Nothing but Trouble (31 page)

Valerie hesitated again. She could still change her mind. It wasn’t too late. She could pretend she’d called about some work-related
problem. But then she thought about Harry playing happy flatmates with Jessica Vaughan. Well, if he was moving on, so could
she. ‘Actually, I was wondering if you were still up for that drink. Tomorrow evening, maybe? You were right, we should celebrate.
We had a good result.’

‘Yeah, that sounds great. Where do you fancy?’

‘How about the Fox, if you don’t mind coming over to Kellston? Somewhere local would be better for me.’ And even better, she
thought, if she happened to run into Harry. If he was going to play fast and loose with whatever remained of their relationship,
then so could she. Having a good-looking man on her arm might help him to realise that she wasn’t going to wait around for
ever.

‘The Fox is fine. What shall we say – seven o’clock? You can always give me a bell if you get held up.’

‘Good. I’ll see you then,’ she said.

‘And hey, Valerie?’

‘Yes?’

He paused. ‘I’m glad you called.’

‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ She smiled and put the phone down. Immediately she thought of Harry again and felt a twinge of guilt.
What was she doing? But she quickly pushed the question aside. It was only a drink, nothing serious. She wasn’t planning on
eloping with the guy.

Jess rolled over in bed, stretched out her hand and turned off the thin, annoying beep of the alarm clock. She rubbed at her
eyes, still scratchy with fatigue. She had slept only fitfully, a part of her constantly alert to the night-time noises of
a flat that was not her own. Every creak, every bump, even the patter of the rain against the window had lifted her out of
her dreams and back into a nervous consciousness.

The scariest time had been just after one o’clock, when she had woken to the sound of footsteps. Her stomach had clenched,
her heart starting to hammer out a thunderous beat. She had thought of the man who had strangled Becky Hibbert. She had thought
of the man who had tried to kill
her,
here now perhaps to finish the job. Her whole body had gone rigid, sweat forming on her forehead, her pulse racing.

It had taken a long and terrifying thirty seconds for her to realise that it was only Harry coming in from his surveillance.
His kind and thoughtful attempt at not disturbing her had backfired spectacularly. Mistaking his careful tread for that of
an intruder, she had only realised her mistake
when she’d heard him cough softly as he went into his room.

Jess shook her head, trying to clear her mind of the last eight hours. She got out of bed and padded out to the bathroom.
There she stood for a long while under the shower, letting the hot water slough away the night terrors. Then she brushed her
teeth and examined her face in the mirror. Frowning at the dark shadows under her eyes, she hoped that a layer of concealer
might disguise the worst of the damage.

Back in the bedroom, she wondered what to wear for her meeting with Ralph Masterson. Not that she had a whole lot of choice.
Her wardrobe still only consisted of a few essential items. Jeans, she decided, were out of the question, and she eventually
settled on the black trousers, white shirt and black jacket. Although she had only talked to him on the phone, she had the
impression that Masterson would respond better to someone who was smartly dressed.

She checked her watch as she put on her clothes. It was only eight o’clock, another two hours before the appointment. She
would spend them going over her notes so that she was fully prepared when she arrived at his house. A faint flutter of excitement
tugged at her insides. Masterson, she was sure, was not convinced of Donald Peck’s guilt. Why else would he have agreed to
see her? And if he was right, then the Minnie Bright murder case would be blown wide open. It would be a scoop, there was
no doubt about that, but her motives in pursuing the truth had shifted from the professional to the personal. She could not
shake off the nagging guilt that she was responsible for Becky Hibbert’s death. If it was the last thing she did, Jess was
determined to uncover the truth.

In the kitchen, she made coffee and toast and carried them through to the living room table. She sat by the window and gazed
down on Station Road. It was another grey day, the rain falling
steadily. The sunny weather of a few days ago already seemed like a distant memory. Still, the greyness suited her mood. After
reaching for her notes, she bent her head and started to read.

Fifteen minutes later, she heard the door to Harry’s bedroom open, and he wandered into the living room wearing his dressing
gown. ‘Morning,’ he said. ‘You sleep okay?’

‘Like a baby,’ she lied.

‘Good. You want a coffee?’

