by Roberta Kray
‘What could I say? Other than whatever he thought, he was wrong.’
Tom nodded and leaned forward, lowering his voice. ‘He is wrong. It was a loan from a man called Lukas Albrecht, thirty-five grand in all – well, more of an investment really. I wanted to shift the studio into the West End and I needed some capital. The banks here wouldn’t touch me – too much of a risk – and so I went over to Munich. I knew Lukas from years back, and he offered me the money in exchange for a share in the business. Forty per cent is what he wanted, and I wasn’t in a position to argue.’
‘So this Lukas is actually your business partner?’ Eden felt bemused by the fact Tom had never even mentioned him. Then she remembered something else the DI had said. ‘But Banner reckons that no repayments have been made. They’ve been through your business accounts and…’
‘Banner is believing what he wants to believe. I’ve got a copy of the agreement showing exactly where the money came from. And there’s a reason why no profits were paid out. Lukas died three weeks after we made the contract, dropped dead of a heart attack. He has no surviving family, no kids or anything. He wasn’t the marrying type, if you get my drift.’
‘So you just get to keep the money?’
‘There’s no one to pay it back to.’
Eden gave a tiny shake of her head, wondering if this was entirely legal. ‘How come you didn’t tell me?’
‘It was four years ago, before we even met.’
Which wasn’t exactly the answer she was looking for. Eden realised he’d never really talked much about the nuts and bolts of the business. He’d mention new clients or shoots he had planned for the week ahead but the financial side of things had never been discussed. Maybe he’d have confided in her if she’d asked, but she hadn’t.
Tom carried on explaining. ‘I could have told Banner about Lukas Albrecht, but Castor decided I should keep it under wraps. It might be useful during the trial. You see, even if I can prove the money was legit, it’s not going to get me out of here. The cops have gone too far down the road to turn back now.’
‘So why didn’t Elspeth tell me about Lukas? I mean, I was right there in her office and…’
Tom gave a shrug. ‘I don’t know. She should have done. Maybe she thought it was down to me to explain.’
‘So why didn’t you? Before now, I mean.’
‘Like I said, it was a long time ago. You have to trust me. You do trust me, don’t you?’
‘I’d just like to be kept in the loop, that’s all. I need to know what’s going on.’ Eden laid her hands in her lap, her fingers curling together as she prepared to cover the next bit of tricky ground. She watched him closely as she said, ‘Elspeth suggested that if you wanted to hold on to the studio, you should consider selling the Kellston flat.’
He didn’t even flinch. ‘It’s an idea, I suppose. What do you think?’
Eden sighed with exasperation. ‘God, Tom, I didn’t even know you had a flat in Kellston. How come I didn’t know that?’
‘Of course you knew. I told you.’
‘You didn’t.’
Tom’s forehead crunched into a frown. ‘I must have. It’s where I used to live before Pope Street.’
‘You’ve never said a word about it.’
‘No way,’ he said. ‘Really? Are you sure?’
‘It’s hardly the sort of thing you forget.’
‘No, sorry, I suppose I just… I don’t have anything much to do with it now. An agent deals with the letting and the maintenance. I haven’t been there for years.’
Eden didn’t feel especially reassured by any of this, but she didn’t want to get into a major row about it. For some reason, he had chosen not to tell her and she would have to form her own conclusions as to why that was. ‘So do you want me to put it on the market?’
‘You’re mad at me.’
‘I’m not. I’m just confused. How do you expect me to feel? I’ve suddenly found out that you own a flat in the East End of London and —’
‘It wasn’t a secret,’ he said. ‘I thought I’d told you. I don’t know how… Anyway, the spare keys are in the top drawer of the bureau. The flat’s empty at the moment. Why don’t you go and take a look at the place, see what state it’s in? It might need a lick of paint before we try and sell.’
Eden didn’t say that she’d already been there. ‘Yes, I will. I’ll go at the weekend.’
‘It’s pretty basic, just a one-bed over a shop. I needed something cheap until I got the business up and running. To be honest, I don’t think we’ll get that much for it. Kellston isn’t exactly a hotspot when it comes to the property market.’
‘Are you sure you want to sell?’
‘It makes sense, doesn’t it?
‘I suppose so.’ Then, because there seemed little left to say on the subject of the flat – at least nothing that wouldn’t turn the atmosphere even more frosty – she asked, ‘So what’s happening with Castor? Is there any news on Jack Minter yet?’
‘He’s still trying to track him down. Trouble is, the guy could be anywhere by now. Castor’s contacted the embassies in Hungary and Germany, but the chances of him being found are slim.’
‘He has to find him,’ Eden insisted. ‘It’s the only way of proving that you didn’t steal that bracelet, that you didn’t have anything to do with the Epping robbery.’ She remembered then that she’d forgotten to bring the Budapest photo. Damn it! The picture was still lying on the table at Pope Street. ‘I was going through some of the Hungary photographs. There’s one of a man and woman sitting outside a café. I was wondering if the guy could be Jack Minter.’
