by Roberta Kray
Eve took another swig of the whisky and drew on her cigarette. Her initial elation was starting to fade. She couldn’t remember him having been away at that time. Although, when she tried to think back, she couldn’t actually recall what she’d been doing at that time – probably some dubious scam involving a middleaged man with more money than sense, a less than savoury experience that she’d conveniently forgotten. And she had to admit that there had been weeks, maybe longer when she hadn’t got around to calling him. Guilt crawled across her conscience. Still, surely he’d have mentioned a holiday, a trip abroad? And she wouldn’t have forgotten that.
She peered down at it again, frowning, searching for any details that might be useful. It would help if the image was clearer. He must have just picked the camera up and … Suddenly she recalled with a jolt the birthday gift she had bought for him, the phone that took pictures, the only item that had gone missing from the flat. So that was what the breakin had been about. But if they already had the phone then …
He must have copied the photo and then wiped the memory.
It was only as her gaze skimmed across the man with his back turned, small, skinny, blond, that her eyes slowly widened. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? There was something familiar about the stance, about the way he held himself …
It could be Terry.
Yes, she was certain that it was. There was no denying the thin hunch of his shoulders or that flick of fine blond hair around the nape of his neck. He was even wearing a shirt she recognized, a marine blue T-shirt with two white stripes running around the sleeves. She thought of the passport she had found in the bag Vince had brought round.
She sat back, astonished, confused. Having previously been dismissed from the equation, Terry was now right back at the centre of it. But how could he be? She’d only just been to see him – and given him every opportunity to talk. He’d admitted to a more serious part in the robbery but nothing else. And certainly nothing connecting him to a white courtyard and a photograph taken two years ago.
Had he lied to her? She wasn’t sure. Perhaps she just hadn’t asked the right questions. And it was too late now. She didn’t want to mention the picture over the phone and she couldn’t book another visit until next week. It was too long to wait.
There was someone else, however, who might be able to help.
She reached for her mobile and scrolled through the menu. Finding the name she wanted, she pressed down and held the phone to her ear. It took a few rings before she answered.
‘Hello?’
‘Lesley?’
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, without even a cursory attempt at politeness. ‘Look, I thought we’d agreed that—’
‘Yes, don’t worry, Vince’s message came over loud and clear. I’m not … I mean, you won’t hear from me again. I just need to ask you something. One last question and that’s it. I swear.’
Eve could almost see her thinking about it, her sharp pink cheek pressed close against the receiver. She could also feel her desire to slam the phone down. But she didn’t.
‘What?’ she said eventually, the desire to be rid of Eve forever clearly more tempting than the short-term satisfaction of a disconnection.
‘Well, I was just wondering if you could help. You wouldn’t happen to know where Dad and Terry went on holiday would you? A couple of years back. It would have been in July, I think.’
‘Why?’ Lesley asked suspiciously.
Eve raised her eyes to the ceiling but tried to keep her voice friendly. ‘I just remember Terry saying how much he liked it there. I thought I might book us a couple of tickets – you know, a surprise for when he gets out.’
‘I’ve no idea. Somewhere in Greece.’
Eve’s fingers tightened round the phone. ‘Yeah, I know it was Greece,’ she lied. ‘I was just hoping you might remember where. Perhaps he sent you a postcard?’
‘You think I keep postcards from two years ago?’
Eve didn’t bother to respond to that. If nothing else, she’d learned that the pair of them had been together, and in which country, which was more than she’d known a couple of minutes ago. ‘Okay. Well, thanks anyway. Sorry to have bothered you.’
‘So that’s it? That’s all you wanted?’
‘That’s it,’ she said.
Lesley, perhaps relieved to discover that this was all she was calling about, that she wasn’t being asked to visit Terry again, sent a small whispery sigh down the line. ‘Right,’ she said. She paused. Then, as if to reward her for not asking anything more awkward – or maybe just to alleviate what little remained of her maternal conscience – she suddenly threw her another scrap of information. ‘Look, I’m not sure, it was a while ago but it may have been one of the islands, Corfu, somewhere like that.’
‘Okay. Thanks.’
‘Oh, and Eve?’
‘Yes?’
There was another much longer pause. She waited for the expected Please don’t call here again demand but instead all she heard was soft breathing and a slight clearing of the throat. The seconds ticked by. Whatever Lesley wanted to say, she clearly couldn’t make up her mind about it. ‘Was there—’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ she said. And then abruptly put down the phone.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Cavelli leaned forward on the bunk, swept his fingers through his hair and frowned. He was still undecided as to what to do next. Terry had been jumped twice in the last few days, nothing too serious, just a few cuts and bruises, but a worrying indication that the little runt’s scalp was up for grabs again. He couldn’t watch him 24/7. Someone, sometime, was going to catch him alone. And fuck knows how that would end. It was worryingly clear that the deal with George Bryant – if it had ever existed – was already history. Perhaps the Rowans had raised the ante, made him an offer he couldn’t refuse.
‘Shit!’ he said aloud. How had he got himself involved in this? What had begun as a simple challenge from a provocative redhead, progressing to an opportunity for him to wreak some revenge on Jimmy Reece, had suddenly flipped into a major problem. He was starting to watch his own back now, had even thought about getting a tool. But tools led to killings and killings to life sentences. He was better off with his fists.
