The Lost

by Roberta Kray

Genres: Mystery

Synopsis

Private investigator Harry Lind doesn't believe in ghosts and so doesn't think twice about the ramblings of a drunken old hack. Little Grace Harper went missing over twenty years ago and missing girls can't just reappear or can they? It takes a brutal murder to make him think again. Reporter Jess Vaughan is convinced Grace is still alive, and as she and Harry begin to unravel an age-old web of deceit and betrayal their discoveries put them on a collision course with Jimmy Keppell, one of London's most notorious gangsters. It seems Jess and Harry's search for the truth could cost them their lives.

Release date: April 11, 2019

Publisher: Sphere

Print pages: 417

Sample

Len Curzon had a nose for a good story but this one wasn’t worth a sniff. Frustrated, he dumped his elbows squarely on the table and scowled at the giant in front of him. Why had he even bothered? There were more useful things he could be doing with a Friday afternoon than sitting in a prison visiting room pandering to a minor villain’s ego.

‘For God’s sake, BJ, are you saying you’ve dragged me all the way down here just to try and flog me your life history?’

‘But you write them books. I’ve seen ’em. You did that one on Alfie Noakes.’

Len shook his head. ‘I’m a reporter, son. You said you had something important to tell me.’

It took a while for the implication to sink in – the route through to BJ’s brain was a slow one – but as it did his mouth slowly turned down at the corners. ‘I thought—’

‘I don’t care what you thought. Remind me of how old you are, exactly.’

‘Twenty-four.’

‘Don’t you think you’re a little young to be considering the definitive biography?’

‘Huh?’

Len peered down into the polystyrene cup. He blew on the surface of the thick dark brew before taking a sip and screwing up his face. Lord, even the tea stank. He was tempted to get up and walk. Sometimes he wished he’d never written those books. Now every jumped-up low-life, every hoodlum, every toerag in the land wanted to see his name in print. ‘I mean, maybe you should wait a while, get a few more … experiences.’

But BJ refused to be discouraged. ‘I’ve been around, Mr

C. I’ve seen stuff.’

‘Yeah, course you have.’

The problem with ‘Big Jay’ Barrington was that you got exactly what it said on the tin – six foot six of solid muscle, a great guy to have beside you in a brawl but with sod all in the brain department. If an original thought had ever entered his head it had exited again at the first opportunity. This accounted for why he’d already spent more than half his adult life in jail.

‘I’ve worked with Billy Todd, Ray Stagg, all the faces. I’ve been there, man. People are gonna be well into it.’

Len dug deep into his reserves of patience. Through the years he had learned to cultivate the small-timers, to buy them drinks, to sit and listen to their endless cock-and-bull stories in the hope of receiving the odd snippet of interesting information. BJ might still be useful one day in the future – it was best, perhaps, not to close any doors too firmly.

‘Look, I can’t promise anything, okay? Things are pretty busy at the moment but go on, go ahead and tell me what you’ve got in mind.’

As BJ began his pitch, Len gazed down at his watch. For courtesy’s sake, he’d give it five more minutes and then make his excuses. If he legged it down to the station he might still be able to catch the two thirty-four back to London. In the meantime, for want of anything better to do, he glanced discreetly round the room.

Inevitably, he recognized some of the other inmates; after three decades on the Hackney Herald his knowledge of London criminals and their families was bordering on the encyclopedic. That HMP Maidstone was currently housing a few familiar faces, ageing villains who had never learned from their mistakes, came as no surprise. What was more depressing was that he also recognized a handful of the younger cons. These were the no-hoper sons and even grandsons of men he had seen sent down over and over again. They were the next generations staunchly carrying on the family tradition. He sighed into his tea. It wasn’t the legacy of criminality that disturbed him so much as the reminder it provided of his own advancing years. At sixty-three, retirement was snapping at his heels.

Before that thought could start to fester he made another quick sweep. This time his gaze alighted on someone more interesting. Len’s eyes widened a fraction.

‘Isn’t that Paul Deacon?’

BJ frowned, stopped his monologue and glanced over his shoulder. ‘Who?’

‘Deacon, Paul Deacon. Over by the window. With the woman in the red coat.’

‘Dunno, mate.’

BJ obviously hadn’t heard of him, never mind made his acquaintance. Still, it was years since Len had sat through those two long and sensational weeks at the Old Bailey. Sex, politics and murder, the perfect combination, always guaranteed an excellent turnout and the courtroom had been packed to the rafters. A good show was what the public had been after and the trial hadn’t disappointed.

