She led them into the living room, where Liz Pocklington lay slumped, sleeping, in an ungainly pose on one of the mock-leather chairs. Verity regarded her with distaste.
“Stomach pump job?” she said.
“Probably. Whatever the doctor thinks. I need to get her sober enough to talk to me. He daughter’s gone missing.”
“Not surprising, is it, if she’s been living in this dump with an alkie?”
“There’s probably something in that: she may have disappeared because she couldn’t stand it any longer. It’s where she’s disappeared to that I’m worried about.”
“How old is she?”
“Seventeen.”
“Old enough to get a job and fend for herself. Old enough to go off the rails, for that matter.”
“You’re right about that, too. But from what I’ve heard, she isn’t that sort of girl. She wants to go to university and the parents aren’t helping. She may have agreed to something stupid to get some money.”
“Gone on the game, you mean?”
“I don’t think she’d choose to do that if she knew what she was letting herself in for. But she could have been tricked into it.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Verity doubtfully. “From where I sit, they mostly know exactly what they’re doing.”
“There’s no point in standing here talking about it,” said Giash. “I’ll need your help to get her into the car. Can you open the front door? It’ll be easier than taking her round the side of the house.”
He nodded towards the door that led out of the living room. Juliet opened it. Beyond was a tiny hall area with a flight of stairs leading from it. A battered handbag stood at the foot of the stairs and some newspapers had been piled on the first step. Otherwise the whole area was dusty but tidy. Juliet noticed that the carpet on the stairs was dangerously frayed in places. She grabbed the Yale catch and twisted it. It took her some time to get the door to move: evidently this door was not in everyday use. She propped it open and moved the handbag and newspapers into the short passageway that abutted the stairs. A row of coat pegs had been fixed on the passageway wall and a navy-blue school coat was hanging on the peg nearest to where Juliet was standing. She removed it. It might provide a sample of Margie’s scent for sniffer dogs, if they had to start an outdoor search. She debated whether she should slip upstairs and try to find something carrying Margie’s DNA as well, but decided they’d have to come back for that. She didn’t have a warrant, and she couldn’t risk being accused of taking advantage of Liz Pocklington’s inebriated state.
“Is the door open?” Verity called. “We’ve got her on her feet. We’re coming through now.”
“Yes, I’ve propped it open. Bring her out. You’ll need to be careful when you get onto the path – it’s covered in all sorts of muck.”
Giash and Verity appeared in the living-room doorway, supporting Liz Pocklington from either side. They had each one of her arms slung around their shoulders. The doorway wasn’t wide enough for them to go through it three abreast, so Verity tried to disengage Liz’s right arm.
“Steady, now,” she said. “You just need to get through this space here and the front door. PC Chakrabati will hang on to you. When you’re outside we can both help you again.”
Liz didn’t reply, but suddenly twisted away from Giash and threw up on the stairs.
“Christ!” he said.
“At least it didn’t go on either of us,” said Verity. “Can you grab her again? Keep going!”
“If you two can manage now, I’m going to secure the back door,” said Juliet. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”
“Are you coming with us to the hospital?”
“Yes, I want to make sure . . . On second thoughts, you go without me. I’ll join you there as soon as I can. I want to try to track down her ex-husband. He might know where the daughter is.”
“Perhaps she’s with him.”
“It’s possible, though the woman she works for thinks it’s unlikely. Apparently she can’t stand his new girlfriend.”
Giash and Verity had heaved Liz Pocklington into the porch. She slid away from them again and sat down heavily on the concrete floor. From the light shed from the open door, Juliet saw a thin stream of urine snake its horizontal way along the path and trickle on to the grass.
“Fucking hell!” said Giash.
“There are some foil insulation blankets in the car,” said Verity. “I’ll wrap one around her and put another on the back seat.”
“I’m sorry to have landed you with this,” said Juliet. “Good luck. I’ll see you later.”
