No Mercy

by Roberta Kray

Genres: Suspense

Synopsis

Maddie Layne's life hasn't been the same since her sister was murdered. The police never found Greta's body so all Maddie was left with was unanswered questions - and her orphaned nephew, Zac, to look after. She works hard to make sure Zac has everything he needs; she even tends graves for some extra cash. Maddie isn't looking for any trouble. Lucy Rivers died decades ago under suspicious circumstances and the people responsible believe the entire affair is over. And then the mysterious Cato hires Maddie to tend to Lucy's neglected grave. Maddie starts asking innocent questions, but when she learns that the deaths of her sister and Lucy are linked she knows she must dig deeper. Lena Gissing, matriarch of one of the East End's most vicious families, has a vested interest in making sure the truth stays buried. She's not about to let a nobody like Maddie Layne get in the way . . .

Release date: November 6, 2014

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 400

Sample

Lucy Rivers stood under the railway arches, sheltering from a thin, drizzly rain. Her shoulders were hunched, her face pale and tight. She shivered. It was getting dark now and the hope was seeping out of her. He had to come. He must! She peered along the narrow street, willing him to appear through the gloom. Please, she silently begged, her hands clenching into two tight fists. Please, God, let him come.

She checked her watch again. Already it was half an hour after the time they had agreed, and with every minute that passed she felt the knot in her stomach grow tighter. Her mouth was dry. Her heart was racing, thumping in her chest. Briefly she closed her eyes, but when she opened them again, the street was still empty.

There was the rumble of a train as it approached and slid smoothly into the station. She thought of the travellers mingling on the platform, beginning their journeys or ending them – people leaving and people coming home. Tonight she was supposed to have been starting on a journey of her own. What chance of that now? Tears pricked her eyes and she roughly brushed them away.

She glanced at her watch again. She looked down at the pavement. All her meagre possessions, everything she owned, were packed into the small, shabby suitcase standing by her feet. Her hands had been trembling with fear and excitement as she’d packed the case in the early hours of the morning before slipping out to the yard to hide it behind the bins. At work, she had barely been able to concentrate, her fingers clumsy on the keyboard, her mind a million miles away from the words she was typing. And with everything she had done, every simple action, every routine chore, she had thought, This is the last time I will be doing this.

There was a sound, footsteps, and her heart gave a leap, but it wasn’t him. She shrank back into the shadows as a tom with her arm linked through a customer’s tottered by. The clicking tap of the prostitute’s heels echoed on the pavement. The woman’s voice was high and brittle, her artificial laugh carrying on the damp evening air.

Gradually, the quiet settled around Lucy again. From somewhere behind came the light, steady drip of water. There is no point in waiting, she thought, but still she couldn’t leave. Another five minutes. She would give him that. Half an hour was nothing. He could have been held up. Or an accident, perhaps. What if he was lying in hospital, unable to get in touch with her? What if he was – No, she would not allow herself to think of it. A world where he did not exist was too painful to imagine.

The minutes dragged by, five, ten and then fifteen. She rummaged in her pocket for loose change. She could go to the phone box at the station and call him. But what if he came while she was gone? Anyway, she knew that it was pointless. She would get no answer if she rang. Either he was on his way or he wasn’t coming at all.

Although the street was empty, she still felt self-conscious, as if the very bricks in the wall, the pavement slabs and even the air that she breathed bore witness to her humiliation. She hung her head in shame. It was obvious what had happened. He had changed his mind. He had weighed up the pros and cons and decided she was not worth it. In the final reckoning – for she would not be the only one who was leaving everything behind – the price had proved too high.

As soon as the thought entered her head, she tried to push it away. It couldn’t be so. All the things he had said, the promises he had made. Surely they must have meant something. He was the one who had suggested they run off, who had made all the plans, who had convinced her that this was the only way they could be together. We can do this, Lucy.

But men lied and that was the God-honest truth. They gazed into your eyes and swore that black was white. She only had to look at her dad to know this for a fact. He lied about money, about where he’d been and what he’d done, about all the cheap little tarts he slept with. She would smell the perfume on his clothes when he came home, the overly sweet scent mixing with the ugly stink of fags and booze.