Len continued to stare. Deacon was older, greyer, in his late fifties now but he still maintained an air of distinction. The prison regime may have stripped a little weight from his body but it had done nothing to wipe that impenetrable expression from his face. Why he had killed Tony Keppell remained a mystery. How he had even known him was another matter altogether. Deacon had been a successful politician, a socialite, a rich and successful man. The Keppells were pure gangster stock.

At the trial, Deacon had claimed self-defence, a drunken row that had got out of hand, but his evidence had been vague and evasive. When cross-examined he could not – or perhaps more accurately would not – explain the nature of their relationship. In fact, he had appeared curiously indifferent to the proceedings. Impeccably dressed, he had stood in the dock with a look suspiciously like boredom on his face. Arrogant was how other reporters had described him but Len hadn’t been convinced. Resigned was more the word that had sprung to mind as if, despite all the efforts of his expensive legal team, Deacon had already decided that the outcome was inevitable. And as it turned out he’d been right. The jury, with little other option, had pronounced their unanimous guilty verdict in less than an hour.

Len switched his attention to the woman. He could only see her in profile, a young slim girl with shortish dark hair. She looked about twenty-five. Not his daughter, that was for sure. Deacon hadn’t got any kids. So who was she? A friend, perhaps, or a girlfriend. There was something about their body language that suggested a particular kind of intimacy. His antennae were starting to twitch. Maybe this trip hadn’t been such a waste of time after all. There might just be a story here: Shamed politician finds sexy new love behind bars.

‘So what do you think, Mr C?’

‘What?’

‘About the book, man. It’s the business, right?’

Len glanced back at him and nodded. ‘Yeah. I don’t know. Maybe.’

BJ smiled, his upper row of large creamy teeth showing three black spaces. ‘See. I told you. This is gonna be big. This is gonna be mega.’

Len was only half listening. Deacon and the girl were leaning in towards each other, talking soft and fast. They were only inches apart. Deacon’s shoulders had become tight and hunched. A row? It could be. Some kind of disagreement anyway. Deacon’s left hand, curled up on the table, clenched into a fist. He didn’t look pleased. She didn’t look too happy either. Len saw her shake her head and sit back.

He rapidly revised his headline: Shamed politician splits with sexy young girlfriend. Now that could be an exclusive, a story that could be sold on to the tabloids. All he had to do was to find out who she was.

‘You ever see that girl before, BJ? The one with Deacon.’

‘Nah, man, I’ve told you. I don’t know him. I don’t know her.’ Impatiently, he looked over his shoulder again and sighed. ‘What’s the big deal? He famous or somethin’?’

Len thought about telling him but then changed his mind. ‘No, no one special. It doesn’t matter.’

He continued to watch them out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly, the girl stood up. She was buttoning her red coat and preparing to leave. It was less than thirty minutes into the visit. Deacon got to his feet too. For a second the two of them stood gazing at each other before she stretched out her hand and touched him lightly on the arm. Then, without a word, she turned and walked quickly towards the door.

It was the first time Len had seen her properly. He couldn’t describe her as beautiful. He wasn’t even sure if she was pretty. Her face, with its small sharp chin, high cheekbones and deep-set eyes, was more striking than attractive. Then he suddenly realized – there was a hint of familiarity about her. He’d seen her before. But where and when?

Len made a decision. He scraped back his chair. If he was fast enough he might be able to follow her.

BJ peered up at him. ‘Mr C?’

‘Sorry.’ Len looked at his watch. ‘I’ve got a meeting. Got to go.’

‘But—’

‘Yeah, the book. Sounds good.’ A screw was already heading towards the door, a set of keys jangling in his hand. If he didn’t leave now he might lose her – along with any chance of a scoop. ‘Make some notes. Send them on. I’ll get back to you. Good to see you again.’ He leaned forward, grabbed BJ’s hand, shook it, and hurried towards the exit.

She didn’t even glance at him as they were escorted back. The three of them walked in silent single file. Len was careful not to stare too hard. The last thing he wanted was to draw attention to himself.

In the foyer he retrieved his phone and newspaper from the locker and returned the key to the screw on duty. He quickly left the building, crossed over the road and waited. If she’d driven here, he’d be jiggered. Still, he could always get the registration of the car and try to track her down later.

