The Lost

by Roberta Kray

  He got out of the car and stared at the building. There had been a murder here once, years ago, when he was starting out in the Force. The place had been called The Palace then. He couldn’t recall the name of the owner – Johnny something? – but remembered that the body had been found in the boot of his car. He grinned. That wasn’t a trick Stagg could pull off too easily with that low-slung fancy motor of his.

  Since the killing, the club had changed hands a number of times, been refurbished and had an extension built on to the side. Now the paintwork was immaculate and at night the bright neon sign flashed a cool icy blue. Very smart. Only the ankle-deep heap of litter, evidence of last night’s carousing, marred the effect.

  Harry headed for the entrance, pushed through the glass doors and passed into the reception area. An anorexic-looking blonde, her dark roots showing, was sitting behind the desk. She was a sophisticated kind of a girl, the sort who had the manners to shove the gum she was chewing into the side of her mouth before speaking.

  ‘Yeah?’ she said.

  ‘Harry Lind. I’ve an appointment with Mr Stagg.’

  ‘You a cop?’ she said, staring up at him.

  ‘Do I look like a cop?’ he replied.

  She pulled a face and shrugged. ‘Suit yourself.’ Picking up the phone, she punched at a number with a scarlet talon. ‘Bloke to see you, Ray. Says he’s got an appointment. Harry somethin’?’ She raised her eyes.

  ‘Lind,’ he reminded her.

  ‘Yeah, Lind,’ she repeated. She listened intently for a few seconds, giggled at some comment that was made, and then put down the phone. She waved a hand. ‘Park yourself. He’ll be free in a sec.’

  Harry looked at the long leather couch but didn’t sit down. His appointment was for ten o’clock and it was ten o’clock now. Instead he paced the length of the foyer, studying the walls with their array of black and white celebrity photographs. He didn’t recognize many of the faces – he must be getting old.

  The minutes ticked by and Harry felt his aggravation growing. It was typical of Stagg to keep him waiting. He was probably doing it deliberately, just trying to wind him up. If it hadn’t been for what Lorna had told him, he’d be tempted to turn on his heel and abandon the meeting.

  The foyer was quiet, the only sounds the distant drone of a hoover and a soft rustle as the girl flicked through the pages of her glossy magazine. Harry ran his fingers through his hair, released a weary sigh and with nothing else to do finally slumped down on the sofa.

  It was twenty past ten before the phone rang. The blonde picked it up, grunted and then replaced the receiver.

  She glanced over at him. ‘Go through if you want,’ she said casually, as if he might just prefer to loiter in the foyer for the rest of the morning. ‘Second door on the left.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, standing up. ‘I hope I haven’t put you to too much trouble.’

  If she caught the sarcasm she didn’t respond to it. She simply shrugged her skinny shoulders again and returned her attention to the magazine.

  Harry didn’t bother to knock – there was a limit to the level of courtesy he was prepared to show a villain – but pushed open the door and walked straight in.

  The office was about twenty foot square, plush, with a deep pile red carpet. More black and white photographs were spread across the walls, all of them of women and all bordering on the pornographic. Stagg was sitting in a dark leather swivel chair behind a desk that was wide enough to sleep on. He was a slim fair man, impeccably dressed in a grey designer suit, white shirt and pale pink tie. At forty-three he was four years older than Harry but at five foot eight a good six inches shorter.

  ‘Ah, Mr Lind,’ he said. ‘How nice to see you again.’ He smiled, showing a perfect set of teeth. ‘Apologies if I kept you waiting. You know how it is – the pressures of business and all that.’

  He didn’t get to his feet or offer his hand for which Harry was faintly grateful. The protocol of greetings between ex-cops and active crooks was understandably vague.

  ‘Grab a pew,’ Stagg said, gesturing towards a chair. ‘Coffee?’

  As he sat down, Harry glanced at his watch. ‘No thanks. I’m running a little late. Other appointments, I’m afraid.’ He smiled back, a smile as false as the one that had been presented to him. ‘You know how it is.’

  Stagg lifted his chin and stared at him. ‘So how have you been? I was sorry to hear about your … er … spot of bother.’

