by Ellis, Tim
‘Tell us what happened.’
‘It was last night. She should have come home last night after work, but sometimes she stays at Bob’s house.’
Xena put a hand on Mrs Andrews’ arm. ‘Would you like tea?’
The woman went to get up.
‘It’s all right. My partner can make himself useful for a change.’ She glanced up at Stick. ‘Two teas.’
‘What about sugar and milk?’
‘Just bring it all in on a tray. You can manage that simple task, can’t you?’
‘I suppose,’ he said, and wandered out to find the kitchen.
She took out her notebook. Because Stick wasn’t there she had to take notes herself.
‘What work does your daughter do?’
‘She’s a secretary for Double Vision Publishers in Bishop’s Stortford. She catches the train from there to Widford, and then the bus home.’
‘And she didn’t come home last night?’
‘No.’
‘Is that usual?’
‘I wouldn’t say usual, but sometimes – if she’s had a hard day – she’ll stay at Bob’s.’
‘Who’s Bob?’
‘Her brother Robert.’
‘Where does he live?’
‘Bishop Stortford. He’s her older brother and does something in insurance.’
‘And she didn’t stay there?’
‘No. Usually she rings to tell me what she’s doing, but she didn’t last night.’
‘And you weren’t concerned?’
‘No. Sometimes she doesn’t ring, but that’s kids for you. Most of the time she’s a good girl, but she can be forgetful at other times.’
‘You didn’t ring her?’
‘I tried, but it went to voicemail. I left her a message to call me.’
‘But she didn’t?’
‘No.’
Stick came in carrying a tray and put it down on the coffee table.
‘You be mother,’ Xena said.
Stick knelt down and began making the teas. He knew how Xena took hers, but not Mrs Andrews. ‘Sugar and milk?’ he asked her.
‘A tiny spot of milk.’
‘So, when she didn’t come home you called her, but received no answer?’
‘Yes.’
‘Did you call Bob?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
She shrugged. ‘I just didn’t. Now, I wish I had, but I didn’t. Does that make me a terrible mother? I mean, she’s nearly nineteen.’ She burst into tears again, and spilled some tea on her skirt.
Stick took the cup from her and put it back on the tray.
‘No, it doesn’t make you a terrible mother,’ Xena comforted her. ‘You’d think that after keeping them safe for nineteen years it would be all right to let go.’
‘Exactly, but it’s never that simple, is it?’
‘No. Men have created a world where women aren’t safe anymore – if they ever were.’
‘I know. Men destroy everything.’
They both looked at Stick.
He took a sip of the lemonade he’d obviously found in the fridge.
‘You’ve tried phoning her today?’
‘I rang her a couple of times earlier, but it went to voicemail. I started to get worried that I’d not heard from her, so I called her boss at the publishing house. He said she hadn’t come in today, and she hadn’t called either.’
‘I see.’
‘I phoned Bob then. He said she hadn’t stayed with him last night, so where was she?’ Tears rolled down her face again. ‘I’m so scared someone’s got her. She could already be dead.’
‘Call forensics,’ Xena said to Stick. ‘See if they can trace Lily’s phone. I also want them to check the CCTV at Widford station, and find out if she got on the bus. And . . . tell the duty inspector to get some bodies out here. I want a house to house carried out.’
He nodded. Mrs Andrews gave him Lily’s mobile number and he left the room to make the calls.
‘Thank you,’ Mrs Andrews said, and squeezed Xena’s hand.
‘Don’t thank me too soon.’
‘You don’t think . . . ?’
‘And let’s not do any thinking until we have to – all right?’
‘All right.’
***
‘Hello?’ was sitting in her message inbox from eleven minutes ago.
Were the Shetland Islands in a different time zone?
She replied: ‘Hello, Sonya’
‘What do you want?’
‘Did you know Heidi Naseby?’
‘We were best friends at school.’
‘You’ve obviously heard about her murder?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is there anything you can tell me?’
‘Heidi said that she was scared.’
‘Of what?’
‘Who? Her husband.’
‘Why?’
‘She’d found something out about him.’
‘What?’
‘She didn’t say.’
‘No idea what it was?’
‘No. All she said was that it could get her killed if he found out that she knew.’
‘Thanks. Anything else?’
‘I need to know that you are who you say you are.’
‘I am.’
‘Ha, ha!’
‘Phone me: 09874 571986.’
Black Treacle began playing on her mobile again.
‘Hello.’
‘This is . . .’
‘I know who you are.’
‘Why are you investigating Heidi’s murder?’
‘I have a friend who thinks Manning Naseby is guilty, but he’s going to get off with it unless she does something about it.’
‘Okay. She sent me a key.’
‘In the post?’
‘Yes.’
‘A key to what?’
‘A safe deposit box at the Bank of East Asia in London.’
‘Okay . . .’ Now what? She obviously needed the key, but it was sunning itself in the Shetland Islands. Posting it would take too long . . . ‘Are you prepared to let me have the key?’
‘If her husband gets locked up – of course. I can post . . .’
‘I need it by tomorrow.’
‘That’s not going to happen. I have to travel to the post office, which is . . .’
