Nothing but Trouble (41 page)

She put the cigarette to her lips, inhaled, and then released the smoke in a long thin stream. ‘Ask away.’

‘Why did you lie to your husband about going to Adriano’s on Friday?’

Aimee lifted her face to the sun and half closed her eyes. ‘Because I didn’t want a row.’ She blinked twice and gave him a
sidelong glance. ‘He doesn’t like Vita. In fact, he doesn’t much care for any woman with a mind of her own. It was less bother
to tell him I was going to work.’

‘But by lying, you only fuel his suspicions.’

She sighed and took another drag on the cigarette. ‘Only if he finds out. I thought it was worth the risk. I didn’t think
my shadow would start watching until Saturday, when Martin went away. That’s how it usually works.’

Even through the tobacco, Harry could still smell her perfume, a light, exquisite scent that floated in the air. ‘Vita Howard’s
a friend of yours then? Or were you seeing her in a more professional capacity?’

Aimee turned her head to look at him again, but she didn’t give a straight answer to his question. ‘Vita’s a smart lady.’

‘Apart from her choice in partners.’

‘Oh, Rick’s okay. He’s actually quite charming. So he made a few mistakes in the past. Who hasn’t? Are you telling me you’ve
never done anything you’ve regretted?’

Harry flinched, wondering if Stagg had told her about the drugs deal. ‘I suppose.’ He paused, and then said, ‘So why did you
go on to Selene’s that night?’

‘Because I left my phone there on the Wednesday. I couldn’t really go home without it. Forgetting it twice would have seemed
more than careless.’

Harry didn’t entirely believe the explanation. With the resources Stagg had at his disposal, he could easily have sent it
back to her by courier. There was no need for her to travel all the way to the West End to pick it up. ‘Wasn’t Martin curious
as to why you were home so early?’

Aimee dropped what remained of the cigarette and ground it into the grass with the sole of her shoe. ‘I told him I had a headache.’

‘What I still don’t understand—’

He was interrupted by a squeal of brakes from the high street. Aimee flinched, her whole body stiffening. ‘I shouldn’t have
come here with you,’ she said. ‘It was stupid, ridiculous. I just wanted to … I don’t know … If he ever found out …’ Rising
abruptly, she caught the edge of her bag and it tumbled off the bench, the contents spilling at Harry’s feet.

He leaned over to help her gather up the items. There was a purse, lipsticks, tissues, a small black wallet, two sets of keys,
scent and a comb. Together they swept them up and put them back into the bag. Finally, the only thing left was a silver mobile.
She reached out her hand – it was shaking slightly – but then withdrew it again. ‘Oh God, it isn’t broken, is it? Please say
it isn’t broken. He’s always telling me how clumsy I am.’

He heard the fear and panic in her voice and it startled him. Just what kind of a man was Martin Locke? He was starting to
think that his first impressions had been right. Bending down, he picked up the phone and turned it on. The screen immediately
lit up. ‘It seems okay.’

‘Are you sure?’

He went to the main menu and scrolled through a few options. ‘Yes, it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.’

Relief spread across her face. She held out her bag and he dropped it in. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘Thank you so much.’

‘Aimee, is there something you want to tell me?’

She stood up, clutching her bag to her chest, and shook her head. ‘No, no, there’s nothing.’ But still she didn’t leave. She
worried on her lower lip for a moment, as if trying to come to a decision. ‘You can’t help me.’

He stood up too and touched her lightly on the arm. ‘Not if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.’

Aimee met his gaze for a second, looked away and then looked back. ‘All right. But I can’t talk now. If you really want to
know what’s going on, come to the house tonight. Come at nine.’

Harry stared at her. ‘I can’t do that.’

‘No,’ she said. ‘Of course you can’t. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I should never have asked.’ Without another word,
she turned and walked quickly away across the Green.

‘Aimee!’ he called after her, but she didn’t turn around. He watched until she passed out of sight. For some reason his heart
was beating hard in his chest. He couldn’t possibly go to her house. It was out of the question. It would be unprofessional,
a betrayal of his client’s trust, a supremely stupid and foolish act. But still he glanced at his watch, checking how much
time was left before nine o’clock.