She paced ten feet to the left, turned and went back to where she had started. She shifted unhappily from one foot to the other. ‘Where are you?’ she muttered under her breath. ‘Why? Why are you doing this to me?’ She lifted her eyes to the darkening sky and knew that she couldn’t wait any longer. It was almost an hour now. People didn’t turn up an hour after they were supposed to.

If she didn’t go home soon, she’d have trouble explaining where she’d been. There would be questions, an interrogation. She would get a grilling from her stepmother, Jean. She had promised to be back from work by six and already it was past the hour. Her emotions welled up inside her, a swirling pool of grief and pain, of shame and shock and anger. How could he have betrayed her like this? He had taken her love and trust and thrown them both away.

With a heavy heart, she picked up the suitcase and began to walk. As she trudged along the street, her legs felt leaden. She glanced back over her shoulder, still hoping even though she knew it was hopeless. She couldn’t help herself. In her mind, she had an image of him hurrying towards her, his mouth full of apologies, his arms reaching out…

But no, that wouldn’t happen now. She realised that. The dream was shattered. She had envisaged the two of them together for always, but it wasn’t going to be. It was over, finished. She had been cut adrift. The breath caught in her throat and the tears began to flow.

As she passed the station, she stopped and looked in through the entrance. There was nothing to prevent her from leaving on her own. She was eighteen, old enough to take care of herself. She could buy a ticket, get on a train, go anywhere that her money would take her. Except that wasn’t very far. And what then? To be alone in a strange place would take more courage than she currently possessed. An hour ago, she had thought herself brave, fearless, a woman rather than a girl. Now she felt like a child again, small and defenceless and scared of her own shadow.

A lad walked past and grinned at her. ‘Cheer up, love. It may never ’appen.’

Lucy, jolted from her introspection, gazed blankly back. Yesterday she would have been ready with a smart retort, but at this moment she had nothing. ‘Fool,’ she murmured, although she was not entirely sure if the comment was directed at the boy or herself.

Her gaze shifted towards the row of three phone boxes, one of them empty, and she wondered again about calling him. She was clutching at straws, but that was all she had. What if something had happened and he was waiting for her to make contact? It was possible. Anything was possible. Before she could change her mind, she rushed over, pulled open the door and stepped inside.

Dropping the case down by her feet, she grabbed a couple of coins from her pocket. She picked up the receiver and dialled the number with a shaking hand. It began to ring at the other end. ‘Come on,’ she urged, as she pressed the phone to her ear. It rang and rang and rang. Long after she knew that it would not be answered, she continued to stand there with the sound echoing in her head. Eventually, she put the receiver down, gave a sigh, wiped the snot from her nose with the back of her hand and wearily set off for home.

Crossing the road, she was careless of the traffic and deaf to the protests of honking horns. She went to the corner and began to walk up Kellston High Street. The rain was coming down harder now, soaking into her coat and drenching her long, fair hair. Most of the shops had closed, their iron shutters pulled down for the night, but a light was still shining from Connolly’s. As she passed the café, she peered in through the window, automatically scanning the faces of the customers in case he was sitting there. But of course he wasn’t. Why would he be?

She traipsed along the street until she came to Rose Avenue. Here she stopped again, her face twisting as she gazed down the row of identical terraced houses. She could see the light on in number 26 and knew that their visitor must have arrived. The front room, the parlour, was only ever used for special occasions.

A part of her wanted to turn round, to retrace her steps and hurry back to the station. Anything was better than what awaited her at home. She hesitated, aware of the sound of her own lightly panting breath. What now? She still had a choice, but her emotions were too tumultuous, too confused, for her to think straight.

A bus went by, heading for Victoria. That was near to where he lived. She could go to his flat, see if he was there, demand some answers to the endless questions that were rolling through her mind. But he wouldn’t be there. Or if he was, he wouldn’t come to the door. And by the time she got there and back – probably with nothing to show for it – it would be really late and she’d be in even more trouble than she already was.

