The Woman in the Peacock Patterned Coat

by Jennifer Jones

  Finally, on January twenty-first, Katie’s name came up again, albeit as “the woman in flat 8”. “Took the rubbish out. Someone is using my bin. I will have to write to management. Again. Coming back I saw the woman in flat 8 is home, I could see her moving behind her curtains. The woman in the top flat was screeching at her husband again. As I reached my door he came running down the stairs, gave me an apologetic look, and hurried out of the door.” So all was not rosy in flat number twelve, Neil thought. Was Josh Martin’s wandering eye a cause or a symptom of that? On January twenty-second, Andrew wrote, “Got home around six. As I entered the foyer the woman in flat 8 came out. I think of her as Miss Campbell, because of the tartan, but as tartan is just a pattern these days to most people, holding no significance, this is probably too much of an assumption. She was wearing that coat, buttoned up to the neck. When she saw me she smirked, said ‘Hi, Andrew,’ in a sing-song voice, and went out. I said nothing, of course, just gave a slight nod of my head. I went into my flat and got changed for the evening ahead.” The next mention, on March eighteenth, was practically identical, then on the twentieth, “Got home at around 10pm. Heard a noise in the garden so went to investigate. It was probably just a rat. When I turned to come back in, I saw the bedroom light in flat 8 was on. Just as I noticed it it went out.”

  There were several more mentions of seeing Katie’s lights on, a few more glimpses of her behind her curtains, but Andrew never actually saw her again in person until May thirteenth and here Neil read nothing he didn’t already know. Except, at last, an emotional departure. “I wanted to slap that smirk right off her face. Back in my flat, I was so angry that when I dressed for the club my tie didn’t match my shirt. I didn’t notice until I got home. So I have looked ridiculous all night. Had my usual dinner at ‘La luce della luna’.” For once he didn’t go into lengthy descriptions of the food. “At the Birds of Paradise club the manager took my coat and asked solicitously, ‘Are you well, Mr Bryson, you look a little pale?’ I assured him that I was perfectly all right. I ordered a brandy and soda and watched the dancers for a while” – this time the women escaped having every last bodily detail commented on – “then paid for a private booth, choosing a dark haired, dark eyed woman – Italian maybe – with full red lips and large breasts. But I couldn’t concentrate on what she was doing. My God! Here was this beautiful, naked woman gyrating in my lap, and all I could think of was that woman’s words, taunting me, making fun. I was so upset I did something I have never done before, I asked the woman if she would come home with me. I didn’t offer her any money, but she immediately reported me to the manager, and I was shown the door. ‘Mr Bryson,’ he said, ‘I can see you are not well, you are not your usual self. Tonight I must ask you to leave but come back next week and all will be forgiven, yes?’ I had to stand in the rain for half an hour before I was able to get a taxi. I got home at 11 o’clock and just as I put my key in the lock, the door to the foyer opened and the man in flat 12 lurched in and promptly threw up on the floor. ‘I hope you’re going to clean that up,’ I said but he slowly crumpled to his knees and passed out. There was nothing for it. I hooked my arms around his shoulders and dragged him into my flat, then into the kitchen, where at least if he throws up again it will be on lino. Then I cleaned up his mess. God! The smell. This has been one of the worst nights of my life and it’s all that woman’s fault.”

  The entries for Saturday and Sunday read simply, “Felt unwell. Didn’t go out. Re-read some of my diaries, looking for happier memories.” There was no further mention of Josh Martin, which Neil thought puzzling. By Monday, Andrew seemed to have calmed down, resuming his usual verbose narratives. He made trips to Epping Forest, Highgate Wood and Rainham Marshes. Then on Friday, twentieth May, “Went out at 11am to weed the garden. Will write to the management and complain that the caretaker is not doing his job. Saw that the curtains at number 8 were open. Is she back? Feel like giving her a piece of my mind, but what’s the point?” He went as usual to the Birds of Paradise Club where all was indeed forgiven, then wrote, “Got home at around 10pm. On an impulse walked around the back of the building. The curtains were still open but no lights on.” For several nights he checked like this until on May twenty-seventh he wrote, “Have come to the conclusion that the woman in flat 8 is not coming back. She has probably “shacked up” with that man, that Shaun Taverner. Well, good riddance to her.” He didn’t spare Katie another thought until, “Saturday, June 18: A woman knocked on the door saying she was the sister of the woman in flat 8 and had I seen her? Interesting – her name is Campbell after all. I didn’t tell her anything. Maybe this Katy Campbell doesn’t want her sister to know what she’s doing. Why should I snitch?”

