The details come easily then as we listen, encouraging her to talk of the everyday, the useful, all to keep her emotions in check before we tackle the key things. On the edge of tears, she tells that Pippa Langstaffe is an award winning investigative journalist and documentary film maker who works all over the world with her films broadcast globally too, usually with a book to accompany them.
Whittle and I nod in unison as she says this.
I am embarrassed, “Of course, I know her name, her work, admire it, but you never see the film maker on the screen Ms Verity.”
““Thank you, she would appreciate that, but do call me Polly please.”
Her voice staggers then, “Pips hated publicity, would loathe what all this is going to mean. Always said, ‘No foundation in my name Pols, promise’ and I did.”
Whittle steps in quickly, follows the routine to ‘keep them talking’ as she asks Ms Verity to tell the story of how she heard the bad news.
“I mean it has not been in the local press, let alone national?” Whittle says.
The woman becomes matter of fact, voice tinny and tiny now. She had an email from a Press Officer at the Metropolitan Police late last night, a man Pippa and she were both friends with at University and still are.
“Your Head of Communications, Cinders I think he said, sent it to him, apparently she thought the dead, erm, woman you found was in the media somehow but could not quite place her.”
She picks up a tea cup, puts it down again, “He thought it was Pips, rang me mid evening and when I saw the picture, well I knew too. Hard thing to see with your cocoa. I could not sleep, knew I had to come so drove up overnight and here I am.”
She laughs bitterly, “A very Pippa-ish thing to do.”
She pauses to sip at her new cup of tea, shrugs, “Even through the tears, silly really, to be driving like that in this weather.”
I stand to show her the less gruesome photograph of the dead woman again and Ms Verity confirms with a slight sob that it is indeed her friend. With the eyes closed, her friend is still clearly dead. Whittle asks if she will be willing to identify the body and the woman agrees with a slight intake of breath. The DC slips out to make arrangements for the viewing.
***
I continue to ask general questions, gathering as much information as I can before the woman begins to openly weep and possibly lose control.
What sort of woman was Pippa? The life and soul of the party, her friend replies warmly. But she was also very serious about her work: political, financial and environmental injustices and controversies, including working in war zones. She was Oxbridge educated, of upper middle class stock from the Cotswolds, parents dead, married once, quickly and amicably divorced and without children. She has only an elder brother, who lives in the United States.
As to what Pippa was working on at present, Ms Verity shakes her head.
“She was just editing a film on the National Health Service and how markets have added billions in costs to it and made it more inefficient. And was researching her next one I know, doing all that herself.”
She pauses, “My biggest and best yet, perhaps ever, was all she said. She would only go to the broadcasters for finance to start filming when the pitch was solid. ‘Not there yet but close,’ she said on Sunday afternoon when I last talked to her.”
The thought cripples, “Oh God, only hours before ….”
She sobs and I wait before she goes on resolutely, ”Pips, always kept things very close, bit like Macbeth, curses the project to talk about it. She did not even share with me and certainly not with boyfriends - none at present by the way. She always had a dozen or more potential projects on the go. They will all be in her files, on her laptop and home computer. And any filmed interviews, audio interviews she has already done for research.”
Whittle reappears to say we can go to ‘the viewing’ when we are ready.
The woman wrings out a tiny tissue. She has not touched her tea further. I proffer a large clean white hankie and she dabs her tears away from a raw face, silver flecked eyes red rimmed now.
“She was so excited, got like that, the thrill of the chase with a great story developing, one that would be a series or a long documentary, a Storyville,” she whispers as we strain to hear.
Seeing our lack of understanding, “Long form pieces, feature length, bigger budget, sell in America, go in cinemas there, more prestigious scheduling. Those are the pinnacle in the TV game, gives you impetus to be a sure-fire award winner, Emmy or Bafta, got one of each in her time, or just make the world a better place which meant far more to Pips.”
