The Lost

by Roberta Kray

  Jesus, Harry thought, the woman was truly deranged. ‘Couldn’t she just have divorced him?’

  Jess threw him another of her glowering looks.

  But Joan’s expression was more pitying than angry. She spoke as if she was in the company of a particularly slow individual. ‘What you have to understand, Mr Lind, is that Sharon didn’t want Grace – she’d never really wanted her – but she couldn’t bear Michael to have her either. This way she could get rid of her child and her husband and still have the public’s sympathy. It put her exactly where she wanted to be – right at the centre of everyone’s attention.’

  ‘I see,’ Harry said cautiously.

  Before he could say anything even slightly less cautious, Jess swiftly intervened again. ‘So you’ve just been waiting?’

  ‘And thinking,’ Joan said.

  ‘Have you been back to Berry Square?’

  ‘Of course,’ Joan said. ‘I’ve been watching over her. Someone had to protect the poor girl. None of this is her fault.’

  Harry glanced down at the table. It was light and flimsy and, if his right leg had been in better shape, he would have had the confidence to bring his knee up hard and fast and tip it over. He could still, possibly, use his left leg. However, it was also possible that if he got it wrong the gun would go off and, depending on the trajectory, send a bullet straight through his head.

  ‘Did you see anyone else there?’ Jess said.

  Joan’s face grew dark. Her voice grew harder too. ‘If you’re referring to your friend then yes, I saw him. Len Curzon was hanging around, all hours of the day and night. That filthy little hack just couldn’t stay away. I knew what he was up to. He’d made Michael’s life a misery and he was going to do the same to Grace. That’s why I had to help her.’

  ‘Help her?’ Jess repeated hoarsely.

  ‘What choice did I have? He knew who she was. He was going to ruin her life, splash her all over the papers again. I saw him talking to her that morning. I saw how scared she was.’

  Jess leaned forward, her eyes blazing. ‘It was you,’ she said. ‘You killed him!’

  Joan didn’t deny it. She didn’t even bother to try.

  Harry sensed the time for talk was over. Jess was enraged and Joan Sewell’s fingers were starting to twitch. Resorting to the most basic of techniques, he glanced towards the kitchen door and widened his eyes.

  As Joan instinctively turned her head, he forced his left knee up against the underside of the table and sent the whole lot, cups and all, flying towards her. The next few seconds were a frantic noisy blur. As she fell back the gun went off, shattering the kitchen window. Jess screamed. Harry felt blood on his face. Outside the dog went ballistic, clawing at the door.

  Had he been hit? Had Jess? He didn’t know. All he did know was that the gun was still in Joan’s possession. Launching himself round the side of the overturned table, he scrabbled on his hands and knees, reaching for her hand. Bits of broken crockery cut into his palms. Joan struck out at him. Even crumpled on the floor, she wasn’t giving up without a fight. Her legs were trapped but her arms were free. She tried to twist, to point the Glock towards his chest. He reached out and slammed her wrist against the floor. It took a moment, a seemingly eternal moment, to wrestle the gun from her.

  Harry finally grabbed it and breathed freely again. Joan lay back and groaned. It was a long low despairing sound. Slowly he got to his feet and looked over at Jess. She was still sitting on the chair. Her face was white and her left hand was clutched to her right shoulder. Blood was leaking between her fingers.

  He rushed over to her. ‘Jess! Christ, you’ve been shot.’

  ‘It’s not too bad. It only winged me.’

  ‘Let me help.’

  Jess shook her head. ‘I’m okay. I’m fine.’ She managed a shaky grin. ‘But if you’ve finished playing Action Man perhaps you could do something useful and call for an ambulance.’

  Chapter Fifty-Six

  It was three days since Harry had stared down the barrel of the Glock and wondered if his time was up. He was still unsure as to whether Joan Sewell had intended to kill them. Maybe she had simply chosen Jess as the person she was going to confess to. Personally, it wasn’t a risk he’d been prepared to take but then again he wasn’t the one who’d ended up with a bullet through his arm.