Jess was alone in the flat, pacing from one side of the living room to the other. She was trying to get her thoughts in order
and work out what to do next. The meeting earlier in the afternoon had done little to convince her that Clare Towney was quite
as innocent as she made out. In fact the very opposite. But gut instinct was one thing, hard evidence quite another. How could
she prove it?

From time to time she stopped and stared down at the street, wondering if her stalker was lurking in the vicinity. It spooked
her to think of him out there somewhere, watching and waiting, his black soul full of murderous thoughts. She glanced up at
the smoke alarm on the ceiling, tempted to stand on a chair and test that it was working. No, Harry had assured her that it
was fully operational and she knew that she could trust him. There were also two fire extinguishers, one in the living room
and one in the hall. He’d done everything he could to make her feel safe – but how could she feel safe while a madman was
still at liberty?

Harry was currently over at Walpole Close, continuing his
surveillance of the beautiful Aimee Locke. Now there was a woman who could get a man in a whole heap of trouble. She’d only
have to bat her eyelashes and all good sense would fly out of the window. Even Harry, smart as he was, wasn’t immune to her
charms. Jess had seen the way he’d looked at her at the casino. Still, that was his affair and not hers. He was old enough
and hopefully savvy enough to keep himself out of trouble.

She sat down at the table and immediately stood up again. Outside, the light was starting to fade, but there was still another
hour before sunset. She was jumpy now, but knew she’d be much worse later. That was the thing about fear: it grew and flourished
in the dark, its long tentacles reaching into the deepest part of the imagination.

Standing by the window again, Jess tried to figure out what she’d do if she was in Clare Towney’s shoes. Well, she’d certainly
get in touch with her partner in crime to let him or her know what had happened. So a phone call for sure – but maybe more
than that. And unless Clare could find someone to sit with her mother, then the other person would have to come to her. Masterson
was still top of Jess’s list of suspects. He could have already been over to see her, but Jess doubted it. Wasn’t it more
likely that he’d come after dark and when Stella was in bed?

Jess, unable to bear the thought of sitting around doing nothing, decided to take a leaf out of Harry’s book. She went through
to the kitchen and searched until she found a flask under the sink. Then, while the kettle was boiling, she made herself a
couple of ham sandwiches and wrapped them in foil. She filled the flask with coffee and dropped that and the sandwiches into
a carrier bag along with a couple of sheets of kitchen roll. There was nothing worse than driving with sticky fingers.

Back in the living room, she pulled on her jacket, picked up her keys, the Minnie Bright file and the carrier bag and headed
out of the flat. The first-floor landing was quiet, the office of
Mackenzie, Lind all locked up for the night. She left the stair light on so that she’d be able to see when she came back.
After resetting the alarm, she went out and secured the door behind her.

When she reached Palmer Street, Jess drove around the block several times until she was sure that she had no one on her tail.
When she was certain she wasn’t being followed she pulled in to the first available parking space she found. It was about
twenty yards from the Towney house and gave her a clear view of anyone entering or leaving. ‘And now,’ she murmured as she
switched off the engine, ‘all I have to do is wait.’

An hour later she was still waiting. She had been through the file twice, rereading all her notes and scanning the press cuttings
again. She’d had one cup of coffee and eaten one of the ham sandwiches. She had called Neil and put on a bright and cheery
voice, pretending that everything was normal. On Saturday, when she picked him up from Euston, she’d have to tell the truth,
but until then she preferred to leave him in happy ignorance.

With her gaze fixed on number 36, Jess wondered how private investigators coped with the boredom. The road was a quiet one
and there weren’t even that many passers-by. When someone did appear, she would grab her phone and pretend to be making a
call. She didn’t want to arouse any suspicion or draw unnecessary attention to herself.

At 8.30, just as the street lights went on, her mobile started ringing. She glanced at the screen. It was Sam Kendall.

‘Hi there,’ Jess said, glad of the distraction. ‘How are you? How’s things?’

‘I just wondered if you had any more news.’

Jess had called her as soon as she’d heard about Becky’s murder. She knew that Harry had contacted her too. ‘Nothing yet.
I think the cops are still searching for that Livesey bloke.’

