Authors: Elena Forbes
‘What if we can’t trace the girl?’
‘Trust me, we will, one way or another. It may just take time.’
Just as Donovan had got to her feet to pour herself a second cup of coffee, Grigson returned.
‘The woman we acted for, who owned the house, is now called Frances Neville. She lives in a cottage in a village called Chelwood, just south of Bristol. It’s about a twenty-minute drive. I’ve just spoken to her and told her you’re on your way. Apparently, she’s had an operation on her foot a couple of weeks ago and can’t go out. I’ll leave you to explain what it’s all about.’
An elderly woman opened the door of Frances Neville’s cottage and showed them into a small, open-plan sitting room, filled with an eclectic and colourful mix of furniture and objects that looked as though they had come from the four corners of the world. Frances lay stretched out on the sofa, listening to Woman’s Hour, her heavily bandaged foot resting on a large tapestry cushion. She was very slim, wore jeans and a plain, fitted white shirt and looked to be in her late fifties, with olive skin and frizzy, iron-grey hair, which was clipped up untidily on top of her head. Her dark eyebrows were well-defined and arched and her eyes were heavily rimmed with black eye-liner giving her an almost surprised expression.
‘I’m glad you got here so quickly,’ she said interrupting, as Donovan started to introduce herself and Chang. She bent forward and turned off the radio. ‘That silly solicitor seems to be in quite a muddle. He tells me you think Amber’s dead, or at least that’s what it sounded like. And he said it happened a long while ago.’
‘You know who Amber Wiseman is?’
‘Of course I do. She’s my daughter, more’s the pity, and as far as I know she’s very much alive. You’d better sit down and explain what this is all about. I do love a good mystery.’ She rubbed her hands together and gestured Donovan and Chang to the chairs opposite, her heavy silver bracelets jingling at both wrists.
‘I’m sorry, Mrs Neville, but—’
‘It’s Miss Neville. I’ve been married four times but I’ve gone back to my maiden name. It’s simpler that way. Wiseman was Amber’s father’s name, not that he stuck around for long. Now what’s all this about Amber being dead?’
‘I’m very sorry about the confusion, Miss Neville. We found a girl’s skeleton in a lake near Bristol. She’s apparently been in the water since the early summer of 1991. We found some of her things along with a handbag. The name Amber Wiseman and your old address in Clifton were written on a bus pass inside. Naturally we—’
‘How wonderfully intriguing. Well, it’s definitely not Amber, I can assure you. I haven’t spoken to Amber for years – we don’t get on, you see – but I can assure you it isn’t her.’
‘If you’re not in touch . . .’
Frances waved her hand dismissively. She came to my mother’s funeral, which was two years ago, although she didn’t say a word to me, so it definitely can’t be her.’
‘OK. Why then would this girl have her bag?’
‘Maybe she knew Amber. When did you say this was?’
‘June or July 1991.’
She stared into space for a moment, then nodded slowly. ‘Amber would be fourteen, going on fifteen in 1991. That’s the year I split up with Mike, which is why I had to sell the house when we eventually got divorced. I can’t remember what I was doing in June or July but I certainly spent a couple of months out in India. I used to have an interior design business, with shops in London and Bath, and a lot of our furnishings and needlework pieces came from there. When I got back, I took Amber off to stay with friends in America for the summer to get away from Mike.’
‘What about the girl?’
She frowned, as though thinking back. ‘There was a group of them that used to hang around together. They were always swapping clothes and make-up and things. She must have taken Amber’s bag.’
‘She? Do you have any idea who it might be?’
‘What’s that?’ She peered up at Donovan, as though she hadn’t been listening.
‘Do you know who the girl is?’
‘Yes. I’m sorry, it’s all coming back to me now. It must be Danielle.’
‘Danielle Henderson?’ Chang asked.
She looked over at him and nodded. ‘I can’t remember her surname, nor can I remember when it happened, but she disappeared one day. Everyone thought she’d run off to the bright lights. Danielle was always borrowing Amber’s things. If it isn’t her, I can’t think who else it could be.’
Chang opened his rucksack and took out one of the files. ‘Is this Danielle?’ He held up a photograph for Frances to see.
Frances put on a pair of reading glasses, which were hanging on a beaded chain around her neck. She examined the photograph and frowned. ‘How sweet. She looks about twelve in that photo, but that’s Danielle. She and Amber were thick as thieves for a time. They were both usually plastered in make-up with skirts up to here.’ She put her hand on her hip. ‘But then, what girls aren’t these days? Danielle’s mother was very silly, though. She was way too overprotective and gave her no freedom at all. Danielle would come over after school sometimes and occasionally she’d stay the night, but the mother was constantly on the phone, fussing about whether she’d done her homework, what time she was coming home, whether she’d eaten properly and that sort of thing. Poor Danielle had to scrub her face and change out of her clothes into something sensible every time she went home. It’s enough to make anyone rebel, don’t you think?’ She peered over her glasses at Donovan for confirmation.
