Authors: Clare Donoghue
It would take longer than that. Jane pulled up behind a Mazda Bongo displaying a Hot Tuna sticker in the rear window. Two surfboards were strapped to the roof. It was a strange sight. The nearest coast was an hour away. ‘Have you got the list of questions handy, Penny?’ she asked, flicking on the car’s air-conditioning.
‘Yes, I’ve got them on my iPad. Do you want to run through them on the way over?’ Penny asked, pulling her handbag up onto her lap.
‘Yes, if you don’t mind. You don’t get car sick, do you?’
‘Not so far,’ Penny said, opening up her iPad and navigating to the right page. ‘Okay. I’ve got the standard questions: confirming the victim’s age, description, where she lived, worked, marital status, income, activity in the last month and last-known whereabouts.’
‘Good. When it comes to the last-known whereabouts, we need to ask when Elizabeth Hungerford last saw her daughter, and for what reasons she reported her missing. Had she noticed any changes in Maggie’s behaviour in recent weeks?’ She paused to allow Penny time to type the new question into her list.
‘Got it,’ Penny said.
‘Did Maggie appear depressed, anxious, nervous – that kind of thing?’
‘Yes,’ Penny said, tapping away.
‘Okay,’ she said, pulling away from some roadworks and avoiding a bus, before settling back into the line of traffic. ‘We need to prepare them for the photograph of Maggie, and arrange for one or both of them to come in and formally identify the body. Would you be able to be present for that, Pen?’
‘Of course. When do you think they’ll want to come in?’
‘Today,’ Jane said without hesitation. ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if they followed us back to the station with the Family Liaison Officer.’ In her experience, viewing the body was the first step in processing what had happened. Despite the shock of being told that a loved one had been murdered, the bereaved needed to see the body for themselves, to know what was happening to them was real. The longer the gap between being told and seeing the body, the harder the family seemed to find it.
‘Is the FLO meeting us there then?’ Penny asked, pushing up her sleeves. Even with the air-con on, it was getting warm inside the squad car.
‘Yes, Anne Phillips is coming over. I spoke to her earlier. She was in Blackheath, finishing up with another family. Depending on how the A2 is looking today, we should arrive at the Hungerfords’ at about the same time. Anne will be on hand for the family, going forward,’ she said, swerving to avoid a cyclist.
‘She’s fantastic,’ Penny said, putting her hand out and holding onto the dashboard. ‘I worked with her on the Stevens case. She worked with the Stevens family.’
Jane nodded. She couldn’t help thinking about Joanna Bailey, and how lucky she was that her family had never needed Anne’s services. Jane had no doubt that the Stevens case would haunt Anne. It had been a difficult case for everyone. In fact, today’s job felt like a walk in the park by comparison. The banality of her thoughts made her grip the steering wheel tighter. Nothing about this morning was going to be easy for Maggie Hungerford’s family. In less than an hour their lives would change beyond all recognition.
‘How much are you planning on telling them?’ Penny asked.
‘Only the essentials. For now, anyway. The less they have to process, the better. Besides, until I’ve spoken to the forensic psychologist I really don’t know what we’re dealing with here.’ And she didn’t. All Jane knew was that Maggie Hungerford had received a blow to the head before being put in a tomb to die. There was also the possibility that whoever had done this had filmed her while she died of asphyxiation. It was a lot of information to deal with, and it raised a lot of questions. Without answers, Jane was feeling around in the dark, just like Maggie.
She looked out of her window at the people walking up and down Lewisham Road: groups of lads, groups of girls, families. Everyone seemed to be out this morning. The sunshine had affected people’s choice of clothing. All the women, old and young, were sporting strappy tops – their bras, if they were wearing one, on show. The pavements were awash with flesh of every colour. The fairer-skinned were already pinking up, burned by too long in the sun without sunscreen. The men weren’t faring much better. At least 50 per cent were shirtless, their biceps adorned with weird and wonderful tattoos. Other than men she had slept with, and the girl who had done a spray tan for a wedding she had been to last year, no one knew that Jane had her own tattoo. It had been another thirty-fifth birthday present to herself, like her sunglasses, though slightly less pricey. It was at the base of her spine. Her birthday in Roman numerals. It was meant to be semi-permanent. The tattoo artist who had done it for her said it would only last for five to eight years. She was two years into the timeframe, and it showed no sign of fading at all. It was the only real evidence that she could be crazy and devil-may-care when she wanted to be. It represented a wild side that rarely got an airing. Lockyer had seen her tattoo.
