Stolen

by Roberta Kray

  ‘But she stayed with him.’

  Candy shrugged. ‘Perhaps it was still better than what she’d had. Who knows? But everyone’s got a breaking point and . . . ’

  ‘And maybe she reached hers.’ He smiled. ‘Thanks, Candy. That could be useful.’

  She didn’t smile back. ‘Close the door on your way out.’

  55

  Thursday 22 September. Kellston and Primrose Hill

  Lolly checked her watch as she left the Fox. Seven forty-five. Stella was on a binge, unstoppable and immoveable, refusing to go back to Albert Road while the pub was still dispensing alcohol. Seeing that she was beyond persuasion, Lolly had decided to call it a night and leave her in the care of the other girls. Stella was probably better off paralytic than down the arches where anything could happen.

  It was dark now and still raining. She tramped through the puddles, the water seeping into her shoes as she headed for home. Nick would probably call by after he’d been to Marcie’s. That’s if he didn’t get distracted by all that naked flesh. She felt a slight feeling of . . . she wasn’t sure what it was exactly. Not jealousy, it couldn’t be called that, but something faintly proprietorial lurked at the edges of her mind. She didn’t like the idea of him ogling other women. Puzzled by this thought, she pushed it away, not wanting to investigate further.

  Lolly took a few deep breaths, trying to clear her head. She wasn’t drunk but she wasn’t sober either. Drinking three voddies on an almost empty stomach hadn’t been the best of ideas. All she’d had to eat today was that sandwich at Primrose Hill. A hollow rumbling came from the depths of her guts. Was there anything in the fridge? A few eggs, perhaps. She would make an omelette and eat it in front of the TV.

  As she was crossing the road she noticed a bus waiting at the lights. ‘Camden Town’ it said on the front, and something clicked in her head. It seemed like a sign. She had just been thinking about Primrose Hill and now here was a bus going in that general direction. The fates were talking to her. And the lights were changing. With no time to weigh up the decision she jogged to the bus stop and put out her hand.

  The journey passed in a blur. She was too preoccupied by what she would say to Laura Sandler to take any notice of the passing streets or her fellow passengers. She had to confront her whatever the consequences. She was sure she was doing the right thing. Either Laura had denied her relationship with Vinnie out of fear of becoming a murder suspect, or she’d deliberately set him up. The latter seemed more likely but it might not be the case. The truth was out there somewhere and the only way of getting it was face to face.

  She got off the bus at Camden and strode purposefully along Parkway towards Regent’s Park. While she walked she tried to construct the right questions, the ones that would matter, the ones that would force Laura into a confession. But the words kept dancing away from her. She’d get halfway through a sentence when something else jumped into her mind. And now she was thinking about Esther again, about her body lying on the ground by the lake, about Mal’s desperate eyes.

  She shook her head to try and clear it. Maybe she was drunker than she’d thought. The sound of the rain hitting the ground mingled with the noise of the cars and buses going by. At least her legs seemed to know where they were going. She was walking quickly, her feet hitting the pavement with a slap. Eventually, after a couple of right turns, she found herself on the street where Laura Sandler lived.

  It was only when she reached the house – the lights were on, the curtains drawn – that she began to have second thoughts. Was this a crazy thing to do? What if Laura called the police and had her arrested? Her shoulders slumped. But she’d come this far, it seemed wrong to turn back. Yes or no? ‘Don’t be a coward’, one voice whispered to her, while another murmured, ‘Don’t be a fool.’ She decided to walk to the end of the street and back while she tried to decide which voice to listen to.

  After leaving Candy, Nick had driven straight back to Kellston to share his information with Lolly. There had been no reply at her flat and he’d wondered if she was still with Jude Rule. But he’d dropped her off at the estate hours ago. Surely, she would be home by now. That’s when he’d started to worry. Although she was convinced that Jude would never do her harm, her confidence could be misplaced. Jude’s exact address was unknown to him. Somewhere in Haslow House, but the tower was vast with over a hundred flats.

