I don't know where I had been
But I know what I have seen
Made me chill right to the bone
Made me wish that I'd stayed home along with you
I slam the car door with such force that the window rattles.
George lowers the newspaper he's been half reading and half hiding behind, and blinks in surprise. It took me fifteen minutes to find the white Austin Maxi. My white Austin Maxi, supposedly, but I haven't actually tried driving it yet. I couldn't find him, and every minute I searched up and down the streets, I could feel despair and anxiety rising inside me, like a pot about to boil over.
'That was quick,' George says, amiably. 'Have you... finished?'
'I couldn't find you,' I snap. 'You were meant to be the other side of the railway. I could have been walking around for hours.'
'Sorry,' George says, evenly and folds his newspaper. 'The view here is nicer, and it's off the street. I thought you'd see me when you came out the building.
Half an hour ago, George dropped me off at the front of the Tintagel House, the police headquarters beside the river in Albert Embankment. He was supposed to park down one of the residential roads nearby to wait for me. Instead, he's parked in narrow alleyway, only a car length wide, between two office buildings. The view is nicer. It faces the Thames. Ships and ferries glide past every so often.
'What did he say?' George asks, shoving the paper in the pocket in the door and shifting around in his seat.
'They would let me see him. Said he was busy.' I can barely speak. The words stick in my throat.
'Oh. Can you go back later?'
I shake my head. 'They're not interested. They don't want to know. They don't... They just don't care.' The last word turns into a wail. I cover my nose and mouth with my hands.
'Oh, Han,' George coos, sympathetically. He leans over to me and puts his hand on my arm. 'Love, what happened? What did they say?'
'Joey died, George. He was murdered, and no one even...' I'm sobbing now, unable to hold back the tears I've been fighting since I was inside the police station. My breathing is ragged, coming in short, sharp gasps, as if I'm panicking.
George takes my hand and pulls me into him. I rest my head against his chest, gratefully. Relief. Safety. He puts his arms around me; an awkward sideways embrace, hampered by the gearstick and handbrake in between us.
'It's alright,' George soothes.
'It's not,' I sob, my tears and slobber leaving dark, wet marks on the chambray fabric of his shirt. 'It's really not alright, George. All his life, all Joey's life, everyone treated him like... shit, like he was nothing. He was in children's homes, and then he was living on the streets and then with the Krays and now he's dead, and they... They won't even listen. They don't want to.'
He pulls back to look at me, frowning. 'How... What do you mean they don't want to?'
'He lived and he died, and no one cared, George. No one. How can someone not matter? Are there people that just don't matter?'
'No, Han, everyone matters.'
'Even his own mother didn't love him. He was taken into care and put in foster homes, splitting him up from his brothers. That's what Joey told me. He won't have been reported missing, because there isn't anyone to miss him.'
'Love, try not to upset yourself,' George says. 'You... clearly cared about him,' he adds, uncomfortably. 'He mattered to you, didn't he?'
I nod, trying to pull myself together and get my tears under control.
'Tell me what happened?' he asks again, gently.
'They wouldn't... He wouldn't let me speak to the proper man in charge. He said if I wanted to wait then a desk sergeant would take a statement.'
'Well, that would have been okay, wouldn't it?'
I widen my eyes at him in disbelief. 'No! I'm not telling some... some embellished desk clerk so it can be written down wrongly and then filed somewhere no one else will ever look at it!'
I sound fractious. I can hear it in my voice and so can George. He chews his lip and nods slightly. 'Yes, I understand, love, but... they probably think you're some lunatic crackpot,' he says, rubbing his eye, tired. 'They probably get a lot of crazy people with wild stories. If you'd given a statement to someone then they would have realised how serious it was and got someone higher up to come and deal with it.'
We got up early to come here for this. Six am, but we still didn't arrive until after lunchtime. I kept changing my mind over whether to do it or not. George says we'll do whatever I want to, but I know he thinks we should go to the police. However, his view is rather idealistic. He thinks the criminals are the bad guys and the police will be the good guys. I have learnt the truth is often different.
'How come you're such a fan of the police suddenly?' I say, spitefully, extracting myself from him. 'You hadn't got a good word for them last year when they raided us at Kinfauns.'
George presses his lips together. 'That's not the same as this, is it? That fucking Pilcher guy was on some sort of moral crusade, trying to get a bloody knighthood or something off the back of busting famous people. He targeted us because I'm a Beatle and that would have been headline news. And they did it right after you'd just had a baby--'
'But you were guilty, George. You had drugs in the house.'
