They fell into the bed she’d just got out of and made love. It was extra special and passionate because of the spontaneity and even more so when Max told her he loved her.
‘I think I knew I’d fallen for you the night you came around with your story about Lucy Whelan,’ he said, leaning up on his elbow to look at her. ‘But I told myself it was too soon to be sure. I know I want you for ever now – I just hope you feel the same way.’
‘I do.’ She sighed, hardly able to believe that he felt as she did. ‘I feel as if I’ve waited my entire life for you to come along. But you were just two doors down.’
He’d bought her the latest LP from the American soft-rock band Bread, and when she heard the track ‘I Wanna Make It With You’, she cried because he sang along to it.
It had been a rollercoaster ride ever since that day – lovemaking so beautiful it made her cry, so much laughter. Even a walk to the market with him was an adventure. Max often had to go to clients’ business premises around the country, which meant he had to stay in a hotel overnight. Before they met, he’d always revelled in the luxury and a big breakfast the next day, but now he said he missed Amelia too much to enjoy it. She counted the hours till he returned and wished he didn’t have to go away so often.
When he was at home they stayed in Amelia’s room as it was bigger and she had a double bed. Max suggested they look for a proper flat together, but she thought it was too soon to make long-term plans.
It wasn’t that she didn’t want a permanent home with Max, but memories of her parents’ miserable marriage, and that this room had been her sanctuary for so long, made her cautious. But she tended to smile and say, ‘Let’s see how it goes,’ each time Max mentioned it. She was as nervous about saying no as she was about saying yes.
As Max got out of bed, Amelia roused herself enough to sit up. ‘Don’t forget we’re going to see Frances tomorrow at seven,’ she reminded him.
Frances was Lucy Whelan’s friend. The funeral had been held a month ago, but still the police hadn’t found her killer and the newspapers had long since lost interest. Amelia was right back selling advertising space, as if nothing serious had happened, and poor Frances had been persecuted by journalists in the first couple of weeks. Back then she had refused to speak to Amelia, which was entirely understandable. But Amelia had since written to her, hammering home the point that she wasn’t after publicity and wasn’t going to write a word about it, just wanted to do some private investigating to see if she could find some lead that had eluded the police.
Frances must have sensed her sincerity as she’d finally agreed to this meeting.
Max pulled on his clothes, and when the kettle boiled he made tea for Amelia. He put the mug on the bedside table next to her, bent over to kiss her again and left. She listened to his footsteps on the stairs, and the careful way he opened and closed the front door without the banging that all the other tenants did.
Propping up her pillow behind her, she sat with her tea, marvelling that he always made it for her. The first man in her life who’d ever done that. But, then, he was adorable in every way. Funny, kind, helpful, interested and wonderful in bed. She smiled, amazed that she’d got to six weeks and still hadn’t found a downside to him.
She had expected to be irritated that he went to his amateur dramatics club every Wednesday – he was rehearsing for a production they would perform during the first week in December – but she wasn’t. In fact it was nice to have a bit of time to herself because he always stayed at his place on Wednesday nights. Thursday nights he would regale her with all the intrigue in the club. He made it so funny she felt as if she knew snooty Vera Parkside, who got very cross if anyone dared to criticize her. Then there was the hapless Ronald Dowry who was completely under the thumb of his wife, Doreen. The play was billed as a comedy, but Max said it was a farce, the kind Brian Rix had perfected. It was called The Dinner Party and Max was the obsequious butler, keeping up his servile manner and lofty standards even when the guests were behaving outrageously. He quoted a few lines from it sometimes and they always made her laugh.
There was an autumnal nip in the air as Amelia left the house to go to work, and she noticed the leaves on the trees all along the street had turned golden. She was glad she’d thought to wear her coat over her plain black office dress.
She’d gone just a few yards when she heard someone call her name and turned to see Kat running to catch her up. She was wearing a long black coat, with a mini skirt beneath it, and her hair in a big plait over her shoulder.