‘A tortuous journey?’
‘Most definitely, and then there’s a ferry that takes twelve hours to transport the post from Lerwick on the mainland island to Aberdeen in Scotland, and from there . . .’
‘I get the idea. I’d be lucky if Santa brought the key in his sack.’
‘Yeah. It’s a bit primitive over here.’
‘Is there an airport?’
‘Yes? Sumburgh on the Southern tip of the island.’
‘What if I fly there?’
‘Okay. If you tell me when you’ll be landing, I could meet you at the airport and give you the key.’
‘Wait.’ She opened up another tab and searched for flights to the Shetlands. Flights went from London Heathrow to Aberdeen, and then on to Lerwick. As luck would have it, there was a Virgin Atlantic flight leaving at quarter past eight tonight, which arrived in Aberdeen at quarter to ten. It meant an overnight stop in a four-star hotel in Aberdeen where – no doubt – she’d be force-fed haggis and tatties, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
It was now five to six – two hours twenty minutes.
Could she get there in time?
She opened another tab and checked the journey from Highgate to Heathrow. It would take her an hour and twenty minutes – time to visit the duty free – did they have duty free on internal flights? She’d have to change trains once at Kings Cross St Pancras – from the Northern Line to the Piccadilly Line, but it was doable.
The flight time from Heathrow to Lerwick was twelve hours with the overnight stop in Aberdeen, and she’d arrive at Sumburgh Airport at quarter to eight tomorrow morning. She played out the journey in her head:
Get to Heathrow, catch the flight to Aberdeen, sleep like a rock, eat breakfast, fly to Lerwick, grab the key, get bored during the forty-five minute turnaround. Fly back to Aberdeen, catch another flight back to Heathrow, jump on the tube to Leicester Square, go to the bank in Chinatown on the corner of Dean Street and Shaftesbury Avenue and find out what Heidi Naseby has hidden in the safety deposit box, book into a luxury five-star hotel, catch up on her beauty sleep. And then, on Thursday morning, she could arrange to meet Jerry for coffee and pastries near the Old Bailey.
Yep, that could work.
She booked one of the four seats left on the flight, which cost her three hundred and fifty pounds, and then doubled it for the return flight.
‘Me again.’
‘Yes?’
‘I’ll arrive at Sumburgh airport at quarter to eight tomorrow morning.’
‘I’ll meet you at Arrivals.’
‘See you there.’
She packed her rucksack, left the squat and hurried to Highgate tube station.
Chapter Nineteen
She’d been dwelling on the initials AE, and she knew exactly who it was – Anthony Etches. He was a family friend with two children of his own. After this was all over, she’d make sure that his wife Polly knew exactly what type of man he was.
The phone call had also been troubling her.
Clarice had spoken of a Charlene Kelly that she’d befriended at the dance school – was that Billy’s sister? Why had he called? Why had the call ended so abruptly? The more she thought about it, the more she felt that it was important.
DI Blake had left her business card. Dorothy had every intention of ringing the number and telling the detective about the call, but instead she rang Bernadette Jodh at the Rhythm Stick Dance Studio.
‘The Rhythm Stick.’
‘Miss Jodh?’
‘Yes.’
‘It’s Clarice’s mother – Dorothy Kennedy.’
‘I’m terribly sorry about Clarice, she was a beautiful person and a wonderful dancer.’
‘Thank you.’
‘How can I help?’
‘Clarice spoke of a friend . . .’
‘Charlene Kelly?’
‘Yes. I know it’s not the proper thing to do, but I’d like to speak to Charlene. You couldn’t give me her address, could you?’
‘We don’t normally . . .’
‘Please.’
‘Just this once, but you must promise not to tell anybody that I gave you a client’s address.’
‘I won’t tell a soul.’
‘Number 51 Abbotts Lane in Widford.’
‘Thank you.’
‘You will let me know when Clarice’s funeral will be, won’t you?’
‘Of course.’
She put the phone down. ‘Walter.’
He came into the kitchen from the living room. ‘Yes, dear?’
‘You’re driving.’
‘Where to?’
‘Widford.’
‘Why?’
‘We’re going to find out who killed our beautiful Clarice.’
‘I’ll get my keys.’
‘You’ll need your shotgun and a box of cartridges as well – just in case we find what we’re looking for.’
‘Are you sure, Dot?’
‘I’ve never been surer of anything in my life. Are you with me, Walter?’
‘Always.’
Walter put the shotgun and cartridges behind the seat and drove the Land Rover to the address that Bernadette Jodh had given Dorothy.
They knocked on the door of the pink house, which was opened by a young woman with a squashed nose and flat face.
‘Charlene?’ Dorothy said.
‘Who’s that, Charlene?’ came from inside.
An older woman appeared at the door. ‘Yes?’
‘We’re Dorothy and Walter, Clarice Kennedy’s parents.’
‘The girl who . . . ?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’m terribly sorry for your loss. The police came here to ask Charlene some questions about your daughter.’
‘Yes, we know.’
‘So, why are you here?’
‘We had a phone call from your son, Billy.’
