Exposed

by Roberta Kray

  ‘Meaning?’

  ‘Meaning you don’t have to worry.’

  Terry grinned again. ‘You sure?’

  Max looked back. ‘Completely sure.’

  Max’s unexpected friendship with Terry Street felt fragile and tenuous, a connection that he didn’t entirely understand and which, he suspected, could be easily broken. Terry was younger than him, still in his thirties. There were rumours of how he’d risen to the top, of how he’d usurped the late Joe Quinn by smashing in his skull with a baseball bat. It was a crime he’d never been convicted of but it didn’t stop the talk.

  ‘You know where I am if you change your mind.’

  Max nodded. He could understand why Terry was so successful. The guy might not be educated, probably hadn’t even spent much time at school, but he had an instinctive intelligence, an ability to read people, to anticipate, to make the right call at the right time. And he also had charm. It was all these things combined that had given him power and control over the East End.

  ‘So what’s the plan?’ Terry asked.

  ‘I’m still thinking about it. No rush, is there? Chase isn’t going anywhere in a hurry.’

  ‘Be careful, Max, or you’ll end up in the slammer too.’

  Max drank the whisky slowly. It was good stuff, the best. He rolled it around his mouth before he swallowed. ‘You got anything more on him?’

  ‘Only that he’s in the frame for the Epping job. There’s a squealer, but we ain’t got no name yet. The filth are keeping a tight hold on this one. Pym’s got his ear to the ground, though. It’ll leak out sooner or later. Oh, and there’s a reporter hassling the wife, local hack by the name of Jimmy Letts.’

  ‘Is she talking to him?’

  ‘Not so you’d notice. Not yet, at least.’

  Max made a mental note of the name. It wasn’t good news having a journalist sniffing around. It could get in the way of things. ‘I need something,’ he said, lowering his voice. He glanced around, making sure no one was earwigging before he completed the request. ‘A revolver. Something decent. Any chance of that?’

  Terry didn’t ask why. ‘I’ll see what I can do. It shouldn’t be a problem.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘So this Budapest stuff, this link between Chase and Ann-Marie – you’re not taking it to the law, then?’

  Max shook his head. ‘What’s the point? The bastard isn’t going to admit it, is he?’

  Terry was quiet for a moment, and then he asked, ‘Do you think Ann-Marie could have known about the robbery, about what happened to Paddy Lynch?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Are you sure? It would explain why he… She’d have been a threat to him, wouldn’t she? He might not have trusted her to keep quiet.’ Terry narrowed his eyes. ‘Pillow talk. People say all kinds when they’ve got the love blinkers on. Maybe, back then, he admitted what he’d done, confided in her and…’

  But Max refused to believe that Ann-Marie could have known such a thing and not told him about it. ‘No, it isn’t possible.’

  ‘So where’s your motive? Why would Chase —’

  ‘Maybe the shit doesn’t need a motive. Maybe he just gets off on hurting people, destroying them.’ Max could hear his voice rising, the rage bubbling up from his chest. ‘Maybe he just couldn’t bear to see her happy.’

  Terry laid a restraining hand on his arm. ‘Take it easy, mate. Pym isn’t the only one with ears, if you get my drift.’

  Max took a breath and tried to calm down. He was weary of the anger, of the bitterness that never stopped gnawing at his soul. He wanted to be ice, to feel nothing, to move through the great Arctic waste of his life with no emotion at all.

  Terry finished his drink and placed the glass on the table. He knew, without being told, what Max was planning on doing. He gave him a sidelong glance. ‘You sure this guy even likes his wife? It’s been a year. The honeymoon could be over by now.’

  Max stared straight ahead. The sounds of the pub washed over him, the chink of the glasses, the scuff of feet against smooth wooden boards, the rise and fall of conversation. He ran his tongue across his lips, dry from the cold outside. ‘I’ll take the chance,’ he murmured.

  26

  Jimmy Letts’ breath escaped from his mouth in white steamy clouds as he jaywalked across Station Road trying to dodge the traffic. He was in a hurry and couldn’t afford to wait for the lights to change. Now he’d made up his mind, he felt the need to get there as quickly as he could. An irate cabbie honked his horn. Jimmy raised a hand as he swerved around the bonnet and finally made it to the other side.

  Ten minutes earlier, he’d gone into the Hope to have a pint and listen out for rumours. It was a villain’s pub, all spit and sawdust, and frequented mainly by old lags who gathered there to plan their next job or to reminisce over past ones. Fashionable London magazines would have described it as ‘authentic’, but in reality it was simply a dive. The chairs were worn and shabby, the floor littered with fag ends. But no one went there for the decor.

  Jimmy had paid for his pint and was just lifting the glass to his lips when the door had opened and Bob Rich from the Evening News walked in. Bob was in his sixties, an experienced and crafty hack who would steal a story out from under your nose if you were careless enough to let him. They’d spent the next few minutes playing out that game familiar to all fellow journalists, sidestepping questions, making small talk, ducking and diving while they both tried to figure out what the other one was doing there.

