The Lost Page 12

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DI Frankie Holt looked like he’d swallowed a poisonous toad. His prominent Adam’s apple leapt up and down in his throat. ‘What the fuck’s going on?’

  Ray Stagg gazed at him with contempt. He hated the filth, always had and always would, and he hated the tame ones even more than the straight. Give them an inch and they’d take a mile. Give them a grand and they’d ask for ten. They always thought they were in control, always pulling the strings, until something like this happened and then they weren’t so cocky any more. ‘What are you asking me for? How should I know?’

  ‘Keppell’s your mate, isn’t he? You introduced us. What’s he playing at?’

  Calling Jimmy Keppell a mate was like claiming you were buddies with a boa constrictor. Men like Keppell didn’t have friends; they only had associates, people they were happy to crush at the first opportunity. Ray took another swig of whisky. He’d been drinking steadily since he’d heard about Tommo and didn’t intend to stop until he ceased to be conscious. ‘Why don’t you ask him yourself? Your arrangement with him has nothing to do with me.’

  ‘Like hell!’ Holt retorted smartly. ‘Do you really want Old Bill swarming all over the place? I don’t need this shit on my patch.’

  What the Inspector did or didn’t need was of no interest to Ray. They had an arrangement – Holt tipped him off about forthcoming raids, any squealing illegals and whatever else that could affect the smooth running of his business empire – and in return Ray paid him regular and generous wads of cash. ‘You’re talking to the wrong man.’

  ‘I can’t keep covering for the likes of Keppell,’ Holt said aggressively.

  But Ray knew that it was bluster. Holt would do anything to save his own slimy skin, to prevent it all from coming down on top. He narrowed his eyes and glared at him. ‘Who’s asking you to?’ Personally, he’d be more than happy to see that bastard Keppell hung, drawn and quartered for what he’d done to Tommo but that wasn’t likely to happen in the short term. What made it worse was that Keppell had only done it to prove a point, to send a message to Ray about who was in control, to let him know that time was running out.

  Holt could see that the conversation wasn’t going quite as he’d intended. He’d wanted to exert his authority, to maybe put the squeeze on Stagg for an extra bung, but instead he was growing ever more anxious about what he’d got himself into. ‘You were close to Lake; there are bound to be questions. This is a murder and that means it’s MIT territory; it’s not going to be easy to keep them off your back.’

  ‘Or off yours.’ Ray gave a thin hollow laugh. ‘But I’m sure you’ll find a way to sort it.’

  ‘I thought there was a deal in place. I thought this wouldn’t happen again, not after …’

  He didn’t need to complete the sentence. They both knew exactly what he meant. Not after DI Holt had tipped off Jimmy Keppell about a raid on one of his crack factories and Keppell had left an explosive little surprise for the cops who had come bursting through the doors …

  ‘So write him a letter of complaint,’ Ray said sourly. He was sick of talking to him, of even being in the same room. All the Inspector cared about was covering his own thoroughly bent and corrupt arse; he didn’t give a damn about Tommo.

  ‘There’s no need for—’

  ‘In fact, why don’t you just piss off,’ Ray said. ‘Yeah, piss off and leave me alone.’

  Holt hesitated for a moment but then, seeing the expression on Ray’s face, quickly rose. He was better off out of here. There was no reasoning with Stagg when he was in this kind of mood.

  Ray watched him walk out of the door. He snarled into his whisky, fighting against the urge to chase after him, to slam him hard against the wall and to shove his weasel teeth right down his filthy copper throat. But he still retained a modicum of sense. That would only provide a temporary outlet for his pain and frustration. What he needed was to organize something more permanent.

  He took another drink and refilled his glass from the bottle. Where the hell was Al? He still couldn’t understand how he’d found out about the charlie. Did the stupid sod have any idea of what he’d done? He thought about Tommo and thumped his clenched fist hard against the surface of the desk. This time Keppell had overstepped the mark and Ray was going to make sure he paid for it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Harry slowly eased the car out into the traffic. It was hours since he’d had that final awkward conversation with Jess and the memory wasn’t sitting too comfortably with him. But there was no reason for him to feel guilty, no reason at all. He had done what she had asked, gone through the motions, and it was hardly his fault if Ellen Shaw hadn’t broken down and dramatically confessed to murder. And surely it wasn’t his fault either that Jess’s hunch, like Len Curzon’s, had proved to be without foundation.