  Harry tried, although it was already too late, not to flinch. He could feel his whole body stiffen but fought to keep his face impassive. Stagg was about as sorry as any villain would be to hear about a cop being permanently scarred. He took a slow breath and attempted to keep his voice steady. ‘Perhaps if we could just get on with the business in hand?’

  ‘Of course,’ Stagg said smugly. He leaned forward and put his elbows on the desk. ‘I presume Mac’s filled you in on the basics?’

  Harry frowned. Since when had David Mackenzie become ‘Mac’ to this hoodlum? ‘It’s a missing persons case, right?’

  ‘Yeah, the brother-in-law. Al, Alan Webster. He’s been gone for over a week.’

  ‘And you haven’t informed the police?’

  Stagg lifted his pale brows and laughed. ‘Course we have. Denise reported it. She’s my sister,’ he explained, ‘Al’s wife.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And what?’ Stagg said. ‘They’re hardly going to send out a search party, are they? They’re not remotely interested in a middle-aged loser who’s most likely shacked up with some slag of a blonde in the back of God knows where.’

  ‘So you want us to try and find him,’ Harry said.

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘And if we do, what happens then?’

  ‘Is that any of your concern?’

  ‘It is if—’

  ‘What do you think?’ Stagg interrupted, smirking. ‘That if you track him down, I’ll be straight round to persuade him of the error of his ways?’ He shook his head. ‘Forget it. Denise is old enough to sort out her own marital problems.’

  ‘So why bother with a private investigator?’

  ‘Because she’s my sister and she’s pissed off. And do you know what she does when she’s pissed off? She calls me up thirty times a day to find out what I’m doing about it. Now I love my sister, Mr Lind, but she’s driving me crazy. So I’d like to employ you, at whatever extortionate rates you bastards might charge, to get her off my back and take those calls for me. Then maybe, just maybe, I can get some bloody peace and quiet.’

  Harry sat back and folded his arms. He wasn’t sure how much he believed, if any, of Ray Stagg’s explanation. There could be a multitude of reasons as to why he really wanted Webster found. ‘Well, I can take the details but I can’t promise anything. We’re pretty busy at the moment.’

  Stagg’s cold blue eyes slowly narrowed. ‘I’m not sure Mac would agree with you.’

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I mean, the impression he gave me was that he was more than happy to help. He told me you’d be able to start straight away. In fact, he’s even taken a deposit.’

  Has he indeed, Harry thought, all his earlier fears instantly resurfacing. If Mac was crawling to the local gangsters then he must be in serious trouble.

  ‘So,’ Stagg said, pushing a buff-coloured folder across the desk with the tips of his manicured fingers. ‘Here are the basics. The rest you can find out from Denise.’

  Harry glared down at it. He didn’t care for being dictated to, least of all by the likes of Stagg. The man was a drug baron, a thug, a pimp. He was tempted, for the second time that morning, to just walk away but he didn’t. Instead, reluctantly, he flipped open the folder and glanced inside. There was a single sheet of paper with Denise’s address and telephone number on it, the date her husband had disappeared and a small snapshot of Al. Harry glanced at the picture. Alan Webster was in his mid-forties, an amiable-looking guy with a pleasant smile, brown eyes and receding mousy b
rown hair.

  ‘What does he do?’

  ‘Works on the Romford market,’ Stagg said.

  ‘Selling what?’

  Stagg shrugged. ‘Whatever. This and that: music, CDs, DVDs.’

  ‘Could he have been in financial trouble?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘The usual way,’ Harry said, ‘more money going out than coming in. Any bad habits – gambling, women, booze, drugs?’

  ‘Not that I’ve heard of, but who knows. That’s why I’m employing you, isn’t it?’

  ‘It’s just that you mentioned earlier about how he was probably with someone else.’

  Ray Stagg lifted his hands off the desk. ‘Well, what do you think? There aren’t that many options to choose from: a guy’s been married for over twenty years, packs a bag and suddenly does a bunk – he’s either with some tart or …’

  ‘Or?’

  ‘Or he’s won the bleeding lottery or he’s lying in a ditch somewhere. I dunno.’

