The Lost Page 8

  ‘I want to see Mr Stagg.’

  ‘He’s not here.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’ Harry pulled up a bar stool and sat down. He turned and smiled at the pretty blonde beside him. ‘Hi.’

  She gazed cautiously back.

  ‘I’m Harry,’ he said.

  She nodded. ‘Agnes.’

  ‘It’s nice to meet you, Agnes.’

  ‘We can’t serve you,’ Troy interrupted. ‘We’re not open yet.’

  Harry lifted his brows. ‘Did I ask for a drink? Although if you want to do something useful, you could track down that boss of yours and tell him that I’m waiting.’

  Troy glared at him, his pride battling with his reason. He hovered for a moment and then reluctantly moved away.

  Harry watched as he picked up the phone at the far end of the bar. While he had the chance, he turned to talk to the girl again. ‘Have you worked here long?’

  ‘Some,’ she agreed. ‘A little.’ She had a distinct accent, Russian or East European perhaps. Her pink lips curled into a smile.

  Harry took the photograph out of his pocket. ‘So you must know Al, Al Webster?’

  The smile quickly faded. ‘Who?’

  ‘He works here. You must have seen him around.’

  She looked down at the photograph and frowned. ‘I am not sure.’

  ‘Not sure of what? Whether you’ve seen him or whether you should talk to me?’

  She slid off the stool, her green cat’s eyes wary and suspicious. ‘Sorry. My English … is not so good.’

  ‘Good enough for you to be working here,’ Harry said.

  ‘Well …’ As if to imply that the vocabulary required for working in Vista was hardly of the kind to be described as demanding, she gave a small dismissive shrug.

  Harry pushed the photo towards her again. ‘When was the last time you saw him?’

  He might have made more progress if Ray Stagg hadn’t suddenly crept up behind.

  ‘What’s going on here?’

  ‘I’m doing what you employed me to do,’ Harry said. ‘Searching for Al Webster.’

  ‘And you think you’ll find him here?’

  Harry glanced towards Agnes and grinned. ‘Cherchez la femme. Wasn’t that what you suggested?’

  ‘Not in the club,’ Stagg said, ‘and certainly not during working hours.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Harry lifted his brows and gazed around the empty room. ‘I didn’t realize how busy you were.’

  Stagg waved Agnes away with a curt movement of his hand. She scurried towards an exit at the side of the bar, her slender hips wriggling. Harry took a moment to admire the view.

  ‘Well?’ Stagg growled at him.

  ‘I’ve got a few questions if you can spare the time.’

  ‘Fine, we’ll talk in the office.’

  They walked back through the corridor. ‘Most people call before they just drop by,’ Stagg said.

  ‘Do they? I guess they must be the polite type.’

  Stagg unlocked the door and glared at him. ‘Does Mac know you’re here?

  Harry ignored the question. He stepped past him into the room and took a seat without waiting to be asked. ‘I’m just wondering why you didn’t mention that Al worked for you.’

  Ray Stagg sat down behind his oversized desk. He swept a few sheets of paper from its surface, slipping them quickly into a drawer, before answering. ‘Worked?’ he said derisively. ‘I’d hardly call it that. He helped out occasionally, that’s all: the odd delivery, shifting the heavy stuff in the cellar. I was doing him a favour – or rather doing Denise a favour.’

  ‘So why keep quiet about it?’

  ‘Why do you think?’ Stagg said. ‘Cash in hand, isn’t it? What he tells the tax man or not is up to him but it doesn’t do to go shouting about these things.’

  ‘I’m not the tax inspector.’

  ‘It’s a matter of trust.’

  ‘But you trust me enough to look for your brother-in-law?’

  ‘Degrees of trust, then,’ he said. A sly smile crept on to his face. ‘I know what you people are like.’

  By ‘you people’, Harry presumed he meant former coppers. ‘But there could be someone here who knows something, someone who was friendly with Al.’

  Stagg gave a snigger. ‘One of the girls, you mean? I don’t think so. Al wasn’t here much and when he was … well, he hardly made an impact.’

  ‘So when was the last time?’

