Akande nods.
‘There were so many people coming and going,’ I say. ‘Everything was muddled. I was working hard, seeing friends, trying to find somewhere else to live. I can’t be sure when he moved out. I think it was Genevieve’s sister who noticed he’d gone.’
Akande glances towards Warren. He runs his fingers around his collar and takes a deep breath. ‘A friend in London heard from Brandon in the fourth week of August,’ he says. ‘Brandon was going to move into his place over the bank holiday weekend, but never turned up. The friend didn’t think anything of it at the time, thought Brandon had changed his mind. We’ve worked out this was Saturday 27th August 1994, the last definite contact we have from Brandon. Twenty-three years later his body is found buried on the hillside opposite Downsview Villa.’
Warren continues to study me.
‘I still can’t believe it’s him,’ I say. ‘No one wished him harm. And if they had, he was a big lad – he could take care of himself.’
The detectives exchange glances. I’m being played. I must stay calm.
The stairs creak and I realise Audrey’s awake.
‘Excuse me,’ I say to the detectives.
I leave the lounge and meet her on the small landing. She’s wrapped in my dressing gown, which is far too big for her. I rarely see her like this, without the armour of tailored clothes, her face free from powder and lipstick. She looks small and vulnerable.
‘I thought I heard voices,’ she says. ‘Is anything the matter?’
‘It’s nothing, Mum. Just some trouble across the road – kids. Go back to bed.’
‘Really, I don’t like you living here, Julia. It’s dangerous.’
‘Please, Mum, it’s not a big deal. Get some sleep.’
When I return, Warren and Akande are whispering to one another. They stop when I re-enter the room.
‘I wasn’t aware you lived with your mother,’ Warren says.
‘She’s just staying over,’ I say.
Something about her presence has made him uncomfortable. Perhaps he’s reminded of his own mother, because his tone’s almost apologetic as he explains, ‘You see the significance of where he was buried – not four hundred yards from where he lived. It’s unlikely he left then somehow ended up back there.’
‘I suppose so,’ I say.
‘It’s more probable he was killed while still living there,’ Warren says.
‘But what happened to his stuff?’ I ask.
‘That’s what we’re trying to find out.’
‘And he took that money.’
‘Someone took the money,’ Akande says.
‘You see where this leaves us?’ Warren says.
‘Not really.’
‘Brandon was killed while he lived at 72 Downs Avenue by someone who had access to his room.’ Warren pauses. ‘And perhaps Mrs Pike’s money.’
‘Which suggests someone living in the house,’ Akande says.
She allows the words to hang between us.
‘That’s not possible,’ I say. ‘Someone would have noticed.’
‘You’d think,’ she says.
‘You said yourself, the house was in confusion,’ Warren says. ‘All sorts of people coming and going.’
‘No one in the house would have wanted to harm him,’ I say.
‘Who else had the opportunity to clear out his room?’ Akande says. ‘We really do need to get to the bottom of any disagreements.’
‘Honestly, I can’t remember any.’
‘Three boys and two girls living in a house and there were no conflicts, no jealousies?’ Warren says.
‘Nothing major.’
‘What about minor?’
‘I …’
‘Don’t remember?’ Akande crosses her arms.
‘It was over twenty years ago. What can you remember from back then – were you even at primary school?’
Akande opens her mouth to reply, but Warren gets in there first. ‘Did you know, Ms Winter, that Mrs Pike had been giving Brandon money?’
I tear my gaze from Akande’s sneering face and back to Warren.
‘She let him off the rent, because he wasn’t working,’ I reply. ‘She took a shine to him.’
‘Was there any resentment about it?’
‘Not from me.’
‘Ms Moretti recalls a good deal of resentment,’ Warren says.
‘Memories vary.’
‘They certainly do,’ Akande says under her breath.
‘One more thing,’ Warren says. ‘You left Guildford in September that year. Not just the house but your job too – why was that?’
How did they discover so much in such a short space of time?
‘The whole thing with Genevieve shook me up. I just wanted to get away and forget about everything.’
