by Joan Smith
‘You can still have one, you know. Julie won’t mind.’
‘Sorry?’
He grinned across the table, removing the napkin and wiping his fingers on it. ‘You should see the look on your face. Anyone’d think you hadn’t eaten for weeks.’
‘Oh –’ She shrugged it off, embarrassed.
‘Suit yourself. We haven’t been introduced,’ he added, pushing his empty plate to one side and drawing the manila folder towards him.
‘Lawson. Loretta Lawson.’
‘Loretta? Doesn’t sound very English. Not Italian, are you?’
‘Italian? Not as far as I know.’
‘Thought you didn’t look it. It was the name made me wonder – you don’t meet many Lorettas. How’d you get it?’
‘I changed it. From Laura.’
‘Oh?’ He was interested. ‘Sometimes think I should’ve changed mine, soon as I got into this game. They can’t spell it, not even on my pay slips – they always leave the H out. Derek Ghilardi – that’s G-H-I-L-A-R-D-I. Detective Constable. Pleased to meet you.’ He stretched his stubby right hand across the table and gripped Loretta’s firmly. ‘My dad’s from Sicily, that’s why I asked about your name. He was a cook on a ship – he’s got a restaurant in Southampton now.’ He released her hand abruptly, resting his own on the manila folder in an absent sort of way. ‘You local?’
‘Me? No, I live in London.’
‘Thought so, dressed like that.’ He grinned and gestured towards her coat, which was draped over the empty chair next to her. ‘Which bit?’
‘North London – Islington.’
‘Isn’t that near the Arsenal?’
‘Quite.’
‘Thought so. Been there when I was a kid – used to follow the Saints. The Saints – Southampton,’ he added, seeing her blank look. ‘I don’t any more – had enough of it when I was in uniform, Saturday afternoons on the terraces. One of the reasons I was glad to get into CID, though I’m not so keen on Lymington. . . What you do there? In London?’
‘I’m a lecturer. At London University. I teach English.’
‘I should’ve gone to university. Too keen to earn some money, that was my trouble. My sister’s there now – Leeds. She’s doing French. Funny, isn’t it – you’d think she’d want to do Italian. She gave me a book for Christmas – Nausea, it’s called. By Jean-Paul Sartre. You read it?’
‘No.’ Loretta shook her head, annoyed with herself for being surprised. Why shouldn’t he have read Sartre? She excused herself by thinking that whatever she’d expected on her way to the café, this definitely wasn’t it.
‘Anyway – about your friend.’
Loretta waited.
‘What d’you make of the inquest?’
‘What did I make of it? I suppose it was pretty straightforward. . .’ She was cautious, reluctant to say much until she knew more about what the detective wanted from her.
‘What about the medical evidence? You missed the beginning – were you in time for Brown, the pathologist?’
‘He’d already started when I arrived, but I think I heard most of it.’
‘So you were there when he was talking about vital reaction?’
‘About – oh yes.’ The corners of Loretta’s mouth turned down. ‘I gathered – he seemed to be saying she didn’t die straight away.’
Ghilardi sighed and shook his head. ‘You didn’t get it either.’ He leaned back, folding his arms. ‘I’m not surprised – not the way Brown explained it. I had a word with him this morning – told him to keep it simple. It’s not as if he doesn’t know what Robinson’s like – Robinson’s the coroner, by the way. Well, you saw what happened.’
Loretta looked at him blankly.
‘Hopeless state of affairs,’ Ghilardi went on, uncrossing his arms and fingering the pink ribbon of the folder irritably. ‘They’ll have to do something about it eventually – Robinson can’t stand Brown, thinks he’s trying to put one over him. He isn’t, actually – Brown’s not like that. He’s very good at his job – after all, he was the one who picked up on this vital reaction business. He can’t put it across, that’s all – he behaves in court same as he does in the hospital, as if he’s got an audience of brain surgeons. Robinson loses his temper every time – takes too long, you see. All he cares about is getting to his country club for lunch – he belongs to one of those places that looks like a private nursing home except they let the inmates out between meals. Did you notice he kept looking at his watch? He was desperate to be finished by one.’
