She took a deep breath. ‘Yes,’ she said ‘It was quite awful. I don’t think I shall ever get it out of my head.’ She took a shaky sip of her tea.
‘I understand,’ said Mariner. ‘But it would be helpful if I could ask you one or two questions. Is that all right?’
‘Yes, of course. I’ll do whatever I can to help, but I didn’t really see very much. When I realised — I just wanted to get away, you see?’ She looked up at Mariner. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
As she herself had predicted, Mrs Collins could add little more to what he already knew. She had gone across to the woodland just as it was starting to get light to gather her mushrooms. ‘It’s been such a good year for them,’ she said. ‘All this rain and the mild weather. You have to be very careful, of course, but if you know what you’re looking for . . . anyway, I was just walking around looking at the ground. I left the path because that’s usually better, and I know the woods very well. But I’d forgotten to wear my glasses, so really I was just looking for anything bright that stood out from all the dead leaves. When I saw that little row of white, rounded stalks sticking up, I just thought . . . well . . . you know. Then I got closer and saw the nails . . . I couldn’t make sense of it at first. It seemed incomprehensible . . . I thought I must be imagining it . . . then it dawned on me . . .’ A tremor passed through her hands as she took the cup to her lips again and sipped at her tea.
‘Did you see anyone else around at that time?’ Mariner asked.
‘No one at all. I rarely do. I go at first light, so it’s too early even for people taking their dogs.’
‘What about before today?’ Mariner asked. ‘Have you seen any people or vehicles there that you wouldn’t expect to, at odd times of the day perhaps?’
She shook her head. ‘It’s hard to say. The woods are very popular with walkers, dog walkers and bird watchers. Then of course there are the forestry people who come and go. Quite a lot of the time there are cars or vans of one kind or another parked there. It’s more noticeable when there’s no one.’
‘And you haven’t seen anyone around there behaving in an unusual manner? Perhaps someone unsuitably dressed who hasn’t got a dog, or binoculars to watch the birds?’
‘I can’t think that I have. I’m sorry.’
‘There’s nothing to apologise for,’ Mariner smiled. From his inside jacket pocket, he produced one of the cards with his phone numbers on it. ‘If you think of anything after I’ve gone, you can tell it to Kelly here, or you can reach me on these numbers. You’ve had quite a shock. Is there anyone you’d like us to contact?’
‘Oh no, I’ll be all right,’ she said. ‘Everyone has been very kind.’
Walking back down the track to the woods Mariner saw that from here, thanks to the high beech hedges, the road and car park were all but hidden from Irene Collins’ house, so that if anyone had wanted to come to the woods during the night they could very easily have done so in privacy. A little further down the road he could see what looked like a complex of barn conversions and realised they would also need to talk to whoever lived there — but those were the only other properties in sight.
Approaching the lane, the smell of manure became stronger again. In his mind’s eye Mariner saw Grace’s pale and lifeless features and the fleshy, marbled toes that Irene Collins had come across, and finally the contents of his stomach came bubbling up to the surface. It was while he was vomiting into the hedgerow, the foul taste of soured red wine in his mouth, that it came to him, the thing that had been nagging at his brain. Dropping a couple of tabs of mint chewing gum into his mouth, he went back to find Jesson at the car. ‘We know that Rosa had two jobs,’ he said. ‘I think in addition to the cleaning, she works in hospitality, as a waitress or something. That’s what the badge is about and it’s why she would be going out in the evenings and coming home late at night.’
‘It beats the other alternative,’ said Jesson. ‘But wherever she works it must be somewhere that lets her dress casually,’ she added. ‘The clothes we were sent included jeans.’
‘That would be acceptable in some bars,’ said Mariner. ‘Or it could be that she changes into some kind of uniform when she’s at work. We think she’s been trying to hide her job, remember? When you get back, contact the foster mother and see if she feels able to ask Dominique the direct question.’
* * *
On the way back to Granville Lane, Mariner had Jesson drop him off outside the house belonging to Councillor and Mrs Clifton. The FLO was waiting outside in her car and Mariner quickly briefed her on the team’s grim discovery in Pepper Wood before they walked up the drive and rang the doorbell.
