Deep Waters Read online

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Patricia Hall

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  A Selection of Recent Titles by Patricia Hall

  The Kate O’Donnell Series

  DEAD BEAT *

  DEATH TRAP *

  DRESSED TO KILL *

  BLOOD BROTHERS *

  DEEP WATERS *

  The Ackroyd and Thackeray Series

  SINS OF THE FATHERS

  DEATH IN A FAR COUNTRY

  BY DEATH DIVIDED

  DEVIL’S GAME

  * available from Severn House

  DEEP WATERS

  Patricia Hall

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  This first world edition published 2016

  in Great Britain and the USA by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  Trade paperback edition first published 2016 in Great

  Britain and the USA by SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD.

  eBook edition first published in 2016 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Copyright © 2016 by Patricia Hall.

  The right of Patricia Hall to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the Biritsh Library

  ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8605-7 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-707-4 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-768-4 (e-book)

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents

  are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described

  for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are

  fictitious and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,

  business establishments, events or locales is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited, Falkirk,

  Stirlingshire, Scotland.

  ONE

  Detective Sergeant Harry Barnard lounged on one of the plush banquettes which lined the embossed walls of the Delilah Club. His sodden raincoat lay on the seat beside him, with his trilby on top looking sadly diminished by the rain. On the table in front of him the ice in a generous Scotch was slowly melting, and the ash on his cigarette drooped precariously, threatening to drop on to the carpet at any moment. But his gaze was fixed on the young man in dark trousers and a crumpled white shirt sitting opposite him, his face pale and his eyes anxious as he twirled his own cigarette between his fingers nervously. The air in the dimly lit room was still thick with smoke and alcohol fumes from the previous night’s activities. A couple of cleaners were desultorily emptying ash trays and wiping rings off the glass-topped tables.

  ‘You must know how long it is since you saw your boss,’ Barnard said irritably, thinking that the hair of the dog was failing to produce its usual magic this morning. ‘How does he pay you? In cash? Have you seen him since your last payday?’

  ‘He usually comes in Thursdays to do the books,’ the young barman, who had only reluctantly admitted to the name Spike, muttered. ‘But the manager brought our pay packets round last Thursday. Late, as it happened. About nine in the evening, after the place had begun to fill up. The cleaners were still hanging around wondering where the hell their money was. No one was best pleased.’ He glanced around the bar anxiously. ‘I was busy already. We had a gang of Americans in and they generally start early. I was shaking bizarre cocktails and looking for extra bottles of Bourbon. Wondered if I’d actually get paid that night at all. Or if any of us would.’

  ‘And the manager is?’

  Barnard had known Ray Robertson’s managers at the Delilah for years, as the club established itself as a West End institution, part of Barnard’s manor as a Vice Squad detective and part of Robertson’s dubious empire of clubs, sporting management and worse that stretched from the East End – where they had both grown up – to West London, where Ray had got a bloody nose in the process of trying to expand his empire into West Indian territory. But Barnard knew there had been changes very lately, and wondered if he had slipped up in not making himself known to the new man in charge at the Delilah and not finding out exactly what was keeping Ray Robertson occupied. Ray was not a man to take holidays if there was any chance of making any sort of a profit, legal or illegal.

  In happier times he would have seen Ray himself over the last couple of weeks, maintaining the uneasy relationship that raised eyebrows in CID but which went back far too far into their wartime boyhood in East London to be lightly cast aside now they had taken their places on opposite side of the legal fence. But Barnard knew Ray had been deeply shaken by an attempt on his life by his own brother and might understandably be licking his wounds, physical and mental, well away from his usual haunts and his formidable mother who blamed him with Biblical intransigence for the fact that brother Georgie was awaiting trial for murder. On the other hand, Ray was just as likely be up to his eyes in new mischief of his own. But now Barnard’s own boss wanted to talk to Ray and would not take no for an answer. One way or another, DS Barnard knew he had to deliver.

  ‘What time does he come in, this manager? New, isn’t he?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Spike said reluctantly. ‘Been here a couple of months. Name of Stan Clarke.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘Should be in soon.’

  ‘Well, get me another of these,’ Barnard said, knocking back his drink and waving the glass in the barman’s direction. ‘I’ll wait. Stan Clarke must know where Ray is.’

  ‘Maybe,’ Spike said noncommittally.