George opens his mouth to argue, but thinks better of it. He turns his head to look out of the side window, even though all there is to look at is a brick wall, and swallows his annoyance. We're back to this again. Since I told him about Joey and Ricky and everything else, he's walking on eggshells around me. Doing his strong, silent act and not telling me what he really thinks.
I think he's frightened. I think he feels out of his depth and he doesn't know what to do.
But he won't tell me that. He thinks he has to hide it, because I just need his strength and support. It's not really that which I need from him.
'I walked out,' I tell him. 'I need to speak to the detective who was in charge of the Krays investigation. The detective who is going to know who Joey and Bobby and the Krays are.'
George smiles, faintly, and sighs.
'You think I should have waited,' I say. 'You think I should have spoken to the sergeant.'
'Well... We're no further along, are we, love?'
'I couldn't...'
'Didn't they know who you were?' he asks, earnestly, like that should make a difference.
I shake my head. I have to smile at that. 'Who am I, George? I'm no one.'
*
'H... A... N... A...'
'No, two N's,' I interrupt, rising myself up on my tiptoes to see what he's writing. 'H, A, double N, A, H.'
The uniformed constable flicks his eyes up at me and huffs impatiently, as if it's my fault he made a mistake. He balls the paper up, casting it aside and takes a new form to fill in.
'Hannah - with two N's - James,' he says, writing. 'And you're here to see..?'
'Um...' I take the scrap of paper from my pocket and unfold it. 'Leonard Read, please.'
The policeman pauses and raises his eyes again, suspicious. 'Do you have an appointment?'
'No--'
'What's the nature of your enquiry?'
'I, uh, I need to report a crime.'
He shifts his weight from one foot to another. 'This is Tintagel House.'
'I know.'
'This is an office headquarters for the Met. To report a crime you need a police station. If you go back out the door here, turn right and walk about three, four hundred yards, there's a--'
'No, no, it's here that I need. I need to speak to Mr. Read urgently. He works here, doesn't he?'
'Yes, he's the DCS, but he can't take your statement.'
'It has to be him. It's in relation to the Kray Twins investigation.'
The sergeant pauses. 'That--'
'I worked at Esmeralda's Barn,' I add, quickly. 'The nightclub owned by the Krays? I was a singer there. I used to be called Hannah West. I was married to Ricky West.'
He purses his lips and casts his eyes down. Without any obvious reason for it, he screws up the second enquiry form, into a tighter ball this time and shoves it into his trouser pocket.
'Very well,' he says. He looks up at me again and flashes a plastic smile. 'Take a seat over there, Ma'am. Someone will come and take your statement. You will have to wait a while though. We don't usually do that kind of thing here and there's no one free to do it.'
'I need to speak to Mr Read,' I repeat, my voice wavering.
He shakes his head. 'That won't be possible--'
'I have to speak to him, please. It won't take long. If you could ask him just to give me two minutes, I'm sure he's going to want to hear what I have to say--'
'Take a seat,' the constable repeats, firmly. 'A desk sergeant will come and speak to you in a while.'
'You don't understand--'
He fixes me with a steely glare. 'I understand perfectly,' he says, his voice low and threatening. 'You should think very carefully about this, Miss Hannah James, before you do something you may live to regret.'
I blink at him and slowly back away from the desk. He doesn't break eye contact with me. He just keeps staring at me with his cold, piercing, dark blue eyes. My breath catches in my throat and every muscle in my body tenses.
...You must be clever and you must be strong, darling. You won't be able to go to the police... But I don't think the Krays will suppose you will, even now. If they get an inkling that you have - or even that you're thinking about it - they will come after you with everything they have got...
Turning on my heel, I crash into the glass door in my haste to escape the building, pushing it when it needs to be pulled.
*
'It's not that he thought I was a crackpot,' I tell George, quietly, but there is a hard, solid ball of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. 'It was because he knew exactly why I was there.'
George studies me. I can't tell what he's thinking. He's uncharacteristically somber and serious.
'Are you sure?' he asks, after a moment.
'No,' I answer. 'But I think so. It was in his eyes.'
He turns away, putting his hands on the wheel and swears under his breath.
'Should we go home?' I ask. 'Do we give up?'
'I... don't know,' George replies.
'Bobby said there were a lot of bent coppers, paid by the Krays to give them information on what was happening inside the police investigation. That's why I wanted to speak to Leonard Read. He was in charge of the investigation. He was the man Bobby was talking to.'
George sighs, shortly. 'Okay,' he says, and unfastens his seatbelt. 'I'll have to come in with you then. They'll let me see him.'
*
'Mr. Harrison!'
