Deceived

by Roberta Kray

Genres: Crime Fiction; Suspense

Synopsis

The new gritty crime thriller: no one knows crime like Kray.

She trusted the wrong man....

Judith Jonson has been a widow for five years. At first, she hoped Dan would return, but her dream turned to a nightmare as the war ended, and she had to accept her beloved husband was never coming home.

Then one day she sees a picture in the paper - the aftermath of a dramatic robbery in London's West End - and Judith can't believe her eyes. It's Dan, she'd stake her life on it - or rather his life, the traitor.

Betrayed and desperate for answers, Judith begins a hunt for the man she thought she married. And in amongst the lowlifes of the East End's gangland underworld she finds more than she bargained for.

But Judith had better be careful whose business she meddles in. The rule of law doesn't apply in Kellston. She had been deceived, but she doesn't want to end up dead....

Release date: November 8, 2018

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

1937

She lifted the long mink coat from the bag on the floor and held it up in front of her before slipping it around her shoulders. As she stared at her reflection in the mirror, she imagined she looked like one of those rich Mayfair ladies, the sort who took afternoon tea at the Ritz and treated the waiters with polite disdain. She turned to the left and the right, viewing the effect. Yes, if she kept her mouth shut, she could easily pass for a woman of substance.

She stroked the soft mink, wishing she could keep it, but fancy furs didn’t pay the bills or put food on the table. Anyway, the coats were too hot to hold onto. As soon as Hull found out they were missing, he’d do his nut. To thieve off a thief was a risky business at the best of times, but when that thief was Lennie Hull, you were just asking for trouble. Ivor didn’t care – said the cheating bastard owed him – but that wouldn’t count for much when his legs were being broken.

She flinched at the thought of it.

Still, they’d be away soon, out of here and out of London. She glanced down towards the five bags full of ermine, sable and mink. They’d bring in a pretty penny once they found the right buyer. Her gaze lifted to the clock on the mantelpiece. Half an hour, Ivor had said, and it was way past that. How long did it take to buy petrol?

‘Come on, come on,’ she muttered.

Nerves were starting to get the better of her. She lifted a hand to her mouth and chewed on her nails. The seconds ticked by slowly. The sky was darkening, the low clouds full of rain. That song, ‘Stormy Weather’, crept into her head. ‘Don’t know why there’s no sun up in the sky …’ she crooned. She lit a cigarette and paced from one side of the room to the other. Had something gone wrong? No, she just had the jitters.

It would be fine once Ivor got back. She had never known a man like him before: smart and witty and fearless. Just the thought of him took her breath away. She’d grown up surrounded by villains, most of them with big ideas and cotton wool between their ears, but he was a world apart. He had a talent, a skill that none of them possessed. There wasn’t a lock he couldn’t open in England – maybe the whole world – or a safe either. All of which meant he’d never be out of work. It was the kind of work, however, that came with risks. The East End was full of copper’s snouts, lowlifes who’d grass you up for the price of a pint. And who wanted to spend years in the slammer with nothing to look forward to but more of the same? It was a mug’s game and he knew it.

Ivor had no respect for the law, for authority, but he wasn’t a fool. ‘The system always wins out in the end,’ he said. If it wasn’t a bent copper planting evidence, it was some loose-mouthed idiot bragging about a job in the boozer. He was forever looking over his shoulder, forever waiting for the knock on the door. And even though he’d grown up in Kellston, he didn’t really fit in. He wasn’t one of the boys. He was different, and people round here didn’t like different.

‘It’s time to make a move, love,’ he’d said. ‘Time for pastures new.’ And she hadn’t disagreed with him. She’d be glad to see the back of this place, although she’d miss her friends. Still, it would be an adventure. And who cared where they lived so long as they were together? The cash from the furs would give them a fresh start, a chance to get established.

She stubbed out her ciggie and went back to the window. She wondered what it would be like up north. She had never been further than Epping in her life.

Her gaze strayed to the clock again – ten to ten. They’d intended to leave at the crack of dawn, but that plan had gone for a Burton when Ivor had climbed into the Humber and discovered some tea leaf had emptied the petrol tank in the middle of the night. With the local garage closed until nine, they’d had no choice but to sit it out until opening time. Of course he could have gone and done some siphoning of his own, but that was always risky. Getting nicked was the last thing he needed.

