‘Did she recognise you?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so. She didn’t react, anyway. She’d just come out of the bookshop next door. She stepped back, then walked past and into the hotel on the same block.’
Sophie stared at her. ‘A hotel? Are you sure?’
‘Mum, I’m not totally stupid. I know a hotel when I see one, particularly when it has a big sign outside.’
‘That’s not what I meant, Jade, as you well know. She definitely went in?’
‘Yes, as if she was staying there. And the bookshop was a small, antiquarian type of place. The kind of bookshop Dad likes.’
Sophie thought for a moment. ‘I think I know where that hotel is. And you saw her come out of a bookshop? Thanks, Jade. Very observant of you.’ Her mind went back to the search of Pauline Stopley’s flat. A row of birthday cards had been displayed on a shelf. One of them was from her sister Dorothy, hand-made with a rhyme on the inside. That rhyme had been carefully crafted.
‘Aren’t you going to pat me on the head like you used to when I was little? I miss those motherly touches. They were an important part of my early childhood development.’
Sophie looked exasperated. ‘Jade, you’re four inches taller than me. I can’t reach. And you’re winding me up again, aren’t you? Just you wait till Jamie comes round again. I’ll get my own back.’
‘That’s the spirit, Mum. A bit of gentle teasing never hurt anyone, according to Dad. I’m immune to it after all the years. I’m surprised you fell for it just then. Didn’t he ever tease you? When you were both much, much younger, I mean?’
Sophie narrowed her eyes. ‘That’s two provocations in two minutes. I’m not going to fall into your trap. Has he put you up to this?’
Jade didn’t answer. She popped another spoonful of trifle into her mouth and shifted her attention back to her revision cards. Sophie phoned Barry Marsh, asking if they had an address for Dorothy Kitson.
‘I think we do but it’s back in the incident room. Trouble is, ma’am, Dorothy seems not to be around at the moment. Theresa reported that she has missed some of her cleaning jobs, not just the one at Finch Cottage.’
‘But that means we might have some legitimate concerns about her wellbeing, don’t you think? Busy at the moment, Barry?’
* * *
Within an hour, both detectives were standing outside the door of a small flat. It was one of ten in a shabby building in a back street west of Dorchester town centre. Dorothy’s flat was on the second floor. There was no lift and the stairs were uncarpeted. Barry rang the doorbell. There was no answer.
‘Check the flat next door, Barry. If anyone’s in, ask if they have a spare key.’
Marsh dutifully rang the bell for the adjoining apartment. He was soon talking to a hard-faced woman who was clearly upset at being called away from her favourite soap on the television. Yes, she did keep a key for her neighbour’s flat.
‘We’re concerned about her,’ Marsh explained. ‘Even her sister has been unable to contact her for several days so we need to check that she is alright. Would you like to accompany us, madam?’
The neighbour seemed about to reply in the negative, but then her programme’s theme music sounded signifying the end of the evening’s instalment. She said she would come with them but wait in the hall.
The single-bedroom flat was sparsely furnished but clean and tidy. They looked into the rooms but there was no sign of Dorothy, and nothing indicating where she was. The neighbour locked the door and Marsh and Sophie left the building.
‘Weren’t you tempted to have a closer look, ma’am?’
‘Of course I was. I’m only human, Barry. But it’s a legal minefield. We were there with the stated purpose of checking on her safety, with the neighbour as a witness. If we’d started nosing about, anything we found could be declared inadmissible in court. There are only two ways we can safely search someone’s property: with their permission or with a warrant. Anything else might put the case at risk, and it’s just not worth the gamble, not unless the stakes are high. Anyway, I had a good look round as I’m sure you did.’
‘Some simple artwork on the walls,’ he said. ‘A few old photos, maybe of her and her sister when they were small, though it’s difficult to be sure. Some books, mainly romance novels. A few magazines on a shelf in the lounge. A dark blue anorak hanging up in the hall.’
Sophie nodded. ‘Well spotted. Also a bottle of Amaretto, along with a few other drinks, inside the glass-fronted cupboard in the kitchen.’