Detective Chief Superintendent Leonard "Nipper" Read closes the door to the small interrogation room, turns around and clasps his hands together. He wears a brown check, two button suit with wide notched lapels, a white shirt underneath and a large red bowtie around his neck. His dark brown hair is plastered down with pomade, receding and swept back off his large forehead. His nose is bulbous but squashed, like a boxer's nose, and his lips are thin but his smile is wide.
He steps over to George, standing behind me. He doesn't acknowledge me at all, as I sit at the formica covered interview table.
'I don't think I've ever had the pleasure?' He offers his hand and George shakes it, reluctantly. 'How can I help? You have something important you wanted to discuss with me?'
'Yes. Well, my, uh...'
'I can't imagine what about. Correct me if I'm wrong, but I don't believe we've ever crossed paths?' He smiles again, an upside down triangle, like someone has jammed a wire coat hanger in there. I can't decide if it's genuine or not.
'No, we haven't,' George says, briskly. 'It's my... My, uh, girlfriend who...' He looks at me, apologetically. There's no name for what we are. 'Hannah. It's Hannah who wants to speak to you,' he finishes.
The detective lowers his gaze, looking as me as if he's only just noticed I'm here. 'Hannah..?'
'I'm...'
'Hannah West,' George answers for me. He moves next to me and puts his hand on my back. 'She's married to Ricky West. They used to sing at one of the Krays nightclubs, Esmeralda's, in Knightsbridge.'
'I was married to Ricky West,' I say, twisting around to throw George a look. He smiles sheepishly and I turn back to the policeman. 'We're divorcing. It's Hannah James now, and it was Esmeralda's Barn that I sang at.'
His smile dims. 'Yes. Yes, I'm familiar with the Barn.'
Nipper Read paces slowly around to the other side of the table, pulls out the chair opposite and sits down. He takes a small black notebook, held together with an elastic band, from his inside blazer pocket and places it on the table. 'The club is closed now,' he says, searching through his pockets for something else. 'It's been closed for over a year and a half, which is...' He finds a small, stubby yellow pencil and lays that on top of the notebook on the table between us. '...just a little longer than the investigation into the Kray twins has been closed as well.' He straightens his back and flicks his eyes up at me. 'They were both sent down, Miss. Thirty years a piece.'
'Yes, I know that, but this is something else,' I say quickly, feeling under pressure. 'This didn't come to light at the time. There was another murder. Ronnie Kray and one of his men, a man called Frank Heath, did it. Frank was the one who actually... did it.'
Read stares at me, coolly. He appears unmoved. Not surprised or shocked by this news. He's stoical. Impassive. Taciturn. In fact, I'd say he actually looks bored.
He smacks his lips together and glances at George. 'All due respect, Miss, if I had a shilling for every time someone came to us with information about another Kray Twins murder, I would be a rich man.'
'Yes, but--' George moves closer to me again.'Hannah was on the inside. She was part the... um, inner circle,' he says, sounding like he's quoting the script from a gangster movie. 'She saw things and she knew about things. She was close to Bobby Teale.'
Read sits up a little straighter at that. Bobby's name was never made public.
He purses his lips. 'Frank Mitchell?' he says to me.
'No, Frank Heath.'
'Uh, no... Frank Mitchell is a missing person. He was last seen in the company of the Krays a couple of years ago.'
'Oh. I'm sorry, I don't know him. Frank Heath murdered a boy called Joey. He shot him and killed him in the backyard of the house where I lived in Golders Green. It was May, 1968.'
The detective blinks a couple of times. 'A boy?'
'Yes. Well, he was nineteen.'
He opens his notebook and flicks through a few pages. 'What was his name?'
'Joey. Joe.'
'Surname?'
'I... Um, I don't know what his surname was, but he worked for them. The Krays. He was a... a driver, and he was an assistant to Ricky, my husband.'
'Why was he killed?'
'I don't know the full story, but Bobby told me Ronnie Kray was paranoid that Joey was talking to the police. Joey had done something stupid with a newspaper in the past. There was a photo once, apparently, of Joey and Ronnie and a politician and Ronnie suspected Joey had given it to them.'
'The News Of The World photo.'
'Yes,' I say. 'That must be it, and he also gave a newspaper stories about me and my sister once, not long before he... he died.'
Behind me, George shifts and moves to the side of the table. I didn't tell him that it was Joey who'd given the paper the story that upset Minnie so much that bank holiday in Dorset. George wasn't very happy that I kept the fact Joey knew about us from him at all. I left out some of the other, minor details.
'Would you like a chair, Mr Harrison?' Read asks.
