CHAPTER SIX
The thunderstorm that swept across the southern half on the country during the night drove out the muggy weather, and Sunday dawned clear and sunny, the streets rinsed and sparkling after the rain. The temperature was still in the mid-twenties, but with the humidity all but gone, it was a comfortable heat.
Annie woke late after a refreshing sleep, though her hotel room had been too hot and she had had to lie in her underwear on top of the sheets. She had turned the control on the wall to cold, but after nothing happened, she concluded it was only for show. Perhaps if you believed it really worked, then you would start to feel cooler, but she didn’t have that much faith.
After a lukewarm shower and a room-service continental breakfast, again scouring the Sunday papers for any traces of Phil Keane’s handiwork and finding none, Annie checked her mobile in case she’d missed a message from Roy Banks, but there was nothing. She rang the number again, and again she got the answering service. This time she left an even more terse message. She tried the mobile number, but had no luck there, either. She didn’t bother leaving a message.
Next she rang Melanie Scott to make sure she would be at home, then she checked in with Gristhorpe at his home and found out that Jennifer Clewes’s parents were being brought to Eastvale that morning to identify their daughter. Then Annie set off for the tube.
First she had to take the Northern Line to Leicester Square, then change to the Piccadilly Line, which ran all the way out to Heathrow. Given the more clement weather and the relative emptiness of the train, her journey out to Hounslow passed pleasantly enough, some of it aboveground, and she gazed on the rows of redbrick terraced houses, playing fields, concrete-and-glass office blocks.
She found Melanie Scott’s house with the help of her A to Z, only about five minutes’ walk away from the Hounslow West tube station. Cars filled every available parking spot on both sides of the street, sun glinting on their windscreens, so she was glad yet again that she wasn’t driving.
The woman who answered the door looked to be in her late twenties, the same age as Jennifer Clewes. She was one of those excessively thin yet nicely shaped women, with small breasts, coat-hanger hips and a narrow waist. She was wearing denim shorts, which showed off her long tapered legs to advantage. Jet-black hair hung straight down to her shoulders and framed a pale oval face with large brown eyes, button nose and full mouth. The red lipstick stood out in contrast against the paleness of her skin. Annie hadn’t told her much over the telephone, but she must have suspected something was wrong, and she seemed nervous, anxious to hear the worst.
“You said it’s about Jenn,” she said as she pointed Annie toward an armchair in the cramped living room. The front window was open and they could hear snatches of conversation and laughter as people drifted by. Melanie sat on the edge of her chair and clasped her hands between her knees. “Is something wrong? What is it?”
“I’m afraid Jennifer Clewes is dead, Ms. Scott. I’m sorry I can’t think of any easier way to put it.”
Melanie just stared into a far corner of the room and her eyes filled with tears. Then she put her fist to her mouth and bit. Annie went over to her, but Melanie waved her away. “No, I’m all right. Really. It’s just the shock.” She rubbed her eyes and smudged mascara over her cheeks, then took a tissue from a box on the mantelpiece. “You’re a policewoman, so there must be something suspicious about it, right? How did it happen?”
No flies on Melanie, thought Annie, sitting down again. “She was shot,” she said.
“Oh my God. It’s the woman they found in the car in Yorkshire, isn’t it? The one in the papers and on TV. You said you were from Yorkshire.”
“North Yorkshire, yes.”
“They wouldn’t give her name out on the TV.”
“No,” said Annie. “We have to be certain. Her parents haven’t identified the body yet.” She thought of showing Melanie the photograph, but there was no point in further distressing her. Kate Nesbit had already identified Jennifer, and soon Jennifer’s parents would confirm this.
“I can’t believe it,” Melanie said. “Who’d want to kill Jenn? Was it some pervert? Was she…?”
“There was no sexual assault,” Annie said. “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?”
“Me? No, I can’t think of anyone.”
“When did you last talk to Jennifer?”