She peered out of the window again. Where was he? It was then that she saw the motor, a dark saloon, turn the corner and start crawling down the road as though the driver was counting off the numbers on the houses. Her whole body froze. For a moment she stood rooted to the spot. She knew who it was and why they were coming. The name rose to her lips and hung there in an agony of disbelief.

Lennie Hull.

How had he found out? The furs weren’t due to be moved from the warehouse until tomorrow. And how had he guessed that Ivor had nicked them? But none of that was important now. Jesus, they were for it! She had to scarper, and fast. They’d be here in a minute, and one flimsy front door wasn’t going to hold them for long.

Finally the adrenalin kicked in. Shrugging off the mink, she legged it to the kitchen, pulled back the bolts and threw open the door. She rushed through the back yard and along the narrow weed-filled alley that ran behind the terrace. Should she duck into one of the neighbours’ yards and hide in the lavvy? No, it was too risky. Hull and his goons would search every square inch until they found her.

She ploughed on until the alley eventually turned and rejoined the road further up. Here she stopped, knowing that the moment she stepped out they would be able to see her. She could wait until they forced their way into the house, but what if they decided to come round the back instead? She’d either have to make a run for it or double back, and if she did the latter, she’d be trapped with nowhere to go. No, her only option was to walk out as if nothing was wrong, to act as though she was just an innocent woman on her way somewhere. She took a deep breath. Hold your nerve, girl.

She saw the motor out of the corner of her eye as she turned left, but didn’t stare. It was parked in front of the house, the occupants in the process of getting out. Four of them, maybe five: big fellers, suited and booted. They were about twenty yards away, far enough perhaps for them not to recognise her. She set off in the opposite direction, spine straight, head up, heels click-clacking on the pavement. Not too fast, not too slow. Don’t look back.

She might have got away with it if she’d taken her own advice. Past the first lamp post, and then the second, trying to stay calm even though her head was exploding, but she just couldn’t resist that quick glance over her shoulder. Big mistake. Hull and the others were at the front door, giving it a hammer, but the driver was leaning against the saloon with his arms folded across his chest and his gaze focused right on her.

Blind panic engulfed her as their eyes met. She made a split-second decision, and it was a bad one. Reason went out of the window. Before her instincts could engage with her brain, she took off. Almost immediately she stumbled and knew she’d have to ditch the heels. Quickly she kicked off her shoes and started to run again.

From behind she heard a shout: ‘Oi!’ And then the sound of the saloon doors banging shut.

She was dead. She knew it. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her, her stockinged feet slapping against the cold pavement. But it wasn’t fast enough. She could hear the motor getting closer. Her face was twisted, wet with tears, as she hurtled forward, intent on only one thing – if she could just reach the cemetery, she might be able to give them the slip, to hunker down and hide among the tombstones.

She had to get off the main road before they caught up with her. Out here she was a sitting duck. Which way now? She knew Kellston like the back of her hand, but her mental map was being ripped apart by fear. There was a network of alleyways criss-crossing the district, but if she chose the wrong one, she could finish up in a dead end, trapped like an animal. Was it the next right? She thought it was. She prayed it was. Anyway, she had no choice. She dived across the road and sprinted into the gloom.

She heard the squeal of brakes as the motor pulled up. This time she didn’t look back, and kept on running. Her heart was pounding, the breath bursting from her lungs. The alley twisted and turned, the high brick walls looming over her. On the ground there was hard soil and sharp stones that dug into the soles of her feet, but she didn’t slow down. On and on until she finally found what she was looking for.

The gate was ancient and rusty, hanging off a single hinge. She pushed it just far enough for her to squeeze through, and then launched herself into the undergrowth. There had been a path here once but now it was overgrown, a mass of brambles and stinging nettles. As she stumbled through them, thrashing her arms, she could hear the heavy thud of footsteps back in the alley.

She was exhausted, but terror spurred her on. Here, in the older part of the cemetery, she should be able to find somewhere to hide. Eventually she emerged into clearer territory, full of long grass and weeds but easier to negotiate. She flew past weathered graves, granite towers and grey stone angels until she reached a dark place overhung by trees. A row of mausoleums, like an avenue of small abandoned houses, lay ahead. She got as far as the fifth before her legs gave way and she slumped to the ground.

