by Roberta Kray
‘Sonia, could you do me a favour?’
Eve hadn’t needed to go into detail. No sooner had she begun to explain than Sonia, presuming this was to do with some doomed love affair, had swiftly interrupted. ‘Married, is he?’
‘It’s kind of complicated.’
‘It always is, love,’ she’d sighed. ‘And none of them are worth the effort.’
But she’d agreed to help her out. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder as the phone rang at the other end.
‘Baxter & Baxter,’ a cool female voice announced.
‘Henry Baxter, please.’
‘May I ask who’s calling?’
‘Mrs Lennox.’
There was a short pause. ‘Mrs Lennox?’
Eve could almost feel suspicion leaking down the line. She held her breath and prayed that the witch wasn’t going to embark on a lengthy crossexamination. She couldn’t possibly know the names of all Henry’s clients.
‘He’s expecting my call,’ Sonia insisted sternly. There was an edge of authority to her voice that Eve hadn’t heard before.
It seemed to have the desired effect.
‘Just one moment,’ she said. ‘I’ll put you through.’
But not straight through. The line went on hold while Vivaldi graced the airwaves. They glanced at each other, both raising their eyebrows. Just as Eve was starting to wonder if the receptionist was already conveying to Richard her pathetic attempt to circumvent Baxter security, the music abruptly cut out.
‘Mr Baxter’s office,’ a smaller and much less confident voice declared.
‘Henry Baxter,’ Sonia requested yet again.
‘I’m afraid Mr Baxter’s just gone in to a meeting,’ the girl said, in a tone so sorrowful that she might have been relaying his recent death. ‘Could I take a message?’
Eve quickly shook her head. If it was one of Richard’s tedious meetings, Henry could be stuck in it for hours.
‘No, I’m afraid it’s rather urgent. Tell him it’s Mrs Lennox.’ Sonia paused and then repeated emphatically, ‘Lennox.’
The girl hesitated. ‘I’m not sure if—’
‘He’s expecting my call.’
‘Oh, but …’ the girl dithered again.
Sonia, sensing weakness, put her foot down. ‘It is after four o’clock, isn’t it? After four o’clock was when Mr Baxter specifically asked me to call.’
Henry’s new secretary went quiet. Then, as if her limited repertoire of excuses had been exhausted, she gave a small fragile sigh. ‘All right. I’ll try him for you.’
Eve hoped that he’d guess who it was from the name. Terry Lennox was a character from The Long Goodbye, and Henry, like her father, knew his Raymond Chandler inside out.
There was another short delay, another burst of Vivaldi, before she heard the connecting click. ‘Henry Baxter.’
With a smile of relief she took the phone from Sonia and held it tight against her ear. ‘Henry, it’s me.’
‘Mrs Lennox,’ he said politely. ‘How nice to hear from you. How may I help?’
Eve got the message. ‘I take it Richard’s with you?’
‘Indeed,’ he replied briskly. ‘I can see how that might make things difficult.’
Instantly she lowered her voice. ‘Look, I have to talk to you about your letter. It’s important. Can you ring me back later?’
‘Yes, indeed. I think we are probably looking at about six thousand.’
‘Six is fine,’ she said. ‘Thanks.’
‘Very well.’
They said the customary goodbyes and hung up.
‘Mrs Lennox?’ Richard asked interrogatively, as soon as he’d replaced the receiver.
Henry nodded. Aware that he was still under his son’s hypocritical surveillance, he kept his tone casual. ‘You remember old Lennox, don’t you? Nice chap, used to run the bookshop on King Street. Passed away a couple of months ago. A stroke, I believe, or was it …’ He scratched his head as if trying to recall. ‘You know, now I come to think of it, it may have been …’
But Richard’s eyes were already starting to glaze over. He had no interest in his father’s fusty clients, dead or alive. ‘Yes, well, shall we get on? I’m sure we’d all like to leave before the weekend’s over.’