For most of the time Mariner enjoyed his job, but this was the part he hated most, and neither time nor experience made it any easier. Along with Grace’s parents, her brother and sister were also present, and he was conscious that his every word and gesture would be remembered and replayed in all of their minds — perhaps not today, but frequently in the future — and that he needed to make this as quick and painless for them as he possibly could. He could have scripted their responses himself. The Clifton women seemed to dissolve, seeking comfort in one another, while Grace’s father and brother absorbed the news with quiet stoicism and stunned disbelief. Councillor Clifton asked his daughter to take her mother from the room.
‘I want to know everything,’ he said to Mariner when they had gone. His tone was meek, all the self-importance leached out of him. While Mariner recounted the details of how Grace had been found, Clifton leaned forward in his seat, his knuckles whitened by the tight clasp of his hands, and Mariner felt a new sympathy for the man.
‘Grace had a gold chain around her neck,’ he said. ‘A necklace with a letter P on it. Do you know anything about that?’
But Clifton didn’t, and neither did his son. ‘I’ll ask my wife and daughter,’ he said, his voice hoarse with emotion, ‘when the time is right.’
‘Of course,’ said Mariner.
Showing Mariner out a little later, Clifton said, ‘I know you weren’t sure at first. You thought, as we hoped, that she’d run away.’ There was no trace of bitterness in his tone, only weary resignation. ‘I don’t blame you.’
‘You don’t need to,’ Mariner told him truthfully. ‘I’m perfectly capable of doing that myself. I’m very sorry,’ he went on. ‘It goes without saying that we’ll do everything in our power to find out who is responsible.’
Chapter Seventeen
Mariner had the FLO drop him back at his house, where he was able to get a quick shower and a change of clothes before going into Granville Lane. ‘Stay close,’ he instructed her as he got out of the car. ‘And make sure someone asks Grace’s mother and sister about that necklace.’
Despite the shock and the disappointment that this was how the search for Grace Clifton had ended, the incident room was buzzing, a new resolve fuelled by the imperative of finding out what had happened to her, and why. When Mariner arrived, Vicky Jesson was sharing details of the morning’s events.
‘And there’s no doubt that it’s her?’ asked Superintendent Sharp.
‘None whatsoever,’ Mariner confirmed, slipping into the back of the crowded room.
‘How did her parents take it?’ Charlie Glover asked.
‘About as you’d expect,’ said Mariner. ‘They’re devastated, of course, but Councillor Clifton was very restrained under the circumstances. It could have been far worse. We’ve got people out searching the rest of the woods?’ he turned to ask Sharp.
‘As we speak,’ she said, standing up. ‘All right with you if Dawson and I handle the press on this?’ she asked Mariner. He was only too happy to let her take the lead. ‘Right, I’ll let you all get on.’ The meeting broke up as people went about their assigned tasks.
‘How are you feeling?’ Jesson asked Mariner.
‘I’ve had better days.’
‘Did you ask about the necklace?’
> ‘Clifton didn’t know anything about it, but he’s agreed to talk to his wife and daughter when he gets the chance,’ said Mariner. ‘They weren’t in any fit state to answer those kinds of questions. I’ve told the FLO to prompt the conversation if necessary, but we probably won’t be hearing from them for a while.’
‘I keep wondering, why P?’ said Jesson. ‘We’ve been all over her laptop, social networks and that. I can check the list again, but I can’t think of anyone we’ve come across with that initial, except for her best friend: P for Pippa.’
‘Pippa Talbot?’ For some reason Mariner hadn’t thought of her. He wasn’t so sure. ‘Do girls that age still wear trinkets dedicated to their best friend?’
‘It would be unusual,’ admitted Jesson. ‘By eighteen they’ve normally grown out of all that little-girly stuff.’
‘Unless it signals more than just friendship,’ said Mariner. ‘Everyone’s been pretty keen to tell us that Grace doesn’t have a boyfriend right now, but do we know for certain that she’s interested in boys? And do we know anything about Pippa’s sexual preferences?’