  Jimmy’s worst fears had been confirmed when Bob had eventually asked in an overly casual tone, ‘So have you heard about this Lynch business?’

  ‘Lynch?’

  ‘Bit before your time, I suppose.’

  Jimmy had adjusted his face into an expression he hoped was suitably blank. ‘Something I should know about?’

  ‘Nah, no big deal, just some blag from years back. I heard they might have caught the blokes who did it. Don’t reckon there’s much in it, though. You know what it’s like round here; there’s a new rumour every five minutes.’

  Jimmy had given a nod. ‘True enough.’ What he was really thinking was: shit, shit, shit. He’d known it was only a matter of time before someone else latched on to the Paddy Lynch story, but he’d been hoping for a few weeks’ grace. What now? He still hadn’t got the background on Tom Chase – the guy, it seemed, had materialised from nowhere – and Eden was being less than cooperative. ‘Big job was it, then?’ he asked, just to keep the conversation going.

  But Bob Rich wasn’t playing ball. If the gossip had legs, he didn’t want the likes of Jimmy muscling in. ‘Nah, nothing special. I hear there was trouble on the Mansfield last night. The law were out again.’

  Jimmy went along with the change of subject. ‘When isn’t there trouble? That place is a powder keg.’ It was less than a year since the Brixton riots and last summer there had also been disturbances in Dalston and Stoke Newington. The three tall towers of the Mansfield estate, high-rise prisons for the poor and the unemployed, were a breeding ground for criminality, resentment and racial tension. ‘It won’t be long before someone lights the fuse and the whole bloody lot goes up in smoke.’

  ‘Something’s brewing. You going to take a look?’

  Jimmy, who preferred not to put himself in the line of fire, had no intention of going near the place. ‘Yeah, I might head over there.’

  Bob leaned against the bar, his shrewd eyes making a fast survey of the other customers. ‘Be a shame to miss out on the action.’

  Which had given Jimmy exactly the excuse he needed to exit the Hope without arousing the other man’s suspicions. Now he walked quickly with his hands in his pockets and his head bent against the cold. There was no way he could hold off any longer. With Bob Rich sniffing around, he had no choice but to take a chance and go for it. He glanced over his shoulder, making sure that no one was on his tail, before turning to the right.

  St Mary’s was a street of two-up, two-down red-brick terraces tha
t ran parallel to the railway. The houses were small and dilapidated, council properties that should have been condemned years ago, but which – either through oversight or sheer indifference – still remained standing. The trains roared by every fifteen minutes, bringing a rumble like thunder, throwing up dust and shaking the foundations.

  Jimmy, knowing better than to knock on any front door round here, veered down the alleyway that ran along the rear and counted off the houses until he came to number eighteen.

  He took a moment to gather his thoughts before striding through the gateway and rapping on the back door.

  It was opened by a large thickset woman with black hair scraped into a ponytail and dark suspicious eyes. ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Mrs Lynch? I’m sorry to disturb you, but I was wondering if I could have a word as regards your late husband.’

  Vera Lynch looked him up and down and clearly didn’t like what she saw. ‘And who the hell are you?’

  ‘I’m Jimmy Letts. I’m a reporter with —’

  ‘Shove off!’ She waved her arms and tried to shoo him away like he was some flea-ridden mutt she’d found in the yard. ‘I’ve got nothin’ to say. Just fuck off and leave me alone.’

  But Jimmy, who was used to such welcomes, wasn’t deterred. Before she had time to slam the door in his face, he quickly offered the bait, the juicy morsel that might make her think again. ‘You know that one of the robbers has been charged, yeah? Charged with the murder of your old man, I mean.’

  Vera suddenly became still, her arms dropping back to her sides. ‘I might have heard a whisper,’ she said cautiously.

  ‘Not from Old Bill, I’ll bet. They’re playing their cards close to their chests.’

  ‘No, not the filth. They’ve told me nothin’.’

  ‘Typical,’ Jimmy said. ‘And you’re the one person who has a right to know. All these years of waiting and then when they do catch the bastard… Well, you’d think they’d be straight round, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Fat chance.’ Vera raised her arms again and crossed them over her ample chest. Her hands were red and callused, as rough as a labourer’s. ‘So what have you found out? You got a name? Is that it?’

  Jimmy stamped his feet on the ground and rubbed his hands together. ‘Bit chilly out here, isn’t it? How about we go inside and have a proper chat?’ He glanced at the houses either side as if the neighbours might be listening. ‘Somewhere a bit more private.’

  Vera hesitated, torn between her desire to know and a basic suspicion of the press. But eventually, grudgingly, she stood aside and let him in.

  As soon as he was over the threshold, Jimmy knew he’d got his story. It wasn’t the one he really wanted – the Eden Chase angle would have to wait – but it would do for now. A good local tale of crime and betrayal, of a grieving widow, of a community ripped apart by secrets and suspicion.