  So why did he feel so bad?

  It was to do with the expression on Jess’s face when he had got up to leave, an accusing look that had made him feel like he was in the wrong, that he was turning his back on something he shouldn’t. But that was just ridiculous. When push came to shove, this whole business had nothing to do with him; he had only been dragged into it by chance, through an ill-judged evening on the town fuelled by too much alcohol. There was a limit, surely, to how far any minor obligation could stretch.

  His conscience, however, wouldn’t stop nagging. Jess had no intention of abandoning her search for Len’s killer and where that might ultimately lead her was anyone’s guess. Working solo, she’d have no one to cover her back and that was hardly advisable if you were sniffing round the likes of Jimmy Keppell. Harry frowned as he gazed out through the windscreen. Perhaps he had been too hasty. In his desire to sever whatever tentative strings still bound him to Jess Vaughan, he had grabbed the first opportunity of escape.

  Unwilling to dwell on it, he turned his mind to other things. He had spent most of the afternoon working through what remained of Denise’s list of her husband’s friends and associates. If any of them knew anything about Al’s disappearance, they were doing a pretty good job of hiding it. Still, it hadn’t been a complete waste of time. At least he could cross them off the list. Top detectives, he thought wryly, were renowned for their skilful use of the process of elimination.

  So what did that leave him with? Not a whole lot more than when he’d got up this morning. Frustration was starting to niggle. What next? He pondered on the options for a minute or two. Eventually he came to a decision: when in doubt, it never did much harm to go back to the beginning and start again.

  The traffic was heavy and it was a quarter to six when Harry pulled into the car park at Vista. The place was becoming depressingly familiar. He got out, locked the doors, and strolled through the entrance.

  It was another hour or so before the club officially opened and the blonde was on reception again, possibly with the same piece of gum in her mouth. She looked up and scowled. ‘Yeah?’

  Harry strolled straight past her and headed for Ray Stagg’s office.

  ‘Hey!’ she said, jumping to her feet. ‘You can’t just—’

  But he was already there. He gave one fast knock and pushed open the door. Ray Stagg was sitting behind his desk. Well, not sitting perhaps so much as slumping. He was huddled over a tumbler of what appeared to be whisky and had the glazed semi-comatose expression of someone who’d been on the booze for most of the day.

  ‘God,’ Stagg said, raising his head. ‘Not you, as well. What is this – a bloody cop convention?’

  By which Harry presumed his visit had been preceded by some of his former colleagues. ‘I’m not a cop,’ he said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him. ‘And, if you can still remember that far back, you employed me to find Al Webster.’

  ‘Shit,’ Stagg said, his lips twisting into a grin. ‘So I did.’ He knocked back another inch of his drink. ‘And what have you come up with?’

  ‘It’s only been three days. I’m not a miracle worker.’ Harry sat dow
n. ‘And it might have helped if you’d told me exactly why he’d disappeared.’

  ‘Well, if I knew …’

  ‘You know all right,’ Harry said. ‘Everyone does.’ It was a shot in the dark but he had nothing to lose.

  Ray Stagg stared at him, his eyebrows lifting. Abruptly he sat up straight and pushed back his shoulders. ‘Really,’ he said. ‘How fascinating. Please feel free to share the news.’

  Harry held his gaze and stared back. Stagg, surprisingly, had only the faintest slur to his voice. He was one of those men who even when thoroughly drunk could still – when he tried – give a passable impression of sobriety. His clothes were immaculate, his suit and shirt as pristine as if he’d just put them on. If Harry hadn’t caught him unawares a few seconds ago, he could never have guessed at just how pissed he actually was.

  ‘Al’s done you over, hasn’t he?’

  Stagg feigned surprise. He even laughed. ‘What?’

