Nothing but Trouble (8 page)

Relief instantly spread across Sam Kendall’s face. ‘You will? Thank you. Thank you
so
much.’ She rose to her feet and shook his hand again. ‘I’m so grateful. I really am.’

After she’d gone, Harry wondered if he’d made the right decision. It was all very well doing favours for a friend, but this
one could land him in a heap of trouble. Lynda’s death, no matter how it had happened, was inextricably linked to the murder
of Minnie Bright. He swivelled the chair round and gazed dolefully out of the window. The sun was out, the sky was blue and
everything seemed peaceful. A good omen, or simply the calm before the storm?

The plane touched down at twelve thirty, and within half an hour he had gone through passport control, retrieved his suitcase
and strolled through customs without so much as a second glance from the uniformed officials who were standing there. He’d
expected nothing less. In all his travels through Europe
–
and they’d been wide and varied
–
he had never once been stopped. In the early years he had viewed this as a sign from above, a symbol of his strength and his
invulnerability, but now he wondered if that had simply been the arrogance of youth. A more likely explanation perhaps was
that he’d had the good fortune to be born with the kind of face that did not invite suspicion.

As he walked through the terminal, he paused by a bookshop, pretending to examine the rows of novels displayed in the window.
His eyes quickly sought out the reflections of the travellers behind him. Was he being followed? It was unlikely, but in his
line of work you could never be too careful. When he was as sure as he could be that there was no one on his tail, he refocused
his gaze on himself.

He was a commonplace middle-aged guy of average height and average build. His eyes were grey, as was his thinning hair. He
was
neither handsome nor ugly, but perfectly ordinary. The word bland could have been invented to describe him. For some men this
objective evaluation of their looks might have been disheartening, but for him it provided a solid reassurance. His features
were so mundane that they attracted no attention whatsoever – and that was exactly how he liked it.

Turning, he strode towards the train station. In his left hand he carried a black nylon suitcase, not too large, not too small.
Under his beige raincoat he was wearing an off-the-peg navy suit, a white shirt and a blue-and-white-striped tie. As he walked,
he lifted his right hand and patted the upper left pocket of his jacket. Fake passports didn’t come cheap, and he needed to
keep this one safe. He had many identities, but on this occasion he was travelling as Ian English, a retired expat home to
visit his family.

As he stepped on to the station platform, mingling with the crowd, he thought of his real family back in Cadiz. He looked
up at the clock, knocking off an hour for Spanish time. The lunchtime rush at the bar he owned would be in full swing now.
His wife, Anna, would be serving the food and drink, clearing the tables, stacking the dirty plates and glasses on the counter
and looking forward to a sit-down. He could imagine her smiling as she wiped her forehead with the back of her hand, a fondly
remembered gesture that made the breath catch in the back of his throat. Immediately he brushed the image aside. He was no
longer a husband. He was another man, with another man’s responsibilities.

From Gatwick there was a Service every fifteen minutes to Victoria, and he didn’t have long to wait for a train. As he made
his way through the compartments, he took note, as always, of the people around him. He could sniff out a copper at a hundred
paces, but it wasn’t just the filth he had to worry about. If there had been a leak – and he prayed to God that there hadn’t
been – then his shadow could be much harder to spot.

He lifted his suitcase on to the overhead rack after choosing a seat
beside a pretty blonde girl with an iPod round her neck. She glanced sideways, instantly dismissing him as of no significant
sexual interest before shifting a fraction of an inch closer to the window. He was certain, even if pressed, that the only
facts she’d be able to recall about him were that he was old and that he was male. Girls of her age
–
what was she?
–
nineteen? twenty? – viewed most men over forty as being in their dotage.

Before settling down, he glanced casually over his shoulder to see if anyone, especially anyone without luggage, was taking
a seat behind him. He was instinctively more wary of the male passengers, but fought against the prejudice; there were plenty
of female cops these days, plenty of women involved in all kinds of undercover work. It was best not to make any assumptions.

