Exposed Page 2

  ‘No, thanks,’ she’d said sharply.

  He had raked his fingers through his hair and grinned. ‘Ah, right, no, I mean we wouldn’t be alone or anything. I didn’t mean that. My receptionist will be there. You don’t have to worry.’

  ‘I’m not worried.’

  ‘Good.’

  ‘I’m not worried because I’m not going anywhere with you. Now if you don’t mind, I really have to go. I’m supposed to be —’

  ‘So how about I buy you a coffee instead? By way of an apology. Please say yes. I feel really bad about taking that picture now. Let me make it up to you.’

  Eden had intended to say no, she was in a hurry, but then she hesitated. It was that hesitation that changed her life for ever.

  ‘Tom Chase,’ he’d said, putting out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

  Eden smiled at the memory, feeling again the touch of his long cool fingers. She remembered gazing into a pair of compelling blue eyes, of being momentarily transfixed, of feeling a sudden unexpected flicker of attraction. She wasn’t sure if she believed in fate or coincidence or any of that stuff, but from that moment on there had been no going back. He had charmed his way into her life and before long they were an item. And yes, maybe they had rushed into marriage, but she didn’t regret it. What was there to regret? When you knew it was right there was no point in waiting.

  She moved away from the crowd and carried on walking until she reached Henrietta Street. With no lectures in the afternoon she’d decided to surprise Tom and take him out for lunch. She was supposed to be writing an essay on Caravaggio but the lure of Covent Garden had been too much for her. Although she enjoyed her art course – and was determined not to drop out again like she had when she was nineteen – she still felt an illicit thrill from bunking off for a few hours.

  ‘London calling,’ she murmured, the words from The Clash jumping into her head. It was too nice a day to be stuck in the college library, to be confined by four magnolia walls and the dry, stuffy atmosphere. Anyway, she was sure that the wild Caravaggio wouldn’t have thought twice about grabbing an opportunity when it came his way.

  Eden took out her key, let herself into the building and stepped into the warm hallway.

  The ground floor was occupied by a theatrical agency and as she started up the stairs she glanced to her left through the open door.

  ‘Hi,’ she called out to Clara. ‘Only me.’

  Clara lifted her gaze from the typewriter and shot her an odd, flustered sort of look, trying for a smile but not quite achieving it. Eden didn’t dwell on the response; these theatrical types could be temperamental and she didn’t take it as a snub. Maybe there had been a row before she’d got there, some actor sounding off about a part they hadn’t got. There was often a good deal of drama on the ground floor.

  At the top of the stairs Eden turned left on the landing and walked into Tom’s studio. Instantly she stopped in her tracks, her mouth falling open. What she saw there took her breath away. The waiting area, usually so smart and glamorous, looked like a hurricane had blown through it. There were photographs strewn all over the place, file drawers pulled open and furniture shifted from its usual position. The two black leather couches had been pulled out and left stranded in the centre of the room. The framed photographs had all been removed from the walls.

  ‘Tom?’ she yelled, alarm running through her.

  Annabelle Keep, his assistant, came through from the studio at the back carrying a heap of glossy prints. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, dumping the photos on the desk.

  ‘Where’s Tom? Is he all right? What’s happened? What’s going on?’ Eden continued to look wildly around the room. ‘Was it a burglary?’

  Annabelle’s dark eyebrows arched while her face assumed its familiar supercilious expression. Unless Tom was present, she never bothered to try and disguise her dislike of his wife. ‘No, it was the police.’

  Eden’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

  ‘They searched the place, turned it upside down. Look at the state of it. It’s going to take me all day to clear up.’

  ‘What do you mean, the police? Why? Why would they… I don’t understand.’

  Annabelle gave a long sigh, as if she was doing Eden a favour just by telling her the facts. ‘About an hour ago,’ she said in her cut-glass accent. ‘They came with a search warrant. Six of them, for God’s sake, tramping all over the carpet with their size-nine boots. Don’t ask me what they were looking for because I don’t have a clue. All I do know is that they made one hell of a mess.’ She put a hand on her skinny hip and tossed back her long dark hair. ‘You’ll have to talk to Tom about it.’

  ‘So where is he?’

  ‘He went to the station with them.’

  Eden was struggling to get her head round it all. What could the cops possibly want with Tom? He ran a perfectly legitimate business, a successful business. ‘What for? He’s a photographer, for Christ’s sake. He’s not some… Why did he have to go down to the station?’

  Annabelle gave an elegant but unilluminating shrug. ‘They wanted to ask him more questions. Tom asked me to stay in here while he took two of the officers through to the back. I tried to stop the others from trashing the place but…’

  Eden hurried into the studio, to the large airy room where Tom’s clients sat for their portraits. There was less mess in here, but everything had been moved about. She could see through the open door that led to a small kitchen that the cupboards had been emptied; there were tea bags, sugar and coffee granules scattered over the counter.

