The Pact

by Roberta Kray

  The Pact

  Roberta Kray

  Robinson (2007)

  *

  Rating: ★★★★★

  Tags: Fiction, Mystery Detective, Women Sleuths

  Fictionttt Mystery Detectivettt Women Sleuthsttt

  Nothing has prepared her for the nightmare that is about to begin…

  Eve, the 34 year old daughter of recently deceased conman Alexander Weston, knows a good deal when she sees it - and this one doesn’t even come close. However, with vulnerable brother Terry being beaten in jail, she can’t afford to be fussy. She needs to organise protection for him, and fast. The intimidating and powerful con Cavelli seems the perfect solution, but how high a price is he going to exact? She may as well be forming a pact with the Devil.

  A breakin, followed by a vicious assault, soon makes Eve question the wisdom of her choice. Cavelli is leading her straight into Hell. Suddenly, her own life is in jeopardy; there’s a psychopath lurking in the shadows and he’s prepared to kill to get what he wants. With two men dead already Eve is forced to turn to the past to find the answers she so desperately needs.

  There’s only one problem. Time is running out.

  From Publishers Weekly

  Eve Weston’s younger brother is in jail, her cancer-ridden father has committed suicide and she’s been fired from her job for something she didn’t do—then things get really complicated for the 34-year-old former legal secretary in Kray’s skillful if overlong sophomore effort (after 2006’s The Debt). The collateral damage piles up while Eve, who’s moved from London to her father’s flat in Norwich, struggles to unravel the myriad skeins that tangle her life: her brother’s real role in the robbery he was sentenced for; the meaning of her father’s death; the handsome policeman wooing her; the packages she’s guarding for the con protecting her brother and the mysterious item that someone named Joe thinks she is hiding. Though Kray choreographs too many unlikely convergences, she delivers well-drawn minor characters and a resilient, appealing heroine who uses brains and beauty to deal with the devils that beset her. (Mar.)

  Copyright © Reed Business Information, a division of Reed Elsevier Inc. All rights reserved.

  Review

  “* ‘Well into Martina Cole territory, Roberta Kray’s first novel gets under the skin of the London underworld with no problem’ Mark Timlin, Independent ‘Action, intrigue and a character-driven plot are delivered in well-written style, sure to please any crime fiction fans’ Woman ‘You might expect a crime novel written by the widow of Reg Kray would be tough… and it is. Recommend this to fans of Ian Rankin’ Booklist * ‘The Debt convinces on every page - not only about the gangster world but also as a portrait of a woman whose life has been changed by forces beyond her control.’ Chicago Tribune”

  ROBERTA KRAY was born in Southport in 1959. She worked in publishing and media research in London for fifteen years. In early 1996 she met Reg Kray and they married the following year. Her bestselling first novel, The Debt, was published by Constable and Robinson last year. She currently lives in Norfolk.

  Praise for Roberta Kray’s The Debt

  ‘The Debt paints a vivid and frightening picture of the criminal class. For a debut novel, Roberta Kray steers the twisting plot with steady hands; injecting the right amount of humour and suspense.’

  Shotsmag

  ‘No doubt about it, British crime fiction is getting sharper and tougher … The Debt convinces on every page – not only about the gangster world but also as a portrait of a woman whose life has been changed by forces beyond her control.’

  Chicago Tribune

  Also by Roberta Kray

  The Debt

  Constable & Robinson Ltd

  3 The Lanchesters

  162 Fulham Palace Road

  London W6 9ER

  www.constablerobinson.com

  First published in the UK by Constable

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2007

  This paperback edition published by Robinson,

  an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2007

  Copyright © Roberta Kray 2007

  The right of Roberta Kray to be identified as the author of this work has been identified by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988.

  All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library.

  ISBN: 978-1-84529-499-1 (pbk)

  eISBN: 978-1-78033-371-7

  ISBN: 978-1-84529-411-3 (hbk)

  Printed and bound in the EU

  7 9 10 8

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  In a room full of men, Terry looked distinctly out of place. Small and skinny, his skin pale as porcelain, he seemed scarcely old enough to buy a drink never mind serve a prison sentence. Like some half-starved Dickensian waif, a pair of wide grey eyes dominated a delicate heart-shaped face. It was a face that was dangerously close to being pretty.

  Except today – she stopped dead in her tracks – there were marks on that pale flesh, a large mauve bruise encircling his left eye, a vicious reddening around the jaw.

  Hurrying forward, Eve grabbed hold of his arm. ‘Jesus! What happened?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘It doesn’t look like—’

  He shrugged her off, glancing furtively around. ‘It’s nothing,’ he insisted again. This time it was more like a warning than a reply. As if to close the exchange, he quickly sat down, putting his elbows on his knees, and staring at the floor.

