‘Oh, it was.’ Frances smiled, remembering. ‘Brackleys did us proud. It all came as a bit of a surprise, of course. Lucy hadn’t to my knowledge had a boyfriend for some time, then all of a sudden there was Will and they were talking of getting married. I’m thrilled for her. It’s what she wanted so much. And to tell you the truth I was beginning to give up on the idea of grandchildren altogether.’
So, as well as her best friend, Lucy’s mother was also in the dark as to her daughter’s lack of plans for a family. Millie decided it was not her role to disillusion the woman. ‘Do you have any reason to think that Lucy might be unhappy with Will?’
Frances Copeland was taken aback by the question. ‘No. Why ever would she be? Though I must confess I haven’t seen much of her since the wedding. We talk on the phone regularly, of course, but since she started getting these calls, it has become more difficult. It’s so expensive to call her on her mobile.’
‘Is there anyone you can think of who might want to upset Lucy now? Any old boyfriends you can remember who might have got too attached?’
But Frances couldn’t think of anyone. Millie had finished her tea and was mindful of the twenty-minute journey ahead of her. ‘Do you mind if I use your bathroom before I go?’ she asked. ‘It’s a bit of a drive back into the city.’
‘No, of course, I’ll show you where it is.’
Frances took Millie into the house, directing her to an upstairs bathroom. Without seeming obvious, Millie took the opportunity to have a quick glance around. It was a typical middle-class home, Millie thought, though the photographs on the wall alongside the stairs were interesting; mostly corporate shots taken at formal functions. Paul Copeland, Millie presumed, had been photographed with various dignitaries, including, she noticed, the current Assistant Chief Commissioner. Frances Copeland met her at the bottom of the stairs.
‘Your husband knew some important people,’ Millie commented.
‘I suppose he did,’ Frances said, as if she’d never thought of it before. ‘He was a prosecutor with the CPS. I think at one time he hoped that Lucy would go into law too. She was bright enough, but Lucy was determined to do a job that was more obviously helping people, and she loves being around small children. She didn’t think much of the people Paul used to mix with.’
‘Like the ACC?’ Millie suggested.
Frances smiled. ‘Hm. Paul belonged to the Masons. It wasn’t something I liked or particularly approved of, and neither did Lucy, but Paul felt that it was good for his career, so we tolerated it.’
Through the door into the lounge Millie could see a cabinet full of trophies. ‘Lucy’s?’ she asked, and on cue Frances Copeland walked her through to look at them.
‘She was a cheerleader of all things,’ she said. ‘Paul hated it. It was all so American and . . . tacky. I think the girls mostly liked it because of the glamour and the costumes. Girls of that age love dressing up, don’t they? But to their credit they worked hard and they were very good.’
‘So I see,’ Millie said. The array of first-place awards was impressive.
‘And it kept them out of trouble.’
‘What would Lucy’s father have thought of Will?’ Millie wondered.
‘Oh I’m sure he would have got along with him.’
They walked out again into the sunshine. ‘Well, thank you for your time, Mrs Copeland,’ Millie smiled, getting into her car. And checking her route back to Granville Lane once more, she left Frances Copeland to her garden.
Chapter Five
Mariner saved his questions for Rachel Hordern until after she had made a positive identification of her stepmother. Until then he simply introduced himself and waited quietly in the background. Stuart Croghan and his staff had managed somehow to make Nina Silvero look serene in death, and Rachel Hordern tearfully confirmed that it was her stepmother. A member of the mortuary staff sat with the Horderns’ energetic two-year-old while the ritual took place, and though Rachel remained remarkably composed throughout, it was seeing her child again that brought her emotion to the surface. Mariner allowed her some time alone with her husband, before following them into the visitors’ lounge with Knox.
‘Did she suffer?’ was Rachel Hordern’s first question to him, her eyes eager for reassurance. A heavily built young woman, her face was covered in pale freckles and thick, strawberry blonde hair fell to her shoulders. They sat round on low chairs and Rachel clung so tightly to her son that he was squirming, trying to wriggle free.
