The Pact

by Roberta Kray

  Perhaps he was right; she should have reported it.

  But all she could do was follow her instincts – and her instincts had told her that it would only make matters worse. So what had she done? Rather than calling for a cop, she’d slept with one instead. A groan escaped from her lips. Of all the mad, stupid things …

  She could only put it down to the shock. She hadn’t been in her right mind. Shock could do terrible things to the psyche, make you forget all your good intentions, make you believe (if only for a night) that it was perfectly reasonable to share your bed with a smart, sympathetic, attractive man who you’d previously decided was completely out of bounds.

  Trouble was, she couldn’t even pretend that he’d taken advantage. On the contrary he’d behaved like a perfect gentleman – until she’d encouraged him to do otherwise. And if only for a while, he had chased away her demons and made her feel safe. No, more than safe. She had to be honest. It had been a passionate encounter, and a surprisingly intimate one, as if it wasn’t the first time they’d slept together, as if their bodies were mysteriously in tune, as if they already understood the deepest pleasure they could bring to each other.

  But that didn’t mean anything.

  And it certainly wasn’t love.

  She winced as the word came unbidden into her head. Where had that come from? She didn’t do love any more, hadn’t been near the place since Patrick. And she sure as hell wasn’t going to fall for a man like Jack Raynor.

  ‘I’ll call you,’ he’d said, sitting on the edge of the bed.

  She had pretended to be half asleep. ‘Mm.’

  He’d paused, as if about to say something else, but in the end had only reached out a hand, gently moved a strand of hair from her face, and leaned over to kiss her.

  She had waited until the front door clicked shut before fully opening her eyes. Relief was what she’d felt at first. At last! He’d gone. At least she wouldn’t have to endure that awkward morning-after-the-night-before conversation. But as soon as the relief hit her, it had been replaced by a more disturbing emotion – a peculiar sense of emptiness. Under the sheets she had stretched out her own hand to feel the cooling space beside her.

  Eve frowned. She dipped the brush in the paint again, loading up the bristles. She didn’t want to think about him any more. She didn’t want to think about his eyes or his smell or the way that he had touched her. It had been a mistake and it wouldn’t, couldn’t, happen again. The Law and the Westons didn’t mix.

  Attacking the door with renewed vigour, she only took a few minutes to obliterate the threat. Last chance, Evie. She quickly moved on, trying not to shiver as she painted out the sinister noose.

  Eve heard him before she saw him – a series of slow heavy steps accompanied by a thick unpleasant wheezing. She leaned over the banisters but it was only as he reached the landing that she recognized his face. He was the officer from yesterday, one of the two that had come to break the news.

  Great. She just couldn’t get away from cops this morning.

  ‘Are you looking for Sonia?’ she asked.

  He took a few seconds to catch his breath, his hand clamped tightly round the rail. He managed a nod but seemed to be having trouble in managing to speak.

  To spare him the effort, she said, ‘She’s not here.’

  He leaned over, coughing something green and nasty into a ragged piece of tissue. He stared down at it before thrusting it back into his pocket. ‘Sergeant Shepherd,’ he eventually managed to splutter. He took out his identity card and waved it briefly in front of her. ‘Do you know where she is?’

  As soon as she heard his name her immediate response was to deny knowing anything. She stared at him. Eddie Shepherd. Not just the cop who’d been round yesterday but the one who’d been to see Henry, and the one who’d been asking questions after the breakin. She remembered how Sonia had described him – a piece of shit. And Henry’s opinion, although phrased a touch more politely, had been equally damning.

  She shrugged and turned away. ‘Sorry.’

  And she would have left it at that, continued with her painting, if he hadn’t started coughing again. Doubled over, he looked about as bad as a cop could look. His nose and cheeks had assumed a worrying shade of puce and the noise rattling from his chest was positively fearsome.

  She put down her brush. ‘Are you okay?’ Taking him by the arm, she reluctantly helped him inside. ‘You’d better sit down.’