  Thankfully, Jess was okay. It shouldn’t take too long for the wound to heal although she’d be doing more dictating than typing over the next few weeks. At least she’d got her headline story, a scoop that should send her career into orbit. That made him feel slightly less guilty about it all.

  Harry parked the car and walked slowly into the foyer. According to Val, Sewell had freely admitted her guilt. Bent on vengeance, she’d gone round to Sharon’s house; it was time, Joan had claimed, for her to pay for what she’d done. She had been adamant, however, that the gun wasn’t hers. It was Sharon, realizing her intent, who had suddenly produced the Glock. There had been a brief struggle and what Joan had lacked in strength she had made up for in sobriety. Sharon had been drunk and unsteady on her feet. The gun had gone off and … well, he knew the rest.

  Harry switched his thoughts to Valerie. Things were no better on the relationship front. She had been less than impressed by his disarming of a double murderer (albeit one of almost pensionable age) or his discovery of yet another corpse. It probably hadn’t helped that he’d been in the presence of Jessica Vaughan again.

  Later, he’d had the pleasure of being interviewed by Frankie Holt and a new DCI called Ian Jenkins. Holt had been his usual charming self, determined to find some way of screwing him over. Harry couldn’t work out why Frankie detested him so much. They had never been friends exactly but had worked together, in reasonable harmony, for the three years before Harry was caught in the crack-factory blast. From that point on, Holt’s attitude had changed. Perhaps working on the premise that bad luck was contagious he had not even bothered to visit him in hospital.

  Apart from the dubious accusation of withholding evidence, there wasn’t much else Holt could hang on him. Even the ‘withholding evidence’ angle was tenuous. Okay, so he had discovered on Saturday afternoon that Grace Harper was still alive but bearing in mind the circumstances he could hardly be blamed for not rushing down the station.

  ‘She walked straight out in front of a car. She wasn’t in a fit state to talk to anyone. It seemed only fair to give her a few days.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Holt had replied, ‘a few days to pack up her stuff and get the hell out of here.’

  Harry could remember the sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. His mouth had gone dry. ‘She’s gone?’

  ‘Of course she’s fucking gone,’ Holt had sneered. ‘What did you think she was going to do – sit around and wait for the cops to arrive?’

  That Ellen Shaw was actually a victim rather than a perpetrator in this whole stinking mess was a concept that Frankie seemed unable to grasp. Just the fact that Ellen had been living under a false identity for the past twenty years was enough to make him want to bang her up and throw away the key.

  Fortunately DCI Jenkins had a less judgemental attitude. They had taken a break and Jenkins had returned ten minutes later minus Frankie Holt but with a more sympathetic DC and a lukewarm plastic cup of coffee. The exchange had been a welcome one. Harry had gone on to answer most of their questions but, careful to try and protect Jess, had kept some of his answers deliberately vague. What she chose to reveal was up to her.

  Harry went up in the lift, stepped out and waited for a moment in the corridor. Where had Ellen gone? It was a question he was unlikely to get an answer to. Wherever she was, she was with Adam. The Berry Square flat had been rented and the two of them had packed up their belongings and, according to the neighbours, left on the Sunday afternoon. The police had publicly expressed a wish to talk to her but with Sharon Harper dead and Joan Sewell safely locked up it was doubtful they would search that hard.

  He pushed open the doors and we
nt into the office.

  Lorna glanced at him from behind the desk and then stood up, her blue eyes wide and accusing. ‘Why didn’t you tell me?’

  Harry stopped dead in his tracks. Oh God, had she found out what had happened on Friday night? Had she heard about the drunken party at Zane Keppell’s house? One of the details he had omitted during the interview was Maddie Green’s identification of the photo of Grace. He could only hope that Jess had done the same. Having a gun thrust against your temple seemed suddenly inconsequential compared to what an angry mother could do to you.

  ‘I’m sorry?’ he muttered.

  ‘You could have been killed!’ she said. ‘We were all worried sick when we heard. Why didn’t you call?’

