Exposed

by Roberta Kray

Genres: Crime Fiction; Suspense; Action & Adventure

Synopsis

Eden Chase is head over heels in love with her husband, Tom. He's the sort of man who doesn't give much away, but Eden doesn't mind that - Tom is worth the effort. So when he's accused of a years-old robbery and murder, Eden won't believe it. No, not her Tom - he's not capable of the things they're saying he did.

With Tom in prison, it's up to Eden to clear his name. But the closer she gets to the truth, the more she uncovers about her husband's past. Does she really know him after all?

As Eden goes deeper into the ugly underworld that holds the answers, the more danger she's exposed to, and she's not sure she can save her husband in time. But is he even worth saving?

Release date: November 3, 2016

Publisher: Little, Brown Book Group

Print pages: 384

Sample

Paddy Lynch lay dying in the back of the van. He clutched at his guts, trying to stop the life from leaking out of him. His eyes, frantic with fear, darted to the left and the right, looking at everything but focusing on nothing. A thin stream of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

‘You’ll be all right, mate. Hang on in there.’

‘Yeah, we’ll get you to the hospital. No worries, Pads. They’ll sort you out.’

The two men who were crouched down beside him exchanged quick knowing glances. Unless Paddy got help soon, he was for it. You didn’t need to be a doctor to see that. They tried to keep their voices reassuring as they watched his face turn grey.

A third man, Jack Minter, scowled and looked away. He was struggling to contain his rage. He had no sympathy for Paddy. The stupid bastard had ignored everything he’d been told, gone in like some gun-toting cowboy, managed to get himself shot with his own sawn-off and almost blown the whole job in the process. And now – the icing on the cake – someone would have to take him to the hospital. And for what? The bloke was going to croak no matter where he was.

Jack glared at the row of heavy brown sacks. It was a decent haul, mainly consisting of gold, gems and jewellery, but it would have been even better if Paddy hadn’t gone off half-cocked. The thought of what they’d had to leave behind made his blood boil. It had taken over a year of meticulous planning, his planning, hours and hours of painstaking work to get everything in place. He’d been sure that he’d covered every contingency – except for this one.

‘You’ll be okay, Pads. You will. Tell him, Jack.’

Jack forced a thin smile. ‘Sure,’ he said. ‘No worries. We’ll be there soon.’ But he didn’t look straight at Paddy – he didn’t want to see those fading eyes – and focused instead on a spot to the side of his head. Jesus, he should have known better than to bring him along. The guy had been a last-minute replacement after Charlie Treen had broken his leg. A bad omen if ever there’d been one. He should have listened to the gods, postponed it and waited until Charlie was back on his feet, but it was too late for regrets now.

The van was moving rapidly along the uneven road, every bump and jolt adding to Paddy’s misery. A low moan escaped from between his lips. Jack glanced at his watch, knowing they must be approaching the changeover spot. It was a quiet place where two cars were parked, where the team would separate and the haul would be split before they met up again at the house in Kellston.

‘Right, we’re almost there. I’ll take the van and drop Paddy off at the hospital.’

‘What about the gear?’ Rossi asked, his expression tight and suspicious as if Jack might be trying to pull a fast one.

‘Same as we planned. You divide it between you and I’ll see you later.’

Rossi glanced down at Paddy, looked up again and gave a cautious nod. ‘You sure?’

‘It’s the only way. I’ll dump the van at A&E and get the Tube back.’

The van came to a halt. They heard Ned run round to open the doors. ‘How is he?’ he asked, staring wide-eyed at Paddy.

‘Hanging on,’ Jack said. ‘Come on, let’s get this gear shifted.’

The men unloaded the sacks in thirty seconds flat and shoved them into the boots of the waiting vehicles. The three said a few quick reassuring words to Paddy before jumping inside the cars. Jack could see they felt guilty about leaving the guy, but not guilty enough to jeopardise their own freedom. Not one of them suggested coming along.