  27

  On the way to the prison, Eden didn’t mention the Kellston flat to Tammy. She’d said too much, she thought, the last time they’d met, when the wine had loosened her tongue and all her fears had spilled out. Now she was trying to keep a lid on it. Tammy could tell something was wrong – something in addition, that was, to Tom staring down the barrel of a life sentence – and wasn’t letting it rest.

  ‘You sure you’re okay, hon? You still worried about Pat Lynch?’

  Eden kept her eyes on the icy road. ‘Only the odd sleepless night,’ she said drily. ‘But to be honest, I’m trying not to think about him.’

  ‘Yeah, I’d be the same. You’ve got enough to deal with, huh?’

  ‘More than enough.’

  ‘So did you find out anything about the money?’

  Eden gave her a quick sideways glance, trying to remember how much she’d said about the Munich transfers. ‘The money?’

  ‘You know, the cash in the business account, the money the law was going on about.’

  ‘Oh, that. I need to ask Tom about it today.’

  ‘Did you not see his accountant, then?’

  ‘No, something came up. We had to reschedule.’ The lie slipped out before she’d even thought about it. She didn’t want to admit that Elspeth Coyle couldn’t or wouldn’t tell her where the money had come from. It would look dodgy, would make Tom look dodgy, and she didn’t want Tammy to view him that way. ‘We’re doing it next week instead.’

  ‘I’m sure Tom can explain.’

  Eden glanced at her again, wondering if she was being sarcastic, but her expression appeared open and straightforward, devoid of any cynicism. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Bet you can’t wait to see that cop’s face when he finds out the cash didn’t come from the Epping job.’

  ‘I’d rather see it when Tom walks out of jail.’

  Eden felt her stomach tighten as she thought about the conversation she was about to have with him: the money from the account in Germany, the flat in Kellston, the reporter who was probably going to splash his name across the front cover of the local rag. None of it was good. All of it made her feel like she was heading for the kind of confrontation that could rock the very foundations of her marriage.

  ‘Are you sure you’re okay?’ Tammy asked again. ‘You look kind of pale.’

  Eden forced a smile. ‘I’m all right. It’s just… you know…’

  ‘Everything?’

  ‘That pretty well sums it up.’

  ‘You’ve got to try and stay positive, hon. I know it’s easier said than done, but… You don’t want the filth putting doubts in your head.’

  Eden opened her mouth, about to claim that she didn’t have any doubts, but the words caught in her throat. Who would she be trying to convince – Tammy or herself?

  ‘They like playing mind games,’ Tammy continued. ‘They get off on it. Don’t let them get to you.’

  ‘I won’t.’

  ‘And I’m always here if you need to talk or anything. I know I’ve got a big gob, but I can keep it shut when I have to. You don’t have to worry on that score.’

  Eden nodded, hoping this was true. ‘Thanks.’

  Fifteen minutes later they arrived at HMP Thornley Heath. They found a place to park, tramped back through the snow to the jail and signed in. As Eden was going through the search procedure – the walk through the metal detector, the pat down, the examination of the inside of her mouth – she realised that although it still felt intrusive, it wasn’t as bad as the first time. She wondered how long it would take before the process didn’t bother her at all, before it became as routine as eating or drinking or brushing her hair.

  Knowing that the visit wasn’t going to be an easy one, Eden took slow deep breaths as she crossed the courtyard. She thought of what she’d learned over the past week – all of it disturbing – and prayed that Tom would give her the answers she wanted to hear. Please, God.

  She saw him the moment she entered the visiting room and quickly went over, reaching up to put her arms around his neck. In that instant, feeling his body against hers, inhaling his comforting familiar smell, everything felt right again. Hope resurfaced and her doubts retreated. This was her husband, the man she loved, her other half. She had to believe in him. Being faithful was about more than sexual fidelity – it went to the very core of loyalty and trust.

  ‘How are you?’ she asked as they separated and sat down.

  ‘Getting used to it.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘I’ll be an old lag in no time at all.’

  ‘Now there’s an attractive prospect.’

  ‘And thanks for the clothes and the radio. It’s good to be wearing my own stuff again.’

  Eden had sent a parcel through the post. She had intended to write a letter to go with it, but after three attempts had given up – she couldn’t find the right words – and had settled for a card instead. ‘Let me know if you need anything else.’

  Tom looked at her. ‘What’s wrong?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Eden?’

  She stared back at him, wondering
where to start. He had chosen to wear a white shirt today, a colour that brought out the blue of his eyes. She gazed into those eyes, trying to hold on to the faith while she made a choice. ‘I saw Banner,’ she said finally. ‘He was going on about some thirty grand that came from an account in Munich. He seemed to think… well, he was implying that…’

  ‘It might have been from the proceeds of an armed robbery?’

  ‘I think that was the gist.’

  ‘And what did you say?’