  He’d checked the takeaway and Connolly’s but drawn a blank there too. His next port of call had been the Fox where he’d recognised some of the girls Lolly drank with and, to his relief, one of them had told him that she had left about fifteen minutes ago. He’d driven slowly back up the high street but there had been no sign of her. The flat had still been empty, the lights still off. He’d rechecked the takeaway and the caff. Where else could she have gone?

  That’s when he’d thought of Primrose Hill. Which was why he was here now, pulling up to the kerb a few doors down from the Sandler house and wondering if he was wasting his time. But he knew what Lolly was like. Once she got an idea in her head it was hard to shake it. He could see that the house was occupied but had no way of knowing whether she was inside or not. He prayed not. If what Candy had said was true, Laura Sandler was a dangerous woman.

  He watched the rain fall against the windscreen, thinking about what Mickey and Candy had told him. A picture was starting to build. He’d got something, he was sure of it, even if all the details hadn’t quite slotted into place. The Les Poole connection was an important one. Who else would Laura turn to if she was desperate? She knew the gangster wouldn’t baulk at murder – not for the right price. And she’d have plenty of money once she was a merry widow.

  He drummed out a beat on the steering wheel, unsure as to what to do next. For all he knew Lolly could be at home right now watching the telly with her feet up. Except she wasn’t a feet up type of girl, not when something was bugging her. It was at that very moment, just as he was attempting to decide whether Lolly’s drive was a virtue or a vice, that he noticed a figure strolling slowly down the street.

  Nick smiled. Even with her hood up, he knew it was her. So he’d been right. She had come back. He watched her approach, ready to intervene if she turned into the Sandler place. There was a hesitancy about her, a nervousness, a sense of hanging back as though she was still undecided.

  She stopped at the gateway and looked up at the house. Thirty seconds passed. Then, just when he thought she wasn’t going to go through with it, whatever doubts she might have had seemed to suddenly evaporate. She pushed back her shoulders, took a visible breath and began to march towards the front door.

  Nick leapt out of the car and sprinted the ten yards to the house. ‘Lolly!’ he hissed as loudly as he dared, not wanting to alert Laura Sandler.

  Startled, she turned. ‘What are you doing here?’

  ‘I need to talk to you.’

  She didn’t look keen on the idea. Having geared herself up for the big encounter, she clearly wanted to get on with it. She glanced from him to the front door and back again, irritation etched on her features. ‘Go away. I have to do this.’

  Nick nodded. Now wasn’t the time for an argument. ‘Okay, but just listen to what I have to say first. Two minutes, yeah, and then you can do what you like.’

  Lolly stood and waited, as though he was about to explain right there and then.

  ‘Not here,’ he said, looking towards the lit window. ‘Come and sit in the car.’

  ‘Two minutes you said.’

  ‘Two minutes I’d rather spend not getting soaked to the skin.’ Before she could put up any further objections he took hold of her elbow and gently propelled her back down the drive. He could sense the frustration in her, the exasperation at being thwarted at the last moment.

  They got into the Ford together. Lolly immediately folded her arms across her chest, like a defence against anything he might have to say. In the confines of the car he could smell wet clothes and alcohol. She’d obviously had a few drinks in th
e Fox before setting off. Dutch courage perhaps.

  ‘Well?’ she asked snappily. ‘What is it?’ And then before he could reply she added, ‘I don’t get what you’re doing here. Have you been following me?’

  Knowing that she wouldn’t appreciate his concern for her welfare, no matter how well meant, he laughed and shook his head. ‘Why the hell would I be doing that?’

  ‘So it’s just a coincidence then?’

  ‘No, it’s not a coincidence. You want to know what Laura Sandler’s up to and so do I. I thought I’d drop by for half an hour and see what was happening.’

  She considered this for a moment, staring at him, her eyes full of suspicion. Then she moved her head to gaze out through the windscreen at the rain. ‘Yeah, right.’

  Before she could start dwelling on his motives for being here, he quickly moved on. ‘Look, I’ve found out something about Laura. I think you’ll want to hear this.’ And then he explained it all to her, everything Candy had told him about Les Poole. It wasn’t a long story and she listened without interrupting. When he got to the end he said, ‘I know it’s not proof of anything but there is a connection between the two of them.’

