‘We can’t stop you assisting. That’s the police’s prerogative. But you cannot let it interfere with your work. You’re held in high regard at the firm, Maddy. Don’t do anything to jeopardise that.’
The law was Maddy’s calling, her life. The thought of all those years of studying going down the drain was unthinkable.
‘Understood. I won’t.’
She meant it. She’d make damn sure she didn’t slip up again. But she wasn’t going to stop helping Carver. They were getting closer to finding the killer. She could feel it in her bones. And every time Paige’s face appeared in her head, it strengthened her resolve.
***
Natasha Coleridge opened her front door, then tossed her keys in the bowl she’d reserved especially for them. Slim and petite, with long blonde hair and perfect features, Natasha attracted men wherever she went, lapping up the attention like a doted-on puppy and using her physical attractiveness to her advantage.
But she wasn’t just a pretty face. She was also incredibly smart. And she was aiming high.
Natasha had been pleased with her decision to choose morning, rather than afternoon lectures at the academy. She’d always been a morning person and loved the fact that by 1 pm, she’d already achieved so much. Her mind alert, buzzing with legal jargon, cases and concepts, she was ready to fortify what she’d learnt with an afternoon of study.
Her father, William Coleridge, hadn’t pushed her down the path he himself had taken. From the first, law was something that had fascinated her; not just the philosophical side of it, but the way it forced you to be creative. She couldn’t wait to start practising in two years’ time at the top-ten City firm where she’d been offered a training contract – hopefully due to her intellect and not because of who her father was. Where she would be constantly challenged to find new and inventive solutions to the most complex legal challenges clients faced, working with some of the world’s most sophisticated businesses on groundbreaking transactions that altered the face of their industries, not to mention multi-million-pound disputes where reputations hung in the balance. And then there was getting a perverted kick out of the insane all-nighters and time-pressured deadlines that most people would balk at.
None of that scared her. She just had to make sure she passed her exams.
Although his temper had flared when she’d declined to take things further last week, and she’d sensed him giving her the cold treatment in tutorials, she didn’t think Stirling would be so vicious or stupid as to tamper with her grades. And if he did, she’d go straight to her father. He was a powerful man in the City, and as much as she disliked the idea of confessing to him that she’d shamelessly flirted with her married professor twenty years her senior, she would if she had to. If push came to shove, she’d do whatever it took to follow in her father’s footsteps. She had no doubt her father would make sure news of Stirling’s escapades spread like wildfire, thereby putting an end to his career at the academy.
She’d been attracted to Stirling, she couldn’t deny it. And flattered by his attention. It was exciting: the way he’d held her gaze, casually skimmed his hand across her knee as they’d gone over one of her papers in his office, the chemistry electric.
So when he’d slipped her a note, asking if she fancied meeting up for a quick drink to discuss her work further, she’d said what the hell.
Unlike most girls her age, struggling to make rent, Natasha lived the high life and had moved into her own three-bedroom flat in West Hampstead in her second year at uni.
By plying her with cocktails at one of London’s most exclusive Mayfair hotels, Stirling had expected Natasha to be putty in his hands, free to mould to his desires. But she wasn’t one to be so easily impressed. Born into money and glamour, it took a hell of a lot more than a swanky London hotel to get her between the sheets.
As Natasha removed her thick woollen coat and added it to the already chock-full stand of designer jackets, coats and scarves in her hallway, she grinned to herself as she remembered the look on Stirling’s face when she’d turned him down.
The City was still very much a man’s world, but it was funny to think how quickly women could reduce men to blithering idiots when it came to satisfying their innate carnal appetites. Sex was power as far as she was concerned, and she wielded such power expertly.
She’d set aside four hours of study before it was time to get ready for her parents’ dinner party that evening. They held several during the holiday season, but she was particularly excited about tonight. The handsome son of one of her father’s colleagues was going to be there. She’d wear her sexiest dress and style her hair in loose tumbling curls. She’d sit next to him, laugh at his jokes (funny or not), shower him with attention, preen her hair, flutter her eyelashes, purse her lips and make it clear she was his if he wanted her to be.
But first, lunch. She hadn’t eaten since breakfast and her stomach felt raw. She went to the kitchen, grabbed a plate, knife and the fresh bread she’d picked up only yesterday from the bakery she adored on West End Lane, then set them aside on the work surface. She opened the fridge, fished out the cheese, tomatoes, some sunflower spread and her favourite apple juice. Seeing it, she realised she was thirsty. She poured a large glass and immediately slugged half of it. That was funny. It tasted bitter. It had only arrived with yesterday’s home delivery. So why does it taste bad?