  Harry got the impression he didn’t much care either. He stared at him. ‘Do you get on well with Mr Webster?’

  Stagg stared back across the desk. ‘And that matters because …?’

  ‘I was only asking.’

  ‘He’s Al. He’s the brother-in-law. I can’t say we’ve ever been the best of mates but if you want to know if I’ve got any grievance against him, then no – well, not until now.’

  ‘So when can I see Denise?’

  ‘She’s waiting for you.’

  Harry nodded, snapped the file shut and stood up. ‘Okay. I’ll be in touch.’

  Ray Stagg smirked again. ‘Yeah, I’m sure you will.’

  Chapter Six

  It was ten forty-five when the phone rang. Len checked who it was before answering, saw that it was Jess, sighed and then picked up.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she asked before he had time to say anything. ‘You missed the morning meeting, again. Toby’s got a real cob on. I had to tell him you’d had an urgent call.’

  ‘Oh, Jesus. Sorry. Thanks, love.’

  ‘I can’t keep doing this, Len. Toby’s patience, such as it is, isn’t going to hold out much longer. He thinks you’re just sitting in a pub getting rat-arsed.’ She paused and then said quietly: ‘You’re not, are you?’

  ‘Of course I’m not. I’ve told you. I’m on to something. I just need a few more days.’

  ‘You’re not going to have a job in a few more days.’

  There was a short silence. Len continued to stare out of the car window and across the square.

  ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘I’ll sort it. I’ll talk to Toby.’

  ‘And me?’

  ‘Yeah, you too. I promise. I’ll call you later.’

  Len put the phone down and lit a cigarette. It was too soon to approach Ellen Shaw – he needed more facts, something to back up his suspicions – but time was running out. Jess couldn’t cover forever and Toby would be glad of an excuse to get rid of him. Small-minded editors like Toby Marsh didn’t understand the meaning of the good old-fashioned hunch; they thought reporters like him were obsolete, men who should be put out to grass.

  Len opened the window and angrily flicked out his ash. The snow had stopped falling and now a fine drizzly rain was turning everything to slush. He took another pull on his fag. His lungs, as he breathed out, emitted a thin unhappy wheezing sound.

  What to do next? At the moment, other than his gut instinct, he had little to offer Toby. He could tell him about Deacon and Ellen Shaw, about their assignation at the jail, but that would be a disaster. He knew how Toby’s mind worked: the moron would have a photographer round double quick, snapping her picture, and then he’d be running with the story in the next edition. And if Len wanted to prevent that, he’d have to tell him about what he really thought, about who he suspected she really was – which, as he didn’t have any proof, would be reason enough for Toby to get out his leaflets on early retirement and send for the men in white coats.

  No, he had to talk to her before he talked to Toby. There was no other choice. This could be his last chance for one final incredible exclusive – and no over-ambitious prat of an editor was going to foul it up for him.

  Quickly, before he could change his mind, he got out of the car, crushed his cigarette under his heel and walked around the square. He turned up his collar as the rain slid down his neck. Carefully, he climbed the icy steps at number twelve, hesitated and then put his finger on the bell for Shaw.

  He waited. Nothing. He pressed again, a couple of longer rings. No answer.

  Len knew she was there – and there alone. He’d been watching the flat all morning and her husband had left hours ago. He tried the bell again. This time he heard a distinctive click over the intercom.

  ‘Yes?’ a small voice inquired.

  ‘Parcel for Shaw,’ he said briskly, leaning towards the grille in the doorway. ‘I need a signature.’

  ‘Er … oh right, okay.’

  The intercom clicked off and Len took a step back. He still wasn’t sure what he was going to say or how far he was prepared to go. He stamped the snow off his feet and anxiously flexed his fingers. Lord, he couldn’t afford to mess this up now.

  It was another few minutes before Ellen Shaw finally opened the door. She was wearing a pair of blue jeans and a cream sweater. Her large dark eyes gazed up at him. They widened as she glanced down towards his empty hands.

  Len’s heart missed a beat. He hadn’t been this near since he’d stood behind her on the tube. Close up, he was even more certain that he was right. She was the very image of the young Sharon Harper. He could still remember that poor mother, white-faced, terrified, the same deep brown eyes staring wildly into the camera.

