by Roberta Kray
Raynor was like a terrier, biting and snarling, refusing to let go. Eddie was sick of it. He had better things to do. It wasn’t as if it had happened – if it had happened – on their patch, not even in their county. And, okay, there’d been that breakin at her old man’s place, but so what? There were plenty of low-lives roaming the streets. And so what if she was visiting Martin Cavelli? It didn’t mean they were planning the heist of the century. He smirked into his coffee; more likely she got paid to talk dirty to him!
No, Raynor had got it all wrong this time. But then that wasn’t surprising; he might be smart but he didn’t have the experience; it took years to develop a real copper’s nose. These fast-track graduates got on his nerves. Promoted almost as soon as they’d pushed them through Hendon. One minute they were still wet behind the ears, the next they were running the bloody show. Although he had a grudging respect for the inspector’s tenacity, he couldn’t say he liked him much. With his fancy suits, silk ties and fanatical health habits, he didn’t fit in with Eddie’s idea of what a copper should be. It didn’t help, either, that half the female relief worshipped the ground he walked on.
Muttering under his breath, he opened the file on Martin Cavelli and started to read. It made for slim pickings. Before the trial, fifteen years before, there had been a few minor incidents, mainly of affray, a couple of cautions, a few fines, but that was all. Nothing to indicate the ferocious violence he’d later unleash on Jimmy Reece. That he hadn’t killed the guy was a miracle. Still, it hadn’t been through lack of trying. Anticipating his lunch, Eddie didn’t look too closely at the photographs.
Cavelli had started as a bouncer, working the clubs, dealing with the pushers and the drunks, before wisely moving into the more glamorous and lucrative world of personal security. Back in the mid-nineties he had launched a small but elite bodyguarding business. By employing only the cream, ex-SAS, ex-Marines, he had soon built up a reputation, as well as a healthy bank balance.
How exactly he’d raised the start-up capital – a high-interest loan from the bank or a more imaginative approach to borrowing – wasn’t revealed in the papers in front of him. Eddie had his suspicions. Anyway, whatever the means, that was how Cavelli had come to meet Jimmy Reece, or rather James Archibald Conway Reece as he’d actually been christened. He snarled. He had about as much regard for aristocratic playboys as he had for fast-track coppers. But Jimmy Reece had been on the up then, a favoured ‘celebrity’. His face had been splashed across all the tabloids. He’d made a couple of films, nothing special, but his good looks, background and nightclub antics were rapidly launching him into the stratosphere. He was never seen without a different girl on his arm.
But the female species, as it turned out, was to be his downfall.
Or, more to the point, one woman in particular. When Jimmy Reece set his sights on Nadine Cavelli, he was making the worst mistake of his life.
In Eddie’s long career, it had never failed to amaze him as to just how many men were brought down by the fairer sex. They should have learned their lesson by now – but that would be the day hell froze over. All it took was a flash of cleavage, a sultry look, and their cocks took charge of their brains. On the inauspicious day that Jimmy had waltzed off with Cavelli’s wife, he may as well have slit his own throat.
Eddie impatiently shoved that file aside and opened the next. It was only as he flipped through the report on the Weston breakin that something promising leapt out. The person who’d reported the incident was a neighbour called Marshall, Sonia Marshall. For the first time that morning, his eyes lit up. Now if that was a coincidence …
He lumbered to his feet and pulled on his jacket. It was years since he’d last seen her but it had to be the same one; he could feel it in his water. And although breaking and entering was hardly Sonia’s modus operandi, her fucker of a husband was more than capable. Yeah, the more he came to think about it, Peter Marshall sat very nicely in the frame.
Eddie drove all the way to Herbert Street with a grin on his face.
When he arrived, he couldn’t find a space and was forced to circle twice before parking the car several streets away. Whether it would still be there in half an hour was a matter of debate. A spillover from the adjacent red-light district, this wasn’t the most salubrious of areas. It had a downbeat, downcast air as if its residents expected nothing – and knew that they were more than likely to get it.