As Henry dutifully resumed his seat, there was nothing in his manner to suggest that the phone call was anything but a routine inquiry from a grieving widow. Had anyone taken the trouble to look closely, however, they would have noticed a small smile tugging at the corners of his mouth.
As soon as Sonia had left, Eve pulled on her raincoat and grabbed her purse. She felt jumpy and anxious, frustrated by her brief conversation with Henry. With another two hours to wait for his return call, she’d go stir crazy if she stayed in the flat.
Out on the street, the air smelled of damp, of frying fish and exhaust fumes. She turned left and then left again, striding quickly up the alley towards the supermarket. She didn’t care much for this bleak passageway but it was broad daylight and a few other women, laden with bulging carrier bags, were struggling back in the opposite direction.
As she walked, she thought about Henry. She thought about his amber eyes and the way he always listened to her, intent, his head tilted slightly to one side. No one, not even her father, had listened the way he had. Perhaps she shouldn’t have called him. Hadn’t she done enough damage? His wife and son already thought he was an adulterer. Not that she gave a damn what Dickie thought – he’d spent the last decade cheating on his own wife – but Celia was a different matter altogether. It had never been Eve’s intention to cause her any grief.
But she had to know what Shepherd had said.
One last phone call. Surely that couldn’t do any harm?
In a couple of minutes she emerged into the busy car park and crossed the forecourt towards the low brick building. She passed through the automatic sliding doors. Inside, it was teeming with shoppers. She frowned, remembering too late that Friday afternoon wasn’t the smartest time in the world to buy groceries. Still, what did it matter? She was better off standing in a queue than pacing the floor of the flat. At least she was doing something useful.
Negotiating a path through the crowded aisles, she picked up apples, oranges, onions and mushrooms and dropped them into her basket. Milk and tea bags followed. She added pasta, tinned tomatoes and a couple of chicken breasts. Then she ran out of inspiration. What else? She should have made a list. Her culinary skills, as Patrick had never jokingly failed to remind her, left a lot to be desired. They had lived off sandwiches and takeaways for the two years they’d been together. A domestic goddess she was not. Then again, his frequent inability to find his way home hardly made him the perfect husband either.
Eve found her lips sliding into a smile. Why was she thinking of Patrick? It was years since she’d last seen him. They’d had some good times – some very good times – but they were in the past.
She wandered down the next aisle, following a young fraught-looking woman with two toddlers and a baby. Perhaps, if things had been different, she and Patrick might have made a go of it, had some kids of their own. She glanced down tenderly towards the two little blond boys in front of her. Appropriately, they chose that moment to screw their tiny faces into deep red rage and to scream as loudly as the devil.
Any sentimental notions about the idylls of family life were instantly extinguished.
Eve headed for the wine.
She checked her watch as she left the building – ten past five. Only another fifty minutes to go. The rain had started to fall again. She scowled at the sky, pulled the hood up on her coat, hefted the two carrier bags into a more comfortable position, and crossed the car park.
This time she didn’t think twice about using the alley.
She was about a third of the way in, her head bowed towards the ground, when she heard the footsteps approaching from behind. She half-turned, more curious than concerned, to glance over her shoulder and then …
He was on her
before she knew it. Her face was up against the wall, her forehead scraping the stone. There was only blind panic. She couldn’t breathe. She felt the air rushing from her lungs, her legs giving way. She opened her mouth to scream, and a hand closed firmly over her jaw. A body was crushing her, heavy and violent. She struggled but her left arm was twisted behind her back, pulled up so tight that she thought she might pass out. From somewhere distant came the sound of breaking glass.
Rape was what she dreaded most as hot breath invaded her neck. She could hear the grunt in the back of his throat, the purpose as he shifted his weight against hers. Please God, she silently begged. There was a vile smell; sweat, stale beer, tobacco. It’s still daylight, she thought pointlessly, while a tiny voice kept repeating, No, no.
