Stolen

by Roberta Kray

  As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she regretted them. Saying you’d do anything for an East End gangster wasn’t the smartest move. She could see the ice in his eyes, the way his mouth had formed a thin, straight line. And she saw what she had never seen before on his face: disappointment and contempt.

  ‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll tell you what you can do: find out what the fuck Laura Sandler’s game is.’

  ‘How am I supposed to do that?’

  ‘That’s your problem, love. Do whatever you have to.’

  Lolly nodded. What else could she do? ‘Okay. I’ll try.’

  ‘Trying’s no good to me. I need results.’

  ‘I’ll get them,’ she said, with as much conviction as she could muster. ‘I will.’

  ‘And soon,’ he said. ‘Don’t let me down again.’

  ‘I won’t. I promise.’

  And then she fled before he could think of something worse to do to her.

  42

  Thursday 22 September. The Irish Sea

  Mal stood on the deck of the ferry, looking down at the choppy waters of the Irish Sea. From West Henby he’d headed north towards Wales, driving through the dark. When you were in this much trouble you needed your friends, but not the law-abiding kind. Gareth Thomas, a fence for over thirty years, had been his cellmate for nine months. He was the type of man who didn’t ask too many questions and who knew the value of a diamond ring when he saw it.

  A deal had been struck whereby the two of them would go over to Dublin together – the police would be looking out for someone travelling alone – sell the ring and split the proceeds. Gareth had contacts in Ireland, business associates who wouldn’t rip them off. Once the deal was done, they would go their separate ways. The white Hunter was safely stashed in a lock-up.

  Mal had been provided with a hat – ‘You’ll need it. It always bloody rains in Ireland’ –and a pair of spectacles with plain lenses. With his fair hair covered and the glasses on, he was less likely to be recognised. He didn’t know if Gareth believed in his innocence when it came to Esther’s murder or if he was just pretending to. And he wasn’t entirely sure if the man was motivated by loyalty or avarice. Perhaps it was a combination of the two.

  He felt the swell of the waves beneath the ferry. His stomach shifted, and not just from the movement. He still didn’t know if he was doing the right thing. Running away was gutless and cheap, the act of a coward, but he had no faith in the police finding the true culprit. Why would they even bother to investigate when he was neatly in the frame? However, running didn’t help that situation. Perhaps he should have had the courage to stand his ground and protest his innocence.

  ‘If you’re having second thoughts, you can always hand yourself in to the Garda,’ Gareth said with a grin. ‘Although I’d appreciate you keeping my name out of it.’

  ‘You have my word.’

  ‘Well, that’s good enough for me. But don’t do anything rash, will you? It’s early days. Give it a while and see what happens. Wait till the smoke clears, so to speak. You don’t want to be making decisions you’ll regret down the line.’

  Mal gripped the rail, his knuckles white. There was another option besides running or handing himself in, and that was to end it all. He could excuse himself, pretend to go for a slash and find a quiet place at the rear of the boat. No one would notice if he climbed over the rail and dropped into the sea. By the time Gareth raised the alarm – if he even did – it would be too late.

  For some reason Lord Lucan sprang into his head. It was three years now since he’d disappeared after murdering the family nanny. There were rumours he was living in Africa or France, although others believed that he’d jumped off a ferry crossing the English Channel. Mal wondered what that moment was like, those few seconds you were falling before the icy water closed around you. Too late then to change your mind.

  His Adam’s apple bounced in his throat. He feared death, but he feared life too, or at least the kind of life he would be forced to live if Esther’s killer was never found. He would be in perpetual exile, always looking over his shoulder, always waiting for the knock on the door. He would never be Mal Fury again, never go home, never look across the lake or get to place flowers on the grave of his parents. And, worst of all, never get the chance to see Kay again if she was still alive. He shuddered at the thought. It was, in its way, a different kind of death.