Akande raises her eyebrows.
‘You know, it’s getting late,’ I say. ‘And I’m not sure how much more I can tell you.’
‘We’re pretty much done,’ Warren says. ‘Just one more thing – your phone.’
‘What about it?’ I say too quickly.
Akande notices and looks at my mobile sitting on the table. They can’t know about the other one, though it’s less than three feet away.
‘Can we get your number please?’
I breathe again. ‘Of course,’ I say and recite my number.
Does my voice tremble? Do they notice?
‘Thank you,’ Warren says. ‘We’ll be in touch.’
I don’t close my door until I’ve heard them descend all the stairs and the front door shuts.
I knew the police would contact me. I should have been better prepared.
My landline starts ringing. I dive to answer it.
‘Hello.’
Nothing.
‘Hello,’ I say again.
The line goes dead.
Chapter 15
1995 – Archway, London
Pearl’s presence lingered in the room Julia had taken over from her after leaving Guildford. Her Magritte print still hung on the wall and used gig tickets were tucked behind the mirror. Julia missed her and Andre. But not enough to risk meeting them.
She closed the door and wedged it shut with a chair. Not that anyone was likely to come in. She removed her shoes and a couple of large bags, lifted the wardrobe floor and removed the envelope. She took it over to the lamp and pulled out its contents.
A clever place to conceal something. Brandon had only betrayed his hiding spot through carelessness. She would never have found it without the backpack strap trapped in the gap.
There was a knock on her door. No one ever visited her in Archway.
‘Who is it?’
Silence. The knock sounded real. Not a ghost. Not an echo amplified by her mind. A solid knock, the door vibrating slightly against the frame. She knew that knock. She stood, staring at the door, half expecting it to fly open. Another knock.
‘Who is it?’
‘Me.’
She knew that voice.
‘Just a moment.’
She hurriedly replaced the envelope and its contents and put the shoes and bag back on top of it. Sliding the chair from under the handle, she opened the door. It was the first time she’d seen Gideon since Guildford.
‘We agreed no contact,’ she said. ‘Ever.’
‘I need to see you.’ He stepped into the room and shut the door behind him. ‘There’s a private detective—’
‘I know.’
‘You’ve seen him?’
‘Yes. How did you find me?’
‘I had your home number from Genevieve’s address book. Your mother told me.’
Bloody Audrey.
‘What did you tell Lancaster?’ Gideon asked. His jaw was tense.
‘Nothing,’ Julia said.
‘You’re sure?’
‘Why would I talk to him?’
Gideon seemed to relax. He took a moment to look around the room.
‘Why are you living in this dump?’
‘But you’ve got … I mean …’ His brow creased in confusion. ‘What have you done with it?’
She looked away from him and didn’t answer. Just moments ago she had it in her hands.
‘You can’t leave it lying around,’ he said.
‘I can’t spend it,’ she said.
‘Guilt won’t turn back the clock. Nor will grand gestures. Alan and I invested it in the business.’
‘Alan? We weren’t to have any contact.’
‘Let’s just say he’s not coping too well. I thought if he worked for me, I could help him out.’
‘Keep an eye on him.’
‘Support him. You could work for me, if you like.’
‘No, thank you.’
‘I could pay you enough to live somewhere better than this.’
He spread his arms to indicate the small room, its tiny ineffectual radiator emitting more noise than heat, the worn carpet and sagging, single bed.
‘I don’t know how you can live in that town,’ Julia said. ‘I don’t know how you can just carry on. It’s getting worse. I hear him. I smell him. Don’t you?’
Fear flashed across Gideon’s face. ‘I think you’re unwell, Julia.’
‘And what about his parents? They’re looking for him. We could still go to the police, say it was an accident.’
Gideon moved so fast, Julia had no time to react. He thrust her against the wardrobe door. Her head banged onto the wood. His face was so close she could feel his breath on her cheek.
‘But it wasn’t an accident, was it, Julia?’ he said.