  It wasn’t so much that she felt sorry for him as that he seemed in imminent danger of expiring … and a cop dropping dead on her doorstep was the last thing she needed.

  By the time she’d parked him in a chair, boiled the kettle and made the tea, he was looking almost human again.

  ‘Ta,’ he said, picking up the mug and taking a long noisy slurp. The sugar rush (he’d asked for three) seemed to consolidate his recovery. He glanced towards the door. ‘Doing a spot of decorating?’

  She followed his gaze, hoping that the first coat had been enough to disguise the delightful message that had been left for her. It was probably only her imagination but she was sure, as she stared at it, that she could still see the vague outline of the hangman’s noose. ‘Yeah. Just thought I’d spruce the place up a bit.’

  ‘Planning on staying here, then?’

  She couldn’t imagine what business it was of his. Or even why he might be interested. ‘I might,’ she said. She sat down on the sofa and smiled nicely. ‘So, is there a problem?’

  ‘A problem?’

  ‘Why you want to get in touch with Sonia.’

  He shook his head. ‘Just routine. A sudden death has a habit of providing more questions than answers.’

  ‘Questions?’ she repeated. ‘I thought it was an accident. I thought he was drunk and fell into the river.’

  He didn’t deny it but didn’t confirm it either. ‘There are always questions, love.’

  And there was something about the way he said it, about the way he lifted his sly copper eyes and stared at her, which set her nerves on edge. As if he wasn’t just referring to Peter Marshall’s death …

  She glared silently back at him.

  He took another slurp of his tea. ‘So, do you know where I can find her?’

  There was no point in lying and anyway, the sooner she got rid of him the better. ‘I’m not sure. She’s probably still with her daughter, with Val.’ Eve could have given him the address but she didn’t. Why should she? He could find it out for himself.

  ‘Did you know him?’ he asked.

  She was reminded of asking Jack the same question last night. (And where was he now? Did he know his sergeant was here?) ‘No. I never met him. He hasn’t lived here in ages. Why?’

  He didn’t immediately reply. Instead he rummaged in his pockets. For a moment, Eve thought he was digging for another of his fetid tissues. Then he produced a small black and white photograph and passed it over to her. ‘Have you ever seen this man before?’

  As she took it from his fingers, she felt a faint uneasiness. ‘Why?’ she asked.

  ‘Do you recognize him?’

  She looked down at the picture. At first she shook her head. He was middleaged with pale eyes and thinning hair. ‘Sorry.’ Then, as she was about to pass it back, a memory clicked in her brain – the man who had followed her to Blakeney. Could it be him? She had only seen him in her rearview mirror but there was something about his features, a vague familiarity. ‘Who is he?’

  ‘He’s called Ivor Patterson.’

  Shepherd had seen her hesitation. It was too late for her to try and hide it now. ‘I don’t know the name,’ she said, ‘but I may have seen him around. I couldn’t swear to it.’ She examined the photo again. ‘Perhaps.’

  ‘Seen him where?’ he asked.

  ‘Just around, in the street.’ She gave a casual shrug. ‘But I could be wrong.’ She wasn’t about to share her suspicions. That was none of his business. ‘What’s this about?’

  ‘We found his body yest
erday.’

  As Eve flinched, the photo slipped from her fingers and fell to the floor. Quickly, she bent over to retrieve it, lowering her face to hide her alarm. ‘His body? You mean … Is he …?’

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘We’re treating it as a murder inquiry.’

  Murder! God. And if it was the same man who had followed her … ‘Murder?’ she repeated stupidly. Her heart had started to pump against her ribs, a frantic beat that took her breath away. She didn’t want to look at Shepherd but forced herself to meet his eyes. She mustn’t panic. It probably wasn’t the same guy at all. ‘That’s awful.’ Her mouth had gone dry and the words emerged as little more than a croak.

  ‘So, if there’s any information you could give us …’

  Aware that she was still clutching the photograph, she hurriedly passed it back. ‘I told you – he just looks vaguely familiar. That’s all. I’ve never met him.’

  ‘He was a private investigator.’

