The Hollow Woman

by Philip Saunders

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘I want to hire you to find Grahame’s murderer.’

  ‘The police...’ I started.

  She interrupted me. ‘I will pay you double your normal rate. I cannot rest until they’ve punished the person responsible. I-I owe it to him…’

  ‘As you wish,’ I granted her. I said quickly before she hung up, ‘I would like to ask you something.’

  ‘What is that?’

  ‘Did you know that Grahame had a girlfriend.’

  She fell quiet. ‘No. Who is she?’

  ‘I don’t know but I think she was there. At Huxleys.’

  ‘Do you think she killed him?’

  ‘I don’t know. But I’m gonna track her down and find out what she knows.’

  ‘You mentioned someone with the initials, I.A. Is that her?’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’ I promised her, ‘I’ll be in touch.’

  I picked up my clothes from the floor, got dressed and then sat behind my desk. I lit a cigarette and reclined in the chair. I felt relaxed performing the repetitive motion of inhaling and blowing out the smoke.

  When I had extinguished the cigarette, I came round to think about the homicide case that had fallen into my lap.

  I had no real leads in Grahame’s murder. The only person who could possibly know anything about what happened that night would be the mysterious I.A. With Grahame closing down his social media sites, I had no personal directory to check the initials against, and Rachel claiming to know no one with those initials, I had nothing solid to work with.

  All I had to go on were the items I’d taken from the house and the addresses that had been logged on Grahame’s sat-nav.

  I decided to investigate the evidence I had collected from the two locations, examining each one in turn.

  I turned on my computer and slid in Grahame’s USB. Luckily, it wasn’t password protected. Stored on it was a single Word file entitled “The King of Hearts (Working Title)”. I assumed this was Grahame’s new novel. Out of curiosity, I opened it and began scrolling through it. I intended on reading the first few pages of Grahame’s unfinished novel but stopped at the dedication page. It had been dedicated to Imogen Alderney.

  Imogen Alderney. I.A. Just a coincidence? No, it can’t be. This had to be the mysterious I.A. I was looking for, I concluded. Imogen Alderney. Who are you? Where are you? What happened to you? What do you know? Why haven’t you come forward yet?

  I took out the golden brooch and placed the trinket in the palm of my hand. I was no expert, but to my eye, it looked like an antique piece and set with diamonds, I thought it must be worth a great deal. Given where I had found it, it had to belong to Imogen. I put it back in my pocket.

  I decided to look into the addresses recorded on Grahame’s sat-nav, working in chronological order from the oldest to the newest destination he had visited in the weeks leading up to his death.

  The first one I typed into Google and it came up with the car park for Luton train station.

  I repeated the same method for the second and got a residential address, tucked down the end of a cul-de-sac in a village about 13 miles north of Stevenage, called Meppershall.

  Interesting, I wondered.

  The third address turned out to be the postcode for Huxley House.

  I drew the conclusion that Imogen lived in Meppershall.

  I stretched out in the chair. It had proved to be a productive morning. I now had a potential lead to pursue with both a name and location to work with.

  I called my contact in forensics, worked out a deal in exchange for information pertaining to the case, and arranged to meet her at a time and place of her choosing in central.

  I locked my office and went up the stairs to the street, whistling a tune I’d heard on the radio yesterday but could not remember the name of the song. I looked up at the perfectly clear, blue sky with the ball of fire blazing in the middle of it. The summer sun had defiantly returned with a scorching vengeance.

  Chapter 12

  Getting out of the tube at Oxford Circus, at any time, is a nightmare - trying to avoid colliding with disorientated tourists who, without warning, stop suddenly, distracted teenagers looking at their mobiles whilst walking, and impatient businessmen, in tailored suits, single-mindedly rushing about, consumed by their self-importance, and growling, especially at those ignorant people who stand on the left of the escalators.

  As a Londoner, I took the considerably quieter Margaret Street, which ran parallel to Oxford Street, to avoid the constant onslaught of shopaholic pedestrians, going from store to store, barging their way to bargains.

