Nothing but Trouble (12 page)

Mac huffed out a breath. ‘Perhaps you’re taking this too personally. Just because
you
wouldn’t refuse a beautiful blonde offering to make herself at home on your lap doesn’t mean that no one else would.’

The image of Aimee Locke sprang suddenly into Harry’s head. He could visualise her long legs, her languid walk across the
restaurant. ‘Yeah, but I’m not about to be married. All beautiful blondes are welcome on my lap.’

Mac laughed, but then swiftly returned to plugging the idea. ‘All I’m saying is that there’s a demand. And if we don’t respond
to it, there are plenty of others who will. Plenty who already have, come to that. You checked out the competition recently?
It’s market demand, Harry. We either go with it or we get left behind.’

Harry could see that Mac had already made up his mind, and suspected that no amount of reasoning would make him change it.
Having won the argument on the move to Kellston, he decided to be diplomatic and give in gracefully on this one. ‘Well, if
it’s what you want.’

‘Good, that’s decided then.’

‘So long as I get to sit in when you interview the girls.’

‘It’s a deal,’ Mac said. ‘I’ll get Lorna to place an ad in the paper.’

Harry took the dirty plates through to the kitchen and dropped them in the sink for later. He made a strong brew for Mac and
a coffee for Lorna, and carried the two mugs back to the living room. ‘Here, you’d better get downstairs before she sends
up a search party.’

Mac hauled himself out of the chair with a groan. ‘Why do I get the feeling that today’s going to be a long one?’

‘Because it is, for you at least.’

Mac narrowed his eyes as he took hold of the two mugs. ‘Tell me you’re not doing a runner?’

‘Got it in one.’ Harry picked up Jess’s brown folder from the corner of the table and waved it at him. ‘Things to do, people
to see and all that. And I’ve already done my fair share when it comes to this move. I sorted out all the stuff that came
over last week, remember?’ He knew that if he hung around, Lorna would find something for him to do, a something that would
probably involve rearranging every piece of furniture as soon as the removal firm had left.

‘What’s so important that it can’t wait?’

‘Nothing,’ Harry said, ‘but you even think about telling Lorna that and I’ll tell her all the gruesome details of what you
just shovelled down your throat. I know whose shoes I’d rather be in.’

Mac took a slurp of tea and stared gloomily over the rim of the mug. ‘Deserter,’ he murmured.

Harry grabbed his jacket off the back of the chair. He’d been intending to have a lazy Sunday, but now that prospect was out
of the window he might as well follow up on the Sam Kendall case. A nice drive over to Chigwell should blow the cobwebs away.
The soap actress, Kirsten Cope, was about to have the pleasure of his company.

The Sunday traffic was light and it took less than forty minutes for Harry to make it to Chigwell. The morning sunshine glittered
on the windscreen as he cruised along Manor Road, peering at the numbers until he found the flats he wanted. He pulled in
and let the engine idle while he gazed across the road. The three-storey building was new, probably only built in the last
year or so, and had tall, narrow windows, an arched doorway and a steeply slanting roof. It had been constructed of red brick
faced with sections of vertical timber panelling. It wasn’t to his taste – a cross between mock-gothic and an alpine chalet
– but then he didn’t have to live in it.

Harry wondered if it was still too early to call. The clock on the dashboard was nudging on 8.30. Perhaps he should try and
find a café, and sit down and sip on a cappuccino for a while, but then again, if Kirsten Cope had fallen out of a nightclub
at three in the morning, the combination of a hangover and lack of sleep might just give him the edge.

He killed the engine, but didn’t immediately get out of the car. Instead he flicked through Jess’s file until he came to the
relevant pages. There was a brief summary – name, date of birth, address, phone number, etc. – and then a bunch of press cuttings,
a few pertaining to Kirsten’s acting career but the majority from the gossip columns of the tabloids.

Kirsten Cope was clearly the kind of girl who liked to court publicity. In the past she’d been romantically linked to a couple
of actors, a pop star and a TV presenter, but she was now dating a Premier League footballer called Nico Polvani. Harry pondered
on what was so alluring about men who kicked footballs around. The money must be part of it, of course, the bulging weekly
pay packet, but he guessed it was as much about the exposure. Once a girl had bagged a player, she’d also booked her slot
in the publicity machine. Harry was still hoping for the time when it would be fashionable for every young starlet to have
a private eye on her arm.