  ‘You sure she was telling the truth?’

  ‘I think so. Candy strikes me as the type who knows what’s going on. And it makes a twisted kind of sense. Laura wants rid of an abusive husband and Poole’s happy to take the job on – for a price of course. But that’s not a problem. She won’t be short of money, not in the long term.’

  ‘Why bother to involve Vinnie? Why not just arrange the hit?’

  ‘Because it takes the heat off. She’s going to be the number one suspect so she needs to convince the law that someone else had a better motive than she did. Enter Vinnie Keane: gangster, obsessive stalker, a man who just won’t take no for an answer. I imagine he hasn’t got an alibi either; she’ll have made sure of that. The two of them needed a scapegoat and Vinnie fitted the bill perfectly.’

  ‘Poor Vinnie.’

  ‘You still want to go and have a chat with her?’

  ‘Not so much,’ she said.

  ‘I think we should pay Terry a visit.’

  ‘But we don’t know anything for certain.’

  ‘We know enough.’

  Lolly wrinkled her nose, probably not relishing the thought of having to face Terry Street again. ‘You think?’

  ‘You want Terry off your back or not? We give him what we have and then it’s down to him what he does with it.’

  ‘What if he already knows about Poole being Laura’s former pimp?’

  ‘He might but I doubt it. It was before his time, years ago. He was just a cocky teenager with empty pockets and big ambitions when all that was going on.’

  Lolly sighed and then nodded. ‘Okay, let’s go and look for him.’

  56

  Thursday 22 September. Kellston

  The problem was that Terry could be in one of a number of places. Lolly wasn’t even sure if she knew all the pubs and clubs he owned. But it was a weekday night and still relatively early so she suggested they try Kellston first. It turned out to be a good call. He wasn’t in the Fox – and nor was Stella, she noticed – but they found him in the second place they visited.

  Of all the pubs she’d ever been into, the Hope and Anchor was the worst. It was a small spit and sawdust dive, a throwback to another era, and had all the comfort of a prison cell. This was where local villains gathered to recruit for jobs, to make plans or just to chew the fat. Outsiders, especially women, were as welcome as a pork chop at a vegetarian supper.

  Terry was sitting alone at the bar. She felt eight pairs of eyes follow them as they walked over to join him. Silence had fallen, a nasty kind of silence filled with menace. The effect of the booze, which had given Lolly courage earlier on, was rapidly wearing off. She had a headache and a dry mouth and that, combined with her uneasiness at seeing Terry again, was making her feel slightly sick.

  ‘Can we talk?’ she asked softly. ‘It’s about Vinnie. This is Nick Trent. He’s a private investigator.’

  Terry looked him up and down, said nothing.

  ‘I work for Marshall and Marshall,’ Nick explained.

  That got Terry’s attention. He rose to his feet, picked up his glass and gestured towards the rear of the pub. He then leaned over to the barman and ordered, ‘Play some music.’

  They took a seat to the dulcet tones of Fleetwood Mac singing ‘Don’t Stop’. Nick was the one who did the talking and Lolly was happy to leave him to it. He told Terry about how he’d been part of the team doing surveillance on Sandler. ‘I’ve just spoken to one of the girls he visited on a regular basis and she reckons Laura Sandler used to be a tom, albeit a high-class one. The man she worked for was Les Poole.’

  Lolly watched Terry to see his reaction, but he had his poker face on. It was impossible to know what he was thinking.

  ‘And?’ he said.

  ‘Perhaps they’ve stayed in touch,’ Nick said.

  ‘You got any proof of that?’

  ‘No. But he might be someone she’d turn to if she wanted help in getting rid of her old man.’ Nick paused and then said, ‘There’s more. Sandler was observed meeting up with and receiving money from Poole on Monday. Do you know anything about that?’

  This time there was a definite change in Terry’s demeanour. ‘What?’

  ‘The Pear Tree in Mayfair. They had a cosy little chat, shared a bottle of champagne.’

  Terry’s eyes flashed. ‘What are you claiming, mate? That Poole had Sandler in his pocket?’

