Strange Affair (13 page)

The man turned pale. His hands shook as he zipped himself up and, without even pausing at the basin, ran for the door.
Templeton washed his hands with soap under hot water for thirty seconds exactly. He hated poofters, and as far as he was concerned they’d made a bloody big mistake when they made homosexuality legal all those years ago. Opened the floodgates, that did, just like they did with immigration. As far as he was concerned, the government should send all the poofters to jail and all foreigners back home – except Winsome, of course; she could stay.

Up in the restaurant, Templeton ordered a cup of tea and sausage, eggs and beans, figuring you can’t go wrong with something as basic as that, and carried his tray to the first empty table he saw, trying to ignore the smears of ketchup on the surface. The eggs were overcooked and the tea was stewed, but other than that the meal wasn’t too bad. Templeton tucked in with as much enthusiasm as he could muster.

When he had finished, he went up to the counter and spoke to the young Asian lad who worked there. His name tag identified him as “Ali.”

“Were you working here last night about this time?”

“I was here,” said Ali. “Sometimes it feels like I’m always bloody here.”

“I’ll bet it does,” said Templeton, pulling the photo of Jennifer Clewes from his briefcase. “By the way, I’m DC Templeton, North Yorkshire Major Crimes. Did you happen to see this woman in here?”

“Bloody hell, is she dead?” Ali asked, paling. “I’ve never seen a dead person before.”

“The question is, did you see her?”

“What happened to her?”

Templeton sighed theatrically. “Look, Ali, we’ll get along a lot better if I ask the questions and you answer them, all right?” he said.

“Yeah. All right. Let’s have a look, then.” Ali reached out his hand, but Templeton held on to the photograph, keeping it just within Ali’s range of vision. He didn’t want greasy fingerprints all over it.

Ali screwed up his eyes and looked at the photo longer than Templeton thought he needed to, then said, “Yeah, she was in here last night. Sat over there.” He pointed to a table.

“What time?”

“Can’t remember. It’s all the same when you’re on nights.”

“Was she alone?”

“Yeah. I remember thinking what’s a good-looking bird like that doing all alone on a Friday night, like.”

“Did she seem upset or frightened in any way?”

“Come again?”

“How did she behave?”

“Just normal, like. She ate her sandwich – well, half of it at any rate. I can’t say I blame her. Those ham and tomatoes do get a bit soggy when they’ve been sitting –”

“Did anyone approach her at all?”

“No.”

“Speak to her?”

“No. But the bloke at the table opposite was definitely giving her the eye. Looked like a bit of a pervert to me, too.”

“What do perverts look like?” Templeton asked.

“You know. Creepy, like.”

“Right. How long did she stay?”

“Dunno. Not more than ten, fifteen minutes, I suppose. Look, aren’t you going to tell me what happened to her? She was all right when she left here.”

“Anybody follow her?”

“The bloke opposite, the pervert, went out not long after her, but I wouldn’t say he was following her. I mean, he’d
finished his sausage roll. Why would he want to hang around?”

Templeton gazed over the decor. “Why, indeed?” he said.

“Most people here, they’re usually in a hurry, see. Quick turnover.”

“And no one else took an interest in the woman?”

“No.”

“She make any phone calls?”

“Not that I saw.”

“This pervert, had you ever seen him before?”

“No.”

“Can you describe him for me?”

“He was wearing a dark grey suit, like a businessman, wore glasses with black rims, and he had a long, jowly sort of face, with a long, thin nose. Short brown hair, light brown. Oh, yeah, and he had dandruff. Reminded me of someone, but I can’t think who. Not the dandruff, I mean, the face.”

“How old would you say he was?”

“Old. Maybe forty or so.”

“Anything else you can tell me?”

“Don’t think so. Is this gonna be on
Crimewatch
?”

“Thanks for your help.” Templeton left Ali dreaming of TV stardom and walked back to his car. The rain had stopped and dark puddles reflected the lights. Before setting off back up the motorway, Templeton walked over to the garage and into the night manager’s office. There he found a sleepy young man behind the counter and showed his warrant card. The boy seemed to wake up a bit.

“I’m Geoff,” he said. “What can I do for you?”

“Were you working here last night?”

“Yeah.”

Templeton took out the photograph again. “Remember her?”

“She looks…” He frowned. “I don’t know.”

“She looks dead,” said Templeton. “Just as well, because she is. Do you remember her?”

“She was here. You don’t easily forget someone who looks like that.”

“Do you remember what time?”

“I can’t say for certain, but her credit card receipt should tell us.”

“She used plastic?”

“Most people do. Petrol’s so bloody expensive and cards are convenient. Nowadays you can just swipe the card right by the pump. You don’t even have to come into the office. Not everyone likes to do it that way, mind you. Some still prefer the human touch.”

