Careless Love

by Peter Robinson

  “No, really. That one did the trick. I’m full.” Annie finished off her tea. Laurence Hadfield was right: there was nothing quite like a hot bubbly bath, a few scented candles, a good book and a glass of wine when you wanted to kick back and shut the world out. “So you clean that big bathroom every week?”

  “Yes. Even if it hasn’t been used. Like I said before, Mr. Laurence is away quite a lot, so it doesn’t get used all that much. But I keep it clean, yes.”

  “And the floor and tiles?”

  “Of course.”

  “There’s a narrow gap between the back of the toilet and the skirting board.”

  “I’m aware of that.”

  “Would you happen to clean around there, too?”

  “Of course, I do. You’ll never cut the mustard as a cleaner if you don’t get to the tough bits everyone else ignores, young lady.”

  Annie felt suitably chastised and thought rather guiltily about her own bathroom. Only one, and very small, but it wouldn’t sparkle anywhere near as much as the ones blessed with Adele’s magic touch. “And did you clean it the last time you did the house? That would be the Thursday before the weekend Mr. Hadfield disappeared, right?”

  “Yes. If you say that’s when he disappeared. And I most certainly did clean it.”

  “So if anything like that charm had been lying around, you’d have found it.”

  “Naturally. And it wasn’t.”

  “Clearly not.” Which meant, if Adele Balter was telling the truth—and Annie believed she was—that the charm had ended up where it was found after the last Thursday Adele had cleaned the house. Poppy had disowned it—and Annie had no reason to disbelieve her, either—so whose was it, and how had it got there?

  “I know I asked you this before, but it’s even more important now that you give it some more thought. Did you ever notice any signs that Mr. Hadfield had female company between your visits?”

  “What signs?”

  “I don’t know. An article of female clothing in the laundry, for example, or a trinket like the one I showed you left on a dressing table. An unusual scent, perfume perhaps, or a stain that couldn’t be explained. Maybe a long hair on the pillow or the back of the sofa.” If Hadfield had been having a woman over to the house on a regular basis, then it stood to reason that she had left something behind, however minute a trace.

  Adele Balter bristled. “Nothing of that sort at all. Mr. Hadfield was a gentleman, a decent person.”

  “I’m not saying he wasn’t a perfect gentleman, but surely he must have had . . . needs. After all, he’d been a widower for over two years.”

  “He adored his poor deceased wife. And even if he had been doing as you suggest, he would certainly not have left any traces for me to discover. He would have made sure nothing remained to upset my sensibilities. He knows I’m very sen—”

  “What did you just say, Mrs. Balter?”

  “Adele, please.”

  “Adele. What did you just say?”

  “That Mr. Hadfield would never leave anything around the house that he thought might shock me.”

  “So if he had been seeing a woman, he would have cleaned up after himself?”

  “Well, yes. But he hadn’t been seeing anyone.”

  “Did he?”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Did you ever notice any evidence that he’d been tidying up or cleaning up after himself?”

  “Once or twice, perhaps.”

  “Like what?”

  “Sometimes he washed his own bedsheets. He didn’t iron them, though. That would have been too much for him. That’s how I could tell.”

  “He put his own bedsheets in the washing machine?”

  “Sometimes. Yes. Why?”

  “My question exactly,” Annie said, almost to herself. “Why?” It wasn’t something, in her admittedly limited experience, that men usually did. Unless they had something to hide.

  “I assumed it was because he’d spilt something. He had a Teasmade, you know, and he was a devil for his morning cuppa in bed.”

  “Right,” said Annie. “That must be it.” Or not, she thought. “Did you do any laundry on your last visit?”

  “You mean last Friday?”

  “Yes.”

  “No. I didn’t have a chance, what with Poppy and me worrying something had happened to Mr. Laurence. Then you lot came.”