“A few days ago—Wednesday, I think—on the phone. I haven’t actually seen her for two or three weeks. Both too busy. We were going to the pictures next weekend. Chick-flick night. I can’t believe it.” She dabbed at her eyes again.
“Do you know if there was anything bothering her, anything on her mind?”
“She did seem a bit preoccupied the last time I talked to her. But I must admit, Jenn goes on about work a bit too much sometimes, and I sort of tune out.”
“She was worried about work?”
“Not specifically. It was just someone she mentioned. One of the late girls, she said. She worked at a family-planning center.”
“I know,” said Annie. “Late girls? What are they?”
“I’ve no idea. That’s just what she said.”
“A workmate? Late shift?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think they worked in shifts. It’s not a twenty-four-hour center. But sometimes she has contact with the clients, through paperwork and billing and what have you, or if there’s a problem or something. There was some woman…”
That was how Jennifer met Kate Nesbit, Annie remembered, through the center. “Can you remember her name?”
“I’m trying. Give me a moment. She spoke it very quickly, so I can’t be absolutely sure, but it was a rather odd name.” Melanie paused and gazed out of the bay window. A white delivery truck passed by, blocking the sun for a moment. “Carmen, I think.”
“That was her first name?”
“Yes. Carmen. I remember thinking at the time that it sounded like an actress’s name, but that’s Cameron, isn’t it? Cameron Diaz. Hers was Carmen, like the opera. Her last name was Petri, or something like that. I’m sorry.”
“That’s all right.” Annie made a note of the name and put a question mark by “late girl.” “Did Jennifer she say what she was worried about?”
“No. I’m sorry. Just that it was something this Carmen said.”
“Was Carmen at the center to arrange for an abortion?”
“I assumed so,” said Melanie, “but Jenn didn’t say. I mean, that’s why people go there; or for advice, you know, if they’re undecided, they don’t know what to do.”
“Did Jennifer have any particular stand on abortion?”
“What do you mean?”
“Do you think she’d advise clients against it, suggest they keep the child and put it up for adoption instead?”
“Oh, I see. No, not really. Jenn believed it was a woman’s choice. It’s just that some of the women were…you know…scared, especially if they were young. Some of them just didn’t know what to do. But Jenn wasn’t an adviser or counselor. There are other people to take care of that.”
“But she did have contact with the girls?”
“Sometimes. Yes.”
“But you’ve no idea why Jennifer was concerned about this Carmen?”
“Jenn just had a habit of getting involved in other people’s problems, that’s all. It can be a bit of a drawback in her line of work. Most of the time she doesn’t have any contact with the clients, but sometimes…like I said. She’s got too sympathetic a nature, and she can’t always be objective about things. Or people. Mind you, it’s one of the qualities that makes her so special. Sorry. Made. My God.”
“Did Jenn ever receive any threats because of her work?”
“You mean because she dealt with abortions?”
“Yes. There are a number of groups actively against it, some of them violent.”
“She never mentioned it to me. I mean, I think there was a small demonstration once, but nothin
g came of it. Certainly no violence, anyway. Groups like that would tend to ignore the center itself because abortions aren’t actually performed there, and many of the clients go on to have their babies and give them up for adoption, so I don’t think that’s a very real possibility.”
Annie realized that Jenn’s workmates at the center would probably be better informed on this topic. She moved on. “It might be a good idea if you gave me a bit of background. I understand you knew Jennifer a long time?”
“Ever since primary school. We only lived two streets away from one another. And we have the same birthday. Her poor mum and dad…” Melanie picked up a packet of cigarettes from the arm of her chair and lit one. “Sorry, you don’t mind, do you?” she asked, blowing out the smoke.
“It’s your house,” said Annie. And your lungs, she thought to herself. “What about later? University?”
“We both did our postgraduate degrees at Birmingham. I took international business, and Jenn studied management.”
“What about your undergraduate degrees?”
“Jenn studied economics at Kent and I went to Essex. Modern languages.”
“You kept in touch?”