Shrugging it off, Natasha picked up the knife and began to spread some margarine on the bread. It was quiet, so she decided to liven up the atmosphere by switching on the radio. She pressed the button on top and it started playing classical music.
Strange. She peered at the dial. She always had it tuned to Kiss FM, but it was tuned to Classic FM. She was about to search for her favourite station when she started to feel unwell, her throat constricted, her breathing laboured. She’d only just had a drink, but her mouth was hit by an intense thirst. Clasping the sideboard for support, she turned the sink tap on and poured herself a glass of water, knocked it back in one. But she was still thirsty. And now, hot. Incredibly so. She was sweating profusely, as if she was trapped in a sauna. What the hell is it? She’d been fine one moment, and now it felt like she’d suffered a terrible allergic reaction to something. But she wasn’t an allergy person; she didn’t even get hay fever when everyone around her sneezed, itched and suffered all summer.
She grabbed a piece of kitchen towel and wiped the sweat from her brow. She gasped in oxygen, but every breath was a struggle and her chest hurt with the exertion. This was serious, she realised in alarm. She’d call 999 from her bedroom, then lie down on the bed, and pray for an ambulance to arrive in time.
She shuffled towards the bedroom, every step an effort, her stomach gripped with pain and nausea. She clutched her middle, realising she was going to be sick. She switched course and made for the bathroom, vomiting all over the floor and down her top before she was able to pull up the toilet seat lid and aim in the bowl. The sweating was getting worse now. Vomit dangled from her bottom lip and flooded her mouth. She was so incredibly hot. She bent her head over the sink, swished her mouth with water, then splashed her face. As she staggered to the bed, Natasha stripped off her clothes, now wet with perspiration. She lay down, and with every ounce of effort she could muster, reached over and grabbed the bedside phone, then pressed it to her ear.
What the fuck? Terror seized her. There was no dial tone. The line was dead. She needed her mobile but remembered she’d left it in her handbag in the hallway. She tried to force herself up, but then her muscles started to twitch. She tried to stop herself from shaking but it was no use. Her vision was becoming blurry, and she thought she must be hallucinating when she saw a figure standing over her, dressed in dark clothes and a balaclava. The stranger removed it – a stranger no more – then came closer, sat down on the bed next to her, and stared at her with cold eyes. Closer still, only a few inches separating them, as Natasha felt a leather-gloved hand stroke the side of her juddering face.
‘Natasha, you have been so selfish – so wrong, so naive. You think all men are pawns in a female game of chess. But you cannot treat them like that – use them, toy with them, then cut them off like stray dogs as if they have no heart, no feelings of their own. As if they lack the ability to hurt, love and feel like any human being. What is it with women like you? Don’t you understand psychology, Natasha, the way the human mind operates? We are all human. Men, women. But what marks us out is what’s in our hearts. And you, Natasha, appear to have nothing in yours. You, Natasha, are empty.’
But Natasha did feel something – fear.
Her heart thudded with fear as she realised the intruder had poisoned her; that she was looking at the person who would send her to her Maker. She was still lucid enough to remember the acrid taste of the apple juice, realising only now that it had been contaminated. But with what? It didn’t matter. This was it: there would be no more dinner parties; no more swish restaurants; no more extortionately priced cocktails at glamorous bars; no more men to seduce, flatter, wrap around her delicate little finger; no more law school or dreams of following in her father’s footsteps.
There would be no more Natasha Coleridge.
Chapter Twenty-Two
‘I’m afraid Professor Stirling left around midday.’
‘When will he be back?’ a disappointed Carver asked the receptionist.
‘Tomorrow.’ She gave him a fake smile. Clearly, she wasn’t about to offer any more information than that.
Irritating, but there it was. Earlier, they’d spoken to someone in the admissions department about obtaining a list of current and former female students whose fathers or mothers were partners at top City law firms.
Although Carver had stressed the urgency of the matter, he wasn’t hopeful. The end of term was nearing, and the party season was already under way. So he’d settled for a list of every female who’d studied at the academy in the last five years. It would be up to Drake and the rest of the team to do the research and make the partner connection.
‘Come on, let’s go,’ Carver said. ‘Let’s see if we have better luck finding Mrs Stirling.’
***
DC Sandra Keel turned onto the long shingle driveway leading up to Janis Stirling’s five-bedroom house in the quaint Surrey village of East Molesey, the same house James Stirling grew up in. It was located on one of the area’s most prestigious roads, and within walking distance of Hampton Court and the River Thames.
