Jennifer nodded. “Pity, but it’s a good point. Perhaps there could still be something that is significant in the background of all five of you, even if you don’t know each other. I’ll check further.”
“Probably a long shot,” said Henry, shrugging his shoulders. “But getting back to what you found at the hotel in Newcastle, isn’t Catherine Doughthey the name of the woman who—”
“Stayed at the Bristol View hotel on the night of the murder there last year? Yes. I’ve told Charles about it. I called him from my car on the drive back to Nottingham, but he obviously hasn’t had the opportunity to call you.”
“That’s brilliant, Jennifer. Do you think these two people, Amelia Taverner and Catherine Doughthey, are the same person?”
“I don’t know. But there are people with those names living in the same village, Pateley Bridge, in North Yorkshire. Whether they are one and the same remains to be seen. I hope to find out on Monday.”
“Monday? How?”
“I’m driving up to Pateley Bridge and I’m going to knock on their doors.”
Henry’s face clouded over.
“Jennifer. You can’t do that, not on your own. We’re dealing with a cold-blooded serial killer here, someone who wouldn’t hesitate to kill you to escape or to silence you. Tell me you’re not intending to go on your own. Can’t your policeman friend, Derek Thyme, the Olympic runner, can’t he go with you?”
Jennifer smiled. “That’s not going to happen for two reasons. Firstly, he is, as you say, a police officer and he’d be for the high jump rather than the one hundred metres if he was found to be moonlighting on a case with me, and secondly, I think more than one person might make whoever Amelia Taverner or Catherine Doughthey really is or are disinclined to speak. Especially a six-foot-two West Indian, even if he has got the most amazing set of white teeth and a huge smile.”
Henry’s eyes crinkled. “Sounds like you’re attracted to him.”
“Attracted to him! I’m going to kill him when I next see him. You should see how he set me up with his detective constable mate in Bristol. I was shredded for a few moments and I intend to exact my revenge.”
“Actually, it sounds like he’s watching out for you. But seriously, can’t you have a backup plan when you go to Pateley Bridge?”
Jennifer smiled to herself when she thought of Sally’s comment about telling the police where to look for her body. She was still smiling as she drove through Glasshouses and descended the steep hill into Pateley Bridge.
She had decided to try the address for Amelia Taverner first. Her satnav guided her through the village and out onto a quiet road that followed a meandering stream. After about half a mile, when the soft-spoken male voice announced that she had reached her destination, she stopped the car and looked up to see three detached cottages set back from the road. They were on rising ground that would give them plenty of protection from flooding if the nearby stream developed ambitions of becoming a river, and well separated from each other by substantial and picturesque gardens. Number seventeen, Amelia Taverner’s home according to Jennifer’s searches, was the middle cottage of the three.
She had decided against knocking on the door and asking for directions. That seemed a bit lame when there was a perfectly good visitors centre back in the village, although if Amelia Taverner turned out to look like a serial killer, she could always revert to that story. The problem was she didn’t have any clue as to what a serial killer might look like, especially a female one. Piercing blue maniacal eyes? A bloodthirsty leer? Jennifer shuddered and put on the plain-glass, black-rimmed spectacles she’d decided to wear to help with the navy-blue suit that she hoped made her look like the bank employee she was going to claim to be. She was carrying a soft briefcase slung over her head and shoulders with a long strap — she wanted to keep both hands free, just in case.
The entrance to number seventeen was straight out of every painting of an English country cottage and garden. A metal trellis covered in large pink and red roses formed an archway that led onto a paving stone path bordered by more rose bushes, the blooms spectacularly large, the soft yellows and creams alternating with vivid, crisp whites. Their perfume hung in the air as the morning sun, filtered through the abundant foliage of nearby trees, painted a dancing light across them. Jennifer gazed at the scene in disbelief, doubts about the accuracy of her online research increasing by the second. This setting was totally incompatible with a cold-blooded killer, so despite what the search engines had told her, there must be another Amelia Taverner somewhere else in the country. However, now she was here, she might as well rule this one out.