  “OK,” said Annie. “It’s fine.” Hadfield’s house was still officially part of a crime scene, though the CSI officers would have left by now. They would have to go back again. If there were any traces of female presence, they would most likely still be there. Annie would get in touch with Frank Naylor and ask him to make sure they took in the bedsheets and pillowcases for forensic examination, which they may not have done, given that Laurence Hadfield’s death hadn’t been ruled anything but a suspicious accident. The CSIs didn’t think they were looking for signs of anyone else in the house.

  Annie glanced at her watch and saw it was probably time to head for Eastvale to meet up with Gerry. As a final question, she asked, “Do you know a Dr. Randall? He’s a friend of Mr. Hadfield’s.”

  “Yes, of course. They play golf together, and I’ve heard them chatting on the phone from time to time. They have a club where they sometimes meet as well. For rich folks, like. It’s in Leeds, mind you.”

  “Do you remember what it’s called?”

  “Sorry, love. I don’t pay a lot of attention to things like that.”

  Annie stood up to leave. “Thank you, Adele. You’ve been very helpful,” she said. “But I have to go now.”

  “So soon?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “Please. Just wait a moment.”

  Adele Balter disappeared into the kitchen and came back a few moments later with a Tupperware container.

  “Scones,” she said. “And a jar of my own special strawberry jam. I told you I’d never be able to finish it all myself. And don’t worry about returning the box. Any time will do.”

  “I can’t possibly . . .” Annie began, and then realized she could, and that in fact it would be polite to do so. “Thanks very much, Adele,” she said, opening the door.

  “And if you ever need a cleaning lady . . .” Adele said. “Well, I’ve got a lot more time on my hands now.”

  There was a thought. It would take Adele all of ten minutes to clean her bijou palace. “I’ll let you know,” she said.

  P.P. ARNOLDS’S The Turning Tide saw Banks down the A1 to Leeds quickly and pleasantly, especially her version of Van Morrison’s “Brand New Day.” He remembered drooling over P.P. Arnold singing “First Cut is the Deepest” and “Angel of the Morning” on Top of the Pops and Ready, Steady, Go! when he was a young lad. Over fifty years later, she was making a comeback with an album that had been languishing in the vaults since the late sixties.

  Banks marched into Whitelock’s only a few minutes late, despite the length of time he had to drive around the multistory car park to find an empty slot. He expected to find Ken Blackstone at a copper-topped round table opposite the long bar, but instead the familiar figure, looking more and more like a cross between Philip Larkin and Eric Morecambe, waved from inside the dining area, with a glass of orange juice in front of him. Whitelock’s was as crowded and noisy as usual, and Banks had to thread his way through the groups of clerks, students and secretaries in the narrow space between the banquettes and the bar.

  “Don’t tell me promotion’s gone to your head?” Banks said, gesturing towards the orange juice as he sat down.

  “No more than it’s gone to my bank balance,” said Blackstone. “No, I’ve got a team meeting this afternoon. It wouldn’t do to go in smelling of booze or Polo mints.”

  “I’d be supportive and join you, but I plan on doing a bit of shopping before I head back to work. Plenty of time to walk off a pint.”

  “Bastard.”

  “And I can’t help but notice that you’re sitting in the posh section.”

&nbs
p; “I thought it would be a bit more private,” Blackstone said, passing a menu over. When the waitress arrived both Banks and Blackstone ordered steak and kidney pie and chips, and Banks asked for a pint of IPA.

  “Thanks for coming,” Blackstone said.

  “No problem. If there’s any chance of a lead in either of the cases we’re dealing with at the moment, I’ll jump at it.”

  “I hope you won’t be too disappointed.”

  Banks’s pint arrived and he took a long swig. Blackstone looked on forlornly.

  “How are things, anyway?” Banks asked. “New job working out?”

  Blackstone had recently got a promotion and a place on the West Yorkshire Homicide and Major Inquiry Team. “It’s working out,” he said. “When you get right down to it, not much changes but the acronyms.”

  “Too true,” said Banks. “Aren’t you due for retirement soon?” He knew that Blackstone was a few years younger than he was, but not exactly how many.

  “Couple of years.”

