She

by Pete Brassett

  Delgado glanced at Cole and shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘I cleaned up a bit,’ he said.

  Munro, his attention focused on the sink, spoke without moving.

  ‘Your friend’s away,’ he said, softly. ‘You’re not stopping here, you’ve clearly not eaten here, and yet, you “cleaned up a bit”?’

  ‘That’s right. I hate mess, Inspector. I like everything to be neat and tidy.’

  ‘So do I, Mr. Delgado,’ said Munro, spinning on his heels, hand outstretched, ‘so do I. Keys, if you please. The ones with the Mati on the chain.’

  Delgado raised his eyebrows in shock as he reached in his pocket.

  ‘Mati?’ he said. ‘You’ve been leading me on, haven’t you, Inspector? You knew what it was all along. You are clever, only thing is, it’s not mine. It’s hers, they’re her keys, for here.’

  Munro, scratching his nose and frowning, made his way back to the lounge.

  ‘I’ve a wee problem, here, Mr. Delgado,’ he said. ‘You see, as far-fetched as your story sounds, it could, at a stretch, be construed as, believable. Thing is, I don’t believe it, and the young lady’s employers have reported her, as missing.’

  ‘Missing? Well, she obviously forgot to tell them she was going away. Silly thing.’

  ‘Aye. Possibly. But unlikely, wouldn’t you say?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘I think we need to spend some time together, you and I. I’ve a few more questions I’d like to ask. Would you mind coming with us?’

  ‘What? You mean… are you charging me with something? Are you arresting…’

  ‘No, no, no,’ said Munro, shaking his head. ‘Just a wee chat, that’s all. Of course, if you’d rather not join us now, I could always…’

  ‘Nope, that’s fine,’ said Delgado. ‘Happy to. Shall we?’

  * * *

  The sound of heavy boots, rapidly thumping their way up the wooden staircase, was adequate warning of Sergeant Cole’s imminent, but nonetheless, unsettling, arrival. West shuddered as he burst through the door sporting a satisfied grin on his face.

  ‘That’s our guest tucked up for the night, Guv,’ he said. ‘All sounds a bit rum, don’t you think? Him in that house, I mean.’

  ‘It does indeed, Tommy,’ said Munro, settling into his seat.

  ‘What shall we…’

  ‘The first thing we must do, Tommy, is attend to Detective Sergeant West, here.’

  ‘Come again? I don’t…’

  ‘Can you not see the poor lassie’s wasting away?’ said Munro. ‘There’s nothing left of her. Charlie, I know you’re weak with hunger but would you be offended if I asked you to fetch us all some supper? You being a fussy eater, I imagine…’

  ‘Bloody love to,’ said West, leaping from her desk. ‘What do you want, quick, before I faint.’

  ‘You choose,’ said Munro. ‘As long as there’s no garlic. Or chillies, or onions, or peppers, and nothing spicy, mind, like Indian, or Chinese, or…’

  ‘Chippy it is, then.’

  ‘Aye, a fish supper. That would be most agreeable. Now, I’m not keen on cod, or skate, nor plaice. I’ll have the haddock, please, and no vinegar on the chips. You could get yourself some deep-fried sushi.’

  ‘Ha. Ha. Sergeant Cole?’

  ‘Very kind, Miss. Saveloy and chips, do me fine.’

  Munro stood by the window and smiled as he watched West sprint across the green to the High Street.

  ‘I bet she’s not done that on the beat, eh, Tommy?’

  ‘Unlikely, Guv. Here’s the file from the lads downstairs, the ones who made the enquiries about Hannah Lawson.’

  ‘Most efficient. Convey my thanks when you see them next.’

  ‘They said they got a picture too, from the library, it’s the same shot they used on her I.D. card.’

  ‘Right, let’s take a look shall we, I wonder… Jumping Jehoshaphat, have you seen this?’

  ‘No, Guv, not had a chance.’

  Munro took the photograph from the file and passed it over.

  ‘Remind you of anyone?’ he said.

  ‘Bloody hell! Looks just like Parkes. If it ain’t, it’s her bleedin’ double, Guv, talk about dead ringers. Anything else in there?’

  Munro leafed through the pages, humming and shaking his head.

  ‘No. No. No, all seems perfectly normal. Even down to the fact that she never talked to her neighbours. That’s society for you these days, Tommy. Folk are more interested in their phones than their fellow man. Could be dead in your bed for a week and no-one would bat an eyelid.’