  He cleared his throat. ‘My name’s Len Curzon. I was hoping I could have a word with you.’

  She frowned as if suspecting an imminent sales pitch, life insurance perhaps or the opportunity for a close encounter with God. ‘I’m sorry. I’m rather busy at the moment.’

  ‘I’m a reporter,’ he said. ‘I work on the Hackney Herald. I wanted to ask you about Paul Deacon.’

  She visibly started but then quickly shook her head. ‘I don’t know who you’re talking about.’

  ‘Are you saying you haven’t been visiting Deacon at Maidstone jail?’

  ‘Please leave me alone. I’ve got nothing to say to you.’

  Len watched her move back, preparing to slam the door in his face. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘Perhaps your husband will be more forthcoming.’

  She stopped dead and glared at him. A bright spot of red appeared on both her cheeks. ‘Leave Adam out of this. It doesn’t concern him.’

  ‘Well, if you’re not prepared to talk to me …’

  She hesitated, her pale lips tightening into a thin straight line. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘but not here. There’s a café on the High Street – Morgan’s. Do you know it?’

  ‘I’ll find it.’

  ‘I’ll meet you there later. About four?’

  Len looked down at his watch. It was barely eleven. ‘How can I be sure you’ll turn up?’

  Her mouth opened, releasing a small strained laugh. ‘Well, you know where I live. It shouldn’t be that hard to find me.’

  He thought about it and then nodded. ‘Okay. Morgan’s at four. I’ll see you then.’

  Chapter Seven

  After a brief tour of Loughton, Harry found where he was looking for and pulled the car into the drive of a whitewashed semi with a neat front garden. Number seventeen Verity Drive wasn’t a palace but it was big enough and smart enough to be worth a few bob. Harry smiled. Either there was more money in DVDs than he’d ever dreamed of or Al had a lucrative sideline.

  The woman who answered the door was ash blonde, slim and in her late thirties. She bore a resemblance to her brother although it was minus his smug self-satisfied expression. Instead her face was etched with worry.

  ‘Mrs Webster?’

  She nodded. ‘Are you the guy
Ray called me about?’

  ‘Harry Lind,’ he said. He put out his hand.

  She shook it and stood aside to let him in. ‘Thanks for coming.’

  Harry politely wiped his feet and walked into the hall.

  ‘This way,’ she said. She led him through into a spacious living room, professionally decorated in pale tones of beige and cream. There were two three-seater sofas and a couple of easy chairs, all so pristine that they might have been newly delivered. It was the kind of room that made him feel faintly nervous. He glanced over his shoulder to check that he wasn’t leaving a trail of muddy footprints.

  ‘Take a seat,’ she said, gesturing towards one of the sofas.

  Harry gently lowered himself down.

  ‘Coffee?’ she said. ‘I’ve just put the kettle on.’

  ‘Thanks. That would be good.’

  As she disappeared into the kitchen, Harry took the opportunity to have a good look round. There was a widescreen TV in the corner, a complex music system to its right, a glass-topped coffee table with stone carved legs and a scattering of potted palms. Three large modern pictures on the walls, Mondrian-type prints in bright primary shades, provided a splash of colour.

  It was hot in the room, the temperature virtually tropical. Harry wiped his forehead with the back of his hand.

  ‘Nice house,’ he said as she returned with two steaming mugs of coffee.

  ‘Thanks. Ray helped us out,’ she said. ‘We’d never have been able to afford it otherwise.’

  Harry instantly revised his opinion of Al’s earning capacity. He took the mug from her hand and placed it carefully on the coaster on the table. ‘So, Mrs Webster,’ he began.

  ‘Oh, call me Denise,’ she insisted. ‘Please.’ She sat down in one of the large cream armchairs and crossed her legs. She was wearing white trousers, a pair of highheeled white shoes and a pale pink shirt that reminded him of the colour of Ray Stagg’s tie.

  ‘So … Denise,’ he began again. ‘It was about a week ago that Al disappeared?’

  She nodded. ‘Just over.’

  ‘And he packed a bag before he left?’