Death's Silent Judgement: The thrilling sequel to Dancers in the Wind (Hannah Weybridge Book 2)

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Death's Silent Judgement: The thrilling sequel to Dancers in the Wind (Hannah Weybridge Book 2) Page 4

by Anne Coates


  Hannah felt a rush of adrenaline and a wave of fear. Was there a link between him and Liz? Hannah took the stairs two at a time and within minutes was at her desk again, searching through Liz’s index boxes. Liz’s regular Barbican patients all had computer files but details of her “missionaries” as she had nicknamed them in her diary were all meticulously logged on lined cards.

  Not knowing what to look for or where to begin Hannah started at A. Many of the names seemed in code or so it appeared to Hannah. Albatross, Archimedes, Axel... she sighed, the only way to identify them would be to examine their teeth and match dental records! Well the police could arrange that, she thought, finding the number the policewoman had given her and propping it on the phone to remind her to ring in the morning.

  As she stood up, her arm caught the corner of the box file which fell unceremoniously to the floor expelling its contents on the way. As she was about to replace the collected cards, Hannah noticed the bottom of the box wobbled a bit as though something was stuck underneath it. Intrigued – Liz was always so neat and precise about everything – Hannah levered up the base and then almost dropped the box again.

  Her gasp rang out in the silent room as the penetrating gaze of the tramp who had been pulled out of the Thames stared up at her.

  There had been a dozen or so photographs in the box. But the shock of finding the dead man’s image at the top of the pile was almost too much for Hannah. She went downstairs to the kitchen and poured herself a brandy. The amber liquid warmed her throat and Hannah, eyes closed, leaned her back against the cupboard and took some calming breaths. Her heartbeat gradually returned to near-normal and Hannah, glass in hand, returned to her study.

  On the reverse of the Polaroid, in Liz’s neat hand was written: Jacob Gurnstein 3/8/1931. She sat staring at the photograph as though willing it to reveal more information. None was forthcoming. At least she’d be able to give his name to the police and they could trace his family if he had any.

  SEVEN

  “Miss Weybridge?” The lilting tones were unknown.

  “Ms.” Hannah’s stock reply.

  “I’m sorry, yes of course.” A pause. “This is Patrick Ryan here.”

  “Yes.” Hannah tried to keep the edge from her voice. Working from home she received more calls than she cared to count from “financial advisors” and double glazing salesmen offering their services. However this man didn’t sound as though he were selling anything.

  “Father Patrick Ryan… From St John’s… A friend of Liz Rayman.” Each piece of information seemed to be wrung from him.

  Hannah who hadn’t had much contact with priests was uncertain as to how to address him. “What can I do for you – Father?” It was alien to her but that was the title he gave himself.

  “Patrick, please. I’d ... I’d like to talk to you.” This was followed by a silence which rather belied his words.

  Hannah took pity on him. “Would you like to meet?” she offered.

  “That would be preferable. Could you come to St John’s?”

  “I don’t know, I don’t think...” Immediately the scene of Liz’s murder materialised to haunt her.

  “The church is very beautiful sacred place. A terrible deed doesn’t alter that.”

  “No but...”

  “There’s something I must show you Hannah – I’m sorry Liz talked about you so often that I feel I know you. Could you come this afternoon?”

  Hannah wondered why everyone should assume she was at their beck and call and had nothing better to do. However she had nothing pressing and confirmed that she could meet that afternoon and, intrigued, hung up. She had always assumed that the priest who ran the soup kitchen would have been eloquent indeed to have involved Liz in his enterprise. This man hardly seemed able to string a sentence together. Maybe he disliked phones. Maybe, said a little voice, it’s grief.

  Hannah sighed. She’d spent a wasted hour that morning being interviewed by the police. Janet, an immense improvement on the last nanny, had taken Elizabeth off to the park. Now Hannah could hear her chuckling contentedly downstairs. Hannah had planned a couple of hours with her this afternoon but now... Now she had to make do with a big cuddle, she thought as she went downstairs and elicited a delighted squeal from her daughter nestling in her arms. Hannah’s mind went over that morning’s conversation with Detective Inspector Turner. After the formal introduction, she’d been surprised by her next comment.