There are only two chairs in this eight by six room, positioned either side of the table next to the wall. It's small and quite dark. The only windows run as a narrow strip at the top of the wall on my right.
George shakes his head. 'I'll stand,' he says, dully.
'Ronnie assumed Joey was the one passing information to the police,' I continue, desperate to get the story out. 'That's why they killed him. But it wasn't Joey. It was Bobby who was talking to the police.'
Read snaps his head up, surprised.
'Bobby told me,' I clarify. 'He told me everything. He trusted me, so you know what I'm saying is true.'
Read looks at George again. 'You were aware of this?'
'No. Hannah told me... a few days ago,' George lies. It was a few weeks now. It's taken us this long - discussing and arguing and weighing up the possible outcomes - to decide what to do.
Read sits up and opens his notebook to a blank page. 'Very well, Mrs. West. You have my attention. Please, go on.'
*
I sit at the far end of the bed, George at the head of it. I moved further and further away as I talked, until I was at one end, on top of the bedclothes, and George was still sat leaning against the headboard, the blankets covering him to his waist.
He stares at me in shock. He's got the same look he had a moment ago, when I told him about Ricky - disbelief mixed with confusion - but that was amusing to him. A piece of information which was surprising, but also something Ricky wouldn't want George to know about and therefore delicious, prized, funny.
This is not funny.
'You're... certain?' he says, carefully. 'You're certain that's what you saw?'
'George, I was as close to Joey as I am to you now. Frank Heath put a gun to his temple and fired.'
'Wh... When?' George says, although he's already asked this, and I've already answered it.
'The day of the last recording session we had booked at Abbey Road. Minnie didn't turn up, so we were going to go out. You took me back to the house so I could get my necklace. Do you remember?'
George nods.
'I went inside, found them. Joey yelled at me to run, so I did, but I... I couldn't leave him. I knew what they were going to do. I turned to go back, but I was too late. They came out of the house and shot him in front of me.'
'Where... Where was I?'
'Waiting down the ginnel, in the car.'
He turns his head to me. 'I didn't hear anything. I would have--'
'There was some kind of silencer on the gun. It hardly made any noise and Joey was nearly unconscious. I think I screamed, but you must have had the music in the car on too loudly.'
George turns his head to me, assessing me again. There's a look on his face, like he doesn't know who I am now, but it's alright. I understand. When I look in the mirror, I often don't recognise myself either. I would never have thought I would be the kind of person who could witness something so wrong, so evil and then do nothing about it. Joey lost his life, he was murdered, and I allowed his killers to get away with it.
'What... What happened afterwards?'
'I came back to you and we went to that club. The Scotch. We went there because I didn't want us to go back to the flat. I didn't know - then - if Bobby had anything to do with it.'
'No, I mean right after? They killed him and then they... let you go? They allowed you to leave?'
I blink. 'I ran away.'
*
'They weren't worried about you going to the police?' Read asks, suspiciously.
'Uh, no. I was married to Ricky. Heath said I was... one of them. They let me go.'
I glance at George. He leans his back against the wall to the left of me, with his arms folded over his chest. He's been silent since I began to talk. I didn't tell him this part either. The details are shocking. Saying it all aloud is making me feel anxious and shaken too, but I have to tell Read everything. Every tiny detail. Any of it might be important.
'Ricky's family are... Well, I think they're involved with the mafia. In New York. Some kind of organised crime anyway. Ricky's uncle is Salvatore Vescio and his cousin is Gianni Vescio.'
Read looks at me, blankly. These names mean nothing to him.
'Ricky's...' George starts and then stops himself.
'Do you know about this, Mr Harrison?' Read asks him. 'Can you confirm?'
George closes his mouth, deliberately, and shakes his head.
'Bobby told me they were serious criminals,' I say. 'He said they made the Krays look like amateurs.'
Read frowns and sits forward. 'Bobby told you who Ricky's family were?'
'Yes. I went to visit him in prison, a short while before the trial.'
'And you weren't aware of the fact before that instance?'
'No.'
'You were married to this man, whose family you say were involved in organised crime, but you didn't know?'
'No,' I repeat, uncomfortably.
'Well, what sort of organised crime?'
'What?'
'What did they do? What kind of crime were they involved in? Uh...' He waves his hand. 'Financial crime, like counterfeiting, for example. Or racketeering, like the Krays. Protection rings and such.'
'I'm not sure,' I say, sheepishly.
'You don't know,' Read reiterates, flatly. 'Your husband's family were some sort of "mafia", but you're not sure what exactly.'
