The Lost Page 10

  Jess sank her face into the cup of coffee. Len Curzon had become her mentor, her friend, her drinking companion. There were no words to express how much she would miss him. And yes, he had driven her crazy at times but at this precise moment she’d have done anything to have those times back again. Feeling the tears pricking her eyes, she quickly shuffled the papers in front of her and tried to concentrate on something else.

  Her thoughts drifted back to the empty flat. She was almost thirty and her love life was on the rocks. The nearest she’d got to any kind of relationship over the past twelve months was a quick fumble in the back of a taxi with a man who’d felt so guilty he wouldn’t even take her calls. Thinking of Harry, she wondered if he’d been round to see Ellen Shaw yet. At least he’d taken the files off the table; that had to be a good sign.

  It was twenty to four when the direct line on Len’s desk started ringing. A silence fell over the room. Everyone looked at everyone else. Jess hoped it would stop but it didn’t. It just kept ringing and ringing. Eventually, as she was closest, she stood up, lifted the receiver to her ear and murmured softly, ‘Hello?’

  ‘I want to speak to Len,’ a male voice said.

  Jess flinched, her fingers tightening round the phone. ‘I’m afraid he’s not … available.’

  ‘When’s he back then?’

  ‘Er …’

  ‘I need to talk. It’s well urgent, man. Do you have his mobile number?’

  ‘I’m sorry but … Can I ask who’s calling?’

  ‘It’s BJ, ain’t it.’

  The name rang a bell somewhere in the back of her head. ‘BJ?’ she repeated.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘Len came to see me the other week. Said he’d get back and all but I ain’t heard nothing. I need to know what’s going on.’

  ‘Could I ask what this is about?’

  A hint of suspicion crept into his voice. ‘It’s Len I want. I ain’t talking to no one else.’

  ‘Okay,’ she said, ‘but I’m afraid that won’t be possible. There was … erm, there was an … incident yesterday and he …’ She turned her back on the rest of the room but still couldn’t quite bring herself to say it. The cold bleak fact choked in her throat and refused to come out.

  ‘He hurt or something?’

  ‘Worse,’ she murmured. ‘He’s …’

  There was a brief silence.

  ‘Fuck, man,’ he said. ‘You mean …’

  ‘Yes,’ she said softly.

  ‘Fuck,’ he said again. ‘What happened?’

  That wasn’t something she either wanted or was fully able to explain. ‘I’m sorry but it’s still a bit confused. It’s been a shock for all of us.’ She stared down at Len’s desk, swept clean of its usual heap of paper. It was the unusual lack of mess that brought the reality crashing down on her with a renewed and terrible force. ‘So, unless there’s some way I can help?’

  ‘Nah, I don’t reckon.’

  Jess was about to put down the phone when his name suddenly fell into place. BJ – Jay Barrington – was one of Len’s contacts, a small-time villain always in and out of jail. She remembered him now, a massive guy, six foot five or more, with a wide gappy smile. ‘Hold on,’ she said. ‘I think we’ve met before, haven’t we? At The Bell, in Shoreditch. This is Jess, Jessica Vaughan. I work … I used to work closely with Len. Perhaps there’s something you can do to help me.’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Do you have a minute?’ she said. It was a long shot but she was thinking that if Len had been to see him recently, BJ might know something useful. ‘I can call you back.’

  A hollow laugh floated down the line. ‘Not here, babe. No incoming calls to this joint.’

  So BJ was back in the slammer again. ‘Where are you?’ she said.

  ‘Maidstone,’ he replied.

  ‘Right,’ she said, her heart leaping in her chest. That was where Paul Deacon was currently residing too. She’d seen a press cutting on the transfer when she’d been researching all his history for Len. She tried to keep her voice casual. ‘Okay, I’ll make it quick. Look, how about if I come and see you? I’m trying to sort everything out, you know, after …’

  He hesitated. ‘Nah, it don’t matter.’

  ‘It matters to me,’ she insisted. Then, building on that initial hesitation, she swiftly added an incentive: ‘Whatever Len promised. Same terms, right? You can trust me.’