She was about to knock on the cottage’s powder blue front door when it opened and an old lady appeared, a wicker basket over her left arm and a pair of pruning secateurs in her right hand. Jennifer eyed the secateurs with some alarm.
The old lady stopped abruptly and looked up at her.
“Oh, my dear, you gave me a fright; I didn’t hear the gate. I told Martin not to oil it; the squeak was quite useful, you know, announced any visitors I might have, not that there are many. May I help you? You look rather puzzled.”
Jennifer stared at the woman in surprise. She was slightly built and appeared to be well into her eighties. At no more than five foot tall, she was nothing like what Jennifer had been expecting.
“Um, yes, I hope you can,” stuttered Jennifer. “I’m looking for a Mrs Taverner, Mrs Amelia Taverner.”
The old lady smiled and cocked her head. “Well, dear, you’ve found her, although no one calls me Amelia. I always thought it was too grand, a daft notion of my mother’s. I’m known as Grace. It’s my second name, but I always preferred it. My late husband did too.”
“I’m sorry,” started Jennifer, “did he …”
“Oh no, dear, he passed away thirty-five years ago. Heart attack. So young, really. Always smoked, that was the trouble. We didn’t know then, did we?”
Jennifer took a breath and gave what she hoped was a reassuring smile.
“I’m sorry, Mrs Taverner, I didn’t introduce myself. My name is Jennifer Cotton. I’m, er, I’m with the North Western Bank. We’re conducting surveys with some of our long-standing customers with a view to enhancing our service quality. As you probably know, we pride ourselves on the personal touch, so, well, here I am. I was hoping you could spare a few minutes.”
A flicker of confusion passed over Grace Taverner’s face, but it quickly passed.
“Of course, dear, if that’s what you want, but I can’t imagine how I can offer much of value to you. Certainly not enough to warrant your driving all the way out here. I take it you’re not from the local branch?”
“Eh, no, I’m not. I work at the Harrogate office.”
“Exactly. Well, dear, ask away, but would you mind if we talked in the garden? It’s a lovely day and I really need to carry on with my dead-heading.”
She waved the secateurs in an alarmingly wide circle, causing Jennifer to take a nervous step backwards.
Jennifer opened her bag and retrieved a notepad.
“Um, the first thing I wanted to ask you, Mrs Taverner, is whether you are satisfied with our credit card services. Obviously we’re always concerned about fraudulent use and we—”
“Well, you needn’t worry on that score,” Grace interrupted. “I don’t have a credit card. Never saw the need. I like to pay my bills on time, not run up a huge amount owing to the bank. It doesn’t seem right.”
Jennifer frowned. “Really?”
She fished into her bag and retrieved a sheaf of papers she had prepared. They were her own bank statements retrieved from a box file dating back to the days before online banking, but she had no intention of letting Grace Taverner look too closely at them.
“According to our records, there’s a credit card issued in the name of Amelia Grace Taverner that is active, and indeed used from time to time.”
She pretended to study the top sheet before adding, “Oh, dear, I hope there hasn�
��t been a mix-up. Do you perhaps have a daughter with the same name as you?”
The old woman’s eyes became suddenly wary.
“No, I don’t,” she replied quietly. “I was never blessed with children.”
Jennifer pressed on. “Do you get any letters from the bank relating to a credit card?”
“No, dear, I don’t.” The old lady’s voice was little more than a whisper. She glanced nervously at Jennifer before looking down at her hands. “Not any more, anyway. I used to, but they stopped, more or less. I still get the occasional one. It’s all to do with this Internet thing that I really don’t understand at all.”
Jennifer realised that she was onto something, but also that she must be gentle.
“So, you had a credit card but don’t any more?”
The old lady was beginning to look flustered.
