The Lost Page 3

  The woman arched her eyebrows. ‘She’s the one who does all the hard work while her so-called mentor sits in the pub getting rat-arsed.’ She stretched out a damp hand. ‘How do you do. Jessica Vaughan. Call me Jess.’

  ‘Harry Lind.’

  She slipped out of her coat and flung it over the back of a chair. ‘I suppose you two want another drink?’

  ‘Let me,’ Harry said, getting to his feet.

  Jess waved him back down. ‘It’s okay, I’ve got it. Same again?’

  Harry nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He was already late home; one more pint wouldn’t make much difference. And anyway, the quality of the company had just taken a decidedly upward turn.

  She looked over at Curzon. Her grey eyes narrowed as she noticed the collection of empty glasses. ‘You on the bitter, Len?’

  ‘Better make it a short,’ he said. ‘A whisky. Ta.’

  The two men watched as she leaned against the bar. She was wearing black jeans, boots and a soft pale green sweater. Their eyes simultaneously slid down the length of her body, scanning its distinctive planes and curves.

  A sigh slipped from Curzon’s lips. ‘Very nice.’

  Harry looked at him and grinned. ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit old for her?’

  ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit married for her?’

  ‘I’m not married,’ Harry said. He felt instantly guilty for the denial. He’d been living with Valerie for the past five years. They were as good as married or at least they had been until … But no, even that wasn’t strictly true; they’d been bickering for months before that fateful day had turned everything upside down. Would they still be together if it hadn’t been for that?

  Jess came back with the drinks and put them on the table. She took a seat between the two of them and raised her glass of red wine in a toast. ‘Okay, gents, here’s to … what?’

  Curzon, with his nose stuck in his glass, didn’t reply.

  ‘Better days?’ Harry suggested.

  Jess chinked her glass against his. ‘Well, they couldn’t get much worse.’

  ‘That bad?’

  ‘Bad enough.’ She looked over at Len. ‘So, are you going to tell me exactly why I’ve been slaving over a hot computer for the best part of the evening? What’s with this sudden interest in Paul—’

  ‘Nothing,’ Curzon said too quickly.

  Harry, hearing the warning note in his voice, pricked up his ears.

  ‘Nothing important,’ Curzon stressed. ‘I’ll fill you in on the details tomorrow.’

  Jess stared at him for a moment, frowned and then nodded. ‘Okay.’

  There was one of those uncomfortable silences. Harry looked from one to the other. That something had passed between them, a glance, an understanding, was beyond doubt. He might have been more curious if Curzon hadn’t been so drunk. After all, he was a man who not so long ago had been claiming to see ghosts …

  Jess turned and smiled at him. She had a nice mouth, a pleasant smile. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Work stuff. Boring. You know what it’s like.’

  ‘Sure,’ he said.

  ‘So what do you do for a living?’

  ‘He used to be a cop,’ Curzon said.

  Harry heard that warning note again.

  ‘Really?’ Jess said.

  ‘Now I’m with Mackenzie’s.’ Harry still couldn’t bring himself to use the words ‘private investigator’ or ‘private detective’. Somehow, they had a sad seedy ring about them, conjuring up an image of a little grey man in a grubby raincoat.

  ‘I know Mackenzie’s,’ she said. ‘Off the Strand, right?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  Curzon struggled to his feet, stumbled and grabbed hold of the table for some temporary support. He swayed for a couple of seconds, his legs unsteady. ‘I need a slash.’

  Jess watched as he staggered across the room. ‘What’s wrong with him?’

  ‘He’s pissed.’

  She snorted. ‘He’s always pissed. I mean, what else is wrong with him?’

  Realizing that he was staring rather too intently at her breasts, Harry shifted his gaze to her face and shrugged. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘You’re his mate, aren’t you?’

  ‘God, no,’ he said, ‘I barely know him.’

  ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘I thought—’

  ‘Our paths have crossed a few times, that’s all. I came in for a quick drink and here he was.’ He paused. ‘Why should there be anything wrong?’

