by Roberta Kray
Helen pushed a strand of hair behind her ear and gave a sigh. ‘So I’m wasting my time. Is that what you’re saying?’
Tony didn’t reply straight away. A silence filled the room until he finally spoke again. ‘Can I ask you something?’
‘Sure.’
‘Why now? It’s been a while.’
‘I was young when it happened, only a kid. I didn’t even know she’d been murdered until I was fifteen. An accident, that’s what I was told.’ She gave a wry smile, lifting her hand a little and letting it drop back lightly on to the desk. ‘Oh, it wasn’t their fault. They were only trying to protect me, but…’
‘But you’d have preferred to know the truth.’
‘Yes.’
Tony tipped back his chair and put his hands behind his head while he thought some more. She was a fascinating sort of girl – for a tart. Perhaps he would take the chance and go with his instincts. ‘I might be able to… No, I’m not sure… I mean, they were only rumours.’
She leaned forward, her eyes lighting up. ‘You know something?’
‘They were only rumours,’ he said again.
‘Please,’ she begged. ‘I have to find out what happened, why she was killed.’
‘And if you don’t like what you find?’
‘I’ll deal with it,’ she said firmly. ‘So please, if you do know anything…’
‘All right,’ he said, with a feigned show of reluctance. ‘I’ll tell you what I’ve heard. But it didn’t come from me, right?’
Helen Beck gave the barest of nods. Her wide lips parted a fraction as she waited for him to continue.
‘You ever heard of a woman called Anna Farrell?’
Helen shook her head. ‘Should I have?’
‘She was friends with your mother, pretty good friends by all accounts. Sometimes she used the flat in Kilburn to entertain her… other friends. Anyway, this Anna Farrell used to go out with a man called Chapelle.’
‘Who?’
‘Eddie Chapelle. He’s Maltese, a big name in the West End. Well, in the more unsavoury parts. Girls and gambling mainly. He got into escort agencies in the sixties. You know, high-class hookers for discerning businessmen, judges, politicians, that kind of thing.’ He paused. ‘It’s a bit before your time, 1963, but you’ve heard of the Profumo scandal, right?’
‘Yes, I’ve heard of it.’
‘Well, the story goes that that was just the tip of the iceberg, and that Stephen Ward wasn’t the only one procuring girls for men in high places. Chapelle was allegedly up to his neck in it too.’
Helen Beck frowned at him. ‘Okay, but what does that have to do with my mother’s murder?’
‘Well, Chapelle was able to slip under the radar in ’63, but he was arrested in 1970 on various charges relating to pimping, illegal gambling, tax evasion – you name it, he was charged with it. At the time, Anna Farrell was still his girlfriend. He was looking at a hefty sentence, and the law was looking for witnesses prepared to give evidence against him.’
‘And was she – prepared to give evidence, I mean?’
‘Who knows?’ he said. ‘But Chapelle may not have been prepared to take the chance. It could be that Anna knew too much, that her testimony – if she chose to give it – would send him down for a very long time.’
Helen’s eyes widened. He saw her breath quicken, her chest rising and falling. ‘And so what happened to her? What happened to Anna?’
‘Good question. Nobody knows. She disappeared right after your mother was murdered. No one’s seen her since.’
‘You think she’s dead?’
‘Or still running scared. She might have figured she’d be next.’ Tony leaned over, opened a drawer and took out a photograph. He slid it across the desk to Helen. ‘This is her. This is Anna Farrell.’
Helen picked up the picture and stared at it. ‘She looks a bit like Mum.’ She glanced up. ‘Don’t you think?’
Tony gave a shrug. ‘Perhaps.’
‘Did my mother work for Chapelle too?’
‘Probably.’
‘You think he killed her, don’t you?’
In mock protest, Tony quickly raised his hands. ‘Hey, I didn’t say that. Don’t put words in my mouth.’
‘Sorry. I… I didn’t mean…’
‘And anyway, he was banged up at the time, so he certainly didn’t do it himself.’
‘It wouldn’t have stopped him getting someone else to do it, though.’