He walked swiftly back, past a few dilapidated shops and an almost empty café. The cool steady rain put a dampener on his mood. This wasn’t improved by the two flights of stairs that loomed up before him as he swung through the glass doors of the entrance.
It was a while before he reached the top landing and by then his breath was laboured. He was sweating too, the clammy perspiration on his shirt leaking through to meet the dampness of his outer layers. A purplish red stain lay like a bruise across his nose and cheeks. He paused to light a cigarette.
As on the other floors, there were only two flats to choose from. He raised a fist and rapped on number six. There was a short delay before he heard a rustling sound followed by silence. Sure that he was being viewed through the spyhole, he got a faint prickling sensation on the nape of his neck.
Eventually, a bolt was drawn back and the door was opened.
It took him a moment to connect this woman, knocking on sixty by the looks of it and dressed in a burnt-orange tracksuit, with the young tom he’d regularly arrested all those years ago. But Eddie’s fleshy mouth gradually shifted into a smile. ‘Hello, Sonia, love. Long time, no see.’
She didn’t seem to have the same problem on the recognition front. ‘Not long enough,’ she replied smartly. ‘Eddie Shepherd. What the fuck do you want?’
‘Charming as ever. Aren’t you going to invite me in?’
As if she’d rather take a walk through a glade of poisonous snakes, she glared at him. ‘You got a warrant?’
‘What would I want one of those for?’ He shook his head. ‘I’m only here for a chat, love. About the breakin, across the way.’
‘I’ve already given a statement.’
‘And I’ve got some more questions.’
Sonia continued to glare for a few seconds longer but then, as if the effort of her contempt was too much to sustain, she released a lungful of air and reluctantly stood aside.
He brushed past her into the living room. It wasn’t exactly spacious. The proportions of the flat were mean; the whole block had been cheaply squeezed into too small a space and it showed. The flamboyant flowery wallpaper, a riot of unnaturally large blossoms, brought the walls even closer. He felt like he was being drowned in petals.
‘I suppose you want a brew,’ she grumbled.
‘Two sugars,’ he said.
He settled himself down into the nearest chair, glad to take the weight off his feet. While she fussed in the kitchen, her tea-making accompanied by a series of soft disgruntled noises, he watched her through the open archway. He flicked his cigarette towards an overflowing ashtray. She’d got older, all right, older and a damn sight wider. Fuck, if he’d passed her in the street, he wouldn’t have known her.
She came back and dumped a mug on the small cracked table by his elbow.
‘You haven’t changed,’ he said.
Sonia slumped down on the sofa. ‘And you’re still the same lying bastard you always were.’
He sniggered. ‘It’s been a while. What have you been up to?’
‘I thought you were here to talk about the breakin.’
‘I am,’ he said. He cocked his head and stared at her. ‘Thing is, Sonia, I’ve got a little problem …’
She scowled suspiciously at him. ‘Oh yeah?’
‘Yeah. One of those problems that keeps nagging away. You know the sort? I just keep wondering what exactly you were doing yesterday.’
Abruptly, she shifted forward. ‘What?’ Her chin jerked up, an angry pink flush invading her cheeks. ‘Oh, that’s your bloody game, is it, trying to pin
it on me? You think I’ve started breaking into other people’s homes? You must be bloody desperate! Alex Weston was my friend. You really think I smashed down his door and wrecked the place?’ She stopped to scrabble for a cigarette, her hand shaking with indignation. ‘I was out, out. I didn’t get back until going on four … For God’s sake, I was the one who rang you.’
Eddie calmly sipped his tea while she vented her fury. That was one thing that hadn’t changed about her. Sonia Marshall was still as loud and bloody-minded as ever. She’d be pleading her innocence if she was caught standing over a corpse with a knife in her hand. Not that he thought she was guilty, not of this at least, but he was pretty sure that she knew more than she was letting on.
He gazed around nonchalantly. ‘Your Peter not here then?’
‘No.’
‘You know where he is, sweetheart?’
She glowered. ‘Ten feet under for all I care.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘You’re the bloody copper, you work it out.’
‘He’s moved out then?’