‘Ah,’ Barry said.
‘Several small books of late twentieth century poetry on a shelf in the lounge recess. Including Ted Hughes. So.’
‘So?’
She nodded slowly. ‘It’s possible we may have discovered our poet, though I’m not sure how important that might prove to be. In the 1960s Ted Hughes wrote a volume of poetry called “Crow.” The poems were bleak in the extreme. That was the book I spotted back there.’
‘Ah,’ Barry said again. ‘Er . . . so?’
Sophie laughed. ‘Stop talking Chinese, Barry. Let’s get back to Wareham. A couple of beers are required at this stage. Rae wants to meet up with us for some reason. It sounds as if she might be onto something.’
* * *
Sophie drained half of her glass in one swallow. Rae watched, her mouth open.
‘Small glasses of white wine are fine in their time and place. But this isn’t the place and the time isn’t now. It’s Friday evening. The beer’s particularly good tonight.’
‘Where did you pick up the taste for beer? Was it when you were a student?’
‘No, oddly enough. When I was growing up in Bristol I had a rascal of a great uncle. My mum and I lived with him and Auntie Olive when I was a baby, and we stayed close to them even after we moved to our own place. They didn’t have children of their own. Uncle Reggie was great fun. He used to tickle me, and would reduce me to fits of giggles. He taught me all the bad habits: how to swear, smoke and drink. He said he didn’t want me growing up into a swotty little snob. Maybe he could see the writing on the wall, even when I was only eight or nine. Well, I never took to smoking. It made me sick. Even the swearing wasn’t a great success from his point of view. I knew all the words but he said I sounded too intellectual when I used them. Anyway, he took up home brewing when I was about fourteen and I used to go round and help him with it. I suppose that was the start of my beer drinking. I took over the brewing when he had a stroke and couldn’t do it anymore. I must have been about sixteen. I even put it on my university application form. The admissions tutor at Oxford asked me about it in my interview. He was particularly interested in the use of black treacle in my recipe for stout. He had a background in biochemistry, apparently. The law tutor was less impressed, but I had enough other stuff to win her over.’
Marsh spoke. ‘I remember you telling us you were estranged from your mother’s parents. Did you never meet them?’
‘No. As far as I know, my mother never sought them out either. What I did discover quite recently was that she’d sent them news of me from time to time. A copy of my O level results, and my A levels, along with a copy of the acceptance letter for Oxford. My graduation photo. That was it. By the time I got my masters, they were both dead. My mum never stopped hating them. When she heard they had died her only comment was, "good riddance." I can understand it, considering what they did to her.’ She sipped her beer. ‘Let’s get down to business. What have you found out, Rae?’
‘It’s Pauline Stopley, ma’am. Hong Kong sent a detailed report of her attempts to trace the children. Apparently she’s been visiting every year since they went missing and she really pushed the police to keep the search going. She’s never missed a single year. They would probably have given up years ago if she hadn’t been there so often, making a fuss. It doesn’t fit with the idea that she caused their disappearance, does it? One of their seniors wants you to phone him tomorrow, if possible, to fill you in on the details.’
Rae nodded. ‘If it was her who killed the twins I can understand she might make a couple of visits to play the grieving stepmother, but then she’d let them tail off, surely? She’s a bit of a complex person, isn’t she? Why wasn’t she more open with us during her interviews if she had nothing to hide?’
‘I couldn’t begin to speculate. She’s wrong-footed me several times. I just can’t read her. It hurts, that. It makes a dent in my enormous ego.’ Sophie laughed. ‘We’ll need to speak to her again soon. She and her sister might be the only two people who can enlighten us about a possible link between Dr Camberwell and John Wethergill. One of those two women must have known something about the sale of that Bristol house, surely? As I said to Barry, the elusive Dorothy might be in Weymouth at the moment. My eagle-eyed daughter, Jade, had a sighting. And several clues have come to light that could put her in the frame. So, Rae, you and I might have a day at the seaside tomorrow.’ She looked at her empty glass. ‘Your round, Barry.’
‘Ah,’ he said.
‘So,’ Sophie added, and smirked.
