Schemer Read online

  KIMBERLEY CHAMBERS

  The Schemer

  In loving memory of

  Helena Ann Lewis

  1970–2011

  ‘Violence does, in truth, recoil upon the violent, and the schemer falls into the pit which he digs for another …’

  Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, ‘The Adventure of the Speckled Band’

  Table of Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  Prologue

  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

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Chapter Forty-One

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Epilogue

  Read on for an extract from Kimberley’s next book: The Trap

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Also by Kimberley Chambers

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Prologue

  The woman sat on the deck sipping a glass of vintage champagne. The weather was glorious and the heavenly smell of the ocean always had a calming effect on her. As the man reappeared, the woman smiled at him lovingly. Usually when they sailed their boat, they brought friends along with them, but today the man had insisted they sail alone. ‘I wanted it to be just the two of us for once; that’s why I never told you we were going out on the boat until this morning. I wanted to surprise you and spoil you rotten.’

  And surprised and spoilt rotten the woman had been. Mussels in garlic butter, salmon en croûte, strawberries and cream were all prepared and served up for her by her wonderful man. She had a surprise for him also and, as soon as he sat back down, she would tell him what she had been dying to tell him for weeks.

  ‘Come over ’ere, babe, and look at this,’ the man said, gesticulating for the woman to join him.

  The woman walked over to the right-hand side of the boat and put her arms around the man’s toned, suntanned waist. ‘I can’t see nothing. What am I meant to be looking at?’ she asked, rather bemused.

  Knowing it was now or never, the man forcefully grabbed the woman by the shoulders, and swung her around so that her back was positioned against the gunwale. ‘I’m sorry, but me and you are over. I don’t love you any more and I’m going back to England.’

  ‘Stop mucking about. You’re not funny,’ the woman said, with a hint of panic in her voice.

  ‘I ain’t fucking mucking about,’ the man replied, as he put one hand around the woman’s throat and used his other to lift her up by the crotch.

  ‘Please God no! Why would you want to do this to me? Why?’ the woman screamed, as her feet left the safety of the deck.

  ‘Because you know too much about me,’ the man replied, his face devoid of emotion. With one last movement, he threw her to the mercy of the sharks. The last words he heard her scream were, ‘I’m pregnant.’ Putting his hands over his ears so he didn’t have to listen to anything else she might yell out, the man then calmly returned to the helm.

  CHAPTER ONE

  1983

  Stephanie Crouch’s stomach was full of butterflies as she marched up Dagenham Heathway hill towards the train station. It had taken her ages to decide what to wear, but she was happy with her choice of denim pedal-pushers, a Flashdance-inspired ripped grey sweatshirt and gold pump ballet shoes. Not only did she look trendy, but felt comfortable as well.

  ‘Hurry up, Tam. You’re walking as fast as a tortoise,’ Stephanie complained to her best friend.

  Tammy Andrews stopped dead in her tracks. The stereo system she was carrying on her shoulder had all but broken her back. ‘Sod you, Steph. You can carry it the rest of the way yourself. I ain’t one of them donkeys, you know.’

  Laughing, Steph handed her pal the carrier bag of goodies they’d purchased earlier and relieved her of her burden.

  ‘Why did you drag us up ’ere so early anyway? You know he don’t get back till about six and it’s only half four. We should have drank our cider in the park and then come up ’ere. My mum will kill me if anyone she knows catches me drinking and smoking.’

  Ignoring her friend’s concerns, Stephanie stood outside the station and planned her next move. She knew that Wayne Jackman went to every West Ham home game and she knew he arrived back at Dagenham Heathway at approximately six o’clock. ‘I don’t want him to think we’re waiting for him, so I think we should sit opposite the station. He lives in Digby Gardens, so he’s bound to cross the road,’ Steph said, confidently.

  Unlike Stephanie, Tammy was no fan of Wayne Jackman, the school heart-throb. Wayne, who was usually referred to as Jacko, was in the year above them at Dagenham Priory. Although Tammy had never spoken to him on a one-to-one basis, she’d seen and heard enough about him to know that he was bad news. He might be breathtakingly good looking with his blond hair and piercing blue eyes, but he was also flash, blatantly loved himself and had a reputation of being a bit of a bully.

  Holding the stereo system between them, the girls strolled across the pedestrian crossing, sat down on the pavement outside a shop and delved into their bag of goodies. Neither came from wealthy families, so the three pounds they both received as pocket money every week was pooled together at the weekend to ensure they had a good time. Strongbow cider, twenty Embassy Number One, two packets of Hubba Bubba bubble gum, chips and magazines was all they ever treated themselves to.

  Stephanie pressed the play button on the stereo and ignored the disapproving looks of passers-by as the music blared out of the speakers.

  ‘I hate this shit music,’ Tammy complained.

  Stephanie laughed. Whereas she was deemed very attractive, Tammy was classed as the opposite. Fairly plump with reddish-gingery hair, most of the lads at school took the piss out of Tammy. Her nickname was Tampax or ginger minge, but Stephanie adored her best friend. In Steph’s eyes, she was beautiful, loving and extremely funny.