'I know it seems farfetched, but it's true. Ricky is very good at hiding things. About himself, about others. He hid it from me. He hid it from everyone. He was famous, you know. In America, anyway. In the fifties. He couldn't afford for the truth to get out. Who his uncle was probably opened doors for him in the early days of his career.'
Read clears his throat. 'Mrs West--'
'James,' I correct, quickly.
'Of course I have heard of Ricky West, the singer. Everyone has. Why, I think I may even have an LP of his at home. That's why this is so... baffling, because I am unaware of any criminal record held by Mr. West. I would have thought he would have had some difficulty obtaining a UK work permit if--'
'I don't think Ricky's ever been in trouble with the police... Except for when you arrested him,' I say. 'You arrested him! When you arrested the others!'
Read shakes his head. 'There was a raid and all persons present were taken for questioning. Mr West was released, without charge, a few hours later.'
'Because of who his family are!'
'Because he wasn't guilty of any crime.'
'I am telling the goddamn bloody truth!' I say, and bang my hand on the table. 'Listen to me, will you?!'
'Hannah,' George says, astonished.
*
'I don't believe-- I can't believe all that happened and you didn't say a word about it,' George says, shaking his head. 'I remember you were acting strangely. You were drinking whiskey like there was no tomorrow, but you never... God, Hannah...'
He lifts his head to me and opens his arm. I scramble over to him, getting under the covers and wrapping myself in him, putting my head on his chest. George holds me tightly, kissing the top of my head and we fall silent. I've talked so much my voice is hoarse anyway. Outside, it's completely dark now. The single lamp beside the bed casts grey shadows around the bedroom.
'You're cold,' George murmurs and pulls the bed covers higher up.
I am cold. I moved a distance away from George when I was telling him about Joey. I couldn't bear for him to touch me. I couldn't meet his eyes and have to watch his reaction. Not until I'd said it all. It took a while to tell him, but I feel like I have been away from him for much longer. It's nice to be back in his arms. He is warm and reassuring and I only ever feel really safe when I'm with him like this. I can't trust anyone else in the world, but I can trust George. Always.
'Fuck, Hannah, what could have happened to you,' George breaths and his voice startles me. It was so comforting in his arms, I was falling asleep.
I sit up. 'You wanted to go in there,' I say. 'You thought Ricky had hit me and you wanted to have it out with him. It makes my heart stop when I think how close you came to walking in on them. I had to hold you back, physically! It took all my strength.' I smile, faintly and put my head back on his chest.
'Ricky wasn't there?'
'No.'
'Who hit you then?'
'Frank Heath slapped me. I was screaming.'
George shifts beneath me. 'Hannah,' he says, gravely. 'We have to tell someone about this. We've got to go to the police.'
I close my eyes and smile, because even that small thing is a relief. It's a weight lifted. I feel like I can breath again.
We.
What are we going to do.
I'm not on my own in this anymore. I didn't even realise how much I felt that. I have been carrying Joey's murder around with me, heavy and insoluble, weighing me down and holding me back as I tried to forget, tried not to think of it. Nothing has truly been able to distract me from it. Not giving birth to Bobbie, not living with George, not losing Minnie. Sometimes, I see Joey's face in my dreams. Terrified and pleading for help.
'We can't,' I whisper to George. 'Bobby warned me not to. He said if I leave it alone, they will leave us alone.'
George exhales, troubled. 'But this is... It's murder, Hannah. We have to do something.'
'They are dangerous men, Georgie,' I tell him. 'Extremely dangerous, and we have to think about Bobbie. We can't do anything that might put her at risk.'
'They wouldn't...' His voice trails away, because he knows. They are in prison for murder. They killed and tortured and robbed and ruled, untouchable for years. And they would.
*
George and I wait in silence. I've talked and talked for the last hour, for the past days and weeks, and now I have no words left. I've told them everything. I've done everything I can for Joey. Maybe now I can move on from it all. Maybe now I can be free to concentrate on Bobbie, on George and on the future.
It's getting late. The light is dimming outside the narrow interrogation room windows. I'm anxious to get home to Bobbie. Emma is looking after her, and it's irrational to think anything might have happened to her just because we're here, doing this, but I'm still fretting about her.
Eventually, Nipper Read returns. He slowly and very deliberately closes the door behind him before turning to us. He has a light beige cardboard folder in his arms, about an inch thick with papers, and held closely to his chest. George, who has been occupying his chair while he was gone, stands and offers the detective his seat back. Read gives him a thin smile and sits, placing the folder to one side of us and taking out his note book again. He didn't write very much inside it while I was speaking, but now he flicks through the pages, reads, furrows his brow, closes it and returns it to his pocket again, before folding his hands on the table in front of him.