  And finally, on June twenty-first, “Now the police are asking about this woman. Why should I get involved? She made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me. Didn’t like that older one – Hammond or whatever his name was. A bit too clever, almost tripped me up on the number of times I’d seen her. Not that I can see how that really matters but you never know.”

  Neil put the book down, rubbed his eyes. It was gone midnight and he wasn’t really sure that he had learnt very much. More than enough about Andrew Bryson though, that much was certain. Everything he had read had at least confirmed what the man had told them, he supposed that was something. And he had a number of specific dates which might or might not prove to be relevant.

  He showered and went into the bedroom. Janey was asleep. The bedside lamp was turned down low – had she been trying to wait up for him? On the cabinet the Ruth Rendell novel lay open and face down, a habit which he found slightly irritating. He found something to mark her place so he could close it properly. It was a hot night and she had kicked the sheet and duvet away. He gazed at her for a moment. She was wearing a red satin nightdress, his first present to her. As he watched she moved restlessly and the nightdress rode above her legs. As seemed to be the fashion nowadays, she removed most of her pubic hair, something Neil could never really understand, mainly because of all the extra work it must entail. Reaching out he pulled the nightdress back down, then stood watching her a few moments more, the gentle rise and fall of her chest, her features, smoothed and untroubled. You are so very beautiful, he thought. But too many men in her past had wanted her only for her body, and this conflicted him sometimes. He knew there was no shame in desiring her so strongly, but he felt if anyone was ever inhibited in bed, it was him not her. He had gone to Wales with no expectations but right from the start she had been relaxed, a generous and responsive lover. Maybe in this was the reason he had been so ready to believe that everything was all right. He leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek then switched off the lamp and climbed in beside her. He pulled the sheet up to cover them, wrapped an arm around her, and within seconds was fast asleep.

  Chapter 9

  Neil returned the diaries the following morning. All, that is, except the most recent one, the one covering May and June. He wanted to re-read that with fresh eyes, maybe get someone else to look at it too.

  Andrew Bryson answered the door wearing a faded red flannel dressing-gown over what appeared to be black silk pyjamas.

  ‘What time do you call this?’ he said grumpily.

  ‘I call it a little after seven thirty. Here are your diaries.’

  ‘There’s one missing.’

  ‘I haven’t finished with it yet.’

  Andrew took the diaries from him. ‘This is such an invasion of privacy. I feel quite ill. And your men, searching my place, they weren’t very careful you know. They broke a dinner plate, and put a scratch in one of my DVDs.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that.’

  ‘And now you – getting your jollies from reading about my Friday night excursions, no doubt.’

  ‘Hardly. Mr Bryson, nothing good ever comes from lying to the police. You withheld vital information from us, and why? Because a young woman made it clear she didn’t fancy you. What did you expect? Oh – but you’ve
bought into the fantasy, haven’t you? All those beautiful young women at those clubs, fawning all over you. Has it slipped your mind you’re buying their attention, paying for them to whisper compliments in your ear? You really think they find you attractive?’

  Andrew jerked back in shock, then drew himself up straight. ‘Are you married, Inspector? Do you have an active and fulfilling sex life?’

  ‘That is absolutely none of your business!’

  ‘No. So don’t think you have the right to stand there and comment or judge me on mine.’

  Neil found the door slammed in his face. He had been going to offer compensation for the damaged items, but to hell with it. He climbed the stairs to flat twelve but Josh Martin wasn’t at home, having no doubt made a full recovery from the flu. Having no other means of getting in contact with him, Neil resigned himself to a return trip later that afternoon.

