Dangerous Promises (32 page)

‘There doesn’t seem to be one – on the surface. I guess you just have to follow your instincts. I mean, McCloud’s never spoken to her, has he? He hasn’t seen what you’ve seen.’

Gerald was quiet for a moment, pondering. ‘Peter Royston’s got his suspicions too. He’s been sniffing around, looking for an angle.’

‘I don’t like that man. He’s a scandalmonger… and a creep.’

‘Doesn’t mean he’s wrong, though. The guy’s got a nose for a good story.’

Nina bent and kissed the top of his head. ‘Well, I’ll leave you to it. I’m going to have a bath and go to bed. You won’t stay up too late, will you?’

‘I won’t. Goodnight, love.’

Gerald finished off the whisky while he slowly perused the contents of the file. He checked out Sharon Gissing’s statement again, trying to read between the lines. She claimed that after the burial Sadie Wise had left the graveyard while Wayne had gone to collect the car. The other two, Kelly and her mother, had decided to walk to the Fox and so she’d stayed and waited for Wayne alone. She had heard the shot as she was walking towards the main gates but presumed it was just a car backfiring.

Gerald flipped over the page and continued reading. After a while, when Wayne still hadn’t come back, Sharon had started heading up the main path. She could just about make out the red Capri at the far end, but was short-sighted and couldn’t tell if Wayne was actually inside or not. It was only when she reached the car that she discovered he’d been shot and was lying in front of the bonnet. She hadn’t wanted to waste time by calling for an ambulance and instead had driven him straight to A&E.

Gerald raised his eyes to the ceiling and gave a snort. It was nonsense, the whole damn lot of it, but impossible to prove. A cock-and-bull story invented to prevent the police from discovering who the real assailant was.

Wayne’s statement naturally tallied with Sharon’s except for the embellishment of his three black muggers. Petra and Kelly Gissing had nothing useful to add; they had left with Eddie’s family and didn’t know anything about what had happened next. The statements from the two plain-clothed officers, sent to keep an eye on proceedings, were next to useless too. They had gone to stand just outside the gates, but were unable to confirm or deny that Sadie Wise had left when she said she had. Within a minute or two a brawl had broken out in the street and by the time it had been broken up the mourners had dispersed.

Gerald frowned. A deliberate ploy or an unfortunate coincidence? The former, he decided. Whoever put a bullet into Wayne Gissing had made sure that the police would be distracted at the time of the assault. And, standing on the street with the sound of the traffic and the shouting of the brawlers, the officers would have been less likely to hear the gunshot.

Leaning his head against the back of the chair, Gerald yawned. His eyes felt sore and scratchy. He knew he should go to bed and try to get some sleep, but too much was going through his mind. He thought about the cut on Sadie Wise’s hand and wondered if it meant anything. He thought about her face, pale and pinched and drawn. It was true to say that bad things happened when she was around.

Gerald moved his head and looked down at the file again. He flicked over a few more pages until he came to a photograph of Nathan Stone. He stared long and hard at the picture. With some villains you could read their personalities in their features – the cocky smile, the hard eyes or the mocking mouth – but this was a harder face to fathom. There was something closed about it, something impenetrable. Nathan Stone was a man who, according to McCloud’s notes, had probably murdered his wife. And Sadie Wise was a girl who might have had her husband killed. Perhaps the two of them had more in common than he’d originally thought.

42

Peter Royston ate the last of his chips while he stared out at the grey stormy sea. He had taken shelter from the rain in one of the covered benches on the front but the wind still whipped around his ankles, causing the bottom of his trousers to flap and a chill to gather in his toes. He checked his watch again and saw that he still had five minutes to wait. The graveyard shift didn’t start until ten.

The promenade was virtually empty. It was too late for the dog walkers and too early for the pubs to be kicking out their customers. The sky above was starless, full of clouds, but there was plenty of light from the streetlamps. He watched the waves smash their way on to the sand, rushing up the shore before quickly retreating again.

At this time on a Friday night he’d usually be in the White Swan, sipping on a pint and keeping his ears pricked for any local gossip. Still, he’d easily make last orders if his bit of business ran smoothly. And even if he didn’t make it, it would be worth the sacrifice if he managed, eventually, to dig the dirt on Sadie Wise.