She stood for a minute, paralysed by indecision. As her eyes darted left and right, she worried about seeing someone she knew. How would she explain the suitcase? Her fingers tightened round the handle. In these parts, the women had nothing better to do than gossip; they took pleasure in other people’s misfortunes, in other people’s mistakes. She could imagine their eyes, shiny with malice. She shuddered at the thought of being ridiculed, of her humiliation being exposed to the world.

In the end, aware that the longer she stood there, the more likely she was to be observed, she made the choice and set off for home. She felt sick inside, hot and cold, almost dizzy. She wished she had the strength to go it alone, but she didn’t. As she cut down into the alley that ran along the back of the terrace, she recalled the tom she’d seen earlier. Perhaps once, years ago, that woman had dreamed of something better too.

It was dark in the alley, only a faint light slipping from the kitchen windows. She heard the rattling of dinner plates and the muffled sound of voices. Keeping her head down, she walked as quietly as she could, desperate to escape the notice of the neighbours. The rain was starting to gather, forming puddles on the uneven surface of the path. In her haste, she stumbled, twisting her ankle.

‘Damn it!’ she cursed, before quickly limping on.

When she came to the open gate of number 26, she paused again, checking that no one was watching from the window, before hobbling into the cluttered yard. She slid the suitcase in behind the bins, then leaned down to rub at the swelling flesh of her ankle. She was glad of the pain. It helped to distract from the grinding ache in her chest, from the knowledge that her life was in ruins. But then, as she approached the back door, she had another rush of hope. What if he had left a message? Something cryptic that no one else would understand. Maybe he had pushed a note through the letterbox. Or got someone else to do it.

She burst through the door, eager now to get inside. The kitchen light dazzled her for a second and she raised a hand to shield her eyes against the brightness.

‘Sorry I’m late.’

Her stepmother, Jean, a thin, waspish woman, was placing the lid on the best china teapot. ‘Oh, decided to honour us with your presence, have you? What time do you call this? You were supposed to… And the state of you! Jesus, you look like a drowned rat.’

‘It’s raining,’ Lucy explained unnecessarily. ‘And I had to… to stay late at work.’ She wondered if the lie showed on her face. ‘There was nothing I could do about it. A last-minute order came in and we all had to stay. And then I had to wait ages for a bus. I got back as fast as I could.’

‘He’s been here half an hour,’ hissed Jean, glancing towards the front room. ‘Tidy yourself up, for God’s sake. What’s he going to think?’

Lucy gave a shrug. She didn’t care what he thought. And she didn’t give a damn how long he’d been waiting. She slid out of her wet coat and hung it over the back of a chair. Her eyes raked the room, searching for a note, but there was none in sight. She was desperate to ask the question on her lips, but equally afraid of the answer she might get.

‘Er, did anyone call round for me earlier?’

‘Like who, for instance?’

‘Anyone.’

‘No.’

‘Are you sure? No one came round?’

Jean’s eyes narrowed with suspicion. ‘Who you expecting, then?’

‘Nobody.’ Lucy gave a quick shake of her head. ‘It doesn’t matter. I was just wondering. We’re supposed to be going out Saturday, me and the girls. I thought one of them might have —’

‘Well, they didn’t. No one did.’

Lucy stared hard at her. Was she lying? Jean was more than capable. It was ten years now since she’d married her father and the evil cow had started sniffing around before poor Mum was even cold in her grave. It hadn’t taken her long to get her claws in. Still, the one consolation was that neither of them had got what they’d bargained for: he had found himself hitched to a nagging harridan who made his life a misery, and Jean had been landed with a no-good bastard who squandered his cash on tarts, booze and gambling. The two of them deserved each other.

Jean glared back at her. ‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ Lucy slumped down at the table, a wave of exhaustion washing over her. This morning, over breakfast, she’d been convinced that it was the last time she’d ever have to see the woman, the last time she’d ever have to listen to her vile grating voice. So much for that! So much for all her stupid dreams! She felt a lump growing in her throat and quickly tried to swallow it. She mustn’t cry. If she started, she might never stop.

‘So what’s with the face?’

Lucy put her elbows on the table and rubbed at her eyes. ‘I’m tired, that’s all. It’s been a long day.’