‘Why does he bother, if he feels like that?’ Loretta asked.
Ghilardi shrugged. ‘Makes him feel important, I suppose. He’s just a jumped up country solicitor – Buggins’s turn.’
‘But – you’re saying he missed something? Something to do with the medical evidence?’
‘Oh – yes. This business of vital reaction – funny, isn’t it? One minute you haven’t heard a word before, and suddenly it comes up all the time. . . The point is, your friend had a cut on her face under her left eye – just about here.’ He indicated a point just above his cheekbone, his fingers dragging down the delicate skin. He paused. This upsetting you?’
Loretta shook her head vigorously, trying to remain detached.
‘This cut – Brown gave us a ring after the PM and said he didn’t like the look of it. Hummed and ha-ed, of course, wouldn’t commit himself – but the point is he thinks it’s older than the rest. That it happened before the crash. You with me?’
Loretta’s eyes opened wide. ‘Before –’
‘Yep. Brown thinks someone punched her in the face before she went anywhere near the car.’
‘But – good God.’
‘Odd, isn’t it?’ The detective seemed very calm.
‘It’s more than odd – surely it means the verdict’s wrong?’
‘More than likely. Stuck with it now, though, aren’t I?’
‘Can’t you. . .’
‘What? Go to the High Court? That’s what you have to do if you want to overturn a verdict. There’s nowhere near enough evidence – far as we’re concerned, it’s finished. I had a chat with my boss last night, he said it all depended on Brown doing his stuff. From his point of view, the boss that is, the way it’s turned out’s no bad thing. We’ve got a nasty murder on our hands – you’ve probably read about it, kid who was helping with the Christmas post. And a building society job on Christmas Eve, not to mention a couple of con-men going round old folks’ houses nicking their savings. Why go looking for trouble? It’s not as if it affects the clear-up rate – at the moment there’s no crime to clear up.’
‘I – but that’s terrible.’
Ghilardi shrugged and finished his coffee. ‘That’s life.’
‘But you – you must have a theory.’
‘Not so much a theory – just a lot of facts that don’t add up. One, she was probably attacked before she got in the car. Two, she went out without a coat on a freezing cold night. And without her handbag. D’you ever go anywhere without your handbag? Especially on your own in a car at night? What if you break down? You wouldn’t have any money. . . Three, someone broke the window in the downstairs bathroom.’
‘Who d’you think –’
‘That’s what I wanted to ask you about. You don’t happen to know – sorry if I’m treading on toes – you don’t happen to know if she had a boyfriend? Someone down here the husband wouldn’t know about?’
Loretta thought. ‘She didn’t mention it, but that doesn’t mean – she was a bit secretive about things like that.’ She was remembering Sandra’s remark about living like a nun, her obvious determination not to talk about that aspect of her life. ‘I’m sorry – I don’t think I can help you. Though it did cross my mind that she might have been meeting someone. It was so odd, the way she rushed off without saying a word.’
‘Rushed off?’ The detective looked puzzled.
‘Oh – I haven’t explained. She stayed with me over Christmas �
�� the pipes had burst at her flat –’
‘This the place in Notting Hill?’
‘Yes.’
‘Neil gave us the address. Go on.’
‘I got home on New Year’s Eve and she wasn’t there. The place was in a mess, her things were everywhere and the lights were on – I was very surprised, she hadn’t mentioned going anywhere. She rang me at work that morning, you see, and wanted to know what I was doing in the evening. Unfortunately I was already fixed up. . .’
‘What time did she ring?’
‘Oh – ten-thirty, eleven maybe. Before lunchtime.’
‘And you got the impression she was going to be in London that evening?’
