by Roberta Kray
‘Maybe it hasn’t got anything to do with Kay. Heather Grant turning up right now could just be a coincidence.’
‘Some coincidence.’
‘They happen.’
Whenever Lolly looked at Nick she was reminded of Stanley Parrish. They had the same long face and slightly mournful eyes. She had liked Stanley so far as she had known him, but then she would have liked anyone who had whisked her away from Brenda Cecil and her family. ‘I can’t imagine what else would make Mal do this.’
‘Where would he go? Can you think of anywhere?’
‘He was talking about Antwerp – he’s got friends there – but how would he get out of the country without a passport?’
‘There are ways, if you know the right people.’
‘But if this is connected to Kay, why would he even want to leave? He’d be more likely to head for West Henby, to try and see Esther. Except the law will be keeping an eye on that place, won’t they? Actually, it’s strange. I was there this morning and—’
‘What? You were at the house?’
‘Not in it, just passing by. We only stopped by the gates for a minute. I don’t know, but I thought I heard . . . No, it doesn’t matter.’
‘Heard what?’
Lolly shuffled her feet and gazed at the floor. ‘I thought I heard a baby crying. It probably wasn’t, probably just the wind or something.’ She glanced up again, feeling self-conscious, not wanting him to think that her imagination had run away with her. ‘I couldn’t swear to it.’
Nick raised his eyebrows but didn’t pass comment.
Lolly sighed. ‘I don’t know what to do.’
‘What can you do?’
‘Try and find him before he gets in even more trouble. Perhaps we should ring Heather Grant, see if she knows anything. Is that a bad idea?’ She didn’t wait for an answer. ‘Or maybe not. No, it’s just even more material for her book. That’s if she’s even writing one. She could be anybody.’
‘We should wait a few days. Mal might realise he’s made a mistake and hand himself in.’
Lolly turned and gazed out of the window. A squad car was coming down the road. Afraid it might stop outside the flat, she held her breath for a second, but it carried on towards the station. ‘Did you hear about what happened at the arches?’
‘Yeah, it was on the radio.’
‘Stella thinks it’s one of the girls from the house. Dana. That’s what she’s called. She didn’t come home last night and . . . ’ Lolly’s voice trailed off.
‘Christ, it’s a nasty business. I hope they catch him soon.’
Outside, it had grown dark. The evenings were starting to close in more quickly now and they came with a chill. Lolly would have put the fire on but she was counting the pennies. The meter seemed to eat money, its greedy little mouth gobbling up the coins as quickly as she dropped them in. She’d anticipated making a few quid from her trip to Kent with Vinnie, but that hadn’t gone according to plan. Something else to worry about. She had some savings in the bank but they wouldn’t last long, not with rent and food and bills.
‘Do you fancy a drink? We could go down to the Fox.’
Lolly looked at Nick and shook her head. ‘Not tonight.’ Everyone would be talking about the murder and she didn’t want to hear it. In addition, it was the market tomorrow and she had to sort out some stuff to sell. ‘Sorry, I’ve got work to do. Another time, yeah? Do you mind?’
‘Course not.’ Nick took a small white card from his pocket and held it up. ‘Do you want Heather Grant’s number?’
Lolly hesitated, but then decided there was no harm in it. She didn’t have to call the woman and probably wouldn’t. She took the card, put it down on the table and picked up a pen to copy out the number.
‘Keep it,’ he said. ‘I’ve already made a note of it. I’ll do some digging and see what I can find out about her.’
‘Will you let me know?’
‘I’ll drop by if I find out anything.’
‘Thanks.’
Lolly walked down to the door with him.
‘You sure you’re okay?’ he asked.
Lolly smiled and nodded and said all the right things. It was a habit she couldn’t break: putting on a brave face and never showing weakness. She didn’t think he was fooled, not for a minute, but he had the good grace to go along with it. They said their goodbyes and she closed the door.