‘Even if it does relate to Pippa, she might not know anything about it,’ Glover chimed in. ‘Grace could have had a secret crush on her friend.’
‘It’s possible, I suppose.’ Jesson was dubious. ‘But if it’s not Pippa, it could be a friend or boyfriend that either no one’s telling us about—’
‘Or who no one knows about,’ said Mariner.
‘It could be a secret admirer that Grace herself was unaware of,’ added Glover.
‘All of which are feasible,’ Mariner said. ‘We’ll need to trawl back though everyone she knew, talk to family and friends again to see if they can identify anyone with that initial.’
Jesson’s mobile rang and she stepped away to answer it. ‘Dominique’s foster mum,’ she explained, as the call came to an end. ‘Dominique has confirmed that her mum works in a hotel. It’s called the Bell and something, but that’s all she could get.’
‘The Bell and something?’ Glover frowned. ‘There’s the Bell in Harborne, or there used to be the old Bell and Pump folk club in Edgbaston, but they’re not hotels.’
‘Perhaps her mum told her it was a hotel because it sounds . . . I don’t know, more respectable?’ said Jesson.
‘I don’t think it’s the Bell and anything,’ said Mariner, recalling his walk the previous night. ‘I think it’s the Belvedere Hotel on Hill Street. To get from Symphony Hall to the Arcadian, Grace Clifton would have walked right past it.’
Charlie was still frowning. ‘That name seems familiar.’
‘You know it?’ Jesson asked.
Frustratingly, Charlie shook his head. ‘I think so, but I can’t think why. It’ll come back to me.’
‘Vicky, you go and talk to Pippa Talbot about the necklace,’ said Mariner. ‘If it’s not relevant then we need to rule it out as quickly as possible, and it would be useful to see if there’s anything she can add to her statement now that we’ve found Grace. You can gauge her reaction too. Charlie, you can come with me.’
* * *
Although a well-established hotel, in recent years the Belvedere had undergone something of an identity crisis. Lacking the historical credentials of the Burlington or the Plough and Harrow, it had been radically refurbished in various attempts to adapt to the fierce competition of the newly built city centre hotels. What had emerged was an uncomfortable hybrid of traditional and new. The reception area was rooted predominantly in the past, with a mock-Regency theme comprising richly patterned carpets, plush upholstery and crystal chandeliers that gave an illusion of opulence. The adjacent bar, on the other hand, was a vision of glossy black and chrome furnishings built more for style than comfort.
Identifying himself, Mariner asked to speak to the hotel manager, but he and Glover were kept waiting in the lobby for nearly half an hour before a tall, immaculately groomed woman in her mid-thirties — doubtless the product of some kind of graduate training programme — asked them to come through to her office. Miss Karpinski offered refreshments, which they both declined.
‘What can you tell us about Rosa Batista?’ Mariner asked.
The manager seemed surprised by the question. ‘Rosa? She has been with us for a short time only,’ she said, her voice lightly accented. ‘I can tell you a little, but our housekeeper and bar manager will be able to tell you more about her day-to-day work. I will ask them to join us. Excuse me one moment.’ Lifting the receiver on her desk she asked the person at the other end to fetch Gilda and Ricardo.
‘How would you describe Rosa?’ Mariner asked, while they waited.
‘Up until this week I would have said that she was a good worker — very reliable,’ said the manager. ‘But she didn’t come to work last Monday morning and we haven’t heard from her since then.’
‘We think there might be a very good reason for that,’ said Mariner. ‘Can you tell me something about the nature of her work here?’
‘A few weeks ago, Rosa started working two different jobs for us. She started out as a part-time cleaner doing the ten-’til-two shift on week days. I understand she has a young daughter so she needed a job that would fit into her time at school. Then, in the middle of August, we had a bad virus rip through our bar staff. Rosa happened to be in on a day when we realised we would be really short-staffed. She offered to cover the bar for a couple of nights. I think she was glad of the extra money. The references she brought with her when she first applied to work here were for bar work anyway, and she had much experience. It seemed like the perfect solution for us. To begin with it was just temporary cover, but then we had another of our bar staff resign, so we gave Rosa a proper contract for the bar, Friday and Saturday nights.’
