by Roberta Kray
When she came back there was a small pile of mail sitting on the table.
‘Sorry,’ Sonia said. ‘I brought it up yesterday when … I forgot to give it to you.’
‘I’m glad you did,’ Eve replied, wincing as she flicked through the envelopes. ‘There’s only so much bad news you can take in a day.’ The first three were bills, final demands. It was only the fourth that caught her attention. She recognized the handwriting. Henry’s.
Quickly, she tore it open. She read it once and then again.
Her heart sank.
Chapter Five
Cavelli stretched out his legs on the hard skinny bunk and put his hands behind his head. It was twelve o’clock, lunchtime lock-up. He gazed up at the ceiling. Barry should be there by now, doing his job, shoring up the defences. This was working out better than he could ever have imagined. He smiled. Five bloody years he’d spent inside – and now he could get what he wanted without moving a muscle. It was all so easy, so simple. Thanks to Eve Weston.
And with due thanks as well to the Reverend John Miller. It could hardly be a coincidence that he’d seen him coming out of Terry’s cell last week. Divine intervention was how he liked to think of it.
All he’d had to do was to invite him in and look suitably anxious. ‘We’re all worried about Terry,’ he’d said. ‘After what’s happened.’
It was common knowledge that he’d been to his father’s funeral a few weeks back. But, after that first visit by Eve, when she’d made her unusual proposition, Cavelli wanted to find out more. He had tried to talk to Terry but the kid had clammed up. Mad little fucker he was. On the dope most of the time, three sheets to the wind. Although after what his papa had done, that was hardly surprising. He should have felt pity but he didn’t. Pity was weakness and you couldn’t afford weakness in here.
‘Take a pew,’ he’d said, not intending the pun and trying not to grin as soon as it came out of his mouth.
A more worldly priest would have seen straight through him, would have easily shrugged him off, but Miller was a new boy in the jail, still finding his feet. He didn’t have a clue about the bastards he was dealing with. In his late thirties, he reminded Cavelli of a crow: a long sharp nose, beady eyes and thinning oiled black hair.
‘How is he?’ he’d asked. ‘Is he okay?’
And Miller, mistaking his curiosity for genuine concern, had soon spilled the beans. In five minutes flat he’d got the information he wanted: old man Weston had given up the ghost and drowned himself in the river Wensum.
Cavelli hadn’t been sure why the information was useful; it was just that old gut instinct coming in to play. Maybe it was because it made Eve Weston more vulnerable, more desperate. If her father had taken his own life, it wasn’t beyond the realm of possibility that Terry might do the same. Was there a genetic predisposition towards these things? Perhaps it was a Weston family trait.
He might have left it there but his interest had been piqued by the tall sexy redhead prepared to take risks. He asked around, made a few calls, and the more he found out, the more interested he became. Alex Weston had been a conman and a good one too by all accounts. However, like most of his breed, he had managed to squander his various fortunes: some on women and high-living, but most at the card table. He was a good poker player but the odds always got you in the end.
And what about his daughter? She’d had a few run-ins with the law but still had a clean sheet. There were rumours but nothing concrete. Hard to say for sure whether she was a chip off the old block or if she’d found an easier way to make a living; with that face and those legs she wouldn’t have too much trouble in persuading gullible old men to part with their money.
Well, he wasn’t going to rush anything. No point scaring her off. He’d reel her in slowly, very slowly, until she was so tight on that hook she’d never be able to wriggle free.
‘Will we see you in chapel on Sunday?’ Miller had asked.
‘I don’t think so, Father.’
What was the point? In Eve Weston, he’d already got the answer to his prayers.
It was almost half-twelve when the second knock came, a deeper and more resonant sound thanks to Barry’s installation. With two mortises, a Yale, and three heavy bolts, it would take a party of storm troopers to break down the door.
She opened it to discover a tall curvy brunette, impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, but with a pronounced scowl on her face. A pair of flashing chestnut eyes surveyed her. ‘You Eve?’ she asked shortly.
When she nodded, the woman thrust two long black garment bags into her arms. ‘Here. The rest of his stuff’s in the car.’ Abruptly, she turned away.