“No, well, that is, yes, I think so. Look, why don’t you come indoors? We’ll have a cup of tea and I can explain. I don’t think it will do any harm.”
“Thank you,” said Jennifer. “A cup of tea would be lovely.”
The picture-postcard imagery of the cottage continued inside. Jennifer was led through a small, carpeted hall, hung with a series of signed prints of Peter Scott watercolours. She stopped to admire the paintings.
“These are beautiful. So precise and so full of movement.”
Grace smiled. “Yes, they’re lovely. I knew him, you know. Peter Scott. He used to come up here to sketch along the rivers and streams, and up at the reservoir. The third one along is an original, not a print like the others. He gave it to me. Delightful man. It must be worth something these days, but I couldn’t bear to part with it. Not with any of them.”
She ushered Jennifer into the sitting room and pointed towards a small, floral-patterned armchair with a white, embroidered cushion.
“Make yourself comfortable, dear, I’ll pop along to the kitchen and make some tea. Let me introduce you to Languid.”
“Languid?”
Grace gestured towards a large, long-haired white cat stretched out on a small sofa facing the fireplace.
“Languid, this is Miss Cotton. It is ‘Miss’, isn’t it, dear?”
Jennifer smiled. “Yes, it is. What a lovely cat.”
“I think of him as more than a cat. He’s my constant companion, aren’t you, Languid?”
Languid looked up sleepily to assess the newcomer before slowly closing his eyes as he settled his chin back on his paws.
“He has a beautiful coat,” said Jennifer.
“He does, but it takes a lot of brushing. Fortunately, he loves it. In fact, he loves nothing more than listening to the radio with me while I untangle his fur.”
Jennifer looked around the room. “You don’t have a television?”
“No, dear, I got rid of it. It used to be quite good, but these days there’s so much swearing and yobbish behaviour. And the news! The pictures were too awful. I didn’t want Languid to see them. We much prefer the radio. It’s far more civilised, don’t you think?”
Jennifer smiled and reached out to stroke Languid. He responded with a contented purr as he stretched luxuriously.
“I’ll fetch the tea,” said Grace. “I think he likes you.”
Five minutes later, Grace Taverner returned carrying a tray loaded with a teapot covered with a white linen tea cosy, two porcelain cups and saucers, and a matching milk jug and sugar bowl.
“Oh, he really does like you! He doesn’t often do that to people he doesn’t know.”
Languid had vacated his spot on the sofa and taken up residence on Jennifer’s lap, a substantial amount of him flowing over the edge.
Grace sat down, a look of glee on her face. “It’s not often I get to sit on the sofa, not unless I’m brushing his royal highness.”
Languid ignored her as he gently extended his claws into Jennifer's thighs, purring loudly.
Jennifer was keen to continue her conversation. She took a cup and saucer from Grace, a somewhat awkward manoeuvre with a large cat now hooked on to her lap, and smiled.
“You were telling me about the bank’s letters, Mrs Taverner.”
Grace stirred her tea with a small silver spoon, an uncertain look on her face.
She sighed. “As I said, I do get them, now and again; every two or three years, I should say. But I don’t open them.”
Jennifer adjusted her position; Languid was heavy.
“Really? Why is that?”
Grace continued stirring. “Well, they’re for Diana, you see, not me. They might be addressed to my name, but they’re for her.”
“Diana?”
“Yes, she lived here with me some years ago after her father died. Long before Languid’s time. It’s funny though, when he came along, he never really liked her. I’ve never known him reject anyone the way he did her. As soon as he met her, he started to growl and hiss. Most unlike him.”
“She lived with you?”
“Yes, while she finished school and then when she was a student. She’d come back in the holidays, or whatever the university calls them.”
“Vacations?”
“Yes, that’s it. She was very hard working, you know.”
Jennifer took her notebook from her bag.
“Why would letters from the bank addressed to you be for her?”
Grace looked uncomfortable.