Slowly she climbed back up the stairs. There was so much to think about, too much, and she felt weary just from the effort of trying. She collected a sweater from the bedroom, pulled it on and went into the living room. She sat down at the table and started rooting through the boxes for some good items to try and sell tomorrow, but her mind wasn’t on it.
Ten minutes later she stood up again, switched off the light and went over to the window. She peered into the shadows, wondering where Mal was now. Would he try and contact her? No, it was too risky. But then again, if he was desperate enough . . .
Her gaze swept along the street. She pressed her nose against the glass and studied the dark edge of the green. Cars went by and groups of people. It was Friday night, go-out-and-spendyour-wages night, and everyone was on the move. All except her. She felt the weight of the past, thick and heavy, gathering in her head. Lies and secrets jostled for position.
Don’t be afraid, she ordered herself.
But she was.
7
Saturday 17 September. Kellston
Lolly woke at the crack of dawn with her heart racing. She’d been dreaming of the lake at West Henby, of the weeping willows sweeping down to brush the water. It was a quiet, secluded place, but walking along the narrow path, she’d known that she wasn’t alone. Someone or something had been there behind her, an invisible and malevolent presence that made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end.
When she opened her eyes she almost expected to see the peacock wallpaper, to find herself back at the Fury house, but all she saw was plain magnolia. Relief flooded through her. She was home, she was safe. There was nothing to worry about. Well, that wasn’t quite true, but at least there were no ghosts lurking in the flat. There was only the here and now.
She lay very still until the dream dissolved and reality took over. It was Saturday, market day, and she’d better get on if she wasn’t going to be late setting up. She went to the bathroom, had a pee, a wash, brushed her teeth and then dressed at speed – blue jeans, sneakers, T-shirt and a sweater – before grabbing a slice of toast and a cup of coffee. Within fifteen minutes she was out of the door and crossing the road with a heavy holdall tugging at her arm.
There was a group gathered at the entrance to the market, thrusting leaflets at everyone who passed. Lolly’s nose wrinkled as she realised who they were: National Front. Last month they’d been thwarted in their plans for a big demonstration in Lewisham when anti-NF protestors had turned up in even greater numbers. Now they were looking for other places to spread their evil.
Lolly stared straight ahead, ignoring the leaflets being flapped in front of her. She couldn’t bear these people, couldn’t understand them. They traded in hate and malice, in anger and division. As if there weren’t enough problems in the world, they wanted to create even more.
She knew what it was like to be the target of bullies, to be singled out, to be judged for being different, and despised all those who encouraged it.
She was almost past the group when she heard the voice behind her.
‘Well, if it ain’t the little snitch herself.’
Lolly whirled around and found herself staring into the goblin-like features of Tony Cecil. Immediately, she stiffened. Brenda Cecil’s older son was a skinhead thug with an axe to grind. He reckoned she’d grassed him to the law over a violent assault years ago – she hadn’t – and was still bearing a grudge. If it hadn’t been for Terry’s protection of her, he wouldn’t have hesitated in taking revenge.
She went to walk on but he grabbed her by the arm.
‘Where d
o you think you’re going?’
Lolly tried to pull away, but his thick fingers squeezed even tighter. She was scared of him but wasn’t going to show it. ‘Let go of me, you bastard, or I’ll scream the bloody place down!’
Tony finally released her, his mouth twisting into a nasty grin. ‘You see what she’s like, mate?’ he said to the bloke standing beside him. ‘She’s ain’t normal. She’s got a fuckin’ screw loose.’
‘The only crazy one round here is you.’ Lolly rubbed at her arm, recalling all the other times he’d hurt her when she was a kid. ‘Keep your hands off me in future or—’
‘Or what? You going to go running to Terry? He can’t watch over you twenty-four hours a day.’ Tony laughed. ‘And I shouldn’t think he’d want to, ugly little bitch like you.’
Lolly raised her eyes to the heavens, feigning a nonchalance she didn’t feel. ‘You finished now? It’s been lovely to talk but some of us have got work to do.’
