Honeytrap: Part 3 Read online

  Through her marriage to Reggie Kray, Roberta Kray has a unique and authentic insight into London’s East End. Born in Southport, Roberta met Reggie in early 1996 and they married the following year; they were together until Reggie’s death in 2000. Roberta is the author of many previous bestsellers including Broken Home, Strong Women, Bad Girl and Streetwise.

  Also by Roberta Kray

  The Debt

  The Pact

  The Lost

  Strong Women

  The Villain’s Daughter

  Broken Home

  Nothing But Trouble

  Bad Girl

  Streetwise

  Non-fiction

  Reg Kray: A Man Apart

  The Honeytrap: Part 3

  Roberta Kray

  Copyright

  First published as an ebook in 2015 by Sphere

  ISBN 978-0-7515-6110-4

  All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Copyright © Roberta Kray 2015

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.

  The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.

  Sphere

  Little, Brown Book Group

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.littlebrown.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  About the Author

  Also by Roberta Kray

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Coming Next In The Honeytrap …

  13

  It was over two hours since Harry Lind had been taken to the police station and placed in an interview room. The space was familiar to him from all his own years in the service: the faded magnolia walls, lino floor, an overhead fluorescent light, Formica-topped table and four chairs. He rubbed at his face, fatigue adding an unwanted layer to the shock of discovering that Caroline Westwood had been murdered, not to mention the dull remains of his hangover. He’d been over his story numerous times, but endless repetition didn’t make it sound any better.

  The two officers who were interviewing him – a middle-aged DI, Judith Cobb, and a youngish DC called Malcolm Wells – made little attempt to hide their scepticism. They looked at him with cool, cynical eyes, asking the same questions in different ways, trying to establish a truth about Friday night that didn’t actually exist. He was in the frame and he knew it, although he couldn’t be the only suspect. What about the husband? What about the guys she’d been talking to? The evidence against him was purely circumstantial – wrong time, wrong place – but it was enough to keep his interrogators interested.

  DI Cobb leaned forward and put her hands on the table. ‘What I still can’t understand is why you wiped the tape. Surely you were supposed to be gathering evidence. Wasn’t that the whole point of the exercise?’

  Harry was kicking himself over that decision. ‘It was just … I don’t know, an impulse. It didn’t seem right to give the tape to her husband, especially as I hadn’t even finished the job. I suppose I wanted her to have the benefit of the doubt.’

  ‘The benefit of the doubt?’ Cobb repeated.

  ‘Yes,’ Harry said. ‘I mean, there was some flirting but nothing … It was all pretty innocent.’

  ‘So why not let him hear it?’

  ‘Because it didn’t prove anything one way or the other. In another five minutes she would probably have given me the brush-off, but she never got the opportunity – at least not in a way that could be heard on tape. And that was my fault. I took off in the middle of it all and … Look, I messed up, okay? I didn’t see why she should have to pay for it.’

  ‘How very chivalrous of you.’

  Harry knew how it was coming across, that he’d deliberately wiped the tape in order to hide something incriminating. He could see the way the DI was staring at him, like he was one of those blokes who couldn’t take rejection, who lashed out when a woman turned him down. ‘It was just banter,’ he said. ‘Ask the barman. He was listening in to most of the conversation.’

  ‘We will,’ she said. ‘You can be sure of it.’

  In his head, Harry was still trying to come to terms with the one stark fact he was sure of: Caroline Westwood had been shot in her hotel room late on Friday night or in the early hours of Saturday morning, but her body hadn’t been found until today. The terrible thing was that when the cops had told him the news, and after the initial shock had subsided, he’d felt a disconcerting wave of relief that it was Caroline and not Sylvie who was lying on that hard cold slab at the morgue.

  ‘So let’s get back to this ex-girlfriend of yours. Ellen, yes?’

  ‘She wasn’t a girlfriend, just a friend – someone I hadn’t seen in years.’ Harry hadn’t wanted to give them a name – Ellen was skating on thin ice as it was – but then he’d remembered that he’d asked the receptionist if she was booked into the hotel. Lying would not have been a smart move. ‘To be honest, I just meant to catch up with her, grab her phone number and then return to the bar. She moved away a few years ago and we lost touch.’ Even as the words ‘To be honest’ came out of his mouth, he winced inwardly; there was something about the phrase that always made people sound less trustworthy rather than more.

  ‘And you thought that was more important than the job you were supposed to be doing?’

  Harry gave a shake of his head. ‘I didn’t say it was professional. But I thought I’d be a couple of minutes, that’s all. In retrospect, I can see it was a mistake. I shouldn’t have done it. I couldn’t find Ellen and by the time I got back Caroline had lost interest and was sitting with her friends again.’

  ‘That must have been annoying. All that effort you’d put in and then she gave you the brush-off.’

  Harry looked into the grey eyes of the DI, taking care to hold her gaze. ‘I’d say more resigned than annoyed. These things happen. It was my own fault.’ He wondered what Caroline had said to her friends after he’d run out on her and imagined it was nothing complimentary.

