And he knew he should do something about Franks, but he had no idea what. It was tempting to ask Roger Knight about this character who knew Eddie in the sixties, Ted Wheeler, but he was worried about compromising the fraud investigation. Having to admit to the favour under cross-examination would destroy his credibility as a witness against Knight.
It was half past nine when the doorbell rang. He opened the door to a smartly-dressed, attractive woman of about forty, dark hair tied up in a braided bun. She was staring wistfully towards the promenade and turned slowly, greeting him with a calm, rehearsed-looking smile.
“Mr Randall? My name is Lindsay Price. I’m here about the biography of your father.” The voice American, probably East Coast.
Nick frowned. Not a Jehovah’s Witness, then. “You’re a reporter?”
“I’m working as a research assistant for Howard Franks.”
She took a step backwards, perhaps anticipating a bad reaction. It helped Nick to check his temper.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but Franks knows we’re not interested in helping him.”
“Absolutely. And he’s aware that he didn’t get off to a good start…” She shrugged, then squinted past him. “Uh, I’ve just driven down from London. Can I use your bathroom, please?”
It was probably a ploy to get inside the house, but he didn’t see how he could refuse. He showed her the way and then waited in the hall, unable to decide what approach he should take.
The toilet flushed and she came out, her jacket now folded over her arm. She was wearing a thin burgundy jumper that showed off an impressive figure. Ten years ago she might have been a Playboy centrefold, he thought. She caught him looking and it seemed to boost her confidence.
“Actually, I haven’t been totally honest with you,” she said. “I work for a law firm in the City. The research is something I do as a favour to Howard.”
“I take it you’re his girlfriend, then?”
She smiled at the term, and said, “Kind of. It’s not an exclusive thing.”
He laughed, trying not to betray his shock. “I can see what Howard gets out of it,” he said, “but I’m not so sure about you.”
He thought she might bristle at this, but she laughed with him. “It’s a mutually beneficial relationship.” She seemed to be about to add to this, but instead changed tack. “I’m sorry to hear about your wife. Do the police know what happened yet?”
“Only what’s been reported in the papers,” he said. “I assume Howard reads them avidly?”
“I’m afraid he does.” She shrugged, then switched her jacket from one arm to the other. “Look, I don’t want to pressure you. If you’d rather I just left…”
She took a step towards the door, and he raised his hands. “No. I’m being rude. Would you like a drink?”
She let out a sigh as if wilting. “I am so glad you said that. I would love a cup of tea.”
***
Roger Knight cruised at eighty on the M25, U2 blasting from his stereo, delighted to find that the traffic chaos normally predicted for a holiday weekend had failed to materialise. Leaving Clayton just after eight, it took him only forty minutes to reach the A2, heading towards Gravesend.
After finding his number for Wheeler was out of date, he’d spoken to Barry Harper, who warned him that the old man didn’t take kindly to visitors. “Losing his marbles if you ask me.”
On the phone Wheeler sounded confused and belligerent. Although he claimed to remember who Roger was, he kept demanding to know how he had obtained the number. Finally he consented to a visit, but only when Roger agreed to bring him a gift.
Reaching Gravesend, he took a wrong turn towards Dartford and found himself parallel to the Thames, a line of cranes dipping beneath a brooding sky. A tanker was making slow progress through the grey water.
Eventually he found the address in a row of terraced council houses just off London Road. In a street that generally cried out for refurbishment, Wheeler’s house was practically derelict. The roof was spotted with missing tiles, the window frames were black with rot and the render was pitted and stained with rust from the broken guttering. Roger felt glad his uncle hadn’t lived to see Wheeler end up like this, and it made him appreciate the extent to which he’d transformed Ray’s dubious legacy into something more tangible.