She curled back against the sofa. ‘Got it in one, Mr Shepherd. I haven’t seen him for over a year.’
Eddie glanced around but there was no evidence to refute the statement. A bottle of vodka on the sideboard but that was probably hers. And no man, in his right mind, could possibly live with that wallpaper. ‘You got an address?’
‘I’ve told you. We’re separated.’
‘And you never talk?’
She shrugged. ‘We’ve a kid, grandkids. Course we talk.’
‘But you don’t know his address?’
‘No, I don’t know his address. I don’t have a bloody clue. You think he’d bother telling me?’ She pulled her brows into a frown. ‘Find some poor sad cow who doesn’t know any better and you’ll find him in her bed.’
Eddie grinned. ‘Did you tell him about Alex Weston?’
‘Why would I want to do that?’
‘Just asking,’ he said.
She directed that full-on glare at him again. ‘Well, ask away. I don’t care what you think. This has nothing to do with me. You just try and prove otherwise. And nothing to do with Peter either. I’ve told you – he’s not around.’
He nodded, rising slowly to his feet. ‘Okay, no need to blow a gasket. Where’s the bog?’
‘Over there,’ she said, waving a hand. She managed to restrain herself until he reached the door. ‘What’s the matter, Eddie? The old prostate playing you up?’
As it happened, she wasn’t far wrong. He was pissing for Britain these days. Although that wasn’t the only reason he wanted to go to the bathroom. After he’d flushed and zipped up, he opened the cabinet and swiftly rummaged through the contents: women’s deodorant, perfume, and a ton of fuck-knows-what. He fought a path through the cosmetics. There was a good supply of tranks as well, a bottle of aspirin, even some disposable razors – but nothing specifically male. If Peter Marshall had been living here, he’d been pretty efficient at covering his tracks.
He went back into the living room and sat down heavily in the chair.
‘Feeling better?’ she mocked.
Taking a notebook from his pocket, he flicked through the pages for a minute or two. Then he looked up and gave a small unpleasant smile. ‘So, how are you keeping the wolf from the door these days, Sonia?’ He presumed she wasn’t still turning tricks; even the sex-starved punters of Norwich couldn’t be that desperate.
‘What’s it to you?’ she snapped defensively.
He waited, tapping the thick fingers of his hand against his thigh.
She held out for a few seconds but eventually, sulkily, admitted, ‘I’ve got a job, haven’t I? Part-time. At the cash ’n’ carry down the road. There’s where I was yesterday – working. I told that other one, your mate, blondie. Check it out if you don’t believe me.’
Eddie scribbled a note in his book. ‘Does Peter still have a key to this place?’
‘You think I’m stupid?’
‘He could have come round when you were out.’
She barked out a laugh. ‘What, and broken in next door and taken sod all? The day he walks off with his pockets empty they’ll declare a national bloody holiday.’
Eddie couldn’t dispute that. But he still had a few avenues to explore. ‘Who said nothing was taken?’
Caught off guard, Sonia’s black-rimmed eyes widened a fraction. ‘What do you mean?’
‘Perhaps they took something that you don’t know about.’
She stopped to think about it. ‘Like what?’ Then, as if she guessed he was only on a fishing expedition, she abruptly waved the suggestion away. ‘No, they couldn’t. Alex had nothing worth nicking. He was broke, never had two pennies to rub together.’
‘He liked to gamble, didn’t he? Maybe he got lucky.’
Sonia wasn’t having any of it. ‘Yeah, right. Lucky enough to go throw himself in the river.’
Eddie nodded. She had a point. In all likelihood he was wasting his time – even if she did know anything she wouldn’t dream of sharing it – but he was reluctant to leave. At least it was warm and dry in here. He might as well stay until the rain eased off.
‘So tell me where you think I might find Peter.’
But Sonia’s well of cooperation, never overflowing at best, had just run dry. In a gesture that might have been down to impatience or anger, she stubbed her half-smoked cigarette out in a saucer. ‘Look, what’s going on here? What’s with all the questions, the bloody interrogation? You lot can’t usually be arsed to turn up at a breakin, never mind come back for seconds.’
