Bread, Dead and Wed

by Sherri Bryan

  Fiona half-listened as the taxi crawled through the London streets in rush-hour traffic. Eventually, Monique’s cab stopped again outside an elegant period townhouse, the headlights illuminating its exposed brick fascia, white painted entrance porch, and huge sash windows. Monique got out, paid the driver, and rang the bell, going inside when the door was opened. The driver settled back in his seat and waited.

  “Whatcha want me t’do?” Rodney repeated.

  “I don’t suppose you know who lives here, do you?” asked Fiona.

  He shuffled round in his seat to face her. “You mean you don’t?”

  Fiona answered with a shake of her head. “I’m not from around here. I have no idea.”

  Rodney sniffed. “Joan Walden, that’s who.” He noted Fiona’s blank look and gave her an exaggerated eye-roll. “Don’t tell me you don’t know who Joan Walden is?”

  “Like I said, I’m not from around here,” repeated Fiona, patiently. “I’ve never heard of her.”

  “Well, if you’re not a local, I suppose you could be excused for not knowing the story,” said Rodney.

  Fiona sat forward in her seat and fully opened the glass partition that separated the driver from the passenger. “What story?”

  Rodney rubbed a finger against his nose. “I’m not one to gossip, but Joan runs a… well, these days, she calls it a hostel for women in need. She takes in women who need somewhere to stay. She’s been doing it for years—taking them in and offering them a bed and a hot meal for as long as they need it.”

  Fiona nodded. “I take it there’s more to the story than that, though?”

  “Oh, there’s more to it, alright,” said Rodney, getting into his stride. “For years, the police were trying to prove that she was running a business from the premises. An escort business for wealthy clients. And I don’t mean just for escorts, if you know what I mean.”

  “And was she running a business?”

  “Well, they never found enough evidence to prove it. No men ever visited the house, y’see, but some of the girls were seen out with very rich gentlemen at very exclusive functions; dinners, film premieres, society weddings, charity fundraisers, that kind of thing. There was never any proof that anything untoward was going on, but there was always plenty of talk that there was.” Rodney produced a handkerchief the size of a small bedsheet from his pocket, and trumpeted into it. “The men claimed the women were simply their dates for the evening, and the women never said a word; they were all very discreet.”

  “And what about now?” said Fiona. “Do people still think that this Joan Walden’s running an escort service from the house?”

  Rodney shook his head. “Not now. She still takes in young women who need a safe place to stay, but she was so traumatised after what happened, I reckon that put a stop to anything improper that might have been going on.”

  “Something happened?”

  “It was dreadful, it was.” Rodney bent forward and raised his eyes, pointing up to the fifth floor of the house. “See that small window, right at the top? One of the girls who used to stay with Joan jumped from it. Poor duck, she was only nineteen.” He shook his head and sighed. “Anyway, her parents blamed Joan. They said she’d brainwashed their daughter by forcing her to live in an unnatural environment. They said it wasn’t healthy for young women to live in what they called ‘a commune’. They reckoned their daughter changed after she met Joan, and that’s why she jumped.”

  The door to the house opened and Monique reappeared at the top of the four steps leading up to the front door. She turned and hugged an elderly woman, whose white hair shone bright in the glow of the outside light.

  “That’s Joan,” said Rodney. “She must be getting on for eighty now.”

  Monique got into the back of the taxi and waved to Joan who blew a kiss as the car pulled away.

  “I’ll foller it again, shall I?” said Rodney, and resumed his commentary until the taxi in front stopped five minutes later outside a smart, single-storey hotel with tinted glass double-doors, its floodlit sign announcing that it still had vacancies.

  Fiona watched Monique get out of the cab but, this time, the driver didn’t wait. Through the glass windows, she could be clearly seen checking in at the reception desk.

  “She’s probably staying the night,” deduced Rodney. “Whatcha want me t’do?”

  Fiona considered her options. “Can you take me back to Joan Walden’s place, please? I’ll make my own way from there.”

