by JANICE FROST
Ironically, I was the one to reassure Becci. At first when Amy left, I worried all the time but I had to learn to stop or I would have gone out of my mind. It was probably good for both of us for Amy to move out. I should have worried though, shouldn’t I?” Nancy’s eyes flitted from one to the other of them, seeking what? Reassurance? Blame?
Ava felt for her. Nancy Hill had no reason to blame herself. Amy’s flight from the nest had clearly benefited both — Amy had gained her freedom, and Nancy, the peace of mind that came with no longer being able to worry about what her daughter was up to.
“I threw myself into the shop when Amy left home,” Nancy said, looking around at the crowded but orderly room, “Amy always came first. I opened fewer hours, and fitted work around her needs.”
Neal and Ava exchanged glances. No doubt Nancy needed to talk, but time was moving on. Ava caught Neal sneaking a look at his watch.
Nancy dabbed at her tears with a pretty, embroidered handkerchief. Her immaculate, glossy black bob was still perfect, but it now framed a face that was blotchy and pallid, streaky foundation caking in the fine lines under her eyes.
Neal asked about Amy’s father.
“I. . . I hardly knew him,” Nancy said, “I haven’t seen him since before Amy was born.” She dabbed at her nose and eyes with the pretty handkerchief. Hiding behind it, Ava thought. Nancy’s eyes were wide with fear.
“We’ll need to contact him,” Ava said.
“I don’t think that’s possible. I don’t even remember his name. He doesn’t live in this country. Amy was the result of a one-night stand. Her father doesn’t even know she exists.”
Ava looked at Neal and he shook his head, indicating that later would do.
“May I see her?” Nancy asked, looking from one to the other of them, pleadingly.
“We need someone to make a positive identification of Amy’s body. When you’re ready, Sergeant Merry and I will take you,” Neal answered.
Thus far, Nancy had requested no details about the circumstances of her daughter’s murder. And, other than the evident cause of death, there was little they could have told her. There had been no obvious indications of rape or sexual assault but, of course, these could not yet be ruled out. “Did she suffer?”
Neal said simply, “She would have died quickly,” and Ava was relieved that Nancy did not ask for further details.
“Is there someone we can call for you, Ms Hill?” Neal asked. “A relative, perhaps, or a friend who could come with you? You shouldn’t be alone at a time like this.”
Nancy nodded. “My friend, Anna Foster. She owns the second-hand bookshop down the hill from here.”
* * *
At a nod from Neal, Ava left the shop and walked along to a crossroads. The cobbled Castlegate was still quiet; a hush foreign to most large towns. To the right, the street led to the cathedral, to the left was the medieval castle built by William the Conqueror as he plundered his way southwards. Ava walked straight ahead. She seldom came to this part of the city, except as a tourist when friends came to visit. It was the cultural centre of Stromford, and more to Jim Neal’s taste than hers. Ava preferred her culture popular, and was unimpressed by what the aptly named Long Hill area had to offer in the way of craft shops and restaurants, galleries and museums. She supposed the narrow hill had a certain charm, with its harmonious jumble of half-timbered medieval houses and elegant Georgian architecture, but for a good night out, she’d head for the bars and restaurants at the other end of town any day of the week. That’s where the life was.
The bookshop to which she had been directed was about halfway down the hill. A sign on the door promised the browser thousands of titles inside, but from the outside it looked tiny. A chime announced Ava’s arrival as she stepped inside. The shop was a labyrinth of small interconnecting rooms and meandering, over-stocked bookcases.
“Hello!” she called, peering round a dark oak bookcase laden with used paperbacks.
A voice answered, “Coming!” and a fresh-faced, forty-something, auburn-haired woman appeared, apologising profusely,
“I’m so sorry, I was next door sorting through some books I picked up at a library sale at the weekend; I wasn’t expecting a rush.”
Ava looked around, and then realised that the remark was humorous.
“Are you looking for something in particular or just browsing?”
“Actually I’m looking for you,” Ava explained.
