Nothing but Trouble (44 page)

Harry wasn’t sure how to respond. He thought about it for a moment, and then said, ‘Is it that bad?’

Aimee sat down in a nearby chair, glanced over at him and immediately stood up again. ‘I need a drink. How about you?’

‘No, thanks,’ Harry said, thinking it best to at least try and keep a clear head.

‘A small one?’ she suggested, clearly not wanting to drink alone.

He gazed up into her wide grey-green eyes. They were the kind of eyes that could break a man’s resolve in less than five seconds
flat. ‘Go on then, just a small one.’

Aimee glided over to the corner, where an ebony cabinet held enough bottles of booze to stock a nightclub bar. She didn’t
ask what he wanted but poured neat malt whisky into two thick-bottomed glasses. ‘You must think I’m crazy,’ she said, as she
returned with the drinks.

She handed him one of the glasses, sat down again and crossed her legs. ‘I mean, I don’t even know why I asked you to come
here.’

‘Because you need help,’ Harry said.

‘Yes, but what kind of woman turns to the guy who is being paid to follow her around?’ She took a large gulp of the whisky
and frowned. ‘That doesn’t make any sense, does it? It’s madness. You don’t owe me anything, whereas—’

‘I owe him everything?’

That faltering smile appeared on her lips again. ‘Not everything, perhaps, but
something.’

Harry carefully studied her face. Although he thought her fear was real, a small part of his brain was still trying to work
out if he was being played. Aimee Locke might be a vision of loveliness but he wasn’t blind to the possibility of ulterior
motives. ‘So what made you do it? What made you invite me here tonight?’

‘Desperation,’ she said.

‘You want to start at the beginning?’

Aimee downed what remained of the whisky and jumped up again. She went back over to the drinks cabinet. ‘I will,’ she said.
‘I just need another of these first.’

Harry took a sip from his own untouched glass. The whisky was golden and smooth as silk. He watched as she poured herself
a large one. Her hands were shaking slightly. With her back
still to him she moved in front of the computer, obscuring the screen. His gaze ran the length of her body and then back up
again. From somewhere distant he thought he heard the soft purr of a car engine.

Aimee Locke turned suddenly and smiled at him. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

Harry wasn’t quite sure what the apology was for. But he didn’t have to wait long to find out. First came the sound of the
front door slamming and then the heavy tread of footsteps across the tiled hallway.

‘Aimee?’ a male voice called out.

Harry shot to his feet. Jesus Christ! Martin Locke was back! He glanced over at Aimee. The expression on her face was of neither
shock nor surprise. Her mouth was partly open, her eyes gleaming. With a sinking heart he realised that he’d been set up.
She had brought him here so she could confront her husband with the living, breathing evidence of the tail he had put on her.
God almighty! He was about to find himself in the middle of a very nasty domestic.

The door to the living room was open. Harry could feel his heart thumping as the footsteps grew closer. What to do? There
was nothing he could do. And then suddenly the man was there. As the two of them came face to face, there was mutual confusion.
Harry had only a few seconds to absorb the short, slim body, the white hair, the unfamiliar features of a stranger, before
it happened. The noise wasn’t loud but it was distinctive – the sound of a silenced gun going off. A small red rose blossomed
on the man’s chest and he crumpled to the ground.

Harry whirled around to the windows behind him. There was a wave of chill night air as the long drapes billowed out. Whoever
had fired the gun had escaped into the garden. He turned quickly back but then found himself frozen. For all his years of
experience, for all his police training, he was temporarily paralysed.
Aimee Locke didn’t move either. She didn’t scream, didn’t shout, didn’t even cry out.

For a moment, Harry felt as if the world had stopped turning. His legs, made of stone, refused to move. The reality of what
had just happened refused to penetrate his brain. But then, finally, the adrenalin kicked in. Rushing forward, he crouched
down and reached out a hand to feel for a pulse on the man’s neck. There was nothing. The kill had been quick and clean and
professional.

‘The police,’ he yelled. ‘Call the police!’

From the edge of his vision he was aware of Aimee coming towards him. He didn’t realise until it was too late. There was a
soft whooshing sound, a shifting in the air, before everything went black.

