by Roberta Kray
When it came to Esther, Stanley had fewer fond feelings. He wound down the window and flicked out the ash from his cigarette. He found her cold and superior, the kind of woman who was used to always getting what she wanted. There were rumours of affairs but he didn’t know if they were true or not. Anyway, it was hard to like someone who despised you so openly. If the decision had been hers she’d have dispensed with his services almost as soon as he’d started providing them.
‘Let the police deal with it,’ he’d overheard her say to Mal. ‘What can that creep do that they can’t?’
But Mal Fury hadn’t given in. By then, of course, he had worked his way through half the private investigators in London, always hoping that the next one would turn up something new. Stanley suspected he had been a last resort, perhaps the only detective left who was prepared to keep digging on a case that had long since gone cold. And why not? He needed the money and for most of the time he had nothing better to do.
Someone, somewhere, knew the truth about what had happened to Kay, and secrets rarely stayed buried. Eventually something would rise to the surface, a clue, a link, and then the past would begin to unravel. That something was unlikely to be anything to do with Angela Bruce but he’d still give it his full attention. He was always thorough in his work, checking every detail, turning over every stone. It was a salve to his conscience, a way to help him sleep at night.
Stanley’s journey back to London was uneventful. It was only midday and the Friday traffic hadn’t started to build up yet. As he passed through the gloomy interior of the Blackwall Tunnel, he pondered on an article he had come across recently, a piece in a magazine about developments in paternity testing. At the moment simple blood tests could only exclude the possibility of a man being the father of a child, but there would come a time, and perhaps it wasn’t that far off, when science would be able to offer a more positive outcome.
He sighed. This wasn’t good news for him. For now every child with an ‘O’ blood type was a possible match for the Furys, but if these new tests proved reliable much of the work he carried out would be redundant. There would be no need for him to follow up on those kids who fell into the ‘possible’ bracket, no need to go chasing after ghosts.
Still, he had to look on the bright side. Those days weren’t here yet. Although there wasn’t much chance of Lolita Bruce being the missing child, he had permission to carry on investigating. He had a contact at the coroner’s, a technician who (for a price) would be able to provide a photo of Angela and a copy of the post-mortem. He could have gone through the legal channels but that would take weeks and a pile of paperwork. This way he could have all the information he needed by Monday.
Stanley made his way to Kellston, parked at the Fox and went inside. The pub was doing a brisk Friday lunchtime trade and he pushed through the crowd, going from room to room. He was hoping to find Pym there but was out of luck. Should he stay for a drink? Better not. One would turn into two or three and before he knew it the place would be closing. Instead he retraced his steps, crossed the road and walked down to the Hope and Anchor.
This was a much less congenial establishment, a spit-and-sawdust pub mainly frequented by local villains and other assorted riff-raff. The furnishings were old and worn and the inside had a chill that wasn’t just down to the lack of heating. By choice, Stanley would never have set foot in the place, but needs must.
The man he wanted to see was seated at the bar nursing half a pint of mild. Pym was the eyes and ears of the East End, a sly furtive man who made his living by selling information. He worked mainly for Joe Quinn but was happy to take money from anyone who’d pay him. Stanley walked over and nodded.
Pym looked up and smiled, showing a mouth full of rotten teeth. ‘Ah, Mr Parrish. Haven’t seen you in a while.’
‘Can I get you a drink?’
‘Scotch. May as well make it a double.’
Stanley ordered the drinks, two singles, and paid for them. They moved to a corner table, away from the other customers, and sat on the hard wooden seats. He didn’t bother with any small talk but got straight down to business. ‘Angela Bruce. What can you tell me about her?’
‘Who?’
‘Angela Bruce,’ Stanley repeated.
Pym frowned and shook his head. ‘Don’t sound familiar.’
‘She lived on the Mansfield. A suicide, back in August.’
‘Ah,’ Pym said. ‘The jumper. I remember now. Let me think.’ While he was doing this he took a black pouch out of his pocket, unzipped it, removed a pinch of tobacco and slowly rolled himself a tight skinny fag. He licked the edge of the cigarette paper, sealed it and stuck it in the corner of his mouth. ‘The crazy lady, yeah? I used to see her around.’
‘And?’
Pym gave a careless shrug. ‘What’s to say? I guess I won’t be seeing her around no more.’
Stanley stared at him. ‘That’s it? That’s all you’ve got?’
Pym lit the cigarette and puffed out a small cloud of smoke. ‘What’s with the interest?’