  DC Wells chose this moment to try a bloke-to-bloke approach. ‘I wouldn’t have been too happy. Women, eh?’

  But Harry knew better than to be drawn into that one. ‘It’s the way it goes,’ he replied calmly. ‘That’s when I decided to call it a night. I left. I caught a black cab from Euston Road and went home.’ He didn’t mention Danny Street stopping to warn him off or indeed that the lowlife had even been at the Lumière. Things were complicated enough without dropping that particular bomb into the mix.

  ‘And then?’ the DI asked.

  ‘And then nothing. It was getting late. I had a shower and went to bed.’

  ‘You didn’t return to the hotel?’

  ‘Why would I do that?’

  DI Cobb’s eyebrows shifted up a notch. ‘I don’t know, maybe you had a think about things, didn’t like the way they’d gone, decided there was unfinished business.’

  ‘I didn’t go back to the hotel. Check with the receptionist.’

  ‘There are other ways to get in. Like the staff entrance round the side.’

  ‘I didn’t go back,’ Harry repeated firmly. ‘And you’re wasting your time here. I had no reason to kill Caroline Westwood.’
If it hadn’t been for that damn tape, he’d have probably been in and out of the station in half an hour. By deciding to delete it, he’d propelled himself up the list of suspects. Only guilty people went around removing evidence. ‘I didn’t even know which room she was staying in.’

  ‘We only have your word for that.’

  ‘I’m telling the truth.’

  There was a short silence. The two officers stared across the table at him. DI Cobb smiled in what was probably supposed to be a friendly manner but which came across as more cunning than reassuring. She had a small sharp face and wily eyes.

  ‘Do you have a girlfriend at the moment, Harry?’

  ‘What does that have to do with anything?’

  ‘Just answer the question, please.’

  ‘No.’

  Cobb and Wells exchanged a quick knowing glance. Harry could tell they were busy building up a psychological profile in their minds: the ex-cop full of anger, a man who’d once held a position of power and respect but was now reduced to trying to catch out cheating wives, a guy so full of resentment that he might snap at any time. Caroline Westwood, they were thinking, could have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.

  Cobb glanced down at her notes, studied them for a second and looked back up. ‘I see you were arrested in the Locke murder case.’

  ‘And cleared of all charges.’

  ‘It was his wife, wasn’t it, who tried to set you up?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Cobb produced that sly smile again. ‘Aimee Locke,’ she said. ‘Women seem to cause you a lot of trouble, Harry. I wonder why that is?’

  Harry lifted his hands in a what-can-I-say kind of gesture and dropped them gently back on to the table. He hadn’t bothered with a solicitor – innocent men didn’t need one, right? –but now he was beginning to wonder if that was yet another mistake. Still, the onus was on the police to prove his guilt, not for him to prove his innocence. At some point soon they would have to either charge him or let him go.

  14

  Mac came out of his office as Harry walked into reception. ‘It’s about time,’ he said, glancing up at the clock on the wall. ‘What’s going on? Why did they keep you so long?’

  Harry pulled a face, headed for the drinks machine and jabbed the button for a strong black coffee. ‘Because they don’t like the whole tape business. They think I’m hiding something.’

  ‘Yeah, well, it wasn’t the smartest move in the world.’

  Harry sipped the coffee and gave him a look. ‘Don’t start; I’ve had those two muppets giving me the third degree for the last two hours. They even brought up the Aimee Locke business as if I’ve got a problem with women, as if I’m some kind of sociopath or worse.’

  Mac perched on the side of the desk and grinned. ‘You’ve not got the best track record in the world.’

  ‘Huh?’

  Mac counted off the names on his fingers. ‘Aimee Locke, Ellen Shaw, that crazy redhead – what was she called? Antonia, that’s it. And then there’s Valerie … need I go on?’

  ‘So what’s your problem with Val?’

  ‘Nothing, other than her dumping you right after you almost got your leg blown off.’

  ‘She didn’t dump me … not exactly. You know what I was like back then. A bloody saint couldn’t have lived with me. And she stuck it out longer than most women would.’ Harry waved the subject away, not wanting to dwell on those dismal days. ‘Anyway, fascinating as this is, what’s the news on Westwood? You manage to dig up anything?’

  ‘Yeah, I made a few calls. He’s one rich bastard – inherited a fortune and made another since. He’s got a company that produces designer kitchen appliances: fancy coffee-makers, toasters, kettles, that kind of stuff.’

  ‘A rich man who doesn’t trust his wife. Who’d have thought it?’

  ‘Except he’s got an alibi for Friday night and Saturday morning. He was at a country house party for the weekend, nibbling on caviar and knocking back champagne. With lots of witnesses to swear he never left.’

  ‘So he got someone else to do it.’

