‘I just find them interesting. Anyway, Jimmy will be home next week.’
‘That’ll put you back on the straight and narrow for a while.’
‘I’ll be glad to have him here.’ She sounded as if she desperately meant every word.
Lottie knocked on the door, then turned the handle.
‘WPC Armstrong, ma’am.’
‘WPC Taylor, ma’am.’
Five minutes and they were back outside.
‘Is he going to be all right?’ Lottie asked. ‘Billy, I mean.’
‘Broken leg. Two smashed fingers. He’s going to be bruised all over. A few weeks in plaster and he’ll be running around again like it never happened. He’s sweet, really.’ There was a strange tenderness in her voice.
‘Feeling broody?’
‘Sooner or later.’ Cathy shrugged. ‘Not until Jimmy’s home all the time.’
‘As long as you make me a godmother.’
‘Only if you buy very expensive presents.’
By the time they came out into a shaft of late afternoon sun they were giggling, the day behind them.
‘Looks like you have someone waiting for you,’ Cathy said.
‘Me?’ Lottie had to shade her eyes to see. The Peugeot was parked, engine idling. McMillan sat inside, staring directly at her. ‘I wonder what he wants.’
‘Maybe he fancies you.’
‘Give over. I’m married, remember. So is he.’
‘Maybe it’s nothing, then.’ Cathy gave her a small push. ‘Go and find out.’
‘I didn’t know I merited a chauffeur,’ Lottie said playfully as she settled on the passenger seat. ‘I won’t say no. My feet are killing me.’
McMillan hesitated for a moment. ‘I’m hoping you can do me a favour.’
‘Oh?’ She looked at him, waiting for more.
‘I’m going to talk to Ronnie Walker’s sister again. I spoke to her parents, and she was there but she didn’t say anything.’
‘She seemed eager enough to talk to you before, as I recall,’ Lottie said. ‘Even wrote down her telephone number for you.’
‘That’s why I want you there.’ A flush of embarrassment crossed his face. ‘I’ve arranged it with her.’
‘You have?’ Lottie asked in surprise. ‘Would I be doing this officially?’
‘No,’ he admitted after a second. ‘I had to press hard enough to get you this morning. The inspector won’t go for more.’
‘I could get in trouble. My husband will be expecting me at home.’
‘Ring him.’ A trace of annoyance in his voice.
‘We don’t have a telephone.’
‘Look, I need your help. I’m certain she knows something. It’s a last resort. But she’s under twenty-one…’
Not of age. It made sense that he’d want a woman there. But…
‘If you’re so sure she has information, why not do it officially?’ Lottie asked.
‘Because her father knows the chief constable and the word’s come down. The family’s grieving and isn’t to be disturbed.’ He shook his head, frustrated. ‘They want an answer but they won’t help us find it. So I’m doing what I can.’
She felt sorry for him. He was caught up by the machinery behind everything when he was trying to do his job.
‘All right,’ Lottie agreed. ‘But if word gets out that I was there?’
‘I’ll take responsibility,’ he said.
She believed him.
CHAPTER SEVEN
MCMILLAN parked on North Lane. Around them, Headingley bustled with shoppers on their way home from work. Queues at the greengrocer and the butcher. Across the street Charlie Brett’s fish restaurant was quiet, just opening for the evening.
It was a cottage of dark stone at the far end of the neatly trimmed lawn, the summer flowers in the borders just starting to fade. Inside, the dining room was empty. He chose a table by the window, gazing out at the road.
‘This seems like an odd place to meet,’ Lottie said as she looked around at the wood panelling on the walls.
‘That’s why it’s good.’ He smiled. ‘Far enough from where she lives and she’s not likely to run into anyone she knows.’
‘Clever,’ she admitted.
‘I’ve used it before. Two teas for now,’ he told the waitress as she arrived with menus.
‘Why do you think Irene Walker can help?’
McMillan lit a cigarette and stared at the tip for a moment.
‘It’s just little things. That night we saw her she seemed a bit too casual about everything. When I talked to the family she’d look away sometimes when her mother told me something, as if she knew it wasn’t right. It made me think.’ He shrugged. ‘It took a while before I could reach her on the telephone. The young lady has a busy social life.’