‘I’m sorted, thanks.’

As he went through to the kitchen, Jess noticed the deep scars on his left leg. They were the result, she knew, of a blast
at a crack factory, a blast that had destroyed his police career. She thought how hard it must have been for him to have his
life shattered in such a way. The scars, she suspected, were more than just physical.

Harry came back a few minutes later and sat down on the opposite side of the table. ‘So,’ he said, ‘what are your plans for
today?’

‘I managed to track down Ralph Masterson, Peck’s probation officer. I’m seeing him at ten o’clock.’

Harry paused for a moment, then said, ‘So you’re carrying on?’

Jess looked at him. ‘Of course I am. Whoever torched my flat is still out there somewhere. What else can I do?’

‘Leave it to the cops?’ he suggested.

‘They’re too busy searching for this Livesey guy. They don’t think there’s any connection to the fire.’ She remembered Valerie
Middleton’s curt conversation with her yesterday. ‘And they certainly don’t think that Becky’s death has any link to the Minnie
Bright case.’

‘Maybe it hasn’t.’

‘Or maybe they’ve got the wrong guy. Or maybe someone paid Livesey to kill her.’

Harry’s eyebrows shifted up.

She saw his expression and said, ‘Yes, I know. It sounds kind of far-fetched. But doesn’t it strike you as mighty convenient
that Becky gets murdered the minute she opens her mouth and starts talking? And that someone tries to cook my arse on the
very same night? That’s just too weird to be a coincidence.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘There’s no perhaps about it.’

Harry opened his mouth but then closed it again, probably realising that once Jess’s mind was made up, no one was likely to
change it in a hurry. He drank some of his coffee, glanced out of the window then looked back at her. ‘So have you thought
any more about tonight?’

‘Tonight?’

‘The casino,’ he said. ‘An opportunity to mingle with the big spenders and see how the other half live.’

Jess had forgotten all about his invitation. She was about to turn him down when she had a flashback to the evening before,
of how jumpy and nervous she had felt. Harry probably wouldn’t get back until the early hours, and as a result she was likely
to have another anxious night. At some point she would have to get used to living alone again, but right now – at least while
there was a killer on the loose – she preferred to be in company.

‘Okay,’ she said. ‘Why not? What’s the dress code, though? I’m a bit short on tiaras at the moment.’

Harry smiled. ‘Just something smart, I guess. Are you okay for cash, only I could—’

‘No, I’m fine. I sorted things with the bank yesterday and I’ve got my credit cards.’ The other advantage of going to the
casino, she thought, was that it would give the two of them the chance to have a proper conversation after she’d seen Masterson.
It helped to have someone to bounce ideas off, especially in a situation as complicated as this one.

‘Right,’ he said, rising to his feet. ‘I’m off for a shower. I’ll be leaving about seven, so I’ll meet you back here then.’

‘Seven it is. I’ll be ready.’

Jess finished her toast, thinking idly about the lovely Aimee Locke. She wondered what it was like to be married to a man
who had so little trust he employed a private detective to spy on you. What kind of a relationship was that? But then when
it came to honesty, she was hardly in the Premier League herself. She hadn’t exactly lied to Neil, but she hadn’t told him
the whole truth either. She knew that when he heard about what had happened he’d be afraid for her safety and would try to
persuade her to back off from the investigation. But she’d come too far to pull out now. Whatever the cost, however long it
took, she was committed to seeing things through to the end.

Banner Road was only a short distance from Bethnal Green tube. Knowing that Ralph Masterson was the kind of man who would
not appreciate tardiness – he’d made that perfectly clear on the phone – Jess had left herself plenty of time. Once she’d
worked out where the road was, she went around the block, parked and waited there until it was almost time for their appointment.
She used the ten minutes to take another look at her notes and to consider the questions she would ask.

As she drove slowly down the cul-de-sac, Jess saw a series of neat two-storey red-brick houses and realised from a For Sale
sign that these were retirement homes. The buildings looked fairly new, and the front gardens, although small, were all carefully
tended. Number 24 was at the end of the road. She pulled in to the kerb and turned off the engine.