A bitter winter wind whistled round his ears. Len turned up the collar of his coat, stamped his feet on the ground and rubbed his hands together. A minute passed and then another. What was she doing in there? If he had to hang around much longer, he’d be frozen to the pavement. He stared longingly towards the soft golden light escaping from the windows of the pub. What he wouldn’t give for a warming shot of brandy. For a moment he was tempted – this business with the girl might come to nothing – but he knew better than to let a God-sent opportunity slip through his fingers. It might only be a hunch but his hunches had served him well in the past.

Who was she? He racked his brains but still couldn’t place her. He’d always been good with faces – once seen, never forgotten – but names were forever evading him now. It was one of the penalties of growing old.

It was almost ten minutes before she finally emerged from the gate, glanced briefly to the left and the right, and then set off in the direction of the station.

‘Thank you, Lord,’ he murmured.

Len looked up at the board as he followed her on to the platform for London Victoria. There was a train due in ten minutes. He offered up another small prayer of gratitude. Not too long to wait and with a bit of luck she’d be going all the way to the city. If this did turn out to be a wild-goose chase then at least he wouldn’t be too far from home.

He watched as she sat down on an empty bench, took her mobile from her bag and checked through the messages. The corners of her mouth turned down. For a while she sat drumming her fingers against her knee and then took a deep breath, pressed a couple of buttons and raised the phone to her ear.

Len decided to risk a spot of eavesdropping. He strolled casually past and halted just a few feet away. Opening the paper, he stared down at it and pretended to read.

‘Hi,’ she said into the phone. ‘It’s me.’

There was a short pause.

‘Yes, I know. Sorry. I meant to call but I got stuck in a meeting and it just went on and on.’ She sighed. ‘You know what Colin’s like. I couldn’t get away. Once he starts talking there’s just no stopping him.’

Another pause.

‘Are you? That’s okay, that’s fine. I’m still at work too. I’ve got a few things to finish off. I’ll be a while yet.’

Len gave her a furtive glance. She was nervously playing with a button on her coat. He noticed the gold band on her finger and grinned. A nice warm sensation was spreading through his groin. He was on to something. He was sure he was. Paul Deacon’s lady friend was lying through her teeth – and now all he had to do was to find out why.

‘I’ll see you later.’ She nodded, her dark eyes focused on the damp grey concrete of the platform. ‘Yeah, love you too. Okay. Bye then.’

As she hung up, Len smartly returned his attention to the paper. It was about time he got a break. The last few years had been lean ones. Only small stuff. No big stories. He’d been starting to wonder if he’d lost his touch. But no, Len Curzon wasn’t finished yet. Still, he’d have to act quickly; he hadn’t been the only person in that room today. All it would take was some other savvy visitor to tip off the tabloids and he could wave goodbye to any hope of an exclusive.

When the train pulled in, he waited until she’d got on before moving towards the other end of the carriage. It wasn’t busy and there was plenty of space. As she settled into her seat he sat down, two rows back and across the aisle. From here he had a clear view in case she got off before London.

He stared at the back of her head, at the dark silky hair that only just touched her collar. Who was she? It was right on the tip of his tongue. It was driving him mad. An actress, perhaps, someone he’d seen on TV? No, she wasn’t the showbiz type. He wasn’t really sure what type she was. Although there was a certain confidence in how she dressed – that bright red coat suggested she didn’t mind attracting attention – there was also a defensiveness about her body language, a barrier that defied anyone to get too close. Look but don’t touch was the message drifting out from her.

Len glanced down at his paper. He needed a distraction. The more he dwelled on it, the less likely he was to come up with a name. While he flicked through the pages he pondered again on the Paul Deacon trial. What had happened to the wife? She’d got a divorce, he thought, shortly after Deacon had been sent down. No doubt in her mind then as to just how guilty he was. Or maybe it was the other stuff, all those nasty rumours, that had sent her scuttling to the nearest good solicitor.

Had Deacon been shagging Tony Keppell? There was no real evidence but that hadn’t stopped the talk. Jimmy Keppell’s youngest son, the runt of the litter, had been a small blond pretty boy. And only fifteen. Had the kid been blackmailing Deacon, putting the squeeze on him? The truth hadn’t come out. Perhaps it never would. Some secrets stayed buried forever. Still, there was one fact that had never been in dispute: on a warm summer’s evening, over a decade ago, Paul Deacon had picked up a gun and fired a bullet through Tony Keppell’s pale and skinny chest.