He turned over the pages, examining the numerous photographs. Cope was attractive in a mundane sort of way – slim, long fair
hair, blue eyes. Or at least he presumed they were blue. The pictures were all in black and white so he couldn’t be sure.
Yes, she was pretty enough, but nothing outstanding, nothing to blow your socks off. He’d have had a problem picking her out
from a line-up of similar-looking wannabes.

Harry shoved the file under the seat and got out of the car. He strode across the road, walked up the short drive to the flats
and stepped inside the porch. He tried the glass door, but it was, unsurprisingly, locked. Next he checked out the names on
the bells. There were six flats in all, and the name
Cope was
on the third one down.

He pressed the buzzer and waited.

It was answered after about thirty seconds. ‘Hello?’

From the briefness of the greeting he couldn’t work out if he’d woken her up or not. He leaned in towards the speaker on the
wall. ‘Kirsten Cope?’

‘Yeah?’

‘I wonder if I could have a word. My name’s Harry Lind. I’m a private investigator.’

‘What do you want?’

Harry wondered if she ended every sentence with a question mark. ‘It’s about the Minnie Bright case.’

‘No comment,’ she said brusquely, as if responding to some tabloid hack trying to get the lowdown on her love life.

He heard the click as she terminated the connection. He pressed the buzzer again, but didn’t have time to say anything before
she snapped down the line, ‘Just leave me alone or I’ll call the police.’

‘You won’t need to,’ Harry lied. ‘That’s where I’m heading next if you won’t talk to me.’

There was a long pause while she thought about it. Too long, Harry thought, for someone who had nothing to fear.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she said eventually.

‘Do you want to have this discussion over the intercom – I’m sure your neighbours will be fascinated – or can I come in? Ten
minutes, that’s all it will take.’

There was another pause, this one slightly shorter than the last, before the buzzer finally went and he was able to push open
the door. Inside, the foyer was clean and tidy, smelling faintly of disinfectant, as though someone had recently mopped the
floor. Sunlight streamed through the narrow windows and fell against the tiles in mote-filled stripes. He climbed the stairs,
walked along the landing and tapped lightly on the door to number three.

Even though she was expecting him, she didn’t respond immediately. Getting dressed, perhaps, or just deliberately making him
wait. When she finally deigned to open up, it wasn’t with a smile. She gave him a look that would have made Medusa proud before
stretching out a hand. ‘Got any ID?’

‘Sure,’ he said, taking his wallet from his jacket pocket, removing a business card and passing it over to her.

‘Anyone could have one of these printed,’ she said, frowning hard at it.

‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said. ‘But who’d bother?’

Kirsten gave him another nasty glare before turning on her heel and heading back inside the flat. She left him to close the
door behind him. It wasn’t the most effusive welcome he’d ever received, but at least he’d managed to get over the threshold.

The living room was airy and spacious, an open-plan area with a well-equipped kitchen to the rear. It was painted in one of
those rose-tinted shades of white. Long pink drapes framed the windows and dropped to the polished-wood floor in swirling
pools. There was a large pink rug, two white sofas with pastel scatter cushions and a glass coffee table covered with the
latest gossip magazines and a cluster of Sunday tabloids. Harry absorbed the decor in a matter of seconds. It was no more
to his taste than the outside of the building.

Kirsten Cope stood waiting in the middle of the room with her arms folded firmly across her chest. If she had been out on
the razz last night, there was no visible sign of it. The girl looked wide awake and ready for battle. She was small, no more
than five two, and was wearing a pair of very short denim cut-offs and a baby-pink shirt tied under her breasts. Her navel
was pierced and studded with what might have been a diamond. Closer examination, he thought, would have settled the matter
one way or another, but it would hardly have been gentlemanly. He wondered vaguely whether she coordinated her clothes to
match the room.

‘What did you mean about the cops?’ she said crossly.

As she hadn’t offered him a seat, Harry remained standing too. ‘Death threats, criminal damage. It’s serious stuff. If I can’t
get to the bottom of it, the police will have to be involved.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘It appears to be connected to the Minnie Bright case.’