  His tone brightened a fraction. ‘Same terms?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said, without having a clue as to what she was actually promising.

  There was another short pause while he mulled the proposition over.

  ‘So?’ she said. ‘Do we have a deal?’

  ‘Okay,’ he agreed. ‘But not over the phone, man.’

  ‘Then I’ll come to you. Send the visiting order to the office, to me, Jess Vaughan.’ She carefully spelled out her surname. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

  Returning to her own desk, Jess slowly gathered her things together. This BJ lead could be just the break she needed. And even it wasn’t, even if it all came to nothing, well, it still had to be better than sitting around feeling sorry for herself. It was time to get motivated. There was work to be done, files to be studied, a past to be raked over. If the cops weren’t going to find Len’s killer then she’d damn well do it herself.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Five times Harry had tried to call but Val still wasn’t picking up. Not that he was surprised. He’d let her down, yet again, and it was going to take more than a few mumbled apologies to sort it out. Having the solicitor from hell, the ball-breaking Jane Anderson, whispering in her ear wasn’t going to help matters either. He could imagine the kind of support that was coming from her direction: He’s not good enough for you; He doesn’t treat you with respect; He isn’t ever going to change. That woman had always hated his guts.

  Just to add to his frustration he wasn’t making much progress down Romford market. As he went from stall to stall, working through Denise’s list, he received the same repetitive replies: yes, on the Saturday Al had been his normal self; yes, he’d packed up at the usual time; no, they hadn’t noticed anything odd.

  It was a chilly afternoon and Harry shifted from foot to foot as he waited for Ben Taylor to finish serving. The air was filled with the smell of roasting chestnuts, hot dogs and fried onions. Breath rose from the mouths of the jostling crowd in small white clouds of steam. A waterfall of tinsel descended from Taylor’s stall, yet another reminder – should one be needed – of the rapid approach of Christmas.

  Eventually the customer left, weighed down with decorations of various shapes and sizes, with stars and angels and little plastic reindeer. Taylor turned to nod at him. ‘How can I help you, guv?’

  Harry went through his well-worn explanation of what he was doing there, how he’d been hired by Denise Webster, how he was searching for Al.

  Ben Taylor was a short stocky man, middle-aged, with a mop of brown curly hair. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold. ‘Still not shown up then?’

  ‘No,’ Harry said. ‘Do you know where he is?’

  It was perhaps the unexpected directness of the question that caught Taylor off guard. Something stirred in his eyes. Lifting a hand to his face, he quickly looked away. ‘Sorry, I’ve not seen him since that Saturday.’

  Harry sensed there was more. ‘If you remember anything,’ he persisted, ‘however small. Denise is worried sick. It’s been over a week. Al could be in trouble or, even if he isn’t, well, she deserves to know the truth – whatever it is.’

  Taylor hesitated, his forehead creasing with indecision. ‘It could be nothing.’

  ‘You could be right but—’

  ‘How much are these?’ a woman asked. She stretched out a finger to point at a selection of glittering baubles.

  ‘Three for a pound, love.’

  ‘Go on then. I’ll take half a dozen.’

  Harry watched while he dropped the sale into a carrier bag, took the money and gave h
er the change. After she had gone, Taylor kept his eyes averted. As if in two minds as to whether he should talk, he made a few unnecessary adjustments to his stock, shifting the holly wreaths slightly to the left, to the right, and then back to the left again.

  ‘Have you seen him?’ Harry said.

  Taylor lifted his head again. ‘Not since …’ He pushed his hands deep into his pockets, hunched his shoulders and glanced uneasily around the market.

  ‘Since?’ Harry prompted.

  ‘You won’t go telling Denise, will you?’

  ‘I can’t promise that, not if—’

  Taylor frowned. ‘I mean, you won’t mention it was me who told you. Only she won’t be best pleased. She rang when he didn’t turn up and …’

  ‘And you didn’t tell her that you’d seen him.’

