Double Jeopardy, page 10
‘Right.’ Pace nodded. ‘I’ll get the word round to keep an eye out for her. Then I’ll go and see her sister. She works for Bridger, so I won’t have any trouble if—’
He broke off as his mobile phone rang.
‘Sorry, Harry.’
For a moment, Soames thought that might be the spark to set Milton off, but Milton just nodded and Pace took the call.
‘Yes?’ Pace frowned and then rolled his eyes. ‘He’s what?’ He shook his head. ‘Right. Which hospital? Yeah – I’ve got that, thanks for ringing.’ He switched the phone off and looked across at Milton. ‘That was Reggie’s sister. He crashed his car on his way back here last night. They took him to the Royal Hospital. Nothing’s broken, but he was unconscious and he’s only just come round. He’ll probably be in hospital for a couple of days.’
‘Stupid pillock.’ Milton was more worried about losing someone who could help in the hunt for Beverly Wallace than he was about Gray’s health.
‘At least if he was coming back into the city he should have finished his job,’ Pace commented.
Milton grunted.
‘There’s only one job that’s important now,’ he said. ‘Find Beverly Wallace and bring her in.’
At the moment when Harry Milton was expressing a wish to find her, Beverly rolled over in bed and opened her eyes. Sunlight was coming into the small bedroom through thin curtains, illuminating the low-beamed ceiling, the simple furnishings and the thin mat on the floor by the bed. There remained a faint musty smell from the cottage being locked up and unused, even though she had left the bedroom window ajar. She always slept with the curtains drawn and a window open and she suddenly realized that she had no idea whether Jeffrey did too. She could hear the soft sound of his breathing beside her and deeper sound of the sea beyond the window forming a background to the sharp, constant call of the gulls that she knew would be circling the cliff top, hunting their breakfast. The thought of breakfast made her feel suddenly hungry herself. She stretched and turned to look at the man lying beside her. He seemed very young, almost boyish lying asleep with a lock of dark straight hair falling across his face. She smiled at him, leant across and kissed him.
Jeffrey Jones, known generally as JJ, opened one eye and yawned.
‘Good morning.’ He spoke thickly as he rolled over to face her. ‘What time is it?’
She looked at the silver watch that she always wore to bed, often with nothing else.
‘Nine-thirty.’
Jones groaned and ran his hands over his face. He felt as though he hadn’t had any sleep at all. Memories from the night before came flooding back. Waiting in the woods, tense and worried, for Beverly to arrive. Imagining all the things that could go wrong and what would happen if they did. The immense relief when she came, labouring under the weight of her cases. The two-hour drive to the cottage that he had only visited twice before and never in the dark. The constant glances at the rear mirror for signs of pursuit and near panic on the few occasions when headlights got too close. Relief when they finally arrived after twice losing their way. Eventually crawling into bed and tossing and turning for ages despite his exhaustion, reliving what they had just been through and suddenly aware of the import of what they had done and the danger they were in.
At first, the plan had seemed exciting and romantic, a fitting extension of their passionate love affair. He had first met Beverly when she had come to take individual lessons at the dance school where he worked and he had been her teacher. She was a natural mover, but needed to learn the steps and the discipline of the ballroom dances. The first two or three visits had been purely professional. There had been an immediate easiness between them and they talked and joked as they danced. The mutual attraction had developed quickly and, as he held her and took her through the dance steps, they had started whispering to each other, carefully testing to see if each felt the same, making sure that they weren’t overheard by the other couples on the floor.
She told him she was living with a man she didn’t love, didn’t even respect, but whom she feared. She had plenty of material things, but he gave her nothing else and wanted only one thing from her. Eventually, he would tire even of that and she knew that then she would be cast off to end up only God knew where and doing only God knew what – although she could have a pretty good guess. You didn’t put her current occupation on your CV – at least, not on most CVs.
Their whispers had led to the first of the phantom dance lessons, when she had told Milton that she needed extra tuition and had met Jones at an hotel where the feelings they had been developing were consummated. More meetings followed. She learnt her dance steps easily, so she just had to pretend to Milton that she was finding it more difficult than she really was and the extra lessons were justified. Jones found out more about her, more about the man Milton whom she feared so much. Visits to hotels were supplemented by uncomfortable manoeuvrings in the back of Jones’s car parked down wooded lanes or behind abandoned factories. Eventually, the surreptitious meetings were not enough and they decided to run away. Jones resigned from the dance school, giving a month’s notice and they decided that they would leave at the end of that time.
Jones had an Irish friend from his student days who owned a boat and would be able to get them across to Ireland. The friend also had somewhat dubious contacts who would be able to produce forged passports and other documents. From Ireland, with new names, they would get to America and disappear. One of the reasons they had to lie low in the cottage for a few days rather than try to leave the country immediately by boat or plane was to give the friend a chance to get the documents ready. He and his contacts insisted on cash on delivery and wouldn’t start preparing the documents until Beverly had escaped with Milton’s money so that she had the cash to pay for them.