  “You’re a friend of Tom Jordan, aren’t you?”

  “Yes.” Hannah smiled at the thought of the absent Tom. “How did you know? Do you know him?”

  DI Turner’s smile did not extend beyond her mouth. Her grey eyes looked wary. A forefinger stroked her nose that was lightly dusted in freckles. “We were at Hendon together and our paths have crossed once or twice since then.”

  Briefly Hannah wondered if they had been lovers. So what if they had? She shouldn’t mind but it did niggle. Claudia Turner was immaculately turned out in a dark green linen suit the colour of which complemented her strawberry blond hair. Hannah loved that colour and wondered idly if it were natural. She felt positively shabby beside her.

  They were seated in Hannah’s sitting room and Claudia’s eyes seemed to take in every detail. Hannah smiled to herself. What a difference a few months made. The tattered settee and old armchairs had been replaced with two two-seater green leather Chesterfields. Hannah loved them and they really “lifted” the room. And, of course she’d had to have the room completely redecorated after the fiasco with Gerry Lacon. Fiasco was a word she used to rob the incident of the power to reduce her to a nervous wreck. He had been going to shoot Elizabeth.

  Hannah shivered as Claudia had had to remove a doll before she could sit down and she was obviously not amused when the officer with her admired one of Elizabeth’s brick constructions. Hannah offered coffee which was declined and then produced the box-file and the photograph of Jacob Gurnstein.

  “I couldn’t find a corresponding card for him,” explained Hannah. “Liz Rayman seems to have kept Polaroids of most of her clients at St John’s. Presumably because they all appear to give one name only. Apparently there’s a preponderance of Arnies in Waterloo.” Hannah smiled. The detective who’d been introduced as DC Shaw coughed – sympathetically Hannah thought – into the silence which followed this remark.

  “And how do you come to be in possession of these, Ms Weybridge?”

  Hannah could almost touch the animosity directed at her. Probably she just didn’t like journalists. She was presumably also peeved that her officers hadn’t found the box file, or if they had, hadn’t checked it thoroughly.

  “Lady Celia Rayman –” Hannah emphasised the title that the bearer rarely used – “asked me to go through her daughter’s files.”

  “Why?” The inspector held her gaze.

  Hannah looked straight into those hostile eyes. “I am a friend of the family and Lady Rayman is not computer literate.”

  “But these were not on the computer.”

  “I am sure, Inspector Turner, you’ll appreciate a mother’s distress at her daughter’s death,” she said icily.

  Turner brushed an imaginary speck from her skirt. That’s how she regards me, thought Hannah, as something to be brushed away. “But you’re rather quick off the mark, aren’t you?”

  Hannah didn’t wince but she paused to bite back a scathing retort. “Liz Rayman was a professional woman, Inspector, with a private practice and employees. Decisions, however painful and in your eyes premature, have to be made. Other people’s lives and livelihoods are affected by this tragedy.”

  “Quite.” Claudia Turner stood up. “Well thank you for your time, Ms Weybridge. We’ll keep this for the time being – it’s a better likeness. We’ll be in touch.” She made the words sound like a threat.

  “How did he die?” Hannah asked as she saw them to the door.

  “We’re not sure yet,” said DC Shaw. “But it looks like suicide. His body was found in th
e Thames.”

  “Looks like he murdered your friend then topped himself,” volunteered the inspector.

  “Why? Why would he kill her and then himself?”

  Turner stared hard at her for a moment. “What’s the matter, Ms Weybridge? Not a glamorous enough death for your friend? Do you need something more sensational for The News. Sorry to disappoint you,” she sneered.

  Hannah was stunned. She couldn’t think why the woman was so antagonistic towards her and at the same time she didn’t for one minute believe that Jacob Gurnstein had killed Liz and then himself. It just didn’t add up. She hadn’t told them she’d seen Jacob on the night of the murder. They’d probably say killers always return to the scene of crime or some other such received wisdom. If it had to come out some time she’d say she had been confused and only remembered later. Evidently the police thought this was an open and shut case.