  ‘I didn’t see him, not after he left here.’ He hesitated again before finally deciding to spill. ‘But we did talk – on the phone, on the Saturday night, about quarter to seven. Could have been a bit earlier now I come to think of it. I’m not sure. I was in the pub with the lads and we’d had a few by then. We were heading off for a curry. I rang Al to see if he fancied it.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No, he said he was busy, that he had things to do.’

  Harry waited but he didn’t elaborate. ‘And that was it?’

  ‘He was in the van. He was driving. I could hear the engine running and the sound of the traffic. But the thing is … er, I think he had someone with him.’

  ‘Someone?’

  Taylor puckered up his mouth as if his imminent betrayal was leaving a bad taste. ‘A woman,’ he said shortly.

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Pretty much. She was talking, laughing in the background. Al put his hand over the phone for a few seconds. I didn’t catch what he said to her. That’s why I didn’t mention it to Denise. I thought, you know, that …’

  ‘Yeah,’ Harry said. ‘I understand.’ He felt a stab of disappointment. It was beginning to look like Ray Stagg was right after all. ‘And you’ve got no idea of who she might have been?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Taylor said.

  ‘But Al didn’t usually … I mean, he wasn’t in the habit of—’

  ‘How should I know?’ Taylor snapped, perhaps already regretting that he had said as much as he had. ‘I’m not his bloody keeper.’

  Harry pressed the button and felt relief when, for once, the doors actually closed and the aged lift juddered into action. He wasn’t in any fit state to climb three flights to the office. His leg, for no reason he could fathom, had embarked on another of its dull persistent aches.

  As he walked into the office, Maddie was sitting there again, swinging her legs and gazing determinedly down at a slim, state-of-the-art, metallic blue phone.

  ‘Expecting a call?’ he said.

  She looked up, her pale face flushing. ‘What?’

  Harry grinned back at her. He might be pushing forty but he hadn’t forgotten what it felt like to wait for that one special call. First love was always a killer. It turned you inside out and made your guts churn over. His first major crush had been on a blonde angel-faced girl called Charlotte Parr; she had smashed his heart into a thousand pieces. How old had he been? About fourteen, he thought, a little older than Maddie but with no more experience and a lot less sense.

  ‘You want a coffee?’

  ‘Yeah,’ she said. ‘Ta.’ As if it was as precious as a piece of bone china, she laid the phone carefully on the chair beside her.

  ‘Is the sitter still sick?’

  She shrugged, took the coffee from him and then picked up the phone again. ‘You know, I’m not even sure if this is working. Could you give me a ring from yours so I can test it?’

  ‘I’m sure it’s okay.’

  ‘Please,’ she said. ‘Come on, it’s not as though it’s going to cost you anything. I’m not going to answer it. I just want to see if it rings.’

  ‘It looks fine. I’m sure—’

  ‘Just lend it to me for a sec.’ She held out her hand, her eyes flashing with a solemn combination of despair and expectation.

  Reluctantly, he passed it over. She tapped in the number and waited. As her phone sprang into life, Harry flinched. He saw her face fall and felt an instant rush of sympathy. He wished he could tell her about how fleeting the pain was, about how it would pass, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. At her age he wouldn’t have listened either.

  ‘He said he’d call me at five,’ she said.

  Harry glanced at his watch. It was getting on for six. Retrieving his phone, he tried to sound casual. ‘He’s probably just been held up somewhere – or maybe his battery’s run down.’

  ‘Yeah, right,’ she mumbled.

  He might have said more but there was no point in raising her hopes. And although he never liked to make superficial judgements, if Zane Keppell was anything like his grandfather then she was better off without him.

  Harry had come back intending to have a talk to Mac, to run over the day’s events, but now he was wishing that he’d gone straight home. From what he could observe through the slatted blinds of the inner office, Mac was no more in the mood for a cosy little chat than Maddie was; deep in conversation with Lorna, he looked like the burdens of the world were on his shoulders.