  Mortimer House Kitchen was a Mediterranean restaurant in Fitzrovia with a mid-century interior and a trendy open kitchen area.

  I entered, gave my name at the desk and was shown to a table for two by the window, close to the open kitchen, near the back of the restaurant.

  I browsed the menu, ordered a cocktail called Director’s Folly, and sent a few messages on Grindr, to pass the time as I waited for Alex to show up.

  Alex breezed in and spoke to the waitress who greeted her, and then she saw me, sitting there, she smiled, pointed in my direction and headed my way.

  If only things were different and Alex and I were a couple, maybe I could’ve been a happy man. Maybe? Possibly? Would I ever be truly satisfied with one person? Probably not. I shook the thoughts out of my head and stood up to the greet her.

  Alex was tall, one inch shorter than me, and fair skinned, with a sprinkle of freckles across her aquiline nose. She had hazel eyes, strawberry blonde hair, styled in a pixie cut, and a slender, toned physique. She wore a white, sleeveless shirt tucked into a pink, belted pencil skirt, and brown t-strap heels with a brown, leather tote bag.

  ‘Fred.’ We embraced and she lightly kissed my cheek.

  ‘Good to see you, Alex.’ I meant it.

  We sat down.

  She commented, upon seeing my drink, ‘A cocktail? At this hour?’

  ‘Why not, it’s 5 o’clock somewhere, right?’

  Alex laughed. ‘I’m not judging. I may get one myself.’

  ‘Go for it. You only live once.’

  She smiled. ‘You are such a bad influence on me, Fred.’

  ‘You might as well. I’m paying after all.’ I returned her smile. ‘What can I get you?’

  Alex picked up the menu, and asked, ‘What’s good?’

  We discussed what we fancied having to eat and made small talk until the waitress came over to take our orders.

  ‘Let’s get down to business, shall we?’ Alex suggested.

  ‘Better time than any.’

  ‘We’ll start with the time of death, which occurred on Sunday, between the hours of midnight and 2:00am.’ She recalled the details from memory. ‘Bruising to face, torso, arms and legs. Broken nose. Deep lacerations to the right side of the forehead with multiple contusions to the superior temporal gyrus and sulcus. Bone fragments from the fractures were found to have penetrated the brain tissue. The cause of death is brain haemorrhaging due to blunt force trauma to the head.’

  ‘In your opinion, could a fireplace poker been used as the murder weapon?’

  ‘A fireplace poker is consistent with the injuries.’ Alex added, with a coy smile, ‘And as it happens, a poker appears to be missing from the crime scene.’ I returned her smile, saying nothing, ‘Do you know that Scotland Yard has been called in to take over the investigation?’

  ‘I figured they would be.’

  ‘I also found out that DCI Mark Cosgrove has been assigned to this case.’

  ‘Ok.’

  ‘I’ve heard that Cosgrove doesn’t particularly like PIs.’

  I asked, ‘Does he know I’m involved in this?’

  ‘Honestly, I don’t know. But he won’t find out from me. Just thought it may be worth mentioning.’

  ‘Thanks for the head’s up. I appreciate it.’

  The waitress brought us our meals.

  ‘How’s lif
e?’ I asked her.

  ‘What a question.’ She mused playfully, cutting up her grilled octopus. ‘Where to begin?’

  ‘How’s your love life?’ Narrowing it down.

  ‘Going well thanks. I’ve started seeing someone.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Her name’s Valentina. She’s Italian.’ Alex blushed.

  ‘How did you meet her?”

  ‘We met on the dance floor, in She Soho.’ She Soho was a popular lesbian bar in London. ‘And your love life?’

  I shrugged and answered, ‘Chequered.’

  ‘As always.’ Alex rolled her eyes. ‘No one special on the scene?’

  ‘When there is, you’ll be the first to know.’

  ‘I feel honoured.’

  After we finished our desserts, I caught the eye of the passing waitress and asked her for the bill.

  ‘Indulge me, how did you end up getting entangled in this mess, Fred?’

  ‘I was originally hired to track the guy down. Now, my client wants me to find the murderer.’