He passed the half-hour journey staring at a paper he had picked up at the airport. War, famine, political scheming. He flicked
over the pages, but he wasn’t really reading. It was all bad news and he didn’t need reminding of the dire state of the world.
He had problems of his own. It was these more personal problems that he dwelled on as the train rattled towards its destination.

Knowing when to quit was the trick to his game, and he’d made that decision years ago. Being back on the job made him uneasy.
It was over a decade since his last assignment, and had he been given the choice he would not have come out of retirement,
but a favour had been called in, and it was the kind of favour that couldn’t be refused.

What if something went wrong? Past mistakes
–
made more notable by their rarity
–
rose into his mind. He felt a shifting in his chest, a spasm of anxiety. But no, he had learned by those mistakes. They would
not happen again.

He took slow deep breaths, trying to free his mind of all the niggling doubts. Clarity was what he needed now, clarity, discipline
and focus. As he breathed in, he caught a subtle hint of perfume from the girl sitting beside him. The smell, redolent of
blowsy
old-fashioned roses, triggered something in his subconscious, a disturbing reminder of the past. He quickly turned his head
away.

The journey felt like a long one, but eventually they arrived at
Victoria. He got off the train, strolled along the platform and
entered the busy main forecourt. Here he bent down by his suitcase,
unzipping a side pocket while he surreptitiously took stock of the
faces around him. Did he have company? He didn’t think so.

There was a café to his right, and he considered getting a coffee, but decided to push on. He had to find the offices of the
car rental company, and then make his way to the East End. For the first time in years he was going back to where he’d been
born. He felt a shiver of revulsion roll down his spine. Would it have changed much? On the surface perhaps, but not underneath.
It had been rotten when he lived there and would still be rotten now.

Jess answered the phone and smiled broadly as Harry Lind gave her the news. ‘That’s great,’ she said. ‘You’re a star. So what
shall we do first?’

There was a short hesitation. ‘What’s with the
we
?’

‘Well, there’s no point in us working separately. We may as well pool our resources. Sam’s absolutely fine about it, so you
don’t have to worry about client confidentiality.’

‘Maybe that’s not what I’m worried about.’

She snorted. ‘Oh, charming as always. Are you trying to say that I’m difficult to work with?’

‘As if,’ he murmured.

‘So what’s the problem?’ She didn’t give him time to answer before pleading her case. ‘Look, I’ve already got a file on this,
a heap of papers. Why don’t I just bring them round? Or even better, why don’t we meet at the market. Paige Fielding has a
stall there. Perhaps we can find out what made her change her mind about talking to me.’

‘You mean right now?’

‘Sorry, are you busy?’

There was another brief hesitation. ‘No, but—’

‘Okay,’ she said, before he could think of something he’d rather be doing. ‘That’s good. Let’s meet by the monument in half
an hour. See you in a bit.’ She hung up quickly, reached for her jacket and pulled it on.

Neil was lying on the sofa, drinking from a can and watching the TV. On it two teams of burly rugby players were throwing
a ball around. He looked over at her. ‘I take it you’re deserting me, then?’

She walked across the room and bent down to kiss the top of his head. ‘Sorry, hun. There’s something I’ve got to do. It’s
important. But I won’t be long, only a couple of hours.’

‘And I’m
not
important?’

Jess grinned, knowing that he wasn’t being serious. One of the things she liked about Neil was that he never complained when
her job took priority. She didn’t work nine to five, five days a week, but had to chase her stories whenever and wherever
they arose. ‘Of course you are. Your importance goes beyond mere words.’

‘Prove it,’ he said, reaching up and pulling her down so he could kiss her on the lips.

‘I will,’ she replied as she reluctantly broke away from his embrace. ‘Later.’

‘Promises, promises.’ He lay back, gazing into her eyes. ‘So what’s the emergency? What’s so pressing that you have to sacrifice
a Saturday afternoon with the man of your dreams?’

