by Roberta Kray
‘Just think of me as a priest,’ he said. ‘Nothing you tell me will go further than the Chief Constable.’
‘Thanks. That puts my mind at rest.’ Eve picked up her fork again and speared a tiny cube of spicy chicken. She drew it towards her mouth and paused. ‘So are you saying that you don’t have a clue as to why I’m being investigated?’
‘I doubt if you are. Not in any serious sense of the word.’
She lowered the morsel back on to the plate. ‘What about in a frivolous sense of the word?’
‘That’s possible,’ he agreed. ‘Is your road tax up to date?’
Eve gave him a long cool look.
‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘I’m sure it’s nothing serious. How could it be?’
But that was a place she didn’t want to go. She racked her brains for anyone who might have a recent grudge against her. Over the past seven months, since meeting Henry, her life had been relatively spotless. There was Richard of course. Maybe it was down to him. Although Henry didn’t seem to think so – and if there was one person’s judgement she could rely on, it was his. And before that … well, there was that guy she’d met in Bloomsbury – Donal was it, or Donald? They’d only been together a few days. And okay, so it hadn’t been the nicest thing, to load up on the duty frees (courtesy of his very generous credit card) and then desert him in the airport lounge. But then it wasn’t very loving for him to go cheating on his wife either. If he had made a complaint, he’d have a whole lot of explaining to do.
‘How could it?’ Raynor asked again.
Eve gazed into his piercing blue eyes. ‘I’m just concerned. Wouldn’t you be?’
He shook his head. ‘No. Not unless I’d been doing something I shouldn’t.’
‘I haven’t,’ she insisted. To soften the impact of what she was about to ask next, she quickly smiled. ‘And no offence, Inspector, but since when has doing nothing stopped the police from jumping to conclusions?’
In a perfect shrug, Raynor lifted those beautifully tailored shoulders of his again. ‘Not me,’ he said. ‘I’m not that kind of copper.’
He took another mouthful of food. Their exchange clearly wasn’t affecting his appetite. Even as they were talking, he continued to graze the dishes, tidily filling his stomach. She watched him closely. He chewed with his mouth shut, another tick in the box of those endless criteria that women demand of prospective partners. As soon as that thought crossed her mind, she flinched. What was she thinking? This man wasn’t boyfriend material. He wasn’t even friend material.
She placed her elbows on the table. ‘Your sergeant came to see my neighbour yesterday. He was asking about the breakin.’
That, it seemed, was news to Raynor. He stopped eating. ‘Did he?’ It was followed by a short deliberative pause. ‘Well, that’s purely routine. And by the way, he’s not my sergeant, he’s just a sergeant. Gorgeous as he is, we’re not permanently attached at the hip. If it makes you feel any better, I’ll check out the London situation when I’m back in the office.’
‘Why should you do me any favours?’ she asked.
‘You think I’ve got an ulterior motive?’
‘Have you?’
‘Yes,’ he said, staring directly back. ‘I have.’ His mouth curled into that wondrous smile again. ‘I’d like you to enjoy your meal and stop worrying.’
Which was easier said than done. However, Eve nodded and pretended to relax. She nibbled at the food in front of her. She still couldn’t make sense of Shepherd’s visit to Henry but it was best, surely, to stop going on about it. If Raynor was lying to her, the smartest response was to play it cool. She had nothing to feel guilty about. Well …
For a while everything ran smoothly. Jack Raynor was charming company, the kind of man who talked but who had the good grace to listen too. The conversation flowed, along with the wine. And perhaps her suspicions about him, about his motives, created an additional frisson of interest. She always liked a challenge.
They had almost cleared their plates when her resolve to stay cool came under renewed pressure.
He peered at her across the table. ‘Please don’t take this the wrong way but what on earth happened to your face?’