“Oh, well, that’s nice. Are you a rep, or looking for a job perhaps, because I’m afraid I don’t stock a lot of new titles and I’m not looking for extra help at the moment.”
Ava shook her head and showed the woman her ID.
“Oh,” the woman said again, “is something wrong?”
“Poor Nancy,” she sighed, when Ava finished explaining the reason for her visit. “Just when she was beginning to sort her life out a bit. She worshipped that daughter of hers.”
Had Ava imagined it, or had Anna Foster intended to imply that Amy Hill was not worthy of her mother’s adoration?
“Did you know Amy Hill, Ms Foster?” Ava asked.
Anna Foster shook her head, and her hair swished.
“Not that well. I met her a couple of times. Pretty girl, but . . .” Ava arched an eyebrow, “well, she was inclined to be rather selfish. I didn’t like the way she spoke to her mother. Then again, how many teenagers respect their parents these days? Not many.”
She sighed, “it’s unkind, isn’t it, speaking ill of the dead? Nancy was devoted to Amy, she must be devastated.”
Ava nodded, thinking that ‘speaking ill of the dead,’ was often a help in a murder investigation.
Anna agreed immediately to offer her support to Nancy.
“Is it alright if I grab a few things before we go? And I need to call my son to see if he can mind the shop while I’m gone.”
Ava followed Anna Foster along a passage narrowed by bookcases on either side, with doors leading off to further small rooms stacked with books. The floor was uneven in places and tripping hazards were indicated by large red arrows pointing downwards. Pondering the nightmares a risk assessment might raise, Ava concentrated on watching her feet as Anna Foster led her to the rear of the shop, and through a door opening into a small square hallway with stairs leading steeply upwards.
“Do you live here?”
Anna Foster smiled. “There’s a small flat upstairs.” Ava waited in the hallway while Anna Foster hurried upstairs to collect her belongings. The woman’s voice could be heard talking on the telephone.
Ava picked a book at random from one of the shelves on a small pine bookcase in the space under the stairs, and leafed through it.
“Do you like poetry?” asked Anna Foster moments later.
Ava replaced the slim volume hurriedly, muttering, “no, not my thing really. I prefer a good thriller. Or horror, you know, Stephen King’s good. Are you ready?”
“I’ve just been phoning my son. He’s coming to keep shop. I’ll lock up behind us. He has his own keys.”
Ava noticed that Anna Foster had replaced the bright red shirt she had been wearing with something darker. She had clasped her abundant hair away from her face, emphasising her hazel eyes. With her full lips and striking looks, she resembled a sultry French actress whose name Ava had forgotten. One of her ex’s had been a big fan.
“What did you mean just now when you said that you didn’t like the way Amy Hill spoke to her mother?”
Anna Foster shrugged, “I really don’t want to speak ill of the dead. It’s just that Amy was always asking for money, and nothing her mother did for her was ever good enough. When Nancy opened the shop Amy refused to help out. Once I heard her making fun of her mother’s business. I think she was put out to discover that her mother had an interest in her life other than her daughter.”
“Did they fall out? Were they estranged?”
“Oh no, nothing like that. For all I know they were the kind of arguments that mothers and daug
hters engage in all the time. Most young people are selfish, aren’t they, Sergeant?”
Ava was much closer in age to the hapless Amy than she was to Anna Foster.
* * *
They had arrived at Nancy’s shop. Anna Foster walked straight into the back room and embraced her friend, prompting a fresh shedding of tears. Neal and Ava excused themselves and waited in the shop’s more cheerful interior.
“I hated sewing at school,” Ava remarked picking up a kit containing all you needed to create a cushion cover of Van Gogh’s ‘Sunflowers’ painting in needlepoint. “Nice design though, would go well with my bedroom curtains.”
“We need to interview Amy’s flatmate as soon as possible; the one who reported her missing,” Neal commented.
“Becci Jones?” Ava said, “I spoke with her briefly on Saturday evening, remember?” It was as close as she would permit herself to come to saying, ‘“I told you so.’”