‘Don’t they all these days?’ Lottie asked.
‘Maybe. I’m old, I wouldn’t know.’ He sipped from the cup, eyes intent on the street.
‘What time is she supposed to be here?’
‘Half past five.’ The same time they’d arrived. She checked her wristwatch. Quarter to six. Not really late yet, not for a girl that age.
But once another fifteen minutes had passed, Lottie was having her doubts. A quarter of an hour more and she was certain.
‘She’s not coming, is she?’
‘Doesn’t look like it.’ There was a small pile of cigarette butts in the ashtray. ‘I might as well give you a lift home. I’m sorry.’
‘People get cold feet,’ Lottie said as the car pulled up the long hill on Potternewton Lane, the engine straining.
‘I know. I’ll try and get hold of her again tomorrow. I’m sorry I wasted your time.’
‘You weren’t to know.’ But she was already thinking ahead, wondering what was in the larder that she could cook quickly for tea. She had a tin of baked beans. They could eat those on toast. There were still a couple of Sunday’s scones left, too. It wouldn’t win any awards, but it would be fine for one night. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, realising McMillan had been talking.
‘I said I really appreciate you being willing to do this.’
‘Pity she never turned up.’
‘Armstrong.’
‘Yes, ma’am?’ Lottie stiffened her back glancing across at Cathy. Mrs Maitland had a face like a storm, lips pressed tight together.
‘Upstairs. Now. Detective Inspector Carter wants you.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’ A tiny shake of her head as Cathy gave her a quizzical look. Had someone seen her with Sergeant McMillan? But they hadn’t done anything wrong; the girl never appeared.
Hand shaking, she knocked on Carter’s office door.
‘Where were you after your shift yesterday?’ No introduction, no shade of warmth in his voice. A pipe sat in the ashtray. His hair was swept back, turning grey, with thick cheeks that hung like jowls.
‘Brett’s in Headingley, sir. With Detective Sergeant McMillan.’ If he was asking the question, he already knew the answer. No point in lying.
‘What were you doing there?’ His eyes seemed to bore into her.
‘We were supposed to meet someone who might have information about the Walker murder, sir.’
‘Who?’
‘Irene Walker.’
Carter sat back, tapping a pencil in slow time against his blotter. ‘And why were you there, Constable?’
‘The sergeant asked me, sir. Miss Walker is under age. He thought it would be better to have a woman there, and I’d met her once before.’
‘I see,’ he answered slowly. ‘You know I’d made it clear that your involvement ended after speaking to Miss Hill yesterday?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Sergeant McMillan said he’s to blame. He persuaded you.’
At least he’d kept his word, she thought. ‘I was happy to agree, sir.’ And now she’d be for the high jump. What sort of punishment? A black mark on her record? Suspended?
‘How long did you wait for her?’
‘Un
til quarter past six, sir. We arrived at half past five.’
What was happening, she wondered? If he intended to throw the book at her, this was an odd way of doing it.
‘I wanted to confirm the sergeant’s story,’ Carter said slowly. He picked up the pipe, twisting it in his hand. ‘You both say the same thing.’ He returned it to the ashtray and exhaled. ‘Miss Walker left home a little after four o’clock yesterday. She hasn’t been back since then and no one’s heard from her. And that knowledge doesn’t leave this room,’ he warned.
‘Of course, sir.’ She wasn’t a gossip. ‘But—’ Her mind was racing. ‘If she’s vanished that could mean—’
‘It could mean plenty of things. I’m quite aware of that, Constable. Someone could be going after the family. Sergeant McMillan is with them right now’
Lottie wondered why he was telling her all this. There had to be a reason, otherwise he’d leave her in the dark. She waited.
‘So far we have a few things. Hints, mostly. It seems that Miss Walker had a wild side.’
‘I suspected that when I saw her, sir.’
He took a notebook from his desk, an old school jotter, decorated in ink on the cover with drawings: fashion, décor, the typical imagination of a girl.