  “So you’ll be closing this particular matter quite soon then?” Hannah asked innocently.

  “That’s really none of you business is it?” came the charming reply.

  “I didn’t for one minute think it was,” commented Hannah more to herself than the backs disappearing down her short front path. How fortunate she’d thought to have had a copy of the photograph made earlier that morning.

  Hannah looked across the road and saw Leah Braithwaite making bin emptying into an activity akin to painting the Forth Bridge. Hannah pretended not to see her neighbour’s wave and eager expression and shut the door firmly.

  February 1993

  Just had a letter – much delayed – from Hannah. The baby, a girl, has arrived and she is ecstatic. Wish I could feel the same. Of course I’ll make all the right noises and say how delighted I am that she is named after me and how wonderful to be a “sponsor”.

  I don’t feel that. I am jealous right to the core of my being. Living in this horrendous place and trying to make a difference has exhausted me. Much tougher than being a single mum, Hannah!

  What she ever saw in Paul I’ll never know. But no accounting… And there was a time when… he made a pass at me and I was tempted. Well more than that. It did become “almost sex” if you can call it that. Thank heavens I saw reason in time. Especially as it was only a week later that Hannah told me she was pregnant. Paul must have known then. Bastard.

  Hannah included a photo. Baby Elizabeth looks cute but don’t all babies?

  I hate the way I’m feeling now. So glad I don’t have to be there and pretend. It would have been so difficult to act …

  Act what?

  I want a child. Life can be so unfair. What’s wrong with me that I can’t get myself a husband or at least a partner to procreate with.

  Not much choice here, either. Sam Lockwood is a lovely man. Committed. Educated and intelligent. Some of the others leave a lot to be desired. John has gone native… Vicky the only other woman here keeps herself to herself. Much like me I suppose.

  I despair of ever finding Kamaria. A beautiful name “like the moon” for such a beautiful child. Sometimes I hope she’s dead. Otherwise her present is too awful to contemplate. How can a young girl cope with being torn from her family, multiple rapes … Yes I pray she’s dead.

  EIGHT

  Hannah had changed out of her jeans and had donned a dress and jacket for her appointment with the priest. Having a regular income now meant she had been able to spend some money on her wardrobe and had a few smart outfits. The clothes gave her a confidence she often didn’t feel. Today was no exception.

  She had mixed feelings about going back to the scene of Liz’s death and as the mini-cab drew up outside the church she had a strong compunction to tell the driver to take her back home.

  However, bathed in winter sunlight, the church took on a different hue and, as she stepped through the huge wooden doors that stood open, she felt an unusual sense of peace flow over her. In the distance the faint sounds of an organ, then the loud peel of the three o’clock bell.

  Hannah had been looking up at the intricate stained glass window depicting Christ and two disciples, and almost jumped out of her skin when a figure cloaked in black spoke her name in tones which seemed to echo into infinity.

  She stepped forward. “Father Ryan?”

  “Patrick, please.” He took her hand and his eyes held hers. His penetrating gaze was disconcerting. There was an animal sensuality about him that Hannah found hard to reconcile to her idea of a priest. At the same time there was something she couldn’t quite put her finger on that made her shiver.

  He indicated that they should walk towards the altar. “It must have been a terrible shock for you to discover Liz like that.”

  That was an understatement. “Yes.”

  “I blame myself, of course.” Father Patrick didn’t seemed inclined to elaborate.

  “Why – because you persuaded her to run a surgery?”

  Patrick Ryan said nothing. His face bore all the signs of a man tormented by immense grief.

  “Surely you don’t believe that one of her patients killed her do you?”

  “I don’t know what to think.”

  Hannah was beginning to lose patience. “Why was Liz left to run her clinic alone here. Surely it makes sense to have someone else in the vicinity?”