And okay, so he hadn’t actually received any blatant threats himself but this wasn’t paranoia. He wasn’t overreacting. He was well aware of the whispering as he passed along the landing, of the averted eyes, of the unwillingness from certain parties to even acknowledge his presence. Sides were being taken, arguments weighed, decisions made. The whole wing was poised on the brink. He could feel the anticipation in the air, the thin tense straining, the warning as loud as a bloody air-raid siren that things were about to kick off.
He knew what Isaac would say: Walk away, man.
But since when had he listened to Isaac? Walking away was tantamount to cowardice. He might regret having ever agreed to protect Terry but that didn’t mean he could abandon him. There was his pride to think about, his reputation. He might only have another year to serve but if he let himself be intimidated once, there’d be no end to it; they’d be queuing up to have a go. And anyway, he’d believed Evie when she’d said that her brother wasn’t a grass. She might be good at lying, possibly even an expert, but her wide grey eyes had been indignant enough to convince him.
He stood up. It was time for another chat with Bryant.
Louise was starting to stress over Richard’s presence. Yesterday, he’d come down with coffee for his father and now this morning, before Henry had even arrived, he was back again, hovering around her desk, smiling and oozing compliments like some lascivious Victorian heir trying to seduce the servant girl.
‘So how are you?’ he said. ‘You’re looking very pretty today.’ He perched down on the corner of her desk and smiled at her.
‘Thank you,’ she murmured. She might have been less amicable if she hadn’t been so terrified about what he might say next. She didn’t trust that sly seductive ga
ze of his. Had he realized the photograph was missing? Did he suspect that she’d tampered with the surveillance report? If so, she was only a few minutes away from being well and truly fired. Shuffling the papers into a pile, she tried to look busy.
‘Everything okay down here?’
‘Fine,’ she replied.
‘Great,’ he said. ‘And how’s the boss been treating you?’
She glanced up at him again. And this time she saw something that she hadn’t noticed before. Fear. If she was worried it was nothing in comparison to the expression on his face. It gave her a confidence she hadn’t been feeling before. ‘Fine,’ she said again.
‘And no news from our mutual friend?’
She knew exactly who he meant. Eve. Eve Weston. The person who had sat right here, her predecessor, the woman who Henry was still seeing. ‘No,’ she said, more sharply than she intended. ‘She hasn’t been in touch.’
‘Good,’ he said. He hesitated. ‘And, er … no other calls or anything that might have, er … distressed him?’
‘Distressed him?’ she repeated, a small furrow appearing between her eyes. She couldn’t work out what Richard was after. Had he come down here just to ask about Eve? She didn’t think so. However, unless he was playing some particularly perverse sort of game, he didn’t seem about to start accusing her of interfering with his mail either.
‘Upset him,’ he said, as if by using a shorter word he might make himself clearer. ‘I just thought he seemed a bit, well, jumpy, when I was here yesterday’
‘Did you? I didn’t notice anything.’
He looked wearily around the office, a soft sigh sliding from his petulant mouth, before turning to face her again. ‘My imagination then,’ he said. ‘I’m probably overreacting. I just get concerned about the old man.’
That would be a first, she thought but was smart enough to offer up a sympathetic smile. ‘I’m sure there’s nothing to worry about.’
‘No, of course not,’ he agreed. He hovered for a while longer before finally standing up and heading for the door. Then, like it was an afterthought, something of little importance, he stopped and said casually, ‘I don’t suppose the police have rung, have they?’
Louise, surprised, opened her lips to repeat the words, The police? But worried that she was beginning to sound like an echo she swiftly changed her mind. ‘What about?’
‘Either they have or they haven’t,’ he snapped back, the façade of benevolence slipping as surely as a skin sloughed off by a snake. ‘It’s a simple enough question.’
She stared at him.
‘Well?’
‘No, I don’t think so.’ She shook her head. ‘Not while I’ve been here.’
He lifted a hand to his face, perhaps hoping to disguise the look of relief. When he removed it the smarmy smile was securely back in place. ‘Sorry, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to have a go. It’s only that there might be a few follow-up queries to that unpleasant business we discussed before as regards …’ Instead of saying the name, he glanced meaningfully towards her desk as if the spirit of Eve Weston might still be lurking there. ‘It’s nothing to worry about, minor details, but you know what the police are like. There’s always one more tedious question that they feel obliged to ask and I don’t want my father having to deal with it. He’s been through enough already. I don’t want him to get …’
‘Upset?’ she suggested.
Richard narrowed his eyes, momentarily suspecting sarcasm, but then as instantly dismissed the idea. His faith in his own persuasive charm was too entrenched to allow for it. ‘Exactly!’ he said. ‘I knew you’d understand.’
‘Of course.’
His smile grew wider. ‘So if you do receive a call, you’ll be sure to put it straight through to me?’
She nodded.
‘Good girl,’ he said.
Louise had the feeling that he’d have patted her on the head if he’d been standing closer. As it was he just threw her a bone.
