by Roberta Kray
Through her marriage to Reggie Kray, Roberta Kray has a unique and authentic insight into London’s East End. Roberta met Reggie in early 1996 and they married the following year; they were together until Reggie’s death in 2000. Roberta is the author of many previous bestsellers including Bad Girl, Streetwise, No Mercy and Dangerous Promises.
Also by Roberta Kray
The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Strong Women
The Villain’s Daughter
Broken Home
Nothing But Trouble
Bad Girl
Streetwise
No Mercy
Dangerous Promises
Ebook Only
The Honeytrap
Non-fiction
Reg Kray: A Man Apart
COPYRIGHT
Published by Sphere
978-0-7515-6103-6
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Roberta Kray 2016
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
SPHERE
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DZ
www.littlebrown.co.uk
www.hachette.co.uk
Exposed
Table of Contents
About the Author
Also by Roberta Kray
COPYRIGHT
Dedication
Prologue
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
Epilogue
In memory of Vernon Wells
Prologue
1966
Paddy Lynch lay dying in the back of the van. He clutched at his guts, trying to stop the life from leaking out of him. His eyes, frantic with fear, darted to the left and the right, looking at everything but focusing on nothing. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
‘You’ll be all right, mate. Hang on in there.’
‘Yeah, we’ll get you to the hospital. No worries, Pads. They’ll sort you out.’
The two men who were crouched down beside him exchanged quick knowing glances. Unless Paddy got help soon, he was for it. You didn’t need to be a doctor to see that. They tried to keep their voices reassuring as they watched his face turn grey.
A third man, Jack Minter, scowled and looked away. He was struggling to contain his rage. He had no sympathy for Paddy. The stupid bastard had ignored everything he’d been told, gone in like some gun-toting cowboy, managed to get himself shot with his own sawn-off and almost blown the whole job in the process. And now – the icing on the cake – someone would have to take him to the hospital. And for what? The bloke was going to croak no matter where he was.
Jack glared at the row of heavy brown sacks. It was a decent haul, mainly consisting of gold, gems and jewellery, but it would have been even better if Paddy hadn’t gone off half-cocked. The thought of what they’d had to leave behind made his blood boil. It had taken over a year of meticulous planning, his planning, hours and hours of painstaking work to get everything in place. He’d been sure that he’d covered every contingency – except for this one.
‘You’ll be okay, Pads. You will. Tell him, Jack.’
Jack forced a thin smile. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘No worries. We’ll be there soon.’ But he didn’t look straight at Paddy – he didn’t want to see those fading eyes – and focused instead on a spot to the side of his head. Jesus, he should have known better than to bring him along. The guy had been a last-minute replacement after Charlie Treen had broken his leg. A bad omen if ever there’d been one. He should have listened to the gods, postponed it and waited until Charlie was back on his feet, but it was too late for regrets now.
The van was moving rapidly along the uneven road, every bump and jolt adding to Paddy’s misery. A low moan escaped from between his lips. Jack glanced at his watch, knowing they must be approaching the changeover spot. It was a quiet place where two cars were parked, where the team would separate and the haul would be split before they met up again at the house in Kellston.
‘Right, we’re almost there. I’ll take the van and drop Paddy off at the hospital.’
‘What about the gear?’ Rossi asked, his expression tight and suspicious as if Jack might be trying to pull a fast one.
‘Same as we planned. You divide it between you and I’ll see you later.’
Rossi glanced down at Paddy, looked up again and gave a cautious nod. ‘You sure?’
‘It’s the only way. I’ll dump the van at A&E and get the Tube back.’
The van came to a halt. They heard Ned run round to open the doors. ‘How is he?’ he asked, staring wide-eyed at Paddy.
‘Hanging on,’ Jack said. ‘Come on, let’s get this gear shifted.’
The men unloaded the sacks in thirty seconds flat and shoved them into the boots of the waiting vehicles. The three said a few quick reassuring words to Paddy before jumping inside the cars. Jack could see they felt guilty about leaving the guy, but not guilty enough to jeopardise their own freedom. Not one of them suggested coming along.