  “Of course.” Patrick’s hand went to the large silver cross that rested on his chest. “I was here…”

  “What? You certainly weren’t here when I arrived.”

  “No I was called away. An emergency at St Thomas’s.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Anyway it was a false alarm. When I got there the patient – supposedly one of my parishioners – had been discharged. By the time I got back here, there was police tape everywhere and I wasn’t allowed in. I’m so sorry.”

  For a moment they were both absorbed in their own thoughts. It occurred to Hannah that he could have been deliberately enticed away from the church. But she didn’t give vent to that idea as they moved ever nearer to the altar.

  “Did you know Jacob Gurnstein?”

  They had reached the two steps up into the sanctuary; Patrick had genuflected, crossed himself then turned to sit in one of the chairs.

  “Who?” Father Ryan did not seem to be paying much attention to her.

  “Jacob Gurnstein. He was fished out to the river yesterday and the police seem to think he was Liz’s killer.”

  “Jacob?” Patrick looked at her with unseeing eyes. “Dead?”

  “I’m sorry – ” Hannah touched his arm – “I didn’t realise you didn’t know...”

  “Why should you?” Hannah felt the full impact of his smile which was so sudden she felt confused.

  “You said you had something to show me?” Hannah prompted.

  Father Ryan had the grace to look sheepish. “I’m afraid I’ve got you here under false pretences.” He was silent for so long Hannah wondered if he were praying or calculating how to get her on his side. “I needed to see you,” he said simply.

  Patrick Ryan put down the telephone receiver and sat at his leather topped desk with his head in his hands. His long, lean fingers interwoven in to his thick curly hair which was saved from being described as mousy by the blondish highlights which looked totally natural.

  It was, one could say, a masculine room. There was an upright piano and a whole wall of shelves which contained books, a collection of CDs and videos, a stereo system which looked expensive to Hannah’s uninitiated eye. The curtains were crimson, heavy velvet and everything had a clean and polished hue. The house was in Roupell Street just behind St John’s where all the front doors opened directly onto the street. It belonged to the church, Patrick had said as if justifying his occupancy. It was not a typical vicarage.

  The telephone had rung as they entered the sitting room that doubled as the priest’s study. Now Patrick turned to her, his face distorted by what she first took to be grief but what soon transpired to be fury.

  “Someone, Hannah, is trying to blackmail me.”

  NINE

&
nbsp; Hannah hardly glanced at the vehicle parked outside the house. It was unknown to her. Not that that was unusual in London. Added to which, she had a total blind spot when it came to cars. Most of her friends’ and neighbours’ cars she recognised by shape or colour. Her old friend Joe had been incensed when she had failed to notice he had a new, more expensive company car. And once she’d been describing the rather sporty red car owned by a man who had taken her out when Liz let out a shriek, “But Hannah that’s a Porsche!” Clearly she, if not Hannah, had been impressed.

  This car looked sporty too. Maroon. What was that supposed to say about the driver she wondered during the few seconds it took to turn the key in the front door.

  Voices greeted her instantly and Hannah felt her stomach tighten into a ball. She hated people arriving when she wasn’t there. She was fiercely protective of both her child and her home – more so since Caroline – and she wondered what could have possessed Janet, who had been given very precise instructions when she had been taken on, to allow someone in.

  As she walked into the sitting room the polite, social smile she had fixed on her face froze. The man, looking so at home on her leather sofa, stood up.

  “Hannah...” he said contriving to sound diffident but as Hannah knew well he hardly lacked confidence. Paul Montague always got what he wanted. Nearly always, Hannah corrected herself. He had not managed to persuade Hannah to have an abortion. “It’s me or the baby Hannah,” he had said. “You can’t have both.” And he smiled in a way which suggested that there was no competition. He was right but not in the way he had imagined.

  Hannah swallowed hard. She hadn’t seen Paul for nearly two years and he was the last person she wanted to see right now. The moment seemed to go on for ever but it was probably only a few seconds before Elizabeth waddled over, beaming.

  “Mama...” Elizabeth clutched her monther’s legs.

 

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