‘But she still comes in to clean?’
‘On the days when her daughter is at school. She wanted it that way, and I thought, why not? Up until this week, I don’t think she has ever had a day off sick. She works very hard and she uses her initiative. She is determined to provide a solid future for her daughter. On one occasion when the bar manager was absent she took over as acting manager and I know that I can trust her.’
‘Do you know who cares for Rosa’s daughter when she is here at the weekends?’ Mariner asked.
The manager shrugged. ‘I don’t know. I guess the child’s father?’
There was a knock on the door and she called out to admit two people. Ricardo, the bar manager, was a short and stocky Mediterranean-looking man of about forty, with thinning, slicked-back hair. Behind his glasses he had the remains of what looked like a nasty black eye. His colleague, Gilda, was a little older than him: a small, undernourished-looking woman, dressed in a domestic’s tunic. She took the only spare seat and there was a further delay while Ricardo disappeared to fetch a chair for himself. When he too was sitting down, the manager explained the reason for Mariner’s visit. ‘The police are asking about Rosa Batista,’ she said.
‘It appears that her daughter, Dominique, has been at home alone since last Saturday night, and no one else seems to have seen Rosa since then,’ Mariner added. ‘I wonder if you could tell me if she arrived for work on Saturday night?’ He directed the question at Ricardo.
Ricardo’s accent was stronger than the manager’s, and Mariner had to concentrate hard to pick up everything he said. He confirmed that Rosa had worked her usual shift on Saturday, leaving, as far as he was aware, to go straight home shortly after midnight. He too seemed puzzled by Rosa’s disappearance and was adamant that she would not have walked out on her child. ‘That girl is the light of her life,’ he said.
‘And that’s the last time any of you saw her?’
Gilda shrugged. ‘She didn’t come to do her cleaning shift on Monday morning,’ she said. ‘Sometimes this happens with other workers but this was so strange for Rosa.’
‘Has anyone tried to contact her?’ Mariner asked.
‘We have a number for her mobile phone, but it goes straight to voicemail,’ Gild
a said. ‘I tried maybe four or five times, then I gave up and told Miss Karpinski.’ As she spoke, she glanced towards her boss.
‘Didn’t you think it was odd, when up until then she had been so reliable?’
The manager’s tone remained cool. ‘I think you don’t know much about hotel work, Inspector,’ she said. ‘It is not well paid. It is a common thing for workers to suddenly not come to work and then you have to find someone else.’
‘What time does the bar close?’ Mariner asked Ricardo.
‘Eleven thirty,’ said Ricardo. ‘There was a group out for a company social event and they made a real mess, so it took a little while to clear it up. After Rosa had finished cashing up the tills she came to help too, then we went to have a cigarette outside and I left her to lock up at about midnight.’
‘How did Rosa seem? Was anything bothering her?’
Ricardo shrugged. ‘I think we spoke about what we would do the next day, on Sunday. She was going to buy her little girl a new coat.’
‘Was there anything different about Saturday night? Did you notice anyone paying Rosa particular attention during the evening?’
Saturday had been typically busy, Ricardo said. People were letting their hair down, but things hadn’t got out of hand the way they sometimes could. Nor had he noticed anything untoward in Rosa’s interactions with the customers.
‘What do you mean when you say things can get out of hand?’ asked Mariner. ‘Does this have anything to do with the accident Rosa suffered at work a few weeks ago?’
‘Oh, that . . . that was not so much an accident,’ Ricardo said. ‘But it was very unusual. One of the customers, he was making a nuisance of himself.’
‘In what way?’ asked Mariner.
‘He got very drunk and abusive. I asked him to leave, but he refused. I tried to calm him down but there was a scuffle. Rosa came to help and we were both a little hurt. She was OK, apart from just a little bruising, but I went to go to the hospital to get my eye checked out. It seemed like we were there nearly all night. I told Rosa to go home, but she stayed with me.’
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