Jack gave a snort. So much for loyalty, for standing by your buddies. When the shit hit the fan it was every man for himself. He put his foot down and went first, the others following on at the rear. At the crossroads they took three different directions, with only the van going straight ahead. The law might not be far behind and if he got stopped then at least the haul was safe. He thought about Paddy lying in the back and his lip curled. Problem was, the filth would know the idiot had been shot and they’d be watching the hospitals. That was going to make it tricky.

And there was something else to stress about too. What if by some freak chance Paddy didn’t die? What if he came through the op, opened his big mouth and sang like a canary? Jack wouldn’t put it past him. He didn’t trust the guy, not an inch. What did he really know about Paddy Lynch? Sod all, other than the fact he couldn’t follow orders. The fool might sell them all down the river.

‘Stuff that!’ he muttered.

Jack reached into his shirt pocket, pulled out a pack of fags, took a cigarette and lit it. He breathed in deeply, trying to figure out what to do next. He expelled the smoke in a long thoughtful stream. A spatter of rain fell against the windscreen and he switched on the wipers, his gaze flicking between the road ahead and the rear-view mirror. What now? An inner voice was whispering in his ear. The answer was clear. The answer was simple. All he had to do was nothing.

Jack didn’t think of himself as a cruel man, simply a pragmatic one. This was supposed to be his first and last job and by ten o’clock tonight – if nothing got in the way – he could be on a plane heading out of the country for good. He had no intention of ever coming back. A new life, a fresh start was what he had planned and he didn’t see why he should change those plans.

It was time to get out of London, and especially the East End. Things were getting too hot. Ever since Ronnie Kray had shot Cornell back in March, there’d been tension in the area. There were going to be repercussions; there was no doubt about it. The filth would only take so much. A line had been crossed and there’d be a price to pay. Well, he didn’t intend to be standing in the firing line when it all kicked off.

Jack took another long drag on his cigarette and hissed out the smoke between his teeth. ‘Damn it!’

If Paddy survived and named names, they’d all be looking at a long stretch. And what if he grassed them up before he even got into the operating theatre? Not that it was likely judging by the state of him, but stranger things had happened when men were on their way to meet their maker.

Jack gave an impatient shake of his head. Sometimes important decisions had to be made, decisions for the greater good, and this was one of those occasions. After all, when push came to shove, Paddy had brought it on himself. If he hadn’t been so reckless, he wouldn’t be lying in the back of the van with a bullet in his guts. Why should everyone else pay the price for what he’d done? It wasn’t right. It wasn’t fair. It was way out of order.

He opened the window and chucked out the fag end. The cold November air snapped at his face, reminding him of why he wanted to be somewhere else, somewhere warmer, somewhere that offered better opportunities for an ambitious man with hopes and dreams. One chance, that’s all you got sometimes, and he wasn’t about to throw his away.

As Jack approached the junction he saw the signs for Epping town centre and the hospital. Straight on. He didn’t need to think about it twice. ‘Sorry, mate,’ he murmured, flicking on the indicator and turning left. ‘Some you win, some you lose.’ He didn’t view what he was doing as murder; he was simply letting nature take its course.

Eden Chase screwed up her eyes against the bright winter sun as she stepped out of the Tube station and began to walk down James Street towards the centre of Covent Garden. It was one of those sharp, sunny afternoons that break the monotony of winter and automatically lift the spirits. Not that her spirits needed any lifting; she had never been happier in her life.

As she crossed the busy piazza, she looked towards the first-floor window of the studio on Henrietta Street, almost expecting to see the tall, fair-haired figure of her husband. He frequently stood there looking down on the hustle and bustle of the square, his hands on his hips, his expression one of deep concentration. What was he thinking? She often wondered but she never asked.

Eden liked the fact that Tom wasn’t an easy person to fathom. He was the sort of man who didn’t give much away. You had to peel the information from him, one layer at a time, and even then you felt like you’d barely scratched the surface. But she didn’t mind that; they had years ahead of them, plenty of time to get to know each other better. Her husband was worth the effort.

