by Joan Smith
She hadn’t, of course, and she sat thoughtfully on the edge of the sofa, her chin resting on her right hand. The cat had gone to sleep in the empty holdall, and she leaned across and lifted him out, ignoring his mew of protest. She ought to try Ghilardi again, especially now she’d found evidence that Sandra was having an affair, but she couldn’t see any way round the problem of the money. If she admitted to knowing what was in the suitcase, wasn’t it inevitable that a degree of suspicion would fall on her? She locked the suitcase, put the key back in the toe of the suede shoe, and began repacking the holdall. She carried out these actions automatically, so much so that the ringing of the telephone made her jump. Her immediate reaction was one of panic, a conviction that Tom Neil was returning her call before she’d had a chance to think, but then she glanced at her watch and saw it was only twenty past five; there was every chance that it wasn’t him at all. She crossed the room and picked up the phone, so keyed up that she didn’t immediately recognize Robert’s voice.
‘You sound very odd. Is everything all right?’
‘Yes, I – yes. I was miles away, sorry.’ She’d been intending to ring Robert that evening and suggest driving up to see him the weekend after next; she’d be too tired to make the journey this Saturday, two days after term started. Dragging her mind away from the problem of Sandra, she said in her brightest voice: ‘So – how have you been? Busy?’
‘That’s what I’m ringing about. I have to be in London tonight, there’s a problem over a contract – it needs a signature and apparently they won’t accept a fax, so I’ve got to come to town. My solicitor’s going to wait for me ... I thought perhaps we could have dinner? I’m sorry it’s short notice – it’s only just happened.’
‘Tonight?’ Loretta thought quickly. If she was out for the evening, she could turn the answering-machine on – avoid speaking to Tom Neil with a clear conscience. And, she told herself hastily, she hadn’t seen Robert for a while. . .
‘Yes, why not? Have you got anywhere in mind?’
‘How about that little Greek place at the bottom of Charlotte Street? It’s quite near my solicitor’s office.’
‘I know – the one that does the wonderful puddings.’
‘That’s right. Is eight-thirty too late for you? It’ll take me an hour and a half to get to London, then I’ve got the meeting –’
‘It’s fine. See you then.’
Loretta put down the phone and looked across the room at Sandra’s bags. She summoned up courage and decided to give Ghilardi another try. It might get her into trouble, but she couldn’t in all honesty hand over the luggage to Neil without telling the police what was inside. She dialled the number of Lymington police station, which she now knew by heart, and was put through to CID. This time the phone was answered; Ghilardi had called in briefly a few minutes ago, she was told, but had now left for the day.
Loretta got up and went into the kitchen, remembering she hadn’t got round to making the cup of tea she’d wanted over an hour ago. She switched on the kettle and checked her watch again, feeling restless. She wasn’t due to meet Robert for hours, but Ghilardi was beyond reach –
It occurred to her that she might be able to get his home number from directory inquiries. Ghilardi was hardly a common name – it was a stroke of luck that the case hadn’t been assigned to a detective called Smith or Brown. She went to the wall-phone and made the call, spelling the name carefully to the operator.
‘Sorry, love – the only number we’ve got for that name’s ex- directory.’
‘Oh, but. . . Thank you.’
She sighed and put down the phone. The kettle had boiled and she spooned Earl Grey tea into the pot, standing with her hands on the back of a kitchen chair while she waited for it to brew. What now? She had found two and a half thousand pounds in cash, a postcard which seemed to indicate that Sandra had had a lover, letters which suggested a falling-out with Tom Neil – and for the moment there was nothing she could do about any of it.
Unless. . . Her eyes lit up as the thought came to her. She had the address of Sandra’s flat in Notting Hill – 35 Norfolk Gardens was engraved on her memory. It couldn’t do any harm to go and have a look at the place. She wouldn’t be able to get inside, she realized that, but the neighbours might know something. That was how the police went about things – house-to-house inquiries, she remembered the phrase from her talk with Ghilardi the day before. It was easier for them, of course – Loretta shrugged off this objection, glad to have something to do. She strained her tea into a mug and carried it upstairs to the bathroom, where she washed her face and cleaned her teeth. Then, feeling she ought to make a bit of an effort for Robert, she changed into a pair of black leggings and a blue jumper with appliqué silk flowers. Downstairs again she fed Bertie, switched on the answering-machine, and went out to face the rush-hour traffic.