It was just after four when the train arrived at Victoria. The station was heaving and Len had to take care not to lose her in the crowd. She was only small, about five foot two, and he wasn’t more than a few inches taller. The red coat helped to keep her in his sights. As she made her way towards the underground, he rummaged for his travel pass. Bugger, he hated the tube and especially at this time of day. It would be hot, stinking, sweaty … and there wouldn’t be a chance of getting a seat.

He took out his phone, hoping he wouldn’t lose the signal before he descended into the bowels of the earth. He punched in the number. It rang five times before she finally picked up. ‘Jess?’

‘Oh, it’s you. Where are you? In the pub?’

‘No, I’m not in the bloody pub.’

‘Toby’s doing his nut. You were supposed to have the Butler copy with him by noon.’

Len pulled a face. Toby Marsh was always stressing over one minor detail or another. ‘Was I? Well, it’s on my desk, er … somewhere. Be a love and dig it out for me. And look, there’s one other thing. If you get the time could you—’

‘No,’ she snapped. ‘I’m busy.’

‘Go on. It won’t take a minute.’

‘And how many times have I heard that before? The answer’s still no.’ She spelled it out. ‘N-O. I’m up to my ears in it. You’ll have to do it yourself.’

‘Please,’ he wheedled. ‘You know what I’m like on that computer. You could do it in half the time. I could be on to something here.’

She paused, her curiosity piqued. ‘On to what?’

Len grinned as he stepped on to the escalator. ‘I’ll tell you later. Just dig out everything you can on the Paul Deacon trial. About ten, twelve years ago. He’s the MP who—’

‘Yeah, I remember him.’

‘Okay. Great. Ta. I’ll give you a ring in an hour or so.’

‘Hey, I didn’t say—’

But Len was already hanging up. He knew she’d come through. Jessica Vaughan might only be a junior reporter but she was smarter than most of her more experienced colleagues. Come to think of it, she was better looking too. He liked a woman with a bit of shape. And Jess certainly had that. For a moment, pondering on those soft seductive curves, he almost lost track of what he was supposed to be doing.

He glanced down the escalator. Deacon’s girl, a few yards ahead, had stepped out to the left and was jogging down the last few steps. He followed behind, tailing her along a corridor to the Victoria line and on to the northbound platform.

No sooner had they arrived than a train roared noisily out of the darkness. The doors slid open to reveal a solid crush of bodies. No chance, he thought, but she had other ideas. Like a seasoned commuter she forced her way in and he had no choice but to squeeze in straight behind. As the doors closed he found himself jammed tight. She was only inches away. He breathed in, trying not to touch her.

As they hurtled through the tunnel, Len averted his face and gazed along the length of the carriage. Although he wasn’t looking at her, he remained overtly aware of her presence, of her dark hair, the curve of her neck, of her red coat brushing against his thigh. He willed her not to turn, worried that she might recognize him.

It was four long and stifling stops before she finally got off at Euston. He stumbled gratefully out behind her. But the journey wasn’t over yet. From here she crossed over to the Northern line. By the time Len smelled fresh air again, he was in Camden Town.

It was dark outside and the temperature had plummeted. He felt the first few spots of an icy rain. Great, so now he was going to get soaked for his troubles too. He prayed she wasn’t going far. Once he’d found out her address he could retire to a nice cosy pub and have that drink he so richly deserved.

Len watched as she hesitated on the kerb. For a moment she seemed undecided, glancing over towards the High Street and its shops. God, he hoped she didn’t feel the urge for some last-minute retail therapy. But then she looked up at the sky, opened her umbrella, hurried over the zebra crossing and began to walk down Camden Road.

He pushed his way through the crowd and followed her. The bustling street made his job easier; there was no reason for her to notice him. For the next ten minutes he strode briskly along behind. It was only when she veered down a quiet, dimly lit side street that he began to worry. Len slowed his pace, putting a few more yards between them. He didn’t want to spook her, not at this late stage. But even if she heard his footsteps, she seemed unconcerned, the click of her heels maintaining the same calm and steady rhythm.

She took the next left into the plusher surroundings of Berry Square and began rooting in her bag. Len hung back, taking the opportunity to grab a cigarette. Then, as he watched her turn through a gateway and climb a flight of steps, he hurried forward again. The three-storey house was in darkness. She unlocked the door and a second later a light went on in the hallway. Len glanced up as he strolled casually past.