“I don’t suppose you’ve still got last night’s receipts?”

“As a matter of fact,” said Geoff, “I have. There’s no pickup till Monday morning.”

“What are we waiting for? Her name’s Jennifer Clewes.”

Geoff located the credit card receipts and sucked on his lower lip as he made his way through them. “Just give me a minute. Here, I think this is it.” He held the receipt up for Templeton to see: 12:35 a.m. Which meant she’d get to the junction with the A1 about two and a half hours later. It fit. Templeton thanked Geoff, and just on the off chance asked him about the “old” man Ali had described.

“The bloke with the dandruff? Old hatchet face?”

“That’s the one.”

“Yeah, he was here, too. Same time as her, now I come to think of it. I caught him giving her the eye when she was bending over with the pump. Can’t say I blame him, mind you. Like something out of
FHM
. Hey, you don’t think that –”

“Seen him before?”

“Not that I recall. But we get so much traffic.”

“I don’t suppose there’s the remotest chance that he paid by plastic, too?”

Geoff grinned, flicking through the stack again. “I told you. Most of them do. Here you are, right after hers. A Mr. Roger Cropley.”

“Do you have CCTV?”

“As a matter of fact, we do,” said Geoff.

Thunder rumbled in the distance. Geoff held up the slip and Templeton read the details. So there is a God, after all, he thought.

Back at Roy’s, Banks first checked the phone for messages. There was only one, and to his surprise it was from Annie Cabbot. Even more to his surprise, it was clearly intended for Roy because she addressed him as “Mr. Banks.” She had called around at the house earlier, she said, but he had been out. Would he please get in touch as soon as possible? Of course, Annie had no idea that Roy was missing. She sounded rather chilly and official, Banks thought, wondering what she was doing in London. Could it be something to do with the murder she was investigating in Eastvale? It was after eleven now, though, and he didn’t fancy getting into a complicated conversation with Annie so late. He’d give her a ring in the morning.

He brought the open bottle of Amarone upstairs and watched
A Clockwork Orange
on the plasma TV. Even with the surround sound turned low so as not to disturb the neighbours, it still filled the room. After that, he fell asleep on the sofa, the bottle still half full.

Banks didn’t hear the thunder, nor did he see the lightning, when the storm passed over the London area in the small hours
of the morning. What did awaken him, however, shortly after three, was the distinct melody of “La donna è mobile” coming from very close by.

As Banks struggled to consciousness, his first thought was that he didn’t remember putting a CD of
Rigoletto
on before he went to sleep. Then he remembered Roy’s mobile, which sat on the table beside him.

He picked it up and, sure enough, that was the source of the sound. The room was dark, but with the help of the blue back-lighting, he found the right button to push.

“Hello,” he mumbled. “Who is it?”

At first he heard nothing at all except a slight background hiss, perhaps some sort of static interference. He thought he could hear someone making choking or gagging sounds, as if they were trying to hold back laughter. Then he began to think that perhaps someone had rung by accident, and the sounds came from a television playing in the background.

A similar thing happened to Banks once when he had forgotten to lock his mobile. Somehow or other he had activated one of the numbers in his phone book, and Tracy got to listen to the questioning of a murder witness. Fortunately, she couldn’t make out the conversation clearly, and she knew enough to switch off when she realized what must have happened. Still, it made Banks paranoid about locking the device after that.

Or maybe this was kids, someone’s idea of a joke?

The muffled noises went on, followed by a thud and the unmistakable sound of someone laughing. Then, as Banks looked at the display, a picture began to form. It wasn’t very sharp, but it looked like a photograph of a man slumped in a chair, asleep perhaps, or unconscious, his head to one side.

Banks couldn’t see whether there were other people around, but given the sounds, it might have been some sort of wild party.

Why on earth would anyone want to send Roy such a picture? Banks was still half asleep, and not thinking at all clearly, so he saved the picture and put the phone back on the table. Whatever it was, he would be better equipped to deal with it in the morning.

6

T
he thunderstorm that swept across the southern half of 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 above-ground, and she gazed on the rows of red-brick 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 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 towards 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 centre.”

“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 centre. 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 centre. “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 surname 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 say what she was worried about?”

“No. I’m sorry. Just that it was something this Carmen said.”

“Was Carmen at the centre 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 counsellor. 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 make 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 nothing came of it. Certainly no violence, anyway. Groups like that would tend to ignore the centre 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 centre 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 lived only 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 read 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 live 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.

Melanie 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 towards 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 practised my Italian on the waiters, who were all over fifty. There wasn’t one decent-looking bloke in the whole place. Most evenings we commiserated 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 afterwards?”