Her mouth clamped into a tight thin line and Eddie knew that his interview was over. He could carry on pushing but it wouldn’t be worth the effort. Never mind, it wouldn’t take him long to find Marshall. He was a man of regular habits and limited imagination; if he wasn’t in the bookie’s, he’d be in the pub.
By the door he turned and took her chin in his hand. Leaning forward, close enough to kiss her, he whispered his stale breath into her face. ‘If I find out you’ve been lying to me, Sonia, I’ll have you fucking hung, drawn and quartered.’
Chapter Six
Henry’s letter was sitting on her father’s desk. As too was Sonia, her backside perched on the edge as she passed her the books one by one. While they talked, Eve dutifully placed them on the shelves, distractedly shuffling them into alphabetical order.
‘What do you think he wanted?’
‘Nothing good,’ Sonia said. ‘That Eddie Shepherd’s a piece of shit. Believe me, love, whatever he’s after, it’s nothing to do with victim support.’
‘And he came round yesterday?’
‘I tried to let you know’ There was an edge of huffiness to her voice. ‘I knocked on the door but you were out.’
Eve smiled guiltily. It was true: she had tried, about five times if she recalled correctly. And she hadn’t actually been out at all, just curled up on the sofa with a bottle of red wine, two sealed boxes at her feet, and a desperate yearning to be alone. She’d even turned off the lights. After Barry and Paula she’d had enough company for the day. ‘Yeah, sorry. I got back late.’
Sonia thrust a copy of William Blake’s poetry into her hands. She placed it on the top shelf, to the left of Cicero.
‘Did he ask about me?’
‘No. He asked about your dad though.’
Eve wasn’t sure if that was good or bad. Probably the latter the way her luck was going. Her eyes strayed again towards those invisible words of Henry’s enclosed within the starched white envelope: He claimed it was an ongoing investigation. She still hadn’t told Sonia that Shepherd was the same cop who’d been making inquiries about her in London. It was all just too weird – and too worrying.
‘What did you tell him?’
‘What do you think?’ Sonia said, grinning. ‘Fuck all.’ She paused to lift her cigarette to her lips before passing her a paperback copy of A Bend in the River.
Eve glanced u
ncertainly at the cover: V.S. Naipaul. She slid him in after Lawrence and before Virginia Woolf. Then she looked back at Sonia again. ‘I still don’t get it. Who is this guy? Why’s he so interested?’
Sonia’s mouth puckered into disgust. ‘He’s the filth, love. He doesn’t need a reason.’
But Eve wasn’t convinced. In her experience, every cop, good or bad, had a reason for what he did. Not always a good one, or a moral one, but a reason nonetheless. So what was Eddie Shepherd’s?
They were quiet for a while as she continued to line up the books: Henry James, Simenon, Oscar Wilde. Her fingers groped along the shelves, nudging, separating, creating spaces. Why she was even doing this was a mystery to her. It didn’t matter where they went. Her father wasn’t here to see them, or to read them, any more. It was just some crazy way of holding on to him, of continuing to cling to some precarious sense of order.
When they were done, when every last book had been returned to its rightful place, she stared back down at the letter again. She had no choice: she had to ring Henry. She had to hear from his lips exactly what Shepherd had said. Something bad, something nasty, was snapping at her heels – and she was going to go mad if she didn’t find out what it was.
She checked her watch. It was almost four o’clock, Friday afternoon. Henry would still be there; he never rushed home for the weekend. But how was she going to get through to him? All lines went through the main switchboard and she had no doubt that Richard would have given instructions for Henry’s calls to be carefully monitored. In fact he probably had her picture taped to the wall with a reward sign on it. Even if she managed to bluff her way past the practised ears of the SS receptionist, she still had the new secretary to deal with; Dickie’s secret army would be on red alert and the last thing she wanted was to cause Henry more grief.
She had to find a means of contacting him that wouldn’t arouse suspicion, and the only way to do that was to bring in reinforcements. Sadly, those were thin on the ground, although there was one person who might be willing to help. She picked up the envelope and held it against her chin.