‘What about her father?’ Donovan asked, thinking that Danielle’s mother sounded like most parents she had come across, her own included.
‘From what I remember, he’d had the sense to bugger off long ago and that was part of the problem. Danielle was an only child. She was her mother’s sole focus, with all her mother’s hopes and dreams riding on her. When she went missing, I had the mother on the phone crying her eyes out as if I’d hidden her somewhere, or somehow we were to blame. I never understood why she was so hostile. The local police came to interview Amber, but of course she had no idea where Danielle was. I think they’d had some sort of a falling out, as girls do at that age.’
‘You said everyone thought she’d gone off to London. Why was that?’
Frances shrugged. ‘She often talked about it. When she disappeared, the police interviewed all of Danielle’s classmates at school, including Amber. Everyone just assumed she’d run off.’
‘If she and Danielle quarrelled, why would Danielle have had her bag?’
‘Heaven knows. I suppose she must have borrowed it and forgotten to give it back.’
‘You didn’t think it was strange when Danielle disappeared?’
‘No, not really. I got the impression Danielle wasn’t at all happy at home. She also had a well-developed sense of fantasy.’
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Well, if you want the truth, she could be quite devious. It’s quite possible she stole Amber’s bag.’
‘Really?’
‘She certainly told the most terrible lies, like children do when they’re desperate to impress. She used to pretend she was friends with all sorts of famous people and that she was going to go and stay with them in London. As I said, she often told Amber she was going to run away, but I thought it was just another one of her little stories. When I heard she hadn’t come home, I just imagined she’d finally gone and done it.’
32
It was nearly eleven o’clock in the morning when Alex put his key in the lock and opened the door to his flat. He had spent the whole of Sunday at Maggie’s as well as the night, although he had opted for the sofa, not wanting to risk further humiliation. Amazingly, she seemed to understand and had been happy just to have him there. He had been so tired that he had enjoyed a deep and dreamless sleep. At least for a while he had managed to banish the demons from the lake. Maggie had gone out early that morning to drive to an old rectory near Northampton, which was a potential new property for her books. He had been so deeply asleep he hadn’t heard her go, but she had left him breakfast and a note telling him to make himself at home. He wasn’t due at the restaurant until late afternoon, but rather than stay on the boat on his own with nothing to do, he had decided to go back to the flat for a change of clothes.
The hall lights were still on and the first thing he noticed was a sheet of paper on the floor, held down by an empty whisky bottle.
BIG BROTHER’S WATCHING YOU ALEX!!!
was scrawled across the page in thick, black marker. He picked it up, turned it over and found a message in Paddy’s familiar illegible writing:
Hi Alex, if you’re seeing this, you’ve probably come home from wherever you’ve been hiding yourself. Hope it was fun!!!! The fuzz have been all over the flat. They’re after you, mate! What have you been up to? I don’t know for certain, but I think they’re keeping a beady eye on this place so WATCH YOUR BACK!
P.S. Woman called Anna says please call and it’s urgent!!!!! Says you have the number.
He went into the kitchen. Taking care not to be seen, he peered out of the window. The road below was busy with cars and pedestrians. It was impossible to tell if any of them were plainclothes police, but if they were watching the flat, they were bound to have seen him come in. Why they were still after him, he had no idea, but he had no wish to be hauled in for more unpleasant questioning, accusations and threats if he could help it. He grabbed a plastic bag from under the sink, threw in his phone charger and a change of clothes and went into the bathroom, which overlooked the rear. He glanced quickly out of the window. He had a clear view over the patchwork of gardens to the backs of the houses on the next street, but as far as he could tell there was nobody out there. Maybe they weren’t watching, or maybe they were concentrating their efforts on the front. From the road, the house appeared to be hemmed in by other buildings, but appearances were deceptive. The drycleaners’ below extended out into most of the garden at ground level. Beyond was a wall, no more than six feet high, with a small alleyway on the other side that led along between the gardens and stopped at the back of a newsagent. During business hours, particularly in the summer, the newsagent’s door was kept permanently open. He had twice managed to climb out of Paddy’s flat this way, when Paddy in a rush had accidentally locked him inside. Luckily the owner of the newsagent didn’t seem to mind.