We let her weep almost silently after a soft reminder to herself, “Her destiny, to win an Oscar I always said. What will be will be, she always replied.”
We gather her bag up for her, and I ask why Ms Langstaffe would be out in the middle of rural Ancaster County late on a bone chilling night in December, without any identity or bag or money.
The woman laughs throatily, “Up to no good – for someone - I would imagine. On a story.”
“And without driving licence or credit card?” I persist.
She looks mystified and then her laugh is short and shrill, “Old habits die hard, there were times in some places - Iraq, Iran, Syria, Kuwait, Rwanda - where it could be best not to be identified as a journalist at all. So, you carry nothing. She did it still in England even sometimes, just habit, or superstition I think, silly really, dear old Pippa.”
I nod as convincingly as I can before she goes on, “Has pics of her identity documents on her phone though. Did you not find them?”
A pause for thought as we walk the long underground corridor to the morgue, “She would be carrying her mobile phone and a small still or video camera. Never moved without those, even going to the corner shop.”
Ms Verity slows and talks on now to delay the ordeal to come. ““Such bad luck to be run down. I can hear her saying, ‘how mundane my dear’ I can hear her.”
Whittle and I keep talk flowing as we walk. Any enemies? There would have been any number of people and organisations who might have wished Pippa harm in the past to keep stories being revealed or films broadcast, but she has no inkling of her friend’s present ‘big’ project and hence anyone she might have been upsetting.
“Besides. What is gone is old news and they would not bother now, new targets, maybe though unlikely, revelations hardly hurt anyone these days do they?”
Her voice is contemptuous, “Everyone knows the elite without exception is corrupt and at it, they just deny it and carry on, look at banks, Volkswagen etc.”
Ms Verity catches the implication of the original question then about enemies, vibrant eyes fixed on me suddenly, “But I thought it was a simple road accident?”
I explain it likely is, though there are a few suspicious circumstances we are trying to clear up.
She nods without really paying attention, but pauses as we reach the morgue doorway, “She has just been abroad for two months though, very excited when she came back.”
The morgue door is heavy, ponderous and eerie as I push and hold it open for the two women to go in.
Ms Verity’s voice resounds in the small windowless reception area, “Very nervous, scared for the first time ever too now I think about it.”
Bitter at herself now, “Strange, I just dismissed it - she was often a touch paranoid at home after she had been somewhere bad. But far worse this time. She started putting her home alarm on, something she never did, going circuitous routes, suspicious of anything, everything odd. Definitely jumpy. God, I should have listened, helped.”
Any hint what it was, where she was?
“India and China mainly.”
59
Whittle becomes all practical as we go into the viewing room, a window between us and the body. I shudder, stumble slightly at the sudden thought that this is where I may next see Bess and Grace, unrecognisable after seven years of decomposition. Grief and anger are like bursting explosions
in my chest as I lean thankfully unnoticed against the grey-green wall behind them.
The curtains pull back, plunging me into someone else’s grief. Ms Verity is all controlled steadfastness, confirming it is her friend laid out on the trolley with only the head uncovered, the undamaged side facing us. She studies her friend’s face for a long time in silence after nodding. The paperwork is signed in the soulless environment of the basement morgue’s reception area.
She almost visibly brightens as she whispers, “I would like to spend some time with her as soon as I can please.”
***
A new pot of tea and biscuits has appeared in the interview room and now the dead woman’s friend does partake, explaining that she did not feel like eating motorway service food on her way up but is now ravenous. Whittle fetches her the requested bacon sandwich and a coffee and pastry for me from the cafeteria while I sit beside on the sofa and pour her three cups of tea in rapid succession as she drinks avidly before devouring her doorstep size sandwich when it arrives. Whittle is in an arm chair noting everything said.
The details come quickly about of Pippa’s ex-husband, “Lovely man, just not suited, still friends.”
He now lives in Canada with a wife and three children. Whittle goes off to contact him and Pippa’s brother with the bad news.