She smiled as the word slid into her head. Husband. Even though they’d been married for a year, the word still felt new on her lips. Back when she’d first made the announcement, some of her more feminist friends had knotted their brows in disapproval. There had been a lively debate over her future nuptials. Everybody liked Tom – he was witty and clever, generous and kind – but what did she want to get hitched for? Why didn’t she just live with him? In this day and age women didn’t need to get married to feel fulfilled.

But Eden had discovered that she liked being married. Tom might have swept her off her feet but in many ways he grounded her too. For the first time she felt like she had direction and that she wasn’t just drifting through life. Every morning and every night she counted her blessings. Meeting him was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

Her father, however, had not shared this point of view and had been vociferous in his objections to the marriage. Tom was too old for her (forty to her twenty-five) and what kind of a career was photography? There was no security in it, no solid future. And why did they have to get married right now?

‘It won’t last,’ he’d said with his customary churlishness. ‘Marry in haste, repent at leisure.’

‘Can’t you just be happy for me?’

‘Happy about what? You’ve barely known him two minutes.’

‘Six months,’ she’d said, although it was actually closer to five.

‘Six months! Exactly! It’s hardly the foundation for a successful marriage. I don’t see why you’re rushing into things. You’re young. You’ve got all the time in the world. Why can’t you just —’ He had stopped abruptly, his face paling as an obvious reason for the haste occurred to him. His eyes narrowed with worry and disgust. ‘Please don’t tell me that you’re —’

‘For God’s sake,’ she’d snapped back. ‘Of course not.’ And then she’d quickly added, ‘Anyhow, it’s the eighties, Dad. Nobody cares about that sort of thing any more. Why would it matter if I was?’ She’d known very well why it would matter – her father was staunchly conservative, rigidly middle-class and completely stuck in his ways. He regarded babies conceived out of wedlock as shameful. She had known too that it was his own reputation he was as bothered about as much as hers.

Eden sighed and lowered her gaze from the window. She loved her father but found him hard to like. Their relationship was strained and fraught with difficulty. It was fortunate that they lived so far apart. At a distance they were able to maintain some semblance of civility, avoiding the sparks that always started flying whenever they came face to face. The trouble was… Well, where to start? They both had a stubborn streak and that was never going to change.

Anyway, despite the general lack of support, Eden had gone ahead with the wedding. Her mother would have understood. Although she had no firm evidence for this assertion – Diana Shore had died when Eden was only six – she had created a picture in her head of a woman who had possessed the finest of maternal qualities, a parent who was wise and witty, sensitive and kind. Her actual memories were so vague and shadowy that she was no longer sure what was real and what wasn’t.

Eden stopped as she drew alongside St Paul’s church and peered around the heads of the crowd. A fire eater was in the middle of his act, plunging a torch into his mouth and spewing long hissing flames into the air. The performance held her attention for a minute or two until her thoughts drifted off again.

It was here, almost on this very spot, that she had first met Tom. She hadn’t taken much notice of him – he was just some tall blond guy, probably a tourist, with a camera in front of his face – until she realised that the Leica was pointing straight at her. She had seen his finger press down on the button and heard the smooth rapid click of the shutter opening and closing.

‘Did you just take a picture of me?’

‘Yes.’

For some reason, she’d expected him to deny it and his honesty had caught her off guard. Despite this she’d still glared hard at him. ‘Well, you can’t. You can’t do that.’

He’d inclined his head as if to study her more closely. ‘Sorry. It was the hair, you see, your red hair. I thought it looked kind of… autumnal. Captures the mood, if you know what I mean.’

Eden had continued to glower. ‘I don’t care what mood it captures. You can’t just go around… I don’t like complete strangers taking photos of me.’

‘Why not?’

‘Why do you think? Because it’s rude. Because it’s… it’s weird. It’s creepy.’

He’d laughed when she said that, his mouth opening to reveal a row of straight white teeth. ‘It’s only creepy if I’m creepy. Do you think I’m creepy?’