Tom shook his head. ‘I took lots of pictures. I haven’t looked at them in ages.’
Eden did her best to describe it. ‘The man has his arm around her shoulder. She’s young, pretty, long light-coloured hair. He’s a bit older, mid-twenties maybe, wearing jeans, kind of cocky-looking.’
Tom thought for a while, but then gave a shrug. ‘No, it doesn’t ring any bells. They were probably just some couple I noticed, not anyone I actually knew.’
But Eden wasn’t convinced. There was something about the relaxed way the pair were staring into the camera that made her sure they had known the photographer. It was just a hunch, a feeling. ‘I’ll post it to you.’
‘They might not let me have it. They’ve got weird rules about photographs here.’
‘Okay, so what if I give it to Castor? Would he be able to show it to you on your next legal visit?’
‘I guess so, but I really don’t think it is Minter.’
Suddenly an idea came into Eden’s head. ‘Maybe I should go to Budapest and look for him myself.’
Tom seemed taken aback. ‘What?’
‘Why not? I could go to where he used to live – Garay Square, wasn’t it? – and ask around. Someone might remember him. They may even know where he is now.’
‘Christ, Eden, you can’t go wandering around Budapest on your own. You don’t speak Hungarian; you don’t even speak German. How do you expect to make yourself understood?’
But now that she’d thought of it, Eden wasn’t going to let a few minor problems get in the way. ‘I’ll find someone who speaks English. It can’t be that hard. There must be interpreters, guides, that kind of thing. I can pay someone to translate for me. I mean, God, it’s better than sitting around doing nothing all day. And Castor isn’t getting anywhere, is he?’
‘Give him a chance. These things take time.’
‘And meanwhile you’re stuck in here. I might be able to find Jack Minter or at least get a lead on where he went. It’s worth a go, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ Tom said firmly. ‘You can’t go out there. It isn’t safe.’
‘I can take care of myself.’
‘I’m not saying you can’t, but what if I’m wrong about him?’
Eden stared across the table. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, what if Jack was an armed robber? What if he did leave Paddy Lynch
to die? He’s not going to be happy when you turn up looking for him.’
‘A week ago you were saying he wasn’t capable of anything like that.’
Tom raked his fingers through his hair, his mouth turning down at the corners. ‘Yeah, well, a week’s a long time in jail. Plenty of empty hours to mull things over. Maybe I did get him wrong. Maybe he was smarter than I thought. It’s just not worth the risk, Eden. It’s way too dangerous. You can disappear without trace in a place like Budapest.’
Eden had gone from hope to disappointment in a matter of minutes. ‘But there has to be a way of tracking him down.’
‘Not this way. Promise me you won’t go there.’
‘I won’t. I promise.’ As Eden gazed into his eyes she saw the relief in them and a terrible thought crossed her mind. Perhaps it wasn’t just her safety he was worried about. Perhaps he had another reason for not wanting Jack Minter to be found.
28
Pat Lynch flexed the muscles in his arms as he paced from one end of the cell to the other, muttering under his breath. He’d suspected something was wrong when his mother had turned up on a visit yesterday – she wouldn’t usually brave the Solent in weather like this – and he’d been spot on. She’d looked green in the gills when he’d seen her, although that might have been partly down to the ferry crossing. Bad news, he’d thought. It had to be. Someone was dead or dying. And it hadn’t taken her long to spit it out. No sooner had she sat down than the words were spilling out.
‘One of the fuckers, the ones who did for your dad, they’ve finally got him.’
Pat had stiffened, narrowed his eyes. ‘What? Are you sure?’
‘No, I’ve just come all the way out here ’cause I heard a bleedin’ rumour. Course I’m sure.’
‘Okay, okay, no need to go off on one. I’m only asking.’ And he’d taken a breath, steadying himself, because he’d waited sixteen years to find out who the murdering bastards were. ‘Who was it? Tell me.’
His mother had leaned in close enough for him to smell the sweat on her, the fags, the cloying scent of cheap perfume – but she didn’t come straight out with it. First she had a story to tell about a reporter called Jimmy Letts who’d been round to the house, what he’d said to her and what she’d said to him, an interminable saga that made him want to slap her.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ he’d hissed. ‘Just tell me who it was.’
‘I’m getting to it, ain’t I?’
‘Well, get to it a bit fuckin’ quicker.’ What was it with women? They could never give a straight answer to a straight question; they had to fanny around for half an hour, saying twice as much as they needed to as if they were getting paid by the word. ‘Before the end of the visit would be good.’
She had given him one of her disappointed looks, pissed off because this was her big moment and she wanted to savour it. ‘The name won’t mean nothin’ to you. I was sure it was going to be someone Paddy knew, one of the old crowd, but…’ The sentence had trailed off as she’d seen the cold expression on his face. ‘Tom Chase,’ she’d said smartly. ‘That’s the bastard’s name.’
‘Huh?’