Even as her backside hit the earth, she heard the male voices travelling through the air. Sick panic rose into her throat. Crawling on her hands and knees, she dragged herself round to the back of the tomb, curled up and tried to make her body as small as possible. It was then that the pain made contact with her brain. Her stockings were torn and her legs, arms and feet were covered in scratches and bright red welts from where she’d been stung.

She whimpered and quickly clamped her hand across her mouth. If they heard her, she was done for. She held her panting breath, pressed her cheek against the cool brick and listened. Now the voices were coming from different directions as the men spread out searching for her. How many? Two, three? She reckoned Hull and at least one of the others would have stayed behind to retrieve the furs – and wait for Ivor.

Ivor, Ivor. She repeated his name in her head like a mantra. When he got home, he’d be walking straight into an ambush. There wouldn’t even be the saloon parked outside as a warning. Perhaps they’d grabbed him already. She shivered, and her heart thudded in her chest. Hull would make an example of Ivor, of them both.

She closed her eyes and prayed. Please God, keep him safe. Please God, don’t let them find me.

It was starting to rain. The water pattered against the leaves and made a pocking sound as it dripped off the roof of the tomb. She stayed tightly curled, rigid with fear. Her teeth began to chatter. She clamped her jaw shut, scared the noise would betray her. Footsteps drew nearer. She heard the boots, heavy on the earth, and the sound of snapping twigs. The smell of cigarette smoke floated in the air.

This is it, she thought. This is the end.

The steps advanced, closer and closer, until her pursuer was only a few yards away. And then he stopped. There was a long silence as though he was trying to decide what to do next. Or maybe he was just listening. She held her breath. All that separated them was the square brick tomb. If he decided to check round the back, it would all be over.

She pressed herself closer to the wall, wishing she could pass right through it into the darkness on the other side. The dead felt no fear, no horror. All she wanted was to be safe again. Time passed as slowly as it had in the house. Then there had been anticipation; now there was only dread.

The man remained where he was for what felt like an eternity. Then, like a miracle, he began to walk away. She heard his steps receding, growing fainter, but she stayed completely still. Maybe he was just toying with her, playing a game. Maybe it was a trap so she would show herself. She wasn’t going to fall for that one. No mistakes. No sudden stupid movements. Patience.

And so she waited … and waited. The cold and damp crept into her bones. She thought about which exit to head for. There were three in all, including the old gate she had used. Best to stay clear of that. So, one of the others. But where could she go from there? Not back to the house, that was for sure; there’d be a welcome committee installed in the living room.

With no money, and no shoes on her feet, she needed somewhere close by and someone she could trust. Her friend Amy was her best bet. She had a flat on the high street, above the baker’s. Yes, that was the place to go. Which meant she had to circle round the cemetery to the main entrance, but not until she was certain the coast was clear.

Carefully she stretched out one leg, and then the other. How long had she been here? Over an hour, she thought. Her joints were stiff and aching. She concentrated hard, listening for any unwanted sounds. There were none. No voices. No footsteps. Surely they must have given up by now.

If it had been warmer and dryer, she would have stayed where she was for even longer. But the cold was starting to get to her. She was shivering and soaked through. Much more of this and she’d end up with pneumonia. She hauled herself upright and tiptoed round the side of the tomb to peek along the narrow path. Empty. But she couldn’t see far. Someone could be hiding in the trees.

She had to make a move at some point, but fear made her legs leaden. Her intention was to sneak through the darker parts of the cemetery, keeping off the main thoroughfares, until she reached the perimeter wall. From there she could edge round to the main gate. She thought this over. All things considered, it wasn’t much of a plan, but it was all she’d got.

Her heart was in her mouth as she set off. Her feet, cut and sore, made every step a painful one. She tried to stay in the shelter of the trees and bushes, keeping her eyes peeled for Hull’s men. Her ears strained to hear the slightest sound. She moved slowly, taking care where she trod. She sniffed the air, paused and went on. As she passed between the old graves, her gaze skimmed over the names of the dead, the young and the old, the husbands and wives, the mums and dads.

