
Jo stared down at the floor, saying nothing.
‘So we understand each other?’
‘Yes,’ Jo said.
‘Fine. We’ll leave it at that. But just remember this one last thing – I didn’t need to call you. I didn’t need to tell you anything. Please don’t make me sorry that I did.’
‘I won’t.’
‘This is a young girl’s life we’re talking about.’
‘I realise that. Yes, I promise. I swear I won’t—’
But the line had already gone dead.
Jo slowly put the phone down. Her palms were sweating, her heart beating ten times faster than it should have been. She stood up, her legs still shaking, and went over to the open window. She leaned out, breathing deeply. The faint and lingering scent of cut grass reminded her of Friday evening. She had thought things were bad then, but they had just grown a whole lot worse.
It was after ten before the phone rang again. Jo had spent the last two hours pacing around the flat, trying to decide what to do. She wished she had the nerve to go to the police, to tell them what she knew, but she didn’t. Susan’s threats were still revolving in her head.
The phone rang and rang. She wanted to ignore it – how much more bad news could she take? – but eventually she picked up. ‘Yes?’
A smooth male voice said: ‘Is that Mrs Strong?’
‘Yes.’
‘I hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m sorry to call so late. My name’s Paul Emerson: I’m Gabe Miller’s solicitor.’
Before he had the opportunity to say anything else, Jo asked: ‘How is he? Is he okay? Has he been charged?’
He didn’t answer directly. ‘It might be better, if it’s not too inconvenient, for us to talk in person. I’m not that far away. Would it be all right if I called round?’
‘That’s fine. The address is—’
‘I already have the address,’ he said. ‘Barley Road, number twelve?’
‘Yes,’ she said again.
‘I’ll be ten minutes.’
It was closer to fifteen by the time he arrived. She opened the door to a small dapper man in his fifties with steel-grey hair and a pair of shrewd grey eyes. Mr Emerson followed her up the stairs, accepted her offer of coffee and went with her into the kitchen.
‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘It’s much appreciated. Milk and one sugar. That muck they serve at the station is barely drinkable.’ He sat down, placing his briefcase at his feet. His shoes were black and highly polished. ‘Mr Miller has asked me to pass on a message.’
Jo, holding the coffee pot, glanced over her shoulder. ‘For me?’
Emerson nodded. ‘He said not to worry about the silver ring he left behind, that you don’t need to do anything about it. He’ll pick it up when he gets out.’
‘Oh,’ she said softly, turning her back on him again. Her hands shook a little and some of the coffee spilled across the counter.
‘He said you’d understand.’
‘Yes,’ Jo said. ‘That’s fine.’ So Miller had decided to keep quiet about Silver Delaney. Even if did cost him his liberty. Or was he just waiting to see what happened with the police? She took the two mugs over to the table and pulled out a chair. ‘Has he been charged?’
‘No, not yet.’
She shuddered at the ominous not yet. ‘But you think he will be?’
‘The interview will resume tomorrow morning. I’m afraid it’s not looking good. The evidence against him is purely circumstantial but even so …’
‘He didn’t do it,’ Jo said firmly. ‘He didn’t kill Ritchie Naylor.’
‘Well, the onus is on the CPS to prove that he did.’ Emerson took a sip from his mug and sighed. ‘Unfortunately, Mr Miller is being rather vague about his movements on Sunday evening. It leaves him in a somewhat precarious position.’
Jo remembered what Gabe had told her about how he had spent the weekend driving round the streets of Kellston. She could see how such a story, if he chose to reveal it, could raise as many questions as it answered. How, for example, was he going to explain why he hadn’t been prepared to go back to his flat? ‘But they have the weapon, don’t they? What about fingerprints?’
‘To date, the forensic evidence is not especially useful. Either the weapon was wiped clean or the perpetrator wore gloves. They’re still waiting on the DNA.’ He lifted his shoulders in a small neat shrug. ‘Naturally, you can see how it looks from the point of view of the police: Mr Miller returns home, discovers an intruder in his flat, a fight ensues and … Well, anyone might panic in such a situation.’
‘He didn’t kill him,’ Jo insisted. ‘You do believe that, don’t you?’
‘All my clients are innocent, Mrs Strong, until proved otherwise.’
‘He’s not a murderer. Someone else must have done it.’
‘Sadly, there are no other suspects under consideration at the moment.’
Emerson peered at her over the rim of his mug. ‘Of course, it is possible that Mr Miller has another reason for keeping silent as to his whereabouts on Sunday evening. Perhaps he’s trying to protect someone, a lady friend perhaps, who might be – how shall I put it – compromised by the disclosure that she was in the company of a man other than her husband.’
Jo stared back at him, a pink flush rising to her cheeks. It was pretty obvious what he was implying. ‘Is that what he’s told the police?’