‘How would I know? You could be.’ The fact that he was so clearly amused by the exchange had only added to her irritation. ‘All the evidence seems to point in that direction.’

‘My self-esteem is shrinking by the second.’

‘And whose fault is that?’

He’d raised his hands as if to admit defeat. ‘Okay, what if I promise to destroy the negative? I won’t even develop the picture.’

‘And why should I believe you?’

‘Because I’m a decent, honest, upstanding guy. If I say I’ll do something, I’ll do it. You can come and watch if you like.’ He had gestured towards Henrietta Street. ‘Over there, with the black door. First floor. That’s my studio, the one with the blinds.’

‘No, thanks,’ she’d said sharply.

He had raked his fingers through his hair and grinned. ‘Ah, right, no, I mean we wouldn’t be alone or anything. I didn’t mean that. My receptionist will be there. You don’t have to worry.’

‘I’m not worried.’

‘Good.’

‘I’m not worried because I’m not going anywhere with you. Now if you don’t mind, I really have to go. I’m supposed to be —’

‘So how about I buy you a coffee instead? By way of an apology. Please say yes. I feel really bad about taking that picture now. Let me make it up to you.’

Eden had intended to say no, she was in a hurry, but then she hesitated. It was that hesitation that changed her life for ever.

‘Tom Chase,’ he’d said, putting out his hand. ‘Nice to meet you.’

Eden smiled at the memory, feeling again the touch of his long cool fingers. She remembered gazing into a pair of compelling blue eyes, of being momentarily transfixed, of feeling a sudden unexpected flicker of attraction. She wasn’t sure if she believed in fate or coincidence or any of that stuff, but from that moment on there had been no going back. He had charmed his way into her life and before long they were an item. And yes, maybe they had rushed into marriage, but she didn’t regret it. What was there to regret? When you knew it was right there was no point in waiting.

She moved away from the crowd and carried on walking until she reached Henrietta Street. With no lectures in the afternoon she’d decided to surprise Tom and take him out for lunch. She was supposed to be writing an essay on Caravaggio but the lure of Covent Garden had been too much for her. Although she enjoyed her art course – and was determined not to drop out again like she had when she was nineteen – she still felt an illicit thrill from bunking off for a few hours.

‘London calling,’ she murmured, the words from The Clash jumping into her head. It was too nice a day to be stuck in the college library, to be confined by four magnolia walls and the dry, stuffy atmosphere. Anyway, she was sure that the wild Caravaggio wouldn’t have thought twice about grabbing an opportunity when it came his way.

Eden took out her key, let herself into the building and stepped into the warm hallway.

The ground floor was occupied by a theatrical agency and as she started up the stairs she glanced to her left through the open door.

‘Hi,’ she called out to Clara. ‘Only me.’

Clara lifted her gaze from the typewriter and shot her an odd, flustered sort of look, trying for a smile but not quite achieving it. Eden didn’t dwell on the response; these theatrical types could be temperamental and she didn’t take it as a snub. Maybe there had been a row before she’d got there, some actor sounding off about a part they hadn’t got. There was often a good deal of drama on the ground floor.

At the top of the stairs Eden turned left on the landing and walked into Tom’s studio. Instantly she stopped in her tracks, her mouth falling open. What she saw there took her breath away. The waiting area, usually so smart and glamorous, looked like a hurricane had blown through it. There were photographs strewn all over the place, file drawers pulled open and furniture shifted from its usual position. The two black leather couches had been pulled out and left stranded in the centre of the room. The framed photographs had all been removed from the walls.

‘Tom?’ she yelled, alarm running through her.

Annabelle Keep, his assistant, came through from the studio at the back carrying a heap of glossy prints. ‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, dumping the photos on the desk.

‘Where’s Tom? Is he all right? What’s happened? What’s going on?’ Eden continued to look wildly around the room. ‘Was it a burglary?’

Annabelle’s dark eyebrows arched while her face assumed its familiar supercilious expression. Unless Tom was present, she never bothered to try and disguise her dislike of his wife. ‘No, it was the police.’