Tony gave a grudging nod. This was all going well, exactly as he’d planned. All he had to do was lay down the trail and the girl was bright enough to pick up the pieces and put them together. ‘Like you said, the two women looked kind of similar.’
‘So she could have been killed by mistake,’ Helen continued. ‘Is that what you mean? Whoever did it… they could have got it wrong, couldn’t they?’ She stared down at the photo again. ‘Or maybe Chapelle was worried about her giving evidence too. Maybe he intended to have them both killed.’
‘Look,’ he said, ‘we could come up with all kinds of conspiracy theories, but it doesn’t mean that any of them are true.’
‘No, of course not,’ she said, although she didn’t look convinced. She picked up the picture. ‘Can I take this?’
‘Sure.’
As she placed it in her bag, he leaned towards her, his face full of concern. ‘You can’t go around accusing people of murder, Helen. You do understand that, don’t you? And Chapelle… Well, he’s not the type of man to stand back and ignore it. He’s capable of pretty much anything.’
‘He’s out of jail, then, I take it?’
‘Yeah, he only did a couple of years.’
‘And now he’s back in the West End.’
Tony paused. ‘Yes.’
Helen rose to her feet and put out her hand. ‘Okay. Thanks for seeing me. I appreciate it.’
Tony took her hand and shook it. Her palm was warm, and slightly damp. ‘Promise me you won’t do anything stupid?’
‘Define stupid,’ she said.
‘You know what I mean.’
She smiled at him, turned and walked out of the office.
Tony stared at the door for a minute or two. Had he done the right thing? Eddie Chapelle wouldn’t be happy when she came sniffing around asking awkward questions. It would make him mad, and when he was mad, he had a tendency to hurt people.
Slowly, he lowered his gaze to Helen’s untouched cup of coffee. In truth, he didn’t actually care whether she got hurt or not. What did it matter to him? There was a big fat plus side to all of this: if Chapelle saw her as a serious threat, he might decide to take her out of the picture. What was one more murder to a man like that? And if he did decide to dispose of her, then that would be the end of Eddie Chapelle.
He picked up a pen and tapped it lightly against the top of the desk. Yeah, he could see how this might pan out. If Chapelle went down for Helen Beck’s murder, then all his West End business interests would be up for grabs. Tony’s mouth slid into a smug, self-satisfied smile. It never did any harm to aim for a bigger slice of the pie. In fact, maybe he could move things along a bit. A word here and there, a few rumours that were bound to reach Chapelle’s ears, and he could easily set the wheels in motion.
50
Helen climbed the stairs to her flat, unlocked the door and walked through to the living room. She dropped her jacket on the sofa, then went into the kitchen and put the kettle on. While she waited for it to boil, she ran through her conversation with Lazenby again. Could she trust him? Neither of them had mentioned Joe Quinn or the small matter of the firebombing of the Fox. She still had no idea if he’d been involved or not.
Helen had to admit that she’d taken an instant dislike to the man. There was something highly unpleasant, even odious about him. Absently, she rubbed at her bare arms, as if his predatory gaze might have left a slimy trail. But for all her distaste, she still reckoned that the information he’d given her was sound.
She delved int
o her bag and took out the photograph of Anna Farrell. It was a head-and-shoulders shot, a picture that had probably been taken in a photographer’s studio. Where had Lazenby got it from? She hadn’t thought to ask. There were a lot of things she hadn’t asked, but it was too late now.
Anna definitely had a look of Lynsey Beck about her – long straight fair hair and brown eyes – and it was easy to see how a mistake could have been made. But if that was the case, then where was Anna now? Still on the run, or had Chapelle caught up with her? If the latter was the case, then there wasn’t much hope of her being alive.
Helen made herself a brew, then settled down on the sofa and wrote down everything Tony Lazenby had told her, as well as what she remembered from the police reports. When she’d finished, she read it through a couple of times, making sure there was nothing she’d missed. She chewed on the end of the pen and gazed out of the window at the pale blue summer sky. It was almost six thirty on a Saturday night, and most girls her age were probably getting ready to go out on the town. Did she envy them their carefree pleasures? Perhaps a small part of her did, but the greater part was consumed by a need to find her mother’s killer.