Milton himself had many contacts in the US, so it was imperative that they were able to create new identities and have the money to set themselves up with new lives. With the contacts Milton’s organization could call upon, using conventional transport links in Beverly’s own name would be suicide in either Britain or America. In these days of computerized information, you only needed to grease one or two key palms and the information could be easily accessed. Beverly knew Milton was bound to come after them anyway, so she might as well steal from him as well in order to fund their new lives. It was, she thought, a bit like a witness protection programme except that it would be funded by the person they needed to be protected against. She rather liked the poetic justice of that. At least Milton wouldn’t call in the police, although if they had to be found out, better the police than Milton’s people. Also, with luck, Milton wouldn’t find out about JJ, at least for a while, and that would make it more difficult to track them.
Beverly had lived her whole life under the control of men she had not been able to choose – first her violent father, then a succession of low-life chancers who had only wanted her for her body, and finally Milton, who was the same but with money to spend. Now she had chosen her man herself and that gave her an immense feeling of freedom and release, almost as if she had been reborn, despite the enormous danger that she faced as a result of that choice.
Their refuge was a cottage owned by Jones’s brother, who was a financial trader in London and who owned a cottage on the north-west coast that he could use when he wanted to get back to his northern roots – which he did about three times a year. He had been happy for JJ to use the cottage for a few days, without knowing exactly why he needed it, and they planned to stay there until Jones’s friend arrived in his boat, which was scheduled for three days’ time. Until then, all they could do was lie low and hope Milton wouldn’t trace them.
The cottage was a simple wooden dwelling on the top of a cliff above a shallow bay. There were a few other cottages around, but none within sight. A number of trees and thick bushes covered the cliff top, providing natural seclusion for each dwelling. A steep path led down from their cottage to the crescent-shaped beach, which was shallow enough for Jones’s friend to pick them up in a dinghy. Beyond the cove to the right could be seen a narrow spit of land with a disused lighthouse on it. The nearest village was nearly two miles away by road. A narrow track led from the cottage to an only slightly wider B-road bordered by thick hedges and woods. There was little chance of anyone stumbling on their hideout by accident.
Jones intended to drive to the village later that morning for provisions and if asked would simply say that he was a keen bird watcher and was staying alone in his brother’s cottage for a few days’ holiday.
All these events and plans crowded back into Jones’s mind as Beverly kissed him again. Yes, it was all going to be worth it. He kissed her back, tiredness slipping away from him. She pulled away with a laugh.
‘Down, Fido. Plenty of time for that later. Sorry to wake you, but I couldn’t sleep. I’m too excited and too hungry. Do you want some breakfast?’
He smiled ruefully and sat up against the pillows.
‘I’ll need to go into the village for some stuff – milk and bread and things. There’s some tinned food in the kitchen, but nothing perishable. I’ll get enough for two or three days, I want to keep the trips to the village to a minimum, just in case. Maybe make one more trip at the most.’
He swung his legs out of bed and reached for where he had left his clothes, hanging over an old wooden chair.
‘Don’t worry.’ Now that she had escaped Milton’s house, Beverly was feeling much more relaxed. She put her arms round his shoulders, starting to regret that she had put satisfying her hunger ahead of satisfying other needs. ‘We are quite safe now; there’s no way Milton can find us here, and he has no idea that you exist.’
There were few similarities between Horace Soames and Chief Superintendent Leo Jason, but one was their mutual dislike of hospitals. Although Milton had been less than sympathetic about Reggie Gray’s accident, Soames had felt that someone from the organization should go to see him, if only to make sure that there were no adverse implications arising from it for them. It also gave him an excuse to be out of the house and away from Milton’s volatile temper.
The Royal was Havenchester’s biggest hospital, recently rebuilt on a new site at considerable expense and public disquiet at the closure of two other hospitals with Accident and Emergency facilities. Its glass walls sprawled over a considerable area and contained a maze of corridors that seemed to stretch for miles. By the time Soames had found a space for his car in the massive (and expensive) car-park, located Gray’s ward on the fifth floor of the east tower and found his way there, it was well past midday and he was beginning to feel that it would have been preferable to stay at home and risk annoying his employer.
Gray was sitting propped up in bed with a bandage round his head. Not particularly photogenic at the best of times, his pasty face and bloodshot eyes looked even worse than usual. He was never one of the sharpest knives in the drawer, but even so, he wasn’t usually as close to the spoon family as he now appeared. His face held a slightly dazed and unfocused look and his voice sounded thick and slurred.
‘How are you feeling?’ Soames asked, trying to sound as though he cared. He found a green moulded plastic chair with springy metal legs that was presumably for the use of visitors and sat down gingerly. The legs squeaked on the linoleum floor.
‘I’ve got a foul headache and some nasty bruises, otherwise not too bad.’ Gray’s answer took a while to come, as if his brain was labouring in first gear. He reached across to the cabinet at the side of the bed, lifted a glass of water in a shaky grasp and took a deep swallow. Soames reflected with sardonic amusement that it was probably the first time since his voice had broken that Gray had drunk his water neat.
‘What happened?’ Soames took the glass from Gray and replaced it on the cabinet, more through fear of his trousers getting drenched than from any desire to be helpful.