  A sigh of relief escaped from Harry’s lips. ‘Oh, sorry. I was stuck down the station for hours. I did try and call Mac yesterday but—’

  ‘You sit down,’ Lorna said, fussing round, ‘and I’ll get you a coffee. Mac’s out at a meeting but you can tell me all about it.’

  It was Warren James who rescued him from yet another cross-examination. Strolling in, he must have noticed Harry’s look of anguish. While Lorna’s back was turned he gave him a wink and said, ‘Hey, good to see you again. If you’re not too busy could I have a quick word? It is kind of urgent. It’s about the Westwood case.’

  ‘Sure,’ Harry said. ‘Glad to help.’

  ‘The paperwork’s in the other office.’

  Harry took the coffee from Lorna. ‘Thanks,’ he said to her. ‘I’ve just got to deal with this and then I’ll be back.’

  ‘You should be taking it easy,’ Lorna said.

  ‘I will. I am. Don’t worry. We’ll catch up later, okay?’

  Escaping to the corridor, Harry nodded at Warren. ‘Thanks for that.’

  ‘No problem,’ Warren said. ‘I know Lorna means well but she can be a bit … well …’

  ‘Over-protective?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Warren laughed. ‘I guess that’s one way of putting it.’

  They walked a short distance along the hall to what was spuriously referred to as the ‘other office’ but which was in reality no more than an oversized storage cupboard with only one small window near the ceiling. The carpet was grey, the walls a slightly grubby shade of white. A formica-topped desk, currently occupied by three computers, and a couple of swivel chairs took up most of the available room.

  Harry sat down. ‘You must go crazy working in here.’

  ‘I’ve known worse,’ Warren said. ‘And at least there are no distractions. It’s a good place to come if you want some peace and quiet.’

  ‘So how is the Westwood case going?’

  ‘It isn’t,’ Warren said. ‘He’ll get away with it. Half the time there’s no one at the house. Mac hadn’t got the manpower to keep the surveillance going.’

  That wasn’t good news. Harry glanced down at the desk. To his left there was a newspaper open at the jobs page. In the computer section a few of the vacancies had been circled with a red ballpoint pen. He reached out and pulled the paper towards him. ‘What’s with the job hunt? You planning on moving on?’

  Warren looked uncomfortable. He frowned, sat back in his chair and shrugged. ‘Just considering the options. I’ve got a kid to support. I’ve also got a millstone of a mortgage. I can’t afford to hang about. Once the ship starts to sink, you either jump or you go down with it.’

  ‘You think things are that bad?’

  ‘Bad enough.’

  Harry gave a groan. He really should have had that chat with Mac. As his gaze slid down the Situations Vacant column, he began to wonder what kind of future he might be facing. Not a very bright one judging from what was currently on offer.

  ‘There’s a rumour going round,’ Warren said.

  Harry glanced up.

  ‘I’m not claiming that it’s true,’ Warren said. ‘It’s only what I’ve heard.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘People are saying Mac’s got gambling debts – big ones.’

  ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Harry’s initial reaction was to laugh but then he grew more serious. Mac had always had a fondness for poker; it had got him into trouble on more than one occasion. ‘Shit,’ he murmured. ‘And are people saying who he owes the money to?’

  Warren pulled a face. ‘You’re not going to like it.’

  ‘Tell me anyway.’

  ‘Ray Stagg.’

  Harry gave another groan. Suddenly it all made sense: why Mac had taken Stagg on as a client, why he’d given the case priority, why he’d been so keen for Harry to find Al. Doubtless, Stagg had been putting the pressure on. No wonder he’d looked so smug when Harry had first gone to see him. He jumped to his feet. ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky. He hasn’t been in since Friday.’

  ‘Lorna said he was in a meeting.’

  Warren raised his brows. ‘Lorna says what she’s told to say.’

  ‘Sod it,’ Harry said. ‘I’ll go over to his flat then.’ If Mac had reverted to his former ways, he’d probably be drowning his sorrows in a bottle of whisky. He was about to leave when his phone started ringing.

  It was Snakey Harris.

  ‘Just wanted to check that the car was running smoothly, Mr Lind.’