The woman’s voice on the satnav intruded on her thoughts. ‘In two hundred yards turn left, then turn left . . . ’
‘Almost there,’ Penny said, pointing at the screen. ‘Ashburnham Place, number seventy-three.’
‘Right,’ she replied, waiting for a scantily dressed pedestrian to cross in front of her. She turned left into Ashburnham Place, looking for a door number to let her know which end of the street she was aiming for. The woman on the satnav was telling them they had reached their destination.
‘There’s number fourteen,’ Penny said.
Jane continued up the road to a row of Victorian town houses. ‘Nice area,’ she said, listening as Penny called out house numbers.
As she looked at the trees lining the street, framing each house, it occurred to her that she would forget Ashburnham Place. She had never driven up here before and, once this case was over, she probably wouldn’t drive up it again. She would forget Elizabeth and William Hungerford. Not immediately, but in time their names would fade. But what she would never forget was their faces. In a few minutes she would have to inflict the kind of pain that most people only had nightmares about. The faces of all the bereaved families she had ever met were burned into her memory. The faces of Elizabeth and William Hungerford were about to join her picture library of grief.
‘Let’s get this done,’ she said, pulling into a space. Anne, the FLO, was standing at the Hungerfords’ front door waving back at them.
Jane couldn’t help but be impressed by the Hungerfords’ living room. It was a far cry from the kind of houses she spent the majority of her time in. The room was light and spacious. It looked like something out of
House & Garden.
Two large cream sofas faced each other, with an oak coffee table in the centre. There was an open fire, the grate immaculate, and a large gilded mirror taking centre-stage over the mantelpiece. Colourful oil paintings and watercolours adorned the off-white walls, complemented by the room’s high ceilings, cornices and a rose in the centre, showing off an ornate but tasteful chandelier. Rays of sunshine shone into the room, bouncing off the hundreds of tiny pieces of hand-crafted glass. It was beautiful and serene, but she was about to tarnish all of it with her presence.
‘Would you like to sit down, Mr and Mrs Hungerford?’ she asked, directing them to the sofa nearest the window.
‘I’ve made a pot of tea,’ Elizabeth Hungerford said in a whisper.
Anne seemed to move with the stealth and grace of a ninja. She was at Mrs Hungerford’s side in a second, taking her arm and leading her over to the sofa. ‘I’ll get the tea, Elizabeth,’ she said, in a soothing but confident voice. ‘DS Bennett and DC Groves have some questions for you and your husband. It won’t take long.’
As instructed, Elizabeth Hungerford sat down on the sofa with a bump, her husband mute beside her.
‘I won’t be a minute.’ Anne disappeared from the room as quickly and as quietly as she had entered. Jane had worked with her before, but she had never actually been present for Anne’s first visit with the family. She was good. Quiet, controlled, in charge, sympathetic without being patronizing. It was an amazing balancing act, which it must have taken years of experience to master. As the door to the lounge clicked shut, Jane took a seat opposite the ashen-faced couple and cleared her throat. She waited for the Hungerfords to look up, to engage. They knew what was coming. She nodded for Penny to take over.
Penny perched on the edge of the sofa and took a notepad out of her handbag. ‘Mr and Mrs Hungerford,’ she said, ‘could you tell me your daughter’s date of birth?’
Elizabeth Hungerford looked confused, staring into the empty fireplace as if the answers had been swept away with the ashes. William Hungerford took his wife’s hand and squeezed it. ‘The seventh of May 1987,’ he said.
‘Thank you. Do you have a recent photograph?’ Penny asked. ‘I know you’ve probably already given one to Missing Persons, but if you have another, that would be helpful.’
‘Of course,’ William Hungerford said, releasing his wife’s hand and digging into his jacket pocket. ‘Miss Phillips called ahead and asked us to have one ready.’ He placed the photograph on the coffee table between them. Jane was again impressed by Anne’s professionalism. If Jane was ever in the Hungerfords’ position, she could only hope that the FLO assigned to her was even half as considerate and well-trained as Anne Phillips. An image of Peter’s smiling face flashed into her mind. She realized that in reality it didn’t matter who came or what they said. If anything happened to Peter, she would be beyond all sensible thought.