  Gareth bent and placed his forearms on the rail, gazing out towards the horizon. He wasn’t old, barely fifty, but already his hair was streaked with grey. Thin red veins ran like a road map across his nose and cheeks, each one branching off another. He had a drinker’s belly and a smoker’s cough. In the normal scheme of things, they would probably never have met, but prison spawned unlikely friendships.

  ‘We’ll be there soon.’

  ‘How soon?’ Mal asked.

  ‘Half an hour. You’ll like it well enough in Dublin. Just keep your mouth shut when it comes to politics or religion and you’ll be fine. I’ll give you some names in case you need papers. If you want to move on at some point, get a passport, they’re the ones to contact. Tell them Gareth Thomas sent you and they’ll see you right.’

  Mal couldn’t think of where he would go with a passport, but he nodded anyway and expressed his thanks. They fell into silence. There was only the slap of the waves against the boat and the throb of the engine. He could feel a weight pressing down on him, a darkness descending.

  The reality of Esther’s death, of what it meant, was starting to eat away at him. Their marriage had been torrid, confrontational, destructive, and yet love had existed in it somewhere. He could not imagine a world without Esther, and yet he was already living in that world. The question was whether he wanted to.

  Gareth coughed and lit another cigarette, shielding the flame of the lighter with a cupped hand. Mal glanced at him, shifted his gaze to the sky and then down at the sea. He studied the water, grey and merciless, stretched out beneath him. There might be, he thought, a kind of salvation in its depths. He stepped away from the rail and cleared his throat.

  ‘I need a slash,’ he said. ‘I won’t be long.’

  43

  Thursday 22 September. Tufnell Park, London

  Nick was parked a short distance down the road from Heather Grant’s flat in Tufnell Park. He was presuming she’d come home from West Henby at some point today and was hoping it would be sooner rather than later. The street was quiet, pleasant, tree-lined and virtually empty. Having already read the newspaper from cover to cover, he was reduced to staring through the windscreen at a black cat sauntering along the pavement.

  First thing this morning he’d called the office and arranged to take a few extra days off. Lolly was in trouble and he wanted to do what he could to change that situation. Quite what this was he hadn’t figured out yet, but he was working on it. If the law discovered she’d helped Mal Fury to escape, she would be done for aiding and abetting and whatever else they might decide to throw at her.

  The big question was whether Mal was actually guilty of Esther’s murder. His jury at least was still out on that one. But if Lolly was right and Mal hadn’t done it, then someone else must have.

  ‘Smart thinking, Nick,’ he said aloud. ‘This is why you’re such a rich and successful detective.’

  Apart from Mal, his own list of suspects was fairly small and Jude Rule was at the top of it. This was why he wanted to talk to Heather. Maybe she could help shed some light on what had actually gone on last night. Although he hadn’t entirely dismissed her from the list either. From what Lolly had told him, Heather had been filling Mal’s head with all sorts of ideas, few of which bore much resemblance to the truth. He couldn’t really see her holding Esther under water until she expired, but stranger things had happened.

  He was on the point of going in search of a caff – even brilliant detectives needed to eat every now and again – when the red Mini drew up outside the house. As Heather got out of her car, he j
umped out of his too, locked it and walked towards her. She saw him and frowned.

  ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to talk to you about last night. I realise it’s not a good time but . . . ’

  ‘No, it isn’t.’ She walked round to the back of the Mini, opened it and took out her suitcase. ‘I’ve told the police everything I know.’

  Nick noticed that she looked pale, shattered, as though she hadn’t slept. Her face was pinched and there were dark circles under her eyes. ‘Ten minutes,’ he said. ‘I won’t stay any longer.’

  She seemed about to protest, but perhaps even the effort of doing that was too much for her. ‘You’d better come in, then.’

  ‘Thanks. I appreciate it.’ He indicated towards the case. ‘Would you like me to carry that?’

  ‘I might be tired,’ she said, ‘but I’m not helpless.’

  Heather’s flat was a ground-floor conversion, spacious and comfortably furnished. He wondered how she could afford it, unless she had a flatmate or well-heeled parents. She dumped her suitcase on the living-room floor, sighed and said, ‘I suppose you’d like a coffee.’