‘Just trying to track down some family, if there is any. There’s a kid, a daughter. She’s staying with Brenda Cecil at the moment. No one seems to know where Angela came from; she turned up in Kellston about eight years ago. I’m wondering why she chose here, if she had a connection to the area. ‘
‘You reckon she was looking for someone?’
‘Could have been.’
‘Can’t say I heard nothin’.’
‘You ever see her with a boyfriend, girlfriend, anyone she might have been close to? Apart from Brenda, I mean.’
‘Not so you’d notice. I mean not recent like. Maybe back when she first arrived, when she was working for Joe.’
Stanley frowned. This was news to him. ‘She was working for Joe Quinn?’
‘Yeah, in the Fox. Well, it would have been Joe’s son, Tommy, who hired her. She didn’t last long.’ Pym lifted his glass, knocked back the whisky in one and smacked his lips. ‘Started scaring the customers away with all that crazy talk of hers. But there may have been a girl she was friendly with.’ Pym stared at the empty glass and then glanced at Stanley. ‘I’m trying to think of her name but it just won’t come to me.’
Stanley took the hint, went over to the bar and bought another Scotch. He put the glass on the table and sat down again. ‘How about now? Anything?’
Pym gave a grin, leaned in close and lowered his voice. He had a ripe unwashed odour, overlain by the smell of tobacco and a whiff of halitosis. ‘Maeve, that was it. Maeve Riley. You won’t find her at the Fox, though. She don’t work there no more.’
‘Any idea where I could find her?’
‘You could try Connolly’s. She’s there most days.’
‘Connolly’s,’ Stanley repeated before emptying his glass. ‘Thanks. You’ve got my number. Call me if you think of anything else.’ He rose to his feet, dropped a few quid on to the table and walked out of the pub.
As he headed for the high street, he wondered how interested he should be in the Joe Quinn connection – the man was nasty and vicious and not beyond a touch of kidnapping – but realised he was probably clutching at straws. It would be pretty hard to work anywhere in Kellston without Joe having some involvement in the business. The lowlife had his snout in every trough.
The lunchtime rush was over at the café and there were plenty of free tables. Stanley chose one at the back, away from the window and the other customers. There was only one waitress serving, a pretty woman in her late thirties with short brown hair and a tired expression. When she came over to take his order he asked for a coffee and inquired if she was Maeve Riley.
‘That’s me,’ she said.
‘My name’s Stanley Parrish. I’m a private investigator trying to track down some family for Angela Bruce’s daughter. Would it be possible to have a word? I understand you worked with her for a while.’
Maeve’s face fell at the mention of Angela’s name. ‘Oh, that was just awful, wasn’t it? Te
rrible. I never thought, not for a minute…’
‘Dreadful,’ he said.
‘I just can’t believe what happened.’
‘I’ve got a few questions, some things you might be able to help me with. I could come back later if you like, after you’ve finished work.’
Maeve shook her head. ‘No, no, that’s fine. I’m due a break in ten minutes. We can talk then.’
Stanley drank his coffee while he waited and thought about stuff. Mostly what he thought about was how he was wasting his time. The chances of Kay Fury and Lolita Bruce being one and the same person were about as likely as him winning the football pools. Still, he was getting paid to investigate and that’s exactly what he was going to do.
It was almost a quarter of an hour before Maeve finally returned carrying two mugs. ‘On the house,’ she said, putting one in front of him. ‘Sorry I took so long.’
‘It’s no problem. Thanks.’
Maeve sat opposite, sighed and leaned down to rub her feet. ‘So how can I help?’
‘Well, anything you could tell me about Angela could be useful. Like I said, we’re trying to trace some family for Lolly.’
‘Poor girl. She must be heartbroken.’ Maeve sat up straight again, lifted the mug to her mouth and took a sip of tea. ‘I don’t think Angela ever mentioned family, though. I got the impression it was just her and Lolly.’
‘What about Lolly’s dad?’
Maeve shook her head. ‘She never said. She was pretty secretive about her past.’ There was a small hesitation before she continued. ‘Perhaps secretive is the wrong word. Maybe she just didn’t want to talk about it.’
‘But you were friends, yes?’
‘Well, I suppose. For a while. But that was when she first came to Kellston.’
‘When she got a job at the Fox?’
‘That’s right. I was working there too.’
‘Did she say where she’d been living before?’
‘She was kind of vague about it, said she’d lived all over the place. I think she was familiar with London, though. She seemed to know her way around.’
Stanley thought about what Pym had told him. ‘Was it Tommy Quinn who took her on at the pub?’