  Singing at the top of her voice to New Edition’s ‘Candy Girl’ Steph handed her friend the fags and matches while she opened a bottle of cider.

  ‘I bought a tape with me with “Baby Jane” on it. Can’t we put that on, Steph?’

  Stephanie shook her head vehemently. Wayne Jackman was a casual and was always dressed in designer tracksuits. He even owned a real Burberry jacket and he certainly wouldn’t be impressed if he walked out of the station and heard the dulcet tones of Rod Stewart blaring out.

  ‘You can put “Baby Jane” on when he’s gone. Casuals like soul music, Tam, and I don’t wanna put him off m
e.’

  Tammy sighed. Ever since Wayne Jackman had last week wolf-whistled at Stephanie in the alleyway that led from the upper to the lower school, Steph had spoken of little else. ‘Why don’t you just ask him out? I’ll do it for you if you like,’ Tammy suggested.

  Stephanie immediately shook her head. ‘No! I’m gonna wait for him to ask me out.’

  ‘Hide that cider, quick. One of my mum’s mates is crossing the road,’ Tammy hissed.

  Stephanie put the cider back in the carrier bag, turned around and checked her hair in the reflection of the shop window. She’d recently grown her hair long and had begged her mum to let her have one of the shaggy perms that were currently all the rage. ‘No. We can’t afford it and you’re far too young to be putting silly substances on your hair. Don’t wanna go bald before you’re twenty, do you?’ her mum had told her yet again this morning.

  Annoyed at not being allowed to have the perm she craved, Stephanie had created her own shaggy look. Instead of blow-drying her hair straight like she usually did, Steph had towel-dried it so it looked as if as if she’d just got out of bed, then plastered it with lacquer to make it stand on end.

  ‘I hope Wayne likes my hair like this. Do you reckon he’ll like it? Or do you think he’ll prefer it the other way?’

  Turning her head so that her mum’s friend wouldn’t stop for a chat, Tammy glared at her friend. ‘You’re really doing my head in now, Steph. Light me a snout and give me a bottle of that cider. If I don’t chill out, I’m gonna scream.’

  Pamela Crouch picked up the cloth, squeezed the excess water back into the bucket, then proudly set to work on cleaning her front door. Unlike some of her frowsy neighbours, Pam had been born and bred in the East End of London, where pride in the cleanliness of one’s abode was of the utmost importance. Dagenham was different. People’s standards here were lower than in good old Mile End.

  Thinking of her dear old mum’s strict values, Pam smiled sadly. It would be a year next week since the cancer had so cruelly taken her wonderful mother away from her, and Pam still thought about her each and every day.

  ‘Pam, the old slapper’s on her way home. Got a big black man with her today she has.’

  Pam dropped her cloth and ran over to the garden fence to greet her next-door neighbour, Cathy. Like herself, Cathy was originally from the East End and, over the ten years they’d been neighbours, their friendship had grown from strength to strength. ‘I can’t see her,’ she said, looking from left to right.

  ‘She was in Sainsbury’s. You should of seen the trolley-load of drink she had. The black man was definitely with her, I saw him put his hand on her arse. She must be on her way home with the booze. Where else would she take it?’

  Pam shook her head in disgust. Ever since the old slapper had recently moved into the house opposite, she had been her and Cath’s main topic of conversation. Marlene was her name, and the only other bit of information they could find out about her was that she’d lived in Bethnal Green before moving to Dagenham. It wasn’t just the number of men Pam and Cath had seen visit the house that had earned Marlene her nickname. It was the over-the-top way she dressed, her snooty, up-her-own-arse attitude, her pregnant fifteen-year-old daughter, and the fact that she had old bits of sheet hanging in her windows rather than proper curtains.

  ‘Ere she comes, look. I can’t believe she’s got the front to walk about dressed like a film star, yet she’s got rotten old sheets for curtains. Talk about all fur coat and no knickers,’ Cathy said, bluntly.

  Pam surreptitiously glanced at Marlene and the black man. ‘I bet he’s a Ford worker. Probably got some poor unsuspecting wife tucked away somewhere,’ she whispered.

  Cathy’s lip curled up. Her old man had got one of the barmaids in East Ham Working Man’s Club pregnant, hence their messy divorce. Clocking the hatred towards Marlene on Cathy’s face, Pam linked arms with her. ‘Come on, let’s go indoors and have a nice cuppa, shall we? I’ve got some cream cakes if you fancy one?’

  ‘Let me pop in mine and sort my Michael’s dinner out first. I’ll give you a knock in about a half-hour or so,’ Cath replied.

  Pam shut the front door, made a pot of tea and plonked herself down on the armchair to rest her tired legs. She was only thirty-five, but life hadn’t been kind to her and she sometimes felt twenty years older. At five foot one, Pam had always had an enormous appetite and had never been the slimmest of women, but since her husband had died, she’d gorged day and night just for comfort. Bringing up two daughters alone wasn’t easy, and even though she now had a job in a bakery, money was still scarce. David’s death had been a terrible shock at the time. He’d only been working as a steel erector for a month, when the police had knocked on Pam’s door and informed her of his accident. She’d dashed straight up the hospital, but after falling from thirty foot of scaffolding, David had never regained consciousness. Her daughters Stephanie and Angela had both adored their father, and telling them the awful news was the most difficult thing Pam had ever had to do. Thankfully, at four and three years old respectively, the girls had been far too young to understand the enormity of what had happened and had just accepted the news of David’s death as children that age tend to do.