‘Tom Chase,’ she’d repeated. ‘Jimmy says he’s a photographer, that he’s got a studio in Covent Garden. They pulled him in a couple of weeks back. He’s been charged with the Epping job and manslaughter.’
‘It was bloody murder not manslaughter. The shitheads left him to die.’
‘Jimmy reckons there’s a squealer, that someone’s grassed him up. He doesn’t know who it is yet. I’ve called the filth but they won’t tell me nothin’.’
‘A photographer?’ Pat had said as if this piece of information had only just sunk in. Villains didn’t run around with cameras; they had car lots or scrapyards or clubs and pubs. It didn’t make any sense. ‘Who the fuck is this guy?’
Pat stopped pacing the cell, sat down on the bunk and immediately stood up again. He was still processing the information she’d given him yesterday. At the time of the Epping heist, he’d only been fifteen. Dad had gone out in the morning and never come back. Even after all the years that memory was still sharp, raw enough to make him flinch. Tom Chase. He rolled the name over his tongue, trying to think back, to dig it out from some shadowy corner of his mind. Had his father ever mentioned him? He must have. Paddy Lynch never worked with strangers. He must have known the bloke – or someone he trusted must have vouched for him.
Pat was still sifting through his memory – and getting nowhere – when there was a knock on the door. Gonzo came in and nodded. ‘You okay, mate?’
Sammy Gonzales was the prison fixer, a lean, sinewy guy with a jutting chin and dark hooded eyes. If you needed something doing, inside or out, he was the man to go to.
Pat nodded back. ‘You got anything? You know where he is yet?’
‘Give us a chance, mate. I’ve only just put the word out. But I’m thinking one of the London nicks – Wandsworth, maybe, or the Ville. Could be down the block, though. We’ll have to wait and see.’
Pat sent up a prayer that the bastard wasn’t in solitary confinement for his own protection. It was a shame the sodding reporter hadn’t known where Chase was being held – or maybe he did and just wasn’t saying. ‘It could be quicker to ask that Jimmy Letts.’
‘Yeah, if you want the whole world to know what you’re planning. What if he goes to the law? The screws will have Chase off the wing before you can bleedin’ blink.’
Pat hadn’t thought of that. He was in a hurry to get things done, to get the ball rolling. All his anger and frustration was bubbling to the surface. ‘And that other bit of business. You got it sorted?’
‘No problem.’
‘When?’
‘Soon as. A few days probably.’
‘And he’s sound?’ Pat asked. ‘He ain’t going to fuck up or nothin’?’
‘He’s good as gold, Pat. There’s no worries on that score.’
‘He’d better be.’
After Gonzo left, Pat lay down on the bed and put his hands behind his head. If he hadn’t been stuck in this dump, he could have sorted things himself. And whose fault was it that he was here? That bloody bitch, Mariah’s. His face contorted with irritation. If she hadn’t been winding him up, yapping in his ear, he’d never have shoved her out of the car in the first place. Women were nothing but trouble.
Pat had no regrets about the others either, the ones nobody knew about, those superior girls with their long straight hair and cool judgemental eyes. Even the way they walked was like a taunt – Look at what you can’t have. Except he could have it, and he’d taken it. He could still see their faces, their pale skin and bruised mouths. He’d buried them in shallow graves right in the heart of the forest, ripe peaches left to rot in the ground.
He thought about that other bit of business with Gonzo and smiled. He’d have liked to have done Eden Chase himself, to have leaned in close and whispered in her ear: ‘Think of your husband, babe. This is what he’s done to you.’
29
While Eden went through the wardrobe searching for something to wear, her thoughts were still with the visit she’d had with Tom the day before. ‘I mean, you don’t just forget about owning a flat, do you? It’s not the kind of thing that slips your mind.’
Caitlin was perched on the edge of the bed. ‘Not unless you’re made of money. So what are you thinking? Some kind of safety net, perhaps?’
‘What, in case the marriage didn’t work out? It’s hardly romantic.’ Eden held up a tailored black suit and asked, ‘How about this?’
‘Lovely – if you’re going to a funeral.’
‘The mood will be fairly similar.’ When she was meeting her father, Eden usually tried to wear something he would disapprove of, like skin-tight jeans or a shocking-pink dress that clashed with her hair, but tonight was going to be difficult enough without winding him up before the conversation even began.
‘Are you going to come clean about Tom?’
‘That’s the p
lan. I haven’t really got a choice. It’s going to come out eventually; better he hears it from me than reads about it in the papers. Can’t say I’m looking forward to it, though. It’s going to be a whole evening of “I told you so”… and worse.’
‘Maybe it won’t be as bad as you think.’
‘Hey, Dad, guess what? Your son-in-law is currently at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, charged with manslaughter and armed robbery.’ Eden pulled a face. ‘Somehow I can’t see it going down that well.’
‘You’re still his daughter. And you’re going through a shitty time. He might surprise you.’
‘Don’t hold your breath. You know what he’s like.’ Eden put the black dress back in the wardrobe and took out a cream cashmere sweater and a pair of beige trousers. ‘How about these?’