‘Well, don’t just sit there. Get upstairs and smarten yourself up. And put some lippie on. You look like a bleedin’ ghost.’

Lucy wished she was a ghost. To be dead and buried was all she wanted. The dead couldn’t think, couldn’t feel, couldn’t weep. Slowly she got to her feet, wincing at the pain in her ankle.

‘And I wouldn’t go making any plans for Saturday,’ Jean said. ‘You play your cards right and there could be a much better offer on the table.’

‘Maybe I don’t want a better offer.’

Jean’s lips pursed. ‘Don’t start that again. We agreed, didn’t we? Or do you want to see us out on the street without a roof over our heads?’ She glanced towards the front room and lowered her voice. ‘You should thank your lucky stars that he’s taking an interest. Most girls would be grateful.’

Grateful, Lucy thought with a shiver of revulsion. The man was over twice her age, a gangster and a thug. It wasn’t her fault that her dad owed him a fortune, but she was still the one who was expected to pay. And it wasn’t money that Brendan Vasser was after. Sure, he expected the debt to be repaid, but not in hard cash. What he wanted was her. He had made that clear from the first day they’d met. And the more she’d resisted, the more determined he’d become.

‘Well?’ Jean said. ‘What are you waiting for? Get a move on.’ She made a flapping gesture with her hands. ‘Sort yourself out and get back down here. Five minutes, yeah. Don’t take any longer or he may change his mind.’

Lucy gave a small shake of her head; she knew he wasn’t going anywhere. Once Vasser set his mind to something, he didn’t give up until he got it. She was the prize and he intended to have it. A feeling of dread enveloped her. Her chance of escape had gone. If only she’d had the nerve to get on a train, a bus, to run away from it all… but it was too late for regrets now. She limped out of the kitchen, glad at least to be free of Jean’s scrutiny. Had she suspected anything? It was hard to tell.

As Lucy passed through the narrow hallway, she gazed hard at the phone as if by sheer effort of will she could force it to ring, but it remained silent. Naturally it did. The phone had been cut off months ago when the bill hadn’t been paid. The rent was overdue too. Other final demands were piled up on the table, gas and electricity and water, all of them unopened.

Male laughter drifted from the front room, a harsh, dirty sound that set her teeth on edge. What kind of man pimped out his own daughter? She glanced at the front door, tempted to open it, to step outside and keep on walking. But she couldn’t find the strength. Instead she climbed slowly up the stairs, resigned to her fate and too tired to fight it.

 

Jean leaned back against the sink, a self-satisfied smile playing around her lips. She lit a fag and breathed out the smoke in a long, narrow stream of relief. She’d been on pins all day, worried that something would go wrong, but one look at the girl’s face had been enough to put her mind at rest. He hadn’t shown up and that was all that mattered. He was out of the picture and that was the end of it.

She reached for her handbag and pulled out the letter that had come a week ago. It had been typed and sent to her anonymously from a ‘well-wisher’. I think you should be aware that your stepdaughter is planning to elope. A hot flush of rage burned across her cheeks as she read the man’s name, address, telephone number and the date that the two of them were intending to leave.

‘Ungrateful bitch,’ she muttered. All the years she’d skivvied for her, washed her clothes, cooked her meals and this was the bloody thanks she got. The slut had got herself a fancy man and had been planning on running off, leaving her and Charlie high and dry. It was all there on the page in black and white.

A thin hiss escaped from her lips. The dirty little tart deserved a slap. Still, she’d managed to scupper their plans good and proper. It had taken her a whole morning to construct the brief note, but when it was done, she’d been well pleased with the result: I’m so sorry but I can’t go through with it. It’s over. Please don’t try and see me. I won’t change my mind.

The writing had been perfect, an immaculate forgery, but Jean had still been worried that the man might ignore the response and turn up as arranged. That had been the big problem, the fact that she’d known when but not where they were meeting.

Jean shoved the letter she’d received back in the envelope – she would burn it later tonight – and returned it to the bottom of her bag. She took one last drag on her cigarette before jabbing the butt into the ashtray. Then she painted a smile on her face, picked up the pot of tea and carried it through to the front room.