  Rodney drove out of the horseshoe-shaped drive and went back in the direction he’d just come from. “You sure you don’t want me to wait for you?” he said, as Fiona got out of the cab.

  “No thanks. I could be ages, so I’ll call another taxi if I need to.” She took a note from her purse. “Keep the change.”

  “Much obliged,” said Rodney, and flashed her his best London cabbie grin.

  “One more thing,” said Fiona. “I don’t suppose you remember the name of the girl, do you? The one who jumped?”

  “Course I remember,” said Rodney. “It was Naomi Raeburn.”

  ____________

  Fiona climbed the few stairs to Joan Walden’s front door. Close-up, she could see the paintwork was fresh, and the brass doorknob, bell and letterbox gleamed like gold. She gave the bell a short press with her thumb, shortly to find herself face to face with the woman she’d already heard so much about when she opened a viewing hatch in the door and peered through it.

  “Yes?”

  “Mrs. Walden?”

  “Yes.”

  Fiona held up her warrant card. “I’m Detective Sergeant Fiona Farrell. I wonder if you could spare me a few minutes to answer some questions, please? I won’t take too much of your time.”

  Joan studied Fiona closely before opening the door and inviting her in. “I don’t keep very late nights these days, so I’ll be going to bed within the hour. I hope you’ll have asked everything you need to know by then.”

  “I’m sure I will,” said Fiona, dragging the soles of her shoes thoroughly against the doormat before following Joan into a large room hung with velvet curtains and furnished with dark wood and vast, faded rugs, their muted patterns a gentle reminder of the vibrant colours they’d once been.

  She motioned to Fiona to sit down. “I suppose this has something to do with Monique’s visit?”

  “Actually, yes, it does.”

  Joan gave a little nod. “Thought so. I had no idea she was coming, you know. She just turned up unannounced—it was so lovely to see her. She got so little time off when she worked for that Haley chap, I hardly ever saw her, and she couldn’t call me because I don’t have a phone. I got rid of it a few years ago.” She frowned. “Anyway, it was lovely to see her again.” She leaned forward in her chair. “I expect you want to ask if I think she had anything to do with Haley’s death? She mentioned that the police had questioned her about it.”

  Fiona was slightly taken aback. She hadn’t expected Joan to be quite so forthright.

  “I might have a few years on you,” said Joan, her grey eyes taking on a mischievous twinkle, “but I’m still able to put two and two together and make four. It seems rather a coincidence that Monique should decide to visit me today, completely out of the blue, and then you turn up on the doorstep less than an hour later.”

  Fiona nodded. “Do you think she had anything to do with Roman’s death?”

  Joan spread her hands. “Who knows. All I know for sure is that if I was her, I’d have got rid of him long before now.”

  “Oh? Why do you say that?”

  “Because he wasn’t a nice man, and he didn’t treat her very well. In fact, he treated her terribly. Mind you, it wasn’t just Monique; he didn’t treat anyone very well.”

  “Can you elaborate?”

  Joan ran her gnarled fingers along the brocade antimacassar on the arm of the couch. “He used people to get what he wanted, especially vulnerable people, but he needed Monique far more than she needed him.” She
gave Fiona a knowing look. “That girl was bright as a button and razor sharp—still is.”

  “Do you happen to know when she first met Roman?”

  Joan’s brow creased. “Some of my memories are a little hazy, I’m afraid. I couldn’t say for sure.”

  “Did she meet him here?”

  Joan gave her a wry smile and wagged a knobbly finger. “Look at you, trying to catch me out. No, she didn’t meet him here. This house is for women only; always has been, always will be. There’s one room in the extension which is totally separate from the main house, and exclusively for me to receive male guests. No other men are allowed, unless it’s a postman, a doctor, or a tradesman.”

  “Ah, right.” Fiona returned the smile. “Well, in that case, can you tell me anything about the accident that happened here in 2005, involving a young woman named Naomi Raeburn?”