  ‘Any leads so far?’

  ‘I’m on the trail of Grahame’s girlfriend.’

  ‘He had a girlfriend.’

  I nodded and said, ‘What’s more, I believe she was there, when it happened.’

  I paid the bill and we left the restaurant. We were standing outside and about to go our separate ways, when she took hold of my hands and said, in a serious tone, ‘Are you ok?’

  I replied, as most people do, with, ‘Sure.’

  A man, in his late twenties, suited and booted, with an ironic beard, passing closely, did a double take on Alex, checking her out from behind, with total disregard for me, who she was holding the hands of. Had she been my girlfriend it would have enraged me, but the situation, as it was, amused me.

  ‘It’s just that you seem...you seem, different, somehow.’

  ‘Different? How so?’ I asked.

  ‘I can’t quite put my finger on it, but something has changed.’

  ‘In a good way?’

  She shrugged and said, ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘I’ll take that as a compliment.’

  ‘Take it whatever way you want. Just promise me that’ll you look after yourself.’

  I was touched by her concern. ‘Thanks, Alex, I will.’

  ‘Until next time, Fred.’

  We embraced, she kissed my cheek and then walked away.

  It was too crowded and hot to suffer riding the underground again, so I brought a peach iced tea from Starbucks and drank it as I walked back to Star Street.

  Turning on to my street in Paddington, I tossed my car keys up in the air and caught them. I opened my Volkswagen, sitting with one leg out of the car for a while, to let the car air out. I was typing in the postcode in Meppershall, when I remembered there was another task that I had to do, which I realised I could do on my way.

  Chapter 13

  I was driving along a long, quiet road, on the outskirts of St. Albans, with woodland on either side. Occasionally I would pass by a gate and, if I was lucky, catch a glimpse of the house. Along this road, the properties were all mansions, set far back from the road and partially obscured by walls, fences or trees.

  Sean’s mansion, Greenways it was called, was surrounded by a seven-foot, solid, white wall.

  I pulled up before the ornate, electronic gates, which featured the name of the house spelt out in gilded capital letters. From this position, I saw the house, through the black bars of the gates, for the first time. It was a white mansion with a classical design.

  I wound down and leant out of my window, punched in the six-digit code Sean had given me and the gates whined before slowly opening.

  I drove up the paved driveway complete with a turning circle, which swept up to the mansion and looped around an ostentatious three-tiered fountain.

  I parked behind a red Jaguar convertible with its roof off. Walking passed it, I saw there was a gym bag on the passenger’s seat with a lanyard hanging out of one of the side pockets. I pulled the lanyard free and looked at the ID card, finding, as I had suspected, Sylvain’s name written on it.

  I could hear music playing, and knowing Sylvain was on the grounds, I opted to do some snooping. Following the music, I crept along the side of the mansion, staying close to the wall and ducking underneath any windows, until I came to the corner. I tentatively peered my head around, seeing rolling, manicured lawns, a flagstone paved terrace and swimming pool, and Catherine.

  Catherine was lying on her back on a sun lounger near the swimming pool. She wore a red polka-dot bikini and held a sun reflector below her chin. Her eyes were closed and her long, lean limbs were fully stretched out as she bronzed a shade darker.

  Catherine was not outside alone, I could see that there was somebody doing laps in the pool. After another two laps, a man in black speedos triumphantly emerged from the pool. It was Sylvain.

  I admired Sylvain’s wet, ripped body glistening in the sunlight and watched him use both of his hands to slick back his long hair in one smooth, practiced motion.

  The Frenchman strutted over to the vacant sun lounger, beside Catherine’s, and picked up a towel. I saw his lips move and Catherine’s lips move in response but I couldn’t make out what they were saying because of the loud music being blasted out from a device, which was placed on the table on the terrace. Sylvain moved and stood over her, casting his shadow across Catherine. From the body language and looks they were giving each other I gathered a heated exchange was taking place between them. Sylvain sat down on Catherine’s lounger, at her feet and she began to kick him away. In response, he stood back up, grabbed her sun reflector and flung it, like a frisbee, clean across the lawn. She sat bolt upright, clearly outraged by his actions, got up and slapped his face. Sylvain didn’t react for all of a second before he scooped her up in his arms, kicking and screaming, and tossed her into the pool.