  Jess wrinkled her nose. ‘I don’t know. He just seems on edge.’

  ‘On edge?’

  ‘Don’t you think?’

  If Harry was thinking about anything, it certainly wasn’t the state of Len Curzon’s mind. He had to stop his eyes from drifting south again. The sweater she was wearing was clinging just a little too tightly to her curves and … He frowned down into his Guinness. What was he doing? He shook his head. ‘Maybe it’s got something to do with that ghost.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ He smiled. ‘So I take it you work for the Herald too?’

  It was approaching midnight when Harry slid his key into the lock and stepped softly into the flat in Kentish Town. He had nothing to feel guilty about – well, nothing more than a mild flirtation with a curvy journalist and getting home five hours later than he should have done.

  He tiptoed across the hall and into the bedroom. Valerie stirred but didn’t wake. He stared down at her, at her long fair hair spread across the pillow. A year ago, he’d have stripped off his clothes and jumped straight in beside her but tonight he only sighed and wandered back into the kitchen.

  A cold winter moon was shining through the window. He switched on the kettle, put his hands in his pockets and gazed out across the city. He had the feeling he was in for another sleepless night.

  Chapter Four

  Len pulled his coat around him and hunched down in the seat. It was early Monday morning, cold and still dark. A flurry of snow swirled around the windscreen. Shivering, he rubbed his hands together. He had parked the car across the other side of the square and was keeping an eye on the door to number twelve. It was over a week since he’d followed her back from Maidstone and he hadn’t stopped thinking about her since.

  He had read the file on little Grace Harper, checked out the dates and stared long and hard at the faded photographs. Could he put his hand on his heart and swear it was the same girl? Not with any degree of conviction. An eight-year-old could change a lot in twenty years. It was only her similarity to her mother, the shape of the mouth, the intensity of those wide dark eyes that continued to haunt him. And it wasn’t as if he could ever forget Sharon Harper. He had worked on that story for months; her face was imprinted on his memory forever.

  There were four flats in the building opposite. It was a smart converted Victorian terrace with its trim freshly painted. Beside the bell for the top floor was a label saying Shaw. He knew this because he’d climbed the steps on the very first evening he’d followed her. Thanks to that, and then to the Electoral Register, he had been able to find out her full name, Ellen Marie Shaw, and that of her husband, Adam. From there he had traced her birth and marriage certificates. He’d discovered that her maiden name, apparently, was Corby, that she’d been born in Cork, was twenty when she got married and was now twenty-seven. The latter fact had sent his pulse racing. Almost the same age as Grace Harper would have been if …

  But not quite the same. Grace would have been twenty-eight by now. A year was still a year. And there was no other obvious connection to the Harpers. He had considered the possibility that she might be a relative, a cousin perhaps – something that might account for the similarity in appearance – but had found nothing yet to back up the theory. Sharon was an only child and the family tree, or at least as much of it as he’d been able to trace, had not revealed any Corbys.

  Perhaps he was looking in the wrong place. He would have to do more digging, maybe try to track down Ellen’s parents.
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  And then there was the mystery of her visit to Paul Deacon. What was going on between the two of them? Something she was hiding from her husband, that was for certain.

  Adam Shaw was fifty-one, a grey staid-looking man who wore pinstripe suits, left the flat bang on seven twenty every weekday morning, walked to Camden Road station and travelled by British Rail to his office in Gospel Oak. They were an odd couple – and not just because of the age difference. She had a definite charisma and he had … well, Len wasn’t an expert on what drew women to men but other than a moderate level of financial stability he couldn’t spot any of the more obvious attractions.

  Len yawned. He was having trouble sleeping. When he closed his eyes he only ever saw that face, the face of the child who was missing, who had disappeared all those years ago. Three times now he had got up in the middle of night and driven over here. What had he expected to see? He couldn’t say. It was just a need he had, a compulsion to be near her.