  ‘I’m not claiming anything. I’m just telling you what was observed. Do you have any reason to think Sandler might have been passing on information? Any good deals that went south recently?’

  ‘Deals are always falling through.’ But Terry had grown agitated and with that agitation came suspicion. ‘Why are you telling me all this?’

  ‘I wouldn’t ordinarily. And I’m putting my job on the line just by being here. Let’s call it a favour.’

  ‘And what do you want in return?’

  ‘Not a favour for you,’ Nick said. ‘For Lolly. You asked her for information on Laura and now you’ve got it, with something extra on Sandler thrown in. What you do with it is up to you.’

  Terry sipped his whisky and studied them both. He didn’t offer them a drink. After a while he said, ‘If Poole was getting the lowdown from Sandler why would he agree to the hit? He’d be more useful to him alive than dead.’

  ‘I don’t know. Maybe he’d got all he wanted from him. Maybe he’d served his purpose and it was time to say goodbye before Sandler lost his nerve or let something slip and you found out what was going on. Maybe the money he was going to make from the hit was more important to him than the information he could get from Sandler. Or maybe he’s the sentimental type and still has a soft spot for the lovely Laura.’

  ‘For someone who knows jack shit, you’ve got a shitload of opinions.’

  ‘They’re only theories. Take your pick.’

  Lolly could see the anger brewing in Terry, not at Nick but at Sandler’s treachery. And at Les Poole’s too, no doubt, although this would have come as less of a surprise. It all reflected badly on him, on his decisions and his judgement. If word got out it wouldn’t do much for his reputation either.

  She finally opened her mouth. ‘Do you think any of this could help Vinnie?’

  Terry looked at her, his expression dour. ‘Yeah, I’m sure Les Poole’s going to walk straight into the nick and confess everything.’

  Before Lolly could respond to the sarcasm, Nick quickly asked, ‘What about fingerprints at Vinnie’s flat? Laura’s dabs must be all over the place.’

  Terry continued to stare at Lolly for a moment – a dark, unforgiving stare – before shifting his gaze to Nick. ‘She’s claiming she went there once, months ago, that Sandler had to pick up some documents and that they stayed for a brew. She’s covered her arse in case she hasn’t been as careful as she tho
ught she was.’

  ‘She’ll have made a mistake somewhere along the line,’ Nick said. ‘They always do.’

  ‘She made a fuckin’ mistake the day she decided to screw over Vinnie Keane.’

  Lolly didn’t want to know what Terry planned on doing about it all. That was his business, not theirs. She caught Nick’s eye and tried to telepathically convey that they should be leaving now. They’d done what they came to do and it was best to get out of there before Terry’s rage exploded and they got caught in the fallout.

  But Nick hadn’t finished yet. ‘One more thing,’ he said. ‘This has nothing to do with Sandler but . . . I’m wondering if you remember a man called Stanley Parrish? He was a private investigator too – and my uncle. I think he may have accidentally trodden on Joe Quinn’s toes. Anyway, he was killed in a hit-and-run about six years ago.’

  ‘Joe’s dead too,’ Terry said.

  ‘I’m aware of that.’

  ‘So what difference does it make?’

  ‘It makes a difference to me. I’d just like to know. Call it closure if you like.’

  Terry shook his head. ‘I’ve never heard of him.’

  Nick took out a pen and wrote his home phone number on the corner of a beer mat. ‘Just in case anything comes back to you.’ He pushed the mat across the table to Terry. Terry didn’t touch it. Nick stood up and nodded. ‘Thanks for your time.’

  Lolly scrambled to her feet, relieved they were done.

  Terry looked up at her. ‘You still owe me for that diamond.’

  ‘You’ll get your money.’

  ‘I’d better.’

  With those ominous words ringing in her ears, Lolly turned and headed for the door with Nick. The eyes were on them again, hard glares, as if they were fair game now they’d left the circle of Terry’s protection. She didn’t look at any of them, not so much as a glance. She kept her gaze straight ahead and her chin up. Sometimes you had to pretend you were tougher than you were.