There was nowhere to park in Norfolk Gardens, so Loretta drove round into the next street, the one where her friend used to live. She put the car in a space just vacated by a battered yellow 2CV, and a couple of minutes later walked up the path to 35 Norfolk Gardens, a tall, wide house whose stucco looked freshly painted. She could see several bells by the front door and wondered which one was Sandra’s; she had a vague notion, no more, that Sandra had mentioned a basement. A glance down and to the left proved that her memory was faulty; there was a light on in the basement window, and when Loretta stepped back to get a better look she had a clear view of a young Asian woman in jeans standing behind an ironing-board. She moved hastily forward under the protection of the porch before she could be seen.
The street lights in Norfolk Gardens were very bright and Loretta was able to read the names next to the bells without any trouble. Someone called Weir lived on the ground floor, and Bissett at the top of the house. The space next to the middle bell was blank, and Loretta assumed that she’d located Sandra’s flat. Her finger hovered near the bell marked Weir; hadn’t her intention been to talk to Sandra’s neighbours? She took a deep breath and pressed. A second later there was a crackle as the entryphone came to life.
‘Who is it?’ A woman’s voice.
‘Hello – you don’t know me, I was hoping to speak to you about Sandra Neil,’ Loretta said rapidly, terrified of losing her nerve.
More crackles. ‘Who?’
‘Sandra Neil!’ This time she bellowed.
‘Oh.’
There was a buzzing noise, and Loretta realized that the front door lock had been released. She pushed it open, astonished by the ease with which she’d gained entry to the house, and stepped gingerly into a dark hallway.
‘Over here.’
A light snapped on and Loretta saw a young woman with sleek dark hair peering at her through a slightly open door to the left of the stairs. She took a few uncertain steps towards her, regretting she hadn’t had time to prepare her story, and heard the rattle of a chain. The door opened wide.
‘Sorry about that,’ the woman said. ‘The chain, I mean. You can’t be too careful round here – you know, because of the rapist. Come in.’
Loretta hesitated, then followed the woman into the flat and waited while she closed the front door. Ms Weir, if that was her name, was strikingly bronzed and dressed in a stylish blue suit which showed her tan off to perfection.
‘Not that you’d expect him to ring the bell,’ she continued chattily, leading the way into a small front room with a deep pile carpet and heavy curtains which fell into folds on the floor. ‘Have a seat.’ She motioned to an armchair and Loretta sat down, wondering where to start.
‘It’s just with living alone – Des, that’s my boyfriend, he doesn’t like me being here at all, but it’s not as if I’m on the lower ground. It’s basements he goes for, so it’s worse for Shashi, she’s the Indian lady downstairs, but you can’t pick and choose, can you? They say there’s more than one of them, and sometimes you hear he’s been caught, but. . .’ She shrugged. ‘Have a drink?’
‘Oh no, don’t go to any trou
ble –’
‘It’s no trouble, I was having one anyway – Campari and soda.’ She held up a glass. ‘Go on.’
‘No, really. I only came because of Sandra –’
‘Wants her post, does she? I thought she might’ve been round while I was away – I only got back yesterday. You a friend of hers?’ She crossed one leg over the other, critically inspecting her black court shoes.
‘Yes.’ Loretta only just managed to get the word out; it had not occurred to her that Sandra’s neighbours might not know she was dead. She was wondering how to break the news, at the same time puzzling over the reference to Sandra’s post.
‘Two and a half weeks in the sun – I didn’t want to come back, I can tell you.’ The woman suddenly got to her feet, her eyes narrowing. ‘Now where did I ... I know. If you hang on, I’ll get it.’
She hurried out of the room, reappearing a moment later with a handful of letters. ‘Found herself a place yet, has she?’ she asked, unselfconsciously leafing through the mail as she sat down.
‘A place?’ Loretta repeated in a cautious tone.