  ‘Oh, come on, let’s skip the bullshit. We both know it’s true. How much did he take you for – a hundred grand, two? Or was it even more? Not to mention the effect on your reputation. And that … well, let’s be honest, in your game that’s kind of priceless, don’t you think?’

  ‘I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.’

  Harry paused for a moment and then slid the knife in. ‘I’m sure that Tommy Lake would.’

  At the mention of his name, Ray Stagg’s face turned dangerously dark. His fingers tightened round the glass. ‘This has nothing to do with what happened to Tommo.’

  ‘Just a coincidence then,’ Harry said.

  Stagg glared at him. ‘Call it what you like.’

  Harry twisted the knife. ‘And what would Jimmy Keppell call it?’

  This time Stagg leapt to his feet, his eyes fiercely blazing. For a moment Harry wondered if he’d gone too far but then Stagg, thinking better of it, sank back into his seat. He gazed down at his drink for a while before slowly lifting his gaze. ‘As from now you can consider our contract terminated.’

  ‘You don’t mean that.’

  ‘You want it in writing?’

  Harry shrugged, indifference painted across his face. ‘As you like,’ he said softly, ‘but I was under the impression that you wanted Al Webster found.’

  ‘I did,’ Stagg said. ‘I do. But let’s be honest, Mr Lind, you haven’t got a clue where he is.’

  ‘Oh, I’ve got a few clues,’ Harry replied, ‘but they’re not worth following up if you’re not interested any more.’

  ‘You’re lying.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  Stagg hesitated, his pride battling with an even more urgent desire to wrap his hands round Al’s treacherous throat. An uncomfortable silence filled the room. He took another drink, swallowed, and then slammed the glass down on the table. ‘So why don’t you just sod off and get on with it then?’

  Harry knew how to quit when he was ahead. He quickly stood up. ‘And you don’t mind if I ask around the club?’

  Stagg flapped a hand. ‘Do what you like.’

  At the door, Harry stopped and looked over his shoulder. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve ever heard of a man called Len Curzon?’

  ‘Who?’

  Harry shook his head. He wasn’t even sure why he’d asked. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

  Harry walked through to the main part of the club. The place looked different somehow, brighter, shinier, and with an even gaudier layer of glitz. The festive decorations had gone up and everything was covered in a dazzling mass of tinsel. It was busier too. There were more girls sitting around, drinking coffee and smoking cigarettes. He searched for the blonde with the long legs – there had to be some small reward for this thankless job – but sadly she was nowhere to be seen.

  Methodically, he made his way between the tables, asking the same questions and getting the same predictable answers. Most of the girls knew Al but none of them could shed any light on his disappearance. It was all shrugs and frowns and Continental gestures. And they all denied, in various accents, having ever seen him on the Saturday night. Harry didn’t believe a word of it. For the next fifteen minutes he optimistically scattered his business cards hoping that someone might be more willing to talk in private.

  He was about to leave when he noticed his old pal Troy standing behind the bar. He looked about as friendly as the last time they’d met. Harry sauntered over and leaned against the counter.

  ‘Is Agnes around?’

  ‘Agnes?’ Troy repeated.

  ‘The blonde,’ Harry said. ‘What is she – Russian, Polish?’

  Troy shrugged. He picked up a glass and started wiping it. ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘You wouldn’t know what? What nationality she is or whether she’s around?’

  ‘Take your pick.’

  ‘Thanks,’ Harry said. ‘I appreciate the help.’ He turned to leave but the barman, after glancing furtively around the room, suddenly beckoned him back.

  ‘You still looking for Al Webster?’

  ‘You know I am.’

  Troy leaned over the bar and lowered his voice. ‘I might be able to help.’

  Harry stared at him, suspiciously. ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘What’s it worth?’

  ‘It depends on what I’m paying for.’

  ‘Five minutes,’ Troy murmured. ‘I’ll meet you in the car park. Round the side, near the fire exit.’

  It was dark outside and cold. Harry rubbed his hands together and wondered if he’d been taken for a sucker; perhaps Troy just intended him to freeze to death. Should he leave? He had no great faith in the barman’s ability to tell him anything useful but couldn’t afford to pass over any possible leads either. He looked down at his watch and frowned. He’d been waiting ten minutes.