He was standing on the pavement, trying to detect signs of life inside the house, when he became aware of coughing. He turned and saw a decrepit old man shuffling towards him, a cigarette dangling from his mouth and a Racing Post folded beneath his arm. Long strands of white hair fluttered from a mottled scalp. The man walked with a pronounced limp, throwing his right foot round in a circular motion and dragging the left behind it. Between each bout of coughing he sucked on the cigarette, his hand clamped to his mouth to hold it steady.
Roger felt his heart sink. His memory of Ted Wheeler featured a strong middle-aged man with a penchant for sharp suits and flashy cars, thick gold jewellery and plenty of Brut. What approached him now was little more than a skeleton in a mangy cardigan and baggy slacks.
Thirty feet away, Ted spotted him and stopped, looking around in panic.
“I’m Ray McPherson’s nephew. We spoke yesterday.”
Ted stared as if trying to unlock some distant memory, then gestured at the bag Roger was holding. “That the rum?”
So his memory wasn’t that poor. “Two bottles of Captain Morgan,” Roger said.
Ted sniffed. “And you told no one you was coming here?”
“That’s right.”
“Good. Keep it that way. I don’t wanna be leaving this place till they carry me out in a box, and I ain’t doing that before my time, you get me?”
Roger nodded uncertainly. Losing his marbles, all right.
“Come on, then,” said Ted. “Better get your arse inside.”
***
After he’d made tea for Lindsay, Nick sat in an armchair and told himself that, no matter what was said, he would stay calm and polite. Lindsay had selected the couch and placed a small notebook on her lap. He watched her turn to a clean page and uncap her pen.
“I assume you know what Franks is alleging?” he said.
“The death of Leslie Jones?” She nodded, and met his gaze. “I also believe it’s true.”
There was an uneasy moment. Nick took a deep breath.
“The thing is, I was nine when Dad died. Does Howard really think I’d know what went on —?”
“This isn’t about whether you can confirm or deny what your father did.”
“No. I know what he really wants,” Nick said, his voice rising. “He wants to be able to quote me, or my sister, to lend credibility to the book.”
Lindsay was shaking her head. “He values your insight because he’s genuinely trying to understand your father. Trying to fathom how a successful, popular actor would risk everything for sex with underage girls.”
Nick sat back as if winded. “What?”
Lindsay looked surprised that he didn’t know. “That’s why Leslie was killed,” she explained. “He worked at a club in Soho called Lewds. Eddie Randall had befriended the gangsters who owned it. They held private parties and brought in girls, sometimes prostitutes but also naïve young women who wanted to be dancers or actresses. They thought that sleeping with these powerful men would benefit their careers.” She had a mournful, distant look in her eyes. “In June 1968 a fifteen-year-old girl was gang-raped and strangled —”
“Hold on!” Now he was shouting. “Where the hell do you get this from? Where’s the evidence? Where’s the police investigation?”
Lindsay regarded him with a mixture of pity and scorn. “There was no investigation. The girl came from a poor background, probably homeless, a runaway —”
“What do you mean, probably? What was her name?”
“She was never identified. Just another missing person that doesn’t get found.”
“This is crazy.”
“Leslie Jones knew what they’d don
e. He threatened to go to the police and your father had him killed.”
The doorbell rang. At first it didn’t register with Nick: just another sound to add to the white noise of fear and confusion in his brain.
He realised she was looking at him oddly. “Shouldn’t you see who that is?”
Coming into the hall, he saw a shadow receding from the door. He opened it and the woman at the end of the path stopped and turned towards him. He recognised the blonde hair, the uncertain smile, the green eyes.
Caitlin.
SEVENTEEN
Waiting for him to answer felt worse than stagefright. Caitlin convinced herself that he was out. Perhaps just as well. Probably a bad idea, anyway.
It was a relief to walk away. Then she heard the door open and saw him staring, bewildered. She retraced her steps, nervously twisting her hands together.
“It’s Caitlin, isn’t it?”
“Yes. After you saw Roger yesterday, I thought… I thought I should…” She let out an exasperated sigh. It had all sounded so convincing in her head.