He went into the sitting room, turned on some music loud, so that if anyone came to the door, they would assume he was still there, then went back into the bathroom and climbed out of the window. He edged onto the boundary wall that separated the property from the house next door, pulled the window shut, then dropped down onto the flat roof of the drycleaners’. Within minutes he was walking through the newsagent and out into a nearby road. Cutting through the network of small streets, he rejoined Chamberlayne Road further along and jumped on a bus that had just pulled up at a stop. It was heading south towards Ladbroke Grove. He was the only person to get on and, as the doors closed behind him and the bus accelerated away, he scanned the road. As far as he could tell, nobody was following him.
He got off the bus halfway along Ladbroke Grove and went into a café just past the Westway. It was owned by an old Greek Cypriot called Harry and was a nice enough place to while away a few hours. He had often stopped there for something to eat when walking to work for the lunchtime shift and it was one of the few places he knew that still did a decent fried breakfast. Harry came over and he ordered coffee and a full English, with fried bread. He debated about charging up his phone, then decided against it. From the little he knew from the TV, the police might be able to track him if he switched it on.
‘Do you have a phone I could use?’ he asked, as Harry returned with a brimming cappuccino, thick with a coating of chocolate, just the way he liked it.
Harry gave him an easy smile. ‘Sure. The landline’s on the blink, but you can use my mobile.’ He took a small, green Nokia out of his pocket and handed it to Alex.
Alex found Anna’s card in his wallet and dialled her mobile. She picked up right away.
‘Anna Paget.’
‘It’s Alex. Alex Fleming. You asked me to call.’
‘Have you seen the papers?’
‘No. Why?’
‘You’d better take a look. The shit’s hit the proverbial fan and I really need to speak to you. Can we meet?’
‘What’s it about?’
‘Just look at the paper and you’ll see.’
‘This is to do with Joe, right?’
‘And Paul Khan, and now Danny Black.’
‘Danny?’
‘Didn’t you know? Alex, I’m so sorry. I thought you would know.’
‘No. Oh God, I . . .’ He put the phone down for a moment and stared into space. He felt numb. So Danny was dead too. Another one of the five. He had never been that close to Danny, unlike to Tim and Joe, but it was still a shock. Only he and Tim were left. Which one would be next? He felt sick. He heard the tinny sound of her voice coming from the phone’s microphone and put it back to his ear. ‘When did this happen?’ he whispered.
‘Yesterday. I’m really, really sorry, Alex. I didn’t mean to shock you like that. I’m really sorry. Please can we meet? It’s really urgent I speak to you. Where are you?’
He took a moment to answer. ‘In a café in Ladbroke Grove.’
‘Shall I come to you?’
‘I don’t know, I can’t think. What happened to Danny?’
‘He was found dead in St James’s Park. Again, I’m so sorry. The police as usual aren’t saying much, but I’ll tell you everything I know when I see you. Why don’t you come to my flat? That way we can talk in private.’ She gave him the address, which he memorised, having no pen or paper. ‘If you’re coming by tube, it’s about a ten-minute walk from either Earl’s Court or Fulham Broadway. How long do you think you’ll be?’
‘Half an hour or so. Maybe a bit more.’ He found it difficult to focus.
As he hung up, Harry came over with his breakfast. Still in a daze, Alex thanked him and handed him back his phone.
‘Are you OK?’ Harry asked, peering at him.
He shook his head. ‘I’ve just had some very bad news. Do you have a newspaper I could borrow?’
‘Of course. Hey, Sonia,’ he called out to the young woman who was busy making sandwiches behind the counter. ‘Pass me the paper, will you? It’s somewhere over there by the toaster.’ She slid a copy of the
Daily Mail
across to him, which he passed to Alex. The headline said it all:
BRUTAL LONDON MURDERS LINKED
He gazed down at the steaming plate of food in front of him, then pushed it away. He was no longer hungry.
Tartaglia sat at his desk staring fixedly at the computer screen. The surveillance team had called in to say that Alex Fleming had been back to his flat but had somehow managed to give them the slip. How it had happened, he wasn’t sure, but Fleming was acting very much like a guilty man and efforts were being redoubled to find him. He had checked with the team minding Tim Wade up in Oxford, but at least that end appeared to be secure and there was no sign of Fleming having tried to contact Wade. For the moment it was a waiting game, but he didn’t feel in a patient mood. He had spent the last few hours trying to catch up on paperwork, but he couldn’t concentrate. His head was buzzing. All he could think of was the headline in the morning paper and Anna’s name beneath it. What a fool he’d been. At one point he remembered their talking a little about the case in bed. She had asked him how it was going and if they were close to finding Joe’s killer. She had seemed interested to know about the psychological motivation of someone who could do such a thing and he had given her his view, couching it in very general terms that might have applied to a number of cases he had worked. At no point had he mentioned Paul Khan or Danny Black. Nor had he mentioned Ashleigh Grange or the lake. However distracted by her, however temporarily off guard, he couldn’t believe that any of it had come from him. But where had she got it from? In a way, it didn’t matter. He knew how it would look if anybody found out what had happened between them. He started to wonder if he could trust his memory. Although it was a bitter pill to swallow, he now knew why she had come to see him at his flat and why her behaviour had been so overt and like an idiot, he had fallen for it. In many ways, he was no better than Nick Minderedes, and the thought stung him.