'Are you certain, Mrs West,' he begins, 'that you don't know the surname of the... uh, victim?'
I sigh and shake my head. 'He never told me. If I heard it in passing, then I didn't take any notice. I only knew him as Joey and he preferred it if you called him Joe. I assumed it was short for Joseph, perhaps?'
'Yes, that is what I would have thought too,' Read says, contemplatively rubbing his chin. 'I have checked our records, extensively, and I can't find any mention of a man called Joe, Joey or Joseph associated with the Krays organisation.'
I offer him a small smile. 'But there must be.'
Read scratches a the stubble on this jawline, a five o'clock shadow. 'No. There were no drivers or--'
'Well, he wasn't always a driver,' I interrupt. 'He was... He used to be one of "Ronnie's boys".'
Read raises an eyebrow. The notebook comes out again and he searches the pages once more.
'Joey said he was about fifteen when he met Ronnie Kray. I think he'd run away from a foster home. He was his... He was fond of him at one time. He bought him monogrammed shirts and things.'
'If I had a shilling for every young boy Ronnie Kray bought shirts for...' Read mumbles. He clears his throat. 'I'm very sorry, Mrs. West, but--'
'James. I'm Hannah James,' I say, exasperated.
'Mrs James, I can't find a single record of anyone associated with the Krays matching the description you've given. No Joeys, Joes or Josephs. I can't even find a blonde haired, blue eyed boy of about eighteen in the case file photographs, so I have to conclude...'
'No, please, you must do. Bobby was...'
'Well, that's the point, Mrs. James. Bobby Teale never told me anything about anyone called Joey. I have checked and double checked our records, but...' He shakes his head, gives a small shrug and looks at George, standing back on his spot beside the wall. Something passes between them, something I don't like.
Read reaches for the cardboard folder. He opens it and lifts it, raising it so I can't see inside, and pulls out a single piece of A4 lined paper, which he lays in front of me.
'This is the... uh, hierarchy, if you will, given to me by Bobby Teale. It names everyone in the Kray's gang and their associates. It's quite detailed.'
I lean over to look at it. George moves to the side of the table to look as well, curious. The writing is immaculately neat; tiny letters, printed in blue ink. It matches the handwriting in the letter I had from Bobby.
'You will find yourself and your husband here,' Read says, tapping it. 'Under Esmeralda's Barn workers. But there is no Joe or Joey in any of the lists of names.'
I frown. 'What about Frank?'
'Yes, yes, he's here,' Read says, pointing his name out. 'Frank Heath I know about. He was a driver, and a thug, by many accounts. In and out of prisons and institutions since he was a teenager. I believe he was your husband's driver?'
'He did drive for Ricky, but not often. It was Joey who helped Ricky,' I insist.
'Then why is he not on the list, Mrs. James?'
'I don't know,' I say, helplessly. 'Maybe... Maybe he was trying to protect him? I think Bobby had a soft spot for Joey.'
'But he has included your name,' Read argues. 'I thought you said you were close to Bobby too? Wouldn't he want to protect you as well?'
I am forced to nod an agreement. None of this makes sense. Why don't they know who Joey was? I assumed they would. I didn't foresee this would be a problem. Read takes the page of names back from me, turning it around so he can study it himself.
'Is Bobby dead?' I ask, abruptly.
Read has his head down. He doesn't respond. He simply tucks the page back into the front of the folder, and ignores my question, acting as if he didn't hear it. It's the only answer I need.
I cover my mouth with my hand and blink hard. George puts his hand on my shoulder to comfort me, but I can't look at him. I'll crumble.
'The photo in the paper,' I say, attempting to gather myself. 'The photo of Joey with the politician. He was a lord. If you find that, won't that help you find out who Joey is?'
Read raises his eyes to me. He runs his tongue over his teeth and smacks his lips together, considering me.
'You could even track the Lord down!' I say and Read laughs, or rather, scoffs at the suggestion. 'Ask him,' I plead. 'He might know Joey's name. He did sleep with him after all.'
Read sobers at that. 'Lord Boothby has received payouts from media organisations that sought to cast those kind of aspirations on his good character,' Read tells me. 'I don't think he would welcome a visit from myself, asking questions about that.' He draws himself up and moves the cardboard folder over the surface of the table again, bringing it in between us. 'The boy photographed with Lord Boothby was Leslie Holt,' he tells me. 'A petty thief and a con artist. And he is quite alive and well, and currently residing in Wandsworth Prison.'