Eden’s eyes widened. ‘What?’

‘They searched the place, turned it upside down. Look at the state of it. It’s going to take me all day to clear up.’

‘What do you mean, the police? Why? Why would they… I don’t understand.’

Annabelle gave a long sigh, as if she was doing Eden a favour just by telling her the facts. ‘About an hour ago,’ she said in her cut-glass accent. ‘They came with a search warrant. Six of them, for God’s sake, tramping all over the carpet with their size-nine boots. Don’t ask me what they were looking for because I don’t have a clue. All I do know is that they made one hell of a mess.’ She put a hand on her skinny hip and tossed back her long dark hair. ‘You’ll have to talk to Tom about it.’

‘So where is he?’

‘He went to the station with them.’

Eden was struggling to get her head round it all. What could the cops possibly want with Tom? He ran a perfectly legitimate business, a successful business. ‘What for? He’s a photographer, for Christ’s sake. He’s not some… Why did he have to go down to the station?’

Annabelle gave an elegant but unilluminating shrug. ‘They wanted to ask him more questions. Tom asked me to stay in here while he took two of the officers through to the back. I tried to stop the others from trashing the place but…’

Eden hurried into the studio, to the large airy room where Tom’s clients sat for their portraits. There was less mess in here, but everything had been moved about. She could see through the open door that led to a small kitchen that the cupboards had been emptied; there were tea bags, sugar and coffee granules scattered over the counter.

‘This is crazy. It doesn’t make any sense. Why would they do this?’

Annabelle came in behind her. ‘They made him open the safe too.’

Eden glanced over her shoulder. ‘Did they?’

‘I think they found something.’

‘Found what?’

Annabelle gave a shake of her head. ‘I couldn’t see. I was next door, wasn’t I? But they took Tom away shortly after that.’

‘Took him away?’ Eden said, her heart missing a beat. ‘But I thought… Do you mean they arrested him?’

‘No, I don’t think so. At least… well, they didn’t put cuffs on him or anything.’

‘So what did he say to you? He must have said something.’

‘Only that he’d see me later – and to cancel this afternoon’s clients.’

‘And how did he seem?’

‘Seem?’

Eden growled, her exasperation growing by the minute. She suspected the girl of being deliberately obtuse; Annabelle liked to take advantage whenever she had the upper hand and this was one of those occasions. ‘Was he worried, angry, what? He must have had some kind of reaction.’

‘Oh, well, not overjoyed, obviously. But he was fine. You know what Tom’s like: he takes everything in his stride. There’s just been a stupid mix-up. He’ll be back soon, I’m sure he will.’

Eden hoped that Annabelle was right. She understood now why Clara had given her such an odd look on her way in. Having the police turn up on the doorstep with a search warrant was neither a common occurrence nor a welcome one.

‘What the hell were they looking for?’ Eden murmured.

Her first thought, naturally, was photographs. Maybe it was the Vice Squad who’d paid a visit, thinking Tom was peddling pornography. But then she glanced back towards the kitchen and its mess. No, if they were searching in coffee jars they must have been after something small. Drugs were the next thing that sprang into her head. But Tom had never had anything to do with drugs. The odd drag on a joint maybe, but that was all.

‘Do you know which station they’ve taken him to?’

Annabelle pulled a face. ‘I’ve no idea. What are you going to do?’

‘Try to find him, of course. I want to know what’s going on.’

‘They won’t tell you anything. You’re better off waiting here until he comes back.’

What she meant, Eden thought, was that she didn’t fancy doing all the clearing up on her own. Annabelle wasn’t the sort of girl who liked getting her hands dirty. ‘And what if he doesn’t come back?’

‘Why shouldn’t he?’

‘Because it won’t be the first time the police have made a mistake. What if they… I don’t know, maybe they think he’s done something he hasn’t.’

‘You’d be better off calling his solicitor then.’

Eden chewed on her lower lip. She had no idea who his solicitor was, although she wasn’t about to admit this to Annabelle. ‘I don’t have the number with me. Is it in his address book?’