  Eve swallowed hard. ‘Was he?’ Her body was growing cold, a chill that was spreading from her toes to her fingertips. She fought back a shiver. The odds had shifted; it now seemed more than likely that it was the same man. That’s what private eyes did, wasn’t it – follow people? And if he’d been following her and he was dead then …

  Fear began to eat at her resolve. She didn’t like Sergeant Shepherd but perhaps the time for discretion had passed. Last chance, Evie. That warning had suddenly acquired an even more ominous note. She opened her mouth but abruptly closed it again. No, she mustn’t make any rash decisions. Once said, it could never be withdrawn. And if she was going to talk to anyone it should be Jack.

  As if sensing that she might have something else to add, he sat back and waited.

  The seconds ticked by. Eve could feel his expectation, thick and heavy, like a thunder cloud that had rolled in from the sea. A peculiar stillness filled the room. Even the rumble of the busy midday traffic faded into insignificance. As she struggled to straighten out her head, to get her thoughts in order, she tried to read his face. Did he suspect that she was lying? Did he know? He might. If the dead man had been employed to tail her then there had to be a record of it. In which case, Shepherd wasn’t here to see Sonia at all. He was here on a completely different mission and—

  But she couldn’t afford to make those presumptions. The worst thing she could do was to jump to any hasty conclusions. Stay calm. Think. She glanced towards the window, towards that small expanse of silvery sky, before she looked back at him again.

  Shepherd lifted his crafty eyes to return her gaze. But still he said nothing.

  She felt obliged to fill the silence. Clearing her throat, she tried to keep her voice steady. ‘I wish I could help but …’ And then, as that sounded faintly hollow even to her own ears, she quickly searched for some other way to distract him. ‘You think there’s a connection to Peter Marshall?’

  He shifted forward in the chair. ‘Why should there be?’

  She hadn’t thought there was, not for a moment, until she saw that bright anticipatory light come into his eyes. And then her stomach twisted. Damn! Oh Christ! ‘Because … because you’re here to see Sonia and …’ She stumbled over the words and stopped. She could almost feel her father turning in his grave. Never say more than you need to, Evie. Keep it simple. Don’t give them the chance to catch you out.

  There couldn’t be a link between the two deaths. It wasn’t possible. It didn’t make any sense.

  ‘We’re just making general inquiries,’ he said. ‘Asking around.’

  She nodded. ‘I see.’

  Like a lumbering elephant, he rose slowly to his feet. ‘Well, thanks for the brew. If you remember anything—’

  ‘Yes, I’ll call you.’ She stood up too, eager to be rid of him.

  But, as if unwilling to leave, he halted again by the door. ‘Oh, and I was sorry to hear about your father.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, although she doubted his sincerity.

  ‘Yeah, very sad.’ He turned and began to walk down the stairs. ‘Very … Virginia Woolf.’

  Frowning, she stared after him. What in heaven’s name did that mean?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Eve had picked up the phone over twenty times and almost dialled his number. But on each occasion she’d hesitated, her finger poised above the buttons, before she gently laid it back on the table again. The thought of telling Jack, of revealing everything, was too great a leap – and an irrevocable one. She had to be sure that she was doing the right thing.

  One more day wouldn’t make any difference.

  True to his word, he had tried to call her. Guiltily, she had let it ring until it switched to answer mode. Later, in case he began to worry – he could hardly have forgotten about that warning painted on the door – she had sent through a brief text. Am fine. Will call you tomorrow.

  Would she? At the moment she still had no idea.

  She had anticipated a restless night, her mind churning over the death of Ivor Patterson. Why had he been following her? Why had he been killed? But oddly, as soon as her head touched the pillow, she had fallen into a deep and dreamless sleep, not waking again until the dawn light filtered between the narrow gap in the curtains. Anxiety, perhaps, had left her too exhausted to think.