She raised a hand to almost touch the graze above her right eye. Before leaving she’d covered it with a fine layer of make-up but her attempts at concealment must be wearing off. ‘What, this?’ she replied, dismissively, as if it were perfectly normal for any woman to sport the occasional bruise on her forehead. ‘It’s nothing. Just got a bit careless when I was clearing up – had a brief and unfulfilling argument with one of the kitchen cupboards.’
Even as she was explaining, Eve inwardly winced. Kitchen cupboards? Couldn’t she have come up with something more original than that? She sounded like one of those desperate housewives trying to cover for a violent husband. But, hell, she could hardly be expected to think on her feet after the kind of day she’d had.
Raynor’s brow scrunched into a frown. ‘Looks like quite a bump from where I’m sitting.’
This time she actually touched her forehead. It was true there was a swelling there, a definite lump. There was a stinging too as her fingers pressed tentatively down. She was suddenly reminded of the afternoon, of the brute in the alley, of his sweaty palm pressing hard against her mouth. Quickly, she tried to blank it from her mind.
‘There’s no need to look so worried. What’s the matter – you think someone’s been bashing me around?’
He held her gaze for a few long seconds. Then he grinned. ‘Hey, it’s not you I’m worried about. I’m more concerned about what state that cupboard might be in.’
She forced a laugh. ‘If it makes you feel any better, you could always invite it out to dinner.’
It was after eleven when Eve got home. Throwing her jacket over the back of a chair, she wandered over to the window and looked down on the street. The cab was just moving off. Raynor must have asked the driver to wait until he’d seen the lights go on in the flat. Old-fashioned courtesy or for a more disturbing reason? Perhaps he knew more than he was letting on. Perhaps he knew she was in danger.
Should she have told him about the assault this afternoon?
With a sigh, she went to the kitchen and switched on the kettle. She poured a hefty spoonful of instant coffee into a mug. It might leave her with insomnia but she had so many thoughts waltzing round her brain she couldn’t even think about sleep.
No, she decided, as she carelessly added the boiling water, she’d been right to keep quiet. She couldn’t trust him. He might be charm personified but he must be perfectly aware of Shepherd’s trip to London – and its purpose. It was nonsense to pretend he wasn’t. And way too much of a coincidence that the very same sergeant had turned up on Sonia’s doorstep.
Eve took the mug to the table, sat down and lit a cigarette. She tried to recall exactly what he’d said about the ‘investigation’, about how he wouldn’t be worried if it was him: Not unless I’d been doing something I shouldn’t. She frowned down into the coffee. Or seeing someone she shouldn’t? What did she really know about Martin Cavelli? Very little. Only what Paula had told her. And who was to say that she was telling the truth?
She found herself pondering on those boxes again. This was all getting too complicated. Not to mention dangerous. That bastard in the alley had meant business today. Perhaps she should bring her arrangement with Cavelli to an end, return his property, pay him and sever the connection. And then … and then what? Find someone else to take care of Terry? How could she do that? Take an ad out in Prisoners’ Weekly perhaps: ‘Wanted – strong unscrupulous con for visits, friendly chats and protection. Good sense of humour essential.’
Eve attempted a smile. It was late and she was too tired and too stressed to make any sensible decisions. She swallowed what remained of the coffee and stubbed out her cigarette. A long hot bath might help before turning in.
She was barely halfway across the room when the phone started ringing. Its shrill demand cut
sharply through the stillness of the room. She jumped and then glanced at her watch. It was late. Who’d be calling at this time? Henry, maybe …
She hurried to the table and picked up the receiver. ‘Hello?’
There was no response.
‘Hello?’ she said again. She waited hopefully for his voice.
It took a moment before the silence at the other end sank in. Except it wasn’t silence, not complete silence. As she listened more carefully, the sound gradually became more audible – it was the coarse even rhythm of a man’s heavy breathing …
God, this was all she needed!
She slammed down the phone.
A few seconds later it rang again. Leave it, every sensible neuron in her brain demanded. Let it ring. But instinctively her hand reached out and picked it up. Before she had the chance to speak, let alone deliver a well-deserved curse or two, a malevolent voice stopped her dead.
