The Woman In Blue: The Dr Ruth Galloway Mysteries 8 (2 page)

Chapter 2

The Sanctuary is an imposing Victorian edifice, more suited to a sooty city centre than the Norfolk countryside. Even softened by trees and gently rolling hills, it looks like a town hall or a railway station that has somehow planted itself in the middle of a field.

Clough, though, is impressed. ‘Look at this place. It’s like a stately home.’

‘Looks more like a prison,’ says Tim.

They have stopped at the electronic gates but, before Tim can speak into the intercom, they open soundlessly.

‘Not very good security for a prison,’ says Clough.

Tim says nothing. In fact, both have brothers who have been in prison, but they are not in the habit of discussing their families. Tim puts the car into gear and they approach the house via a sweeping gravel drive. Wide steps lead to the front door and, facing them, there’s a perfect ring of grass with a stone fountain in the middle. There is not a soul to be seen.

They ignore signs to the visitors’ car park and leave the car at the foot of the steps. Tim presses the bell and, this time, a voice answers. He has hardly finished saying the word ‘Police’ when the double doors open.

Inside it’s definitely more like a hotel than a prison – a baronial hall with a monstrous stone fireplace and a round table bearing an arrangement of waxy-looking flowers. A grandfather clock ticks ponderously, and gloomy oil paintings look down from the walls. There’s even a reception desk where a woman is flashing her teeth at them.

‘How can I help you?’

Tim shows his warrant card. ‘Can I speak to whoever’s in charge?’ They agreed in the car that he should take the lead in the interview. Clough hovers supportively at his shoulder.

The receptionist looks at them nervously. ‘That’s Doctor McAllister.’

‘Can I speak to him then?’ asks Tim.

‘I’ll see if she’s free.’ The receptionist picks up a phone and Clough murmurs, ‘You’ve got to watch these sexist assumptions, Tim.’

‘Bugger off,’ says Tim without moving his lips.

*

Doctor McAllister arrives very quickly. She’s an attractive middle-aged woman with short brown hair and narrow intimidating glasses. She ushers them to a leather sofa in front of the fireplace. Tim was going to suggest somewhere more private but as – apart from the receptionist who seems oblivious – the lobby is as empty as the grounds, he subsides.

‘What’s all this about, officer?’ The doctor takes charge immediately, smoothing her white coat and adjusting her glasses.

‘We were wondering if any of your patients were missing?’ asks Tim.

‘What do you mean, “missing”?’

‘It’s a simple enough question,’ says Clough. ‘Are any of your inmates missing?’

‘They’re not inmates, officer, they’re patients,’ says Doctor McAllister.

‘And
are
any of your patients missing?’ asks Tim.

‘Our patients are free to come and go. They sign themselves in for treatment.’

‘Did anyone sign themselves out yesterday?’

‘I don’t think so,’ she admits.

‘So everyone is where they should be?’

‘Well, we haven’t done the rounds of the rooms yet, so I can’t be a hundred per cent sure.’

‘The thing is,’ Tim says, and leans forward confidentially, ‘a body has been found.’

‘A body?’

‘The body of a woman in her nightclothes. We wondered if she was one of your patients.’

‘But that’s impossible.’

‘I thought people were free to come and go,’ says Clough.

‘Yes,’ says Doctor McAllister and shoots him an unfriendly look. ‘But we wouldn’t sign anyone out just wearing their nightclothes. And, as I say . . .’

The pocket of her white coat starts to vibrate: they can see a red light flashing under the fabric.

‘I think someone wants you,’ says Tim.

Doctor McAllister pulls out her phone and has a brief monosyllabic conversation. Then she gets to her feet, saying, ‘Excuse me, gentlemen.’

Clough and Tim exchange glances, then get up and follow her.

There’s a grand staircase to the right of the fireplace. Doctor McAllister takes the stairs two at a time, with the policemen following her. On the landing she opens a door and immediately the country-house hotel vanishes and they enter a world that is altogether more institutional: numbered doors, hand-gel dispensers; even the carpet looks different. Two men in white coats (nurses? doctors? orderlies?) stand by one of the doors. Doctor McAllister hurries forward to speak to them and Tim hears the word ‘missing’. He holds out his warrant card and asks, ‘
Is
somebody missing?’