Her heart thundered in her chest, a beat so explosive she was sure the world must hear it. But no one came. She was alone. All she could see was the old chipped brick of the wall, the crumbling mortar and the line of dark hair that ran along the rim of his thick clammy hand. Bile rose from her stomach. She fought to keep it down. She found herself thinking of Patrick again, of her father, a slow-motion reel of images that ran weirdly in tandem with the sharp bitter fear.
She made another futile attempt to free herself, to bite against his flesh, but he pressed against her harder. ‘Bitch!’ he swore softly. His stinking palm clamped more forcefully against her lips. He jolted her head back, just far enough to let her know how easily he could break her neck.
Eve stopped resisting. She closed her eyes and prayed again.
And then, just as she was sure that what would follow was inevitable, a vicious voice whispered in her ear: ‘Don’t mess us about, Evie. Joe wants it back. You understand? He wants it fucking back.’
He twisted her arm another brutal inch. ‘You understand?’
Hot pain scorched from her elbow to her shoulder. This was not the time to get into a discussion. She grunted her acknowledgement into the palm of his hand.
‘Don’t let us down,’ he said.
He let go so abruptly that her knees buckled and she fell towards the ground. He was considerate enough to provide a final push to help her on her way. As she sprawled in the dirt, she heard his steady tread retreating down the alley.
Fury battled against relief. Slowly moving her head, Eve shook the dust from her eyes and tried to get a look at him. The light was poor and all she could see was a broad silhouette, a thickset goon strolling away without a care in the world.
She glanced in the other direction. For a moment she was sure she saw a tall thin man standing at the other end, just standing there and watching. Thanks, mate, she murmured resentfully. But when she blinked her eyes again he was gone. Perhaps he had only been a figment of her imagination.
Eve felt groggy, sick, as she cautiously pulled herself to her feet, using the wall as leverage. It took her a while to get upright again. Her heart was still pounding, the fear still coursing through her veins. She rubbed at her arm. It hurt like hell. She couldn’t remember releasing the bags but they were both lying at her feet, one of them split, the shattered contents of a wine bottle staining the surrounding litter red.
‘Are you all right, love?’ a voice behind her asked.
She jumped, the adrenalin kicking in again. But it was only an elderly lady, a frail woman dragging her shopping trolley behind her. Eve managed to dredge up a smile. ‘I’m okay. I just tripped over.’
Her rheumy eyes screwed up in concern. ‘Are you sure?’
Eve did need help, needed it badly, but she shook her head. The kind of assistance she required had little to do with a heap of spilled shopping. ‘No, I’m okay,’ she repeated, dropping quickly back on to her hands and knees. She started to frantically gather up the groceries, throwing them into the remaining bag.
The woman lingered, solemnly staring at her, before she slowly trundled off down the alley.
‘Thank you,’ Eve called out belatedly, when she was a few yards away. The old lady didn’t look back. Perhaps she was deaf or more likely just glad to get away. The smell of red wine was pungent.
Stumbling towards the flat, half of her head remained in a daze. The other half maintained a scary clarity. She had thought she was going to be raped, killed … her mouth dried at the memory. But instead it had been a threat, a warning, a piece of less-than-friendly advice to return something that she didn’t even have.
Or did she?
There was only one thing she could think of – there must be something in those boxes of Cavelli’s. Something that someone desperately wanted, something that …
Damn him!
Eve pushed through the glass entrance and hurried up the stairs. She ran along the corridor. After unlocking the door, she rushed inside, slammed it shut and shot across the three solid bolts. Then she leaned against it, her legs starting to shake again. The carrier bag slipped out of her fingers. For a while she stood there, trembling, waiting for her breath to steady.
Joe wants it back.
Who was Joe? She didn’t know any Joe!
She raised a hand and swept her hair off her face. It felt damp, disgusting. It smelled of him. Her whole body stank of him, rank, disgusting. Nausea rose from her stomach, making her want to gag. Placing her hands against the frame, she took a moment to steady herself, to take a series of long deep breaths before she thrust herself forward towards the kitchen. She found the brandy, poured herself a stiff one and knocked it back in one fast gulp.