  And it occurred to Harry, if rather late, that he had problems of his own that needed sorting. He went out into the hallway and rang Valerie again. He paced the floor, expecting to hear her voicemail, but surprisingly she picked up. ‘Hey, it’s me,’ he said.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘I’m really sorry about last night.’

  A long slow sigh was the only response.

  ‘Val?’

  He heard her draw breath again. ‘Why do you keep calling? I left a note. I presume you’ve read it. I’m just wondering what part of “don’t ring me” you don’t understand.’

  ‘We need to talk,’ he said.

  ‘That would be a first.’

  ‘There was a reason for last night,’ he said. ‘A good one.’

  ‘There always is.’

  ‘I’m serious. I should have let you know but—’

  ‘Look,’ she interrupted. ‘I haven’t got time for this. I’ve got Holt breathing down my neck. I’m trying to deal with a possible gangland murder, two outstanding assaults, a hit-and-run and a post office robbery.’

  ‘A gangland murder?’

  ‘At the Kepton Industrial Estate.’

  Harry paused. The estate was in Hackney, not that far from Stagg’s club. ‘Christ, it’s not Al Webster, is it?’

  She made a hissing sound through her teeth. ‘Oh right, so that’s the real reason you rang, to check up on your missing person?’

  ‘No, of course it’s not. I was just—’

  But she’d already hung up.

  Chapter Twenty

  After another restless night, Harry’s head was filled with the odd floating remnants of dreams. The artificial light of the café made his eyes feel tired and scratchy. Although it was almost ten o’clock, it was more like dusk outside; the sky was low, grey and threatening. He glanced through the window at the gathering clouds.

  The murder of Tommy Lake was front page in the local paper. The detail was scarce but, reading between the lines, Harry could imagine the brutality of his death. He sipped on his espresso and stared down at the article. Val was right – this had to be a gangland killing – but what on earth had a small-timer like Tommo done to bring down such a punishment?

  Now there was a missing man and a vicious murder and both were connected to Ray Stagg. He wouldn’t be feeling too cheerful today.

  Harry read through the first few paragraphs of the report again and wondered how the inquiry was going. Of course Val would know the answer to that but he couldn’t ask. At the moment, apparently, he wasn’t even allowed to speak to her. He had tried to call again last night but Jane had answered her phone instead. Ms Anderson had been her usual charming self.
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  ‘For God’s sake, Harry, she’s told you she wants time alone. Just give her some space, can’t you? She’ll call you when she’s good and ready.’

  Which, if Anderson got her way, would probably be never. In a former age, that harridan would have been burned as a witch. It was an age Harry couldn’t help feeling a certain misty fondness for.

  He was still quietly seething when Jess appeared at the table. ‘You’re late,’ he said, taking out his irritation on her.

  ‘Barely,’ she said. ‘Do you ever use public transport? I had to wait half an hour for a bus.’ She was dressed for the weather in a long grey trench coat, boots, scarf, gloves and a woollen hat stretched down over her ears. Pulling out a chair, she sat down opposite him. ‘So what’s eating you – got a hangover?’

  ‘No.’

  She grinned. ‘Must be woman trouble then.’

  Harry glared at her. ‘I’ve got a busy morning, that’s all.’

  Jess caught the eye of the waitress and ordered a coffee. Then she turned to Harry and said, ‘Does that mean what I think it does? Please don’t tell me you’re backing out. You promised you’d talk to her.’

  ‘I’m here, aren’t I? All I’m saying is that I haven’t got much time.’ In truth, he had been wondering if there was some way he could wriggle out of it – an awkward conversation with Ellen Shaw was the last thing he needed today – but faced with Jess’s beseeching expression he didn’t have the heart to let her down. ‘I’ll do this but then that’s it, okay? I’ve got a case of my own to work on.’

  ‘There’s no need to make it sound like such a favour. If you really don’t want to do it—’

  ‘I will. I’ve already said I would.’

  Her coffee came. She picked it up and took a sip. Then she reached out, took hold of the newspaper and flipped it around to study the headline. ‘You think Jimmy Keppell was responsible for this?’

  ‘He’s not the only gangster in town.’