“Is Roger with you?” he asked.
“No. He’s gone to see someone. A friend of his uncle’s.”
“Ted Wheeler.”
She nodded. “But I think it’s about you. Did this Wheeler know your father?”
“Probably hoping to get some scandalous gossip about Dad to use against me.”
“Oh.” She hadn’t realised how much he knew. If he was this far ahead of her, it might already be too late for Roger. She turned her head, and thought she glimpsed someone in the hallway. Was that why he hadn’t invited her inside?
Nick asked, “Do you know why he might be trying to do that?”
“I’m not completely sure, but…” She faltered, uncomfortable with the lie.
“I’m investigating some fraudulent insurance claims. Roger Knight’s garage has cropped up a couple of times.”
“I’m sure Roger wouldn’t be… he wouldn’t do anything that stupid.”
“It’s possible that he’s being used,” Nick suggested gently. “Does the name Lauren Doyle mean anything to you?”
“Lauren? That’s Kevin’s wife.” She blurted it out, and saw a flash of celebration in his eyes.
“How do you know Kevin?”
“He’s… an acquaintance of Roger’s.” She shut her eyes, wishing she could retract everything, but it was too late. And Nick’s eagerness to know about Doyle gave her an idea.
“He runs a salvage company, Griffin Farm Breakers. I’ve never trusted him. He’s quite capable of doing this behind Roger’s back.”
“You don’t think there’s any chance Roger’s part of it?”
Caitlin shook her head. Let him believe that and go after Doyle instead.
“But if that’s the case,” Nick said, “why has he gone to see Ted Wheeler?”
He’d easily trapped her, but at least he had the decency to look sheepish about it.
“Okay, that was a bit unfair,” he added. “Thanks for coming to see me.” He smiled, and that gave her the courage to say what she had intended.
“I wanted you to know, Kevin Doyle’s a violent man. He’s got convictions for assault.”
“That doesn’t surprise me,” said Nick wryly.
“Be careful. Please.”
Once again Caitlin sensed a movement within the house. She shifted sideways and saw a tall attractive woman watching her. The woman held her gaze for a moment, and then stepped out of sight. Caitlin found herself blushing, even though it was a stupid, illogical reaction.
“I’d better go,” she said. “Roger doesn’t know I’ve done this. Please don’t tell him.”
“Of course not.”
“He’s a good man. Really.”
She turned away, unable to make sense of the sudden hollowness she felt. She didn’t look back but she could feel Nick watching her, and she pictured the woman standing behind him. His lover?
***
Having seen the outside of Ted Wheeler’s house, Roger prepared for the worst when he stepped inside. He was not disappointed. Although he tried to pick a careful route along the hall, he could feel his shoes sticking to the carpet.
Wheeler shrugged off the dirt and squalor with the explanation that he had fallen out with a neighbour, a woman in her fifties who had cleaned the house for him. “She always done it for free,” he said. “She thought I was one of those eccentric old sods with a fortune stashed under the floorboards.”
Roger smiled politely, and Ted answered it with a glare. “But I don’t have a cent. Not a fucking penny.”
“What happened to it?”
“Made some wrong decisions. Trusted the wrong people.” His growling delivery deterred Roger from further questions on that subject.
“So the housework’s down to you now?” he said cheerily, ducking his head to avoid a cobweb.
“Fuck it. Doesn’t bother me.”
Wheeler led him into a tiny cramped kitchen, where Roger stood with his buttocks pressed against a grimy plastic table while the old man moved slowly from sink to counter, filling a kettle so old its design had become fashionable again. A scrawny black cat wandered in, gave Roger a cursory inspection and then made for Ted, who growled and aimed a weak kick at it.
“Bloody moggy. Keeps crapping all over the place.” He put the kettle down and launched into a coughing fit, barely covering his mouth above the two mugs on the counter.