  Driving to work, his mind remained focused on the diaries. He felt he was missing something, something that actually was staring him in the face. The more he thought about it, the clearer it became. The diaries contained such detailed information, that reading them you felt the whole truth was laid out before you, there was nothing more to know. But what if things had been left out, things that would incriminate the author? Houses could be burgled, diaries fall into the wrong hands – certain phrases came back to him, details, that gradually took on a different meaning, until he was convinced there were certain activities Andrew Bryson had omitted to mention, and he had a fair idea of what those activities might be.

  Arriving at the station, he sought out Tony Pavel.

  ‘Tony – all those so-called nature rambles of Andrew Bryson’s – I think they were a cover for other, unsavoury behaviours. Here, listen to this …’ he leafed through the diary until he found the pages he was looking for, ‘“I sat very still amongst the trees. After a while a tree creeper landed on the tree in front of me, and started pecking seeds out of the bark. It was mottled brown … well, let’s skip all that … I moved no more than was necessary …” No more than was necessary for what? Later he writes, “I went home in a very relaxed frame of mind”. Now I’m not disagreeing that a few hours spent communing with nature can be very calming, but …’

  ‘But what if there was someone else on the other side of those trees who he was watching, while he was … er … pleasuring himself?’

  ‘Exactly. That was in Epping Forest, but there are other wooded areas he frequents.’ Neil scribbled down a list. ‘Get on to the relevant boroughs and see if there are any outstanding reports of indecent behaviour, including voyeurism – he tends to favour back alleys as a way of reaching these places.’ He could see Soumela hovering in the background and felt a sudden thrill of excitement. ‘Look, if there are any such cases, just pass on Bryson’s details as a possibility, OK? I mean, I could be completely wrong about this.’

  ‘For what it’s worth, Sir, I don’t think you are.’

  Neil went up to Soumela. ‘You’ve made a breakthrough?’ he asked.

  She flushed with pride. ‘Yes, Sir!’

  He showed her into his office, waited until she sat down.

  ‘So …’

  ‘OK. Well … I haven’t been able to trace Shaun Taverner directly, but he booked three nights at the Seaview Hotel, from the thirteenth of May, and paid in advance with his credit card. He didn’t give a home address, but we’ll get that through the bank. And Sir – he didn’t show, not for the whole weekend. Nor did he ever ring to explain why. The hotel had their money so they didn’t really think too much about it, it’s not the first no-show they’ve ever had.’

  ‘Good work, Soumela. Out of interest, how much did he pay?’

  ‘A hundred and fifty pounds a night, Sir. It’s a lot of money to just throw away, isn’t it?’ Well, probably not to you, she thought, but it is to me.

  ‘Yes, it is. Which suggests to me, Soumela, that if Shaun Taverner is responsible for Katie Campbell’s death, it may not have been premeditated. It might even have been a complete accident, and he’s been too frightened to come forward. You know how people can do stupid things when they’re panicked, like conceal a body. This might be the chance he has been waiting for to make a clean breast of it. Let me know when you’ve brought him in.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. There’s one other thing, Sir.’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Sheila Campbell. There’s no way she has a motive for wanting her sister dead, well, not any financial one, anyway. Katie Campbell had less than two thousand pounds left in her account. Sheila Campbell is earning the equivalent of eighty thousand pounds a year, and her boyfriend too. They live in a swish apartment overlooking Sydney Harbour, which is apparently one of the best addresses you can have in the world.’

  Neil smiled. ‘Well, that would all depend on what you’re looking for, wouldn’t it?’

  A yearning look came into Soumela’s eyes. ‘Sun … lots and lots of sun … wonderful beaches … in fact, me and my fiancé are going there for our honeymoon, next January, with a view to making it permanent.’

  ‘Oh! Well, if that should happen, you’ll be missed, Soumela. But you have to follow your dreams. Me – I could never wrench myself away from the museums and galleries of Europe, the sheer amount of history …’ Her face became a mask of politeness and he smiled again. ‘Never mind. What date did Sheila Campbell arrive in the country?’