‘Oh yes, definitely. That was why I was so surprised when she wasn’t there ... Is it important?’
Ghilardi sighed. ‘Probably not.’
‘You were going to say something.’
‘Oh, it’s just speculation. It could mean several things – that she arranged to meet someone at the last minute – a married man, maybe. . . The important thing is that presumably no one knew she was coming – apart from this man, if he exists – which makes it quite possible that she did disturb somebody. That business of the broken window – I don’t like it. Whoever swept it up was very careful – wore gloves and all that – not even a decent gloveprint.’
‘Surely that doesn’t prove anything? Maybe it was Sandra, and she didn’t want to cut her hands.’
‘Maybe. On the other hand, it could be that someone was planning to walk off with the pictures. Did you know he collects modern art? Amazingly stupid place to keep them.’
‘Wouldn’t they have seen the lights?’
‘Not necessarily. The lounge is on the front of the house, the sea side. And the curtains are very thick – I’ve checked. Even if they came by sea – well, if they came by sea that would explain why they didn’t notice her car, wouldn’t it?’
‘Crikey,’ said Loretta. The thought that burglars might have assaulted the house from the water hadn’t occurred to her. She imagined the scene for a moment and shuddered. ‘It’s every woman’s nightmare – being alone in a house and hearing intruders.’
‘Sure. Though we don’t know that’s what happened – that’s why I asked about a boyfriend. You ever been to Hardimans Deep?’
‘No. I only ever saw Sandra in London.’
‘It’s as quiet as the moon – like the moon with trees. There are these two houses, right on the Solent. You can’t see them from the road, it’s about a mile away and they’re hidden by trees. Anything could’ve happened.’
Loretta pulled a face. ‘It’s certainly not impossible, Sandra having a lover, I just can’t think of anyone who would know. . .’ She hesitated, wondering if she should mention the discrepancies in the version of events Tom Neil had given at the inquest; recalling his anguished face, she was reluctant to draw suspicion on to him if it didn’t already exist. On the other hand, Ghilardi had been frank with her. . . she decided to make light of it. ‘One thing – there’s probably nothing in it, but I wouldn’t take what Tom Neil said in court as gospel –’
‘I’d already worked that out,’ Ghilardi interrupted her. ‘I’d very much like to know what he’s up to – you say you saw her at Christmas. Did you think she was depressed?’
Loretta frowned. ‘Well – she wasn’t very happy, but then she wouldn’t be – it’s not much fun, sleeping on somebody’s sofa, especially not at Christmas. I mean, you always have the feeling everybody else’s enjoying themselves, and if you’re not. . . That’s one of the things I hate about Christmas. . . When he said – well, I was flabbergasted.’
‘You weren’t the only one. We’ve spoken to him several times this week, one way or another, and he never said a thing – today was the first time he even hinted she might be depressed.’
‘Maybe he feels guilty,’ Loretta said, unable to forget Neil’s near-collapse in the witness box. ‘You know, like the coroner said.’
‘Funny he only mentioned it now, though, after he’d got the message we weren’t happy with the case.’
‘Did you tell him about – the reaction, I’ve forgotten its name?’
Ghilardi shook his head. ‘No. Sometimes you get more out of witnesses by not being specific – just letting them get the feeling something’s not right. What were you going to say, by the way? When you said we shouldn’t treat his evidence as gospel.’
‘Oh –’ Loretta felt suddenly awkward, like a child called on to tell tales about other pupils. ‘Just that – all that stuff about his marriage. As far as I know they split up years ago, and not just because of Sandra’s job. She only went back to see the children – at least, that’s what she told me. Though she may have told Tom something different, of course.’
‘I hope you don’t mind me saying – she doesn’t seem to have been a very nice person.’
Loretta shrugged, not wanting to go into her own feelings about Sandra.
‘I thought straight away it was a funny set-up,’ Ghilardi went on when she didn’t say anything. ‘Him down here and her up in London – it’s not what you’d call a marriage, is it?’