  And she was glad now, as she left the traffic on the busy bypass and headed towards Hillgrove, that she’d waited. First, she had to talk to Terry. Whether she’d manage to extract the truth was another matter altogether but she had to try. Either Cavelli was lying about his involvement in the robbery, or Terry was. She knew who she wanted it to be but suspected she’d be disappointed.

  A few miles on, she veered into a winding country road. Wide flat fields stretched out on either side. It was the perfect place to put a prison. Any poor soul trying to escape by foot would have nowhere to go – and nowhere to hide.

  Rounding another curve, she saw the sign for the jail and turned left up the long driveway. Already this place was becoming more familiar than she’d like. A few more journeys and she’d be able to get here with her eyes closed.

  She pulled the car into a space by a bright red Mini. So Amber was here as well. Good. At least that meant she’d have someone to talk to for the next twenty minutes, someone to distract her from what she might or might not say to Terry. She hadn’t decided yet whether she would tell him about the delivery from Vince.

  Inside, the room was busier than usual and she joined the back of a short queue waiting to sign in. She glanced around but there was no sign of Amber. She must be in the Ladies, putting the finishing touches to her make-up.

  The officer on duty was the same guy who had given her the number for the garage. David Hammond. He looked up as she slid the piece of paper under the grille and smiled.

  ‘Hi. How are you doing?’

  ‘Fine, thanks.’

  His brown puppy-dog eyes focused rather too intensely on her face. ‘You get the car fixed okay?’

  She nodded. ‘No problem.’

  She tried to keep the exchange short but friendly. Fraternizing with the enemy didn’t always go down well with the other women but then you didn’t want to get on the wrong side of a screw either. It was a delicate balancing act.

  Fortunately, there wasn’t time for any further chit-chat. A couple more visitors had joined the queue behind her. He stamped her form and passed it over. His cheeks, she noticed, had turned an interesting shade of pink. She swept back her hair and offered him one of her more seductive smiles. ‘Hey, thanks again.’

  As if he’d just won the lottery, his jaw dropped open.

  Eve was still grinning as she bought a cup of coffee and sat down at an empty table. It was good to know she hadn’t lost all her charms since leaving London. A girl needed to feel desirable and a little reassurance never went amiss. But gradually, as she stirred the coffee, her smile began to falter. If she had needed any proof, the other night should have been enough to … And suddenly, as she recalled the feeling of his t
ouch, of his skin against hers, a faint tremble made its way into her fingers. She quickly put down the spoon. It clattered into the saucer. God, what was she going to do about Jack Raynor?

  Dump him! a voice inside her cried. You know it was a mistake. The sooner you get rid of him the better.

  And she couldn’t argue with that. Not only was he a cop – and that was bad enough – but her whole life was too complicated, too messy, to even think about moving things on. A relationship just wasn’t on the cards. Except …

  Except what? that strident voice demanded again. Don’t start getting second thoughts, Evie. Be sensible. Be smart. Since when was one night of passion and a few sweet words enough to turn your head?

  Never, she agreed. Except …

  But it was a possible exception she didn’t get the chance to explore. At that very second, the door to the Ladies swung open and Amber, attired in a tiny scarlet dress, flounced out into the room.

  Eve waved. ‘Hi.’

  ‘Hiya!’ she said, tottering forward on her matching red stilettos. ‘You here to see Terry?’

  ‘Yeah. Look, I’ve just got a coffee. Do you want one?’

  ‘Best not.’ She raised a hand towards her newly painted lips; triple-glossed, they shone brightly in the artificial light. ‘Guess what?’

  Eve shook her head.

  She lowered her voice to an excited whisper. ‘She’s here.’

  ‘Who?’

  Amber sat down and nudged her elbow like a school-girl passing on a secret. ‘You know, the one I was telling you about.’ She gave a nod towards the far side of the room. ‘That’s her.’

  Eve still didn’t have a clue. Following her gaze, she saw a girl sitting by the window. She had long straight hair, dyed a harsh and unconvincing shade of blonde, and a wide sulky mouth. Every few seconds, she glanced with irritation at her watch as if the concept of being made to wait was not only alien but bordering on a personal insult.