‘Yes.’ The girl looked up. ‘I mean, that flat she moved to’s only temporary, isn’t it? I thought she was trying to get one nearer her job. That’s why she didn’t redirect. . .’
‘Oh, er, yes,’ Loretta agreed, trying to hide her amazement. The woman seemed to be implying – had Sandra lived here? If so, when had she –
‘Actually, a lot of these seem to be, what d’you call them, circulars,’ the girl said, finally holding them out to Loretta. ‘Hope she wasn’t expecting a lot of Christmas presies!’
Loretta took the letters from the woman’s outstretched hand, the gaudy envelope on top immediately confirming her impression that Sandra had lived in this very flat. ‘Mrs S. Neil,’ she read silently, ‘Ground floor flat, 35 Norfolk Gardens.’
She swallowed. ‘How long have you been here now?’ she asked, trying to sound casual. She needed to tread a fine line between finding out as much as she could, and admitting that everything she knew about Sandra was being turned on its head. If she gave herself away, the woman might demand the letters back. The thought made Loretta tighten her grip on them.
‘Mmm – let’s think. Beginning of August? I think that’s when it was. I’m not very good at – I’m just trying to remember when my flat-mate got married. That’s why I had to move from my last place, her husband was moving in ... I was dead lucky, I was on my way back to the office and I must’ve got the Standard before anyone else. She had dozens of calls – well, she would, wouldn’t she, it’s such a nice flat and so close to the tube –’
‘Yes. Yes, it is.’ Loretta looked round the room, hardly taking it in.
‘And it’s very convenient – I only work round the corner.’
‘I – I’m trying to remember,’ Loretta persisted bravely. ‘How long was Sandra here?’
The woman shrugged her shoulders. ‘I dunno when she bought it. Quite a while, I should think, she certainly knew the area ... I was only thinking, I don’t mind keeping her post, but if she’d got a proper place I could send it on. . .’ She looked at Loretta interrogatively.
‘Oh, I think her arrangements are a bit – fluid at the moment,’ Loretta managed to get out. She stood up, anxious to leave before the woman asked any more questions about Sandra’s whereabouts. Part of her brain was still processing what she’d just learned – that instead of moving to Notting Hill at Christmas, as she’d told Loretta, Sandra had moved out of it months before. So the story about the flood. . .
‘I like your jumper.’ Loretta’s denim jacket had fallen open, and the woman was admiring the colourful silk flowers on it.
‘Thank you.’ Loretta headed for the door.
‘Come far, have you?’ Ms Weir seemed reluctant to let her go.
‘Islington.’ Loretta paused, then said in a rush: ‘I don’t suppose – you didn’t have trouble with the pipes over Christmas?’ She gazed round the room as if she was expecting to see water gush down the walls, suddenly hoping she’d misunderstood. . .
‘The pipes?’ The woman looked blank.
‘Yes, I just thought – it’s been so cold, there’s been a lot of bursts,’ she said feebly.
‘Like I said, I only got home last night and everything was all right then,’ the girl said, puzzled.
‘That’s – that’s good to know.’
‘Why – is Sandra worried? Did she send you to check up?’ She sounded hostile. ‘The place’s fine – you can have a look round if you want. I’m not stopping you.’
‘No, I’m sure. . . Where did you go on holiday?’ Loretta changed the subject, anxious to escape without antagonizing Sandra’s tenant. She put out her hand to open the front door of the flat.
The woman immediately cheered up. ‘The West Indies. I’m in the travel business – it’s one of the perks. Time share mainly – wait, I’ll give you my card.’ She darted back inside the room they’d just left and returned, holding something out to Loretta. ‘Here you are. I don’t know if you’ve ever thought of investing in property abroad?’ Suddenly the girl fixed Loretta with a perky, professional smile. ‘We have extensive contacts in –’
‘No, thank you, really,’ Loretta insisted, backing out of the flat. ‘I’ve got no money – I work in the public sector. . .’ She grinned nervously, waving the envelopes. ‘Thanks for these. I’ll see myself out.’