  ‘This is crazy. It doesn’t make any sense. Why would they do this?’

  Annabelle came in behind her. ‘They made him open the safe too.’

  Eden glanced over her shoulder. ‘Did they?’

  ‘I think they found something.’

  ‘Found what?’

  Annabelle gave a shake of her head. ‘I couldn’t see. I was next door, wasn’t I? But they took Tom away shortly after that.’

  ‘Took him away?’ Eden said, her heart missing a beat. ‘But I thought… Do you mean they arrested him?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. At least… well, they didn’t put cuffs on him or anything.’

  ‘So what did he say to you? He must have said something.’

  ‘Only that he’d see me later – and to cancel this afternoon’s clients.’

  ‘And how did he seem?’

  ‘Seem?’

  Eden growled, her exasperation growing by the minute. She suspected the girl of being deliberately obtuse; Annabelle liked to take advantage whenever she had the upper hand and this was one of those occasions. ‘Was he worried, angry, what? He must have had some kind of reaction.’

  ‘Oh, well, not overjoyed, obviously. But he was fine. You know what Tom’s like: he takes everything in his stride. There’s just been a stupid mix-up. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure he will.’

  Eden hoped that Annabelle was right. She understood now why Clara had given her such an odd look on her way in. Having the police turn up on the doorstep with a search warrant was neither a common occurrence nor a welcome one.

  ‘What the hell were they looking for?’ Eden murmured.

  Her first thought, naturally, was photographs. Maybe it was the Vice Squad who’d paid a visit, thinking Tom was peddling pornography. But then she glanced back towards the kitchen and its mess. No, if they were searching in coffee jars they must have been after something small. Drugs were the next thing that sprang into her head. But Tom had never had anything to do with drugs. The odd drag on a joint maybe, but that was all.

  ‘Do you know which station they’ve taken him to?’

  Annabelle pulled a face. ‘I’ve no idea. What are you going to do?’

  ‘Try to find him, of course. I want to know what’s going on.’

  ‘They won’t tell you anything. You’re better off waiting here until he comes back.’

  What she meant, Eden thought, was that she didn’t fancy doing all the c
learing up on her own. Annabelle wasn’t the sort of girl who liked getting her hands dirty. ‘And what if he doesn’t come back?’

  ‘Why shouldn’t he?’

  ‘Because it won’t be the first time the police have made a mistake. What if they… I don’t know, maybe they think he’s done something he hasn’t.’

  ‘You’d be better off calling his solicitor then.’

  Eden chewed on her lower lip. She had no idea who his solicitor was, although she wasn’t about to admit this to Annabelle. ‘I don’t have the number with me. Is it in his address book?’

  ‘Yes,’ Annabelle said, although she didn’t make any attempt to go and get it.

  Eden stood and stared at her for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you could do me a favour and look it up?’

  Annabelle rolled her eyes as if to imply that she had enough on her plate without performing menial tasks for the likes of Eden. ‘I suppose,’ she said peevishly before withdrawing to the reception area.

  Eden stayed in the studio for a while, gazing around. She had a sick anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her legs felt unsteady too, as if she was standing on quicksand, the ground shifting beneath her. Everything would be all right. That’s what she needed to keep telling herself. This was all just a terrible mistake.

  2

  Eden sat rigidly in the chair, staring across the desk at the solicitor. She was at Lincoln’s Inn Fields in the plush offices of Wainwright, Castor & Rush. Five hours earlier, had anyone asked, she would have said that she had it all: a loving husband, a comfortable home and everything to look forward to. And now? Now she felt like a hurricane had ripped through her life, tearing up its roots and scattering all her hopes and dreams. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and said, ‘I don’t understand.’

  Michael Castor glanced down and shuffled some papers before looking up again. ‘Tom has been charged with manslaughter and armed robbery.’

  Eden could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She shook her head, emitting a high-pitched almost hysterical laugh. ‘But that’s ridiculous. It’s crazy. Tom wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why would they do that? Why would they? What’s wrong with them?’ She took a quick breath and carried on. ‘I mean, what kind of evidence have they got? Nothing! They can’t have anything because he didn’t do it.’

  Castor’s face twisted a little. ‘But that’s the problem, Mrs Chase. They do have evidence.’

  Eden flinched, the reply like a kick to her guts. ‘What?’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘But they can’t,’ she said stubbornly, clenching her hands into two tight fists. It was all a nightmare, some dreadful dream she couldn’t wake up from. ‘What are you talking about?’

  The solicitor hesitated for a moment as if trying to form the right words before speaking them out loud. ‘It appears that Tom has been named by another member of the gang. And there was, unfortunately, a man who was shot during the robbery and who subsequently died.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘His name was Paddy Lynch.’