He was just in time to catch another glimpse of her face as she turned to close the door. It was the eyes, those wide dark eyes … Like a cog falling smartly into place, it suddenly registered. He knew the name he had been searching for – Sharon Harper!

He smiled, elated at finally putting a name to the face, but then his smile slowly faded. It was ridiculous, impossible. What was he thinking? Sharon must be in her forties by now; there was no way this young woman could be her.

Bewildered, Len stopped and gazed up at the building. After a while, another light appeared on the top floor. Still rooted to the ground, he pulled hard on his cigarette. Unless … The breath caught in his throat. His heart was starting to hammer. No, it couldn’t be. Or could it? The likeness was too much to ignore. Twenty years ago Sharon’s little daughter, Grace, had been on the front page of every newspaper, eight years old and missing …

It was twenty to eight when Harry Lind limped into The Whistle, shook the rain from his hair and ordered a pint of Guinness. By rights he should be getting home but he needed a drink first. Whether his mood – or perhaps more to the point Valerie’s mood – would be substantially enhanced by his detour to the pub was questionable but he pushed that thought to the back of his mind.

The row, which had started over breakfast, had been simmering all day. She had sent five texts, none of which he had replied to. He could imagine how pleased that had made her. But what more was there to say? No, he still didn’t want to go to her parents’ place for Christmas. No, he still didn’t want to have to listen to their well-intentioned but thoroughly unwanted sympathy. Yes, he did realize he was just being bloody awkward.

Harry picked up his pint and sighed. Was he feeling sorry for himself? Yes. But he was feeling angry too. It was over ten months since it happened and he was still trying to come to terms. Nothing had been the same since he’d walked into that building, since the blast had blown him off his feet, since he’d lain buried alive beneath the rubble and listened to …

A thin film of sweat broke out on his forehead. He shouldn’t be thinking about it. He mustn’t. At least he was still breathing and that was more than could be said for the two poor sods who had walked in before him.

‘Inspector Lind!’

Harry started. He turned to see a small sallow man sitting just behind. A pair of brown unfocused eyes were staring up at him. It was that annoying little reporter from the Herald. Len something. Carter, Cunningham? No, Curzon, that was it. There were five dirty glasses and a pile of crumpled crisp packets strewn across the table.

Harry forced a smile and nodded. ‘Evening,’ he said politely. Pissed again, he thought. How the guy ever managed to get up in the morning, never mind string a coherent sentence together, was a mystery.

Curzon slapped his palm against the empty chair beside him. ‘Come on. Come and join me.’

Harry hesitated. All he’d been after was a quiet pint. Still, in his present frame of mind even a drunken old hack seemed like better company than his own. He took his drink over and sat down.

‘So how’s it going, Inspector?’

‘It’s Harry,’ he said grimly. ‘Or Mr Lind if you want to be formal. I’m not on the Force any more.’

‘Oh yeah, it slipped my mind.’ Curzon’s over-bright tone shifted down a notch. He glanced towards Harry’s leg and gave a grimace. ‘Sorry.’

‘Don’t worry about it.’

‘How are you doing? Bad business that.’

Harry didn’t need reminding of what a bad business it was. ‘I’m fine.’

‘I should have remembered. You’re working for David Mackenzie now, right?’

Which was something else Harry didn’t need reminding of. ‘Yes.’ Of course he was grateful to Mac, grateful for a reason to get up in the morning, but investigating insurance claims, serving writs and sneaking around after cheating husbands and wives was hardly his idea of a meaningful existence.

‘You deal with missing persons then?’

‘Occasionally. Why, have you lost someone?’

Curzon shot him a suspicious glance. ‘Maybe.’

‘Anyone I know?’

But the reporter wouldn’t be drawn. He stared down at the table, his pink-rimmed eyes narrowing into slits. ‘You still sound like a cop, Harry.’

Harry flinched. He still felt like a cop. That was the problem. Sometimes, when he woke up, before it all came flooding back, he still imagined he was a bloke with a future instead of … He smartly pushed the thought away; self-pity was snapping at his heels again. ‘Just showing an interest, that’s all.’

Curzon grunted into his beer.

And then there was silence.

Harry wished he hadn’t bothered. This was a conversation going nowhere. He’d just finish his pint and get off. He couldn’t postpone it forever; it was time to face the music with Valerie.

Then the little man looked up at him again. ‘Can I ask you something?’

‘If you like.’

Curzon appeared to think about it some more. He lifted the glass to his lips and took a drink. His hand was trembling. ‘You ever … ’ He paused again to clear his throat. ‘You ever see a ghost, Harry?’