  Barnard sipped his second drink more slowly, well aware he had best not breathe too many alcohol fumes over DCI Keith Jackson, a deeply puritanical Scot who had been appointed to root out corruption in CID only to be floored, temporarily at least, by the discovery of corruption at much higher reaches of the Met than the Vice Squad. He had not told Barnard precisely why he wanted to talk to Ray Robertson, and Barnard had not been able to pick up any inkling of his motive on the canteen grapevine. But in the light of recent scandals he knew it was politic to do as he was told without any argument. If he had ever been able to protect Ray, that time was past. The debt he owed him for protection from bullies and worse when as boys they were East End neighbours and went to the same school, and then became confused evacuees together on a farm, must by now have been well and truly settled. They ha
d taken different roads and there was no going back. They both had other fish to fry.

  It was another half hour before Stan Clarke turned up and Spike pointed him in Barnard’s direction. The manager glanced across the dimly lit room then wove between the tables and a cleaner wielding a Hoover, with manic enthusiasm now the boss was here. Barnard could see that his expression was far from friendly. He was a bulky man, his blue suit too tight around his broad shoulders, his dark hair greasy and straggling over his collar. This was Ray’s flagship venue, the place where he had always pursued his social ambitions with lavish parties and galas for a clientele that reached deep into the social and political establishment. Clarke looked as if he would be hard pushed to organize a piss-up in a brewery, and Barnard wondered if recent scandals had finally put paid to Ray’s playboy ambitions among those who were no more than fair-weather friends out to get what they could from Robertson while able to associate with him safely. That time, he thought, might be almost over.

  ‘Spike says you want to talk to me,’ Clarke said before sitting down heavily across the table from Barnard. ‘And you are?’ Barnard flicked his warrant card in Clarke’s direction and the manager’s face darkened.

  ‘I was looking for Ray Robertson,’ Barnard said, his voice as uncompromising as his expression. ‘My guv’nor wants a word. Your barman says he hasn’t been in for a while. Do you know where he is?’ Clarke shrugged, his eyes blank.

  ‘No idea,’ he said. ‘Said he needed a break and would be away for a couple of weeks.

  He left me in charge here and I’ve not heard from him since. Left the cash for the wages in a special account.’

  ‘I don’t think he’s taken a holiday in living memory,’ Barnard objected. ‘He didn’t give you a clue where he was headed? Was he going abroad?’

  ‘He just said he needed a break,’ Clarke said. ‘Could have been Clacton. Could have been the so-called Costa Brava for all I know.’

  ‘Did he say he was going to Spain?’

  ‘He didn’t say where he was going,’ Clarke said. ‘I told you. But it’s not as if he’s short of a bob, is it? They tell me Spain’s getting to be all the rage these days. Can’t say I fancy it. All that oily food and no decent beer.’ Clarke’s face twisted with a resentment that had Barnard’s antennae twitching. He wondered how this unprepossessing specimen had persuaded Ray to give him a job.

  ‘And you’ve not heard from him since when?’ he snapped.

  ‘Ten days maybe. I didn’t expect an effing postcard. He told me to carry on as normal and left the wages in the bank for me to sign for.’ Barnard sighed. He was puzzled and slightly alarmed, but he didn’t think Clarke was going to tell him anything useful. He picked up his coat and hat and put them on, grimacing slightly at their sodden state.

  ‘If Mr Robertson gets in touch, you can get me at the nick,’ he said. ‘In the meantime, I’ll get the Essex police to see if he’s at home.’

  ‘Yeah, he told me he had a house out in the sticks somewhere,’ Clarke said. ‘Says he’s thinking of putting in a swimming pool.’ The sneer was implicit in Clarke’s expression.

  ‘Keep in touch,’ Barnard said sharply. ‘My guv’nor doesn’t like being thwarted. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll be back.’

  Outside the rain had eased. As he made his way towards Regent Street and the bustling crowds of shoppers he hesitated for a moment as a woman approached him, moving towards the Delilah with a determined look on her face. Smartly dressed in a fur-collared coat and a matching hat fashionably angled across her forehead supporting a wispy veil over startlingly red hair, she seemed to hesitate as she met Barnard’s eyes. Then she swerved and moved quickly away, leaving the detective with a feeling that he should have recognized her. But he was unsure and, anyway, preoccupied. He had long ago lost count of the number of women he knew around the streets of Soho, very few of them a man could take home to meet mother. This one was no doubt no different if she was avoiding him, even if she was doing rather better for herself than most of the girls on the streets.

  He glanced at his watch and decided he could reasonably stop for lunch before making his way back to the nick and could possibly pick up Kate O’Donnell from her office if she was free.

  Before turning on his heel he glanced at the early billboards for the evening papers, which were following the first stages of the train robbers’ trial out in Buckinghamshire. That eleven of them were in court less than six months after the robbery in the summer of ’63 was, he supposed, something of a triumph for the police, but the way the papers were following the trial so avidly was more to do with the fact that the public had a sneaking admiration for the gang than with a desire to see justice done. It was the same with Ray Robertson. People knew he was a crook but they still admired his cheek.