‘Nah, I ain’t finished. Where’s Jude Rule?’
Lolly paled at the mention of the name. Jude, her first love, the boy who’d used her, betrayed her and broken her heart. ‘How the hell would I know?’
‘Because you two were tight as a witch’s arse.’
Suddenly FJ, Tony’s younger brother, appeared beside him. He had the same haircut and the same cruel eyes. ‘You remember Amy, don’t you? She’s the girl your fuckin’ boyfriend murdered.’
‘He didn’t,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t him.’
Tony snarled. ‘Listen to her! Six years on and the lying cow is still defending the bastard. She can’t help herself.’
‘Just spit it out, yeah,’ FJ said. ‘We got things to do.’
‘Like I said, I’ve got no idea.’
Tony pushed his face into hers. ‘There’s only one thing I hate more than grasses and that’s fuckin’ liars. Give us the address and we’ll leave you alone.’
Lolly, feeling his rank breath on her, withdrew a step and glared at him. ‘Are you deaf or what?’
‘You gave that murdering shithead an alibi.’
‘I just told the truth.’
‘No one believes that, darlin’. You think we were born fuckin’ yesterday?’
‘Believe what you like. I haven’t seen Jude in ages so if you want to find him you’ll have to look for him yourself.’ Lolly pushed her way past before they could say anything else. She held her breath, hoping they wouldn’t come after her, and thankfully they didn’t. That didn’t mean they were finished with her, though. From now on she’d have to watch her back.
Lolly emptied the holdall and set up her stall. Her pitch was only a small one, squashed between second-hand books on one side and pots and pans on the other. She laid out the watches, necklaces, bracelets and rings, keeping the more expensive items near the back where they were away from thieving fingers. While she was doing all this her mind was still on the Cecil brothers.
The renewed interest in Jude was a worry. If the truth ever came out, she’d be dead meat. She had, of course, lied about being with him on the afternoon of Amy Wiltshire’s murder, giving him an unshakeable alibi and sticking to it through police interrogations. She had done so because she’d believed absolutely in his innocence. At thirteen she’d thought she knew it all when actually she’d known nothing. And now? Now she could no longer put her hand on her heart and swear he hadn’t killed her. It made her feel sick inside.
Lolly hadn’t been lying, however, when she’d said she didn’t know where Jude was. The last time she’d seen him had been eighteen months ago when he’d made it clear that his loyalties lay with Esther Fury and not herself. It shouldn’t have come as any big surprise – he’d always been dazzled by movie stars, by beautiful women – but it had still rankled. He’d used her to get to Esther, raising her romantic hopes before dashing them again.
‘Loser,’ she muttered under her breath.
She wanted to forget about him, put him out of her mind for ever, but the more she tried the larger he loomed. The problem was that he’d been good to her once. When her mother had been ill, which was more often than not, she’d been able to find temporary solace – and some food and warmth – in the flat Jude shared with his father. There, on the fourteenth floor of Haslow House, she’d sat and watched old movies with him. He’d been three years older, sixteen to her thirteen, but had never talked down to her.
Lolly felt a lump come into her throat when she thought about those days. For all her struggles, she’d been happy. Watching the films flicker on the makeshift screen had transported her to another world and for a while she’d been able to put aside everything else. Memories flashed through her mind: the old corduroy sofa, peanut butter sandwiches, Humphrey Bogart narrowing his eyes at some glamorous but deadly woman. Quickly, she pushed the thoughts away. Now wasn’t the time to be getting sentimental.
So far as she was concerned, Jude was on his own. She wanted nothing more to do with him. He must have moved out of Kellston or Tony Cecil wouldn’t be asking where he lived, but she didn’t care where he’d gone or who he was with. No, she didn’t give a damn. And if that wasn’t entirely true, she was certainly going to pretend it was.
Lolly turned her attention back to the stall and for the rest of the morning tried to drum up interest in her jewellery. She cut the prices, writing out a ‘Sale’ sign in the hope of attracting more customers and bringing in a bit of much-needed cash. By midday she’d sold two watches, some beads and a couple of rings, raising a grand total of nine pounds fifty pence. Not the worst she’d ever done but not the best either.
