Exposed

by Roberta Kray

  Elspeth sat back and looked at her. ‘There is another option, if you really want to hang on to the studio.’

  Eden, who was halfway to her feet, sat back down again. ‘Really?’

  ‘It’s just an idea, but have you thought about selling the flat?’

  ‘The flat?’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Because it’s our home. Where am I going to live if —’

  ‘No, no,’ Elspeth interrupted. ‘Not the Islington flat, the one in Kellston. It’s empty at the moment, isn’t it? I’m sure it is. The tenant moved out a few months ago.’

  Eden stared at her, bewildered. ‘What flat? What are you talking about?’

  Elspeth’s mouth slipped into a grimace. There was a short, awkward pause before she said, ‘Ah, you didn’t know about it.’

  ‘What flat?’ Eden repeated. ‘He’s got another flat? I don’t understand.’ She felt her stomach heave at this sudden unexpected revelation. She couldn’t comprehend how Tom could own a property she didn’t even know about. ‘Why… what… why didn’t he tell me?’

  Elspeth Coyle shifted on her chair, obviously wishing she’d said nothing. ‘Er, maybe it just —’

  ‘What? Slipped his mind? For God’s sake, you don’t forget something like that!’

  ‘I think he bought it quite a while ago. He lived there for a few years before he moved to Pope Street.’

  Eden could feel the shock sinking into her bones, a heavy sludge of astonishment, anger and suspicion. Why had he kept it hidden from her? A bolthole in case the marriage went wrong? An investment she wouldn’t be aware of? Or even a place for secret liaisons?

  She swallowed hard and stared at the accountant. ‘What’s the address?’

  Elspeth glanced away. ‘I don’t think I should —’

  ‘It’s too late for that now,’ Eden snapped. ‘I’m not leaving here until I have it.’ As if to press home the point, she placed her elbows firmly on the desk. In truth, she didn’t think she could stand up even if she wanted to. Her head was spinning and her legs had turned to jelly.

  24

  It was getting on for twelve by the time Eden got back to Islington from Victoria. She’d spent the entire bus journey going over and over what Elspeth Coyle had told her. Another flat, for Christ’s sake! That wasn’t something you didn’t tell your wife about. Not if you loved her. Not if you trusted her. She had never professed to know Tom Chase inside out, but now she was starting to wonder if she knew him at all.

  It was this thought, as much as the cold, that caused Eden to shiver as she climbed the stairs. She unlocked the door, went through to the living room, took off her coat and threw it over the back of the sofa. Her gaze fell on the wedding photo standing on the mantelpiece. She went over to it and traced her husband’s face with her fingertips, trying by sheer force of will to make a connection to him.

  ‘What the hell is going on?’ she muttered.

  He stared back at her, silent and smiling, a man who looked happy. But was he? Perhaps everything she believed in, their life together, their marriage, was built on a lie. The moment the thought crossed her mind, she hated herself for it. What about the benefit of the doubt? She hadn’t even given him the opportunity to explain. Although, off the top of her head, Eden couldn’t think of any reasons – other than bad ones – for keeping it a secret, she knew better than to judge too soon. If she stopped believing in him, then he’d have no one. The law, already baying for his blood, would throw him to the wolves.

  Still, there were things she needed to know.

  Eden lowered her hand, turned and went over to the dresser. She pulled out the drawers and started rooting through them. It didn’t take her long to find the keys. There were four in all, each with a small plastic tag that had been neatly initialled in black felt tip pen. Two were spares for the studio, the front door and upstairs – CG; one for Pope Street – PS; and the other… Eden held it up, feeling a weird nervous flutter in her chest as she read the letters aloud, ‘KHS.’

  She knew now what those letters stood for – Kellston High Street. After the threat of a sit-in, it had only been seconds before Elspeth Coyle had scribbled down the address on a piece of paper, ripped it from the pad and pushed it across the desk. With other clients to see, she couldn’t afford to have Eden littering up the office.

  ‘Here,’ she’d said, with a curt nod.

  ‘And the flat’s empty at the moment?’

  ‘I believe so.’

  Eden had folded the sheet of paper and put it in her pocket. She had left the office with as much dignity as she could muster, feeling the older woman’s gaze on her back. What was in the accountant’s eyes – pity or contempt? By that point she’d been past caring.

  The paperback London A–Z was on the living room table. Eden flicked through the pages until she found the one she was looking for. She had a rough idea where Kellston was – hadn’t she noticed a sign when she was taking Tammy home? – but wanted to be sure. Yes, just as she thought, an East End borough lying between Shoreditch and Bethnal Green. The high street ran in a long straight line through the centre.

  Eden put the A–Z in her bag along with the address. Although the latter was already firmly imprinted on her memory – 192B Kellston High Street – she had a dread of her mind going blank the minute she got there. She put on her coat, picked up the car keys and set off on her second journey of the day.

  Eden drove carefully, keeping a close eye on the road and the traffic around her. Conditions were still bad, icy and treacherous, and the sky threatened more snow. She hoped by now the alcohol levels in her blood were under the limit; the last thing she needed was to be involved in a collision and end up being breathalysed.