Chapter 44
I wake with a start to find Tim tiptoeing around the bedroom. It is just getting light: it must be about 5 am. Tim lifts his case on to the bed and puts my toilet bag into it. He’s borrowed it, because he’s left his own at Freya’s. He zips up the case carefully, trying to make as little noise as possible, and sits on the end of the bed, beside it. He takes out his wallet, tidies the notes and receipts it contains and checks that he has all his credit cards. It’s a little ritual of his: he does it every time he goes away. He puts it back in his pocket and stands up, lifting the case off the bed as he does so. He tiptoes past me towards the bedroom door.
I sit up quickly and fumble for my bedside light. It takes me a moment to find it, while Tim stands there as if turned to stone. He has a strange look on his face: it’s his ‘I’ve been caught out’ look.
“Tim! You weren’t going to go without saying goodbye to me, were you?”
“I thought I ought to let you sleep. You looked pretty worn out last night.”
“You should have thought of that before you brought a colleague home with you.”
“Keep your voice down! I’ve explained that. I didn’t have an alternative. She’ll be gone to the station in a few hours and she’ll be able to book into the boarding-house tonight. It wasn’t so bad getting a takeaway, was it? And I thought you quite took to her.”
I sigh. Having Nancy Chappell stay here for the night isn’t the issue, and Tim well knows it.
“Of course I want you to say goodbye. You always do, don’t you?”
“Sorry,” he says, “I wasn’t thinking.” He bends and gives me a quick kiss on the lips. “Goodbye, darling. I’m sorry you’ve been left on your own so much lately. I’ll make a point of not going anywhere for a while when I come back from India.”
“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I say, as lightly as I can. “Stay in touch, won’t you? And keep safe.” I smile at him.
“I will. And I’ll call you every day – well, most days,” he adds, smiling back. “I’ll just take a quick look at Sophia on my way out.” He gives me another kiss. Then he heads briskly for the bedroom door, wincing when it creaks as he opens it. He shuts it behind him. I hear him open Sophia’s door very briefly and close it again. He moves soundlessly along the corridor. Then there’s the sharp click of the front door and he’s gone.
I lie still for a while, but I’m wide awake and know that I shan’t sleep again. I’m upset and angry with Tim and I don’t want to think about him any longer. I decide to take a shower. My head is aching and I don’t want to turn on the light again. Outside, the dawn is rapidly turning into broad day. I get out of bed and draw the curtains. As I turn back towards the en suite, I see a folded piece of flimsy blue paper lying on the carpet. I pick it up, open it out and smooth the creases. It’s a restaurant bill for £169 with Tuesday’s date on it. There can be no doubt it’s Tim’s bill and that he paid it: his name is printed on the credit card receipt neatly clipped to the top of it. The bill is itemised line by line: three gins, three tonics, three starters, two main courses and a very expensive bottle of wine. Tim had told me that he was having a working dinner with Derry and someone else that night. He’d said he didn’t know who the other person was. If it had really been a w
orking dinner, why hadn’t Derry footed the bill? And why did the bill start with three covers and finish with only two? I can think of only two explanations: either he and Derry did meet someone and that person left in a hurry – but then why wouldn’t Derry have paid the bill? And why the outrageously costly wine? - or Tim was meeting someone for some kind of assignation and enlisted Derry’s help to provide him with an alibi. The more I think about it, the more likely this seems: it would account for Tim’s paying the bill, the wine, and, even more, Tim’s very odd behaviour since he came home. Nancy Chappell might inadvertently have played a part, too: perhaps Tim made sure she’d have nowhere to stay so that we’d have virtually no time alone. He didn’t want me asking awkward questions: he made that clear last night.
If anyone had told me that this was going to happen, I would have expected to be distraught: so stricken with misery that I would have felt paralysed, unable to do anything, unable even to think straight. But I don’t feel like that at all: I’m flooded with a white-hot anger that fills me with fierce energy. I toss the bill on to Tim’s bedside table and dive into the shower. I wash in warm water, then turn the setting to cold and stand there for long minutes, shivering but cleansed. When I emerge, my headache’s cleared and my thoughts are collected, hard, logical. If Tim thinks he can treat me and Sophia like that, I’ll make him think again. I tug a comb through my wet hair, dress in my work clothes. It’s another Mrs Sims day for Sophia: I’ve agreed with Mrs Sims that I’ll pay for yesterday, rather than swapping it for today.