  Joan’s eyes narrowed and her fingers clenched into gnarled fists. She pushed herself up from the couch, her back ramrod straight; the mischievous twinkle in her eyes replaced by a stony glare. “I’m sorry, Detective Sergeant Farrell, but I’ve already said all I’m going to say about that. I have no intention of answering any more questions and dragging up the past.” She pushed the fringe of soft waves from her forehead with a slightly shaky hand.

  “You know, my blessed phone rang non-stop for seven days after it happened—reporters were calling day and night. In the end, I pulled the damn thing out of the wall and vowed I’d never have another one. The girls keep telling me I need one, but I have this in case of emergencies.” She patted the alarm she wore on a band around her wrist.

  She closed her eyes and shook her head. “My apologies, I’m feeling very tired all of a sudden, so I must ask you to leave. If you want to know any more, I suggest you ask Monique. I understand she’s going back to St. Eves tomorrow.”

  It was frustrating for Fiona to leave when she still had so much to ask, but she knew when she’d pushed her luck too far. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  Joan waved away the apology. “It’s alright. I’m fine. I have a lot of girls staying with me at the moment, and they pop in to see me every day, which is a comfort. I just need to rest.”

  Fiona nodded. “Okay, thanks for your time. You’ve been very helpful.” She ran down the stairs and hailed a passing taxi. “Paddington Station, please.”

  If she travelled through the night, she could sleep on the train and be back in St. Eves by the time Monique returned the following day, by which time, she’ll have had the chance to do a little research.

  She opened her notebook and looked at the name on the page.

  Naomi Marie Raeburn.

  Did this girl, who had been dead for over a decade, hold a clue to Roman’s killer?

  Chapter 19

  “And that’s about all I managed to find out,” said Fiona, recalling her impromptu London trip to Ben the following morning.

  “So was Monique one of the girls who used to live in Joan’s hostel?”

  Fiona shrugged. “I’m not sure, but I think she might have been. By the time I wanted to ask Joan about it, though, she was already pretty fed up with me and wasn’t answering any more questions. She’s a smart old bird, so I’m sure she’d have been able to tell me everything I wanted to know, but when I mentioned Naomi, she clammed up. It’s not all bad news, though; come and look at this.”

  She spun her chair around and wheeled herself back to her desk. “I’ve been doing some digging since I got back and it seems that, after Naomi’s death, Joan became something of a recluse. Naomi’s parents campaigned for years to get her locked up, but there was no evidence that she’d done anything other than give Naomi a roof over her head in 2004, when she left home after an argument with her parents and ended up in London. When they eventually tracked her down, they were convinced she was involved in some weird cult that Joan was the leader of. Here, look at this, which was written before Naomi’s death.” She pointed to the newspaper article on her computer screen.

  Dorothea and Oswald Raeburn continue their tireless campaign to see Joan Walden behind bars. The parents of Naomi Raeburn, Mr. and Mrs. Raeburn are convinced that Joan Walden used sinister persuasions to entice Naomi away from them, and is keeping her against her will.

  “There’s just no way our Naomi would choose to live with complete strangers rather than the family who love her,” said Mrs. Raeburn. “I don’t know what’s going on in that house with all those young women but, whatever it is, it’s not right, and we want Naomi out of it. It’s true that she left home after a disagreement, but the things we argued about were so trivial, I know they could be resolved if she’d just let us talk to her. The fact she won’t is proof that Mrs. Walden is preventing her from having contact with us. I just know it.”

  However, when the police called at the house to speak to Naomi, they were happy that she was not being held against her will, or mistreated in any way, and the fact that she is eighteen means that neither she, nor Mrs. Walden, are breaking any laws if Naomi is choosing to stay at the house of her own free will.

  Fiona scrolled down the screen. “And here’s another article, which was written after Naomi’s death.”

  Joan Walden leaves Kensington police station, surrounded by the young women who have supported her, and each other, since the tragic death of Naomi Raeburn.