Slumping down into a chair, Eve refilled her glass and glanced at her watch: it seemed like hours had passed but it wasn’t even half past five. Her left arm still ached, a dull persistent throb.
She’d just been assaulted. What was she doing? Anyone sensible, with nothing to hide, would be straight on to the cops. But that wasn’t her. If she rang, there’d be questions, awkward questions, and they’d eventually lead back to Martin Cavelli. And if she told them about how they’d met, about their deal, then it would all be finished … and Terry might be finished too.
Eve rubbed at her arm. She couldn’t take that chance.
She stood up, still holding the glass, then put it down beside the phone, went through to the bathroom and turned on the shower. Quickly, she stripped off her clothes and stepped under the hot water. For a long while she scrubbed and lathered, trying to clean off her attacker’s smell, the sense of his touch, to purge her flesh and hair of any vile residue. Finally, when the only scent was of shampoo and soap, she grabbed a towel and wrapped it around herself. After a further three minutes of steady tooth brushing, she began to feel almost human again.
She picked up her watch from the side of the basin. Ten to six. Eve looked in the mirror; her face and shoulders were a uniform shade of shrimp pink. The only remaining physical evidence lay in the light graze on her forehead and the ache in her arm.
Clean enough, she decided, although just for good measure she washed her hands again.
Walking through to her father’s bedroom, she stared at the boxes. One large, one small, they were stacked beside the wardrobe. She should open them. All she needed was a sharp knife. But still she hesitated. What if she found something she didn’t want to find? Not to mention that the minute she cut through the tape, her deal with Cavelli would be well and truly severed.
She took a step back.
No, she had to talk to him first. Maybe she should call the prison and leave a message … but no, that wasn’t a good idea either. Even if he did ring back she could hardly start asking him those sorts of questions. A percentage of conversations were routinely recorded by the prison authorities and he wouldn’t be too happy if she put him on the spot. And anyway, who was to say that her line wasn’t being tapped? After the breakin, the letter, after what had just happened, anything and everything seemed possible.
She frowned. Maybe paranoia was setting in. But the connection had to be Cavelli. There was no other explanation. None of this crazy stuff had been going on before she met him. She had to see him on a visit, t
o speak face to face.
The phone rang, cutting sharply across her thoughts. She turned back to the living room, hurried across to the table, and picked up the receiver.
‘Eve?’
It was Henry. She was so glad to hear his voice that she exhaled an audible sigh of relief. She breathed in again, trying to keep her own voice natural and steady. ‘Hey, how are you? Sorry about earlier. I hope it didn’t cause any problems.’
‘Don’t worry. Richard had other things on his mind. He was too busy trying to force me into premature retirement.’ He gave a small mirthless laugh. ‘If he has his way, I’ll be pensioned off, evicted from the office and exiled to Spain by Christmas.’
‘There are worse fates,’ she said.
He paused. ‘What’s wrong?’
She had meant to stay calm, composed, but it all came out in a tumbling rush. ‘You know what’s wrong. The letter. Your letter. All this investigation stuff. I don’t understand what’s going on. Why were the police at your office? What did this Shepherd guy want? Do you know what he wanted?’
‘I told you in the letter,’ he replied gently. ‘He just turned up. I presumed it was down to Richard – you know what he’s like – that he’d rung them, made some kind of a complaint but …’
‘But?’
‘Well, now I’m not so certain. Richard was more than happy to talk but I don’t think that he called them in. I don’t think that was Shepherd’s reason for coming here. To be honest, I’m not even sure if Shepherd himself actually knew what he was after.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Just that. He wasn’t specific. He wouldn’t tell me what he wanted – but he was asking about you and me, digging, suggesting that we were …’
Eve winced down the phone. ‘What’s that got to do with the cops?’
‘I asked the same question.’
She reached for the brandy and took a gulp. ‘Even if it was true, it’s not a criminal offence. How can it have anything to do with an ongoing investigation?’