Honeytrap: Part 1
Authors: Roberta Kray
Roberta Kray
Through her marriage to Reggie Kray, Roberta Kray has a unique and authentic insight into London’s East End. Born in Southport, Roberta met Reggie in early 1996 and they married the following year; they were together until Reggie’s death in 2000. Roberta is the author of many previous bestsellers including
Broken Home, Strong Women, Bad Girl
and
Streetwise
.
The Debt
The Pact
The Lost
Strong Women
The Villain’s Daughter
Broken Home
Nothing But Trouble
Bad Girl
Streetwise
Non-fiction
Reg Kray: A Man Apart
First published as an ebook in 2015 by Sphere
ISBN 978-0-7515-6108-1
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Roberta Kray 2015
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that are not owned by the publisher.
Sphere
Little, Brown Book Group
Carmelite House
50 Victoria Embankment
London EC4Y 0DZ
1
Harry Lind slid the photograph across the desk with his usual show of reluctance. Although the honeytrap side of the business had been up and running for the past six months – and was pulling in plenty of clients – he was still unconvinced of the morality of throwing temptation into the path of any red-blooded male. Was it fair? Was it right? Something troubled him about it. He was an ex-cop, a detective through and through, and he couldn’t quite shake off the notion that it was basically entrapment.
‘Joshua Keynes, known as Josh. He’ll be in Wilder’s tomorrow night. The reception starts at seven. Lorna’s got the tickets for you.’
Sylvie sat and studied the picture for a moment before glancing up again. ‘Wife or girlfriend?’
‘Fiancée, actually. But she has her doubts.’
Sylvie nodded. ‘Better to be safe than sorry. That’s what they say,
oui
?’
Harry gave a shrug. ‘Sure.’ The fiancée might only be fishing, but it was hardly an equitable sport when the bait was Sylvia Durand. She was a slender, cultured, attractive blonde with eyes as green and wily as a cat’s. She spoke excellent English and her French accent only added to her charm.
Sylvie gave him one of her indulgent smiles. ‘You know what your problem is, Harry?’
He made a point of looking at his watch. ‘I imagine there’s quite a list. Do we have time to go through it all?’
‘You have no faith in the ability of men to be faithful.’
‘And you do?’
‘
Un peu
,’ she said, holding up her thumb and forefinger. ‘A little.’
Harry raised his eyebrows. ‘That much?’
‘All he has to do is say
non
!’
But Harry knew that they rarely did. Joshua would need his morality honed to the standard of a saint if he was going to resist Sylvie. It was her job to try and seduce, to test his fidelity, to attempt to commit him to a sexual encounter (without actually going through with it), and then to tactfully withdraw. Everything was recorded so that the client could listen to it later. ‘Sometimes that’s the hardest word in the world.’
Sylvie rose to her feet and smoothed down her cream linen dress. ‘Perhaps. But if he really loves his fiancée, then … no problem, right?’
Harry didn’t think it was that straightforward. Anyone could make a mistake, have a moment of weakness; it didn’t mean they were predisposed to be unfaithful. Or was he just putting himself in the target’s shoes, wondering how
he’d
react if Sylvie chose to bestow her charms on him? If a man or woman was actually having an affair, then it was clear cut, premeditated, an obvious betrayal, but this was different. When a slice of sweet patisserie was served up on a plate, it was hard to resist the temptation to eat. ‘Don’t forget to text.’
‘I won’t.’
‘When you arrive and when you leave.’
‘I know the routine, Harry.’
‘It’s for your own safety.’
She raised her hand and waved. ‘Goodbye, Harry. Have a nice weekend.’
Harry watched as she walked out of the office. She moved with languid elegance, and his gaze slid down the length of her body, observing all its curves and planes. A sigh rose into his throat, but he was careful not to release it until after the door had closed behind her. ‘Don’t even think about it,’ he murmured. When it came to dangerous blondes, he’d well and truly learned his lesson. It wasn’t that long since the seductive Aimee Locke had cost him a night in a police cell with a murder charge hanging over his head. Like a fool, he’d walked straight into the trap she’d set for him. Mixing business with pleasure, he decided, was never a good idea.
Harry stood up, stretched out his arms, yawned and turned towards the window. It was early afternoon, half past one, but already the Friday traffic was building up. He placed his palms against the glass and gazed down on to the street. Over a year had passed since he and Mac had shifted the business of Mackenzie, Lind from the West End of London to the East, a risk at the time but one that was paying off. Private detectives, it seemed, were in demand wherever they chose to hang their hats.
His eyes scanned the limited view that was on offer: the station, the pub, the bus stop across the way. Kellston was – if you believed the hype – the next up-and-coming part of East London. It was true there was a Starbucks, new clothes shops and a few decent restaurants on the high street, but it hadn’t quite caught up with the neighbouring and more fashionable district of Shoreditch. There was still an ingrained shabbiness about the place; this was where the poor had always gathered and the smell of poverty lingered in the air.