As she got out of the Mini, she was instantly aware of being observed. At least three pairs of curtains twitched as she headed
for Masterson’s house. The Neighbourhood Watch scheme was in full swing here, the residents zealously guarding themselves
and their properties. And who could blame them? London had
plenty of junkie scumbags who wouldn’t think twice about robbing or attacking the elderly.

Jess walked up the short driveway, pressed the bell and heard it ring inside. The door was answered almost immediately by
a small, wiry man with more wrinkles than a walnut. A few thin grey hairs had been brushed back from his forehead in a vain
attempt to cover the pink scalp underneath. His face, however, was full of character, and despite his age, the brown eyes
were bright and alert.

‘Hello,’ she said, smiling and extending her hand. ‘Mr Masterson? I’m Jessica Vaughan. Thank you for seeing me.’

He took her hand and shook it, his palm dry and papery but the grip still firm. ‘Ms Vaughan,’ he said, simultaneously giving
her a nod. ‘You’d better step inside before my overly vigilant neighbours raise the alarm.’

‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Do I look that suspicious?’

He stood aside to let her in. ‘Banner Road, I’m afraid, abounds with Miss Marples, all ready and eager to fear the worst.
Already their tongues will be wagging ten to the dozen.’ He expelled a thin sigh. ‘In a community like this, every unknown
visitor provides an opportunity for endless conjecture.’

Jess smiled again. ‘Still, it must be nice to know that someone’s watching out for you.’

‘If you don’t mind being under surveillance twenty-four hours a day.’ He closed the door and led her into a room off the hallway.
‘Please take a seat,’ he said, gesturing towards a dark blue sofa. ‘I took the liberty of making tea. I hope you drink tea.
Or would you prefer coffee?’

‘Tea would be lovely. Thank you. That’s very kind.’ She sat down in the corner of the sofa closest to the matching easy chair
and had a quick look around the room. It was hardly generous in its proportions, but it was light and clean, the walls painted
cream, a beige carpet adorned with a rectangular rug patterned with deep blues and greens. There was a small mahogany table
by the window. Uncluttered by too much furniture, it was a very male room, purely practical and without any of the softer
feminine touches. An alcove to the right had been lined with shelves, and these were full of books, the spines revealing volumes
of criminal law, biography and serious fiction.

Masterson lowered himself into the easy chair and leaned forward towards the tray on the coffee table. On it stood a white
ceramic pot along with two china cups, a sugar bowl and a milk jug. Jess couldn’t recall the last time she’d had tea made
in a pot. She never got beyond dunking a bag in a mug of boiling water.

‘So,’ he said as he poured. ‘You want to know about Donald Peck.’

‘That’s right,’ Jess said. ‘Although when I first started writing the article I wasn’t interested in the original case. I
was planning a piece about the long-term psychological effects on people who knew someone who had been murdered. I got friendly
with a woman called Sam Kendall. Does the name mean anything to you?’

Masterson put down the pot and shook his head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

Jess wasn’t surprised. Sam hadn’t given evidence at the trial, and although her name must have been known locally at the time
of the killing, there was no reason for him to recall it fourteen years later. ‘She was one of the girls who were hanging
out with Minnie Bright that day.’

‘I see.’ His right hand trembled as he passed her the cup, but she had no way of knowing whether this was down to the emotive
nature of the subject matter or simply the ravages of old age. ‘Help yourself to milk and sugar.’

‘Thank you.’ Jess added some milk to her tea and stirred it. Then she took a quick breath and gave him a rundown on the
threatening notes, the damage to Sam’s car and the sudden decision of the two other girls not to talk. She didn’t mention
the fire, or Becky Hibbert’s death. He may have heard about the murder on the news, but if he hadn’t recognised Sam’s name,
then he probably wouldn’t have recognised Becky’s either. The one thing she didn’t want to do was spook him. If he thought
there was a chance of getting caught up in a murder inquiry, he might decide to keep quiet.

When she came to the end of her story, she took a sip of tea and put the cup down again. ‘So that’s how I started to wonder
if there was more to the case than had come out at the trial. I could be completely wrong, but I’d like to hear your take
on things. You were Peck’s probation officer, so I imagine you knew him pretty well.’