“Well, it all goes back to when she was a student. It’s probably different now, the banks have all changed, but then, in the early nineties, it wasn’t so easy, was it?”
“I’m sorry, Mrs Taverner, I don’t follow. What wasn’t so easy?”
“Getting a credit card, dear. For a student. Diana always said that the banks didn’t like giving students credit cards because they ran up huge bills they couldn’t pay. She could only get an ordinary bank account with a chequebook. So she asked if I could apply for a credit card that she could use. She knew I had no use for one. I don’t like owing money, as I said, so I agreed. She promised that she would always pay the bills, and she has. Always. She helped me to open an account at your bank that she would also use — I didn’t actually have an account with your bank, you see. I still don’t, not the one I use, that is, which is why I was a bit confused earlier.”
Jennifer nodded her encouragement, excited by Grace Taverner’s tale but not wanting to show it. She casually stroked Languid behind the ears and was rewarded with another ecstatic cramponed assault on her thighs. She smiled at Grace through clenched teeth.
Grace continued to explain.
“Diana told me that there needed to be an ordinary bank account to pay money into so she could pay the credit card bill. It all sounded so complicated, but once we’d opened the account, I had nothing more to do with it, and as I say, she’s certainly stuck to her word about payment. She must have done because there have never been any problems.
“For a long time, there were letters from your bank, which I left for her, but they stopped. She told me that was because she now does everything online, whatever that means. But I do still get occasional letters, as I said, every three years or so. Apparently they contain a new credit card when the old one expires. I’ve told her she should change the address, but she said that would be difficult, and anyway, she likes to have the chance to come and see me.”
Jennifer picked at a thread in her skirt and wondered about the state of her tights after Languid’s incisions.
“Why would it be difficult?”
“Because she lives in Australia and apparently can’t have a British bank account.”
Jennifer’s heart sank. If this person Diana, with Grace Taverner’s credit card, lived in Australia, how could she be committing murders in the UK? She needed some more background, hoping her questions wouldn’t sound too pushy for someone who was supposed to be from a bank.
“Mmm,” she muttered. “That’s not entirely correct, but never mind. It’s good that she visits you. How did she come to live with you, Mrs Taverner?”
&nbs
p; “Diana’s mother was an old friend of mine from when we were young. Like me, she married quite late. I never understood her choice. Neville, her husband, was a brute of a man. I could never stand him. He was so rude and certainly not shy about using his fists on her.
“Anyway, she fell pregnant; she must have been about thirty-nine, if I remember correctly. She had a difficult pregnancy and she died when Diana was born. I kept in touch with Neville, well, my husband did until he died; I wanted as little as possible to do with the man. We felt obliged, you see, for Gladys’ sake — that was Diana’s mother’s name. We were concerned about how he might treat Diana. I don’t think it was easy for the girl, but then when Diana was fifteen, Neville was killed in a car accident. His brakes failed. The police blamed him; he tinkered a lot with cars, taught Diana to do so as well. It was about the only thing they had in common. She didn’t have anyone else, you see, no brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, no one.”
Jennifer nodded. “So she came to live with you.”
“Yes, I suggested it at the funeral. My husband had been dead for some years by then. I thought the company would be nice and I’d be doing my duty by Gladys. I never had any children, you see, as I said.”
Jennifer glanced at her notebook, but decided that taking notes might stop the flow of information. She looked up at Grace, who was lost in her memories.
“So, she finished school around here, and then, what, went to university?”
“Yes, to Leeds. She studied criminology.” Grace shuddered. “It sounded horrible, learning all about those nasty types.”
“Did she go to Australia soon after she graduated?”
“Yes, she was offered a really good job at a university there, in Sydney. She comes back every two or three years and makes sure her visits coincide with the issue of a new credit card. She says it’s really useful having an account here; something to do with saving on exchange rates. I don’t understand all that myself. I’ve never been abroad; I don’t really see the point.”
Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller Page 19