‘It was over quickly,’ Mariner replied, tactfully. ‘I’m very sorry. Were you close to her?’
‘Yes, I was. I stopped thinking of her as my stepmother long ago.’
‘How long had she been—?’
‘My mother? Since I was six. I think I was hideous to her for the first couple of years, but Mum — Nina — did all the right things. We’ve been closer than ever since Dad died.’ She paused to wipe her eyes.
‘What happened to your natural mother?’ Mariner asked.
‘She and Dad split up years ago, before Nina came along. She ran off with a Swede.’ She broke into an unexpected giggle, which in seconds turned into a sob. ‘Sorry, it’s just for some reason my friends and I used to find that hilarious.’
‘Where’s your mother now?’ asked Mariner, with a smile.
‘Still in Stockholm with Lars, as far as I know. I haven’t seen her in a long time.’ She blew her nose, then looked up at Mariner. ‘Mum wouldn’t have committed suicide, you know,’ she said, emphatically. ‘She had no reason to. She’d got her first grandchild, she loved being with Harry, and she’d just been given the MBE for God’s sake.’
Mariner knew that, given the right state of mind, those two factors didn’t necessarily make a difference, but Rachel had been through enough today, so he went along with it for now. ‘What did she get the award for?’ he asked.
‘Services to dance; she runs a local ballet school — she’s been doing it for years.’
Mariner hesitated. ‘This is a difficult question to ask, but is there any chance that the MBE could have uncovered some kind of skeleton in her closet, something she might have been ashamed of — had it been made public?’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know,’ Mariner admitted. ‘Some kind of impropriety?’
‘Absolutely not!’ Rachel Hordern was beginning to get impatient now. ‘My stepmother did not kill herself.’
Harry began to grizzle loudly, making further conversation impossible. Knox stood up. ‘Why don’t we take Harry to look at the boats on the canal?’ he suggested to Adam Hordern, who responded immediately. ‘Yes, of course. Come on soldier.’ He held open his arms and Rachel gave her son a final squeeze before letting him break free and go to his dad.
‘Be careful by the water,’ she called after them.
When they had gone, Mariner asked: ‘Who knew about the award?’
Rachel was calm again. ‘Lots of people,’ she said. ‘We placed an announcement in the local paper. There were people she’d lost touch with over the years, and it was good publicity for the school.’
‘Is there anyone you can think of who might have resented the MBE, or felt that your mother didn’t deserve it?’ Mariner asked. Seeing her blank expression he added: ‘Was there any rivalry? Any other dance schools that might not have liked the attention Nina was getting?’
‘Enough to kill her? That’s ridiculous.’
‘It probably is,’ Mariner agreed. ‘But I do need to ask these things. When was the last time you saw your mother?’
‘A couple of weeks ago, we came up for the weekend — Harry and me,’ said Rachel.
‘And how did she seem?’
‘She was fine, looking forward to finally retiring. I mean, she hasn’t had a very good year health-wise, so it seemed the right thing to do.’
‘She’d been ill?’ Mariner queried.
‘Just silly, niggling things,’ Rachel said, shrugging it off. ‘Mostly tiredness and lethargy, and she’d
had a couple of tummy bugs lately. It wasn’t like Mum to be ill. She’s always been so active, what with the dancing and everything. We put it down to the number of hours she was working, so she cut those down. I suggested she get some help around the house; it’s a big place to look after all on her own, but she wouldn’t even consider it. And we were talking about the possibility of her moving down to be nearer to us, except that she didn’t really want to leave the friends she had here.’
‘She had close friends?’ Mariner asked.
‘Two in particular that she sees on a regular basis; the Golden Girls, they called themselves. Some throwback to years ago.’
‘Estelle Waters, was she one of this group?’ Mariner recalled the name of the woman who raised the alarm.
‘Yes, Estelle was one of Mum’s closest friends.’
‘And neither of them would be jealous about what your mother had achieved?’