‘Mr Miller has told the police very little. He has, however, asked me to talk to you. I understand that you met him for the first time on Friday night?’
She gave a tentative nod.
‘In the bar at the Hotel Lumière?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And he returned here with you?’
Jo paused before eventually nodding again. She could see where this was going. ‘You want to know whether he was still here on Sunday night.’
‘Was he?’
Emerson’s cool grey eyes were boring into her, making her feel like a guilty witness on the stand. He clearly had her pegged as a scarlet woman, the type of female who cheated on her husband and slept around with strangers. What made it even worse was that she couldn’t say a word to clear her name, at least not without raising the taboo subject of Silver. She took a deep breath. ‘You’re suggesting that I might be his alibi.’
Emerson quickly raised a hand. ‘Please. I’m not suggesting anything at all. That would hardly be appropriate. But perhaps … perhaps you could give the subject some thought.’
Jo was already thinking about it. Her mind was racing through the options. She was thinking about what was worse – lying to the police or not lyi
ng to them. She was thinking about what would happen to Gabe if he was charged with the killing of Ritchie Naylor … and what might happen to Silver in the meantime. She was wondering what kind of a sentence she would receive for giving him a false alibi.
‘I understand how you may feel reluctant to come forward,’ he continued, ‘how it might be a little … awkward perhaps.’
Jo didn’t reply.
Emerson nodded and got to his feet. ‘Well, thank you for the coffee and apologies for intruding so late in the evening. Perhaps, in the morning, you could let me know if—’
Jo stood up too. ‘Yes, I’ll call you.’
He leaned forward and patted her on the arm. ‘The police are, occasionally, capable of showing some discretion. Try not to worry too much.’
Jo forced a faint smile to her lips. It was a bit late for that.
Chapter Thirty-six
Marty was cruising the streets, checking out the whores. The filth, urged on by the local council, was forever trying to move the girls on, to shift them over the border and into the next borough. There they would be someone else’s problem. He grinned. The irony, of course, was that half their clients were the uptight hypocritical bastards who were so determined to shift them in the first place.
He indicated left and took another turn around the block. He was looking for a particular type but hadn’t seen her yet. Still, there was no hurry. The silver Ford he was driving had been stolen a few days before and the number plates changed. There was no way it could be traced back to him.
Leaning over, he slotted in a CD. Petula Clark’s ‘Downtown’ flowed out through the speakers. He joined in, singing loudly. He loved all that 1960s nostalgia stuff: Dusty Springfield, Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra. He laughed. He was in a good mood and why shouldn’t he be? It was all going like a dream.
Marty concentrated on the street again. It had been his job, once upon a time, to keep Delaney’s whores in check, to collect all the takings, to protect their territory, but things had changed a lot since then. There were still the pubs and the clubs, still a few in-house girls to keep an eye on, but most of Vic’s cash was in bricks and mortar now, in the thoroughly tedious business of property development. Even the drugs were a sideline. Delaney had made so much cash that he didn’t need the hassle.
It was the excitement that Marty missed most, the good old days when every penny counted, when the success of a night could be counted on the amount of jaws they’d managed to break and the number of tarts they’d managed to fuck between the hours of twelve and six. He gave a grunt, leaned back and laughed again. These days he spent more time talking to Polish builders than screwing hookers! What kind of a life was that? Delaney had got fat and lazy. He was heading for retirement and Marty knew what that meant for him. Sod all!
He tapped his fingers in time to the music. He could always jump ship and go to work for someone else but why should he? Almost twenty years he’d spent with Vic and he deserved some reward for it all. And he didn’t just mean money. That wasn’t what this was about. There were the promises that had been made, the glorious future that was rapidly turning into dust. If Delaney keeled over tomorrow, Marty would have nothing but memories to keep him warm at night – and how fair was that?
He stared out through the windscreen. He was looking for a young, slim girl with long fair hair. He was looking for a tart who could pass, at a distance, for Delaney’s daughter. It was another ten minutes before he found her. She was standing on a corner, wearing a skimpy red T-shirt, a black leather miniskirt, fishnets and boots.
He took a moment to survey the street, to make sure that none of the old girls were around, no one who might recognise him or who might later tip her off as to who he actually was. After making sure the coast was clear, Marty pulled up beside her.
She bent down and leaned in towards the open window. ‘Hello, babe.’
Her small pale breasts, pushed up and enhanced by a red lacy bra, were in his direct line of vision. He reckoned she was in her late teens, eighteen or nineteen, not quite as young as he’d wanted but the right size and shape. Close up, she wasn’t as pretty as Silver but she’d have to do. ‘What’s your name?’
‘Destiny.’
He smiled at her. ‘Hi, Destiny.’ He flashed the cash, a trio of twenties. ‘You got a minute?’
She smiled back with that false smile they all had and climbed into the car. She took the money and made it disappear as quickly as only a whore could. As he put the car into gear and set off down the road, she leaned across and laid her hand on his thigh.