Jack gave a snort. So much for loyalty, for standing by your buddies. When the shit hit the fan it was every man for himself. He put his foot down and went first, the others following on at the rear. At the crossroads they took three different directions, with only the van going straight ahead. The law might not be far behind and if he got stopped then at least the haul was safe. He thought about Paddy lying in the back and his lip curled. Problem was, the filth would know the idiot had been shot and they’d be watching the hospitals. That was going to make it tricky.
And there was something else to stress about too. What if by some freak chance Paddy didn’t die? What if he came through the op, opened his big mouth and sang like a canary? Jack wouldn’t put it past him. He didn’t trust the guy, not an inch. What did he really know about Paddy Lynch? Sod all, other than the fact he couldn’t follow orders. The fool might sell them all down the river.
‘Stuff that!’ he muttered.
Jack reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of fags, took a cigarette and lit it. He breathed in deeply, trying to figure out what to do next. He expelled the smoke in a long thoughtful stream. A spatter of rain fell against the windscreen and he switched on the wipers, his gaze flicking between the road ahead and the rear-view mirror. What now? An inner voice was whispering
in his ear. The answer was clear. The answer was simple. All he had to do was nothing.
Jack didn’t think of himself as a cruel man, simply a pragmatic one. This was supposed to be his first and last job and by ten o’clock tonight – if nothing got in the way – he could be on a plane heading out of the country for good. He had no intention of ever coming back. A new life, a fresh start was what he had planned and he didn’t see why he should change those plans.
It was time to get out of London, and especially the East End. Things were getting too hot. Ever since Ronnie Kray had shot Cornell back in March, there’d been tension in the area. There were going to be repercussions; there was no doubt about it. The filth would only take so much. A line had been crossed and there’d be a price to pay. Well, he didn’t intend to be standing in the firing line when it all kicked off.
Jack took another long drag on his cigarette and hissed out the smoke between his teeth. ‘Damn it!’
If Paddy survived and named names, they’d all be looking at a long stretch. And what if he grassed them up before he even got into the operating theatre? Not that it was likely judging by the state of him, but stranger things had happened when men were on their way to meet their maker.
Jack gave an impatient shake of his head. Sometimes important decisions had to be made, decisions for the greater good, and this was one of those occasions. After all, when push came to shove, Paddy had brought it on himself. If he hadn’t been so reckless, he wouldn’t be lying in the back of the van with a bullet in his guts. Why should everyone else pay the price for what he’d done? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It was way out of order.
He opened the window and chucked out the fag end. The cold November air snapped at his face, reminding him of why he wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere warmer, somewhere that offered better opportunities for an ambitious man with hopes and dreams. One chance, that’s all you got sometimes, and he wasn’t about to throw his away.
As Jack approached the junction he saw the signs for Epping town centre and the hospital. Straight on. He didn’t need to think about it twice. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he murmured, flicking on the indicator and turning left. ‘Some you win, some you lose.’ He didn’t view what he was doing as murder; he was simply letting nature take its course.
1
1982
Eden Chase screwed up her eyes against the bright winter sun as she stepped out of the Tube station and began to walk down James Street towards the centre of Covent Garden. It was one of those sharp, sunny afternoons that break the monotony of winter and automatically lift the spirits. Not that her spirits needed any lifting; she had never been happier in her life.
As she crossed the busy piazza, she looked towards the first-floor window of the studio on Henrietta Street, almost expecting to see the tall, fair-haired figure of her husband. He frequently stood there looking down on the hustle and bustle of the square, his hands on his hips, his expression one of deep concentration. What was he thinking? She often wondered but she never asked.
Eden liked the fact that Tom wasn’t an easy person to fathom. He was the sort of man who didn’t give much away. You had to peel the information from him, one layer at a time, and even then you felt like you’d barely scratched the surface. But she didn’t mind that; they had years ahead of them, plenty of time to get to know each other better. Her husband was worth the effort.
She smiled as the word slid into her head. Husband. Even though they’d been married for a year, the word still felt new on her lips. Back when she’d first made the announcement, some of her more feminist friends had knotted their brows in disapproval. There had been a lively debate over her future nuptials. Everybody liked Tom – he was witty and clever, generous and kind – but what did she want to get hitched for? Why didn’t she just live with him? In this day and age women didn’t need to get married to feel fulfilled.