  Ray Stagg stroked his chin with his fingers and stared pensively at the wall. ‘Let’s see. It must have been a few days before he went missing. Yeah, the Thursday afternoon. We had a coachload due in from Croydon. He helped to get the bar stocked up.’

  ‘And he seemed fine to you then?’

  ‘Whatever. We didn’t have a heart-to-heart.’

  ‘And he wasn’t here again at the weekend? You didn’t see him on the Saturday?’

  ‘No.’

  Harry got to his feet. ‘Okay. That’s all I need for now. But you won’t mind if I ask around, talk to the staff?’

  ‘Don’t waste your time,’ Stagg said. ‘I’ll have a word. If I find out anything, I’ll call you.’

  ‘Sure,’ Harry said. He wasn’t about to hold his breath.

  Rushing along the aisle, Harry grabbed parsnips and potatoes and tried to remember what else he needed for the evening meal. He wasn’t the greatest cook in the world but could just about manage the basic stuff. A roast was what he’d been planning – even he couldn’t go far wrong with that – but with the clock ticking he had a sudden crisis of confidence: would he be able to get everything prepared by half past seven?

  He dithered by the poultry, gazing down at the rows of chickens: big ones, little ones, free range, corn fed. His head was starting to spin. Maybe fish would be a better bet. Yes, then all he’d have to do was shove it under the grill. He found the fish counter, picked out a couple of Dover soles and then reversed towards the fruit and veg near the entrance. Dumping the parsnips, he collected two lemons, parsley, mushrooms and a pack of green beans. Now for the alcohol …

  He was examining an overpriced bottle of Chablis when his phone started ringing. Harry took it out of his pocket, his face falling as he saw who it was. Should he just turn it off? No, if he did that she might keep trying all night. He had to get this over with.

  ‘Hello?’

  Jess’s tone was a mixture of frustration and relief. ‘Harry? God, where have you been? I’ve been trying to call you all day.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve been busy.’

  ‘I need to see you,’ she said. ‘We have to talk.’

  Talk? Oh no, that was all he needed. ‘Er … actually now’s not a great time, it’s not really convenient.’

  There was a short uneasy silence.

  ‘You have heard, haven’t you?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Len’s dead,’ she said. Her voice faltered. ‘Murdered. He was stabbed to death last night.’

  The bottle slipped from between Harry’s fingers and smashed on to the floor.

  Chapter Fifteen

  It took him a while to find the flats, a bland three-storey purpose-built block near Victoria Park in Hackney. Twice he got caught in the one-way system, in a long slow snarl of evening traffic, before eventually working out where she lived.

  Harry climbed the shallow flight of steps, pressed on the buzzer for Vaughan and waited.

  A few seconds later Jess opened the door and smiled wanly at him. ‘Thanks for coming.’ She looked pale and strained, two dark smudges of mascara shadowing her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘If I’d known …’ But of course if he’d answered his phone, or even checked his messages, he would have known. ‘Sorry,’ he murmured again.

  ‘You’re here now,’ she said. ‘Don’t worry about it.’

  He followed her into the communal hallway, along a corridor and then through another door to the right. Her main living space was small and economically furnished. There was
only a dark blue futon-type sofa, a cane chair, a couple of lamps and a table completely covered in a heap of paper. In fact the paper, as if making a bid for freedom, had migrated into every available corner of the room.

  ‘Welcome to the mansion.’ Jess flapped a hand. ‘I’d apologize for the mess but to be honest that would suggest it doesn’t normally look like this.’

  There was a slight slur to her voice. Harry noticed a bottle of vodka, already a third empty, sitting on the table. It was a stupid question but he still felt obliged to ask it. ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Sure,’ she said. ‘I’m coping – I think. Sit down. Do you want a drink?’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I’m fine, thanks.’ It was a combination of shock, guilt and possibly misplaced obligation that had brought him here. He still wasn’t entirely sure what was expected of him.

  Jess picked an empty glass up off the floor and poured herself another stiff shot from the bottle. She forced a smile. ‘Well, I need one even if you don’t.’ After lighting a cigarette, she slumped down on the sofa.

  Deliberately keeping his distance, he sat down in the chair. ‘So when did you hear?’