She turned away and grabbed her bag, a brown folder and the car keys. ‘For one, the man of my dreams doesn’t taste of lager
and cheese and onion crisps. And for two, it’s a matter of striking while the iron’s hot. If I don’t grab Harry Lind’s attention
now, this whole thing could go off the boil.’ Jess knew that Harry had at least one other case he was currently involved with
– finding out how faithful or otherwise Aimee Locke was –
and she didn’t want him to get so completely sidetracked that he lost all interest in Sam’s problems. Thinking of Aimee reminded
her of the woman she’d been having dinner with. ‘Hey, I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across a lawyer called Vita Howard?’

Neil was a senior barristers’ clerk for a large law firm in Lincoln’s Inn. He worked half as many hours as Jess and earned
three times as much. ‘The lovely Kavita? Yes, I know her.’

Jess raised her brows. ‘Lovely, eh?’

He grinned. ‘Well, not as lovely as you, naturally. But were I a free man of good health and natural appetites, I might just
be tempted to give her a second glance. Why do you ask?’

‘I met her last night, briefly. Does she do divorce work?’

‘No, that’s not her bag. She’s into criminal law, dealing with all the lowlifes of Kellston who regularly walk through the
doors of Patterson, Hoylake and Co. She’s a smart cookie, though. She’s wasted with that firm.’

‘So why does she stay there?’

Neil put his can down on the coffee table, shifted on the sofa and rearranged a couple of cushions. ‘Rumour has it that her
old man has something of a record. She fell into the trap of mixing business with pleasure and ended up married to one of
her clients. That kind of connection doesn’t go down too well with some firms.’ He picked up the can again. ‘So why do you
want to know? Are you after some good prenup advice in case I pop the question?’

She laughed. ‘Yeah, that’s it. I’m planning ahead. So if you’re intending to take me for every penny I’ve got, think again.’

He pulled a face. ‘So much for my master plan.’

‘Okay, I’d better go. See you later.’ Jess stepped into the hall, then put her head back round the door. ‘Oh, and what we
just discussed about Vita Howard, it’s off the record, right?’

‘Who?’ he said.

She gave a nod. ‘You’re smarter than you look, babe.’

‘Love you too, honeybun.’

Outside, Jess got into her cherry-red Mini Cooper, threw her bag and the file on to the passenger seat and set off for Kellston.
Her mouth widened into a smile as she drove along Victoria Park Road. She’d been seeing Neil Stafford for almost a year now,
and had never been happier. He was smart, attractive and funny. He was also amicably divorced with no kids and – as far as
she could make out – no seriously bad habits. Just for once, she appeared to have struck gold.

They weren’t actually living together – he had his own flat in Pimlico – but they spent most weekends and a couple of nights
in the week together at either his place or hers. This arrangement suited Jess just fine. She liked spending time with him,
but she liked her own space too. There would come a point, she supposed, when he might want something more, but thankfully
it hadn’t yet been reached.

Putting the radio on, she hummed along to an old song she could only vaguely remember the words to. She thought about what
Neil had told her regarding Vita Howard. She’d been hoping to get some useful information to pass on to Harry, a kind of thank-you
for taking on Sam’s case, but her original theory that Aimee Locke could be thinking of beating her husband to the punch seemed
unlikely in the light of what she’d learned. Although maybe not. Just because Vita didn’t specialise in divorce didn’t mean
she couldn’t give advice about it. But then again, with the kind of money Aimee had, wasn’t she more likely to consult one
of those flash City lawyers?

Jess continued to weigh up the arguments as she negotiated the weekend traffic. She tapped her fingers against the wheel as
her mind wandered on to the Minnie Bright case. Despite what she’d told Harry about being interested in the legacy of the
crime rather than the crime itself, she wasn’t convinced that the original investigation had been that thorough. The cops
had
found the poor kid’s body in Donald Peck’s house, and from that point on it was case closed. But if it had all been so clear-cut,
then why was someone trying so hard to stop Sam from talking about it? The more Jess thought about this, the less it added
up.

When Jess reached Kellston, she drove along the high street before turning into Station Road and swinging a right into the
car park of the Fox. It was after three o’clock and there were plenty of spaces. The lunchtime rush was over and it wouldn’t
get really busy again until the evening.