  ‘I think the dog would bark a bit,’ said Cole. ‘When he realised he wasn’t getting any dinner, like.’

  ‘Speaking of which.’

  West hurriedly doled out the soggy, paper-wrapped parcels and pulled three bottles from her jacket pockets.

  ‘I got us a beer too,’ she said. ‘If that’s alright, Sir. Just one each, it’s low alcohol, Mexican stuff, only 4%, you won’t get…’

  ‘Thank you, Charlie,’ said Munro, ‘that’s very thoughtful of you. Before you sit down…’

  ‘Oh, what now?’

  ‘Nothing, just take a look at that wee photograph Tommy has in his hand. Tell me what you think.’

  ‘Well, it’s obvious isn’t it?’ said West, as she stuffed a chip in her mouth. ‘It’s Annabel Parkes. Where’d you get it? The Farnsworth-Browns?’

  ‘The library.’

  ‘Don’t follow.’

  ‘That, is Hannah Lawson.’

  Sergeant Cole reached for the bottle opener as West, doing her best to swallow a piping-hot chip, coughed and spluttered, hoping no-one would attempt the Heimlich manoeuvre.

  ‘Holy crap,’ she said, glugging back the beer. ‘Are you serious? Really?’

  ‘Really,’ said Munro, returning to the window. ‘Eat up, afore it gets cold.’

  ‘But Guv…’

  West held a finger to her lips, instructing Cole to remain silent, as Munro, lost in thought, picked half-heartedly at his fish supper. Staring into the black, night sky, he waited, patiently, until they’d finished eating before taking a sip of beer and speaking.

  ‘Here is a theory for you,’ he said. ‘This, Annabel Parkes. We know she wasn’t, what you might call, fun-loving by nature, in fact, by all accounts, she was quite the opposite. Serious. Dour, even. And Samantha Baker likened her to a terrier, which suggests she also had a jealous side. Intensely jealous. So, let’s imagine for moment, that she knew about Harry and Miss Baker’s affair. Let’s say she knew they were seeing each other behind her back. Why, she’d be enraged, would she not? Furious, beside herself with anger. But what could she do? Leave him? File for divorce? Not the ideal solution for someone who’s insanely jealous. Why? Because that would leave him free to pursue his other love interest.’

  ‘You mean,’ said West, enthralled by Munro’s storytelling, ‘you mean, if I can’t have him, nobody can, kind of thing?’

  ‘Aye. Exactly. So, so what if she didn’t drown in Aldeburgh, after all? What if she simply, disappeared…’

  ‘And what?’ said Cole. ‘Reinvented herself as Hannah Lawson, came back and took care of Harry? Bit far-fetched, ain’t it, Guv?’

  ‘Is it, Tommy?’

  ‘Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, just to…’

  ‘As Mrs. Farnsworth-Brown said, hell hath no fury, Tommy. Hell hath no fury. Okay, assuming I’m right, let’s also assume that Hannah, or Annabel, is no longer with us, and we find the body. The problem then is how do we prove who she is?’

  ‘Easy, Guv,’ said Cole. ‘We get a DNA profile, job done.’

  ‘Full marks for enthusiasm, Tommy, but tell me, what do we match it to? If we’re to believe what the Farnsworth-Browns tell us, she has no family.’

  ‘Oh, yeah,’ said Cole. ‘Good point. Forgot about that.’

  ‘Ah, yes, but,’ said West, swigging her beer, ‘no family, alive. We could do a search – births, marriages, deaths, whatever – find a ne
xt of kin, and then, even if we have to exhume a body, we could get a match.’

  ‘You’re forgetting one thing, Charlie,’ said Munro, as he tossed the remnants of his dinner into the waste paper basket.

  ‘What? What have I missed?’

  ‘Annabel Parkes, is not her real name. Who would you search for?’

  ‘Bugger. Unless Hannah Lawson’s her real name.’

  ‘Doubtful,’ said Munro, reaching for the phone. ‘But we need to check. I’ve a quick call to make, then we’re off to look at Delgado’s place.’

  ‘What?’ said West. ‘You can’t do that, just turn up at his house and...’

  ‘Oh, I can, and I will. I have the keys and he’s not going anywhere. In fact, nip down and tell him we’re a bit, understaffed. May have to hold him a little longer than we anticipated. I’ll meet you in the car park.’