‘Yes,’ Annabelle said, although she didn’t make any attempt to go and get it.

Eden stood and stared at her for a moment. ‘I don’t suppose you could do me a favour and look it up?’

Annabelle rolled her eyes as if to imply that she had enough on her plate without performing menial tasks for the likes of Eden. ‘I suppose,’ she said peevishly before withdrawing to the reception area.

Eden stayed in the studio for a while, gazing around. She had a sick anxious feeling in the pit of her stomach. Her legs felt unsteady too, as if she was standing on quicksand, the ground shifting beneath her. Everything would be all right. That’s what she needed to keep telling herself. This was all just a terrible mistake.

Eden sat rigidly in the chair, staring across the desk at the solicitor. She was at Lincoln’s Inn Fields in the plush offices of Wainwright, Castor & Rush. Five hours earlier, had anyone asked, she would have said that she had it all: a loving husband, a comfortable home and everything to look forward to. And now? Now she felt like a hurricane had ripped through her life, tearing up its roots and scattering all her hopes and dreams. She ran her tongue over her dry lips and said, ‘I don’t understand.’

Michael Castor glanced down and shuffled some papers before looking up again. ‘Tom has been charged with manslaughter and armed robbery.’

Eden could feel her heart thumping in her chest. She shook her head, emitting a high-pitched almost hysterical laugh. ‘But that’s ridiculous. It’s crazy. Tom wouldn’t hurt a fly. Why would they do that? Why would they? What’s wrong with them?’ She took a quick breath and carried on. ‘I mean, what kind of evidence have they got? Nothing! They can’t have anything because he didn’t do it.’

Castor’s face twisted a little. ‘But that’s the problem, Mrs Chase. They do have evidence.’

Eden flinched, the reply like a kick to her guts. ‘What?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘But they can’t,’ she said stubbornly, clenching her hands into two tight fists. It was all a nightmare, some dreadful dream she couldn’t wake up from. ‘What are you talking about?’

The solicitor hesitated for a moment as if trying to form the right words before speaking them out loud. ‘It appears that Tom has been named by another member of the gang. And there was, unfortunately, a man who was shot during the robbery and who subsequently died.’

‘What?’

‘His name was Paddy Lynch.’

Eden shook her head with such vehemence that her long red hair swayed from side to side. ‘But don’t you see? Either they’ve got the wrong Tom Chase – he can’t be the only one with that name – or someone’s got it in for him. I mean, who is this bloke who’s accusing him anyway? And why the hell should the police believe him? It isn’t right. It isn’t fair.’

‘I don’t have a name yet but…’

‘But?’

Castor sighed. ‘It seems he’s turning Queen’s evidence – or doing a Bertie as it’s known in the trade.’ Observing Eden’s blank expression he added, ‘Bertie Smalls was the first supergrass back in the early seventies. In exchange for immunity from prosecution, he gave up the names of numerous other criminals, all the jobs they’d done together, all the details. This guy – the one who’s pointing the finger at Tom – will still serve some time, but nothing like as much as he would have done.’

Eden couldn’t see the fairness or the morality in this. ‘But I still don’t get why the police believe him. You could draw any name out of the hat. Maybe he doesn’t like Tom for some reason. Or it’s just a mistake. It has to be!’

Castor leaned forward and placed his elbows on the desk. ‘Except that’s not the only reason he’s been charged. When the police did a search of his studio something was found in the safe: an item of jewellery that came from the robbery.’

Eden drew back, startled by this fresh piece of information. ‘What… how… What do you mean?’

‘It’s a snake-shaped bracelet, very distinctive – gold with rubies, sapphires and diamonds. Only a few of them were made, half a dozen, and all of these were stolen from the Epping warehouse. Does it sound familiar to you? Have you ever seen it?’

‘No, I don’t think so. But there has to be an explanation. What does Tom say?’

‘He claims he took the bracelet in lieu of a debt.’

‘What sort of debt?’