  It is still not known why Miss. Raeburn jumped from her bedroom window, but it is known that she took her life after having spent the evening at a local restaurant with a friend, who claims that Miss. Raeburn had been in good spirits during the evening, and also when they arrived back at the house, just minutes before she jumped to her death.

  Joan Walden has asked that she, and all the girls, be given privacy and time to grieve for Naomi, who was dearly loved by them all.

  “Look at the picture,” said Fiona.

  Ben peered at the screen. The old newspaper image of Joan Walden was grainy and under-exposed but it was still clear enough to make out the faces of some of the girls standing round her in a protective huddle.

  “See that one?” Fiona pointed at a girl on the edge of the throng.

  Even in black and white, with longer hair, it was unmistakably Monique Hathaway.

  “Well, that’s definitely her,” said Ben.

  Fiona nodded. “And, according to Joan Walden, Roman Haley didn’t treat Monique very nicely at all. He treated her quite badly, in fact.”

  Ben looked at the photo Fiona had taken of the card Monique had left by the grave. “‘He’s gone now, so he can never hurt anyone again’” he read. “You think she wrote that about Roman?”

  Fiona shrugged. “Yeah, I think so.”

  “So, you think Monique could be his killer?”

  “It’s still just a hunch, and I need to speak to her but, for now, yes, I think it’s very likely.”

  ____________

  “Oh yes, I’m feeling much better now, thank you. It was only just right after Roman’s death that I wasn’t feeling myself.” Monique smiled across the table at Fiona. “It’s amazing what a difference some time, and some fresh St. Eves air can make.”

  “Yes, it’s very therapeutic, isn’t it, the St. Eves air?” said Fiona, with a smile. “Well, thank you for coming in at such short notice. I wonder, as you’re feeling so much better, if you’d be able to answer a few questions?”

  Monique nodded. “Ask away.”

  Fiona put down the copy of the newspaper article she’d printed onto the table, and pointed to the photograph. “Is that you?”

  Monique’s face went from having a healthy glow to being the colour of uncooked bread dough. “Where did you get that?”

  “If you could answer the question, please?”

  Monique sat rigidly in the interview room chair. “Yes, it’s me.”

  “Can you tell me about Naomi Raeburn?”

  “Why are you asking me about this?” said Monique, through clenched teeth. “What does it have to do with anything? It’s all i
n my past.”

  “I appreciate that,” said Fiona, “but if you could just answer the question, please? I wouldn’t be asking if I didn’t think this might be relevant to our investigation.”

  A look of fear crossed Monique’s sharp features, and she gulped before starting to speak again in a shaky voice. “I met Naomi years ago, when I lived in London.”

  “Where did you live in London?”

  She paused for a second. “I squatted in a house that was marked for demolition. I’d never seen eye to eye with my mum or my stepdad, so we parted company when I was sixteen. And when I say, ‘parted company’, I mean they threw me out. I had no money, no qualifications, no job, nothing, so I needed to start earning. Once I had a roof over my head, I turned to the only way I thought I’d be able to make some quick cash. And I was right. I made a lot of it.”

  “How long did you live in the house?" asked Fiona.

  “Four years, give or take. The council were obviously in no rush to knock it down.”

  “And is that where you met Naomi?”

  Monique shook her head. “She lived in a hostel. We met after she saw me pick someone's pocket in a street market, and she followed me back to the house. She told me I should take the wallet to the police station and tell them I found it on the street, and then she took me back to the hostel with her.

  “That's when I met Joan. She said she had an empty room, and it was mine if I wanted it, but I didn't. I'd got too used to living on my own. She was kind to me, though. She gave me a sleeping bag, blankets, and some clean clothes, and told me I could go to the hostel whenever I wanted a bath.

  "After that, I used to visit Naomi there often; I even used to pop in to see Joan. Naomi and I became really close friends. We were total opposites but we just clicked. She was like a quiet, insecure, little mouse, and I was loud, brash, and full of myself. She was such a good, sweet girl." Monique hung her head and took a deep breath.