  Snakey had returned the Audi yesterday morning minus all its dents and looking good as new. ‘Thanks. Yes. Like a dream.’

  There was a short pause. ‘And are you still searching for that white van?’

  Harry’s fingers tightened round the phone. He’d forgotten all about giving him the registration. ‘Absolutely,’ he said. ‘You haven’t found it, have you?’

  ‘Masey Street,’ Snakey said, trying not to sound too triumphant. ‘Number nineteen. It’s in the drive.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Snakey said. ‘I put the word out – on the quiet, mind – and asked a few people to keep their eyes peeled. Old Teddy Duxton spotted it last night. It’s parked right in front of the house but there’s a big hedge so you can’t see it from the road.’

  Quite what Teddy Duxton, an elderly small-time offender with a penchant for ‘peeping’, had been doing loitering behind a hedge in Stoke Newington was a question Harry preferred not to ask. At this precise moment he didn’t give a damn. ‘You’re a star, Snakey. I owe you one.’

  ‘My pleasure, Mr Lind.’

  Harry hung up and put the phone back in his pocket.

  ‘Good news?’ Warren said.

  ‘Could be. I hope so. I just got an address for where Al Webster could be hiding out.’

  ‘You going there now?’

  ‘You bet,’ Harry said. He was halfway out of the door when he looked back and said, ‘You want to come along?’

  Warren grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. ‘I’m right behind you.’

  A few minutes later they were down in the car park. As they approached the Audi Harry felt that prickling sensation on the back of his neck again. He glanced around but there was no one there. What was wrong with him? He must be getting paranoid. Shaking his head, he unlocked the doors and climbed into the driver’s seat.

  Chapter Fifty-Seven

  Masey Street was on the edge of Stoke Newington and Newington Green, just beyond the boundaries of where Harry and Jess had conducted their unofficial door-to-door inquiries after Agnes had disappeared. Number nineteen was a large detached house. Although once a sturdy and desirable property the building was now crumbling, its outer structure neglected, its interior divided into too many shabby flats and bedsits.

  Harry peered through the snow-covered windscreen. Warren tapped his fingertips against his thigh. After having checked out that it actually was Al’s van sitting in the drive, they’d been parked up for the past three hours, watching as the afternoon slowly faded into darkness. There had been no movement, in or out, since they’d arrived although a few lights had gone on in the house.

  Harry had spent some of the time explaining the details of the case. For the r
est of it, he’d had his mind on other things. He couldn’t get Ellen out of his head. There were people you met, who you made a connection with, who were just too hard to let go of. Ellen Shaw was one of those people. She’d got under his skin and he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

  He looked at his watch. It was almost six o’clock. They could either sit tight and hope for a break – the kind of break where someone might decide to venture out for a pint of milk – or take matters into their own hands. Harry opted for the latter. He was too impatient, too frustrated, to wait any longer. The only problem now was finding out which flat they were actually holed up in.

  ‘Got any ideas?’ Warren said.

  ‘Only the one.’

  Five minutes later Warren approached the house with the evening paper under his arm. He started pressing each of the bells in turn. There was no response to his first three attempts but after the fourth ring the door was answered by a tall skinny guy with wet hair and a towel around his shoulders.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘I’m here about the van.’

  ‘What?’

  Warren glanced over his shoulder. ‘It is for sale, isn’t it?’

  ‘Dunno, mate.’

  ‘It’s in the paper,’ Warren said, thrusting it under his nose. ‘I rang earlier. I was told six o’clock.’

  ‘I don’t know anything about it.’

  Warren added a peevish note to his tone. ‘Shit, man. I’ve come all the way from Balham. Are you telling me I’ve had a wasted journey?’

  ‘It’s not my van,’ the guy said defensively. ‘Didn’t you get a name?’

  ‘I didn’t catch it,’ Warren said. ‘It was a woman with an accent. This was the address she gave me.’

  The guy frowned while he thought about it. ‘Well, it’s not Sarah, that’s for sure, and it’s not … I guess you could try the basement. There’s a foreign girl living there.’