They were interrupted by the hesitant appearance of Anna Foster at the stockroom door.
“Nancy’s ready,” she said, and Neal nodded. A few moments later, they stepped outside into the sombre light of late morning, Neal and Anna Foster supporting Nancy up the hill to where Ava’s car was parked in a side street, outside the pedestrian zone. Ava walked slightly ahead of them in the drizzling rain, conscious of the heavy weight of sorrow following in her footsteps.
Chapter 2
Ava wished Becci Jones would stop sending those critical looks in her direction.
“If your lot had listened to me on Saturday evening when I first reported her missing, Amy might still be alive,” the girl complained, shaking her head. Ava felt herself redden. She didn’t dare look at Neal. In the circumstances, explaining that most people who failed to return home on a Saturday night usually turned up safe and sound the next day seemed inappropriate.
Becci obviously needed someone to vent her anger on, but Ava wished she hadn’t chosen her. Then again, she had promised Becci she would do all she could to ensure that Amy’s disappearance would be properly investigated. Well, Amy’s disappearance would certainly be investigated. Along with her death. In fact, Amy Hill’s short life and her death were about to be given the highest police priority, but it was too little too late as far as Becci Jones was concerned. Neal cleared his throat, and Ava was grateful for his words.
“Perhaps we need to focus on how we can help bring your friend’s murderer to justice.”
For a moment, it seemed that Becci Jones hadn’t heard. Then, she simply nodded and sat down. “Yes, I suppose you’re right. It’s just so overwhelming, you know? I can’t believe I’ll never see Ames again. I keep hoping she’ll just walk in the door and like, laugh her head off at us all for getting so worked up.”
Ava felt a pang of pity for the girl. And not only for her grief, but also her thinness, the pinched, slightly undernourished look, like a waif. She was dressed in a blue crop top and skinny jeans that hung low on her jutting hips, leaving her white midriff bare. A silver ring pierced the skin around her navel. Fine, heat-straightened hair hung limply around a plain, unremarkable face. She could be pretty, Ava thought; she had the kind of face that could be transformed with the right amount of colour, like a blank canvas.
“Had you and Amy been friends for long?” Neal was asking.
“Since school. We got this flat share together after we both got accepted at the Uni.”
Becci’s eyes filled with tears. Perhaps she was remembering her first day at school, the uncertainty she and Amy shared, the first stirrings of friendship.
“Had you noticed any changes in your friend recently? In her appearance or her behaviour?” Neal asked.
“No. She was just Amy.”
“Did Amy confide in you, Becci? Would she have told you if she were in any sort of trouble?” Ava asked.
“We were best mates. We told each other everything. She wasn’t in any kind of trouble.”
“What about boyfriends? Was Amy seeing anyone?”
“She wasn’t seeing anyone seriously. There was a boy who pestered her a bit to go out with him, but she didn’t fancy him.”
“Can you remember his name?” Ava asked.
“Bradley Turner,” Becci said, looking up. “His dad, Richard, is Amy’s mum’s boyfriend. Amy thought it a bit pervy him asking her out as they’d practically grown up together, even though they’re not actually related.”
Ava caught Neal’s eye and saw his eyebrow arch. No doubt he was wondering, as she was, why Nancy Hill hadn’t asked for this Richard instead of Anna Foster when they’d broken the news about her daughter’s murder.
Before Ava had a chance to ask her next question, Becci said, “There was another guy interested in her but he never asked her out. Amy wouldn’t tell me his name. Apparently he just came up to her out of the blue one day and told her that she didn’t have to worry about anything; that he’d look after her. After that, she said, he’d followed her a few times, at a distance, kind of like he was looking out for her. I thought it was a bit creepy but Amy was convinced he was harmless. I think she kind of liked the attention.”
Ava’s jaw dropped open. Beside her, Neal was frowning.
“You said you thought it was ‘a bit creepy’ this guy following Amy; did you think he might be stalking her?”
Becci shrugged, “Maybe. Ames didn’t think so. She said she could tell he wasn’t a threat.”