‘We should get together for a drink sometime.’
‘Lovely,’ she murmured.
It was only as the door closed behind him that she allowed her own smile to fade. She listened to his footsteps ascending confidently to the floor above. How could she ever have fancied him? He was about as attractive as bacteria. But that was a side issue. More essentially, she had to decide what she was going to do next, and top of the list was what she going to tell Henry.
For starters, there was the matter of how she was going to explain about removing the photo and altering the report. Okay, so she might have opened the envelope accidentally but that was no excuse for reading through its contents or, more importantly, changing them. Understanding as he was, she had the feeling Henry wouldn’t be too pleased about the course of action she’d taken. Instead of confiding in him, of showing him what she’d found, of letting him decide what to do next, she’d chosen to take matters into her own hands.
When she came clean he was bound to be embarrassed, not to mention angry – men, in her experience, were always angry when they were caught cheating and there was no disputing that picture of him and Eve. She might have preserved his secret but at what cost? He certainly wouldn’t be happy that she was privy to it. He might even think that she was trying to blackmail him. That thought made her wince.
And then there was the matter of the police – what if Eve was trying to rip him off? She didn’t want to believe it but she couldn’t be sure. More likely it was a ruse by Richard to try and get her on side, to prevent them from talking to his father … which meant that he was in an entirely different kind of trouble and didn’t want Henry finding out about it.
Louise dropped her chin into her hands and groaned. Her head was starting to spin. Should she tell Henry about the photograph or shouldn’t she? She couldn’t decide. It seemed that she was doomed either way. If she did, he might feel that she had overstepped the mark, would possibly find a way to discreetly let her go. If she didn’t he could easily get caught out by the next report. Unless Richard, satisfied by what he’d seen, had decided to drop the surveillance on Eve …
She gave the idea some consideration. If that was the case then she was better off keeping quiet. No one would ever need to know what she had done. Henry’s affair would eventually fizzle out and everything would return to normal. Louise gave a tiny satisfied nod. Yes, all in all, that could be the best way forward.
Cavelli, keeping a close eye on the men around him, strolled along the landing and down the iron stairway. Dressed in jeans and a navy vest he flexed his biceps as he walked – a timely reminder to anyone who might think about taking him on that his hours in the gym had not been wasted.
Bryant’s cell was guarded as usual but this time by a different pair of goons, two solid smug-looking guys in designer tracksuits and brand-new trainers. He made a quick assessment as he approached, weighing up the opposition in case things turned nasty. Plenty of brawn, he decided, but not too much brain. And judging by the size of their bellies neither was suffering from starvation. They were probably slow on their feet. Although he could be wrong. He’d made the same mistake once years ago and still had the scars to prove it.
It was the taller of the two, a thickset balding thug called Hales, who pulled away from the wall and blocked his path as he moved towards the door.
‘You want somethin’?’
‘Mr Bryant.’
Hales curled his lip contemptuously. ‘He’s busy, mate.’
‘Tell him Cavelli wants to see him.’
The other minder, still leaning back with his arms across his chest, shifted a thick wad of gum from one corner of his mouth to the other. ‘What’s that, some kind of fuckin’ dago name?’
Cavelli turned to look at him, letting a whisper of a smile alight on his face before replying softly, ‘Sicilian actually.’
There was a long pause as he slowly absorbed the answer … and its implications. Then he produced a small tight laugh. ‘Yeah, right.’ But despite his bravado,
he threw a wary glance towards Hales.
But Hales was the type who wouldn’t have cared if a Mafia don had come to visit. In this prison George Bryant ruled the roost and he was paid to keep it that way. ‘Fuck off,’ he said.
Cavelli widened his smile. ‘I only ask nicely once. Are you going to tell him that I’m here or am I going to have to step on your head and make the introductions myself?’
Hales took an aggressive step forward. ‘Just who the fuck—’
But he didn’t have time to finish what he was saying. Cavelli caught him with a fast clean right, an upper cut to the jaw, which sent him hurtling towards the railings. The barrier kept him upright – but not for long. With arms flailing he slid down to the floor with a satisfying grunt.
His mate, perhaps still pondering on his memories of The Godfather, was too slow to respond. By the time his brain had sent a message to his fists, Cavelli had swung around and was waiting for him. Punching hard into the soft flabby flesh of his gut, he saw the wad of gum come flying from his mouth. He punched again and heard the gasp like a balloon deflating as the man doubled up, sank to his knees and then keeled over on to his side.
Bryant came flying out of his cell. ‘What the—’
He stared at his two minders lying on the ground.
‘You shouldn’t feed them so much,’ Cavelli said. ‘Makes them lazy.’
If Bryant was intimidated by what he saw, he didn’t show it. He was too smart for that. Instead he reached out with the toe of his boot and, like a man investigating something vaguely repulsive, poked the winded one in the ribs. ‘Get up, Morgan, you streak of piss!’
Morgan staggered, groaning, to his feet. As if in fear of the contents falling out, one hand was clamped tightly to his stomach. His face was the shade of wet clay and a thin stream of snot ran from his left nostril into his mouth. He swayed as he reached the upright position, holding on to the railing for support.