  As she made her way towards the East End, she could feel her stomach churning again. Once – and it wasn’t so long ago – it had been the things she didn’t know about Tom that had excited her, but now they only caused her fear and panic. What else would be revealed? The closer she got to Kellston, the more anxious she became.

  She turned on the radio – ‘Don’t You Want Me’, by the Human League, floated into the car – and she tried to keep calm by tapping out the rhythm on the steering wheel. Why hadn’t he told her about the flat? It was a question that wouldn’t go away. She thought of all the evenings he had worked late at the studio and began to wonder if that was where he had actually been. She wished now that she’d asked Elspeth about that tenant – had they been male or female? But it was a big leap from an unknown flat to infidelity. She was overreacting; she had to be.

  The first thing Eden noticed when she got to Kellston High Street was the three tall concrete towers on the horizon. They loomed over the area, a trio of monstrous nineteen sixties constructions devoid of any charm and, for the tenants forced to live in them, probably of any hope either. The high street was run-down and shabby, with many of the shops boarded up. She peered through the windscreen, searching for numbers on doors, and soon realised that she was at the wrong end.

  Eden carried on driving for a couple of minutes and then began looking for a place to pull in. By the time she found one, she’d overshot 192 and had to walk back. The door to the flat was squashed between a bakery and an off-licence. Bread and wine. What more did anyone need? But despite the flippant thought, her hand was shaking as she put the key in the lock and turned it.

  Inside, the place smelled musty and abandoned. There was a tiny square of hallway and a narrow flight of stairs leading up to the flat. A few fliers littered the floor, but there was no mail. She ascended slowly, wondering what she was about to find. A disturbing notion suddenly occurred to her: what if the flat wasn’t empty at all? The tenant might have moved out, but someone else could have moved in. A squatter, perhaps, or a tramp. Her hand tightened around the rail as she stopped, held her breath and listened.

  No, not a sound.

  Eden carried on. At the top another door led straight into the living room. She went in and looked around. The room was light, a
reasonable size and overlooked the high street. The walls were painted cream and had oblongs of a darker shade from where someone had hung pictures. The furnishings were basic but not too shabby: a brown corduroy sofa, matching chair, a table, and one of those old-fashioned standing lamps with a pink fringed shade. There was a worn beige carpet and a pair of brightly coloured patterned curtains.

  She made a quick tour of the other rooms. The bedroom at the back contained a double bed with a bare mattress, a wardrobe and a chest of drawers. The kitchen was small but serviceable, and the bathroom had a bath but no shower. She opened and closed cupboards, peering into every corner. There was nothing remaining of the former tenant, no old bills, no newspapers, not even an empty bottle of shampoo. Either they’d been the tidy sort or a cleaner had been in after the flat was vacated.

  Eden returned to the living room, where she stood by the sofa and looked around again. What had she expected to find? Some hint of Tom, perhaps, an indication that he might have been here recently, but there was nothing. She was relieved there was no trace of him. It didn’t allay her concerns over his failure to inform her of the flat’s existence, but at least there was no evidence of a squalid love nest. It was a terrible thing to suspect your own husband, especially when you’d only been married a year, but these were terrible times and somehow she had reached a stage where anything and everything seemed possible.

  Eden wondered how much the flat was worth. Would there be enough profit to keep the studio going for a while and to pay Castor’s legal bills? And how long would it take to sell? There probably wasn’t a huge demand for properties in Kellston. She crossed over to the window and took in the view. Grim was the first word that sprang to mind. Even a blanket of snow couldn’t make the dilapidated high street look pretty.

  She shifted her gaze and it came to rest on a building diagonally opposite, an undertaker by the name of Tobias Grand. Like a bad omen, the sight of it made her feel uneasy. She thought of her mother, dead at twenty-nine. She thought of Paddy Lynch, left to bleed to death in the back of a van. She wrapped her arms around her chest, a defence not just against the cold but all the bad feelings that were crowding in on her.

  Eden briefly closed her eyes and then opened them again. Standing just to the right of the doorway of Tobias Grand was a tall, dark-haired man in a black overcoat. He was smoking a cigarette and idly flicking the ash on to the pavement. She wasn’t sure why he held her attention although there was, she thought, something vaguely familiar about him. Where had she seen him before? She racked her brains but nothing came to her.

  She was still staring when he abruptly raised his face and looked up towards the window. His gaze was so hard and cold that Eden instinctively took a step back. She felt afraid, threatened by him. The breath caught in the back of her throat and her pulse started to race. For the next thirty seconds she stood firmly rooted to the spot.

  When she eventually plucked up the courage to return to the window, the man had disappeared. She looked up and down the street but there was no sign. Was she overreacting, letting her imagination run away with her? Perhaps. But she still couldn’t shake off the bad feeling she had. Those eyes. That look. It had been so dark, so menacing, she could have been staring into the face of Lucifer himself.