The doctor shoots him an irritated look, but says, ‘Apparently, one of our patients isn’t in her room.’

A white-coated man pushes open door number 12. It’s a pleasant but functional room: single bed, table, wardrobe, armchair and a beautiful sash window that is slightly too big for the space.

‘The patient’s name?’ asks Clough briskly.

Doctor McAllister confers. ‘Jenkins. Chloe Jenkins.’

‘And when was Miss Jenkins last seen?’

One of the white coats replies, ‘Last night, at about eight, when I took supper round.’

A covered plate lies on the bedside table. Clough lifts the lid, revealing uneaten shepherd’s pie congealing at the edges.

‘And after that?’

‘No. She didn’t ring her bell.’

Tim has opened the wardrobe. ‘What would Miss Jenkins have been wearing?’

The orderly replies nervously, ‘She was in her nightclothes and a dressing gown.’

‘What colour?’

‘Blue.’

Tim turns to Doctor McAllister. ‘I think you’d better come with us.’

*

What with one thing and another, it’s nearly eleven o’clock when Nelson knocks on the hobbit-sized front door of St Simeon’s Cottage. The door is opened immediately, but is held ajar, with only Cathbad’s face showing through.

‘Quickly,’ he says. ‘I don’t want to let the cat out.’

‘Trust you to be looking after a mad cat,’ says Nelson, squeezing through the aperture.

‘He’s not mad,’ says Cathbad, showing Nelson into a low-ceilinged sitting room. ‘He’s disconcertingly sane.’

The slim black cat is sitting by the wood-burning stove. He gets up, shoots Nelson a look of contempt and stalks out of the room.

‘Friendly creature,’ says Nelson.

‘I think he’s the reincarnation of my old Latin teacher,’ says Cathbad. ‘He looks at me with exactly the same expression of disappointment.’

Nelson laughs and then realises that this might not be a joke.

‘Why’s he not allowed out?’ he asks.

‘He’s allowed out in the day, but not at night,’ says Cathbad. ‘But I’ve got twitchy about letting him out of the front door. I keep thinking that he’ll get run over just to spite me.’

‘When’s the owner of the house back?’

‘Tomorrow. Thank the gods.’

‘It’s an interesting place,’ says Nelson, though privately he thinks that all those beams and uneven floorboards would get him down after a while. There doesn’t seem to be a straight line in the whole place. To his surprise, though, Cathbad shudders. ‘It’s got bad energies,’ he says. ‘Oppressive. Can’t you feel it? I’ve had a headache all the time I’ve been here.’

‘It’s probably just because you keep hitting your head on doorposts.’

Cathbad laughs. ‘Probably.’

‘So, tell me about this woman you saw last night.’

‘I’ll show you.’

Cathbad leads Nelson through a door and into a narrow stone passageway. The cat is waiting by the door at the end of it.

‘I’ll let you out, Chesterton,’ says Cathbad, ‘if you promise to come back.’

The cat ignores him.

The back door opens directly onto the graveyard. Some of the stones are almost as big as the low house; others lean towards it in a rather threatening way.

‘Blimey.’ Nelson follows Cathbad along the path through the graves, saying, ‘Talk about dead centre of town.’

‘It’s a very old church,’ says Cathbad. ‘Anglo-Saxon. It’s older than the priory.’

The word ‘Anglo-Saxon’ reminds Nelson of Ruth, who is fond of throwing around historical eras as if she is unaware of the fact that Nelson has never worked out whether Bronze Age comes before the Iron Age or who the hell Homo Heidelbergensis is. The Anglo-Saxons he thinks came after the Romans, but that’s as far as he’s prepared to go.

‘Where did you see the woman?’

‘Here. By this white tombstone.’

Nelson looks at the grass around the stone. It’s slightly flattened, but there are no footprints or any signs of a struggle.

‘What time was this?’

‘About nine. I’d just rung Judy and I try to do that before nine because she goes to bed early these days.’

‘What happened next?’

‘She smiled at me. Honest to God, Nelson, she had such a beautiful smile, like an angel. I thought . . .’

‘What did you think?’

‘Walsingham is a shrine to the Virgin Mary. And she was wearing a blue cloak. Well, I thought it was a cloak at the time.’