‘Long time no see!’ Amelia exclaimed, as Kat fell into step with her. ‘How have you been?’
‘Busy,’ Kat said. ‘Off to Milan again, and New York. There’ve been so many after-hours meetings at work, too, and, of course, various men I had to be wined and dined by!’ She laughed as she said this. ‘No time to look for a house. But you! Fancy you finding the murdered girl in the rubbish. The whole street was agog.’
Amelia blushed. While the newspapers might have forgotten the story, in local shops and at work she was still known as ‘the Girl who Found the Body in the Rubbish’. It was all they wanted to talk about. ‘Yes, poor girl,’ she said. ‘But quite honestly I’d like to forget about it.’
‘But you wrote that marvellous piece in the local rag,’ Kat said. ‘You told me you were just a gofer, not a journalist. That piece could’ve been written by someone on The Times.’
‘Well, thank you,’ Amelia said, hoping Kat would drop the subject. ‘Not as exciting as your life, though. Tell me, what was New York like?’
She wished her job was as exciting as Kat’s – she’d give anything to go to New York, Paris or Rome. She often daydreamed of travelling, and had even tried to persuade Max they should book a holiday somewhere exotic instead of finding a flat to share. His response had been that he was too busy at work to take a holiday.
‘New York is frantic, noisy, exhausting. Everyone seems to do things at a hundred miles an hour,’ Kat said. ‘But going back to the murder, how did you get so much information about the girl? I’d have thought her relatives would be very cagey.’
‘They didn’t mind talking to me as I’d found Lucy and felt a kind of bond with her. I went back to them a few times – I even went to her funeral, which was terribly sad. But in some strange way her mother seems to find my visits helpful. She feels she can talk to me about Lucy, now that her neighbours and many of her friends want her to stop. I just wish the police would catch the killer. That would really help her family.’
‘Changing the subject,’ Kat said, with a wide grin, ‘I saw you go past the other day with a man. Don’t tell me he’s just a friend! You looked all loved up. How long have you been seeing him?’
Amelia smiled. ‘Yes, that’s my lovely Max. I’ve been seeing him for about six weeks. Ever since I found Lucy Whelan’s body. He helped me and called the police.’
‘I thought I’d seen him somewhere before. Does he live close by?’
‘Two doors down from me,’ Amelia said. ‘I can’t really believe I’d never spoken to him in two years of living so close to each other. But what about you? Out of all those admirers, is there anyone special?’
Kat wrinkled her nose. ‘Rich men can be a bit boring. But I’ve got used to nice meals and presents. Not sure I want to go back to deadbeats. But, tell me, have the police made any headway finding the killer?’
Amelia couldn’t believe Kat was so keen to talk about the murder and not reveal more about her exciting dates and trips to other countries. ‘I don’t think they have, but I haven’t spoken to them since I had to give them a statement. My boss likes to keep tabs on the case, he has friends at the police station, but they don’t tell the general public what lines of enquiry they’re working on.’
The girls parted at the tube station, as Kat had to catch a train and Amelia had only a short walk from there.
‘Let’s have a drink soon!’ Kat called, as she moved into the crowd going into the station. ‘It’
s been too long.’
As Amelia walked on towards the office her thoughts turned again to the Whelans. Each time she’d seen them she had felt more determined that Lucy’s killer must be found. Jack had admitted his friend in the police force had told him they had no leads at all. There didn’t appear to be any motive for the killing, not sexual, robbery or a family dispute. His friend had said that a killer who struck at random was always the hardest to find because – the old cliché – you were looking for a needle in a haystack.
But Amelia was sure there had to be some motive. The killer must have been watching Lucy for some time. They had to have had a connection, even if it was only a tenuous one. A jilted boyfriend? An older man at the nightclub who had become fixated on her? A man she’d turned down for a date? But everything she’d learned about Lucy so far confirmed she was a sunny-natured, easy-going girl. Nothing she’d been told had suggested she was capable of upsetting anyone.