  ‘Terry?’ She sank down on the chair beside him. She knew they were being watched, examined. The hairs rose up on the back of her neck. And she knew what they were all thinking – the cons, the visitors, even the screws – it hardly took a genius to work it out. Inmates were always being bullied, being harassed, being … She stopped, swallowing hard. She could hardly bring herself to articulate the thought and so settled on the word abused instead. It didn’t help much.

  Her stomach heaved.

  Eventually he raised his eyes and forced a smile. ‘What are you looking so pissed off about?’

  ‘What do you think?’ Anger burned into her cheeks. Hi
s injuries were worse close up; there were other bruises staining his neck, purple marks on his slender hands and wrists. She flinched. ‘For God’s sake.’

  ‘Leave it,’ he insisted. ‘Just leave it, okay?’

  As if she should just accept it, as if it was perfectly normal to see your little brother with half his stupid cupid face smashed in. Not to mention whatever else had …

  ‘Tell me, tell me who did it? Who did this to you?’

  He gave her one of his full-on incredulous looks. ‘I’m not some bloody grass,’ he swore softly. ‘You know the score, Evie. You want to get me fucking killed?’

  ‘Seems like you’re doing a pretty good job of that yourself.’ She scowled. ‘Anyway, it’s me you’re talking to, not the bleeding Governor.’

  He dropped his head into his hands. ‘I’m not listening.’

  Eve released a low frustrated sigh. That was the trouble with Terry, he never did listen. He never had. He’d had the best teacher in the world, their own smart, smooth-talking swindler of a father, but had never had the patience to absorb a single sentence. ‘Now’ was the only word he’d ever understood. Everything had to be here and now, instant success, instant cash, instant gratification, which was why he’d ended up in this lousy godforsaken hellhole of a place.

  And why she’d been left with the thankless job of picking up the pieces.

  ‘You could get me a brew,’ he said sulkily, ‘if it’s not too much trouble.’

  ‘Sure.’ She got to her feet. ‘Whatever.’ There was no point pushing him. Perhaps, when he had space to think, he might confide in her. Although the odds weren’t great; twenty-one years of stubborn stupidity were unlikely to dissolve in the few minutes it took her to get to the counter and back.

  Stumbling across the room, she blindly swiped at the tears in her eyes. She bit down hard on her lip. Damn! She wasn’t the crying sort and blubbing like an infant wasn’t going to change anything. Although, come to think of it, what was?

  For the first time in his life, Terry was well and truly on his own.

  It’s only six months, she repeated like a mantra, trying to reassure herself, six months, six months. But, hell, it didn’t take six minutes, never mind six months, to wind up with a noose around your neck.

  Lost in the horror, she bumped into the edge of another con’s chair and almost fell.

  ‘Careful, darling,’ he said, extending a hand.

  Quickly she snatched her arm away. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘No need to apologize.’

  She might only have glanced at him, glanced and moved on, but there was something about his voice, its shifty provocative edge, that caught her attention. Eve raised her head and stared. A pair of dark assessing eyes returned her gaze before quite blatantly sliding down her body to view whatever else might be of interest.

  ‘No point rushing,’ he grinned sleazily into her breasts. ‘I’m not going anywhere.’

  She glared back at him. Great, this was just what she needed, some low-life piece of scum reviewing her assets in the middle of a prison visiting room. As if she didn’t have enough to deal with. Spit in my face, why don’t you? At any other time, in any other place, she might have drawn her claws and prepared for a fight – but not today. She had more important things to worry about.

  ‘Fuck you,’ she murmured.

  He laughed as she walked away.

  Later, thinking back, she’d claim this was the moment that everything changed. But it wasn’t entirely true. It was only while she was in the queue, grinding her teeth and quietly seething, that the idea slowly began to take form.

  She bought tea and snacks, took a more circuitous route back to the table and clattered the tray down. As if he hadn’t eaten for a week, Terry snatched up a bag of crisps and opened them.

  ‘What’s his name?’ she asked, glancing over her shoulder.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The one with the attitude, the one I bumped into.’ She was sure Terry would have been watching her, probably trying to think of some yarn to spin, some tall story to get her off his back.

  He hesitated again, his lips pursing to ask why, but then clearly thought better of it. This line of inquiry was preferable to her last. ‘Cavelli,’ he said. ‘Martin Cavelli.’

  ‘Yeah, I thought so. I thought it was him. Is he on your wing?’

  He nodded.

  ‘Did he do that to you?’ she asked, gesturing towards the bruises on his face and neck.