She glanced back at the house as she hurried down the path, and slowed her pace when she thought she saw a curtain twitch on the ground floor. In Suffolk Gardens she unlocked the door of her car and slid behind the wheel with a sigh, leaning back against the head-rest while she tried to gather her thoughts. She realized she was clutching something in her left hand and put the envelopes down to look at it. It was the business card, and she held it up to the street light to read it. ‘Miss Janet Weir, foreign property consultant’, it said in embossed letters. Above the words was a stylized sunburst in brilliant reds and yellows; below, the address and telephone number of a travel company in Ladbroke Grove. Loretta stuffed the card in her jacket pocket, thinking it might be useful to have the woman’s phone number, and looked at her watch. If she set off now, she would have plenty of time to find a parking space near Charlotte Street; she started the engine and turned the steering-wheel hard to the right, observing as she did so that she’d been left very little room to manoeuvre by the bad-mannered driver of the red Golf parked in front of her.
An hour or so later she was sitting alone in a Greek restaurant in Charlotte Street, returning Sandra’s latest batch of correspondence to her shoulder-bag. It was nearly nine; Robert was late, and Loretta had no compunction about using the time to go through the letters. Unfortunately Janet Weir had been right; the post consisted mostly of circulars and appeals – a set of charity Christmas cards, an entry form for a competition promising £250,000 as the prize, a bingo card from a national newspaper (’Win! Win! Win! Mrs P. L. Lucas of Halifax did and YOU could be next!’), and an invitation to subscribe to Which? magazine. There were also several Christmas cards, including one each from Felix and Lizzie. The deception, which was what it must be, about where Sandra lived, seemed to encompass her children; for all Loretta knew it extended to Tom Neil as well, and he had been telling the truth as he knew it at the inquest. Now she really did have something to tell Derek Ghilardi, and she wasted five minutes fruitlessly trying to think of ways to winkle his ex-directory number out of British Telecom before resigning herself to speaking to him tomorrow. What she couldn’t begin to imagine was the reason for the deception; why Sandra had gone to so much trouble to mislead her family about her address. And how had she kept it up? Loretta saw a possible explanation in Lizzie’s anxiety about the state of her parents’ marriage, wondering if they were on sufficiently poor terms for Tom Neil not to want to ring his wife. But hadn’t he mentioned speaking to her by phone on the subject of the holiday? Maybe she had contacted him. At this point Loretta had finished her second glass of rets
ina and poured a third.
There were two more items of post which added a little to her growing store of information about Sandra, but each raised more questions than it answered. The first was a tasteless greetings card with a drunken Father Christmas on the front. Inside was the printed promise – Loretta shuddered as she read it – that ‘Santa’s got a big one for you!’ The writing on the card was familiar, though it took her a moment to make the connection. Then she realized it resembled the scrawl on the postcard she’d found in Sandra’s luggage that afternoon; if she was right in thinking the sender was one and the same person, it seemed that his first name was Paul. This time the message was even shorter – ‘Long time no see?’ The envelope in which the card had arrived was postmarked Exeter.
The other communication which interested her was a letter from Sandra’s bank in Notting Hill Gate. It was dated 12 December, but the envelope had been sent by second-class post and Loretta guessed it might not have arrived at the flat until after Christmas. The assistant manager thanked Sandra for depositing £2,120 in her account at the end of November, but pointed out that her overdraft still exceeded its limit by £1,000. Until she deposited that sum, he would be unable to revert to honouring her cheques. Loretta frowned as she read the letter, puzzled by Sandra’s lack of funds on paper and the abundance of cash in her suitcase. How had Sandra come by the money? Why was it in cash? And why had she turned up on Loretta’s doorstep with a completely bogus story about burst pipes? Thinking about the money made her uneasy, and Loretta picked up the Christmas card from ‘Paul’. The scribbled message seemed to indicate a break in the relationship; did that make it more or less likely that he was the cause of Sandra’s trip to Hampshire? If ‘Paul’ lived in Exeter, perhaps Hardimans Deep was a convenient meeting-point. Regretting her poor geography, Loretta had helped herself to a little more retsina, glancing at her watch and wondering where Robert had got to.