Eve threw the bags over the back of a chair and quickly followed her along the corridor. ‘You must be Paula,’ she said, when the penny finally dropped.
As if the comment was superfluous, Paula ignored it. Clearly less than overjoyed at being forced to play delivery girl, she clattered down the stone stairway, her stiletto heels echoing. It was only as they hit the second flight that she deigned to speak to her again. ‘You ever thought of living someplace with a lift?’
‘It’s only two floors,’ Eve retorted, bristling at her tone. She had been on the verge of offering an apology – it was her, after all, who should have been driving to London – but instantly changed her mind. ‘Good exercise,’ she said instead.
Paula snorted.
Just outside the entrance, a gleaming blue BMW sports was parked. Paula paused for a moment, perhaps to admire its sleek low-slung beauty, but more likely to check for malicious scratches. Then she opened the boot and passed over a heavy cardboard box. ‘You take this and I’ll bring the rest.’
The ‘rest’ appeared to consist of one much smaller box and a handful of shirts still in their cellophane wrappers. Eve gave her a withering glance but didn’t object. The sooner they got this over with the better.
Gritting her teeth as she lugged it up the stairs, she tried to judge from the size and weight what might be inside. It was about eighteen inches square and securely sealed with wide dark red tape. It felt as heavy as a ton of bricks – or books. Books? From what she knew of Cavelli, that didn’t seem likely.
‘What’s he got in here?’ she puffed.
‘I didn’t ask,’ Paula replied, in such a way as to suggest that she shouldn’t be asking either.
Eve was out of breath by the time she reached the flat. Perhaps there was something to be said for a lift. She dumped the box unceremoniously on the floor. ‘You want a coffee?’ she asked, more out of politeness than any desire to prolong the encounter.
But as Paula stepped over the threshold, she stopped to stare intently at the door. Raising her perfectly plucked eyebrows in a blend of surprise and curiosity, she asked, ‘You expecting company?’
And she didn’t need to spell out what kind of company she meant.
Eve sighed, wondering if this was the reaction she was going to get from every visitor. That door was just too … extreme. ‘I’ve already had it. I was broken into yesterday. Didn’t he tell you?’
‘Oh, he never tells me anything, love. Just gets me running around like a blue-arsed fly. Won’t take no for an answer.’ For the first time, Paula extended her wide scarlet mouth into a smile. ‘Still, I suppose you know all about that.’
She didn’t – although she’d had an inkling of his obstinacy this morning when she’d told him that she wouldn’t be going to Hampstead. She smiled back, sensing a thaw in their, to date, rather icy relations. It suddenly occurred to her, after Cavelli’s unwelcome revelations yesterday, that this could be an opportunity to do some research of her own.
‘Grab a seat. I’ll get the coffee.’
Paula hesitated, glancing first at the battered sofa and then at the two overstuffed and mismatched armchairs. From the dizzying heights of her spiky four-inch heels, she gazed down on the choice as if weighing a no-win option between the devil and the deep blue sea.
Eve’s intention to do some subtle
digging was supplanted by a surge of indignation. This had been her father’s home and, okay, it might not be a Mayfair penthouse or a luxury flat in Hampstead, but it was clean. After the breakin she and Sonia had spread enough disinfectant to kill the most malevolent of germs. And she’d even spent the rest of this morning, after Barry had left, dusting and polishing. Mr Sheen would be proud of her. Who was Paula to peer down that supercilious nose and pass judgement? Without attempting to hide her irritation, she snapped, ‘Look, it might not be the Ritz but don’t worry, you won’t catch anything.’
Surprisingly, Paula laughed. ‘I wasn’t thinking that.’
‘Right,’ Eve murmured disbelievingly, before retreating to the kitchen. She refilled the kettle and flicked it back on for what already felt like the hundredth time that day. Slamming a couple of mugs down on the counter, she turned around to find Paula watching her.
‘You’re kind of touchy, aren’t you?’
Eve glared at her. ‘This is my father’s flat. He died recently. So, yes, I suppose I’m kind of touchy.’