“Of course. We were practically inseparable in the hols.”
“I understand that just last summer the two of you went on holiday together to Sicily?”
“Yes.” Melanie frowned. “Look, may I ask just what you’re getting at? Are you suggesting there was anything…unusual…about our friendship, because if you are—”
Annie waved her hand. “No, nothing like that. None of my business, anyway.” Unless it contributed to Jennifer’s murder. “No, it’s just that her flatmate Kate didn’t seem to know an awful lot about Jennifer’s life, didn’t really seem to know much about her at all.”
“That’s hardly surprising,” said Melanie. “Jenn’s a very private person in a lot of ways. She shared the flat because she had to—London’s so expensive—but it didn’t mean she had to share her life. Besides…”
“What?”
“Well, I got the impression from Jenn that this Kate was a bit of a Nosy Parker, always asking questions, a busybody, wanting to know where she’d been and who she was with. Jenn said sometimes it was worse than being at home with her parents.”
Annie had had a flatmate like that once in Exeter, a girl called Caroline, who had even gone so far as to question her on what sort of birth control she used, and on what exactly went on those nights Annie didn’t return to the flat. And some of Caroline’s forays into Annie’s sex life smacked of digging for vicarious thrills; she never seemed to have a boyfriend of her own, and Annie guessed that was how she got her jollies. Not that Annie gave much away, or had even been up to anything, most of the time.
“Why didn’t she share with you?”
“Hounslow’s too far out for her, and I need to be here because of my work. I’d hate to have to drive to Heathrow and back every day from the city.”
“They didn’t get along, Kate and Jennifer?”
“I don’t mean that. You can get along with someone who’s not the same as you, can’t you, in general, even if some of their habits annoy you, as long as you keep a bit of distance?”
“True,” said Annie. “Sometimes it’s better that way.”
“That’s what they were like. They got along well enough. Kate kept the place clean and tidy, didn’t leave food to go rotten in the fridge, remembered to lock the door when she went out, didn’t make a lot of noise. That sort of thing. The things that are important when two people are sharing a common living space. They never had rows or anything. It’s just that Kate’s a bit bossy as well as nosy. Likes things just so. And she’s got a bee in her bonnet about smoking. I won’t even go to the house. It’s her prerogative, of course, but even so, you’d think people could be a bit accommodating once in a while, wouldn’t you?”
“I suppose so,” said Annie. “What about boyfriends?”
“What about them?”
“Any problems there?”
Melanie pushed her hair back. “I think Kate got sort of put off men. She had a scare a while back. Thought she was pregnant, so Jenn told me. Anyway, I know nothing about her love life, or lack of it.”
“And Jennifer?” Annie remembered what Kate Nesbit had told her about Jennifer’s ex-boyfriend Victor, and she wanted to find out what Melanie knew about him.
Kate paused, seemed to come to a decision, then went on. “Jenn’s the serious type when it comes to love,” she said. “Last year, just before we went on holiday, she split up with someone she’d been seeing for three years and it devastated her. I could have told her it would happen, but you can’t do that, can you? I mean, Jenn was pushing him toward commitment, living together, maybe marriage, babies, and it was obvious in the end that she’d scare him off.”
“Is that what happened?”
“Yes.” Melanie laughed. “The holiday was supposed to be a cure. Get him out of her system. Get rat-arsed and shag lots of good-looking blokes.”
“Is that how it worked out?”
“No. Does it ever? Jenn read a lot of books, and I practiced my Italian on the waiters, who were all over fifty. There wasn’t one decent-looking bloke in the whole place. Most evenings we spent commiserating with one another over a couple of bottles of cheap Sicilian wine and most mornings we woke up with splitting headaches. Oh, and Jenn got sunburn on the second day. All in all, I’d say it was a bit of a farce.”
“And afterward?”
“She got over him.”
“And he her?”
“Not quite,” said Melanie with a frown. “Jenn told me that he’d pestered her once or twice, said he’d made a big mistake and asked her to give him another chance, that sort of thing. And he kept trying to phone her.”