'No,' I say, confusion giving way to desperation. 'No, it was Joey in the photo! He told me about it. It had to be him. Why would he make it up?'
Read chews his lip. 'I anticipated you might say that.' He lays his hands on top of the folder and pauses. 'What I am about to show you is of a... sensitive nature. It must not go further than this conversation. Do you understand, Mrs. James?'
I nod and Read draws a 6 by 4 inch, black and white photo from the file. He lays it flat on the table for me to look at. Ronnie Kray, a plump older man with white hair and a young man with a Beatle Mop Top haircut sit crushed together on a sofa which is not big enough to hold them all.
'That's not Joey,' I say, looking up at Read.
'Ronnie Kray, Lord Boothby and Leslie Holt,' Read confirms, tapping the photo.
I stare at it again. 'No, Joey said the photo was taken on a bed. Joey was on the bed with, um, well, certainly with the Lord.'
'There's no other photo,' Read says, firmly.
'There is!' I say, frustrated. 'There has to be. Joey and--'
He slips the photograph back inside the folder. 'Mrs James, I have to conclude that there is no murder to--'
'No, please, there is!'
'Leslie Holt was the man involved with Ronnie Kray and Lord--'
'No. No, that's not true. It was Joey!'
'Han...' George says, gently, standing just behind me. He puts his hand on my shoulder again. I shrug him off, ignoring him.
'Ricky, then. Call Ricky. He will probably know Joey's full name. Call him.'
Read wets his lips and checks his watch. 'I've tried to telephone already. The numbers you've given me are duds. The first number is not recognised, doesn't work, and the other number for... uh, Gianni Vescio? That just rings out, unanswered.'
'Gianni... He's split up with his wife. He might have changed his number. I don't know why Ricky's doesn't...' I sit up. 'I could go and get his solicitor's details. They're at home. He would know how to contact Ricky.'
Read and George pass a look between them again.
'I'll go now!' I say. 'It won't take long. George--'
'There's really no need, Mrs West.'
I twist around to George and grab his hand in both of mine. 'Georgie, you met him. You met Joey at Abbey Road, when we were recording the album. You spoke to him.'
'Did you, Sir?' Nipper asks, gaining interest again suddenly.
'Yeah, I, um...' George hesitates.
'George! You did!' I cry.
'I remember someone, but Hannah... You know, I meet so many people, I can't say for certain...'
'Joey! That was Joey!' My voice rises in frustration. 'You asked his name and he told you. Joey!'
George shakes his head. 'Love...'
'You don't believe me. Why don't you believe me?' I cry.
'I do, Han! I do, but...'
'But what?!' I demand, anger rising inside me.
George chews his lip. 'Up until now, you've never mentioned anyone called Joey. And now you're... You're getting all het up about this... this, uh, guy on an almost daily basis and I just think...'
I take a deep breath, trying to get myself back under control, so I can sound coherent and sensible and calm.
'I couldn't talk about him to you, could I?' I say, as evenly as possible. 'He'd been murdered, George, and I couldn't tell anyone. When I left London, when I was pregnant with Bobbie, that was because of Joey. You remember that night at The Scotch of St James. It was that night that it had happened. The next day, when Ricky... did what he did, that was also because of Joey.'
George's mouth twists. 'Hannah, that's not... It wasn't because of that, was it?'
'What was this?' Nipper interrupts.
George stands up, straightening his back. 'Ricky read her diaries and found out about our affair,' he explains, uncomfortably. 'He didn't... take it very well and he... Well, he beat her, to be frank.' He glances at me and I glare back at him.
'Ricky was upset because Joey had died, and Ricky had been part of it,' I say through gritted teeth.
'So he didn't read your diary?' Read asks, facetiously. 'He didn't discover that you'd been unfaithful?'
'Yes, he did but-- They'd used Ricky to lure Joey to the house so they could get to him. They knew he would come back if Ricky asked him to, because...'
I look from Read to George and back again. I didn't want to say this, I didn't want to drag Ricky into it and I know if anyone asks him about Joey he's likely to deny it, but the detective plainly thinks I've invented this story, and George is doubting me too.
'Because Joey was in love with Ricky,' I say, with a sigh. 'Ricky and Joey were lovers. They had been for... a while.'
'Just a moment, Mrs West,' Read says, sitting forward. 'I thought you said this boy was having some sort of relationship with Ronnie Kray?'
'He was, before. But Ronnie got tired of him and then Joey and Ricky met and they started... an affair.'
Read frowns. 'This is Ricky West you're talking about? Your husband?'
'Yes. Yes, Ricky West.'