  “Will you take it?”

  Blackstone nodded. “There aren’t a lot of options—unless I get promoted like you did, and I think that’s unlikely. As of now, I think I’ll go quietly. But we’ll see what happens when the time comes. I may not go gentle.”

  Their meals arrived. Banks reached for the HP Sauce and shook some dollops on his steak and kidney pie. For a few moments, they devoted themselves to eating, then Blackstone said, “Shall I start now, or do you want to wait until after?”

  “I can listen while I eat,” said Banks. “I’m curious to know what it is.”

  “It’s not a pretty tale. Yesterday evening a bloke from a nearby village was walking his dogs in open country just off the A59 between Harrogate and Blubberhouses.”

  “Isn’t that near Thornfield Reservoir?”

  “Further south. And east of Brame Lane. You probably wouldn’t know the area. Anyway, he came to an old derelict shack, and one of the dogs took an unusual interest, so he managed to get the door open—it was almost off its hinges—and take a look inside.”

  “And he wished he hadn’t?”

  Blackstone nodded. “A girl’s body. Our pathologist hasn’t carried out the postmortem yet, but he reckons she’d been there about a week, and death was due to a blow to the back of her head. Hard enough to fracture her skull. It seems like she’d put up a struggle, too. She was wearing a red dress made of some silky material, quite short and low cut, and as far as the doc could tell there were no evident signs of sexual activity. Though she was carrying no identification, no possessions of any kind, it didn’t take us long to link her to a missing person’s report we just got in on Friday. A second-year history and politics student from the University of Leeds called Sarah Chen. Her father was from Hong Kong and her mother was British, but Sarah was born here, grew up in Derbyshire. Her father died in a car accident two years ago, and her mother’s in terminal care for Alzheimer’s. No brothers or sisters. Sarah came late, in her mother’s early forties.”

  “Some lot in life,” said Banks.

  “Makes you realize how lucky you are, doesn’t it? But by all accounts, Sarah was a gutsy lass. Bright, too. She took things in her stride. Got on with life. Quite a beauty, too.”

  “Until . . .”

  “Yes. She hadn’t been seen since the weekend before last. She went into town shopping with a flatmate from uni a week last Saturday, and that was it. That was when she bought the dress she was wearing.”

  “That Saturday keeps on coming up,” said Banks. “What else did she have with her?”

  “Nothing. I mean, she was wearing some cheap jewelery, a pendant, bracelet, that sort of thing. And sexy underwear. Black, lacy.”

  “Identifying marks?”

  “A dragon tattoo on the inside of her right thigh. Our resident expert tells me it’s for the year of the dragon. And a quote tattoo on the back of her left shoulder: ‘The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom.’ ”

  “William Blake,” said Banks.

  Blackstone raised his eyebrows. “I see your poetry babe must be doing a good job.”

  “She’s not a ‘babe,’ but she is doing a good job. Anyway, people often take the words as license, or as an excuse, for extreme behavior, though that wasn’t exactly what Blake had in mind.” He paused. “Though maybe it was. He was an odd one, Blake. One of a kind. Even Linda didn’t quite know what to make of him. Anyway, it tells us at least that your girl didn’t mind flaunting it a bit, being outrageous, whether she followed Blake’s advice or not.”

  “From what I could gather she liked people to believe she was more adventurous than she really was.”

  “These quote tattoos are a bit of a trend, anyway. I wouldn’t read that much into them. Last one I saw was on a girl on the Tesco’s checkout. ‘L’enfer c’est les autres.’ I asked her what made her choose that particular quotation and she couldn’t really say except that it was a good fit. She didn’t even know what it meant. I think the tattooist had a book of quotes for people to choose from, and she just liked the look or the sound of it. How was Sarah Chen’s state of mind on this shopping expedition you mentioned? Did she give any indication to her friends as to where she was going that night, what she was doing?”