She looked down at the photograph. It was taken at Christmas time – Christmas morning, it looked like. Maggie was sitting where Jane was now. She was wearing black skinny jeans and an oversized black-and-white striped jumper. Her hair was damp, pulled over one shoulder. A glass of champagne was in her hand. She was saying ‘Cheers’ to whoever was taking the picture. She looked happy. Jane dragged her eyes away from Maggie’s face. In the back of the shot she could see the Hungerfords’ Christmas tree. It was beautifully decorated, not an ornament or piece of tinsel out of place. Everything was silver and gold. It looked more like a tree you would see in Harrods, not in someone’s home.
She turned her attention back to Maggie’s mother, who was wringing a tissue in her right hand, her eyes still fixed on the fireplace. She was dressed in white linen trousers and a pale-yellow cardigan buttoned up to her neck. Her make-up was perfect, but no amount of concealer could disguise the hours she had spent crying for her missing daughter.
‘Thank you,’ Penny said, picking up the photograph and putting it carefully into her bag. ‘And if you could confirm Maggie’s . . . Margaret’s address?’
‘“Maggie’s” fine,’ William Hungerford said. ‘My wife loves the royals, hence “Margaret”. Maggie’s not so keen.’ He shrugged his shoulders. He pulled another piece of paper out of his jacket pocket. ‘Number fourteen Hyde Vale,’ he said, moving the paper further away and squinting to read the postcode. ‘I have her housemate’s details here too, if you want them?’
‘Yes, please,’ Penny said.
Jane listened and watched as Penny noted down the phone number and email address of Christina O’Reilly, also twenty-six. They would need to talk to her, but that would have to wait for another day. According to Maggie’s father, both of the girls were studying for their Masters in psychology at Greenwich Uni. They had been friends since primary school. Both sets of parents had helped their daughters purchase the Hyde Vale property two years ago. Like his wife, William Hungerford was well dressed. Dark-green cords, a blue-and-white striped shirt and a simple blue blazer. The couple looked as if they were on their way to a friend’s for drinks, or out for lunch at a local restaurant. But then what outfit would Jane pick, in their situation?
‘The girls want to get into clinical psychology and open a practice together,’ Mr Hungerford was saying, ‘something like the Priory, but for young adults and children with emotional problems, not pop stars with a drug habit.’
Jane wondered if William Hungerford realized he was talking about his daughter and her future in the present tense. His wife was now smiling, either at the familiarity of her husband’s dislike of celebrity culture or at her daughter’s ambitions to use her education to help others. Either way, it was clear that Maggie was loved, and her parents were proud of her. Did they ever doubt their daughter’s choices or raise their eyebrows when she gushed about all the great things she was going to do with her life? Celia Bennett had never been thrilled about Jane joining the force. It was a man’s job, or certainly a job for someone without the kind of responsibilities that she had.
‘Maggie’s working in a Montessori school at the moment,’ he said.
‘She loves children.’ It was the first time Elizabeth Hungerford had spoken since Anne had left the room. ‘I don’t expect it’ll be long before she has her own. We certainly can’t rely on the boys for grandchildren, can we, Bill?’ Her husband nodded. ‘Ben, our eldest, is married. Has been for almost eight years, but there’s no sign there,’ she said, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘Christopher, Maggie’s middle brother – well, he’s hopeless. Thirty-two and no intention of settling down. Doesn’t like the idea of commitment, he says. Bill’s always telling me that young people today are more focused on their careers. Get the job sorted first and then think about a family. Well, of course by then it’s too late, isn’t it?’ She looked at Jane and pursed her lips. ‘Live for today: that’s what Maggie always says, isn’t it, Bill?’
The couple’s roles had been reversed. The more his wife talked, the more William Hungerford seemed to shrink, disappearing before Jane’s eyes. Maggie’s mother seemed unaware that she had transformed from a state of catatonia to animated chatter. But it couldn’t last. Jane knew the next set of questions would bring both parents’ focus back on why there were two police officers sitting in their beautiful lounge, and why Anne – a stranger to them an hour before – was moving around their house as if she had always been there. Tea and coffee had arrived on a tray, biscuits laid out, napkins folded neatly next to four teaspoons. Anne was more like a presence than actually being present. Jane had barely noticed her slip in, put down the tray and serve drinks for everyone, asking about milk and sugar without even interrupting the flow of the conversation. She was out of the room again as if she had never been there. Ninja, Jane thought. It was amazing.