  ‘Friday the seventeenth of June, Sir. And that was the first time she’d been back since she left the UK in September 2012.’

  ‘Thank you, Soumela, that’s very useful information. If you’re available when Shaun Taverner comes in, I’d like you to assist at the interview.’

  ‘Yes, Sir. Thank you.’

  The bank supplied Shaun Taverner’s address, his neighbour supplied his place of work, and by two o’clock that afternoon he was sitting opposite Neil and Soumela in an interview room, as pale as death and sweating profusely.

  Shaun Taverner was twenty-five years of age, of medium height and slim build, with wavy brown hair that fell to just above his collar, brown eyes, and the longest eyelashes Neil had ever seen on a man. He stared at the two police officers like a rabbit caught in headlights. The station’s duty solicitor sat beside him.

  ‘So, Mr Taverner,’ Neil began. ‘You know why you’ve been brought in?’

  ‘Y-y-y-yes. You want to ask me about … about a-a woman by the name of Katie Campbell.’

  ‘A woman by the name of Katie Campbell who you invited down to Brighton for a weekend, where you booked a hotel for three nights, then failed to show.’

  ‘Th-th-that’s because …’

  ‘Where did you meet Miss Campbell, Mr Taverner?’

  ‘W-w-w-well we … we met on the Internet.’

  ‘On the Internet?’ Katie had told her sister they had met at a pub. ‘You mean through a dating site?’

  ‘No … no, a chat room.’

  ‘Which one?’ asked Soumela.

  ‘Chatz – with a z.’

  ‘OK,’ said Neil. ‘When? When did you start talking with her on this chat site?’

  ‘It … it was around the beginning of April. I was feeling at a bit of a loose end and I … I remembered a friend telling me about how he’d been using these chat rooms, how they were great fun, you could be whoever you wanted to be …’ he stopped abruptly, flushing a deep red. ‘N-n-not that I-I ever … So I logged on and-and she was there too. She didn’t use a nickname, just called herself KatieC, and I thought that was rather lovely …’

  ‘And what nickname did you use, Mr Taverner?’

  Shaun mumbled something indecipherable.

  ‘Speak up, please.’

  ‘It was Boy-next-door. I … I couldn’t come up with anything original.’

  Neil gave him a slight smile. ‘It may not have been very original, but it would have to have been unique, because my understanding is you’re not allowed to use the same name as anyone else, isn’t that right?’

  ‘Y-yes, that’s right.’


  There was a long pause. ‘You were telling us how you got to know Katie Campbell,’ Neil prompted.

  ‘Oh! Well … well we talked for a while about … about ordinary stuff like … movies we’d both seen, our favourite bands, all that, then after a while we moved into a private room. She … she told me how she had only recently come down to London and she was finding it hard to make friends. And I told her how my girlfriend of two years had just walked out on me even though we’d been talking about getting married. We just seemed to hit it off. We talked for hours that night, and then, well, the next night I logged on to see if she was there again but she wasn’t. But I kept checking and a couple of nights later she was on and we talked a lot more. After that we’d make dates to meet each other online, a couple of days every week. Then at … at the start of May she started to say how we should meet – for real – but not just for coffee or a drink but go away together, really make a time of it. She suggested a weekend in Brighton …’

  ‘She did?’

  ‘Yes. I was a bit shocked, actually. I said was she sure, and she said, why, couldn’t she trust me? I said of course she could so she became insistent. She said we should go away as soon as possible and suggested the thirteenth. She asked would I make the booking as she didn’t have a credit card, but she’d pay me half when we met up. Look, I know this all sounds hard to believe, but I felt like we had made a real connection, we’d become really close, even if it was just online …’

  ‘So up to this point, you had never communicated except through this chat room? No emails, phone calls?’

  ‘No. I gave her my email address but she never used it, and she didn’t give me hers.’

  ‘What about photos?’ asked Soumela. ‘Did you post any photos to the site?’