‘Sorry about the wait, Brendan. She won’t be long now. She’s just powdering her nose.’

 

Lucy stood in the bedroom, gazing at her reflection in the dressing-table mirror. The person who looked back felt like a stranger, someone she had never seen before. She studied the oval face, the wide blue eyes, the bloodless lips that were slightly parted. Was this really her? An odd kind of numbness was spreading through her body, a sense of dislocation that she couldn’t shake off.

‘Lucy Rivers,’ she murmured.

She ran a brush through her wet fair hair and listened to the sound of the rain against the window. It had been raining the last time she had seen him. They had decided not to meet again until this evening – no unnecessary risks, no chance of anyone seeing them together – but perhaps that had given him time to reconsider. She wondered at what precise moment he had stopped loving her, or at least stopped loving her enough. And why hadn’t he let her know? It had been cowardly and cruel to leave her waiting there. She had not believed him capable of either of those things.

‘Why?’ she whispered, her lips barely moving.

There was still a chance, she thought, that someone or something had prevented him from coming, but the idea was a stale one now. No, if he had wanted to contact her, he would have found a way. She threw the brush on to the bed, went over to the window and looked down at the street. She wrapped her arms around her chest and rocked gently back and forth. The gaping emptiness of her heart was suddenly shot through with rage and bitterness. She wished that he was dead! Better that than he’d betrayed her. She would rather grieve for him than suffer this kind of pain.

Outside, the street lamps cast a soft orange glow. A middle-aged couple walked by, the man holding an umbrella protectively above the woman’s head. Abruptly she pulled the curtains across and turned away. She went back to the mirror and stared at herself again. The simple blue dress was creased, but she wasn’t going to get changed – she had nothing to get changed into. All her decent clothes were in the suitcase, and the suitcase was out in the yard. Anyway, it didn’t matter what she looked like. She didn’t care. She didn’t give a damn.

Slowly she limped down the stairs, her hand gripping the banister. She paused for a moment when she came to the bottom of the flight, took a couple of deep breaths and then walked into the front room with her head held high.

‘There you are,’ said Jean, as if she’d been gone for hours rather than minutes.

Lucy glanced from Jean to her father to the monster that was Brendan Vasser. He was sitting in the armchair by the fire with his legs splayed and his hands resting on his heavy thighs. She knew what he was feeling without him having to say a word. She could see it in his cold reptilian eyes, in the way he stared at her. It wasn’t love – brutes like Vasser didn’t understand the meaning of the word – but it was obsession. He wanted to possess her, to own her body and soul. And she suddenly thought, What difference does it make? She had already lost everything. Lucy Rivers was dead. Whatever happened next was irrelevant.

Her stomach flipped over, but her voice remained calm. ‘Here I am.’

Maddie Layne shifted the rucksack on to her other shoulder as she passed through the tall wrought-iron gates. It was half past eight and a thin morning haze still blurred the outlines of the graves. She liked this time of day best, when everything was fresh and new. The constant burdens of her life, the responsibilities, the worries and financial difficulties, seemed to weigh less heavily in the peace of the cemetery.

Dressed in jeans and a black T-shirt, she strolled along the main thoroughfare before turning left by the weeping willows and heading down a narrower path. It was almost a year now since she had placed the advert in the Kellston Gazette offering her services as a grave tender. It didn’t bring in a fortune, but every little helped.

She had twelve clients on her books, and most of them lived away from the area, making it difficult to visit the cemetery on a regular basis. Her duties involved washing down and polishing the headstones, tidying the plots and putting fresh flowers in the urns. To prove that the work had been done, she would then send a photo from her mobile. Once a month was the most common arrangement, but sometimes it was quarterly, and in one unusual case it was every week.

It was this latter client who interested Maddie the most. The man, Mr Cato, had contacted her six months ago, and the cheques came regular as clockwork. The voice on the phone had been neither young nor old, but it had been terse, gruff even, with the merest hint of a London accent. He had provided the name on the grave and the number of the plot, given her instructions, taken her address and then hung up without saying goodbye – all in the space of a couple of minutes.