But Eden had discovered that she liked being married. Tom might have swept her off her feet but in many ways he grounded her too. For the first time she felt like she had direction and that she wasn’t just drifting through life. Every morning and every night she counted her blessings. Meeting him was the best thing that had ever happened to her.
Her father, however, had not shared this point of view and had been vociferous in his objections to the marriage. Tom was too old for her (forty to her twenty-five) and what kind of a career was photography? There was no security in it, no solid future. And why did they have to get married right now?
‘It won’t last,’ he’d said with his customary churlishness. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’
‘Can’t you just be happy for me?’
‘Happy about what? You’ve barely known him two minutes.’
‘Six months,’ she’d said, although it was actually closer to five.
‘Six months! Exactly! It’s hardly the foundation for a successful marriage. I don’t see why you’re rushing into things. You’re young. You’ve got all the time in the world. Why can’t you just —’ He had stopped abruptly, his face paling as an obvious reason for the haste occurred to him. His eyes narrowed with worry and disgust. ‘Please don’t tell me that you’re —’
‘For God’s sake,’ she’d snapped back. ‘Of course not.’ And then she’d quickly added, ‘Anyhow, it’s the eighties, Dad. Nobody cares about that sort of thing any more. Why would it matter if I was?’ She’d known very well why it would matter – her father was staunchly conservative, rigidly middle-class and completely stuck in his ways. He regarded babies conceived out of wedlock as shameful. She had known too that it was his own reputation he was as bothered about as much as hers.
Eden sighed and lowered her gaze from the window. She loved her father but found him hard to like. Their relationship was strained and fraught with difficulty. It was fortunate that they lived so far apart. At a distance they were able to maintain some semblance of civility, avoiding the sparks that always started flying whenever they came face to face. The trouble was… Well, where to start? They both had a stubborn streak and that was never going to change.
Anyway, despite the general lack of support, Eden had gone ahead with the wedding. Her mother would have understood. Although she had no firm evidence for this assertion – Diana Shore had died when Eden was only six – she had created a picture in her head of a woman who had possessed the finest of maternal qualities, a parent who was wise and witty, sensitive and kind. Her actual memories were so vague and shadowy that she was no longer sure what was real and what wasn’t.
Eden stopped as she drew alongside St Paul’s church and peered around the heads of the crowd. A fire eater was in the middle of his act, plunging a torch into his mouth and spewing long hissing flames into the air. The performance held her attention for a minute or two until her thoughts drifted off again.
It was here, almost on this very spot, that she had first met Tom. She hadn’t taken much notice of him – he was just some tall blond guy, probably a tourist, with a camera in front of his face – until she realised that the Leica was pointing straight at her. She had seen his finger press down on the button and heard the smooth rapid click of the shutter opening and closing.
‘Did you just take a picture of me?’
‘Yes.’
For some reason, she’d expected him to deny it and his honesty had caught her off guard. Despite this she’d still glared hard at him. ‘Well, you can’t. You can’t do that.’
He’d inclined his head as if to study her more closely. ‘Sorry. It was the hair, you see, your red hair. I thought it looked kind of… autumnal. Captures the mood, if you know what I mean.’
Eden had continued to glower. ‘I don’t care what mood it captures. You can’t just go around… I don’t like complete strangers taking photos of me.’
‘Why not?’
‘Why do you think? Because it’s rude. Because it’s… it’s weird. It’s creepy.’
He’d laughed when she said that, his mouth opening to reveal a row of straight
white teeth. ‘It’s only creepy if I’m creepy. Do you think I’m creepy?’
‘How would I know? You could be.’ The fact that he was so clearly amused by the exchange had only added to her irritation. ‘All the evidence seems to point in that direction.’
‘My self-esteem is shrinking by the second.’
‘And whose fault is that?’
He’d raised his hands as if to admit defeat. ‘Okay, what if I promise to destroy the negative? I won’t even develop the picture.’
‘And why should I believe you?’
‘Because I’m a decent, honest, upstanding guy. If I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it. You can come and watch if you like.’ He had gestured towards Henrietta Street. ‘Over there, with the black door. First floor. That’s my studio, the one with the blinds.’