The woman explains to me where Pippa has been staying, “A picturesque little holiday cottage up here, near a place called Aisby. Through Airbnb I think. Took it for a month after she came back from Asia. To finish off her research in a quiet place, I assumed, and she had fallen in love with Ancaster County too ‘life as it should be lived’ she said. Her cottage is idyllic, by a small lake and woods. No neighbours close.”
Her thoughts tumble on, seeking to keep her friend with her as long as possible, “I came up early on for a weekend, we had a lovely time. I loved Merian, Georgian, very pretty valley, and Ancaster Cathedral and Castle, country pubs, Ancaster Acre, we dodged all over in Pippa’s ‘Yellow Peril’, her little jeep. Unspoilt, ‘raw rural’ she called this area.”
She answers the question she can see coming, “But, no. Never would tell me what the real attraction of Ancaster County was. I actually thought it might be a man, was ready to be happy for her but she never said and I did ask. Just looked all mysterious and pleased with herself. Been up here for a month …. And not be coming home ever again now.”
As I stare into her eyes only a few feet away, noting the hints of silver sparkling in the blue surrounds and the hint of a gentle perfume, it just happens. I feel myself smile back with genuine warmth and feeling to reassure her, convey some real sympathy at her loss rather than be on automatic pilot as a cop, observing and analysing.
“Do call me Polly,” her voice repeats softly as she smiles in return and my gaze passes to Whittle who is watching me transfixed. Presumably amazed at how even the face of a melancholic DCI can be transformed by that slight warmth.
I become briskly matter of fact immediately as both women continue to stare at me, one surprised, the other I hope more settled.
Polly confirms the dead woman’s local and London addresses again; her mobile phone number is given and her social media details.
I go outside to ring and ask Gadd to check the dead woman’s phone records for the past three months and see if any numbers jump out locally, nationally or internationally through being called regularly or being those of any of our Albion House diners. I call to bring the ACC up to speed on where we now are, and she whistles at the news.
“Odd, Lucinda just rang to say she is already fielding calls about the dead body being the famous Pippa Langstaffe and every television and radio channel wants the live feed and digital copies of what is said at the Press Conference. Word is out, want to tell me how?”
“Must have leaked from the Met as not from us, only me and Whittle know so far.”
An afterthought, “It will be a major story in its own right DCI Cade, deflect a little from you and mean some parts of the media will demand the truth and not a cover up because of China.”
As I return Whittle is comforting a tearful Polly. I sit on the sofa beside them.
We continue and Polly becomes practical when we ask where her friend stores her research notes. She knows Pippa archives all photographs and research video to a digital storage account but not where.
“I know she does it meticulously, talked to me about doing it myself too but academia is not quite that openly cut-throat, yet.”
“She is very high tech though so probably has some advanced security file service on the web as her main store, any physical stuff may be at her house in Camden, alarm and safe are state of the art and new since she got back.”
There is a pause as Whittle leaves to answer two callers who have left messages.
Polly is content to sit in silence and minutes pass with us both locked in our own thoughts. I glance at a text that arrives on my phone, and then the sound of another jolts my companion to life.
She frowns as she asks, “But surely her laptop, mobile, everything were on her or are in the car or Aisby or at home in London?”
I explain we have officers going to both places. I do not reveal what the two texts from Whittle have just told me: both Pippa’s Aisby cottage and her Camden house have been professionally burgled, ransacked and all computers, photographs and documents stolen, the thieves ignoring other valuable items in the process. Forensics are on the way to both locations.
The ACC is alerted and will not mention these burglaries at the Press Conference, nor the fact that the dead body was moved to the ditch. We do not need to use that titbit now to get press coverage, as was the plan, and can keep it to ourselves for use later perhaps. The story is sensational enough as it is.