He was on the point of calling her, then decided against it. He would get more out of her face to face. The files were still sitting on his desk and he made a note of her address. He changed out of his jacket and trousers into leathers and boots and went downstairs and out the back to where the Ducati was parked. He drove fast, weaving in and out of the heavy traffic along the Lower Richmond Road. Once over Putney Bridge, he cut through the side streets until he came to Edith Grove. It struck him again how close she lived to the Brompton Cemetery. Edith Grove was one way, with traffic flowing fast in the direction of the embankment, and there was nowhere to park. He drove the bike up over the pavement and into the front garden of the house, where he dismounted behind an ancient-looking Lancia. He took off his helmet and checked his watch. It had taken him just seven minutes.
According to the file, Anna lived on the first floor. Looking up, he saw that the window was open wide and he assumed she was in. He chained his helmet to the bike and went up the stairs to the front door. None of the bells were labelled and he pressed them all repeatedly until finally he heard her voice over the crackle of the intercom.
‘Who’s that?’
‘It’s Mark Tartaglia. We need to talk.’
There was a pause. ‘Now’s not a good time.’
‘I don’t care. May I come up?’
‘No. I’m on my way out to meet someone.’
‘I need to talk to you.’
There was another pause then she said: ‘OK. Wait there. I’ll be down in a minute.’
He went back to the front garden and stood by the bike, his mind still spinning. He lit a cigarette and looked up at the window. He saw her pull it shut, talking on the phone to someone, the handset cradled against her ear. A few minutes later the front door opened and she came down the steps towards him. She was wearing shorts and a tight-fitting black vest, the way she was dressed when he first met her.
‘I’m really sorry but I can’t talk now. I’ve got to go and see someone. Can’t you come back later?’ She gave him a pleasant enough smile but her sunglasses hid her eyes and he couldn’t read her expression.
‘I’ve seen the paper.’
‘It’s good, isn’t it?’
‘No, it’s not good. You used what I told you.’
‘Ah, that’s what this is all about. Don’t worry. It wasn’t earth-shattering. What you told me, I mean. You just helped confirm a few things.’
‘That’s not the point. What I said was between us. I didn’t expect to see it in print with your name under it.’
‘Mark, sweetheart, I knew most of it already. Hand on heart. What you said was just helpful background stuff.’
‘I’m glad you got something out of it, then.’
The smile disappeared and she put her hand on her hip. ‘Look, I didn’t come to see you to get information out of you. I’m not that cheap.’
‘Don’t give me that crap. There’s all sorts of information in that article you’re not supposed to know, let alone publish. What about all that stuff about Paul Khan and Danny Black . . . Where the hell did it come from?’
She tapped the side of her nose. ‘Ways and means. But don’t worry. You may have been a little pissed, but interesting though it all was, you didn’t give away anything vital. Anyway, none of it can be traced back to you and, as I said, I knew it all before.’
He shook his head disbelievingly. He still couldn’t work it out. Had he left her alone at any point? Apart from when she first came in and he had gone to get dressed, he didn’t think so. When he came back, she had been sitting in the same place, as though she hadn’t moved. Even if she had got up and snooped around, there hadn’t been much time, nor anything to see. There were no files or important documents or anything else of a sensitive nature lying around in the flat and his phone was password protected. Then it dawned on him. His notebook had been in his jacket pocket, hanging over the back of a chair where he had left it when he came home. She would have needed a while to decipher its contents. The only opportunity had been in the morning, when she got up, leaving him in bed. He’d been heavily asleep, even for him. Apart from vaguely glimpsing her as she left the bedroom, he hadn’t been aware of anything. He certainly had no recollection of her leaving the flat. Then another thought struck him. Had she drugged him? It would explain the blinding hangover the next morning and his unusually befuddled state of mind. The thought shocked him. It was too late to go for a blood test and even if he knew for certain, it would do no good. He could hardly arrest her and have to admit to Steele and the rest what had happened.
He stared into the black mirrors of her glasses. ‘You put something in my wine, didn’t you?’
‘That’s ridiculous.’
‘Is it? Did you go through my notebook while I was asleep? Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I was so stupid.’