Royston scratched his chin and grinned. The chances of a scoop in a place like Haverlea were few and far between and he wasn’t about to let this opportunity slip through his fingers. There could be big bucks to be made by selling the story on to the nationals, but that wasn’t the only reason he wanted it so much. For years he’d had to put up with the likes of Frank Hunter and his cronies poking their noses in where they weren’t wanted and dictating what could or couldn’t be printed in the local paper. Middle-class, conservative and influential, they yielded an excess of power and even had his spineless editor in their pocket. Thatcher’s puppets, the whole bloody lot of them. Just for once he’d like to wipe those smug smiles off their faces – and what better way of doing it than exposing Frank Hunter’s future daughter-in-law as a murderer.

Royston rose to his feet, screwed up the vinegary chip paper and chucked it in the litter bin. As he crossed the road towards the hotel, he thought about the girl Joel Hunter was planning to marry. On the surface she might seem whiter than white, but he wasn’t taken in; he reckoned there was a dark streak running through her. He’d been tipped the wink that she was involved with a Kellston villain called Nathan Stone, but as yet hadn’t been able to corroborate the rumour.

When he’d approached her in town, Sadie had been… what was the word he was looking for? Evasive, perhaps. Certainly not cooperative. Since then, things had moved on. Today’s news about the shooting at Eddie Wise’s funeral had stoked the fire, adding to his suspicions about her guilt; he was kicking himself now that he hadn’t bothered to make the trip to London.

Royston rubbed his hands together as he climbed the steps to the Bold, pushed open the door and walked inside. The place was deserted and it wasn’t much warmer inside than out. He strode over to the desk, leaned on the counter and dinged the bell. While he waited he gazed around the foyer at the faded wallpaper and slightly shabby furniture. The hotel, built in the Victorian era, had once been a splendid building and a fashionable place to stay, but its glory days were long over. Now they struggled to fill the rooms even in the summer months.

It was another few minutes before Derek Pugh, the man on night duty, shuffled out from the back. He was in his early sixties, grey and morose with a face like a slapped arse. ‘Ah, Mr Royston. I haven’t seen you in a while. What brings you here?’

‘I need some information.’

‘And what kind of information would that be?’

‘The useful sort. You had a girl staying here last weekend, Anne something. Early twenties, slim, short black hair. I’d like an address if you’ve got it.’

Pugh’s eyes turned sly. His tongue darted out and slid along his upper lip. ‘Not sure if I’m allowed to do that, Mr Royston. I think it’s against the rules.’

Royston leaned against the counter and held up a folded five-pound note between his fingers. He watched as the older man’s eyes flicked down towards the money. ‘Well, what do they say about rules? They’re there to be broken, right?’

Pugh, possibly hoping for an increase in the bribe, wasn’t immediately forthcoming. ‘The boss wouldn’t like it.’

‘There are lots of things your boss wouldn’t like, a copy of your criminal record being one of them.’ Royston always made a point of knowing other people’s business, of rooting around in the shadows; he was an expert on dirty laundry and skeletons in the closet. ‘I mean, what if he got to hear about those cautions you’ve had for —’

‘Aw, Mr Royston, you know I don’t do that any more. It’s all in the past.’

‘Of course it is. Still, people aren’t always quick to forget or forgive. Be a shame to lose a good job like this over something that happened years ago. Personally, I’m all in favour of second chances, but then I’m a liberal-minded sort of person.’

Pugh glared at him for a moment, but when he realised that his indignation was wasted, he lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ‘I suppose it won’t do any harm, not just this once.’ He reached out for the fiver, but it was quickly snatched it away.

‘Anne something,’ Royston said. ‘Last weekend.’

With a sigh, Royston reached down under the desk, picked up a large red leather-bound book and placed it on the counter. He flipped back through the pages until he came to the right days and ran a finger down the short list of bookings. ‘No,’ he said, ‘no one by that name.’

‘Try the Friday.’

But Pugh shook his head. ‘Sure you’ve got the right hotel?’

All Royston knew was what the girl had told him at the party. ‘You don’t remember her?’ He gave the description again. ‘Young, in her early twenties, short black hair.’