‘Yeah, although Joe wasn’t too pleased about it. Did his nut, in fact. He wanted Tommy to get rid of her but he wouldn’t.’
Stanley’s ears pricked up at this piece of information. ‘Why? What did Joe have against her?’
‘Beats me. I mean, this was all before she got ill and started… well, you know what I mean. Back then she was fine. Or she seemed to be. She was a good worker, pleasant to the customers.’
‘Did Joe often interfere in the hiring and firing?’
‘Never,’ she said. ‘He always left that up to Tommy. Joe’s not really interested in the pub – apart from the profits.’
‘So did Angela know him? Had the two of them met before?’
Maeve sipped on her tea and thought about it. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘So Joe just took against her because…?’
‘I’ve no idea. Well, he doesn’t need a reason. You only have to look at him the wrong way and he’s got it in for you.’ As if she might have said too much, she put her elbow on the table and briefly covered her mouth with her hand. Her brown eyes widened with alarm. ‘You won’t tell him I said that, will you? If he hears I’ve been badmouthing him, I’ll be in trouble.’
‘This is all confidential,’ Stanley said in his most reassuring tone. ‘I promise. Completely confidential. You’ve got nothing to worry about.’
But Maeve didn’t seem entirely convinced. ‘So who exactly are you working for?’
‘I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to say. Just someone who’s interested in Lolly’s future.’
‘I heard Brenda Cecil had taken her in.’
Stanley nodded. ‘For now. I’m not sure if she views it as a permanent arrangement.’
Maeve lifted her eyebrows. ‘I was surprised she took her in at all.’
‘Why’s that?’
But Maeve was still wary, not prepared to say too much. ‘I don’t know.’
Stanley could guess the reason. Brenda Cecil was hardly the most warm-hearted of people; she had a reputation around Kellston and it wasn’t for bringing comfort and joy. ‘So what else can you tell me about Angela? What kind of a person was she?’
‘Nice,’ Maeve said. ‘Ordinary. But…’ She paused as if grasping for the right words. ‘Not shy exactly, but reserved, I suppose. Not the sort to go shouting her business from the rooftops. We were friendly for a while, but not close. Just pals, really. I mean, we were more or less the same age. We’d go for a drink or to the cinema if she could get a babysitter. But then she hooked up with that lowlife, Billy Martin, and everything changed.’
Stanley made a mental note of the name. ‘What do you mean? In what way?’
‘That’s when she began to act strangely. He started putting all sorts of crazy ideas into her head, saying that people were talking about her behind her back, calling her a slut and plotting to take Lolly away. I told her he was wrong but she wouldn’t listen. I couldn’t understand it – the bloke was twisted, but it was like he had some sort of hold over her.’
‘You think she was scared of him?’
Maeve gave a light shrug. ‘Maybe, a bit, but she also trusted him. God knows why. He was one of those control freaks always checking up on her, where she’d gone, what she’d done, who she’d talked to and what she’d said. I told her it wasn’t normal but I may as well have been speaking to a brick wall. As you’ll have guessed by now, I couldn’t stand him; he gave me the creeps. He had this way of looking at you.’ She pulled a face. ‘Kind of leery and threatening at the same time. Like he was daring you to cross him.’
‘Was he local?’
‘South London. He put it about that he’d worked for the Richardsons but I reckon it was bullshit. He was just one of those guys who liked to act the big man, to pretend he was something he wasn’t. All mouth and no trousers as they say.’
‘Was Angela still seeing him when she… at the time of her death?’
‘Christ, no. He did a bunk years ago. He was only around for a few months and then he suddenly took off. She was convinced something bad had happened. I mean something seriously bad. She even went to the law to report him as missing.’
‘And did he ever turn up again?’
Maeve shook her head. ‘No, that was the last we saw of him. I reckon he was in trouble with someone, that’s why he scarpered, but Angela wasn’t having any of it. She just couldn’t accept that he’d up and gone like that. And that’s when all the other stuff started.’
Stanley waited but she didn’t explain. He drank some coffee and put the mug down on the table. ‘Stuff?’ he prompted.
Maeve’s shoulders shifted up and down again. ‘Well, the accusations. She started saying that Joe Quinn had… you know? Got rid of him. And that the rest of us were covering up. I mean, it was crazy. I’m not saying that Joe’s not capable, but he didn’t give a damn about Billy Martin. He barely knew the bloke. Anyway, it got so bad that Tommy eventually had to let her go. After that, I hardly saw her.’ She sighed. ‘I feel bad about it now. She was ill wasn’t she? She didn’t know what she was saying. I keep thinking I should have done more to help.’