  ‘So much for an early night, then.’

  D.I. Ashford, believing the call to be from his wife, did his best to sound suitably harassed, thereby validating his claim to be working late at the office.

  ‘Chingford C.I.D,’ he said, gruffly. ‘Hold the…’

  ‘Jeff,’ said Munro. ‘It’s James.’

  ‘James! Oh, thank Christ for that.’

  ‘Are you okay?’

  ‘Couldn’t be better,’ said Ashford. ‘Just, er…’

  ‘Working late?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking. The wife’s got the neighbours round, can’t stand them. Should be gone by ten.’

  ‘I see,’ said Munro. ‘Listen, Jeff, I need a wee favour. Have you that young laddie with you, the chap I met at Jason Chan’s place?’

  ‘You mean Sean?’

  ‘Aye. Can you spare him?’

  ‘What do you need?’

  ‘Hannah Lawson. Cowley Road. Anything at all. Anything. Quick as you like.’

  ‘No probs. Leave with and I’ll give you a bell back.’

  CHAPTER 15

  “DID YOU LOVE HER?”

  Love her? Yes, of course I loved her. I loved everything about her. We only knew each other for a short space of time but within those few weeks, I’m not ashamed to say, she became my best friend. I loved the way she smiled, that wicked ‘up to no good’ smile. I loved the way she was so diligent about everything she did, no half measures. I loved the way she laughed. She enjoyed laughing, it was refreshing, particularly as virtually everyone you pass on the street these days looks so… so miserable, so pissed-off. And I loved the way she smelled, the smell of her skin, her hair. Pheromones. It was a perfect match. I don’t know of any smells that can send that, that tingle, up your spine.

  Or do you mean, was I ‘in love’ with her? If that’s the case, then I’m not sure. Infatuated, certainly. Fond? Without a doubt. Besotted? A little, perhaps. Actually, a lot. Having said that, if I was ‘in love’ with her, then that would explain everything, wouldn’t it? That would give me a reasonable excuse, make everything alright. I mean, people do stupid things when they’re in love, don’t they? Go along with anything, no matter how bad or crazy it sounds because, because love has that annoying ability to cloud one’s judgement. It draws a veil over reality. Makes sense, I suppose, I mean, why else would I have got involved? Let’s face it, what she got me to do was insane. Completely, insane. So, maybe you’re right. Maybe I was in love.

  Wood. Trees. You know what I mean? When you’re in that kind of situation, with someone you love, when you’re in the thick of it, it’s impossible to see just how bad what you’re doing really is. Your conscience, your morals, your love of mankind, go clean out the window. It was like we were playing a game. Just a couple of kids playing a game together, so engrossed in what they were doing that nothing could distract them. It’s like, you put the outside world on pause, then, when the game’s over, you pack up, go home, press play and normal life resumes. Normal life. Funny that. I don’t think I know what normal is anymore. Should make for a few interesting canvases, though.

  But did I love her? Yes, irrefutably.

  CHAPTER 16

  HALSTEAD ROAD, WANSTEAD. 8:09pm

  West vaulted the stairs two at a time, paused on the landing as she counted the rooms and headed for the front bedroom. It matched her clichéd expectations of how an artist, tortured of mind and soul, might live. The floor, barely visible, was strewn with clothes destined for the washing machine, the bedside table groaned with the weight of tannin-stained teacups and half-full tumblers of water, and the walls were covered in sketches and ballpoint doodles held fast with masking tape. The bed, she decided, appeared too much of a health hazard to investigate without protective clothing. She was having second thoughts about getting ‘close’ with Delgado.

  A cursory search of the bathroom revealed nothing out of the ordinary, no prescription medication, no blood-stained razor blades, not even a bottle of aspirin, while the back bedroom was used for storing canvases, jars of turpentine and nine-roll packs of toilet tissue. She found Munro in the rear reception room.

  ‘Ah,’ she said. ‘So this is where it all happens.’

  ‘Aye, obviously uses this as his studio,’ said Munro, as he sifted through the debris on the floor with the end of a pencil. ‘Anything?’

  ‘No, clean. In a manner of speaking. Apart from his bedroom.’

  ‘Bad?’

  ‘I’ve seen worse,’ said West. ‘Still makes you want to shower, though.’

  ‘So much for liking everything neat and tidy,’ mumbled Munro.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Nothing. Tell me, Charlie, are all artists still… impoverished, these days?’