Ivor was in her thoughts. There was still a chance he’d got away. Maybe he’d realised something was wrong as he approached the house. All she could do was hope. He’d have to make himself scarce, lie low until the heat was off. But he’d come back for her. She was sure of it.

The wall was within spitting distance when it happened. She heard the tiniest of noises behind her, no more than a shifting in the air. As she whirled around, her worst nightmare became reality. A man was rising up from behind a pink granite tombstone, his face scarred and brutish, his mouth stretched into a devil’s grin. He had a shooter in his hand and it was pointed straight at her.

‘You took yer time, doll. I was starting to think you were never coming. Been freezing my bollocks off here.’

She backed away from him, but only as far as the wall. A thin whimpering sound escaped from her lips. It was too late for regrets, but they still tumbled through her head: if only she’d stayed where she was, if only that petrol hadn’t been nicked, if only Ivor had stayed well away from those bloody furs …

‘What’s the matter, darlin’?’ he mocked. ‘Cat got your tongue?’

With nothing left to lose, she raised her chin and stared him defiantly in the eyes. ‘Go on, then. If you’re going to shoot me, you may as well get it over and done with.’

‘I ain’t gonna shoot you,’ he said. ‘Not here, at least. Wouldn’t want to disturb these poor souls, now would we?’ He glanced round at the graves and sniggered at his own joke. ‘Nah, you and me are going to take a little walk, all nice and calm like. You’ll go first and I’ll be right behind.’ He gestured with the gun. ‘Get going, then. Towards the gate. And don’t do anything stupid. We pass anyone, you keep yer gob shut, right?’

She nodded.

‘So what are you waiting for?’

She walked slowly, unsteadily, her legs like jelly. Her guts were churning, bile rising into her throat. ‘Where are we going?’

‘Where do you think?’

‘To see Hull,’ she said, her voice quivering with fear.

‘Mr Hull to you, darlin’. And he ain’t best pleased with you and your feller. I can tell you that for nothing.’

She could have pleaded with him to let her go, begged and grovelled, but she knew it was pointless. She plodded on, one painful step after another. If she’d had the strength, she would have made a run for it – a bullet in the back was better than the long, lingering punishment Hull would have in store for her. She bowed her head but didn’t bother to pray. She was beyond hope or faith. God had abandoned her. She was on her own.

Judith Jonson had officially been a widow for five years. ‘Missing in action’ was what the telegram had said, but she hadn’t immediately given up hope. Missing wasn’t dead. Missing wasn’t a body blown into a thousand pieces or a man lying on his back with a bullet through his heart. A chance still remained that Dan had been taken prisoner or become separated from his regiment. A chance still remained that he was out there somewhere.

She had clung onto this dream for too long, refusing to accept – even when the war was over – that her husband was never coming home. It had been too stark a fact to face, too devastating a blow. Although her head had told her one thing, her heart had said another. Deep down she’d continued to believe he was still alive; she had felt it in her bones, in her soul. To accept that he was dead was to give up on him, to give up on them.

Judith was still coming to terms with her loss, trying to deal with the sharp edges of a grief she should have confronted long ago. Sometimes it took her unawares, creeping up when she was at work, on the bus, or simply washing the dishes. The emotions she felt were strong, even violent. They tore through her, rocking her body and taking her breath away. She would have to close her eyes for a few seconds until the worst of the pain was over.

Dan was gone. She had to get used to the idea. Her grief was hardly unique; there was barely a person she knew who hadn’t lost someone close – a husband or boyfriend, a brother, father, son or uncle. They all carried the same burden, the same aching sense of loss. But life went on, and somehow a way had to be found to deal with it.

Judith’s way was to keep busy. During the day she worked for a firm of solicitors called Gillespie & Tate – typing, filing and answering the phone – and at night she filled the hours before bed with anything that kept her occupied. She sewed, read, wrote letters or tended her vegetable patch at the local allotment. What she dreaded most were the weekends. Free time was her enemy, providing the kind of space bad thoughts could creep into.