Mrs Kelly pulled a face. ‘From Billy? Why would he phone you? He didn’t know your daughter.’
‘Yes he did, mum. Billy used to pick me up from dance class sometimes. I introduced him to Clarice.’
‘We have no idea why Billy called us. The line went dead before he said why he was calling, but we’d like to find out.’
‘When was this?’
‘About an hour ago.’
‘He would still have been at work.’
‘Is he here now?’
‘No, he hasn’t come home yet. You’d better come in. I’ll call his mobile and find out what he’s playing at.’
They followed Charlene and her mother into the house and were surprised at how dark and dingy it was.
Mrs Andrews used the landline to call her son’s mobile number, but it went to voicemail. She didn’t leave a message. ‘He’s not answering.’
‘Where does Billy work?’
‘The slaughterhouse at River Meads, next to the railway track in Stanstead . . .’
‘Charlene!’ Mrs Andrews admonished her daughter. To Dorothy and Walter she said, ‘You can wait here for Billy, or I’ll ask him to contact you again when he does come home.’
‘Are you expecting him anytime soon?’
Mrs Kelly shrugged. ‘I have no idea. Billy’s twenty-five. He does what he wants when he wants with no assistance from me.’
‘Then we’ll leave,’ Dorothy said. ‘If you could ask him to contact us, I’d be very grateful.’
‘Of course,’ Mrs Kelly said, and showed them out.
Once the door was closed and they were walking down the path to the Land Rover Dorothy said, ‘Do you know where the slaughterhouse at River Meads is?’
‘Yes, I know it. It’s mainly an abattoir, but they also offer a bereavement service for larger animals such as donkeys, horses and cows.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes. I remember a chap telling me that his daughter had her horse’s ashes in an urn on the mantelpiece. They were very good apparently.’
‘And it could be where Clarice was kept for a month.’
Walter Kennedy was usually a mild-mannered man who’d had the perfect life. He loved his wife, his daughter and animals of all shapes, sizes and denominations, but someone had robbed him of that perfect life. ‘If it was,’ he said, gripping the steering wheel until his knuckles cracked. ‘We’ll damn well get to the bottom of it, Dot.’
He aimed the Land Rover down the Hunsdon Road towards Jenson’s Slaughterhouse in Stanstead Abbotts.
***
But the cowardly, the unbelieving, the vile, the murderers, the sexually immoral, those who practise magic arts, the idolaters and all liars – they will be consigned to the fiery lake of burning sulfur.
Revelation 21:8
‘I don’t think it’s appropriate to be talking about the “sexually immoral” in front of my children, Grant,’ Carrie said to him across the dinner table.
‘The bible is an open book, Carrie. “Your children” will learn all about the sins of humanity during religious studies at school, and when they go to church.’
She noticed how his voice changed when he said, “Your children”. Yes, they were her children, but he should have been making an effort to get closer to them. Instead, it was all about him, about his religion and about his photography that seemed to shut her and the children out. He was changing little by little before her very eyes.
‘I said no.’
‘As you wish. I’ll keep the bible readings clean in future.’
‘No, I don’t want you doing any more bible readings.’
‘Really?’
‘Yes, really.’
They ate the meal in silence.
Afterwards, Carrie said to Howard and Sarah, ‘Go upstairs and get
ready for bed.’ Howard stared at her and was about to say something when she gave him a look. ‘Go,’ she repeated.
Before she could say what she wanted to say to Grant he spoke first.
‘You want me to go, don’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘Is it the religion?’
‘Partly. You’ve changed.’
‘I’m the man I’ve always been.’
‘No, you’re not. Or, if you are, then I didn’t see the man you’ve always been before, I saw someone else. Little by little you’ve become someone different, someone I don’t recognise.’
‘There’s no way to repair it?’
‘No.’
‘Is it all right if I pack everything up and leave on Saturday?’
‘Yes, but you’ll have to sleep . . .’
‘It’s okay, I have a camp bed and sleeping bag in my studio. I’ll sleep in there, if that’s all right with you?’
She nodded. ‘That’s fine.’
He stood up. ‘I’ll clear the table and wash up while you put the children to bed.’
‘Thank you.’
‘There’s no need to fall out just because it didn’t work. I’m sure we’ll still be friends in the future.’
‘Of course,’ she said, but already she was looking forward to Saturday. The sooner he was gone from her life the better. No, it hadn’t worked. In fact, it had probably been the biggest mistake of her life.
She went upstairs to tuck the children in. Melody was already asleep.
They were both in Howard’s room.
‘Have you told him?’ Sarah asked.
‘Yes. He’s moving out on Saturday.’
‘Wicked,’ Howard said. ‘And no more bible readings?’
‘No.’
‘Great.’
‘Did you love him, mum?’ Sarah asked.
Carrie smiled. Did a seven year-old girl have any conception of adult love? ‘No, I didn’t love him. I liked him a lot when we first started going out, but you only really know someone when you start living with them.’
‘And now you don’t like him?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, darling. He’s a very nice man, but now that we’re living together I realise he’s not the man I want to spend the rest of my life with. Now, enough questions, time for bed.’