  ‘Early this morning. Toby rang. They didn’t find him until dawn.’ She took a deep drag on her cigarette. ‘He was out there all night. Can you believe that? After he was stabbed he slid between two cars and …’

  ‘Shit,’ Harry mumbled.

  ‘That’s why I’ve been calling. I thought you’d want to know. I mean, you weren’t the best of friends or anything but …’ She tilted her chin, raised her glass and drank down half the contents. Her mouth formed a tremulous smile. ‘I was starting to think you were trying to avoid me.’

  Harry quickly glanced away. It was that evasion, along with his hesitation, that ultimately betrayed him.

  Her grey eyes widened. ‘Oh my God,’ she said. ‘You were, weren’t you?’

  ‘No, of course not. It’s just—’

  ‘You were.’ She leaned forward, a short brittle laugh escaping from her lips. ‘You thought, because we had a few drinks last night, had a dance, had a snog in the back of a cab, that I was after something more. You thought I was one of those sad women who latch on like a limpet and never let go.’

  Harry stared down at his feet. ‘No, of course not.’ He could have continued to lie, to protest his innocence, but after what had happened to Len Curzon the pretence felt shallow and pointless. He lifted his eyes and frowned. ‘I didn’t know what to think.’

  Jess glared at him. ‘Jeez,’ she said. ‘Get over yourself. I hate to burst your bubble but you’re not that wonderful.’

  Harry couldn’t argue with that.

  She knocked back her drink and stood up to pour another. ‘You don’t have to worry; as it happens I’m not after your body or your soul. I didn’t even ask you round for a shoulder to cry on. I may be drunk but I’m not that drunk. This is purely professional.’

  ‘Professional?’

  ‘You’re a private investigator, aren’t you?’

  Before he could reply, Jess picked up a heavy pile of files and dropped them on his knees. ‘So help me to investigate. The police suspect this was just a robbery that went wrong but they’re way off the mark. I found these in Len’s desk.’

  Harry stared down at the files. ‘What are they?’

  ‘Evidence,’ she said.

  ‘Evidence of what?’

  ‘That this wasn’t some random mugging.’

  Harry nodded obligingly. ‘Okay.’ He opened the first file, a thick solid folder containing extensive press reports and court summaries on the trial of Paul Deacon twelve years ago. He flipped through the pages, the headlines reviving a few distant memories: MP shoots gangster’s son; Slaying of schoolboy; Deacon gets life.

  ‘I don’t get it,’ he said.

  ‘Read the next one,’ she said, still standing over him.

  Harry opened the second folder. It was equally thick. He flinched as he stared at the pictures. Missing kids always made his blood run cold. This file, although it contained a number of reports, mainly concentrated on an eight-year-old, a girl who had disappeared over twenty years ago. Grace Harper was small and skinny, her hair a mousy blonde, her eyes wide and dark. He quickly flicked through the pages, scanning the story of the search, the interviews with her parents, all the newspaper coverage.

  He laid the folder down and shook his head. ‘And?’

  ‘You haven’t finished,’ she said.

  Underneath was a much slimmer dossier. The name Ellen Shaw was scrawled in capitals across the front. Clipped to the inside were a few blurry photos of a young dark-haired woman, some equally bad snaps of an older man, and copies of a birth and marriage certificate. Lying loose were three sheets of paper. On the first was a handwritten account of Len Curzon’s surveillance at an address in Berry Square, detailing the movements of the occupants, mainly routine journeys to and from work. The second page contained a short version of the Harper family tree and the third a list of dates over the past six months, the last of which – eleven days ago – was marked with an asterisk.

  Harry closed the folder and frowned. ‘What’s the connection between these cases?’

  ‘Don’t you see?’ She sighed as if he were being deliberately obtuse. ‘The girl who disappeared, Grace Harper, and this other woman Ellen Shaw. Len thought they were the same person.’

  He looked up at her, astounded. ‘Are you kidding?’

  ‘Didn’t he mention to you about having seen a ghost?’