  Mac pursed his lips. ‘On the same night that he hires us to test his wife’s fidelity? It’s hardly a cute move. He’s going to be top of the suspect list even before the police find out he didn’t trust her.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Harry said. ‘Or maybe he figured the truth was bound to come out anyway. People talk, they gossip. You can’t stop it. I doubt if Caroline’s cheating was a secret. He could have hired us as a smokescreen, a double bluff, so he could then turn round and ask that very same question: why would I be so stupid as to have my wife murdered on the very same night as I hired Mackenzie, Lind to set a honeytrap?’ Harry took another mouthful of coffee, swallowed and shrugged. ‘Might give the jury something to think about.’

  ‘It’s a risky ploy.’

  ‘Not if you’re going to be in the frame anyway.’

  Mac scratched his forehead while he pondered on it. ‘Well, it’s early days. Let’s hope Forensics come up with something useful.’

  ‘To get me off the hook?’

  ‘If you were on the hook they wouldn’t have let you go.’

  ‘I wouldn’t be so sure.’

  ‘There must be CCTV in the hotel. Did you notice while you were there?’

  ‘There is, but not everywhere – and not on the landings. The guests, apparently, value privacy above personal safety. They don’t want some poorly paid security guard clocking who goes in and out of their rooms.’

  ‘Helpful.’ Mac hauled himself up from the edge of the table. ‘Look, I’m going to make a move. You want to come over for something to eat? Lorna’s doing a roast.’

  ‘Thanks, but I’m not much in the mood for company. I’ll take a rain check if that’s okay.’

  ‘If you change your mind, you know where we are.’

  ‘I appreciate it. Say thanks to Lorna. I’m just going to go upstairs and chill out for a while. You get off; I’ll lock up here.’

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  As Mac left the office, Harry went over to the window and looked down. He was relieved that his partner hadn’t probed about Ellen Shaw; he’d fielded enough awkward questions for one day. And he knew what advice would have come his way: Stay away from her.

  Except he couldn’t.

  Harry waited until Mac had driven off before quickly locking up and heading down the stairs. He started the Vauxhall and set off along the street with one eye on the rear-view mirror. Could the police have put a tail on him? It wasn’t likely, but he wasn’t taking anything for granted.

  There was CCTV in the foyer of the Lumière. How long would it be before the police identified Danny Street as one of the people going into the hotel? And had Ellen been with him or did they meet up in the bar? If she was unlucky, she could end up in the middle of a murder investigation. That’s if the law knew where to find her. But if they did track her down, if they turned up on her doorstep, how would she react? She had, after all, tried to buy a gun off Danny Street.

  When Harry reached Stoke Newington, he drove around the block three times until he was absolutely certain he wasn’t being followed. He parked the car, went over to the house and rang the bell. No one answered. He tried again, this time pressing the button for longer.

  After five minutes, she still hadn’t come to the door. It was possible, he thought, that she had seen him walking up the drive and was ignoring him, hoping he’d go away. He attempted to peer through the window but there were net curtains and it was impossible to tell if anyone was inside or not.

  Deciding to try a different tack, he rang the next bell up instead. Almost immediately he heard the clatter of footsteps coming down the stairs. The door was opened by a plump young woman with a towel wrapped around her head.

  ‘I’m sorry to disturb you,’ Harry said. ‘I’m here to see Ellen.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ground-floor flat,’ he said. ‘I’ve been trying the bell but I’m not sure if it’s workin
g.’

  The girl glanced over her shoulder before looking back at Harry. ‘Oh, Ellen – is that her name? I didn’t know. Sorry, she’s not here.’

  ‘Do you know when she’ll be back?’

  ‘Actually, I think she’s gone away.’

  Harry felt his stomach drop. ‘Away? Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, she left last night. She had a couple of suitcases with her so … I guess she’s gone on holiday or something.’

  It was the ‘something’ that Harry was worried about. Had Ellen gone for good or was she just lying low for a while? She must have taken off after he’d been to see her. As a result of his visit or had she already planned to leave? Perhaps he had missed his one and only opportunity to find out what was really going on. ‘And you’ve no idea where she’s gone?’

  The girl shook her head. ‘Sorry. She’s only been here a few months. I don’t really know her.’

  ‘Okay, thanks. I guess I’ll have to come back another time.’

  The girl gave him a nod and closed the door.

  Harry remained on the doorstep for a moment. He was back to square one with no idea of where to look. His only consolation was that if he didn’t know where Ellen was then the police wouldn’t either. But that didn’t change the fact that she was out there somewhere, looking for a gun.

  15

  Jess was at Farnborough College by nine o’clock on Monday morning. It was a three-storey modern glass and steel building situated close to Old Street roundabout, and ran courses in business, accountancy, finance and the like. She was wearing her most student-like clothes – faded blue jeans, denim jacket and T-shirt – in the hope that she’d merge with the crowd.

  Unsure of the security procedures, she waited until a group of girls was climbing the steps before casually tagging along behind them. As it turned out no one was checking ID and she got in without a problem. Quickly she made her way to a row of noticeboards, found the one for Business Studies and checked out the timetable. There was a lecture in Room 14 on the second floor.