‘You thought you’d seen a vision of Our Lady?’

‘Our Lady. You’re still such a Catholic, Nelson.’

‘Stop trying to wind me up. What happened next?’

‘She turned away and started walking towards the gate. I tried to follow but Chesterton jumped out and tripped me up.’

‘Chesterton, the cat?’

‘Yes. He’s like some malign sprite. I’m sure he did it deliberately. When I got back he was sitting by his bowl in the kitchen as if nothing had happened.’

‘Forget the cat for a minute. What happened to the woman?’

‘When I got up, she was gone. I went to the gate and looked down the lane but there was no sign of her.’

‘Show me.’

They walk through the churchyard. There are a few impressive tombs, with weeping angels and towering crosses, but most graves are simply marked by stones, their edges blurred by time and exposure to the elements. Some gravestones have fallen over and others are lined up against the low brick wall; a few are lying flat, sunk into the grass as if laid out for a macabre game of hopscotch. Nelson tries to avoid treading on them. The gate opens easily and leads into another narrow lane with high hedges. It’s a fairly straight road, though. The woman must have been walking fast, thinks Nelson, to have got out of sight so quickly.

He looks at Cathbad, who is examining the inscription on a stone angel. ‘You didn’t think to tell anyone about your vision?’

‘No. What was there to tell? The church and graveyard are free to everyone.’

‘Was the church open?’

‘No. It’s shut when they’re not having services there. I don’t approve. Churches should be open at all times.’

‘I suppose they’re worried about burglaries.’

‘Yes, but a church should be there for the people. A place of sanctuary. Afterwards I wondered if that’s what she was doing. Seeking sanctuary in the church.’

There’s not much else to see. Nelson walks the perimeter of the graveyard, still taking care not to step on the dead. Then he says goodbye to Cathbad who sidles into the cottage, careful not to let the cat out. When Nelson gets back to his car, he checks his phone. There’s a text from Tim saying that the dead woman has been formally identified as Chloe Jenkins, aged twenty-five, a patient at the Sanctuary.

Chapter 3

‘What was she being treated for?’

‘Drink and drug dependency, apparently.’

‘Does she have any family?’

‘Parents live in Surrey. The local police are informing them now. Then they’ll be on their way here.’

‘Poor sods.’ Nelson, Tim and Clough are back at the station. The briefing room has already been prepared for a major incident. Tanya Fuller, an extremely keen Detective Constable (Acting Sergeant, as she tells everyone), has pinned up a map of Walsingham and the surrounding area. There are pads and pencils on every desk and extra phonelines are being put in.

Nelson puts a red pin at the spot where the body was found.

‘Have you got a photograph of the victim?’ he asks Tim.

‘The hospital gave us this.’ He offers a passport-sized photograph. Nelson squints at it; he really should get his eyes tested. The unsmiling head-and-shoulders shot gives nothing away.

‘But we Googled her,’ says Clough. ‘Look.’ He pushes an open laptop towards Nelson.

‘Bloody hell.’

The screen is full of images. A beautiful blonde woman stares out at him, replicated again and again, in swimwear, bridal gowns, prom dresses, gothic black and fishnet tights, covered in artistically placed leaves.

‘She was quite a well-known model,’ says Tim.

‘Bloody hell,’ says Nelson again.

‘I know,’ says Clough. ‘Looks a lot like your missus, doesn’t she?’

What had struck Nelson at first was that Chloe looked like his elder daughter, Laura. But, of course, Laura resembles her mother, and actually what is staring out at him from the myriad images is a younger Michelle. Nelson’s wife, a runner-up for Miss Blackpool 1988, was offered modelling work as a younger woman, but hadn’t been interested. ‘It was all car shows and strip clubs anyway,’ she says, ‘nothing glamorous’. Besides, Michelle, though aware of her own beauty, doesn’t like having her photograph taken.

‘Isn’t she the image of Mrs Nelson?’ Clough turns to Tim.

‘Maybe,’ says Tim. ‘I don’t know.’

‘The image of her,’ says Clough. ‘Twenty-odd years ago.’

‘Don’t let Michelle hear you say that,’ says Nelson. ‘She doesn’t admit to a day over thirty.’