I hear sounds coming from the spare room. Nancy Chappell’s out of bed and moving around. Perhaps I’ve woken her: being quiet is the last thing I’ve had on my mind. I’m briefly repentant: after all, the woman is a guest in my house. There’s a lot more to Nancy than I’ve managed to plumb so far. I think she might be a good ally. I completely understand why Juliet resents her, but I have to admit that Tim’s probably right when he says she can help us to solve this case – perhaps even both these cases. My thoughts turn to Margie. Wherever she is, I hope she’s safe.
Chapter 45
Mrs Ali had taken Margie to one of the upper floors in a lift. They’d emerged into a long corridor lined with a dozen doors, all of them firmly closed. Mrs Ali made Margie walk in front of her. They kept on walking until they had almost reached the end of the corridor. Margie had slipped one arm from the straps of the rucksack and began to carry it on her shoulder.
“Stop here.”
Margie halted obediently.
Mrs Ali unlocked the nearest door and motioned to Margie to go through it. When they were both inside, she locked it again.
The room that Mrs Ali had taken her to was peculiar. It was a small bedroom with a narrow bed. A tiny shower cubicle had been shoehorned into one corner and an even smaller recess containing a curtained lavatory and basin into another. Margie was familiar with small rooms: her bedroom at home, most of her friends’ bedrooms, the cell-like, but to her wonderful, rooms that she’d seen at university halls of residence on open day visits. What all these rooms had in common was that they were modest, if not downright Spartan. This room, despite its midget dimensions, could only be described as luxurious. The floor was carpeted in thick cream-coloured wool. The bedclothes were also cream, the quilt cover embossed with gold. The walls were painted cream and gold. The shower fittings were gilt. There was a mat in front of the shower cubicle made of fine linen, and another beside the bed. A tall cupboard had been set into the wall. It was decorated with a gold filigree pattern.
“Take off your clothes,” Mrs Ali said.
Margie shrank away from her, clutching the rucksack.
“Give me that and take off your clothes,” Mrs Ali said again, stretching out her blood-red-taloned hand. “Be quick, girl, I don’t have all day.”
“But why?” Margie tried not to let the panic creep into her voice. “Why do you want me to get undressed?”
Mrs Ali barked a short laugh.
“Oh, don’t worry, I don’t have the hots for you,” she said. “I just want you to take a shower. Take your clothes off and I’ll leave you to it. I’ll come back in half an hour. You’ll find toiletries in the shower cubicle and clothes and make-up in the closet.”
“All right, I’ll have a shower if that’s what you want. But I’ll take my clothes off and shower after you’ve gone.”
The flick of the wrist was so rapid that she didn’t see it coming. The blow to the side of her head took her completely by surprise. Despite her vow to hang on to her dignity, the pain was so unexpected that it made her cry. She turned her head away, weeping silently.
Mrs Ali folded her arms. Her expression was bland, as if she’d just given an employee a mild reprimand for some transgression.
“Stop that. Now.” She said. “You’re no use to me with red eyes. And think yourself lucky that you’d be useless with a bruised face, too. Otherwise I might have taught you a harder lesson. Now, give me the bag and get undressed. There’s a dressing-gown on the back of the door if you insist on being prudish, but if I were you I’d save all that for the client. You haven’t got anything I haven’t seen before.”
She reached behind her and grabbed a flimsy garment from the gold hook on the door.
“Here,” she said, throwing it at Margie. It fell to the floor. As Margie bent to retrieve it, she removed her cellphone from her pocket and tried to push it under the bed.
“I’ll take that, too,” said Mrs Ali grimly. “And any more tricks like that, my lady, and you’ll wonder what hit you.” She grabbed the phone from Margie’s hand and checked that it was switched off. She shoved it into the rucksack, which she’d claimed when Margie dived for the floor.
“Now your clothes,” she said. She watched impassively as Margie stripped to her pants. “Those, too,” she said. She produced a plastic bag and held it out. “Drop them in there. And the rest of your clothes. Thank you. Now wash yourself and your hair thoroughly. Use the gels and lotions that you’ll find in the shower. Make sure you spray yourself well with the perfume. And dress in the clothes in the closet. You can put on some make-up if you like, or I’ll do it for you. I’ll want to inspect it if you do it.” She looked at her watch. “You have twenty-five minutes. Then I’ll be back. Make sure you use the time well.”