  After having a good laugh, Sylvain then dived into the pool. Catherine splashed him and continued to do so, much to his annoyance, as he swam to where she was. I watched as he grabbed her head and pushed her down beneath the perfect blue water. I saw her arms flailing above the surface and a sadistic smile on Sylvain’s devilishly handsome face as he kept her submerged.

  It was getting to the point when I would have to intervene, when Sylvain released his grip and Catherine burst upwards, gasping desperately for breath.

  She swam quickly away from the laughing man and climbed out of the pool. Sylvain followed her and grabbed her about the waist and span her around. Catherine pounded her fists on his muscular chest, her pretty mouth working overtime - probably spewing a tirade of swearwords from the looks of it - but the Frenchman continued to laugh. He shut her up by kissing her, forcibly at first, until the fists unfurled and began to caress him. Sylvain walked her backwards to the sun lounger and skilfully manoeuvred her down on it.

  He climbed on top of her and they began kissing more passionately. Sylvain moved his hands around her back and deftly untied her bikini top. They were both naked within seconds and started having sex on the lounger.

  Looks like I just hit pay dirt, I thought, striking gold in less than an hour, must be some kind of record.

  I took out my mobile, zoomed in and snapped a picture of the couple but the quality wasn’t as clear as I would like. So I ran back to my car, collected my long-lens digital camera and returned to the spot where I had been watching them. I fired off a succession of clicks, capturing moments of the sordid act.

  As I previewed the photographs, which provided Sean with enough evidence to destroy Catherine’s reputation in the divorce courts, when something occurred to me that caused me rethink the whole situation.

  I returned to my car, drove around the fountain and out through the gates. I parked my car on the side of the road, a bit further up, in the shade of an oak tree, angling my rear-view mirror. I patiently waited there, inside my car, I put on sunglasses and started smoking cigarettes, tapping the ash out of the wi
ndow, as I watched the road behind me.

  Five cigarettes later, I observed Greenways gates open and saw the convertible rev out onto the street. As it zoomed by, with the top down, I glimpsed the equally flash Sylvain driving it. He was alone in the car and didn’t clock me.

  When Sylvain’s car was out of sight I did a three-point turn and drove back to Greenways, and parked in front of the house. The music had been switched off and it was all quiet. I went up the steps to the front door and rang the bell.

  Catherine was speaking before the door was half-way open, ‘You just couldn’t stay away could…’ She stopped abruptly when she saw me standing on the doorstep.

  Dressed in a white, towelling robe, Catherine’s wet, blonde hair clung about her shoulders.

  ‘You got that right,’ I replied, with a knowing smile.

  It was evident that Catherine recognised me from somewhere but I strongly suspected, could not recall my name, and rather than admitting it, settled on saying, ‘Oh, it’s you.’

  ‘Fred, Sean’s friend.’ I helped her out.

  Catherine replied curtly, ‘Sean’s not here. Come back this evening.’ She was going to shut the door on me but I stopped her from closing it with my foot. Catherine glared at the obstruction and then up at me.

  ‘It wasn’t him I wanted to see.’

  ‘Oh. Really?’ She looked me up and down, and a smile graced her lips. ‘Well, in that case, won’t you come in?’ Catherine moved away from the door.

  The hall had a grand, sweeping staircase and a black and white chequered, highly polished, marble floor, which felt a bit like walking across a chessboard.

  Catherine was going to go up the stairs, when she stopped on the third step, and said over her shoulder, ‘Fred, you said your name was?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Do you mind waiting here whilst I get changed, Fred?’

  I shook my head and said, ‘Doesn’t matter. I don’t intend on staying long.’ She said nothing, just turned, placed her hands on her hips and looked at me, the smile fading. ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’

  ‘Certainly.’ She came back down the stairs, and I followed her through the house into a large room.