‘Sorry, I didn’t realize.’ Paula placed one hand on her elegant hip and sighed. ‘To tell you the truth, I’ve been in a filthy mood all morning. Well, ever since Martin rang and told me you weren’t coming.’
‘I’d never have guessed.’
Paula grinned. ‘I shouldn’t have taken it out on you.’
Eve, prepared to call a truce, nodded back at her. ‘I would have driven down tomorrow. I tried to call.’
‘It doesn’t matter. I couldn’t take another day of Martin hassling me. It’s worth the trip just to get him off my back.’
‘Have you known him long?’ she asked, trying not to look too interested. She poured the water carefully over the coffee.
‘Too long,’ Paula replied, but didn’t elaborate.
Back in the living room, she slumped down on the sofa and kicked off her shoes. She leaned down to massage the arches of her narrow feet. ‘You’re not his usual type.’
Eve forced a smile. ‘I’m sorry?’
‘Not another dumb blonde at least. That’s a step in the right direction.’
‘I’m not his girlfriend,’ she retorted, a little too smartly. ‘I’m just …’ Just what? She tried to think of something suitable to describe their association. In the end, defeated, she murmured, ‘I’m just a friend.’
As if Paula had heard that a thousand times before her mobile eyebrows made another tiny upward shift. ‘Oh, don’t worry about me. No skin off my nose. He’s none of my business any more, hasn’t been for years.’
‘So you used to …’
‘He didn’t tell you, did he? Typical of Martin. Still, you’ll get used to it.’ She laughed, exposing both rows of her pure white teeth. ‘I’m his wife, love – although not, thank God, for much longer.’
Eve sat back in her chair, genuinely surprised. She couldn’t imagine them together, this tall striking woman and the uncouth Cavelli. Like a bizarre re-creation of Beauty and the Beast.
‘And before you ask,’ Paula added, although Eve hadn’t been going to, ‘I didn’t dump him when he went inside. I’m not that much of a bitch. We’d already split.’ She played with a thread on the arm of the sofa, winding it around a blood-red talon. ‘Three months, that’s all we lasted. Not what you’d call a mighty success.’
Sipping her coffee, Eve studied her over the rim of the mug. She had the feeling that condolences weren’t exactly in order. So she offered instead, ‘Short and sweet?’
‘Well, half right.’ Paula’s lips pursed into what might have been bitterness or regret. ‘Personally, I don’t much care for always being second best.’
‘Second best?’
She turned her dark eyes on her. ‘He really hasn’t told you anything, has he?’
Eve couldn’t argue with that so she simply lifted her shoulders in a shrug.
‘Living in the shadow of a ghost,’ Paula explained. ‘The beautiful Nadine. Let me give you a piece of advice: never get attached to a man with a dead first wife, especially one he’s still in love with.’
Eve wondered why she was telling her all this – a kindly warning or a deliberate attempt to undermine her ‘relationship’ with Cavelli? Either way, she didn’t much care. ‘So why did you get together in the first place?’
‘For the usual stupid reasons. You know …’
Eve had an inkling. ‘I was married once,’ she volunteered, ‘a long time ago. We staggered through two years, but he preferred pool rooms and whisky to me.’
‘Tough competition.’
‘Too tough.’ Where was Patrick now? Still hustling, probably, still living off his wits. If they hadn’t been pickled in alcohol. For all his utter uselessness, Eve still felt a lingering ache whenever she thought of him. ‘I won’t be rushing there again.’
But Paula just laughed. ‘Some men can be very persuasive.’
If she was referring to Cavelli, she didn’t have to worry. Eve was still trying to work out how he’d managed to persuade one woman to walk down the aisle with him, never mind two. Which reminded her of something she needed to ask: ‘What happened to Nadine?’
As if she hadn’t heard, Paula glanced pointedly at her diamond-studded watch and stood up. She slipped her feet back into her shoes, smoothed down her skirt, and made a small unnecessary adjustment to her hair.
‘Paula?’