‘I don’t know – I suppose not.’ She was discomforted by this appeal for her opinion.
‘You married?’
Loretta remembered John Tracey’s unopened letter, waiting in her shoulder-bag. ‘I was. Not any more.’
‘Me neither. Not that I’m against it, don’t get me wrong. It’s difficult, though, in this job.’
‘Yes, yes, I can ‘imagine.’ Loretta bit her lip, and decided it was time to turn the subject back to Sandra. There is something else. This morning he said – Tom Neil, I mean – he said Sandra had a job in London. I can’t imagine why he should lie about it, but as far as I know she didn’t – she definitely told me she’d only just come back. She said she’d got a new job in a health club, and she wasn’t due to start till the new year – that seemed odd in itself, but you’d only see why if you knew Sandra.’ She paused and added: ‘I’ve no idea what it means – it seems such an odd thing to lie about. Oh, another thing. Didn’t he say she couldn’t go skiing because of work – that she couldn’t get away? She told me she didn’t want to go because she’d hurt her leg last time – something like that.’ Loretta frowned, hoping her memory was reliable.
Ghilardi took a deep breath and expelled it, his chest deflating visibly. ‘Let’s have a look. . .’he said thoughtfully, untying the ribbon circling the manila folder. He removed a sheaf of documents, pausing to slide a set of large colour prints back inside. There seemed to be dozens of typewritten sheets, and after flipping through them he drew out four which had been stapled together.
‘Here we are – Tom Neil’s first statement. “My wife worked as a social worker at a rehabilitation unit in West London. . . Work commitments prevented her from getting away in time to come on the family holiday in Switzerland. . .”’ He went on reading in silence, then returned all the sheets to the folder and closed it. ‘Interesting. I’ll put in a request to the Met, see if they can clear up the work angle. Don’t get excited,’ he added, noticing Loretta’s eager expression. ‘It’s like beaming a message to another planet, trying to get anything out of the Met. Especially on a low priority case like this. Funny, though – if he is lying, I can’t see any point. . . Sure she was telling you the truth?’
Loretta held out her hands, palm up. ‘I assumed so – I can’t see why she should lie about it, either. The whole thing’s – bizarre.’
‘Unless – I do just wonder what she was doing there. At Hardimans Deep, that is. It’s a bloody peculiar place to choose on a cold winter’s night.’
‘She wasn’t the only one, though, was she? Didn’t the coroner say the man who owns the other house – I’ve forgotten his name. Wasn’t he the one who found her?’
‘Sanders.’ Ghilardi grinned. ‘The interesting Mr Sanders. Who knows, maybe she was up to something with him.’
‘You mean – an affair?’ The poss
ibility hadn’t occurred to Loretta.
‘Doubt it. I’d be surprised if Mr Sanders was interested in women – in that way, that is. It’s the professional connection I was thinking about. He’s an importer. Wholesale. Cheap jewellery, brass – wouldn’t give it house room, myself. It’s where he gets it from that’s interesting – Pakistan and North Africa.’
‘So –’ Loretta couldn’t see what he was getting at.
Ghilardi laughed. ‘It’s all right, I’m only joking. I don’t really think Mr Sanders is the Mr Big of the Lymington drug scene. Anyway, he’s got an alibi.’
‘Has Tom Neil?’ Loretta demanded, surprising herself.
‘Not as such. The kids stayed the night with friends, apparently – didn’t come home till the next morning. He says he gave them lifts to their parties, got home about half past eight. He was tired, they’d only got back from Switzerland that morning, so he made himself something to eat and went to bed around ten-thirty. There’s no evidence, either way. I can’t arrest him for that.’
‘No, of course,’ Loretta said quickly. She lowered her eyes, ashamed of sounding suspicious of Tom Neil. ‘Those photos – the ones in there.’ She pointed at the folder. ‘Are they –’