  Eden shook her head with such vehemence that her long red hair swayed from side to side. ‘But don’t you see? Either they’ve got the wrong Tom Chase – he can’t be the only one with that name – or someone’s got it in for him. I mean, who is this bloke who’s accusing him anyway? And why the hell should the police believe him? It isn’t right. It isn’t fair.’

  ‘I don’t have a name yet but…’

  ‘But?’

  Castor sighed. ‘It seems he’s turning Queen’s evidence – or doing a Bertie as it’s known in the trade.’ Observing Eden’s blank expression he added, ‘Bertie Smalls was the first supergrass back in the early seventies. In exchange for immunity from prosecution, he gave up the names of numerous other criminals, all the jobs they’d done together, all the details. This guy – the one who’s pointing the finger at Tom – will still serve some time, but nothing like as much as he would have done.’

  Eden couldn’t see the fairness or the morality in this. ‘But I still don’t get why the police believe him. You could draw any name out of the hat. Maybe he doesn’t like Tom for some reason. Or it’s just a mistake. It has to be!’

  Castor leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. ‘Except that’s not the only reason he’s been charged. When the police did a search of his studio something was found in the safe: an item of jewellery that came from the robbery.’

  Eden drew back, startled by this fresh piece of information. ‘What… how… What do you mean?’

  ‘It’s a snake-shaped bracelet, very distinctive – gold with rubies, sapphires and diamonds. Only a few of them were made, half a dozen, and all of these were stolen from the Epping warehouse. Does it sound familiar to you? Have you ever seen it?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so. But there has to be an explanation. What does Tom say?’

  ‘He claims he took the bracelet in lieu of a debt.’

  ‘What sort of debt?’

  Castor paused, placed his hands together and steepled his fingers. As he spoke, he stared at her closely as if gauging her reaction. ‘He says a man called Jack Minter gave him the bracelet in exchange for some money he owed him. He says it was a while ago, the late sixties, when he was living in Budapest.’

  Eden nodded eagerly, her head bobbing up and down. ‘He was in Hungary! That must be it!’

  ‘Have you ever heard Tom mention this man before?’

  Eden hesitated, tempted to lie in order to back up her husband. But that might not be a smart move. She dug deep into her memory – Jack Minter, Jack Minter – willing it to strike a chord. But nothing came back to her. In the end she gave a simple shrug. ‘I’m not sure. It’s a common name, isn’t it? Jack, I mean. He might have done. I can’t be sure.’

  The solicitor said nothing. He continued to stare at her.

  Eden leaned forward. ‘When was this robbery exactly?’

  Castor glanced down at his notes. ‘Fourth of November, 1966. Do you know what Tom was doing then?’

  ‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘Do you know what you were doing? Jesus, I hadn’t even met him. It was sixteen years ago!’ Her eyes flew wildly around the office before coming to settle on Castor again. He was a debonair, smartly suited man with wily eyes and steel-grey hair slicked back from his forehead. She stared at him while she tried to control the panic that was rising inside her. ‘Manslaughter? They’re saying he killed this Paddy Lynch?’

  ‘He was shot in the chest.’

  Eden swallowed hard. Her lips felt dry, her tongue too large for her mouth. ‘Who… who was he – a security guard?’

  ‘No,’ Castor said. ‘He was one of the gang. Apparently he got in a tussle with the guard and was shot with his own gun.’

  ‘So why are they accusing Tom?’

  Castor glanced down at the file that was sitting on his desk. He waited a few seconds before looking up again. ‘After Paddy Lynch was shot, the gang made their getaway, taking him with them. Tom, allegedly, offered to drive him to the hospital but the van was found the next day dumped in a car park – with Lynch’s body in the back. The man had bled to death.’

  Eden bared her teeth. ‘And you think Tom could have done something like that? Jesus, he wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t.’ She shook her head again. ‘And he wasn’t even part of this gang. He didn’t commit any robbery. You do believe that, don’t you?’

  Castor gave a thin smile. ‘If my client says he’s innocent, then of course I believe him.’

  Eden hissed out a breath. ‘He is innocent,’ she insisted. ‘This is all so wrong. What about the security guard? Surely he can verify that Tom wasn’t there.’

  ‘He can’t say one way or the other. All the men were wearing balaclavas.’

  ‘So what about the guy who gave him the bracelet? What about Jack Minter? Can’t he be traced?’

  Castor pulled a face. ‘We’ll try, but… Well, we’re talking Hungary, not London. Not to mention the fact that it was years ago. It will
all take time and even then there’s no guarantee we’ll actually find him.’

  A wave of frustration flowed over Eden. ‘And in the meantime, Tom’s stuck behind bars.’

  ‘I’m afraid so.’

  ‘I’ve got to see him. How can I see him?’

  ‘He’ll be up in Bow Magistrates’ Court tomorrow morning, but you won’t be able to talk. He’ll put in his plea and that will be that. It won’t take long, ten minutes at the most. Then he’ll be put on remand, probably at the Scrubs or Wandsworth.’