Chapter 34: Whatever Makes You Happy
Saturday morning, week 4
Pauline Stopley was feeling restless. She couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything, and it worried her. She felt a deep sense of betrayal by people she’d trusted two decades ago, people who’d vanished or died during the intervening years. Her self-confidence had received a severe jolt. She was beginning to feel as if she were turning into her sister, with her super-sensitive nerves. It didn’t help that she couldn’t find Dorothy. She was the only person who might be able to explain the sequence of bewildering events that had been happening lately. Dorothy had always lived in Dorchester, so she might be able to shed some light on the key periods when Pauline had been away on tour or living elsewhere. How could she have been kept so utterly in the dark for so long?
She rose from her desk and walked to the window, looking down blankly on the street below. Who was she hoping to see? No one. There was no one left. Jill had called her earlier to say that their affair was off for the time being. News of it had got out and Jill needed to go into damage limitation mode. She might (might? Ha!) get in touch the following week if things settled down quickly. Now she needed time to work out what would be best for her and the family. Not much hope there.
John was dead. Unsophisticated, straightforward John, so convinced he was worldly-wise, but in reality a complete innocent when it came down to the nitty-gritty physicality of sexual liaisons. Dead. Did he deserve that? Pauline sighed. The problem was, she didn’t really know. She didn’t know where she stood with anybody any more. And what was more, she’d seriously antagonised the police. Why? Why had she acted in such an arrogant way? She couldn’t possibly have selected two worse people to come on to. For god’s sake, the husband and daughter of the very detective who was in charge of the case! What had been going on in her head? Now they’d be watching her every move. Was her phone bugged? Had a tracking device been planted on her car? Was she being tailed everywhere she went? She couldn’t tell. Were they allowed to do such things in modern Britain? She just didn’t know and wasn’t in the right mental frame to find out. She needed a friend to talk to who would offer reassurance, but there was nobody. How deeply would the police probe? How far back would they go? Pauline sensed that a lot of hidden truths were about to be exposed, and her life would never be the same again. The whole messy business was out of control. Fuck that stupid, selfish sister of hers! Pauline had rarely needed to call on her for help, and now that she desperately needed to speak to Dorothy the self-obsessed bitch was nowhere to be found. Maybe she’d mentioned something to the church minister before she’d walked out on her cleaning job and disappeared from Dorchester. He might have some idea of where Dorothy had gone.
* * *
Dorothy Kitson couldn’t believe her luck. Larry was a human ramrod. Despite the fact that he was in his early fifties, he could have sex twice a day, every day. He made her gasp, groan. She was delirious with pleasure, and it wasn’t just the sex. He took her to small cafés and restaurants that he knew, relatively cheap but serving the most delicious food. He tipped rum cocktails into her, and he tickled her in the most sensitive parts of her body. Right now they were sitting on a promenade seat looking out to sea, and she could feel his fingers starting to move lightly into her armpit. She turned to him.
‘Don’t, Larry. Please. I’m far too full after all that food. You’ll make me sick.’
He grinned broadly at her. ‘Sure thing. You’re the boss.’
She leant her head on his shoulder, breathing in the faint smell of pineapple that seemed to cling to his skin. Did he use a skin cream? How unusual was that for a man? ‘What day is it today?’ she asked. ‘You’ve left me in such a whirl I can’t remember.’
He laughed. ‘Saturday. The weekend at last, but it’s not a break for me. I’m back on duty this afternoon. It’s our busy time at the hotel.’
‘Oh, no! I’m due to go home tomorrow,’ she wailed. ‘What will I do?’
‘You only live twelve miles away, you know. There’s a bus every hour.’ He tickled her stomach gently. ‘You’re nearly as nutty as my old mum.’
‘So can I come and see you?’
‘Of course, you sexy little mama. I’ll be here the whole summer. And I can come and visit you. I know Dorchester well. Don’t you worry, little darling.’ His face crinkled into a broad smile.
‘Have you been there often then?’