‘I suppose it’s possible that anyone could be envious, but enough to do this to her? No, I’m certain. They were good friends to Mum and very supportive.’ Rachel Hordern, like most people, was inclined to believe in the essential goodness of others, though Mariner knew differently.
‘Was your mother anxious about anything, or had anything changed in her behaviour recently?’ he probed.
‘Not recently. She went through a bad time when Dad died. But then, you’ll know all about that.’ She looked up at Mariner, a hint of a challenge in her eyes, he thought.
‘I know a little, yes,’ he said, evenly. ‘But it was before my time.’ He needed to distance himself from it, to encourage her to talk.
The tactic seemed to work. ‘It was terrible,’ Rachel told him. ‘He didn’t deserve to go that way. If he hadn’t been persecuted the way he was—’
‘I’m not sure that . . .’ Mariner began, gently, but she wasn’t listening.
‘Dad was made a scapegoat. And afterwards that boy’s family were horrible to Mum. She got hate letters saying that they were glad that Dad was dead, and we had bricks through the window and everything.’ She stopped, suddenly. ‘Do you think this could be related to what happened with Dad?’
‘It’s a possibility we’ll have to consider,’ Mariner admitted.
‘But why now?’ she demanded.
‘That’s what we’d need to find out. How had your mother been in the years since your dad died?’
‘Of course she missed him, but she’d got her life back together. She always was an independent woman and with all that was happening lately . . . it’s why this just doesn’t make any sense.’
‘So, two weeks ago was the last time you were in contact with your mother?’ Mariner checked.
‘No, we spoke every couple of days; the last time was the day before yesterday, in the evening. Oh God, it would have been later that night that she . . .’ As she tailed off, Mariner could see her visualizing the sequence of events until emotion overtook her and she fumbled in her handbag for a tissue.
Mariner passed her the clean handkerchief he always carried for just such occasions. ‘Would you like another drink?’ he asked.
‘No, I’m fine, thank you.’
When she seemed ready to resume he asked: ‘What time would it have been when you called Nina?’
‘It was after we’d eaten, at about seven thirty, I suppose, maybe quarter to eight. Harry was in bed.’
‘And how long did you speak for?’
‘Not for long, as it happened. Someone came to the door, her door.’
‘Did she say who it was?’
‘No. I don’t think she could see. She hung up the phone before opening the door. She just said something like: “got to go, darling, I’ve got a visitor, I’ll speak to you soon,” and rang off. And it was fine because I just thought, yes, I’d speak to her later, or the next day, and now . . .’ she wiped her nose again.
If that timing was right, Mariner realised, then that visitor could also have been Nina Silvero’s killer. ‘And you’re certain she didn’t give any indication as to who this person might be?’ he said.
‘Absolutely. She gave no hint, though I didn’t get the impression she was expecting anyone.’
‘Did your stepmother have any close male friends?’ Mariner asked.
‘You mean boyfriends?’ Rachel was taken aback. ‘No, she didn’t go in for that kind of thing.’
‘Do you think she would have told you if she had done?’
‘Of course,’ she was affronted. ‘We used to talk about everything. In fact, from time to time since Dad died I’ve tried to suggest that she could find someone, but she always dismissed the idea as nonsense, said she was quite content as she was. Maybe if there had been a man around . . .’ She broke off as the door opened and Harry came running in, flinging himself at her, Adam Hordern and Knox following. It was a good enough time to end the interview.
‘Where will you be staying?’ Mariner asked, as he and Knox prepared to leave.
‘I’ve booked us into the Norfolk Hotel, on the Hagley Road,’ Adam Hordern said.
Mariner took out a card and passed it to him. ‘If you have any questions, or think of anything that might be relevant, those are my numbers,’ he said.
‘What about her funeral?’ Rachel asked. ‘When can we . . .?’
‘We’ll release her body as soon as possible; probably in the next couple of days.’
‘And the house?’ asked Adam.
‘Is still a crime scene,’ Mariner pointed out. ‘I’m afraid we can’t let you in there for the moment. But if there’s anything specific you need, as long as we don’t consider it pertinent to the enquiry, one of my officers will retrieve it for you.’