  ‘Ta. If you don’t mind.’

  ‘It’ll have to be black. I don’t have any milk.’

  ‘That’s fine.’

  He followed her into the kitchen where she kept her back to him and busied herself with the kettle, mugs and a jar of Nescafé.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked. ‘It’s always shocking when something like this happens. Takes a while for it to sink in.’

  Heather turned, teaspoon in hand, and stared at him. Her eyes were mocking. ‘Oh, is that what this is about? You’ve just come to check that I’m okay?’

  ‘Partly,’ he said.

  ‘Well, now we’ve got that covered why don’t you tell me what the other part is.’

  Nick stood beside a wide oak table, wondering whether he should sit down or not. ‘I wanted to get your take on things. I mean, you’ve been staying with Esther, spending a lot of time with her.’

  ‘Not that much time. She was always busy.’

  The kettle was boiling and Heather turned away again. She poured water into the two mugs, gave the instant coffee a stir and passed one of the mugs over to him. As if to make it clear that this wasn’t going to be a long conversation she returned to the counter, leaned back against it and folded her arms across her chest.

  ‘Is Jude still in West Henby?’ he asked.

  ‘No, I dropped him off in Kellston. He couldn’t really stay at the house, could he, not after . . . ’

  ‘I suppose not.’

  ‘He’s devastated.’

  ‘Is he?’

  ‘Of course he is. I mean, yes, they had their differences – Esther wasn’t the easiest person to get along with – but he really did love her.’ Heather stopped for a moment, tilting her head slightly to the left. ‘Look, I can see where you’re going, but he’d never have killed her, not in a month of Sundays. We all know who did it. Even Lita does, deep down. She just doesn’t want to face up to it. And I understand that. It’s hard to come to terms with, especially when you care about someone.’

  Nick thought she might have a point, but he hadn’t come to agree with her. ‘There’s no evidence Mal was even there.’

  ‘Where else would he be? Come on, Nick, are you saying it’s just a coincidence that one minute he’s escaped from prison and the next his wife has been murdered?’

  ‘Could be that someone chose to take advantage of that situation.’

  ‘What are the odds? And why exactly would Jude kill her?’

  ‘I don’t know. There was a certain amount of tension when I saw them together.’

  ‘Some couples thrive on that kind of thing.’

  ‘Were they actually a couple? I was never entirely sure.’

  ‘When she felt like it,’ Heather said. ‘When there wasn’t anyone else on the scene.’

  Nick raised his eyebrows. ‘Very modern.’

  ‘We didn’t speak much, to be honest.’

  ‘Not even down the pub?’

  The fact that he knew about this clearly came as a surprise. Her eyebrows lifted and she gave a low laugh. ‘My, someone’s been gossiping. There’s nothing going on, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s not my type. It was just somewhere to go, something to do when Esther was out.’

  He was tempted to ask what her type was but felt it would be impertinent. ‘What did you talk about?’

  Heather shrugged. ‘I spent most of the time trying to find out what Esther knew about the disappearance of Hazel and Vicky, if anything, and he spent most of it trying to find out what was going into my book. There was nothing romantic about it. The very opposite, in fact.’ She took a sip of coffee and put the mug back down. ‘How come Lita sent you to ask all this stuff? Why didn’t she come herself?’

  ‘She didn’t send me. I’m just trying to figure out what really happened last night.’

  ‘Why? You barely knew Esther. Why don’t you just leave it to the police?’

  Nick couldn’t tell her the truth – that Lolly had lied, had covered for Mal. ‘I’m a suspect,’ he said. ‘We all are until they find out who killed her. And I don’t like being in that position. The sooner it’s sorted, the better.’

  Heather gave a snort. ‘Why on earth would you be a suspect?’

  ‘Because I was there. Because I’m Stanley Parrish’s nephew. Because he died as a result of looking for her daughter.’

  ‘You could hardly blame her for that.’

  ‘People aren’t always rational. I could have been bearing a grudge.’

  ‘And were you?’