It was twenty past eleven when Jess left the Fox. After her encounter with Clare, she had felt in need of a drink, and one
drink had turned into another until closing time had finally come around. She had spent the evening perched on a stool at
the bar chatting to the landlady, Maggie McConnell. After a while the conversation had turned, inevitably, to Donald Peck
and what he had done.

Maggie, who seemed to know everything about everyone, had filled her in on more of the details. ‘I dread to think what happened
to him when he was a boy. There were all sorts of rumours about what went on in that household. Social Services took the two
of them into care, you know. Stella was just a toddler then, but he was about eight. She was adopted into a nice family but
… Well, nobody wants them when they’re older, do they? And especially not the damaged ones.’

‘I suppose not,’ Jess had said.

‘I think Stella felt guilty about it, that she was lucky enough to get a fresh start – and that she couldn’t remember anything
much about the past. She always loved Donald despite the
things he did. She’d try and help him out, do a bit of cooking and cleaning for him, but she couldn’t solve his real problems.
Nobody could.’

Jess had sipped her glass of red wine and pondered on how some people seemed doomed before their lives had properly begun.
‘So what was Alan Towney like? Did you know him?’

‘Oh sure, I knew Alan.’ Maggie had given a snort. ‘That man didn’t have the backbone he was born with. Upped and left the
minute there was a hint of trouble. He wanted Stella to stay away from Donald, but of course she wouldn’t. It caused all sorts
of rows. He didn’t like it, you see, being related – even if was indirectly – to someone like that.’

‘So he just pissed off?’

‘Yeah, that’s exactly what he did. And he never came back or got in touch. Never sent the poor woman a penny either. She was
left on her own with a kid to raise. It wasn’t easy for her.’

Standing on the pavement outside the pub, Jess went over the conversation again. She was still wondering if it was possible
that Alan Towney had finally returned home. Clare might have confessed to sending the notes, but somehow it was difficult
to associate either her or Masterson with the actual words that had been written. The threats went beyond mere bitterness.
There was something hard and nasty and vengeful about them.

As she was waiting for a car to go by, she glanced up towards the windows of the flat. They were in darkness, but the ones
beneath were blazing with light. Her first thought was that Harry must be home and working in the office, but then a more
sinister explanation occurred to her. She shivered in horror. What if it was the arsonist? What if he was splashing petrol
around the rooms and preparing a fuse to set the place alight as soon as she got back?

No sooner had the thought jumped into her head than she realised how ridiculous it was. No self-respecting arsonist was
going to announce his presence to the world by leaving all the lights on. She was stressing over nothing. But still she got
out her phone and dialled Harry’s mobile, just to be sure. It went straight to voicemail, so she tried the office number instead.

It had barely rung once before it was answered.

‘Yes?’ a male voice said with more than a hint of impatience.

‘Is that Mac?’

‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Jess,’ she said. ‘I’m outside and I saw the lights. I was just—’

‘You’d better come up,’ Mac said brusquely and immediately hung up.

Jess’s heart sank. What the hell was going on? She crossed the road at a brisk pace, unlocked the front door and jogged up
the stairs. As she walked through the empty reception area and into Mac’s office, four heads turned to look at her. She recognised
Mac and Lorna and Warren James, but the fourth – a lean middle-aged man in a business suit – was a stranger to her.

She only had to look at their faces to know that the news was bad. ‘What’s happened?’

There was silence for a few seconds, and then Lorna spoke up. ‘It’s Harry,’ she said. ‘He’s been arrested.’

‘What?’

‘A couple of hours ago, over at Aimee Locke’s house.’

Jess’s mouth fell open. ‘What? Why? I don’t understand.’

‘Join the club,’ Mac said. He pushed back his chair and stood up, but then didn’t seem to know what to do with himself. Abruptly
he sat back down again. ‘He’s been arrested for the murder of Martin Locke.’

‘But he can’t. He …’ Jess was so shocked that she felt her legs buckle. All the air seemed to fly out of her lungs. She reached
out for the corner of the desk, trying to steady herself.

Lorna quickly took hold of her arm and propelled her into an
empty chair. ‘It’s true, I’m afraid. They haven’t charged him yet, he’s still at the hospital, but they’ll interview him properly
in the morning. It’s not looking good, though.’