‘This was in her bedroom, hidden away. It’s as close to a diary as we’ve found.’
‘Yes, sir. Might I ask a question?’ He nodded. ‘How can you be certain she hasn’t run away?’
‘There’s no indication of it. She didn’t have a case or anything, according to the maid, and nothing’s missing from her bedroom. We’re working on the assumption something’s scared her or she’s been taken. And we’re praying it’s the first, not the second.’ Carter pushed the jotter across the desk. ‘There are some things in her book that can only be properly followed up by a woman.’ A flicker of distaste crossed his mouth. ‘You’re not a sensitive type, are you?’
‘No, sir.’ She tried to stifle a smile.
‘Good. Read through that and follow up. You’ll need your partner with you.’
‘WPC Taylor?’
‘Yes. I’ve cleared it with Mrs Maitland. Report back to me when you’re done.’
‘Yes, sir.’ She couldn’t help herself. ‘And thank you, sir.’
Carter grunted. ‘If it was up to me you’d be out on patrol,’ he told her. ‘But some of this needs a woman’s touch, and McMillan says you’re smart.’
‘That’s very kind of him.’ She felt a blush beginning to rise.
‘Don’t let it go to your head. Anyway, you’ll understand what I want you to do when you read this. Remember, we need answers quickly, and I expect you to be discreet.’
It was a dismissal. Lottie picked up the notebook and left, closing the door softly behind her before letting herself smile. Carter might not want it, but she was back on the investigation. Not just her, both of them.
Cathy was waiting at the bottom of the stairs, pacing around. ‘What happened?’ she hissed. ‘Maitland just said to wait for you.’
‘We have a job for CID. Both of us.’ Lottie held up the notebook. ‘Come on, I’ll show you.’
They crowded together in the room, chairs side by side as they read. It felt as if they were doing something wrong, hiding away out of sight to poke into Irene Walker’s secrets.
She had a schoolgirl’s writing, large loops to the letters, tiny drawings off to the side. Some talent as an artist, Lottie thought. She could capture the expression on a face, bring a person alive on the page.
That was interesting, but not as much as the words. Those were like opening a door into a place she’d never imagined. Irene was a girl who didn’t hide her passions. She had crushes on men, crushes on women. Not just the stars she saw on screen at the cinema, but people she met, from shop girls to friends of her father or brother. Every single one of them older, from a few years to a few decades.
A few she’d arranged to meet. Evenings out in town, mostly at the weekend, a Friday or a Saturday night. Details of where they went. But if there was anything more, the girl was coy about that. Lottie turned the page. Blank. Flipping through, she found half the book was empty. Still, there was enough in what she’d written.
‘Well,’ Cathy said, exhaling slowly. ‘That’s…’
‘The question is, what exactly did she get up to?’ Lottie wondered. She went through the pages again, noting down the names. Irene had met four of them, two men and two women. Carter would have his detectives questioning the men. But the man was a prig, that was obvious. He’d want the WPCs to talk to the women. Circumspectly, discreetly.
Olivia Mortimer.
Barbara Tyler.
She read the sections about the women once more, paying close attention to the details. Mortimer was the sister of one of Ronnie’s friends, part of the set that ran around Leeds, the one Irene was a little too young to join. There was probably no more than two or three years between them, but Irene seemed to feel it as a huge gulf, one she wanted to bridge. As if she had to prove something, Lottie thought.
‘Barbara Tyler,’ Cathy said thoughtfully. ‘That name rings a bell from somewhere. I just can’t place it.’
Tyler was older; that was obvious from the way the girl described her. No age was mentioned, yet a quick sketch by the entry in the diary showed someone slim, fashionable, probably in her early thirties. That would still make a big gap in knowledge, sophistication, in living. One that was apparently very attractive to the young woman.
‘I know,’ Cathy said suddenly, mouth wide. ‘Barbara Tyler. She’s the fashion writer for the Leeds Mercury.’ She turned to stare at Lottie. ‘It has to be the same one, doesn’t it?’
‘Very likely.’