He shifted his leg.
‘What’s the matter, hon?’ she said. ‘You the shy sort?’
In twenty-four hours she would know the truth. Shyness didn’t even register on Marty Gull’s repertoire of emotions. Still, there was no point in wasting her presumptions … or his sixty quid. He’d keep it friendly, no rough stuff. If he didn’t look at her face, he could even imagine that he was screwing Silver. But no, that wasn’t a good idea. He’d settle for a blow job instead. He’d overpaid but that was okay. If he played this right she’d just think he was a fool, a clueless moron who didn’t know what he was doing.
‘Actually, this isn’t just … only, well …’ He deliberately stumbled over his words. He looked at her and grinned. ‘I mean, it is but I’m also supposed to be organising my mate’s stag party. He’s … you know, last chance and all, the last few hours of freedom. He’s … we’re having it tomorrow night. Would you be interested? Are you free then?’
She shrugged. ‘I might be.’
‘How much would you, er … would a ton be enough?’
Her blue eyes widened. ‘Just him?’ she said.
Marty nodded. ‘Yeah, just him. Just … you know.’
‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Why not?’
‘So I can pick you up tomorrow, same place, about ten?’
‘Sure,’ she said.
He pulled up at the side of the road and killed the engine. Despite his best intentions, he couldn’t help but think of Silver as she reached over and unzipped his flies. What he wouldn’t do to have her here now, to have her head bending down to … Well, it was only a matter of time. He closed his eyes, leaned back and groaned. He wound his fingers around the long fair hair. It wouldn’t be long now. A few days … just a few days. He smiled. Daddy’s little girl was about to regret that she’d ever been born.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Jo was sitting in the kitchen drinking strong black coffee. She had slept badly, her dreams of the kind where her legs were made of lead, where she was desperate to escape and where every small step was like wading through mud. She had woken over and over to the same feelings of dread and confusion.
The doorbell rang and she looked up at the clock. It was only ten past seven. She couldn’t think of anyone who would call by so early, not even the postman. Her heart skipped a beat. Perhaps Susan was following up last night’s threats with something – or rather somebody – more solid.
The bell went again and she jumped.
Carefully, she approached the window, stood to one side and peered out. There was a blue van parked at the gate with J.B. Harris, Garage Services displayed along the side. The name sounded vaguely familiar. And then she remembered where she’d see it before – on the metal disk attached to the set of car keys Gabe had left in the study. She breathed a sigh of relief. Her unexpected visitor must have come to collect the borrowed Mondeo.
Jo went downstairs and opened the door. The man who was standing on the other side was lean, tallish and in his late forties. She had only a moment to gather these fleeting impressions before her eyes focused on his arms. She gave another tiny jump. They were completely covered in tattoos. And not just any tattoos. A long tangled coil of snakes slithered across his flesh and wound around his elbows and wrists.
‘Hello,’ he said. ‘Are you Jo Strong?’
She forced her startled gaze back up to his face again. ‘Are you here to pick up the car?’
‘Er … not exactly. I’m John Harris, a mate of Gabe’s. I’m sorry to call so early but I wanted to catch you before you went to work. I was hoping I could have a word.’
Jo hesitated. She felt wary of the snake man and simultaneously guilty for feeling that way. Never judge a book by its cover, right? But then again, with everything that had happened recently, it was sensible to exercise some caution.
‘It is important,’ he said. ‘I’ve been talking to Paul Emerson. I understand he came to see you last night.’
‘That’s right,’ she said but still didn’t invite him in. On the contrary, she instinctively stretched out her own less decorated arm, leaning her hand against the jamb and effectively blocking his entrance.
John Harris waited patiently. A small understanding smile played around his lips. ‘Do you really think Gabe’s capable of murder?’
‘No, of course not!’
‘Well then,’ he said gently, ‘we’re both on the same side.’ Jo slowly lowered her arm and nodded. ‘Okay. You’d better come up.’
For a tall man he moved with surprising grace. He glided up the stairs, politely stood aside on the landing and followed her through to the kitchen.
‘Take a seat,’ she said. ‘Would you like a coffee?’
‘Thank you. White, one sugar.’
Jo poured the coffee, put the mug on the table and sat down opposite to him. ‘So,’ she said.
Harris, as if choosing his words carefully, paused for a moment. ‘There’s no point going round the houses, is there? I know Gabe couldn’t have killed that Naylor bloke. I suspect, from what you said, that you believe that too. Trouble is, the cops need someone to hang it on and he’s the most likely suspect.’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Mr Emerson explained as much last night.’
‘Which leaves Gabe, to put it mildly, in something of a hole. They’re likely to charge him today if he won’t tell them where he was or if no one comes forward to provide an alibi. I’d vouch for him myself but I was out at Heathrow for most of Sunday evening.’