‘The hospital?’ Jess murmured.

‘The bitch smashed a bottle over his skull,’ Warren said. ‘She claims he turned up at the house, asked to wait for her husband
and then shot him in cold blood.’

Jess’s head was spinning. None of this made any sense. ‘But why? I mean, why would she say that?’

Warren sat back, scowled and put his hands behind his head. ‘Because she’s a fucking liar and she’s trying to stitch him up
for murder.’

‘The trouble is that her story, at least at the moment, appears to stand up.’ It was the stranger who had spoken. Jess looked
at him and he gave her a nod. ‘Richard Morris,’ he said. ‘I’m Harry’s solicitor.’

‘Tell me,’ she said.

Morris glanced over at Mac, as if checking for permission to speak freely.

‘Yeah,’ Mac said, rubbing at his face with his hands. ‘Tell her. Maybe she can shed some light on this whole bloody nightmare.’

Jess tried hard to concentrate as Morris recited Aimee Locke’s version of events. Aimee had, apparently, bumped into Harry
on the high street in the afternoon. He’d introduced himself, shown her some police ID and claimed that they’d met before
at a charity function. They’d sat for a while on the Green and had a brief conversation. Then, later that evening, at about
nine o’clock, he’d turned up at the gates of the house, saying that there had been an incident at her husband’s office and
that he needed to speak to him. Having already chatted to Harry earlier in the day, she didn’t feel any concern about letting
him in. Martin was on his way back from the airport after a business
meeting in Milan and she was expecting him home at any time. She had given Harry a drink and they had sat and made small talk
for about ten minutes. She had asked him about the alleged incident, but he’d said that he’d prefer to wait until he could
speak to her husband. There was no indication, according to her, that anything was amiss.

‘It’s all bollocks,’ Warren said angrily. ‘The bitch is making it up.’

Mac flapped a hand. ‘Let him finish.’

Morris paused for a second and then continued. ‘She claims that when she heard the front door open she went out to the hall
to greet her husband and to inform him that a police inspector was waiting to talk to him. When they came back in, Harry had
moved from his chair to a position just in front of the French windows. He was holding a gun and he shot Martin Locke as soon
as he saw him. Then he ordered Aimee to turn off the security cameras. After that, he walked across the room, crouched down
beside the body and checked for a pulse.’

‘Jesus,’ Jess said softly.

Morris gave a light shrug of his shoulders. Aimee Locke claims she was terrified that she was going to be next. While Harry
was leaning over the body of her husband, she grabbed a bottle from the drinks cabinet and hit him over the head. Then, while
he was out cold on the floor, she ran out into the street and called the police.’

Jess, feeling as dazed as if someone had just smashed a bottle over her own head, looked at the others. Her gaze flew from
Mac to Lorna to Warren and then back to Morris again. ‘But why should anyone believe her?’

‘They found forged police ID in his jacket pocket.’

‘Planted,’ Warren said.

‘And two phones,’ Morris said. ‘One that everyone knows about, that he used on a regular basis, and another, a pay-as-you-go,
that contained over sixty pictures of Aimee Locke taken over the past few weeks and a large number of texts declaring his
love for her. The police think that he might have developed some kind of an obsession.’

‘That’s ridiculous,’ Jess said. ‘He wasn’t … he wouldn’t …’

‘Unfortunately, his prints were all over the phone. The police also ran a test for gunshot residue on his hands and clothes.
They were positive. All in all, it’s not looking good.’

‘But we know he’s innocent,’ Lorna said, reaching out to touch Jess gently on the arm. ‘We’ve just got to prove it.’

Richard Morris looked at his watch and stood up. ‘I’m sorry, but I’ve really got to go. I’ll call you in the morning, Mac,
after I’ve talked to Harry again.’

Mac and Lorna both rose to their feet and escorted him to the door. While they were saying their goodbyes, Jess shifted across
to the seat next to Warren. ‘Surely the cops can see that Harry’s been set up? This is crazy.’

Warren shook his head and sighed. ‘The cops believe what they want to believe, babe. If they’ve got enough rope, they’ll go
ahead and hang him.’

‘No way,’ she said vehemently. ‘They can’t pin this on him.’