  25

  It took Max Tamer by surprise when he looked up and saw her standing there. Their eyes locked for a moment before she stepped back out of sight. What had he seen on her face in those few fleeting seconds? Fear, confusion? Certainly something that had shaken her. It had been reckless of him to wait so close to the flat and in clear view, but in truth he had no sense of caution these days. He was caught up in the moment, making impulsive decisions, following his gut rather than his head.

  Quickly he crossed the road, keeping in by the shops, and started walking towards the station. It was too risky to hang about. She’d already registered his presence and if she saw him again she would realise he was on her tail. Anyway, he’d had enough of playing shadow for now.

  Unable to sleep, he’d been parked on the corner of Pope Street from seven o’clock this morning, watching the world wake up, the darkness gradually lifting, the lights going on in the houses. No one had taken any notice of him. He was just a bloke sitting in a car, blankly gazing through the windscreen. He’d smoked half a pack of cigarettes while he was waiting.

  Eden Chase hadn’t emerged until after nine, when she’d walked to Upper Street and caught a number 73 bus. He’d followed her on, but had stayed downstairs while she’d gone up, and had taken a seat by the rear platform so he’d see when she got off. Unsure as to where she was heading, he’d paid the full fare to the final destination, Victoria, and as it happened, hadn’t wasted any money.

  Max had no idea what the accountant, Elspeth Coyle, had said, but whatever it was hadn’t been pleasant. Eden had stormed out of the building, her face pale and pinched as if she’d just been punched in the stomach. Still, any news on the financial front wasn’t likely to be good when your old man was banged up for murder.

  Max hadn’t chanced catching the same bus back to Islington and had taken the Tube instead, intending to retrieve his car and go into the office. He had long ago ceased to have any interest in the business, but felt obliged to show up occasionally to prove, if nothing else, that he was still alive.

  It was just as he’d been starting up the motor that Eden had appeared in Pope Street, walking quickly towards number twenty-four. A girl on a mission. A girl with something on her mind. And just out of curiosity he’d held off leaving for a while. Which was how he’d ended up in Kellston, watching her cross the road, watching her nervously glance around as if someone was about to mug her, watching her let herself into the flat between the baker’s and the off-licence.

  Max was bemused by this latest turn of events. With her stylish clothes and somewhat superior air, Eden Chase was like a fish out of water in Kellston. What was she doing here? Planning a move? A lunchtime tryst with a secret lover? He still didn’t know, but one way or another he was going to find out. In his heart, he wanted to think the worst of her. It would make what he intended to do so much easier.

  When he reached Station Road, Max crossed at the lights and went into the Fox. He was in need of a drink and was also hoping to find Terry Street in there. The latter wish was granted as soon as he walked in: Terry was in his usual spot, the table in the corner where he had a clear view of everyone who entered the pub. He was in conversation with his right-hand man Vinnie Keane, a great bear of a bloke who must have been over six foot five, but he glanced up, nodded at Max and beckoned him over.

  As Max walked to the table, Vinnie rose to his feet and went to the bar.

  ‘How are you?’ Max asked as he sat down.

  Terry gave another nod. ‘Good, thanks. More to the point, how are you?’

  There had been a time, and it wasn’t so long ago, when Max had despised the likes of Terry Street – a violent man who lived outside the law, who lied and cheated and used brute force to get what he wanted – but he had laid aside all those black and white opinions since Ann-Marie had disappeared. When he’d needed help the police had responded with nothing but suspicion. When he’d despaired, when he’d been on his knees, Terry was the only one who had neither judged nor accused, but simply offered him some hope.

  Max took a tenner out of his wallet and held it out. ‘For Pym,’ he said. ‘I owe you.’

  Terry waved the note away. ‘Have it on me.’

  But Max shook his head and pressed the tenner into his hand. ‘Take it.’

  ‘What’s up? You scared of owing me?’

  ‘Yes,’ Max replied drily. ‘Shouldn’t I be?’

  Terry grinned.

  Vinnie came back, put a couple of glasses on the table, and then took himself off again.

  ‘You’ll have a drink at least,’ Terry said. ‘Or would that be a threat to your integrity too?’

  Max lifted the glass of whisky and toasted him. ‘Cheers. As it happens, I ha
ve no integrity left, but thanks for suggesting that I might.’

  ‘That’s bullshit and you know it.’

  Max shrugged, sat back and looked around. The Fox was always busy, no matter what time you came. It had an atmosphere, a buzz, which was missing from other places. A log fire burned in the grate, sending out waves of heat. The clientele was mixed, from bankers to blaggers and a few whores too. Everyone was welcome at Terry’s pub as long as they spent their cash and behaved themselves.

  ‘You found out any more about this Chase guy?’ Terry asked.

  ‘I know he’s a fucking liar. Do I need to know any more?’

  ‘I’ve heard he could be in Thornley Heath. If you want, I can arrange for someone to have a word.’

  Which was, Max presumed, villain-speak for getting the crap beaten out of him. ‘No thanks,’ he said. ‘I’m dealing with it.’