The moment Amelia walked through the doors of the office she sensed something and glanced towards Jack’s office. He was pacing the room, which he always did when something dramatic had happened.
‘What is it?’ she asked Frank, the senior journalist.
‘Go in and see Jack. He’ll tell you,’ Frank said. ‘Seems the Creeper has struck again.’
Amelia felt a cold shudder run down her spine, yet as awful as that was, it was exciting too. ‘Another murder, sir?’ she asked, as she opened Jack’s office door. ‘When? Where?’
‘Her body was found just a couple of hours ago in Ravenscroft Park, close to you again,’ Jack said. He stopped pacing and perched on the edge of his desk. ‘Seems she was killed late last night. Another pretty blonde. Same age, same MO – whacked on the back of her head, then stabbed. He’d partially covered her with fallen leaves. A dog-walker found her.’
Amelia sank onto a chair, horror taking over the first flush of excitement. ‘Oh, my goodness! Are the police sure it’s the same person?’
‘Absolutely. Again, no sexual interference. Like Lucy, there was no bag, but again they think it was taken to delay them in finding out who she is.’
‘Or it could be a trophy?’ Amelia said. ‘I read that killers like to keep something.’
Amelia was too shocked to ask any further questions. One murder so close to her home was frightening enough, but two suggested that the killer lived nearby, or that the area meant something to him.
‘Until the police know who she is and where she lives, we’ve got nothing much to write about,’ Jack said despondently. ‘It’s not as if I have any good excuse to send you to see the girl’s folks either. Even when we find out who she is.’
‘Maybe I could brazen it out in a cold call,’ Amelia suggested. ‘That is, if your friend in the police could tell us who she is before the information goes on general release.’
Jack’s face brightened. ‘What would you say?’
Even though Amelia didn’t fancy the idea of calling on a grieving family when she had absolutely no reason for it, Jack looked so eager and trusting that she wanted to please him. ‘I’m not sure yet, but I’m going to see Frances, Lucy’s friend, tonight. She might tell me something that could link the girls together.’
‘I honestly think you’re the only person who might be able to get a foot in the door of the new victim,’ Jack said. ‘There’s something about you that instils trust.’
Amelia suspected he’d claimed the same thing to many young journalists over the years. But she wanted to believe he was sincere.
Max telephoned her at the office close to four o’clock. ‘I’m really sorry, Mimi,’ he said, using the pet name he’d given her. ‘I have to stay in Luton tonight. There are major problems with the books, and I’ll be working on them till late, and probably tomorrow too. Can you postpone the meeting with Frances?’
‘I could but I don’t want to,’ she said. ‘It’s okay, Max, I’ll go on my own. If I postponed, she might not arrange another day. I’ll see you tomorrow.’
Amelia was disappointed. She’d wanted Max’s opinion on the questions she was intending to put to Frances. And he might have thought of some that hadn’t occurred to her. But it couldn’t be helped: his work had to come first. She didn’t even tell him about the second murder because she knew he’d worry about her with another so close by.
Frances Ware shared a flat in Bayswater Road with two other girls. It was a wide tree-lined thoroughfare, the main route from Shepherd’s Bush past Holland Park to the centre of town. There were huge, mid-Victorian once very grand mansions. Most were divided into flats now.
Amelia found the house easily – Frances had said it was just a few doors up from Holland Park tube station. Flat four was on the ground floor, its front door round the side of the house.
Frances answered the door so quickly that Amelia guessed she’d been pacing up and down, waiting for the bell to ring.
‘I’m really fed up,’ she said, before she’d even greeted Amelia properly. ‘The police came around again this morning and woke me up. I can’t tell them anything new – I don’t know anything. It’s probably a waste of your time coming too.’
Frances was exotic-looking, with dark hair that shone like wet tar and just touched her narrow shoulders. Her dark eyes and olive skin suggested she had Italian or Spanish ancestry, but she sounded private-school posh. She was wearing jeans and a sweater, and even without makeup, she was beautiful.