The grave, which she was now approaching, was situated on the edge of the older, wilder part of the cemetery. Here, nature had reclaimed the land, with weeds and wild flowers establishing themselves in every nook and cranny. Deeper into the undergrowth lay weathered tombstones and crumbling mausoleums covered in ivy. Grey stone angels rose from the foliage with their hands clasped in prayer.

The grass, still damp from the morning dew, brushed against her ankles as she walked. She could hear the birds in the trees and from across the other side of the graveyard the low rumbling sound of a mower. She checked her watch – she had to be at the garden centre for her shift at ten o’clock – before coming to a halt beside the white marble headstone.

‘Hey, Lucy,’ she said, softly patting the top of the stone with the palm of her hand.

She stood and studied the inscription for a moment. Lucy May Rivers had died over thirty years ago when she was only nineteen. So young, too young. Maddie drew in a breath and released it in a sigh. She found herself wondering, not for the first time, what had happened to the poor girl. Her gaze travelled over the brief and by now familiar words – there was only the name, the dates of her birth and her death, and then Rest in Peace.

Maddie swung the rucksack off her shoulder and dropped it on the ground. She crouched down, took out a bunch of red roses and placed them on the grass. The flowers had come from her back garden, and before leaving the house, she had cut down the stems and wrapped the ends in wet cotton wool and cellophane. Next she removed a bottle of water from the rucksack and a couple of cloths. She dampened one of the cloths and stood up again, leaning over the stone to wipe away the film of summer dust before giving the surface a polish.

As she worked, she pondered on Cato’s connection to Lucy. Who was he? A relative? A friend or lover? But if this was the case, she didn’t understand why the grave had been neglected for so long. When she’d first started tending the plot, it had been clear that no one had visited for years. Or if they had, they’d made no attempt to tidy it. At the start, it had taken her half an hour just to clear away the tangle of weeds.

‘So what’s the deal?’ she asked softly. ‘Who is this guy, then?’

Maddie didn’t even know his Christian name. The monthly cheques, sent by a local firm of solicitors called Crosby, Link & Chatham, only added to the mystery. Why didn’t he send them himself? Perhaps he was living abroad. But the mobile number she had was for the UK. She thought of that voice again, gruff and insistent, but still couldn’t attach an accurate age to it.

‘Cato,’ she said, rolling the name on her tongue.

She tugged the old flowers out of the urn, discarded the water, refilled it with fresh and then set about arranging the roses. She always took extra care with this plot, and it wasn’t just because of the money. Lucy Rivers had died at the same age as her own sister, Greta, and she felt an emotional attachment to the grave that she didn’t feel towards the others.

Maddie paused for a second, her fingers hovering over the smooth red petals of the flowers. She couldn’t visit Greta’s resting place because there wasn’t one. Her sister had been murdered – there was little doubt about that – but her body had never been found. The police reckoned that it had probably been swept out on the tide from the Thames to the sea. It was six years now since she’d gone missing and Maddie was still struggling to come to terms with it.

She gave a shake of her head, trying to free her mind of the horror of what had happened.

It was no good dwelling on it – that wouldn’t change anything – but the lack of closure, of not being able to bury her, to properly grieve for her, meant that it all felt unfinished. Greta’s life was like a book with the last few pages torn out.

She finished arranging the roses and stood back, inclining her head to view the effect. ‘Not bad,’ she murmured. The different shades of red looked striking against the cool white of the marble. She took a photo and checked her watch again before sitting down on the rucksack. The sun was getting stronger and she could feel its rays warming her bare arms. She would stay for a while and have a few minutes to herself. Time alone was a precious commodity these days.

There was a kind of solace in tending Lucy’s grave. Maddie was able to do for her what she wasn’t able to do for Greta. It might not be much, but it went some way towards filling the void. In front of the headstone was a small oblong marble kerb filled with white quartz chips and she began to pick out the pieces of twig and leaf that had gathered there. As her fingers worked, her thoughts revolved around her sister. Where had it all gone wrong?

As kids, they’d been close, allies in the face of their mum’s manic restlessness. Never staying in one place for more than a year had been a strange, nomadic way to live, but Kim Layne had always believed that the grass was greener someplace else. They’d travelled the length a. . .