He keeps his voice light, but he’s shaken. Resemblance is a funny thing. Michelle is always saying that the girls look like him but he can never see it. They’re girls, for one thing. But this likeness is shocking. Maybe in the flesh it wouldn’t be so striking – gestures and voice make up so much of what a person is – but here, pixellated on the screen, the similarity is almost frightening. Chloe Jenkins is looking at him out of a face that he has known and loved for more than twenty years.

‘What do we know about this girl?’ he asks.

‘She’s twenty-five,’ says Tim, ‘been modelling since she was sixteen. Two other sessions in rehab, one when she was just eighteen. Parents, Alan and Julie, live in Weybridge in Surrey. Father’s an airline pilot. Chloe lived in London and was in a relationship with an actor and model called Thom Novak. She entered the Sanctuary on 27th January and was apparently making good progress. Last seen last night at about eight when an orderly brought round the evening meal. Her body was identified by Doctor Fiona McAllister, the chief medical officer at the hospital.’

Nelson pulls a pad of paper towards him. ‘Well the first thing we need to know is Novak’s whereabouts last night.’

‘Checked,’ says Clough. ‘He’s in rehab too. In Switzerland.’

‘Jesus wept. What a set.’

‘Doctor McAllister said that it was impossible to leave the hospital without signing out,’ says Tim, ‘but from what Cloughie and I saw it would be easy enough. There are plenty of side doors and more than one way out.’

‘Any idea what she was doing in Walsingham?’

‘No. We don’t know if she was ever in the village. The road where she was found was on the way to the Slipper Chapel, the Catholic shrine.’

‘She was seen in the village,’ says Nelson. He describes Cathbad’s sighting of Chloe Jenkins in the churchyard.

‘Typical bloody Cathbad,’ says Clough. ‘Trust him to think it was some religious vision and not contact the police.’

‘To be fair,’ says Nelson, ‘he had no reason to know that she was in danger. There are lots of odd people in Walsingham, pilgrims and the like.’

‘Should we go door to door in Walsingham,’ says Clough. ‘Check if anyone else saw her last night?’

‘Yes,’ says Nelson. ‘Let’s track the route she might have taken across the fields too. Get some dog-handlers on the scene. Tim, will you speak to the boyfriend in Switzerland?’

‘You should have a lot in common with a male model,’ says Clough.

‘It’s not a joking matter,’ says Nelson.

‘That wasn’t a joke.’

‘The parents will be here soon. They’ve lost a daughter, let’s not forget that. Tanya, will you look after them? I’ll speak to them too.’

‘Yes, boss.’ Nelson thinks that Tanya looks slightly disappointed to be left with the soft, family liaison role. But someone has to do it and he needs Tim and Clough elsewhere.

‘Clough, you organise the door-to-door. Appeal for witnesses on the road too. Tim, after you’ve spoken to the boyfriend, get on to Intel. We need to know if there’s anyone in Chloe’s background who might be a suspect.’

‘Yes, boss.’

Nelson is getting into gear now, feeling as if the inquiry is really starting. The first hours are the most important. If they can hit the ground running, they have a good chance of finding out who killed Chloe Jenkins. Nelson thinks of the little body in the nightdress and dressing gown and his resolve hardens.

‘Right, let’s get going.’

Then Leah, Nelson’s PA, puts her head round the door. ‘Superintendent Whitcliffe wants to see you.’

*

Whitcliffe, perma-tanned and smooth, is Nelson’s nemesis. He’s a local boy, a graduate who sees King’s Lynn CID as a stepping stone to greater things. He loves phrases like ‘twenty-first-century policing’ and ‘three-hundred-and-sixty-degree appraisal’. He’s passionate about community involvement as long as he doesn’t actually have to meet any members of the community. Nelson is a major thorn in his side. Nelson’s methods are frequently unorthodox and at heart he’s an old-school copper who prefers being out in the field to directing strategic operations (another of Whitcliffe’s favourite phrases). Whitcliffe would like to get rid of Nelson and bring in a smart young graduate, someone like Tim, perhaps. But Nelson’s team are loyal to him and he seems to get results. Whitcliffe lives in hope that Nelson will one day want to go back to the North, a place as remote and shadowy to Whitcliffe as the north side of the moon. But he prides himself on getting on with everyone, so he greets Nelson heartily.