  “She just mentioned that she was going to a party. Didn’t say where or with whom. Her friend asked about it but couldn’t get any more out of her. She didn’t think it odd, though, as Sarah often liked to sound a bit mysterious and secretive about what she was doing. Part of giving the impression she was up to all sorts of things, no doubt. Where does that quote come from?”

  “It’s from a play by Jean-Paul Sartre. ‘Hell is other people.’ ”

  “Ah.”

  “What made Sarah’s friend report her missing after only a week?”

  “She was used to Sarah coming and going without notice, but this seemed just a bit too long. She’d missed an important essay deadline and a tutorial. Apparently, that wasn’t like her. She liked her fun, but she took her studies seriously. People were asking her friend where she was, if something had happened to her. Sarah liked to keep people guessing, but according to those who knew her, she wasn’t in the habit of disappearing for as long as a week.”

  “What did you find out from her friends?”

  “Nothing much. We asked around. Nobody seemed to know where she was going, if anywhere. According to everyone who knew her, she was a normal student. Conscientious, hard-working, maybe a bit given to depression on occasion, though that’s hardly surprising given her home circumstances.”

  “Boyfriends?”

  “Nobody serious. We talked to two students who’d dated her so far this year, and they both said she could be a bit enigmatic—I think one actually said ‘inscrutable’—but other than that she was fun to be with, and not in the least interested in commitment. She could hold her end up in most conversations, whether about world affairs or the FA cup, liked to drink and dance and let her hair down now and then. Apparently, she was no shrinking violet. We assumed she’d run off with a new boyfriend or something, or that there was some family crisis nobody knew about and she was taking care of that. But the staff at the mother’s care home hadn’t seen her since the week before. We checked out her room, and there were no signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate that she’d been abducted from there.”

  “What did you find in the room?”

  “Nothing of interest. She shared a house with three other students, communal living and eating areas and each with their own bedroom-cum-study. It was just as you’d expect a student’s room to be. A bit messy, discarded jeans and T-shirts and stuff scattered about, books, piles of paper and research material. But it was basically well ordered. No sign of handbag or shoulder bag there, either.” Blackstone paused. “There was another odd thing, too, though.”

  “Yes?”

  “Her mobile. It was still in her room. It was quite an expensive new model, too. A ten or something. I mean, have you ever known a teenager who
doesn’t pick up her mobile first thing when she goes out anywhere?”

  “Tracy certainly does,” said Banks. “I can only think of one who didn’t, and that’s Adrienne Munro.”

  “Your dead girl in the car?”

  “Yes.”

  Banks finished his pie and washed it down with some IPA. The other similarities with the Adrienne Munro case weren’t lost him. She was also a second-year student, dressed for an occasion, found dead in an out-of-the-way spot. Only the way it looked, Adrienne had committed suicide and Sarah Chen had been murdered. The timing was also curious. Nobody Banks or Blackstone had spoken to so far knew exactly when either girl had been seen last, but it appeared that they had disappeared around the same time. The weekend before last. Saturday.

  “So apart from the superficial similarities, why am I here?” Banks asked. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  Blackstone smiled. “I was just coming to that.” He reached for his briefcase, and passed a photograph and a torn-off slip of paper protected by a plastic cover over to Banks. The photograph showed a smiling, beautiful Sarah in full bloom. It was easy to see her different ethnic characteristics, and how they helped form her particular kind of beauty. Blackstone tapped the slip of paper. “We found this on the desk in her room.”

  Written on the slip were a name and a telephone number. The name was Adrienne Munro, but the telephone number wasn’t hers.

  9

  DR. ANTHONY RANDALL’S HOUSE FORMED QUITE A CONTRAST to Adele Balter’s and Annie’s tiny cottages, though it wasn’t quite as large and ostentatious as Rivendell. Nor was it built in the art deco style. It was an old detached house of brick and stone with mullioned windows and a slate roof, surrounded by a couple of acres of garden dotted with trees, all enclosed by a moss-covered wall. It was probably a listed building, and perhaps at one time had belonged to the lord of the manor. Dr. Randall clearly didn’t restrict his duties to NHS work.