Rachel Hordern shook her head vaguely. ‘No, there’s nothing special.’
* * *
‘So it’s looking pretty definitely like murder, boss,’ Knox remarked as they picked their way through the afternoon traffic.
Mariner was in agreement. ‘Croghan seemed sure. And if that timing’s right, it ties neatly in with our mystery caller. We need to find out who that was. We’ll put out an appeal as part of the next press release. How did Adam Hordern seem?’
Out of the corner of his eye Mariner saw Knox shrug. ‘He seemed pretty fond of his mother-in-law. He particularly appreciated her generosity; she virtually paid for their wedding, he said.’
‘What does he do for a living?’
‘He sells double glazing, conservatories and that.’
‘Well, I suppose someone’s got to.’
* * *
On Tuesday evening Lucy was leaving the office on time, her stomach churning with conflicting feelings. She was eager to get home to Will, who was due home tonight, but at the same time she felt sick with trepidation, anticipating the journey home. In the last twenty-four hours she had made the decision to stop being such a wimp and to confront her tormentor. In her handbag, in preparation, she had her phone, a panic alarm and a notebook, determined that if she was followed home tonight, she would make sure to get the vehicle registration at least. Climbing into her car, the adrenalin began to kick in, making her mouth dry and her heart thump. Tonight she would take back control and end it once and for all.
Last night, despite a similar build-up, she had driven home without incident, making her wonder again if it was all down to her over-active imagination. As always she had a choice; she could take the route that followed the main road until she was almost home, or she could take the little-used short cut that threaded through the back roads, ending with a quarter-mile stretch through the Holloway, little more than a deep tree-lined lane, designated one-way only. Since developing the suspicion that she was being followed, she had avoided it completely. It was time to try it again. Tonight she would take her normal, quicker route home and all would be well.
The first part of Lucy’s journey went smoothly, though she was so preoccupied with watching her rear-view mirror it was a miracle she didn’t run into the back of another vehicle. It was rush hour so the major roads were busy. E
ach time headlights fell in behind, her heartbeat quickened, but then just as suddenly the headlights seemed to vanish again. Then, turning into the Holloway, there he was, up close and headlights on full beam. Her palms, grasping the steering wheel were suddenly sticky. Off the main road he kept close, crowding her as always, but instead of increasing her speed, as she had done before, Lucy slowed down until she realised she had ground to a complete halt. The lane was dark, with widely spaced street lights, and for several seconds they sat there, one behind the other. Her foot hovering over the accelerator, Lucy waited to see what he would do. Nothing happened. There was just enough space alongside her for him to overtake, but the car remained stationary behind her, silent and menacing.
It was time to act. Clutching her panic alarm in one trembling hand and her phone in the other, Lucy got out of her car and approached the other vehicle cautiously. The driver had stayed where he was, but when Lucy shone her torch on him, the window slid smoothly down. With a shock, Lucy saw an elderly man, frail and white haired and with a face as petrified as her own must be. ‘What do you want?’ he pleaded, his voice hoarse. ‘I haven’t got any money, you know.’ White-knuckled hands gripped the steering wheel.
Suddenly Lucy realised that in the dusk, her hair tied back, wearing trousers and a bulky jacket and as tall as she was, she must have cut an intimidating figure. She almost wept with relief. ‘I’m so sorry,’ she said. ‘I thought you were following me. You were driving so close.’
‘Following you?’ the old man was baffled. ‘But I couldn’t help it. You slowed right down.’ It was perfectly true.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said again. ‘I made a mistake.’
After the high tension of the encounter, Lucy’s mood was almost euphoric when she arrived home to see Will’s transit parked on the drive. She pulled in behind it. Suddenly it seemed ludicrous that she had gone to the police. What if this was all in her head? She’d convinced herself tonight that the car had been following her and it had turned out to be a harmless old man. Whatever had she been thinking? Taking her mobile out of her handbag on the seat beside her, Lucy punched in numbers and asked to be put through to DC Jamilla Khatoon. Millie answered right away.
Married Lies (Reissue) Page 6