Ava was about to ask how on earth Amy could possibly know that, when Neal stepped in, as though he’d read her thoughts.
“Becci, is there anything you can tell us about this person? Did you ever see him yourself, or did Amy ever describe him to you? How could she know he didn’t pose a threat to her?”
“She said he was quite good-looking. Tall and dark, sort of shy and gentle.”
“Gentle?” Neal asked, his eyebrow arching again.
“That’s what she said. She called him her BFG. You know, her Big Friendly Giant, like in the Roald Dahl story?”
Ava snorted, earning a glare from her DI.
“Had Amy quarrelled with anyone recently? Did she have any enemies?” Neal asked.
Becci shook her head impatiently. “I don’t know of any quarrels. Amy didn’t have any enemies and I don’t know why anyone would want to kill her.”
Ava and Neal exchanged glances. Clearly the interview was going to yield no further results.
“What am I going to do now?” Becci sniffed.
At first, Ava thought she spoke in grief.
“The landlord will stick some stranger in here with me — I can’t afford to pay the rent myself. I gave up the chance of a room in halls to move in with Ames.”
Ava handed her a tissue from a box on a beech coffee table by the two-seater sofa where she sat surrounded by needlepoint cushions. Nancy Hill had been busy. Looking around, Ava suspected that Nancy had also been generous in helping her daughter and her friend set up house, for the furnishings, though not expensive, were modern and recently purchased, probably from one of the trendy Scandinavian stores. Bookcases in the same light shade as the coffee table lined the walls, and deep-pile shaggy rugs in different shades of pink relieved the bareness of the laminated floor. All very chic and comfortable; it wasn’t hard to see why Becci was worried about having to move out.
“We need to take a look at Amy’s bedroom,” Neal said.
“It’s locked,” Becci said, quickly, “We always lock our doors when we go out. The landlord said it was better for insurance reasons, or something.”
“You don’t have a spare key?” Neal asked. Becci shook her head. Neal sighed, “There’s no point in breaking down the door. “ Turning to Ava, he said, “Search Amy’s possessions for her house keys and come back in the morning.” Ava nodded.
“Becci,” she said gently, extending a card, “I’m going to leave you my contact details. If you think of anything, anything at all that you think might help with our investigation, please get in touch immediately.”
Be
cci saw them to the door, still clutching the card. Ava looked back as she and Neal walked down the path towards the gate and caught the girl already frantically pressing buttons on her mobile phone as she closed the door.
“She was keeping something from us,” Neal observed. “Something to do with Amy’s recent behaviour or appearance. Or about this mysterious benign stalker, perhaps. We’ll need to set up interviews with Amy’s other friends, tutors, anyone who knew her. If Becci isn’t prepared to give us information, someone else will.” Neal suddenly looked around, “Fancy a coffee?”
They were standing on the pavement outside Becci and Amy’s house, one of a row of terraced houses, two-ups and two-downs which had been bought up to let to students when the university was in its planning stages.
The opening of the city’s new university eight years ago had given the local economy a boost and had created a lively atmosphere in parts of town that had previously settled into dreary inner city decline. The street where Amy had lived was in one such area.
The effect on this street had been striking. Wooden doors leading to the passageways linking one house with another were painted in cheerful primary colours, foliage plants graced windowsills, and wind chimes dangled against panes of glass, adding colour and character to the rows of grey stone terraces. Cafés and clubs and pubs had sprung up all over the city seemingly overnight, along with shops selling merchandise aimed at the student population. Across the street was one such café, and it had been a long time since breakfast. Ava nodded and they crossed the road.
* * *
“Like the stripy sofa,” Ava commented as she took in the café’s cosy interior. It was furnished with mismatched armchairs and sofas strewn with cushions, a refreshing change from the city centre chains. There were small side tables and long coffee tables on which were scattered a selection of magazines, and flyers advertising local alternative businesses such as suppliers of organic produce and complementary therapists.
“Grab a seat, then; I’ll get the drinks,” said Neal, “anything to eat?”