‘I was trying to get back to the house quickly and got lost on a back road.’ Gray considered the question carefully as if it he was being asked for a complex mathematical formula. ‘It was dark and raining and I misjudged a turning and hit a tree. I don’t remember all that much about it. The doctor reckons I was lucky not to have done more damage.’ He leant back against his pillows and closed his eyes.
‘What did the police say?’ Soames didn’t want him dozing off until he had made sure there wouldn’t be any comeback to the organization as a result of the accident. Milton had enough on his plate without being involved in some piddling police enquiry as a result of Gray’s carelessness.
Gray opened his eyes again and managed to focus on Soames’s face.
‘I wasn’t over the limit and the car was only a couple of years old, so they accepted that it was just an accident in the bad weather. No one else was injured and there wasn’t any property damage, so they’re not going to take any further action.’
‘Good.’ Soames sat back in his chair, causing it to rock alarmingly on its springy legs. He leant forward again rapidly. ‘Why were you in such a hurry anyway?’
Gray sat up a bit straighter in bed, wincing as the movement aggravated his headache, and leaned forward as if to keep what he had to say confidential. The patients in the beds on either side were asleep. No one was paying them any attention.
‘I saw Beverly Wallace in a pub with a bloke. I thought Mr Milton should know as soon as possible.’ The bloodshot eyes seemed animated for the first time. ‘They looked like they were more than just friends, if you get my drift.’
Soames felt a flutter of excitement. So it had been worth coming after all.
‘Did you recognize the bloke?’
Gray shook his head and immediately regretted it. He lay back on his pillows again for a moment with his eyes closed.
‘It’s all a bit hazy at the moment because of the accident. He was a young guy and I didn’t know him, but I can’t remember much else. Doctor says I might have a bit of memory loss for a while, but it should come back soon.’
‘Make sure it does, it’s important.’ Soames spoke abruptly. ‘Beverly Wallace has done a runner with some of Mr Milton’s property and he wants both of them back sharpish.’
‘Strewth, I bet he does.’ Gray felt a brief surge of excitement at the sudden realization of his importance, followed immediately by concern that he wouldn’t be very popular if he didn’t regain his memory quickly.
‘They’re keeping me in today for observation, but I should be let out tomorrow. I’ll try to remember the details by then.’
‘See that you do.’ Soames got up. ‘I’ll come and pick you up tomorrow morning. Give us a ring if you think of anything before then.’
‘Will do.’
As Soames turned to walk back down the ward, Gray’s eyes closed again. He was sure that there was something else he had to say, but he couldn’t remember what it was and thinking too hard made his head ache even more than usual.
The Pussy Kat Klub was about as subtle as its name implied and as proper as the spelling. It was situated, along with a number of other similar establishments, towards the centre of the city. Although ostensibly a membership only club, it catered for anyone who paid the ten-pound fee on the door and appeared to the doorman not to be likely to cause trouble at either the price of the drinks or the antics of the performers. The club was owned by Vernon Bridger and it says something about his other activities that it represented one of his more upper-class establishments – provided you did not enquire too closely about the activities in the rooms on the upper floors. It was designed to maximize profits – to charge as much as the market would bear for whatever services its clientele wanted. If a customer was prepared to pay for a service, Bridger was happy for one of his employees to provide it, no questions asked. He was even prepared for others to trade on his premises – drugs and guns being the main commodities – provided he received his commission.
Jack Pace arrived at the club at 5.30. He was feeling touchy and irritable, having spent most of the day contacting people throughout Harry Milton’s organization, giving them photographs of Beverly and putting them on the alert to find her. He had spent time not just with those directly employed by Milton, but also with the even bigger group of those with various other occupations who received monthly payouts to be available as sources of information and support when called upon. In between the telephone calls and personal visits, he had also been trying unsuccessfully to locate Beverly Wallace’s sister. He knew her home address, but she had not been in when he called and her flatmate had no idea when she would return. Pace was intelligent enough not to unnecessarily antagonize someone who might actually go to the police if threatened, so he had just left messages for Sandi Wallace to contact him. There had been three such messages. He had obtained Sandi’s mobile phone number from the flatmate, but the phone had been switched off and the message left there gone unreturned. He had been the target of some biting criticism from Harry Milton as a result and wondered if Beverly had taken her sister with her. The flatmate was expecting her back and Pace didn’t think she was lying about that, but she could have been deceived as well.
Pace knew that Sandi Wallace performed at the Pussy Kat Klub most evenings and so, although his temper had been rising steadily with his frustration, unless she was in it with Beverly, he had in all probability only been delayed for a few hours from hopefully getting a lead on her sister.
The doorman at the club knew Pace, took one look at his face and made no effort to stop him from entering or to enter into conversation with him. The young woman at the counter just inside the door made no attempt to ask for the membership fee; she too recognized Pace. Harry Milton easily trumped Vernon Bridger in the gangland pecking order and they did not want any trouble. When Pace asked for Sandi Wallace’s dressing-room, he was directed there without question. If Sandi was in trouble, she might get some mild sympathy, but nobody in the club would be helping her against Pace.