He nodded. The smile left his face. ‘I was there for a year or two, a guest in a certain well-known local hostelry. Caught by the Weymouth cops distributing ganja, among other things. But that was a long time ago and I’ve been a good boy ever since.’ He winked. ‘Well, pretty good, anyway.’
Dorothy looked shocked, and Larry laughed and tickled her again. ‘I was a youngster, Dottie. Life was different then. I’ve steered clear of the stuff ever since just so’s I stay out of trouble. I don’t want that hassle again.’
She nodded. ‘How come they let you stay here? Why didn’t they send you back to Jamaica?’
‘I’m as British as you, cheeky lady. I was born in Brixton. I have dual citizenship though. I go back to Jamaica each winter to see some of my family who stayed put. We have a place near the beach and I can really chill.’
Dorothy remained silent for a while. ‘I’d like you to come and visit me, but . . . you might meet my sister. I’m scared I’d lose you.’
Larry sat back and looked at her. ‘What do you mean?’
‘She’ll pinch anything of mine if it takes her fancy. Boyfriends, clothes, everything. She’d take one look at you and that would be that. You wouldn’t stand a chance. She meets men all the time and just discards them when she’s had enough. They follow her around like puppies. It’s pathetic to watch. She used to be a famous actress. She still puts on a show if she’s trying to impress someone. It makes me sick. How can men be so stupid?’
Larry shook his head, laughing. ‘We’re all shallow creatures. Is that what you mean? Well, you’re probably right. My younger brother’s a professor of biochemistry and he says that we’re all ruled by our hormones. Men and women. I won’t come and visit if you don’t want me to — if you think I’ll be a rabbit to your sister’s foxiness.’
Dorothy giggled. ‘I really don’t want to go tomorrow. Is there any way I can stay?’
‘Not in the hotel, there isn’t. There’s a hen party this weekend and it’s booked solid.’
‘Where do you live?’
He shook his head. ‘I’m just in a room in the staff annexe. There’s a small sitting room and a shared kitchen. It just wouldn’t be any good for you to stay there, Dottie, not for more than a day or two.’
‘So you don’t rent or own a separate place?’
‘I send money back to Jamaica. I have my place there. My cousins live in it and keep it clean for me. That takes
most of my spare cash.’
She grasped his hand. ‘I’ll find a way. Maybe I’ll move out of my little flat in Dorchester and look for a place here. What do you think?’
He nodded slowly, a smile on his face. ‘Whatever makes you happy, little Dottie.’ He poked a finger into her ribs, until she started giggling. He lifted his hand to massage her breast. ‘Whatever makes you happy.’ He paused, still smiling. ‘How about going back to the hotel? I give a great body massage. You’ll love it.’
Oh, bliss, Dorothy thought. To have discovered a man like this, and in her middle years!
‘Yes, yes, yes,’ she said.
Unfortunately she didn’t get a chance to enjoy the feel of Larry’s firm, soft fingers probing her flesh. Someone was waiting for her in reception.
Her sister, Pauline Stopley.
Chapter 35: Welcome to the Club
Saturday afternoon, week 4
Sophie spotted a parking slot opposite the hotel, pulled up against the kerb and switched the engine off. She looked across the road. A fish and chip shop, an antiquarian book seller. A hotel. All exactly as described by her daughter, Jade. She was about to open the car door when she saw a familiar figure come out of the hotel, pause, glance about as if to gain her bearings and slowly walk away eastwards, unsteadily.
‘Well, would you believe it,’ she said. ‘Did you see her?’
Rae nodded. ‘Our friend Pauline Stopley, ma’am. So was she telling us the truth when she said she didn’t know where her sister was?’
‘Who knows? She’s one of the best liars I’ve ever come across. She’s so smooth and controlled, you really can’t tell whether whatever she says is the truth or not. I gave up trying over a week ago. I decided not to believe anything she told me. Now, with what we found out yesterday? I still don’t know. But let’s leave her be for the moment. She’s not the reason why we’re here. Can you get out of the car and try to see where she’s going? She’ll recognise me if she looks back and I’m not ready to talk to her again at the moment.’
BURIED CRIMES: a gripping detective thriller full of twists and turns Page 23