This afternoon, when they’d closed up the sandwich shop, she had told Moira that she was going over to Kellston to see Lily. She didn’t tell her about the intended visit to West End Central police station, or her phone conversation with DCI Tony Lazenby the evening before. Moira had been so obviously relieved to hear that nothing particularly useful had been gleaned from the tenant in the house at Kilburn that Helen hadn’t had the heart to tell her the rest of her plans. Moira’s relief, she knew, was only down to concern; she was worried for her well-being, for her safety, and perhaps, bearing in mind today’s revelations, she was right to be.
The lie about Lily, however, sat uneasily on Helen’s conscience. The truth was that she hardly ever saw her former friend these days. They had drifted apart, their lives taking different directions. Helen hadn’t been back to Soho since she’d been raped, but Lily still roamed the same old streets, still playing the game and risking the odds. The last occasion they’d met up, over a year ago now, had not gone well. There had been an awkwardness between the two of them, a tense and edgy atmosphere.
The phone interrupted Helen’s thoughts and she jumped up off the sofa. ‘Hello?’ she said into the receiver.
There was a beeping sound as someone dropped coins into the slot of a phone box, and then a male voice came on the line. ‘I’ve got it for you.’
‘I’m sorry?’ It took a moment for Helen to realise it was Pym. Her heart skipped a beat. ‘Oh, you have? That’s great.’ She was still holding the pad in which she’d been writing up her notes on Lazenby. She put it down on the table and flicked over to a fresh page. ‘Okay, fire away.’
‘He’s on the Mansfield,’ said Pym.
Helen started. ‘What?’
‘The Mansfield,’ he repeated. ‘Carlton House.’
‘But… but he can’t be. He’s in jail. He can’t be out yet. He got the same sentence as Tommy, and he isn’t due to be released until the end of the month.’
‘Yeah, well,’ Pym grunted. ‘Maybe Tommy got himself in bother, got time added on. Look, I ain’t got all day. Do you want this address or not?’
Helen’s fingers tightened around the pen. Her pulse had begun to race. ‘Yes, of course.’
‘Number seventy-four,’ he said. ‘You got that?’
She quickly scribbled it down. ‘Seventy-four Carlton House.’
‘That’s it.’
‘Thanks,’ Helen said. ‘Thanks very much.’ But she’d barely got the first word out before the line was disconnected. For a moment she listened to the dialling tone, before carefully replacing the phone in its cradle. She stared down at the address, barely able to believe it. Frank Meyer was out of prison and he was living back in Kellston.
51
Helen stood gazing down at the piece of paper, trying to decide what to do next. Her initial instinct was to grab her jacket and dash straight round there, but maybe she needed to think things through first. Frank Meyer might not welcome uninvited guests turning up on his doorstep. He couldn’t have been free for long and was probably still adjusting to life on the outside. Was it fair to hurtle round to Kellston and burden him with all her problems?
She decided, on balance, that it would be better to wait until tomorrow, when things might be clearer in her own head. The sandwich bar was closed on Sundays and so she had a free day. After a while, she sat back down on the sofa, still trying to absorb the fact that Frank was out of prison.
Helen rummaged in her bag and found the pack of John Players that she’d bought in the Fox. With a slightly shaking hand she lit one and inhaled deeply. What would Frank be like after serving seven years inside for a crime he hadn’t committed? There had never been any doubt in her mind of his innocence. The prosecution, she was certain, had twisted and manipulated the evidence to make him look guilty. Just like they had with Tommy.
She tapped the cigarette against the side of the ashtray, trying to put herself in Frank’s shoes. How would she feel if it had been her? Bitter, she thought, and angry. All those years snatched away, with nothing to show for them. How old would he be now? She had never known his exact age but presumed that, like Tommy, he must be in his early forties.
She smoked the cigarette, then stubbed it out and gazed around the living room. She’d painted the walls a pale mossy green and decorated them with three quirky Paul Klee prints. Not to everyone’s taste, she imagined, but she liked them. The sofa was a darker shade of green and pulled out into a double bed for when she had visitors. Except she never did have visitors, not the type who stayed over, anyway.