‘Unless she came back after ten or left early in the morning I wouldn’t have seen her.’

Royston reached out for the book, but Pugh clamped his hand down on it. ‘I’m telling you there’s no one called Anne registered here.’

‘Any women at all, women on their own?’

Pugh went through the list again. ‘Just the one,’ he said. ‘A Mona Farrell. She booked in on the Saturday and left on the Sunday.’

‘Let me see,’ Royston said impatiently. This time Pugh gave in and let him take the book. He turned it around and stared at the name and the London address. Was it her? He flipped back through the previous week. Well, there were no other women booked in on their own. Maybe Anne was a diminutive of Mona. Or maybe… He had a sudden flashback to the party, to Sadie Wise dragging her friend away from him. She’d seemed on edge, nervous, alarmed even to find the two of them talking together. Maybe Anne wasn’t the girl’s name at all.

Royston scribbled down the Hampstead address and pushed the book back across the counter along with the five-pound note. ‘Let me know if she shows up again. I’ll make it worth your while.’

Pugh palmed the note and slid it into his trouser pocket. ‘Always a pleasure, Mr Royston. Have a nice evening.’

Royston left the hotel with a spring in his step and a good feeling in his guts. If ‘Mona Farrell’ and Anne were one and the same person then it could be the break he needed. Something was off and all he had to do now was follow the smell.

43

If it hadn’t been for the Christmas decorations springing up around town, Sadie wouldn’t have been aware of November passing into December. As she walked home from work, her gaze took in the shop windows with their artificial snow, plump red Santas, swags, garlands, trees and garish baubles. There had been a sudden explosion of glitter and glitz.

Despite the colourful show, she still felt devoid of any festive spirit. It was two weeks now since Eddie’s funeral and she’d spent the entire fortnight in a state of distraction, constantly worried that the police would turn up again. Instead of getting less fearful as time passed by, she was growing increasingly anxious, sure that they must be gathering evidence and the net was gradually closing around her.

To make matters worse, Mona Farrell had embarked on a campaign of letter writing. These letters, which came through the post almost every day, were long and rambling, often threatening, sometimes pleading and always thoroughly disturbing.
If you don’t stick to your side of the bargain, then I’m going to tell everyone what you’ve done.
Don’t think that I won’t. I don’t care if I live or die. I’ve got nothing to lose, you’ve got everything.

Included with the letters were more roughly drawn plans of the Hampstead garden with instructions on where to wait, where to go to and the exact position she should be standing in when she raised the gun and fired through the study window at Mona’s father.

This had all started on the Saturday after Eddie’s funeral. Joel had been working downstairs when the phone rang in the flat. As soon as Sadie had heard the voice on the other end of the line, her heart had sunk.

‘Why are you calling me here? I thought we’d —’

‘You haven’t been in touch,’ Mona had said peevishly. ‘It’s been over a week. What’s going on? You said you’d call.’

Sadie had taken a deep breath, pressing the phone close to her ear before delivering her answer. ‘I think it’s better if we don’t… if we don’t talk any more. I can’t do what you want me to do. I
won’t.
Do you understand?’

There had been a short silence. ‘You can’t renege on a promise.’

‘I didn’t promise anything.’

‘Yes, you did. Why are you doing this? It’s not fair. It isn’t.’

‘Please don’t call me again. It’s over, all right? I can’t do this any more.’ And then before she could say anything else, Sadie had hung up. The phone had rung again almost instantly, but she hadn’t picked up. She had turned the answer machine off too. When Mona had continued to call, over and over again, Sadie had got down on her hands and knees and pulled out the lead. While she’d been sat on the floor with her arms wrapped around her legs the harsh sound of the phone had continued to echo in her ears.

Joel had been bemused by her refusal to take any further calls off ‘Anne’ and Sadie had had to offer up a feasible explanation.

‘She wants to talk about Eddie all the time. I can’t… I don’t want to think about it any more.’

‘Can’t you tell her that?’

‘She never listens.’

And so Joel had continued to say that Sadie wasn’t in and a few days later the letters had begun to arrive. Sadie was in the habit now of always going down to pick up the post – she didn’t want him to know how often Mona was writing – and every time she saw that childlike scrawl her heart would skip a beat.