‘Don’t hang up on me, Evie. I don’t like it.’
Closing her eyes, she shuddered. Evie. There it was again, that rarely used version of her name. So this wasn’t just some sad random wanker in search of a thrill. She suddenly wished it was. ‘Leave me alone.’
‘You know I can’t do that.’
Her hand began to shake. She pressed the receiver hard against her ear. ‘Who are you? What do you want?’
‘You know what I want. Don’t play games. Don’t even think about playing games.’
Was it the same man from the alley? She wasn’t sure. The voice was muffled as if he might have a scarf or handkerchief over his mouth. ‘Look, I don’t—’
There was a harsh laugh. ‘Joe’s not a forgiving man … or a patient one. So no fucking excuses, okay? Just hand it over.’
‘If you’d tell me what—’
But already the line had gone dead.
For a few seconds she stood listening to the bland relentless tone before putting down the receiver. Quickly she picked it up again and dialled 1471. The number was withheld.
‘Damn you!’ she whispered.
But it didn’t make anything better. She was still standing in her dead father’s flat, still scared, still shivering, still trying to understand what the hell was going on …
Chapter Eight
Cavelli stopped eating and stared up at Isaac. ‘What?’
‘It’s true, man, straight up. Seems he crossed the Rowans big time. Seems they’re mad as fuck about it.’
‘Who says?’
Isaac’s eyes grew wider. ‘They say it, man. The word’s out. Trust me. You don’t need it in no fucking writing.’
‘Where are they – on the Island?’
‘It don’t matter where they are. They got family. They got friends. You hear what I’m saying?’
Cavelli heard him loud and clear. Parkhurst might be miles away, even separated from the mainland by a sizeable stretch of water, but distance was no object when it came to the tiny matter of revenge. He thought about it for a moment. Then he shrugged. ‘Thanks for telling me.’
‘What you going to do, man?’
‘Finish my breakfast.’ He picked up his fork again but Isaac continued to stand over him, shuffling from foot to foot. ‘Unless there was something else you wanted?’
He looked hurt. ‘I don’t want to see you getting in no bother. I don’t want to be picking no tool out of your back.’
‘I’m not in bother.’
‘What you mean, you not in no bother? You’re looking out for him, that Terry Weston. You’re in their way.’
‘I’ll sort it.’
As if that was entirely the wrong response, Isaac frowned and scratched his head. ‘Leave him be. He’s nothing to you. What you watching over him for?’ Although he already knew the answer. Martin was seeing that redheaded bitch sister of his, the one with the tits and the legs. ‘She’s just using you, man.’
Cavelli’s chin jerked up. His voice was cold. ‘What did you say?’
Isaac quickly withdrew a step, raising both his palms. ‘Nothing, man. I don’t mean nothing. None of my business, right?’
‘Right. So just fuck off and let me eat.’
He didn’t need telling twice. Three fast strides and he was out of the room. All he left behind was the faint scent of marijuana and the echo of a sigh.
Cavelli glared after the thin skinny figure. They’d shared the same cell for over a year and on the whole, except for those times when Isaac couldn’t keep his opinions to himself, they got along okay. Mutual respect was what made their joint tenancy work. Isaac respected his reputation – a reputation that kept him safe and protected on the wing – and in return, he respected Isaac’s ability to procure everything from extra bog rolls to a decent bottle of Scotch.
No longer hungry, Cavelli pushed his tray aside. He had to think this Rowan business through. He placed his elbows on the table and swore softly into his hands. If it was true about Terry then he had a major problem. No one liked a grass. No one liked to be connected to a grass.
He stood up and paced, back and forth, from one end of the cell to the other.
If he wasn’t careful a ton of grief could be headed in his direction. That was the last thing he needed. Another twelve months or so and there was every chance he’d be out of here. That’s if he stayed away from trouble. And Terry Weston, it appeared, had trouble stamped all over him.