‘Right,’ Sam said. ‘Look, I’ve been thinking I might go away for a while. I know that Mr Lind doesn’t reckon I’m in any danger,
but …’ Her voice trailed off.

‘Has something else happened? Have you had another note?’

‘No, nothing like that. It’s just that with Becky and everything … Well, I’m going to get out of London, go and stay with
my dad for a while.’

‘It’s a good idea,’ Jess said. Although on the whole she agreed with Harry’s assessment – the acts perpetrated against Sam
seemed more malicious than murderous – how could either of them be certain? It was better to be safe than sorry. ‘I’ll stay
in touch, let you know if I hear anything.’

‘Thanks. I’d appreciate it.’

‘Oh, just one thing before you go. I don’t suppose you know a girl called Clare Towney?’

There was a pause. ‘Who?’

‘Clare Towney,’ Jess repeated. ‘She lives in Kellston. She’s Donald Peck’s niece.’

‘No, I’ve never heard of her.’

‘Or her mother, Stella Towney?’

‘No, sorry.’

‘Are you sure?’

Sam’s response was fast and sharp. ‘I said, didn’t I? What is this, some kind of interrogation?’

‘Of course not,’ Jess said, surprised by her tone. ‘I just thought … Well, it doesn’t matter. You take care of yourself, okay?
Have a nice time with your dad.’ She said her goodbyes and hung up.

Sitting back, she wondered why Sam had been so riled by the questions. It was probably down to stress and worry. There was
a limit to how much grief anyone could take. On the other hand, how much did she really know about Sam Kendall? She’d only
met her six months ago, and although her instincts were
usually sound, she wasn’t infallible. This case was so full of smoke and mirrors that it was impossible to know who to trust.
Literal smoke in her case, she thought wryly.

She went over the conversation in her head. Could it really be true that Sam wasn’t familiar with the Towneys? It had been
clear from the story the girls had told the police fourteen years ago that all the local kids were aware of Donald Peck and
his habit of exposing himself. So wouldn’t they have been aware of his family too? Maybe, she thought, but not necessarily.
Even if Sam had once heard the name, it could easily have slipped her mind. And Clare was four years older than the other
girls, so they wouldn’t have mixed in school or outside of it. No, Sam was probably being straight. It was perfectly feasible
that she had no knowledge of the Towneys.

For all that, a small doubt still niggled in the back of Jess’s mind. It made her feel bad that she was questioning the honesty
of a woman she viewed as a friend, but she couldn’t afford to take anything for granted. If there was one sure way of deflecting
suspicion it was to pretend to be a victim. With the slashing of her tyres and the threatening notes, Sam had effectively
removed herself from any close investigation.

Jess shook her head. But that didn’t make sense either. If Sam had been worried about the Minnie Bright murder being looked
at again, she would never have raised the subject in the first place – or agreed to be interviewed for an article. Well, not
unless she had a guilty conscience, or was one of those people who liked to take unnecessary risks.

The more Jess turned it over, the more confused she became. She put her notes aside and gazed towards the Towney house. Still
no movement. Was she wasting her time? She had the feeling that she might be. By now it had grown too dim to read without
squinting, and she put her notes on the passenger seat. She didn’t want to switch on the internal light in case Clare
looked out of a window and saw her. So all she was left with were her thoughts.

She turned them back to the Towneys, going over the afternoon meeting again, trying to recreate the conversation exactly in
her head. It was only when she came to Stella’s appearance that she paused and rewound for a few seconds. Stella had believed
they were there to see Alan. Had that simply been the product of a muddled brain, or was there more to it? Was there a chance
that after years of absence the husband and father had finally returned?

Perhaps Clare’s partner in crime wasn’t Masterson at all, but someone much closer to home.

Jess screwed up her face. It wasn’t much of a theory, and unless she was going to camp outside the house for the next twenty-four
hours, she had no way of proving it one way or another. How long
was
she going to wait here? Until ten, eleven, midnight? She wondered if Harry was having any more luck than she was. At least
he had the comparative comfort of the surveillance van, with light and warmth and space to move around. She stretched out
her legs, already beginning to feel her muscles stiffen.