We now have five burglaries - the newspaper office, the school, possibly my mother’s house, Pippa’s two places - all connected by the same modus operandi and involving documents, photographs and data. But what are this so far invisible and highly professional bunch after, with increasing desperation it seems to make them be so blatant? Pippa’s houses are obvious: her research is the lure. My mother’s house: possibly just everyday burglars but no, too much of a coincidence. The school may be wanton vandalism, but too skilled surely to be simply that and again photographs were targeted? As they were at the newspaper office which saw the thieves simply search out what they sought. Are they all connected? Yes. Find out why and we will know much, possibly it all.
***
I am lost in thought as Polly nervously mangles another tissue in her hands. Before making a decision and looking directly into my face as we sit only a yard apart on the sofa.
I fear she is going to reach out and soothe my face which still shows the yellow and black bruises but cannot hide my surprise as she instead says, “When I was up here we talked about you DCI Cade. Understood why you had returned to such a beautiful part of the world.”
I frown as she goes on reassuringly, “Nothing bad, Cal.”
I am astounded and show it, both that she should know me, my Christian name and use it.
The explanation comes, “Pippa and I were at Cambridge together, I read Modern Languages, Pips did History, we were two years behind you, different college.”
I am suddenly still, face blank, bleak, unresponsive. Polly moves closer and puts her hand on my arm for the slightest of moments with instinctive gentleness at causing pain, and pulls it quickly away as she feels me tense.
“We were Polly and Pippa, friends from day one at Cambridge, known as ‘The Two P’s’ by one and all”, she continues to cover her embarrassment at the raw desolation that she has brought upon me now.
Her beguiling eyes and husky voice continue to make amends, softly, “Sorry, I just wanted to tell you in case you remembered and wondered why I had not mentioned it. You cannot remember us?”
I rouse to reassure, “A nagging thought that I had met Pippa, then you too but could not tie it down – Cambridge Backs in summer, Bess too and Jerry?”
“No reason why you should remember, years ago, we talked for an hour, only that once, the five of us.”
I can remember, vaguely. Sun breaking through the vast array of tall trees, the bird song of a warm May all around, as we sat on the lawn by the river at Bess’ college watching the small fleet of punts drifting by, with students and tourists streaming over the nearby stone bridges to other Medieval colleges all around.
“We were so sorry about what happened to your wife and child, you and Bess really were the classic ‘young couple desperately in love’, that was your reputation you know.”
I actually smile and she is encouraged, “Pippa admired Bess and her commitment to being a GP, nothing more, nothing less would do, has talked about her since a couple of times.”
I stand, mumble an apology, try not to stumble as without a word I make my way the few steps to window framing the dark sky and snow fluttering down.
Whittle returns ten minutes later to find us stood a yard apart, each frozen in our own unique sorrows, each staring out at the windswept snow covered car park, lost in better days now irretrievably gone for both of us.
The DC has organised a room for Polly at a nearby hotel, and will deal with the questions about when the body is likely to be free for burial and a time for her to be with Pippa.
With that Polly is ushered to the door, shaking hands and saying, “Sad to meet again in such circumstances, Cal, perhaps next time will be better.”
Whittle picks up on the implication and looks quizzically at me and then quickly away as I stay the departure to ask, “One other thing Ms Verity, did Pippa have a very special perfume, one she always wore?”
Surprise describes Polly’s reaction but she stays the urge to ask ‘why?’ and answers, “Nothing particular. Though the latest was L’Interdit I think by Givenchy, tribute to her favourite film-star Audrey Hepburn she said.”
Her mind flies to a recent conversation, “Pippa was quite animated about it if I remember, regaled me that it had top notes of Bulgarian rose and aldehydes, middle of jasmine and pink pepper and bass notes of orris root and tonic. Sheer jargon to me but Pips was well into the perfume stuff. That one time, soon after China, a couple of months ago. Cost about £100 for the bottle when she bought it duty free.”
Bitter Pastoral_A DCI Caleb Cade Crime Thriller of rural Ancaster County. Page 36