This Saturday, however, wouldn’t be a problem. As the bus travelled through the town of Westport, she gazed out of the window at the rows of shops – all closed for the evening now – and wondered what she could wear for Charlotte’s wedding. Clothes rationing was over, but she wasn’t sure about buying something new. Money was tight and she had to be careful. Although she had savings in the bank, she was reluctant to dip into them; most of the money had been deposited by Dan, cash put aside to start his own business, and it didn’t feel right using it. What if he came back and … Judith’s hands curled into two tight fists. She knew she had to stop thinking like that. There wasn’t going to be a miracle, not after all these years.

Don’t think about Dan.

She glanced at the clock on the town hall – a quarter to six – and wondered if Charlotte was happy. George Rigby was a small, rotund, rather pompous man, a civil servant who had a tendency to lecture. On the plus side, he had his own hair and teeth, and a nice semi-detached house overlooking the park. Judith smiled. As it happened, she didn’t suspect Charlotte of anything more cynical than ‘settling’, a current trend among her single friends as they approached the age of thirty.

She understood why they were doing it. Time was running out if they wanted children, a family, a more respected position in society. She would have done the same, perhaps, if she’d had irrefutable proof of Dan’s death: settled for someone who was kind and decent, even if they were a little dull. It wasn’t easy being alone. She frowned and gave a tiny shake of her head. No, it might not be easy, but it would be even harder to live with a man she didn’t love.

The bus was gradually emptying, and she noticed that a copy of the Daily Mirror had been left behind on one of the seats. Judith leaned across the aisle and retrieved it. Something to distract her for the rest of the journey. The paper was full of news about John Haigh, who’d been hanged for murder at Wandsworth prison yesterday. She wondered what it was that had turned him into a monster. He had killed six people, maybe more, and then disposed of their bodies in acid. All for money. She shuddered at the horror of it.

Quickly she flicked through the pages, looking for something less gruesome to read. While her eyes scanned the print, her thoughts turned again to Charlotte’s wedding. It would be a simple affair, a short service at the register office followed by a reception at the Astor Hotel.

George was a widower and didn’t want too much fuss. It didn’t seem to matter what Charlotte wanted.

Judith hoped she wouldn’t be seated beside a possible ‘prospect’ at the hotel. Having secured her own future, Charlotte was forever trying to fix up her unattached friends with suitable partners. She pulled a face. Invariably these men bored her to tears, making her jaw ache from trying not to yawn. There had to be a spark, didn’t there, something to make the pulse race and the heart flip? Or maybe that was hopelessly romantic. Maybe that kind of love only showed up once in a lifetime.

Don’t think about Dan.

But it was too late. Eleven years had slipped away and she was sitting at her desk in the reception area of Gillespie & Tate. The front door opened. She looked up from her typewriter to see a tall man in his mid twenties, over six feet, with a narrow, angular face and hair so blond it was almost white.

‘Good morning. How can I help?’

‘I’m looking for a good solicitor.’

‘Then you’ve come to the right place. Mr Gillespie or Mr Tate?’

He shrugged. ‘Who would you recommend?’

‘They’re both excellent.’

A slow smile crept onto his lips. ‘I’m sure they are, but which one would you prefer to do business with?’

Although she was only eighteen, Judith knew better than to be drawn into publicly favouring one of her bosses over the other. ‘Let me check the appointment book and see when we can fit you in.’

‘Dan Jonson. That’s Jonson without an h. Tomorrow morning would be good.’

‘Ten thirty with Mr Gillespie?’

‘Ten thirty sounds fine.’ He nodded, thanked her, turned to go and then turned back.

‘Tell me, er … sorry, I don’t know your name.’

‘Judith.’

‘Tell me, Judith, what’s this town like?’

‘Like?’

‘Is it a good place to live?’

‘I suppose so.’

He rocked back on his heels a little, inclined his head and frowned. ‘If you don’t mind me saying, that’s not the best recommendation I’ve ever heard.’

Judith gazed up at him, studying his face more closely. His eyes were grey, the colour of flint, but not hard. His voice – she thought the accent was southern – betrayed more than a hint of amusement. Was he laughing at her? A flush rose into her cheeks. ‘I’ve never lived anywhere else, so I’ve nothing to compare it to.’

‘All right, let me put it another way. Why do you stay in Westport?’