Holding the rucksack and the plastic bag in one hand, she unlocked the door and disappeared through it, locking it firmly from the corridor side.
Margie’s instinct was to hurl herself at the door and bang on it, crying for help; but she knew she was incarcerated deep within the hotel. To draw attention to herself would probably be futile and would certainly be dangerous. She still didn’t know what a ‘private hotel’ was: it might be that all the people staying there were connected in some way.
She needed to think logically. She felt very weak. She sat on the bed for a couple of minutes and let the tears come. Her mouth felt dry. Standing up, she pushed back the curtain that concealed the toilet and basin. There was a plastic cup standing on the basin, containing a toothbrush and toothpaste. She emptied them out and filled the cup with water, draining it in a few gulps.
Despite her intense fear, she felt drowsy. She wanted to lie down on the bed and sleep. She knew that to do so would be foolish: she could have no doubt now that Mrs Ali would punish her for the slightest disobedience. For the moment, she’d have to go along with Mrs Ali’s instructions. If she followed them carefully and stayed vigilant, she’d be bound to find an opportunity to escape. She cheered herself with the thought. She didn’t allow herself to think of what might happen to her in the meantime. Both Pedro and Mrs Ali had promised her ‘work’ and Mrs Ali had suggested that she was preparing her for a task of some kind. Margie knew she was naïve, but she couldn’t believe that the female receptionists she’d seen had been put through this kind of initiation. But perhaps they had. Perhaps everyone who worked in this place was a kind of prisoner.
&nb
sp; Chapter 46
Liz Pocklington had left her back door key in the lock. Juliet locked the door and kept the key, letting herself out of the front door and dropping the Yale latch. She walked the few hundred yards to her flat and went in briefly to pick up her car keys. She felt grubby after her day at work and the excruciating hour spent in Liz Pocklington’s company and would have killed for a shower, but she knew she couldn’t spare the time. Quickly she drank a glass of water from the tap and shut the door on her flat again. Another evening sacrificed: and for what? Mostly the greater glory of Tim Yates and the South Lincolnshire police force. She grinned sardonically, mocking herself as well as her male colleagues with her thoughts. She knew that if she’d merely been a member of the public she’d still be doing all in her power to try to find Margie Pocklington. Was Margie’s disappearance linked to Ayesha Verma’s? Although Juliet couldn’t see the connection, she felt convinced there must be one. Only once before had two apparently unrelated teenage girls disappeared from the Spalding area in the space of the same week and, although unaware of it, they’d turned out to be sisters. It was impossible that Margie and Ayesha were blood relations, but she still believed that if she could discover something they had in common, she’d be well on the way to finding them. That would make Tim Yates and his expedition to India to pin an honour killing on a strangely co-operative witness look pretty silly, she reflected with grim satisfaction. This time she didn’t feel the need to beat herself up for the thought.
She climbed into her car and called the station to see if Gerald Pocklington’s address was on the electoral roll, but wasn’t surprised to find that he was still listed as a resident of Chestnut Avenue. She started the engine. She’d had to enlist the help of the staff at the Johnson Community Hospital several times before and knew them to be friendly and helpful, but still she shuddered at the prospect of having to stay there deep into the night. She hoped she’d get some sense out of Liz Pocklington without having to sit with her interminably. Then she’d be able to manage at least a few hours’ sleep. She’d have to be at the station bright and early in the morning in order to benefit from Nancy Chappell’s superior wisdom. The sooner she got that out of the way, the better: she was determined to get rid of the woman before Tim’s return, even before the weekend, if possible. The more she thought about it, the more she was convinced that Tim had brought Chappell to Spalding to undermine her own credibility for the DS job; he could hardly have made a clearer statement that he considered her incapable of handling the Verma case unassisted. She wondered if Katrin had told Tim how Juliet had also involved her in the case. She’d probably ask Katrin about it in the morning, although she’d have to tread carefully: it was clear that the Yates’s personal relationship was under pressure at the moment.
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