‘Ah, Harry, sit down. Good of you to spare the time. Bad business about this young girl.’

‘Chloe Jenkins,’ says Nelson, remaining standing. ‘I’m in the middle of an investigation. The vital first seven hours.’

‘Of course. I gather that the dead girl, Chloe, was a well-known model?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, you know what this will mean?’

Nelson says nothing, so Whitcliffe expands on his theme. ‘It will mean increased press interest. You know how it works, Harry. A good-looking victim and all the papers will be on it. We’ll have to call a press conference.’

‘But there’s nothing to tell them.’

‘It’s good PR, Harry. You know how important that is. And we can appeal for witnesses. Would you like Tim Heathfield to do it?’

‘No, I’ll do it,’ says Nelson. ‘When?’

‘Tomorrow, first thing.’

‘I’ll be there,’ says Nelson. ‘And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expecting Chloe’s parents.’

*

They arrive just after four in an unmarked police car. Watching them approach, Nelson thinks that Alan and Julie Jenkins don’t seem suited to tragedy. They’re a good-looking couple, probably in their early fifties, smartly dressed even on this occasion. But they are shrunken with grief; Julie has her arms wrapped tightly around her body, Alan – a man clearly born to command – looks lost and somewhat frightened.

Nelson greets them. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss.’ When did they all start saying that? The police used to say, ‘My condolences’. This recent phrase probably comes from American TV shows. At any rate, it doesn’t register with the bereaved parents.

‘Would you like to see her?’

‘Yes, please,’ says Julie.

‘Would you like me to come with you?’

‘No,’ says Alan, ‘we’ll be all right.’

‘I’ll wait here,’ says Nelson, relieved, but slightly ashamed of himself all the same. What can it be like, being asked to view your dead child’s body? Nelson tries not to think about his own daughters, but that’s impossible as he’s been thinking about them all day.

A few minutes later the Jenkins emerge, both crying. Nelson takes them into the quiet room, offers tea and coffee and asks a few simple questions. It’s too soon for a proper interview.

‘When did you last see Chloe?’

Julie takes a long, shuddering breath. ‘A week ago. You’re not allowed to see patients for their first few weeks at the Sanctuary. It’s meant to purge them of all outside influences, something like that. But Doctor McAllister – she’s the doctor in charge – said that we could visit last week.’

‘And how was Chloe when you saw her?’

‘She seemed well.’ Julie looks at her husband for corroboration, but he appears to have been struck dumb. ‘I mean, she hadn’t been there long, but I could already see a difference. When she went in she . . . she wasn’t taking care of herself and she was far too thin. When we saw her last week, well, she was still thin, but her hair was clean and her skin looked better. It was lovely, wasn’t it, Alan?’

‘We were so happy driving home,’ said Alan, his voice hoarse with misery. ‘We really thought that she was going to get better. And now . . .’ He buries his head in his hands.

‘I’m so sorry,’ says Nelson, ‘but anything you tell me now might help me find the person who did this. Did Chloe say anything last week that might explain why she was in Walsingham last night?’

‘No,’ says Julie. ‘We didn’t think they were allowed out at night. We thought she’d be safe.’

Both of them are crying properly now. Nelson can’t bring himself to question them any more.

‘The car’s outside to take you home,’ he says. ‘Is it all right if I send an officer down to talk to you on Monday? Just to keep you up to date with the inquiry and to see if there’s anything you can add?’

He wishes he could send Judy, but it’ll have to be Tim. He’s good at this sort of thing too.

‘That’s OK,’ says Julie. ‘I can’t really think of the days ahead. We’ll have to start planning her funeral. Her sister’s still in the States. She’s coming home today.’

‘If there’s anything I can do to help,’ says Nelson, ‘you’ve got my number.’

‘She looked so beautiful,’ says Julie Jenkins. ‘She wouldn’t have suffered, would she?’

‘No,’ lies Nelson. ‘Death would have been almost instantaneous.’

‘We had our troubles with Chloe,’ says Alan, ‘but she was a good girl really.’ He looks at Nelson as if it is very important that he understands this.

‘I know she was,’ says Nelson. ‘We’ll catch the person who did this. I promise you.’