  ‘All I’m saying is that it’s not clear cut. There were lots of people at the party who could have had a reason to kill her, guests and staff. She didn’t exactly make herself popular.’

  ‘So why are you concentrating on Jude?’

  ‘Do you know where he was when Esther was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know when she was murdered. Not precisely.’

  ‘But you noticed that Esther had gone missing?’

  ‘Not for half an hour or so.’

  ‘And where was Jude in that half hour?’

  Heather shook her head, expelled a sigh. ‘God, I’m not his keeper. He was around, here and there. I was talking to other people. I wasn’t paying attention to what he was doing.’

  ‘But you were talking to him on the back steps around ten past eight. What was that about?’

  ‘Jesus, you’re as bad as the police.’ She frowned, considering his question for a moment. ‘Let me think. I suppose that must have been when Jude started looking for her. Yes, I think that was it. He just asked me if I’d seen her. It was no big deal. There were lots of guests and people were spread out through the house and garden.’

  ‘But he was worried, or acting like he was?’

  ‘No, I wouldn’t say worried exactly. You know what he’s like.’

  ‘Jealous, possessive, controlling?’

  ‘They’re your words, not mine. No one controlled Esther.’

  Nick, sensing that he wasn’t making much headway, changed direction. ‘What about this announcement she was going to make? Do you know anything about that?’

  ‘I presume it was to do with the film.’

  ‘What film?’

  ‘She’d just got a big part in some Hollywood production. I heard her telling Mrs Gough about it. I wasn’t earwigging – well, I suppose I was – but I just happened to be walking past the room and the door was open so . . . Anyway, Esther asked her not to tell anyone else, said she wanted it to be a surprise.’

  ‘Nothing to do with Vicky Finch, then?’

  ‘What would she have to announce about her?’

  ‘I don’t know. That her long lost daughter had been found?’

  ‘Except she hasn’t. And even if she had, Esther wouldn’t be announcing it at a party, would she? She wouldn’t want a pile of fuss before she’d even got to know the girl prope
rly. The press would be crawling all over the place.’

  Nick could see the logic in this, although he wasn’t sure if Esther had ever acted logically. ‘I suppose.’

  Heather glanced at her watch. ‘Are we finished here? Only I’m completely done in. I can barely think straight as it is.’

  ‘Yes of course. I’m sorry.’ He wanted to challenge her about what she’d said to Mal, the claim that she’d seen Esther with Vicky, but he couldn’t, not without revealing that Lolly had spoken to Mal recently. Instead, as she walked him to the door, he said, ‘What are you going to do about the book? Will you still go ahead with it?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It’s too soon to make that decision.’

  He paused on the doorstep. ‘You’ve got my number. Give me a call if you remember anything useful.’

  ‘Don’t waste your time, Nick. You know who did it. We both do.’

  44

  Thursday 22 September. West Henby

  DI Bob Latham stood by the entrance to the summerhouse, gazing into the interior. ‘Are they sure?’ To him the area looked still and undisturbed, but scene-of-crime officers had been going over the space since first light and discovered some anomalies.

  DS Barry nodded. ‘Someone’s been here. There’s definite signs of occupation including crumbs on the floor. Bread and cheese, they think.’

  ‘Do we know when?’

  ‘Recently. In the last few days. There’s evidence of mice too so the fact the crumbs are still there . . . ’

  ‘But the door hasn’t been forced.’

  ‘No. Either there was a key hidden somewhere or somebody opened the door for him.’

  ‘And that wouldn’t have been Esther Fury or the housekeeper.’

  ‘Unlikely,’ Barry agreed. ‘And there was a rug found here too. Mrs Gough thinks it used to be kept in the utility room, but she can’t recall when she last saw it.’

  Latham could see a picture emerging: a desperate man who had escaped from prison, made his way here and holed up until he got the opportunity he needed. No electricity or running water. Only his own tormented thoughts for company. Had he brought the food with him or had someone provided him with it? It would have been too risky, surely, for him to have taken it, or the rug, from the house.