‘So?’

‘So you were one of the girls who were there that day.’

Kirsten flicked back her long fair hair and gave a shrug. ‘Maybe someone’s just got it in for Sam.’

‘So you do know it’s Sam Kendall that I’m talking about?’

Kirsten’s body stiffened, as if she’d inadvertently let something slip. He could almost see her brain ticking over while she
thought about it. Then she gradually relaxed again. ‘It’s no big secret, is it?’

‘I’m just curious as to who told you.’

Her mouth took on a sulky expression. ‘It was Paige as it happens, Paige Fielding.’

‘So you two are still friends?’

She gave another of her lazy shrugs. ‘I wouldn’t say that exactly. We haven’t got much in common any more, but we stay in
touch. She gives me a bell from time to time.’

He noted the way she stressed that Paige was always the caller. ‘You’ve moved on.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

Harry glanced around the living room. ‘It’s a far cry from the Mansfield Estate.’

‘So? No law against trying to better yourself, is there?’

‘No law at all,’ he agreed.

‘I still don’t see what you’re doing here. What do you want exactly?’

‘I want to know why someone is trying to intimidate Sam. I want to know what they’re afraid of.’ He left a short pause before
adding, ‘And when people are reluctant to talk to me about it, I have to wonder why.’

‘Maybe they just value their privacy.’

Harry recalled the press cuttings he’d just been leafing through.
Not much sign of an overwhelming desire for privacy there. ‘Maybe,’ he echoed.

A sly look passed over her face. A second later it was gone again. She dropped the frosty attitude and broke out a smile.
‘Well, I suppose as you’re here you’d better sit down. Would you like a coffee? It won’t take a minute.’

Harry was in little doubt about the reason for the sudden change of attitude. She’d tried the cool approach and that had got
her nowhere, so now she was embarking on a charm offensive. Plenty of men, he was sure, would be more than happy to be twisted
round her little finger, but he wasn’t one of them. That, however, was something she had yet to learn. ‘Thanks,’ he said amiably.
‘That’s very kind of you. Milk, no sugar.’

‘It’s no bother.’ She flashed him that smile again. ‘Make yourself comfortable.’

Harry lowered himself carefully on to the white sofa closest to the coffee table. Why anyone chose to have white sofas was
beyond him. They seemed an almost masochistic purchase. How much time was spent worrying over whether visitors might spill
a drop of red wine or leave their mucky paw prints on the pristine upholstery?

While Kirsten bustled about in the kitchen, he made another quick survey of the room. Yeah, it was just as pink as when he’d
last looked at it. There was even a pink vase on the window ledge containing a flashy display of pink and white roses. He
wondered if the flat was rented or owned. Either way, she must be earning a decent wage.

He turned his attention to the coffee table, pushed the tabloids aside and checked out the magazines. In amongst the weekly
gossip rags was a lads’ mag with Kirsten’s name emblazoned on the front. He picked it up, went to the list of contents and
flicked to the relevant pages. His eyebrows shifted up a notch as he gazed down on the glossy double-page spread – Kirsten
Cope, in all her glory, lying face down on a shaggy white rug. The only thing she was wearing was a come-hither smile and
a bucketful of slap. He let his gaze roam the length of her spine until it came to rest on her peach of a backside.

It was at that point that she came back with two mugs in her hands and saw what he was viewing. ‘Oh,’ she said, feigning a
coyness that didn’t say much for her acting ability. ‘I didn’t realise I’d left that out.’

Harry closed the magazine and placed it back on the coffee table. He wasn’t sure if he was supposed to make a comment.
Nice arse
didn’t seem entirely professional. He considered several options, but settled for the uncontroversial. ‘Thanks for the coffee.’

‘So,’ Kirsten said, settling herself down on the other end of the sofa. Her perfume, a scent that was too heavy and too musky
for the morning, mingled with the more aromatic smell of the coffee. She smiled again, displaying a row of very white, very
even teeth. ‘What did you want to ask me?’

Harry smiled back. ‘Well, as I said earlier I’m here about the threats that have been made against Sam Kendall. It strikes
me that someone’s got upset, scared even, in regard to what she might reveal about the Minnie Bright case. And the thing is,
I can’t figure out why that should be.’