  He knew Jess was getting worried. He was spending too much time, every spare minute he could, on the story. If it wasn’t for her he would probably have been fired by now. She had covered his arse on more than one occasion. To keep her happy, he had promised her a share in his exclusive. ‘Trust me, we’re on to something big.’

  ‘On to what?’ Jess had said. ‘You still haven’t told me anything. Well, only that it’s connected to Paul Deacon but—’

  ‘Bear with me for a few more days, okay? It’s a hunch. You know, just one of those feelings.’

  Len sensed that she thought it was one of his less sober feelings but she had let it pass, nodding gently. Jess’s faith in him was starting to falter.

  Maybe it was time to move things along. He hadn’t learned much from his daylight surveillance, other than that Adam Shaw worked for a firm of accountants (he had followed him the previous Tuesday) and she worked, part-time, for an insurance company near King’s Cross. He had followed her on two other mornings to the small, slightly shabby offices of Goodridge, Cobb & Masters where she had stayed put from nine to five apart from a short sandwich break for lunch.

  His evening sessions had been even less productive. The two of them hadn’t been out nor had anyone come to visit in all the hours he’d been watching. Either he had stumbled on a temporary lull in their social calendar or they permanently shied away from outside company. If the latter was true, they led an unusually insular existence. This, in turn, begged the question of whether it was from choice or necessity.

  Len couldn’t decide whether he should try and speak to her. If he took her by surprise, asking about her connection to Paul Deacon, he might shock a useful response out of her. On the other hand, he could spook her completely. What if she did a midnight flit and disappeared? He couldn’t be here 24/7.

  In fact just being here at all was growing riskier. Only yesterday some nosy old crone had banged on his window demanding to know why he was parked outside her house. He had made up a tale about being a cabbie on his break but she hadn’t looked convinced. He’d had to shift double-fast before she called the cops. So now he was stuck on the other side of the square, having to squint through the bushes that covered the small central patch of snow-covered green.

  This couldn’t go on. He had to make a decision soon.

  Chapter Five

  Harry Lind wasn’t having the best of mornings. It had started with another row with Valerie – no change there – continued with a self-inflicted dent to his bumper while he was trying to park his Audi in the tiny allocated space at the back of the office building, and now there was this. He read through the papers and scowled. ‘You’re kidding me. Ray Stagg?’

  Mac placed his large mottled hands palm down on the desk. His heavy brows shifted up an inch. ‘You got a problem with that?’

  ‘Since when did we start working for crooks?’

  ‘As I recall, he’s never actually been convicted of anything.’

  ‘Come on, Mac, you know he’s an out-and-out villain.’

  ‘Just go and see him,’ he said roughly. ‘Talk to him, okay? Get some details. How hard is that?’

  Harry groaned. It was about as hard as having to talk to any piece of scum who you’ve arrested three times and never managed to make the charges stick. ‘Isn’t there anyone else you can send?’

  Mac glanced around his office. ‘Do you see anyone else?’ He abruptly picked up the phone, indicating that the discussion – if there ever had been one – was over.

  Harry went back into reception. Lorna looked up from the computer. As if his limp automatically entitled him to an extra-large dose of secretarial compassion, she gave him a soft and sympathetic smile. He frowned at her and then regretted it. Perhaps he was just being over-sensitive.

  ‘He’s not in a good mood,’ she said.

  ‘Tell me about it.’ He got a coffee from the machine and slumped down in one of the brown mock-leather chairs. ‘Ever wish you hadn’t bothered to get up?’

  Lorna smiled again, lowered her head and carried on typing.

  Harry sipped his coffee. His appointment wasn’t for another half-hour. Even allowing for the traffic and the snow it shouldn’t take him longer than fifteen minutes to get there. With nothing else to look at – the room with its bland magnolia walls was about as stark as it could be – his gaze eventually wound its way back to Lorna. She was a woman in her early forties, slightly plump, with a round friendly face and shoulder-length blonde frizzy hair. With her red apple cheeks, maternal was the description that sprang most instantly to mind. She had been with Mac since he’d first started the business and although they were clearly friends the exact nature of their relationship still remained vague. A single mother, she had two rowdy daughters who occasionally livened up reception whenever she couldn’t find a sitter.