  ‘What?’ He had just raised the plastic cup to his mouth. A stream of hot brown tea spluttered out across his chest. ‘God, Evie, what—’

  She didn’t give him time to finish. ‘Or have anything to do with it?’

  ‘No!’ he insisted, scowling and rubbing ineffectively at the stain on his shirt. ‘Shit, look what you’ve made me do. I’m going to have to wash this now.’

  She sat back in her seat and smiled. Good. At least that was one question answered. Terry could lie for England – he was the quintessential blond-haired angel – but on this occasion she was certain he was telling the truth. Settling back to sip her tea, she sneaked a glance at the man called Cavelli, caught his eye and held it for a few lingering seconds.

  She’d taken the opportunity for closer scrutiny while she was waiting to be served: an experienced con, she was sure, late forties, maybe a touch older, tall, broad, and with the kind of over-developed shoulders that came from too many hours in the gym. His dark hair streaked with silver was receding from his forehead, and his eyes, sharp and sly, were the shade of wet slate. But it was his mouth that she recalled most distinctly, the wide narrow lips that had mocked her, the mouth that was built to curse.

  Yes, all things considered, he might not do too badly.

  ‘Give him my number,’ she said, ‘ask him to ring me tonight after seven.’

  Terry stared at her dumbfounded. ‘What?’

  ‘I need to talk to him.’

  ‘Why? Why do you—’

  ‘Because I know him,’ she said, lowering her voice. ‘I’ve met him before. Just tell him to call. He’ll understand.’

  It wasn’t exactly a lie. Eve had met a hundred men like him before. At a glance she could spot those who were powerful and those who were not.

  Terry frowned at her. ‘How do you know him?’

  She widened her grey eyes and smiled. ‘It’s a long story. But if you’re prepared to tell me what happened to you, I might just consider …’

  ‘Forget it,’ he said.

  She shrugged. ‘Fair enough.’

  For the second time she gazed deliberately, almost seductively, over her shoulder.

  The man called Cavelli glanced up again, his gaze hovering briefly on her face before slowly slipping down. He had that look in his eye: appraising – was that the word? Only something a little nastier than that.

  Chapter Two

  Unlocking the door, Eve stepped cautiously inside her father’s flat. Even after all these weeks she still felt it was a liberty to walk straight in without knocking first, without giving him the opportunity to hide an over-generous glass of brandy or stub out a forbidden cigarette.

  She strode across the room and swung open the french windows that led out on to a rusty iron balcony. Some fresh air to sweep away the mustiness, the lingering memories.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ Sonia asked, sauntering in uninvited behind her. ‘Where have you been? I thought you’d be back hours ago.’

  Watching out for her then, like she always did, probably with her nose pressed against the glass. A spurt of irritation made Eve’s voice tetchy. ‘Well, I’m here now. You don’t have to worry.’ But as soon as she snapped she was sorry. ‘I went for a walk,’ she explained, ‘I needed some fresh air.’

  Sonia snorted. ‘That’s what those places do to you. Is your Terry okay?’

  ‘He’s fine,’ Eve said, turning her back and walking into the kitchen to fill the kettle. ‘He’s coping.’

  Sonia heard the lie but let it pass. She’d made enough
prison visits herself to recognize the glib response. ‘That’s good.’

  Eve didn’t want her there. She wanted to be alone but there was no chance of that until she’d had a brew and a chance for a gossip. Better get it over and done with before the call came through. If it came through.

  ‘So what’s new?’ she asked resignedly.

  Sonia dropped her denim-miniskirted backside on to the nearest chair and sighed for England. She stubbed out her cigarette in a saucer. ‘The old bastard’s still saying he won’t give me a divorce. You should have heard him. Ranting and raving he was, screaming down the phone. Said he’d see me burn first. So I told him that’d be nothing new; every day with him was a living hell anyway.’ She paused briefly for breath, coughing up her animosity. ‘And he’s only doing it to spite me. It’s not as though he gives a shite. You know what he’s like.’

  Eve did, although only through her neighbour’s colourful updates. She had never, thankfully, had the pleasure of meeting the demonic Peter Marshall face to face. Placing two mugs down, she slid one across the table. ‘You only have to wait. Be patient. You’ll get it eventually. It’s not as though you’re in any hurry to get hitched again.’

  But Sonia wasn’t appeased. ‘It’s the principle, love. What if I come up on the lotto? Be just my luck to still have that bloody millstone round my neck. Be entitled, wouldn’t he? The idle son of a bitch would be entitled to a share.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ Eve replied, a smile creeping on to her lips for the first time that day. Sonia’s ability to create imaginary obstacles to her future peace and happiness was a talent in itself. ‘You’re entitled to a quick divorce but that doesn’t mean you’re going to get it.’