Eventually, reluctantly, she looked back at her. ‘She left him, didn’t she? Found some piece of scum, divorced Martin, and headed off into the sunset with the latest Mr Right.’ She hesitated, doubtful perhaps as to whether she should go on, but then cleared her throat and continued. ‘The shit dumped her of course. No big surprise there. A few weeks later she took an overdose.’
‘God,’ Eve murmured, swallowing hard. She couldn’t help but be reminded of her father.
But Paula, unaware, gave an impatient flap of her hand. This time there was no disguising the bitterness in her voice. ‘Oh, don’t feel sorry for her. She ruined her own life and then wrecked Martin’s as well.’
And yours too, Eve thought, although she had the discretion not to say it out loud.
Quickly, as if she’d already revealed too much, Paula headed for the door. ‘Look, sorry, but I have to go. Thanks for the coffee.’
‘Hey, thanks for saving me a journey.’
As she crossed the room, Paula inclined her head towards the boxes. ‘Whatever you do, don’t open them. Martin’s paranoid about his stuff. He likes to keep it private.’
‘Of course,’ she replied, trying to sound dismissive. Trying to sound like the type of person who wasn’t even remotely curious about their contents.
Paula stepped into the corridor but then turned as though she might have something more to add. She gave Eve a long hard look. It was hard to tell just how friendly it was. But in the end she smiled. ‘Well, good luck,’ she said, and without waiting for a response began clickclacking her way towards the stairs.
It was only after she closed the door that Eve began wondering if those final words had some greater significance. Good luck. Was it just one of those casual things that people said or a direct reference – and she really hoped that this wasn’t the case – to the two mysterious boxes? Frowning, she prodded the larger one with her right foot. It was solid as a rock.
She walked over to the window and stared down at the street. Paula emerged a few seconds later. She didn’t look back or look up. With the ease of a supermodel, she coolly poured herself into the driver’s seat. Eve felt a pang of envy: what she wouldn’t give to be getting as far away from here as possible.
Unfortunately, that option wasn’t open to her.
She stood watching until the BMW slid around the corner. She realized that she hadn’t even asked her where she was going. Back to London first but then … Perhaps it was better not to know. Anywhere had to be more desirable than here. There were some other questions she would have liked the answers to, most essentially what Cavelli was serving time fo
r – but then again, she could hardly have inquired about that without revealing that she barely knew him.
With a sigh, she turned back towards the room.
Eve gazed at the boxes. It had been easier to think of Cavelli as totally alien, as a man she could never relate to. Now, in the worst possible way, it transpired that they had some common ground. She screwed up her eyes. Her fingers curled into two loose fists. Suicide. Recently, that word had taken up permanent residence in her mind, a sad sloshing word that revolved like a piece of dirty laundry. She could put it through the wash a thousand times but it was never going to come out clean.
Her father had killed himself.
And she hadn’t known that he was going to do it.
She sank down on to a chair and lowered her face into her hands. Naturally, there had been an autopsy. They’d found a cocktail of booze and pills, plus all the evidence of his deadly creeping cancer. The coroner’s verdict had never been in doubt: Alex Weston had taken his own life. And she wasn’t arguing with that.
But why had he chosen to walk out of the warmth and comfort of his own flat and into the bleak desolation of the river? Perhaps the answer was simple – to save Sonia from the joyless task of discovering his body. She would have knocked, as she always did, the following morning. And if she’d got no reply, eventually would have used her spare key and opened the door to find … She sighed. He had spared her that at least.
So, although she might just about be able to comprehend his motives for the midnight stroll, she still couldn’t grasp why he hadn’t left a note. Not a word of explanation. No goodbye. Nothing to help ease the pain of her loss. How to understand, how to forgive, that her father – who had spent his entire life scribbling notes – had failed at the final most important moment to put pen to paper?
DS Eddie Shepherd shuffled the papers on his desk and growled. In the past week, there’d been two post office robberies, a violent assault, three muggings and the usual quota of thefts and burglaries. So why was Raynor still obsessing over Eve Weston? Maybe she had conned some old codger out of a few quid but who gave a flying fuck? She was just a classy tart with an eye to the main chance.