By midday she’d also found out, courtesy of the radio playing on the pots and pans stall, that the murdered prostitute had been named as Dana Leigh, and that Marc Bolan had been killed in a car crash. The bad news just never stopped coming. There was nothing about Mal but he had probably been pushed off the headlines by bigger events. She would have to try and see Stella later. God knows what state she’d be in. And she’d have to track down Terry too; she still had the diamond ring and needed to give it back.
The market was starting to pack up, the customers to drift away. Lolly stayed for another half hour before deciding to quit too. By now the music had stopped and the smell of frying onions was fading into the warm afternoon air. She packed her goods back into the holdall and stared along the central aisle before making a move. The Cecils and their National Front mates had left and so it was safe for her to leave too.
Leaflets were scattered on the ground near the entrance and she made it her mission to trample on as many of them as she could. They belonged in the bin but she wasn’t going to waste her energy in gathering them up. Keeping an eye out for Tony and FJ she walked quickly up to the high street. She didn’t fancy Jude’s chances if they ever caught up with him, but that was his problem not hers. She had other things to worry about.
8
Saturday 17 September. Central London
Nick Trent was alone in the office, a situation he was taking advantage of. He’d put in a call to a contact he had at the Driver and Vehicle Licensing Centre, requesting information on the red Mini and its owner, and had just heard back. The car was registered to Heather Grant and the address on her licence was in Tufnell Park. He scribbled down the details, including her date of birth, expressed his thanks and hung up. Well, so far, so normal. At least she appeared to be who she said she was.
His next call was to a mate in CID, asking for a background check on Heather in case she had a history he should know about; the world was full of con artists and he wanted to make sure she wasn’t one of them. He was aware that these favours were going to cost him one way or another, but figured it was still worth it. The check wouldn’t be quick and while he waited he looked up the number for HMP Redwood.
Nick was winging it on this one. Impersonating a police officer was an offence and he’d be in serious trouble if he was caught out. He couldn’t, however, see any other way of getting the information he needed. When the phone was answered h
e identified himself as DC John McEnery from the Yard and asked to be put through to the office.
‘Sorry to bother you again,’ he said once the transfer was made, ‘but I need to double-check Mal Fury’s visitors for the last couple of months. I don’t suppose you have the information to hand?’
The screw on the other end of the line sounded more irritated than suspicious, as though he had enough on his plate without having to go over information he’d already provided. ‘Hold on,’ he said tetchily. ‘You’ll have to give me a minute.’
Nick drummed his fingers on the desk while he waited for the man to come back on the line. He was only pursuing this for Lolly’s sake, to try and get a lead on why Mal had done a runner. What he couldn’t find out, unfortunately, was what might have been sent through the post. It was doubtful they kept a record of every letter received, especially in an open prison.
Eventually the screw picked up the phone again. ‘Okay, I’ve got it. You want me to fax it through?’
‘No, that’s all right. If you could just run through the names . . . ’
‘There’s only two: Lolita Bruce and Heather Grant.’
‘When did Heather Grant visit?’
‘That would be ten days ago, on the seventh September.’
‘Thank you,’ Nick said. ‘I appreciate it.’ He put the receiver down and nodded to the empty room. ‘Well, there you go,’ he said. ‘Surprise, surprise.’ Now all he had to work out was what Heather had said to Mal to make him decide to go on the run. Something to do with Kay; it had to be. Maybe the stuff about Teddy Heath’s girlfriend. Except it had to be more than that, something that was so urgent it just couldn’t wait.
He dug out Heather’s number, called and listened to her answering machine. He left both his numbers, office and home, said it was important and hung up. It could be worth handing over Stanley’s file, he decided, if she was prepared to come clean about the conversation she’d had at the prison. A reasonable trade, although he couldn’t be sure she’d tell the truth.