‘I don’t want to pester you,’ Amelia assured her. ‘I can understand what it must be like for you. But, as I said in my letter, I found Lucy’s body, and hope that by looking at things from a different angle, I might find a connection between Lucy and the man who killed her.’
‘Come on in, then,’ Frances said.
She led Amelia into a shabby, untidy sitting room. Amelia, who had seen inside dozens of flats and bedsits over the years, was never surprised or shocked by mess. She had observed that girls who came from good homes, with a first-class education, were the messiest. Amelia knew she gave away her origins by keeping her room so tidy and clean.
She picked up a heap of magazines from the sofa, straightened them into a tidy pile and placed them on a coffee-table that held a half-eaten plate of egg and chips, two overflowing ashtrays and four coffee mugs.
‘Have each of you girls got your own bedroom?’ she asked.
‘No, Susan and Wendy share,’ Frances said, picking up the plate and mugs. Rather than take them to the kitchen, she just moved them onto the floor. ‘I’ve got the smaller room, but there are two beds in it, which is why Lucy could stay the night. Quite honestly, Amelia, I can’t imagine what I can tell you that would be any possible use to you. I’m really all talked out on it.’
Amelia sensed the girl was regretting allowing her to come over. She hadn’t intended to tell her about the second victim, but it seemed the only thing to do now. ‘You might feel differently when I tell you that another girl was found dead today, in the park near to where I found Lucy.’
Frances’s face drained of colour. ‘No!’ she exclaimed, incredulous. ‘Do the police think it’s the same man?’
‘Yes, they do. No details yet, they’re trying to find out who she was as she had nothing on her to identify her. But this makes it even more vital to get as much information about Lucy as possible so that when the second girl is named checks can be made to see if there is a connection between them, and maybe to the killer.’
‘I don’t know that I can tell you any more than I told the police,’ Frances said, her lip trembling.
‘It’s the minute details – places she liked, people she didn’t. Any weird incidents she told you about, things that seemed unimportant at the time. Boyfriends, men who fancied her or were a bit of a pest. A taxi driver who was a bit creepy.’
‘I can’t think of anyone like that.’
‘That’s okay – it might pop into your head later, even after I’ve gone. Will you tell me if it does?’
Frances nodded.
‘I’
m sure the police have already asked you whether you saw anyone hanging around here before she was killed. As the Bayswater Road is so busy with traffic and pedestrians, I know you probably never notice anyone. But just try to imagine looking at the road and visualize anyone hanging around outside. Day or evening.’
‘I didn’t notice anything. But getting back to anything Lucy might have said, she rarely made remarks about other people. She just wasn’t judgemental. Susan and Wendy are both terribly messy, but Lucy never said a word about them. She’d often tidy and wash up after they’d gone to work, even though I told her not to.’
Amelia didn’t want to hear that Lucy was a saint. She couldn’t have been, surely. Was anyone? ‘What about at work? She was very pretty. Were other girls mean to her? And did men chat her up?’
‘All the girls liked her – she was just one of those golden girls. I’m sure you had some like that at your school. They’re always pretty, good at sport, liked by the teachers. Butter-wouldn’t-melt types. I was never one of them, but Lucy was. As for men, well, all of us girls at the Beachcomber, whether waitresses like me or dancers like Lucy, get our fair share of men chatting us up. It’s against the rules to date anyone we meet there anyway. But Lucy was good at deflecting them – she’d say she had a boyfriend as an excuse, reasoning that they wouldn’t think she might have agreed to a date if it was allowed.’
‘Lots of men don’t take no for an answer, though, do they?’
‘Too right. I’ve had my share of pests.’ She smiled at that. ‘But, like I said, Lucy was good at deflecting.’
‘Did you always come straight home after work when Lucy was with you, or did you sometimes go somewhere else? Another club? A Wimpy Bar?’
‘No, we never did. Occasionally we’d get the taxi to stop at the chip shop, if it was still open, but that was it. After a night in a club, all the smoke, noise and being nice to people, you really don’t want anything more than your bed.’
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