But it was early days, too soon to make any final decisions. A thin smile flickered on to his lips. With some imagination and a word in the right ear he might still be able to twist this turn of events to his advantage.
It was time for another little chat with Evie.
A stream of pale lemon sunlight filtered through the window, the first indication that spring might actually be on its way. She leaned against the sill and felt the faint but reassuring warmth against her face. Her mouth opened and stretched into a yawn.
Sleep hadn’t come easily. For hours she had tossed and turned, her mind refusing to relinquish the voice on the phone, the threats, the feel of that brute’s hand pressed hard against her mouth … Three times she had risen from her bed, sure that she had heard a noise, a sinister scratching at the front door. She had crept out and stood there listening. But there had been no one. Silence. There had only been silence.
Trembling, she had slipped back under the sheets.
Even when sleep had finally claimed her, it had done nothing to alleviate her exhaustion. Her dreams had been full of darkness and anxiety, claustrophobic nightmares that still drifted ominously at the edge of her consciousness. All too frightening. All too weird. Jack Raynor had been in there somewhere, watching, waiting. She tried to claw back the memory, to haul it into focus. Had he been there to help or …
No, it was futile. The harder she tried, the less she could recall.
Eve took a sip of coffee and gazed down on the street. She tried to shake the mist from her head. She had to contact Cavelli. She had to find out what was going on. But it was Saturday morning and there was something else she had to do first, something she’d been putting off for weeks.
She had to go and see Terry’s mother.
Eve groaned aloud at the prospect. She was under no illusions as to what kind of welcome she was likely to receive. Their relationship could hardly be described as amicable. In fact it could hardly be described as a relationship at all. It was over three years since she’d last set eyes on her erstwhile stepmother; Lesley hadn’t turned up for Terry’s court case or their father’s funeral.
Had it been left to Eve, she wouldn’t have gone within a mile, but it wasn’t her choice. It was Terry who wanted to see her again.
Of course she had tried the simple option, tried ringing her. But on those rare occasions when she didn’t get the answer machine, Lesley always had an excuse as to why she couldn’t visit.
‘I’m sorry but we’re away next week.’
Eve rang back.
‘I’m sorry but Tara’s got a temperature.’
She rang back again.
‘I’m sorry but we’ve got people staying.’
By now Eve understood that these brief conversations were beyond pointless. Since leaving her father, Lesley had not just moved on but was aiming to sever every connection with the Weston family. After a few false starts, and a couple more divorces, she had finally managed to bag the husband of her dreams. Alexander Weston, along with his daughter, had been consigned to the bin. Eve wasn’t grieving too hard over that. However, with two new children in tow, it seemed that she had effectively managed to dump Terry too.
She scowled at the thought. Surely she must have some feelings for him? He was her son, her firstborn, and it wasn’t as if she even lived that far away – at the most it would only take an hour to drive down to Hillgrove. Still, recalling Lesley’s priorities, perhaps her absence wasn’t that surprising. Any free hour she possessed would probably be filled with having her hair done, her nails manicured, or searching the internet for the latest Gucci bag.
Eve checked her watch. It was almost nine. She should go before she changed her mind. A promise was a promise. She didn’t hold out much hope but at least she could look Terry in the eye and tell him that she’d tried.
She stared down at her clothes: jeans and a navy blue sweater. Should she get changed? Perhaps it was too casual, perhaps … No, that would only give her another reason for delay. Don’t think about it. Just do it. Quickly she grabbed her leather jacket, handbag and keys. She opened the door and pulled it firmly shut behind.
She only paused again when she was out on the street. Instinctively her gaze darted left and right, absorbing the people strolling by, the empty doorways, the passing cars. She was searching for the man from the alley. Other than a rough idea of his height and weight, she had no real idea of what he looked like. She couldn’t describe a single feature of his face – but still she looked. If he was out here, if he was close, she was sure that she would know it.