'Ricky West is a homosexual?'
I bite my lip. Ricky would probably throttle me if he could hear me now. 'Yes, I suppose he is,' I answer, quietly.
'Is this correct?' Read directs the question at George, not bothering to try and cover up his disbelief now. 'Is he?'
George opens his mouth but he pauses.
'George!' I cry, widening my eyes at him. 'I told you about all this!'
George tries to smile. 'Yes, you did, but... But only just now, love. You never said a word about Ricky being anything like that before. And he never seemed...'
Read nods, sagely. 'So he wasn't a..?'
'I don't know. I don't... Ricky was always jealous,' George says to Read. 'Of... me, of us, I don't know. He didn't like Hannah being near me.' He turns to me. There's a pleading look in his eyes. 'He was jealous, wasn't he?' he says, like he's trying to reason with me. 'Possessive, when it came to you. Remember that party in LA? He nearly punched me when he found us by the swimming pool on our own. I think he would have done if I hadn't...'
'That doesn't matter,' I snap. 'That's irrelevant. Ricky was with Joey. I found them in bed together. Joey told me, more than once, that he was in love with Ricky and he...'
Nipper Read closes his notebook. 'Right, well, thank you for coming in today, Mrs West. I will let you know if I need to speak to you again...'
'No! NO! Don't close your book!' I say, reaching and putting my hand on Read's wrist, stopping him. 'I'm not making this up! You have to believe me! I didn't imagine Joey! He was REAL!' I'm shouting now. I know it's not helping me plead my sanity.
'I'm not saying you're making it up, Mrs West,' Read says, evenly. 'But... we can't investigate a murder without... without a body, or any evidence that a crime has taken place.'
'I have evidence,' I cry. 'Please...' I cough, choking on my words in my despair. 'Why don't you believe me? He was... He was there. They killed him. Frank Heath and...'
'Madam, if you don't mind.' Read nods to where I'm gripping his wrist. I realise I'm digging my nails into his flesh and release him, leaving behind small, crescent shaped marks.
Read starts to stand and then hesitates. He looks at George and then me. I can't see him properly for the tears blurring my vision.
'It is... possible,' Read says, carefully. 'In fact, probable, that the Krays are responsible for the unlawful killings and murders of people other than those they have been convicted for. However, the problem we faced was that no one was ever willing to talk. They have a tight network of people, and others are too frightened of the consequences if they come forward. If I make enquiries and contact Ricky West in America, will he corroborate your story? Will he be willing to go on record?'
I pause, but I have to shake my head, defeated. Even if I hadn't told Read that Ricky and Joey were having a sexual relationship, Ricky would still deny knowing anything. He probably wouldn't even confirm that Joey existed.
'No, probably not,' I admit in a small voice.
Nipper Read nods, knowingly and straightens up, picking up his folder.
George steps over to him, joining him on the other side of the table. 'Hannah's not herself at the moment,' he says, quietly, lowering his voice.
He puts his hand on Read's arm and turns him away from me, but it doesn't stop me hearing.
'Her sister died a few months ago and since Bobby disappeared last year, she's been struggling--.' He casts a furtive glance back at me. 'I know she still feels guilty over the breakdown of her marriage and some other things. She couldn't bring herself to tell me she was pregnant with our daughter until just before she was born. I think it's just she's... having a hard time coping recently.'
'I understand, Mr Harrison. It's fine.'
'George!' I cry. 'Don't apologise for me. I'm not mad! I'm not lying! What I'm telling you is true!'
'I'm not saying that, love,' he replies, quickly, returning to my side. He crouches down to me, rubbing my arm. 'I'm just explaining that you've been under a lot pressure lately. A lot has happened, what with Minnie and you told me, didn't you? You've had difficulties coping with the baby...'
'Don't say this,' I plead with him. 'Don't, George, please.'
He puts his hand to my head and smooths my hair. 'I love you, Hannah,' he says, softly. 'I love you so much. You know I do. I'm going to help you--'
'I'm not making it up, George, I swear...'
'No, I know, sweetheart. I don't think that. I just think you're tired and overwrought, and who could blame after everything that's happened? Come on, we'll go home, and I'll look after you and... I don't know, maybe you should go and see a doctor--'
'I don't need a doctor.'
'Okay, okay,' George soothes. 'Well, lets... Lets take it easy for a while, okay? Love?'
I pull away from him and put my head in my hands, resting my elbows on the table. They won't believe me. Unless I can come up with something concrete and irrefutable, they're not going to. I'm so confused, I'm starting to doubt myself. I don't know what to do.
What do I do now?