  He wasn’t coming.

  Harry was heading back towards the Audi when he heard the click of a door and then the soft tread of approaching footsteps. He looked over his shoulder and squinted through the darkness. ‘Hello?’ There was no reply. The footsteps came closer. If it hadn’t been for a passing car on the street, its headlamps providing a brief but timely wave of illumination, it would have been too late – Troy was only yards away and his arm was already raised. The slim solid shape of a baseball bat hovered above his head.

  Shit! Harry caught a glimpse of the hatred in the other man’s eyes before stepping smartly out of the way. But not quite smartly enough. The bat glanced off his shoulder and sent him spinning sideways. Troy wielded the weapon again and this time caught him hard across the right shin. Harry’s knees buckled and he fell to the ground. Clutching at his leg, he groaned with pain while he tried to avoid the next blow. Keep moving! his brain was screaming. He had to think, and think fast, if he wasn’t going to end up pulverized. The adrenalin was starting to pump, that old fight or flight instinct coming into play, and as flight clearly wasn’t a feasible option … Harry rolled twice, focused his attention, and then lunged for Troy’s ankles. He caught him off balance and brought him crashing to the ground. The bat slipped from his hand and skittered across the concrete.

  Now, one on one, Harry stood a better chance. He might be injured but he was still stronger and more powerful than the kid. Or at least that was the theory. Troy didn’t seem quite so convinced. Like a cornered wild animal he launched straight into another attack, hurling himself on top of Harry, lashing out, thumping, kicking and clawing while a vile stream of abuse flooded out of his mouth. Harry raised his hands to protect himself from the worst of the blows. It was a frenzied assault but it couldn’t be sustained. Harry held back, waited until he felt his opponent start to weaken, and then quickly jerked up his left leg and kneed him as hard as he could in the groin.

  With a sharp intake of breath Troy tumbled back, his eyes wide with shock. Harry pushed him off and then twisted round to finish the job. He had just raised a fist, intending to slam it as hard as he could into Troy’s jaw, when the door behind them opened again and a narrow stream of light fell ac
ross the concrete. He heard the sound of a pair of high heels clattering swiftly towards them.

  ‘No!’ a woman’s voice cried out. ‘Please!’

  Harry turned to look.

  Agnes gazed back, standing over him now, her scared eyes pleading. ‘Please,’ she said again. ‘Please, you don’t hurt him.’

  Which Harry couldn’t help but feel was rich bearing in mind the fact that he was actually the intended victim here. But then again, seeing as she’d asked so nicely and was wearing so little, it seemed churlish to ignore the request. He hesitated, sat back and then got slowly to his feet.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. Reaching out a hand, she laid it lightly on his arm.

  He tried not to stare at the contours of her body, so distinctly displayed through the flimsy fabric of her dress. This time, although the garment was of a similarly minuscule size, it was a different colour, a pale shade of mauve perhaps although he could have been wrong – his vision was a little bleary. There was no mistaking, however, the fear in her eyes.

  ‘Are you okay?’ she said. ‘Your face …’

  Now that she had mentioned it, Harry became aware of a harsh stinging sensation along his left cheek and forehead. His left eye wasn’t feeling so great either. Swiping at them with the back of his hand, he glanced down and saw the smears of red. The little shit had drawn blood. Great! By tomorrow, he’d look like he’d been in a goddamn cat fight. But that was the least of his problems. His right leg felt like it had been put through a crusher. He automatically reached for it but then as quickly pulled back. Drawing successfully on his reserves of male machismo, he said, ‘I’m fine. It’s not me you have to worry about.’

  They both gazed down at Troy. He stirred on the ground, his hands still cradling his balls.

  ‘Get up,’ Agnes said to him.

  Troy opened his eyes and peered vaguely towards her.

  ‘Come on,’ she urged. ‘Now!’

  There must have been something in her voice, perhaps simply its air of urgency, which propelled him into action. He slowly staggered into an upright position, his face looking grey. Small panting breaths were still escaping from his lips.