Now it was Judith’s turn to frown. No one had ever asked her this question before. ‘Why wouldn’t I? I’ve got friends here, and a job.’

‘And family?’

She shook her head. Her parents had passed when she was young, and the aunt who had raised her had died of cancer a couple of years ago. ‘No, no family.’

‘Me neither. Not always easy, is it?’ Before she had a chance to reply, he walked over to the window, nudged aside the net curtain and gazed out along Earl Street. ‘Seems like a busy town.’

‘In the summer,’ she said. ‘That’s when the visitors come. It’s quieter in winter.’

‘London’s always busy.’

‘Is that where you’re from?’

‘For my sins.’ He was quiet for a moment and then said, ‘You can get tired of a place. It can wear you down.’ He glanced over his shoulder and smiled. ‘Or maybe a place can get tired of you. Who knows?’

‘I’ve never been to London. What’s it like?’

He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged again. ‘Like anywhere else, only bigger: crowded, noisy, full of people trying to keep their heads above water. It’s good and it’s bad if you know what I mean.’

Judith wasn’t sure she did, but she nodded anyway. Normally her conversations with clients didn’t extend much beyond the weather. They were simple, uncomplicated exchanges where nothing more was expected of her than a general agreement as to the dampness of the air or the bitterness of the wind. ‘So what brings you to Westport?’

A shadow flickered across his face. ‘Nothing in particular. I just fancied a change, somewhere different.’

‘A fresh start,’ she said, wondering if he was running away from something – or someone. A love affair, perhaps, that had gone wrong. Not that she knew much about love. Her experience was limited to a schoolgirl crush on the curate, a few slow dances at Trinity Hall and four dates with David Beckles, after which she’d been unceremoniously dumped. The latter still rankled, not because she’d been especially keen – no one could be as fond of that boy as himself – but because she’d wasted precious time on him.

‘Yes, a fresh start. That’s exactly what I’m looking for.’ He moved away from the window and came to stand beside her desk. ‘But what I really need is someone to show me round. How about it? At the weekend, perhaps, if you’re not too busy. What do you say?’

Judith was taken by surprise at the request. Or was it a proposition? She hesitated, unsure of his motives. A part of her wanted to say yes – she was interested in this man, intrigued by him – but she didn’t want to come across as the type of girl who could be picked up at the drop of a hat.

‘Don’t make your mind up now,’ he continued, seeing her hesitation. ‘Have a think and let me know tomorrow. I’d be grateful, though, for the tour and the company.’

Judith watched him leave, her heart beating a little faster than usual. She was attracted to him, although she wasn’t entirely sure why. He was older than her, and more striking than handsome with his height and that shock of pale fair hair. But there was something about Dan Jonson that piqued her interest. For my sins, he had said. She shouldn’t make too much of it. It was just a turn of phrase, words people used, and yet she sensed a deeper meaning. There was an air of mystery about him, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It disturbed and excited her at the same time.

That evening, she decided to take him up on the invitation. Where was the harm? It would be broad daylight and they’d be in a public place. Nothing bad could happen. She worried he would find the town dull after the bright lights of London and started to plan an itinerary – the promenade, pier, lido, botanic gardens – wondering what might appeal to him most. How could she even begin to guess? She knew barely anything about him.

Judith dressed with extra care the following morning, choosing one of her better dresses and taking time to curl her shoulder-length red hair with the curling irons. She applied a small amount of make-up, some rouge and a lick of lipstick, and thought the effect was relatively pleasing. She went to work with a spring in her step and settled at her desk with a heady sense of anticipation. Dan Jonson would arrive at ten thirty, maybe even a bit before, and ask if she had made a decision. She would agree to meet him, although not with too much enthusiasm. She didn’t want to look overly keen.

It was Mr Tate who scuppered her plans. Emerging from his office at ten past ten, he placed a large brown envelope on her desk.

‘Could you walk these over to Porter’s, please? They need to be signed, so you’ll have to wait.’

‘What, right now?’

‘If it isn’t too much trouble,’ he said drily.

Judith shook her head. ‘No, not at all. I didn’t mean … I just wondered if I could do it later. There’s a client booked in for half past ten. If I go . . .