She wanted to push him off but was afraid what her struggling would provoke.
‘You don’t talk about this to anyone,’ he said. His eyes drilled into her. ‘We were protecting ourselves. We were protecting you. What would have happened if Alan and I hadn’t turned up?’
‘Everything all right up there?’ someone called from the bottom of the stairs.
‘You’d better go,’ Julia said.
‘Hey, is everything all right?’
‘Thanks, Mica. Gideon’s leaving,’ Julia shouted.
Gideon let her go and glanced at the wardrobe behind her.
‘You need to be careful,’ he hissed, then turned and left.
Mica came up the stairs and put his head around the door. ‘Are you OK?’
‘I’m fine. Thanks.’
‘Is he your boyfriend?’ Mica asked.
‘No,’ Julia said. ‘He’s no one.’
Mica nodded and left.
Julia closed the door behind him and went to the wardrobe, removed the envelope once more, then took out a pen and paper. She retrieved Michael Lancaster’s contact card from her coat pocket and started to write the letter she knew she must write.
Dear Mr and Mrs Wells
Chapter 16
1994 – Guildford
Over the next couple of weeks in Guildford, there was no repeat of Genevieve’s coming into Julia’s room and crying on her shoulder. And if Alan received any more nocturnal visits, Julia was unaware. His tales of Genevieve’s seduction attempts rang hollow. She had no lack of attention from men her own age, several of whom used to call at the house. Genevieve would provide them tea then hurry them away. Edward, never Eddie or Ted, was the only one who came regularly and sometimes stayed the night, though no one was allowed to call him her boyfriend, and not just because he was in his fifties.
When there were none of her gentlemen to entertain, Genevieve spent much of her time with the gardener, a dumpy woman with a downturned mouth that made her look permanently disappointed as she plodded about, moving soil back and forth in an ancient wheelbarrow. Julia was surprised to learn she was Genevieve’s sister, Ruth. They were so unalike – one exotic, the other almost invisible, lumbering around, trowel in hand.
Lucy came back from the Netherlands and turned out to be far more sociable than Alan. She’d broken up with her boyfriend and would be staying after all. She and Julia started chatting in the kitchen and meeting for after-work drinks. Alan had been no friendlier and far less communicative than the first time they’d met. That Tuesday evening, as Julia was reheating the remains of her previous evening’s macaroni, he sat down and switched on the TV without saying a word, or even acknowledging her.
Moments later Genevieve burst into the kitchen.
She stopped and clasped her hands together. ‘Well, I know you’ll all be so glad. You’ve got a new housemate,’ she said.
‘We’re ecstatic,’ Alan said.
For a moment, Genevieve looked disconcerted, but her features quickly settled back into serenity.
‘He’s one of our New Zealand cousins,’ she said. ‘Or their friend’s son, or something. Anyway, Ronald – he’s my first cousin, I haven’t seen him since we were both at school – he says Brandon—’
‘Brandon?’ Alan spluttered. ‘What sort of name is Brandon?’
‘If you must know, I think it’s a beautiful name,’ Genevieve said. ‘Brave and manly.’
‘Yes, Alan, a manly name,’ Julia couldn’t resist saying.
Alan looked like he wanted to punch both of them.
‘As I was saying, Ronald tells me Brandon is lovely. He’s a carpenter. He’s had to leave his room in London in a hurry, so he’s coming here tonight. My sister’s not keen, but I told her, Ruth, family is family.’
‘He’s not family,’ Alan said.
‘Sorry?’
‘A friend of your cousin doesn’t count as a relation.’
‘As good as.’ Genevieve waved her hand to dismiss Alan’s comment. ‘You’re as bad as Ruth. Anyway, he’ll be here tonight. He’s about your age. You must show him around.’
Alan muttered something that Julia was sure involved the word ‘tradesman’. If Genevieve heard, she ignored it.
‘Lovely,’ she said. ‘He’ll be here at eight.’
Julia hurried to put her plate away and get out of the kitchen and back to her room, to avoid the inevitable snide comments from Alan.