Carter listened. But he wouldn’t look at Lottie when she talked about the entries in the diary. When she suggested catching Tyler at work, he was hesitant.
‘It’s one place we can be certain she’ll talk to us, sir. She’ll have her own office.’
‘You need to be very delicate,’ he said finally. ‘This might be nothing more than a young girl’s imagination. Everyone knows they have flights of fancy. We don’t want to accuse anyone.’
‘Of course not, sir,’ she agreed brightly. But everything Irene put in her book had the ring of truth. That should have been obvious to anyone.
‘Very well,’ he agreed begrudgingly. ‘But if Miss Tyler complains…’
The Mercury shared an office with the Yorkshire Post on Albion Street; the receptionist was surprised to see a pair of policewomen walk in. When they asked for Barbara Tyler, at first she didn’t know what to say.
‘Is she here?’ Lottie asked.
‘Yes. Yes, of course.’
‘Could you let her know we’d like to talk to her, please?’
It would be all through the building in a few minutes, rumours rising. What did the police want with her? Lottie didn’t care. They had a job to do and a missing young woman to find while she was still alive.
The office boy led them along corridors. The smell of printers’ ink seemed to be fixed deep in the walls. Dark stains on the linoleum and a feel of dirt in the air. The lad kept glancing back nervously. Lottie smiled at him and he turned away quickly, embarrassed.
He knocked on a door then stood aside for them to enter. The window in the office looked over an alley behind the building and across to a brick wall. Hardly an inspiration for fashion, Lottie thought.
The woman behind the desk matched the sketch in Irene Walker’s diary. The same tilt to the nose, the arch to the eyebrows. Barbara Tyler rose, extending a hand and looking confused.
‘Forgive me,’ she said. ‘Please have a seat. I’m just surprised to see the police here.’ She attempted a smile. ‘Have I done something wrong?’
She was an elegant woman, tall enough to be imposing, dark hair cut in a neat, fashionable bob. Probably in her mid-thirties, make-up carefully applied to hide the wrinkles by her eyes and mouth. No wedding ring, but a thick bangle of brightly coloured stones and
a scarab pendant on a gold chain. A dress that looked like real silk, with soft geometric patterns on the material, and a flowing scarf as thin as gossamer. The scent of Chanel drifted as she moved.
Dresses and blouses hung from a picture rail. Illustrations of clothes were pinned to the wall, copies of Vogue piled on top of a bookcase. Lottie watched as Cathy looked around, entranced.
‘Miss Tyler, I believe you know Irene Walker?’
‘Irene?’ He eyebrows knitted together as she frowned, then cleared. ‘You mean Jane’s daughter. Yes, I suppose I know her a little.’ She leaned forward, sensing gossip. ‘Why? Does this have something to do with her poor brother?’
‘Yes,’ Lottie said. ‘It’s in relation to that. I’m sure you can understand.’
‘Of course.’ She wouldn’t mention murder; that would dampen the answers. And the omission wouldn’t be a real lie, just stretching the truth.
‘Tell me, have you ever had an evening out with Miss Walker?’
‘An evening?’ She blinked. ‘I’m sorry, I’m not sure what you mean.’
‘Maybe a meal, some cocktails.’
‘No,’ Tyler replied warily. ‘I see her here and there, but that’s all.’ She hesitated for a moment. ‘There was one evening I ran into her and we had a drink and a little chat, but that’s all. And that’s only because I’ve known her mother for ages. I suppose Irene was six or seven when I first met her.’
‘Do you remember how long ago you had your chat?’ There were no dates in the diary, no way to even guess when something had happened. Or might have happened: Irene’s tale was very different. ‘And where?’
‘Where?’ The question took her by surprise. ‘I don’t know, it could have been a dozen places. Doesn’t she remember?’
‘I’m just looking for confirmation,’ Lottie told her. The white lies flowed so easily they surprised her. ‘When was it, do you recall?’
‘A fortnight, maybe?’ She thought, staring at the wall, then shrugged. ‘Something like that, anyway. You have to understand, I’m out a great deal. It’s part of the job.’
‘Of course.’
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