  ‘Not likely,’ said West. ‘Make a bloody fortune, some of them.’

  ‘Is that so? Remind me to stop by the art shop, tomorrow. I’ll be needing some brushes.’

  ‘What have you got?’ she said, smirking. ‘Anything we can use?’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ said Munro, pointing to an open rucksack. ‘Overalls. Why would he be wanting those?’

  ‘To protect his clothes, of course, why else?’

  ‘Aye, I ken what you mean,’ said Munro. ‘But disposable ones? Even the chappie who paints the front of your house wouldnae wear these. And look here, scalpel blades…’

  ‘Well, it’s not just surgeons who use them, I mean…’

  ‘Quite. But look here, see, these on the floor, they’re dirty, covered in paint or broken, it’s this one that bothers me, on the handle, it’s…’

  ‘He’s changed the blade,’ said West. ‘obviously, for a new one…’

  ‘No, no. This blade isn’t new, it’s scratched and the tip’s snapped off. It’s been wiped cleaned.’

  ‘Doesn’t make sense, why clean…’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Munro, hauling himself to his feet. ‘Bag it with the overalls, please Charlie, get them off to the lab, quick as you like, Tommy can do it. And tell them I need answers by the morning.’

  ‘Got it. What now?’

  ‘Lawson’s place. I think it’s time we had a wee nose around.’

  * * *

  The neighbour, an elderly lady who mistakenly believed the net curtains would render her invisible, watched, silhouetted by the light of her lounge, as Munro searched for the right key. West smiled and waved as the door popped open, causing her to vanish from view.

  ‘There’s nothing down here,’ said Munro, closing the door. ‘Nothing but the stench of bleach, masking the odour of some heinous crime.’

  ‘Bit dramatic, isn’t it?’ said West. ‘Not to mention presumptuous.’

  ‘Trust me, Charlie. I’ve a feeling about this place, and it’s not a good one. Up we go.’

  The bathroom was scrupulously clean. Too clean. The comparison between it, and Harry’s place, was inevitable, with, Munro noted, one minor, but significant, difference. There were no personal effects. No toothbrush, no toothpaste. No shampoo, no soap, no shower gel. No towels, no sponges, no flannels.

  ‘Hannah Lawson,’ he said, joining West in the bedroom, ‘is not coming back.’<
br />
  ‘How can you be so sure?’

  ‘I just am. What on earth are you doing?’

  West, flat on her stomach, dragged herself out from under the bed.

  ‘Cons,’ she said, blowing dust from her chest. ‘Four pairs. Look.’

  ‘Size?’

  ‘Five. And look at this, left heel. Worn.’

  ‘Bingo. Let’s have them away, see if they don’t match the prints from Harry’s place.’

  ‘Just the back room, then,’ said West.

  ‘It’s not worth it, Charlie,’ said Munro. ‘We’ve got what we need.’

  ‘Might as well, as we’re here, only take a minute.’

  The spare room, barely large enough to accommodate a single bed, was crammed with unwanted furniture and the kind of ephemera associated with moving house: an antique writing desk, an old wardrobe, plastic carrier bags stuffed with, obviously unwanted, clothes, a suitcase, a couple of lampshades and a box filled with assorted crockery and utensils.

  ‘Junk,’ said Munro. ‘Come, lassie, we’ve work to do.’

  West, ignoring his plea, rummaged through the bags like a bargain hunter at a boot sale, turning her nose up at the questionable array of patterned sweaters.

  ‘Rubbish,’ she said, turning her attention to the desk and opening the drawers one by one. ‘Empty. Empty. Empty.’

  As was the suitcase. She dragged the box of crockery from the front of wardrobe, managing, just, to open one door.

  ‘Well?’ said Munro, impatiently. ‘Are you satisfied, now?’

  ‘Empty,’ she said, closing the door. ‘Okay, we can…

  She stopped, mid-sentence, glanced at Munro and stood aside.

  ‘You’d better take a look at this.’

  Munro stepped forward, heaved the crockery into the hall and swung the door open wide. Pinned to the back was a photograph of Harry, colour, old style, the kind that came from a roll of film. Next to it, a web page printed on plain paper advertising a second-hand lawnmower for sale and above that, an image of a half-naked man, oriental in appearance, slumped on a sofa.

  ‘Chantheman,’ whispered Munro. ‘Thanks, Charlie.’