  Harry flapped the papers in her direction. ‘Have you seen this? Ray Stagg, for God’s sake. It’s a joke.’

  Lorna gave a tiny shrug. ‘It’s money,’ she said.

  ‘Not the kind of money Mac needs to be associated with.’

  ‘I doubt if he’s feeling that fussy at the moment.’

  Harry stared at her. ‘What do you mean?’

  She threw a quick sideways glance towards the office. Visible behind the glass, Mac was talking with some animation, and possibly a fair amount of cursing, into the phone. She lowered her voice. ‘Cash-flow problems.’

  A brief jolt of alarm coursed through Harry. What if this job was going to be pulled from under his feet as well? What would he do then? Despite his years of experience, damaged detectives weren’t exactly in demand.

  ‘How bad?’ he asked.

  ‘He had to lay off a couple of the guys last week.’

  ‘What?’ It was the first Harry had heard of it.

  ‘I’m sure it’ll be okay,’ she said softly. ‘It’s only temporary until … well, until things get back on track.’

  Harry frowned at her again. She was using that tone of voice, that kindly I don’t want to worry you tone, which only had the effect of increasing his anxiety. No wonder Mac had been acting so antsy. And it was true that things had been pretty quiet recently. Although there was still the usual flow of writs to be served, of insurance claims to be investigated, a lot of the other work had dried up.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said. The firm had been going strong for over ten years. Although Mac had faced problems in the past, including a bad gambling habit and an over-fondness for the bottle, he had got his act together since he’d started his own company. He’d got contacts, a good reputation, and what seemed – at least on the surface – a thoroughly thriving business.

  Lorna, as if she might have already said too much, gazed over at him pleadingly. ‘Oh, I shouldn’t have mentioned it. You won’t tell him I said anything, will you?’

  ‘No, of course not.’

  Harry swallowed the last of his coffee, stood up and threw the empty plastic cup towards the bin. It hit the rim, faltered for a few seconds and then fell on to the floor.
He sighed. It wasn’t as if he believed in omens but with everything else that had happened this morning he was beginning to wonder. He bent down, picked it up and dropped it in the bin. Then he headed for the door.

  ‘See you later,’ he said.

  Harry deliberately didn’t look at the dent before he got back in his car. He already had more than enough to stress about. While he drove along the Strand he mulled over the bad news, hoping things weren’t as bleak as he was starting to imagine. Perhaps he should take Mac for a drink, try and find out what was going on. Or perhaps he should just leave well alone. He didn’t want to get Lorna into trouble.

  As he drove, he tried to keep his gaze focused straight ahead. Even the slightest glance sideways brought him into contact with the festive decorations. All the garish lights and tinsel in the shops, the grinning Santas, the whole jolly twinkly thing, filled him with a sense of dread. How was he going to get through Christmas? This time last year everything had been different – he’d had a place, a position in life, something he was proud of. Now he wasn’t even sure if he’d still have a job by the time January came around.

  He took the third exit off the Holborn Circus roundabout into Charterhouse Street and then turned left on to Farringdon Road. Although it went against the grain, he decided he’d better be civil to Ray Stagg. If the assignment was kosher (although how likely was that?) he quite literally couldn’t afford to antagonize him. A missing persons case, it said on the papers. Harry growled and slapped his palms against the wheel. He suspected that Stagg had made plenty of people disappear in his time.

  The nightclub, Vista, was situated off Shoreditch High Street. He found the gateway, swung the Audi between two ostentatious pillars and parked on the concrete forecourt next to a bright yellow Lotus. No guessing who that belonged to. Stagg had always been a flash bastard.

  In the rearview mirror, Harry checked that his tie was straight. He ran a hand through his hair and wiped the frown from his forehead. Professional was what he needed to be. For the next twenty minutes, no matter what the provocation, he had to keep his cool.