  He swung out of Regent Street and wove his way quickly into the labyrinth of narrow streets that had become his natural habitat since he joined Vice, a jungle of cafés and clubs, brothels and studios, where legitimate business and crime rubbed shoulders on narrow staircases and in elderly houses converted from homes into offices and the smartly dressed young women on the streets could be models or actresses, prostitutes or waitresses, and their men artists or poets or pimps. In Kate’s case, she had improbably talked her way into a job as a photographer. And he had no less improbably talked a convent girl from Liverpool into his bed, although how long she would stay there he was never very sure. Nor was he sure whether that was what he wanted, if it was going to mean giving up on his freewheeling former life.

  He clambered up the rickety wooden stairs to the Ken Fellows Agency in Frith Street and poked his head round the door without moving inside. Kate was sitting with her back to him, her unruly dark hair falling forward over her face as she concentrated on the jumble of photographs on her desk. He walked across the cluttered office, empty as usual when the photographers were out on assignment. The only light showing was in the glass cubicle where a shadow of the boss appeared to be on the phone.

  ‘Isn’t it lunchtime, Katie?’ he said quietly and was flattered to see the smile she turned towards him.

  ‘I thought you were busy this morning,’ she said.

  ‘I was, but got nowhere. I was looking for Ray Robertson but he seems to have abandoned the Delilah. I’ll have to check out the gym later, but I’ve time for a coffee and a sandwich at the Blue Lagoon if you don’t want to go to the pub.’ He stood behind her while she shuffled the black-and-white prints she had been looking at into some sort of order.

  ‘What are you working on?’ he asked, realizing that some of the images looked familiar.

  ‘The East Coast floods,’ Kate said. ‘Ken says they’re opening some new housing development on Canvey Island in the summer and we should do a look-back at what happened in ’53. I remember reading about it in the papers, but it didn’t really register on our side of the country. No one had a television then, so not much film exists. But we should be able to sell something to one of the magazines, using still pictures. I’m going to trace some of the people who were there that night, see if I can do before-and-after pictures.’ To her surprise, Barnard shuddered slightly as he flicked through the pictures.

  ‘I was there,’ he said quietly. ‘I was in the army, doing my National Service, and we got drafted in to help. The awful thing was that I had an aunt living on Canvey, my mother’s oldest sister. It turned out she drowned in her bungalow. The water filled the place up to the ceiling. She didn’t have a chance, it happened so quickly and she wasn’t very nimble.’ Kate turned to him looking devastated.

  ‘That’s awful,’ she said. ‘And you were there? You saw it? Canvey Island was one of the worst places, wasn’t it?’ He nodded.

  ‘I’ll tell you about it later,’ he said. ‘Bring some of your pictures home tonight and I’ll fill you in on stuff that never got into the papers. It was too grim to show. Come on. Get your coat and let’s think about something more cheerful. I’ve got to gear myself up to talk to the DCI this afternoon
. He reckons my contacts with the Robertson family are deeply suspect and he won’t be too pleased with what I’ve got to report, which is exactly nothing. He probably won’t believe a word I tell him.’

  They walked up Frith Street together towards the Blue Lagoon, which had been one of their regular places ever since they first met. Back then, Kate’s flatmate Marie Best had been working there with only half an eye on the coffee bar job and both eyes on her prospects of making it as an actress in the big city. Today something of Marie’s final disillusion before she went back home seemed to hang in the steamy air as they ordered their cappuccinos and sandwiches and squeezed into the last remaining table.

  ‘Don’t let all that flood stuff get you down,’ Barnard said. ‘It’s taken the sparkle out of your eyes. It happened a long time ago.’

  ‘Not that long,’ Kate said soberly. ‘Not if you can remember it so clearly.’

  ‘I had a personal reason to be upset,’ Barnard said. ‘It took a long time to recover all the bodies. My mother was going spare. Don’t forget it wasn’t long after the war. Parts of East London were still in ruins and there was a desperate shortage of houses. Why else would people have moved out to Canvey Island to live in what were not much more than summer beach houses? They were so flimsy that a lot of them were just washed away. People didn’t stand a chance, especially if they were a bit old and infirm. They got washed away too.’

  Kate looked at Barnard curiously. She had not often heard him make this sort of complaint, the sort of complaint she had heard often enough growing up in the slum housing of Liverpool’s Scotland Road where German bombs had also fallen and it was not unusual to hear older people whisper that Hitler had done a few Scousers a favour by demolishing their rotting, bug-infested homes.