Helen tapped her heel restlessly on the ground. The evening loomed ahead of her, long and empty. What was she going to do with herself? Watch some TV, perhaps, or go over the Lazenby notes. She wondered what Frank was doing and what had brought him back to Kellston. She got up and walked over to the window. She watched the people passing by beneath her, people with places to go, friends to meet.
Suddenly she knew that she couldn’t put it off. Now that she had Frank’s address, she had to see him. The thought of waiting until tomorrow was too much to bear. She went to the bedroom, changed into her jeans and a clean white shirt, pulled a comb through her hair and put on some lipstick. Then, before she could change her mind, she hurried through to the living room, shrugged on her denim jacket, grabbed her bag and rushed out of the flat.
Once outside, she tried to decide between catching a bus and travelling by rail. From Camden station she could get an overground train to Dalston and from there another one to Kellston. The latter would be quicker than the bus, but it wouldn’t be quick enough. She was too impatient to wait around for public transport.
For the second time in two days, Helen stretched out her hand and hailed a black cab. It was an expensive way to travel, but it saved hanging about. She gave the cabbie the address and settled back in the seat as he did a perilous U-turn and headed for Kellston. They were barely fifty yards down the road when she started questioning the wisdom of what she was doing, spending the rest of the journey in a state of heightened anxiety. What would she say to Frank? How would he react to her turning up out of the blue? What if he didn’t want to see her? What if he wasn’t there? What if was there but he had company, a girl perhaps? Oh God, there were just so many reasons why she shouldn’t be arriving unannounced.
By the time the cab drew up outside Carlton House, Helen had almost talked herself out of it. It took every effort of will for her to resist the temptation to ask the driver to take her back home. Butterflies were dancing in her stomach as she paid the fare and then watched the cabbie drive away. Well, she thought, looking around, there was nothing else for it. The time had come to gather her courage and put aside her reservations.
As she walked tentatively along the path, she recalled the times she’d spent on the estate as a kid, roaming the dank, gloomy p
assageways. Back then, she’d been both afraid and intrigued, but now she was only nervous. There was a threatening atmosphere to the place, a definite air of menace. Gangs of youths idled at corners, smoking joints or drinking beer as they stood and waited for something to happen.
The three tall towers of the Mansfield Estate had been built less than twenty years ago, but already they were starting to fall apart. Staring hard at Carlton House, she took in the crumbling mortar and the rusting balconies. She counted up seven floors and scanned the row of windows. Was one of them Frank’s?
The evening was pleasantly warm, but she still gave a slight shiver as she started climbing the stairs. She could have taken one of the lifts, but the wafting smell of urine had been less than inviting. Anyway, it would take her longer if she walked. It would give her more time to prepare herself.
By the time she mounted the last flight, she was beginning to regret her decision not to take the lift. She reached the seventh floor, checked the numbers on the sign and turned left towards number seventy-four. When she was almost there, she stopped to catch her breath, gazing out over the balcony at the view of Kellston. From here, she could see the neat rows of terraces, the high street, the station and even the roof of the Fox.
When she had delayed for as long as she could, and her pulse was almost back to normal, she took the final few steps and came to a halt in front of Frank’s door. It was shabby and battered-looking, the brown paint chipped and flaking. She couldn’t see a bell and so she knocked lightly with her knuckles, then waited, her heart in her mouth. There was no response. Disappointed, she rapped on the door again, a series of harder, more impatient knocks. This time there was a clearly audible movement from within. She heard the sound of a bolt being pulled back and then the door swung open. Suddenly she was face to face with Frank Meyer.
‘Yeah?’ he said roughly.
Helen smiled up at him. She had almost forgotten how tall he was. He didn’t look that different from the last time they’d met, although his hair was shorter and there was a slight hollowness beneath the cheekbones that hadn’t been there before. He was sleepy-eyed and unshaven, possibly a little drunk. There was a definite whiff of whisky in the air.