  Glancing at the picture of her mum on the mantelpiece, Pam sighed. Her wonderful mother, Ada, was the only person who had truly helped her cope after David’s death. A matriarch East Ender, she had sort of taken over in her own way, and had been there for Pam and the kids whenever she’d been called upon. Losing her mum to cancer was horrendous for Pam. Her dad, Arnold, was still alive, but he was a simple man who had no idea how to cope with Linda’s wants and needs. Linda was Pam’s only sister and had sadly been born with dwarfism. Under the circumstances, Linda had led life to the full. She had attended mainstream schools, had always worked, and had much more of a social life than Pam had herself. However, her mum had always worried about Linda’s welfare and had made Pam promise that if anything happened to her, she would look after her younger sister. A woman of her word, Pam had stuck to her promise. She had turfed Angela out of her bedroom and made her share with Steph, then Linda had moved into Angela’s old room. Her daughters weren’t happy about the sharing situation. They’d always got on fairly well as young children, but now they argued like cat and dog.

  Pam was jolted back to reality by the arrival of her youngest daughter.

  ‘Where’s my shiny black leggings, Mum? Did you get ’em dry for me?’

  Pam felt awful as she leapt out of the armchair. She had totally forgotten to wash the leggings and, unlike Steph who was little trouble at all, Angie was a demanding little cow at times. ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, love. I’ve been so busy all day, it slipped my mind. Shall I rinse ’em through now for you?

  Angela Crouch looked at her mother in complete and utter disbelief. One thing she had asked her to do, one small thing, and she couldn’t even manage that. ‘Don’t bother! I’ll have to wear them dirty. I bet if Steph had asked you to wash her leggings, you wouldn’t have forgotten, would you?’

  ‘Yes, I would have! Why don’t you wear your white ones I bought you down the Sunday market?’ Pam asked, with an apologetic tone to her voice.

  ‘Because they ain’t black and they ain’t shiny Lycra. This is the most important night of my life, Mum, and thanks to you it’s ruined now.’ Angela stomped out the room. In her eyes, her Miss Goody Two Shoes of a sister was the apple of her mother’s eye. Steph was the well-behaved, clever one who got great school reports. For years Angie had had to listen to her mum bigging Steph up to anyone who would care to listen, while the only mention she ever got was for underachieving or misbehaving.

  Feeling second best did not suit Angela one little bit and it had made her harbour a secret hatred for her sister. She longed for Steph to slip up and dash her mother’s dreams of grandeur. That would be hilarious.

  Slamming her bedroom door, Angela walked over to her sister’s bed. Unlike Angela, who had posters of her favourite popstars on the
wall that her headboard rested against, Stephanie had a photo of herself and their deceased father. Angie stared at it, then casually took her nail scissors out of her make-up bag. She snipped the string and smiled as she heard the sound of breaking glass.

  Stephanie Crouch felt her body shaking with pure lust as Wayne Jackman stood outside Dagenham Heathway Station chatting to some pals. Dressed in a striking blue Fila tracksuit and white Adidas trainers, Wayne looked the absolute nuts, and Steph was aware of the glances he was attracting from other girls.

  ‘Don’t his hair look cool? I think he’s got Brylcreem or something on it today. It don’t look as blond as it does in school, does it? Do you reckon he’s dyed it? Or, do you reckon it’s the product he’s used that’s making it look darker?’

  Bored shitless, and positive that Wayne didn’t bathe and his hair was just greasy, Tammy Andrews ignored her friend’s stupid questions and turned the volume on the stereo up.

  ‘Quick, he’s coming. Rewind it to Shalamar “A Night to Remember” while I light the snout up,’ Steph said, with a hint of panic in her voice. She needed Wayne to see her drinking and smoking, otherwise he might just see her as some silly schoolgirl.

  Tammy watched in amazement as Wayne and his two mates crossed the road and sauntered past her and Angela as though they didn’t exist. ‘Well, say something then. He ain’t gonna notice you if you sit there like a tailor’s dummy, is he?’ she spat at Steph.

  Overcome by nerves, Steph had all but lost her voice. ‘I can’t think of nothing to say,’ she croaked, her mind completely blank.

  Furious that they’d wasted hours dossing about up the Heathway when they could have been having a laugh with the lads over the park, Tammy stood up. ‘Oi, Jacko,’ she shouted out.

  ‘Stop it! What you doing?’ Steph squirmed, pulling at her friend’s sleeve.

  ‘Whaddya want?’ Wayne asked, as he casually approached Tammy with his hands dug deep in his tracksuit pockets. His best pals, Mark Potter and Chris Cook, stood beside Wayne like two bodyguards.