Harry tapped his heels against the polished floorboards. He felt tense and restless, as if he had spent the winter months in hibernation and was only now emerging into daylight again. Where were all the good cases? Where was the intrigue, the mystery? The honeytrap side might be bringing in the cash, but it wasn’t exactly challenging. He needed something to get his teeth into.
The phone rang and he turned back to the desk and picked it up. ‘Hey, Lorna.’
‘You’ve got a visitor.’
‘A client?’ he asked, his hopes rising.
‘No,’ Lorna said. ‘It’s Jess.’
‘Tell her I’m out.’
‘You can tell her yourself. She’s on her way up.’
The door to Harry’s office opened just as he was replacing the receiver. He looked at the woman who came in, gave a shake of his head and raised his hands as if to shield himself. ‘Whatever it is, I’m not interested!’
‘Now what kind of a way is that to greet an old friend?’
‘Would that be the old friend I haven’t heard from in – how long is it now?’
‘It’s only a few months.’
‘More like six.’
Jess grinned, pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘Is it really? How sweet that you’ve been counting. Anyway, you’re looking well. How are things?’
Harry sat down too, crossed his arms over his chest and stared at her from the other side of the desk. A pair of expressive grey eyes gazed directly back from beneath a pale brown fringe. ‘As well as can be expected.’
‘Considering?’
‘Considering you just showed up on my doorstep.’
Jess leaned forward, still grinning. ‘It’s a good thing I’m not the sensitive sort. A girl could take offence at a comment like that. She might get a complex, start thinking that she isn’t welcome.’
‘God forbid,’ he muttered. The trouble with Jessica Vaughan was that whenever she appeared, trouble was never far behind. She was a freelance reporter, a hack with a nose for a good story. They had history and most of it involved Harry being dragged into things he’d have preferred to stay out of. ‘So go on, what is it you want this time?’
‘What if I told you I was working on something big, something that could shake the very foundations of the East End?’
Harry pulled a face. ‘I’d say I’m busy for the next three weeks.’
‘No, you wouldn’t,’ she said.
‘I’m already packing.’ He tapped the right side of his temples. ‘Up here, I’m already deciding what to put in that suitcase, how many shirts and how many pairs of shoes, figuring out where to go and for how long. I’ve got a mental map in my brain. Even as we speak, I’m wondering how far I can get from Kellston by this time tomorrow.’
Jess inclined her head, the sides of her short, neat bob swaying against her cheeks. She studied him for a while, a smile tugging at the corner of her lips. ‘As it happens, you can cancel the travel plans. There’s no foundation-shaking going on. Not even a minor tremor. The East End, at least for now, is safe from my investigative zeal. All I’m after is a word with your honeytrap girls.’
‘A word?’
‘I’d like to interview a few of them, write an article about the business – you know, why people come to you, what they hope to achieve, how the honeys work and how they feel about it all. I mean, obviously there wouldn’t be any pictures – the magazine would use models for that – and I wouldn’t give away any tricks of the trade. What do you reckon? I think it could make for an interesting piece.’
Harry didn’t answer straight away. There was nothing fundamentally wrong with the request, but past experience had taught him to be cautious when it came to Jess. Somehow things never turned out as expected. Although he liked her – she was smart and witty and independent – he was wary of her too.
‘And it would be good publicity,’ she continued. ‘The mag I’m thinking of has a circulation of half a million; that’s a lot of would-be clients.’
‘Except what our clients expect is discretion.’
‘I’m not going to be indiscreet. No real names, no real faces, just an in-depth look at what motivates women to use your service. I mean, it’s all to do with trust, isn’t it? Or rather the lack of it. And I’d like the point of view of the girls at the sharp end. How they feel about what they do, why they do it, their opinions on the men they tempt.’ Jess placed her elbows on the desk and cradled her chin in her hands. ‘So what do you reckon?’
‘I’ll have to think about it.’
‘Lorna says she’s happy for me to go ahead.’
‘Lorna doesn’t run this business.’
‘She runs the honeytrap side of it.’
‘Who told you that?’
‘Doesn’t she?’
Harry couldn’t really deny it. Lorna was the one who recruited the honeys and who usually decided which of them were suitable for which assignment. ‘If it’s already been agreed, why are you even asking me?’
‘Nothing has been agreed. Do you think I’d go ahead if you weren’t comfortable with it?’
‘Do you want an honest answer to that?’
Jess widened her eyes in mock amazement. ‘Harry Lind! You know me better than that.’
‘I know you usually get what you want.’
‘That’s because I try harder than most people.’
‘You’re certainly more trying than most people.’