An hour or so later, a taxi pulled up outside.
Julia peered through the window. A man squeezed himself out of the car and threw a backpack over his shoulder. A black baseball cap covered his face, but Julia could see that he was tall and bulky and wore dark baggy trousers. Genevieve ran up the drive to meet him. Julia returned to reading the Iain Banks book Pearl had lent her, until Genevieve knocked on her door.
She entered the room, more flushed and agitated than Julia had seen her before.
‘You must come downstairs and meet Brandon, Julia. He’s simply wonderful.’
Julia wasn’t sure how wonderful the scruffy mess she’d spotted emerging from the car could be.
‘I’m reading, Genevieve,’ she said.
‘Julia, you simply must come and meet him. I insist.’
Being told how wonderful he was prepared Julia to dislike him, and she wasn’t disappointed. When she first came into the kitchen, he made no disguise of looking her up and down like a farmer assessing a prize heifer.
‘Which one are you?’ he asked.
‘Julia,’ she replied coolly.
‘Fantastic,’ he said.
Alan was sitting at the table, his habitual sneer hardened to a scowl.
‘Are you staying long, Brandon?’ Julia asked.
‘Dunno. I’ll see how it pans out.’
Julia examined Brandon more closely. He was broad, bordering on chunky, and had a square jaw and heavy brow. Not bad-looking, but no film star.
‘Why are you in Guildford?’ she asked.
‘I thought I could find work here. And Ronald said I should look up Jenny. I mean Genevieve.’
All the time Genevieve was watching him, her eyes wide and glistening, an expression of rapt wonder on her face.
‘I want to get to know the area,’ Brandon said. ‘Know any good bars?’
The question was directed at Alan, and Julia was expecting a curt reply. Instead he sa
id, ‘The Grape’s good, more of a country pub.’
‘Girls?’ Brandon asked.
Julia braced for a comment about ‘slags’.
‘You’re better off in town. Bar Midi, or somewhere like that.’
‘Great. Up for a quick drink?’
‘Sure,’ Alan said.
Julia looked at Alan, in utter amazement. He carefully avoided her eye. She thought back to her first impression of Alan, as a thin schoolboy. Perhaps he’d been one of the frail and effete ones, bullied as a child and forever desperate to be accepted as one of the lads.
‘Do you want to come?’ Brandon asked Julia as an afterthought.
‘I’ll leave you two lads to it,’ she said.
Alan was still avoiding her eye.
‘Enjoy yourselves,’ she added.
The boys left around nine. Julia watched their easy lope up the drive before they disappeared behind a hedge, only to reappear further down the road. Alan was nodding along as Brandon talked, his obvious discomfort amusing her. He’d have to spend the evening listening to Brandon and pretending to be interested in sport and the girls from town. Would he tell Brandon about his girlfriend? Julia had yet to meet her. She imagined a timid girl, with zero personality, who would consider Alan as clever as he thought himself.
Genevieve interrupted her speculation by knocking at the door and entering without waiting for a reply. She appeared dreamy, her eyes glistening as before, and she was carrying a photograph. She sat on the bed without asking and held the photo face down in her lap.
‘And what do you think of Brandon? Isn’t he just as I said?’ Her voice was low and languid.
‘Yes, he’s er …’ Julia glanced down at the photograph. It had May 1985 written on the back. ‘He’s very nice.’
‘I know people think I’m delusional. I’m sure Alan’s said something.’ Fortunately, Genevieve wasn’t expecting a reply. ‘But I’ve always known Dominic would come back.’
‘He’s been found?’ Julia asked.
‘I’m not religious,’ Genevieve said. ‘But I do believe in something. A force, I mean, something powerful at work in the universe. I just knew Dominic would return. Stupidly I thought that one day he would walk back through the door. But it doesn’t work like that. Things aren’t always as you imagine they’re going to be. Look.’
Genevieve peeled the photograph from her thigh. It revealed a faded print of a lanky teenage boy, looking away from the camera lens.
The Verdict Page 7