  ‘Well, yeah, but he wasn’t entirely sober at the time. I didn’t take him seriously.’ Harry went back to the file on the missing child and examined the pictures, comparing them to the ones of Ellen Shaw. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘It’s hard to tell. The photos of Ellen are too indistinct to make out her features properly. I’d need to see her close up. And over the years people can drastically change their appearance – especially if they want to. I mean, everyone presumed that Grace was dead but what if Len was right and—’

  Harry wasn’t convinced. ‘These could be completely separate stories he was working on.’

  ‘So why is the Harper family tree in Ellen Shaw’s file? And why were all the files tied together and locked up in his drawer?’

  ‘Locked up?’

  Jess shrugged, looking momentarily defensive. ‘It wasn’t a very strong lock. I knew he’d been working on a story, something big. I didn’t want Toby getting hold of it.’ She paused. ‘He’s—’

  ‘I know who he is. Your boss. The editor of the Herald.’

  ‘Yeah.’ She sat down again, twisting the glass between her fingers. ‘And before you start presuming that I’m just after some exclusive, some great headline to grab for myself, that isn’t why I took the files.’

  Harry shook his head. ‘I wasn’t thinking that.’

  ‘I wouldn’t blame you if you were. But Toby’s so superficial, so damn ambitious, he’d have found a way to turn Len’s death to his own advantage.’ She stared down at the long grey tip of the cigarette and then flicked it towards an overflowing ashtray on the floor. ‘I need to find out what really happened.’

  ‘You think it was down to Deacon or Ellen Shaw?’

  ‘Not Deacon. At least I doubt it. He’s still in jail. And he was hardly a master criminal at the height of his career. I can’t see him organizing anything like this at short notice.’

  ‘So you’re thinking Ellen Shaw?’

  She shrugged. ‘Well, he was killed near to where she lives.’

  ‘But that doesn’t prove—’

  ‘It could just be a coincidence – is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘It could be,’ he said. ‘Why not? I mean, he was robbed, wasn’t he?’

  Her eyes flashed bright with anger and frustration. ‘Sure, they took his wallet and phone but so what? If you wanted it to look like a mugging, you’d go through all the motions; you’d at least try and make it look convincing.’

  ‘Have you talk
ed to the police?’

  Her grey eyes gazed almost mockingly into his. ‘Of course I have. I’m not completely stupid. I spent half the afternoon there. But guess what? Ellen Shaw beat me to it. She was down the station the minute his death hit the news in the morning, admitting that she saw Len yesterday, that she talked to him briefly, even that she agreed to meet him in the afternoon. She also confessed to knowing Paul Deacon and visiting him in Maidstone jail – although she says he’s just an old friend of her father’s. She claims Len was trying to stir up trouble, that he was scandal-mongering, threatening to run a story about her and Deacon if she didn’t agree to talk to him.’

  From what he’d known of Curzon, Harry could well believe the accusation. He’d hardly been renowned for his sensitivity. ‘And you think she’s lying?’

  ‘I don’t think it’s that simple. And of course she has the perfect alibi – at the time Len was killed she was in Gospel Oak, in full view of twenty members of staff at her husband’s workplace. Don’t you think that’s just a touch convenient?’

  Harry laid his head against the back of the sofa and sighed. ‘Just out of interest, how did you find all this out?’

  ‘I’ve got a few contacts down at the station, guys who owe me a favour. It was strictly off the record, naturally.’

  ‘Naturally,’ Harry murmured. ‘And did you tell the police about your suspicions? About who you thought Ellen Shaw might actually be?’

  Jess laughed. ‘Don’t be ridiculous! They’d have referred me to the nearest psychiatric unit. Much as it may surprise you, I do know when to keep my big mouth shut. For now, this is purely between us.’

  Harry didn’t much like the sound of this ‘us’ business. ‘I understand how upset you are but maybe, er … maybe you shouldn’t do anything too rash.’

  ‘Oh please, don’t patronize me. I’m not some demented, drunken, grieving female.’ She paused, staring down into her glass. ‘Well, I may be some of those things but I’m not completely off my head. Len was sure that this was important.’

  ‘Len’s been permanently pissed for the past ten years.’

  ‘True,’ she said. ‘But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t spot a good story when he saw one.’

  ‘Yeah, exactly,’ Harry said. ‘A story.’