“At work or at home?”
“Both.”
“When you say ‘pestered’ her, do you mean stalked her, threatened her, what?”
“She just said he pestered her.”
“Can you remember his name and address?”
“Not his address, no, but I’ve got it written down somewhere. Remind me before you go. I do remember he lives out Chalk Farm way. His name is Victor Parsons.”
“Was Jennifer involved with anyone else, after Victor?”
“I think so. Very recently.”
“Past few weeks?”
“Yes. Couple of months at the most. She was moving very cautiously. Anyway, I got the impression that she liked him a lot.”
“Do you know his name?”
“Sorry, she didn’t say. I mean, she didn’t really say very much about it at all; she was being very cagey. It’s just that I’ve known her for so long, you get to sort recognize the signs, if you know what I mean.”
“Do you think he might be married?”
“Married? Good God, I hope not. I mean, Jenn wouldn’t go with a married man, not knowingly. I told you. She was serious about love. Believed in meeting Mr. Right and settling down together forever. She wasn’t casual about that sort of thing.”
Annie wondered if Kate Nesbit’s suspicions were at all justified or were simply the result of Jennifer’s natural reticence when it came to affairs of the heart. “Do you know where they met?”
“At work, I should think. She hardly goes anywhere else, except with me.”
“Look, I know this is probably a bit of cliché,” Annie said, “but we do have to ask. Is there anyone you can think of who might have wanted to harm Jennifer? Has anyone at all ever made any threats against her?”
Melanie didn’t hesitate. “No,” she said, her eyes filling with tears again. “Jenn was a good soul, one of the truly good people.”
“You don’t know of any enemies she might have had?”
“She didn’t make enemies. If you ask me, this was one of those random attacks you hear about on the news, maybe a serial killer, someone who didn’t know her. Like that other girl, in the spring.”
“What about at work? Was everything
all right there?”
“You’d have to ask them, but she never said anything to me about any problems. She liked her job.” She started to cry again. “I’m sorry. I just can’t get my head around it.”
Annie could think of no more questions anyway. She consoled Melanie as best she could and suggested she call a friend to come and stay. Melanie didn’t want to, said she’d be fine by herself, and despite the tears Annie sensed that she was probably tougher than Kate Nesbit. Besides, her parents still lived in Shrewsbury, so they could hardly get down to London quickly. Annie left her card with her mobile number, telling Melanie she could ring at any time for any reason, and walked back to the tube wondering why someone so sensitive, serious and special as Jennifer Clewes could have ended up a murder victim.
When Banks woke on Sunday morning to the sound of birdsong, his head was pounding, his mouth was dry, and he had the distinct memory of something very odd having happened during the night.
He stumbled to the bathroom, drank two glasses of water and took three aspirin tablets, then returned to the entertainment room, where he had slept on the sofa. He picked up Roy’s mobile and found that the image was still there, and that it made no more sense in the light of day than it had during the middle of the night. He found the incoming call on the call list. It was listed only as “unknown.”
Banks examined the photo more closely. The foreground was out of focus, the figure blurred. Behind the slumped figure was what looked like a wall and Banks thought he could see the fuzzy outlines of letters written on it. There were no actual words he could read, but an expert might be able to glean something from it.
Was the man in the chair Roy? He could be, Banks supposed; the features weren’t clear, but the hair looked about right. If it was Roy, was this some sort of oblique way of informing Banks that someone had taken—had kidnapped—his brother? Would a ransom demand come soon?
The man in the photo could still be anyone, though, Banks decided in the end. Perhaps Roy himself had sent the photo. It could be a message of some kind, or a warning. On the other hand, it had been sent to Roy’s mobile, so was it intended for Roy, or did someone know that Banks had the phone? The latter thought didn’t do much to quell Banks’s fears for his brother. If someone already knew he was staying at Roy’s house and had Roy’s mobile, then he had better keep his eyes open and his wits about him.
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