“Fucking lungs are packing up,” he said when the hacking had subsided. “That and the gammy leg, and the dodgy ticker, and the fact it takes an hour to have a piss.”
“Not a lot of fun, getting old,” Roger said.
“Nah. Still, better than the alternative, eh?” His face suddenly darkened. “You ain’t told anyone where I live?”
“No. We agreed on the phone.”
“I’m not messing around.” Despite his frail state, the old man spoke with the authority of someone accustomed to inspiring fear.
“Who are you hiding from?” Roger asked.
For a moment Ted looked genuinely scared, as if Roger knew more than he was letting on.
“Made some enemies in my time,” he muttered. He began spooning budget brand instant coffee into the mugs. “You know Mickey Leach?”
“He was in business with you and uncle Ray,” Roger said.
“Yeah, well, he snuffed it last year. He was eighty-two, living in a nursing home but in pretty good health. Doing all right, he was. Just before Christmas they found him dead.”
“What was it, heart attack?”
“Post mortem was inconclusive, but it might have been suffocation.”
Roger took a step forward, not sure if he’d heard correctly. He noticed that Ted’s wavering hand had spilled coffee on a worktop already littered with crumbs and food stains.
“They said maybe one of the other patients did it, but I ain’t so sure.” Ted held one of the mugs against the edge of the unit and swept the contents of the worktop into it.
“Who do you think it was?”
“If I knew that, I wouldn’t have to be so careful.” He shuffled to a cupboard and took out an open bag of sugar. “Your uncle, when did he die?”
“Years ago. Ninety-four. Bowel cancer.”
“That’s right. Poor bastard was all skin and bones by the end.”
Roger nodded, wondering if Ted had looked in a mirror lately.
“That’s what I wanted to ask you about. Back in the sixties you, Ray and Mickey all knew Eddie Randall?”
“Yeah. This is about that book, isn’t it?”
“The biography by Howard Franks?”
“Yeah. I got word that Franks wants to talk to me, but I’m having nothing to do with it.”
“Surely he’s only interested in Eddie Randall?”
Roger had to wait through another coughing fit, during which the kettle boiled. Roger said, “Let me get that,” and quickly lifted the kettle off the stove.
“I got no reason to help him,” Ted
explained. “And I ain’t about to advertise my existence, am I?”
Roger reached the fridge before Ted and took out a carton of full fat milk. “Is there any dirt to dig?”
The old man chuckled. His red eyes looked watery. “Oh yeah,” he said. “There’s dirt all right.”
“Can you tell me about it?”
“What’s it to you, anyway?”
Roger stirred both mugs of coffee and chose the one he felt was least contaminated. He decided on the direct approach.
“His son could put me away. I want something I can use on him.”
The old man cackled, appreciating the honesty. “He was an odd sort, Eddie Randall. Had everything you could want and still wasn’t happy. Always searching for the next thrill.”
Roger waited, putting off his first sip of coffee.
“He liked girls,” Ted said. “Young girls. Sometimes getting a bit rough, you know? Well, one night we had a party at the club, and one of ‘em ended up dead.”
Roger breathed out slowly. “Shit.”
“Yeah. Well, this feller who worked for me tried blackmailing him. Eddie made the mistake of paying up, so of course the blackmailer wanted more. Eddie asked me to sort it for him.”
“What did you do?”
Ted stared at him, and now Roger saw the steel in his eyes. “What d’you think I did? I fucking sorted it.”
***
After closing the door, Nick was startled to find Lindsay standing behind him. He was so absorbed with Caitlin’s revelations that he’d forgotten she was there.
“Friend of yours?” she asked cheerily.
“Just work.” And none of your business, he thought.
As they returned to the living room, Lindsay said, “I could have sworn I heard the name Ted Wheeler just then.”
“You were listening to us?”
Ignoring his indignation, she said, “He’s one of the men who arranged for Leslie Jones’s murder.”
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