Castor paused, placed his hands together and steepled his fingers. As he spoke, he stared at her closely as if gauging her reaction. ‘He says a man called Jack Minter gave him the bracelet in exchange for some money he owed him. He says it was a while ago, the late sixties, when he was living in Budapest.’

Eden nodded eagerly, her head bobbing up and down. ‘He was in Hungary! That must be it!’

‘Have you ever heard Tom mention this man before?’

Eden hesitated, tempted to lie in order to back up her husband. But that might not be a smart move. She dug deep into her memory – Jack Minter, Jack Minter – willing it to strike a chord. But nothing came back to her. In the end she gave a simple shrug. ‘I’m not sure. It’s a common name, isn’t it? Jack, I mean. He might have done. I can’t be sure.’

The solicitor said nothing. He continued to stare at her.

Eden leaned forward. ‘When was this robbery exactly?’

Castor glanced down at his notes. ‘Fourth of November, 1966. Do you know what Tom was doing then?’

‘Of course not!’ she snapped. ‘Do you know what you were doing? Jesus, I hadn’t even met him. It was sixteen years ago!’ Her eyes flew wildly around the office before coming to settle on Castor again. He was a debonair, smartly suited man with wily eyes and steel-grey hair slicked back from his forehead. She stared at him while she tried to control the panic that was rising inside her. ‘Manslaughter? They’re saying he killed this Paddy Lynch?’

‘He was shot in the chest.’

Eden swallowed hard. Her lips felt dry, her tongue too large for her mouth. ‘Who… who was he – a security guard?’

‘No,’ Castor said. ‘He was one of the gang. Apparently he got in a tussle with the guard and was shot with his own gun.’

‘So why are they accusing Tom?’

Castor glanced down at the file that was sitting on his desk. He waited a few seconds before looking up again. ‘After Paddy Lynch was shot, the gang made their getaway, taking him with them. Tom, allegedly, offered to drive him to the hospital but the van was found the next day dumped in a car park – with Lynch’s body in the back. The man had bled to death.’

Eden bared her teeth. ‘And you think Tom could have done something like that? Jesus, he wouldn’t. You know he wouldn’t.’ She shook her head again. ‘And he wasn’t even part of this gang. He didn’t commit any robbery. You do believe that, don’t you?’

Castor gave a thin smile. ‘If my client says he’s innocent, then of course I believe him.’

Eden hissed out a breath. ‘He is innocent,’ she insisted. ‘This is all so wrong. What about the security guard? Surely he can verify that Tom wasn’t there.’

‘He can’t say one way or the other. All the men were wearing balaclavas.’

‘So what about the guy who gave him the bracelet? What about Jack Minter? Can’t he be traced?’

Castor pulled a face. ‘We’ll try, but… Well, we’re talking Hungary, not London. Not to mention the fact that it was years ago. It will all take time and even then there’s no guarantee we’ll actually find him.’

A wave of frustration flowed over Eden. ‘And in the meantime, Tom’s stuck behind bars.’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘I’ve got to see him. How can I see him?’

‘He’ll be up in Bow Magistrates’ Court tomorrow morning, but you won’t be able to talk. He’ll put in his plea and that will be that. It won’t take long, ten minutes at the most. Then he’ll be put on remand, probably at the Scrubs or Wandsworth.’

‘What about bail?’

‘We’ll ask, but I’m not hopeful. He’ll be viewed as a flight risk. It was a big robbery, Mrs Chase. The goods taken were worth about two million. And with the manslaughter charge as well…’

Eden put her elbows on the desk and covered her face with her hands. She thought of Tom languishing in a police cell and the despair he must be feeling. It was all wrong, a travesty of justice. How could it happen? She felt angry, horrified. She felt sick to her stomach.

Seeing her distress, Castor stretched out his hand and patted her on the arm. ‘Try not to worry too much. I know it all seems a bit overwhelming at the moment but —’

‘But what?’ Eden snapped, recoiling from his touch. She didn’t need empty words or bland reassurances. ‘My husband has. . .