He laughed, amused by the question. ‘I’m sorry?’

But Len Curzon’s face was pale and serious. ‘You know, someone who … someone who you thought was dead but … ’ He stumbled to a halt, the words apparently escaping him. His nicotine-stained fingers rose to hover round his mouth.

‘What do you mean?’

Curzon hesitated and then shook his head. ‘Forget it. It doesn’t matter.’

‘No, go on,’ Harry urged. ‘Tell me.’ Suddenly this bizarre apparition, even if it was the result of one too many drinks, seemed infinitely more fascinating than what awaited him at home.

‘I don’t know.’ Curzon peered at Harry as if trying to decide if he could trust him or not. ‘I could be wrong.’

Harry didn’t press him. If there was one thing he’d learnt through his years on the Force, it was patience. If Curzon wanted to talk – and he quite obviously did – then all he had to do was wait. He sat back and sipped on his Guinness.

Curzon shifted in his chair. He looked uneasily over his shoulder. He picked at his fingernails. Eventually, he looked back at Harry. He kept his voice low, almost a whisper. ‘I saw her this afternoon. I’m sure it was her.’

‘Her?’

‘I never forget a face.’

‘So who are we talking about here?’

Curzon frowned and immediately clammed up again.

Harry wondered if it was worth the effort. The guy was clearly three sheets to the wind. Weren’t there more important things he could be doing than attempting to prise out the details of a supernatural fantasy from some drunken journo’s addled brain? But then again, those ‘more important things’ were precisely what Harry was trying to avoid. He smiled reassuringly. ‘Well, maybe you were right. Maybe it was her.’

Curzon groaned. ‘But it couldn’t be, could it? That’s just the point. That’s what I’m telling you. Not if she … ’ He raised his hands in a gesture of frustration. ‘I mean, we’re talking over twenty years. A child can’t just—’

Whatever he’d been about to say was interrupted by the strident tones of a less-than-happy female. ‘God, Len, what are you playing at? I’ve been everywhere. I’ve been looking all over for you. Why didn’t you call me? I’m not bloody psychic!’

Harry lifted his gaze to see a very wet young woman standing over him. Soaked to the skin, she was clutching a plastic carrier bag to her chest. A fringe of pale brown hair crowned a pair of grey expressive eyes. They were currently flashing with exasperation.

‘Oh, sorry, love,’ Curzon said. He pushed his knuckles into his forehead. ‘Shit, I knew there was something … ’

‘I’ve just done a tour of every flaming pub in the district. I thought it was urgent. I thought you wanted this stuff tonight.’

‘I did. I mean, I do.’

‘Well, here it is then.’ She stepped forward and dropped the dripping carrier bag into his lap. ‘And don’t bother to thank me. You know how much I love doing unpaid overtime.’

‘Ugh!’ He quickly shifted the bag on to the floor and made a few ineffective swipes at the wet patch near his groin. ‘Jesus, you didn’t have to … it looks like … ’

‘It’s no more than you deserve.’

Harry, who was glad of the distraction, smiled up at her. ‘Hi. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced.’

Before she had a chance to reply, Curzon said, ‘Oh, this is Jess. She … er … ’

The woman arched her eyebrows. ‘She’s the one who does all the hard work while her so-called mentor sits in the pub getting rat-arsed.’ She stretched out a damp hand. ‘How do you do. Jessica Vaughan. Call me Jess.’

‘Harry Lind.’

She slipped out of her coat and flung it over the back of a chair. ‘I suppose you two want another drink?’

‘Let me,’ Harry said, getting to his feet.

Jess waved him back down. ‘It’s okay, I’ve got it. Same again?’

Harry nodded. ‘Thanks.’ He was already late home; one more pint wouldn’t make much difference. And anyway, the quality of the company had just taken a decidedly upward turn.

She looked over at Curzon. Her grey eyes narrowed as she noticed the collection of empty glasses. ‘You on the bitter, Len?’

‘Better make it a short,’ he said. ‘A whisky. Ta.’

The two men watched as she leaned against the bar. She was wearing black jeans, boots and a soft pale green sweater. Their eyes simultaneously slid down the length of her body, scanning its distinctive planes and curves.

A sigh slipped from Curzon’s lips. ‘Very nice.’

Harry looked at him and grinned. ‘Don’t you think you’re a bit old for her?’

‘Don’t you thin