There were lovely areas of lawn to the front of the house with interspersed shrubs and trees, and the front facade itself was decorated with pretty climbing ivy and attractive bay windows.
Sandra parked her car in front of a detached garage to the left of the house, got out, and rang the doorbell. Having called ahead, she was expected. After about a minute, a willowy, white-haired woman, maybe in her late sixties, opened the door. It was hard to believe that this elderly lady still lived by herself in such a big house, although Sandra suspected she could easily afford hired help.
Mrs Stirling senior gave Sandra a faint smile. She had a mottled complexion, watery eyes and thin lips, made thinner by smoker’s lines running all around her mouth. They looked like folds in crêpe paper.
Janis led her into a large reception room decorated with several expensive-looking pieces of art. The room smelt of fresh paint and cigarettes. Sandra was offered a seat and tea. She took up the first offer, declined the second.
‘Excuse the smell, the house has only recently been redecorated,’ Janis apologised. ‘So, what can I do for you, Officer?’ Her tone was affable, her eyes suspicious.
Sandra recounted what she had already explained on the phone: that she was part of a team investigating the murders of four females in central London within the last six weeks and was carrying out some routine enquiries.
‘Is my son a suspect?’ Janis narrowed her eyes at Sandra.
‘No,’ Sandra lied. ‘But naturally we’re questioning all staff at the academy because all four victims studied there.’
‘I don’t work there. Why are you questioning me?’
Sandra suddenly felt like she was the one being interviewed. She’d jumped at the chance to question Stirling’s mother. But now she wondered if she was up to the challenge.
She could tell that underneath the polite, respectable facade, Janis was as tough as old boots.
‘No, that’s true, but you know your son better than anyone.’
‘I thought you said he wasn’t a suspect.’ She was also as sharp as a tack.
‘Please, Mrs Stirling, it’s just routine. So we can rule your son out from our enquiries.’
Janis took a laborious breath, crossed her knees then sat back in her chair, her frail arms resting on either side like a queen. ‘What would you like to know?’
Sandra inwardly sighed with relief that the old woman had come round, and that she wouldn’t have to face Carver with her tail between her legs when she got back to the station.
‘Do you see your son much?’
‘Every now and then. It depends. He’s very busy at work. I don’t resent him for not visiting more regularly. He’s a grown man.’
‘Do you see anything of his wife?’
‘Usually once a year. At Christmas.’ Her tone was clipped.
‘You don’t like her?’
‘That’s an understatement.’ She lit a cigarette, inhaled it like fresh sea air, the lines around her lips tightening like a closed umbrella. ‘That woman was the worst thing that ever happened to my son. She’s cold and selfish and doesn’t deserve James.’
‘Their marriage isn’t a happy one?’
‘No. She’s barren. James wanted children more than anything, but she couldn’t give them to him.’
Sandra thought about her own son. How she couldn’t imagine life without him. Her heart suddenly bled for Elizabeth Stirling, and she resented Janis’ spiteful attitude.
‘Are you aware that your son has had several affairs over the years with his students?’
She saw slight trepidation in Janis’ hazel eyes. Janis took another puff, exhaling in Sandra’s direction.
‘No. But I’m hardly surprised. Seeing as he doesn’t get any at home.’
Sandra felt sickened by Janis’ vulgar remark. It didn’t sound right coming from the mouth of a “respectable” elderly lady. She decided to change the subject. She looked around the spacious room, and over Janis’ shoulder to the bay window and rear garden beyond.
‘Did your son grow up here? With you and your husband?’
‘Yes. Although you should probably count the nanny too. James was an only child. I found pregnancy tiresome, and labour nothing short of sadistic torture. One was enough for me. Besides, I was far too busy playing tennis and bridge, and organising weekly coffee mornings.’
‘And your husband? Was he around much?’
‘No. My husband was a partner at Lovett Wardman, a top City firm. He was never home before ten and worked most weekends.’
‘How did your son take that?’
‘He didn’t know any better, I suppose.’ She pursed her lips into a crinkly mass. ‘I doted on my son, still do. Though I’m not sure he realises it. But I wasn’t what you call a “hands-on” mother. I didn’t have the patience for bath times, nappy changing, eternal trips to the park and so forth. The nanny handled all that.’
‘Do you think James resented that?’ Sandra asked.
‘No.’ Janis said brusquely. ‘James and I have a very acceptable relationship.’
Acceptable, thought Sandra. That just about sums it up.
‘I can see you judging me, DC Keel. Don’t. I had a lot to deal with.’
‘How so?’
‘Let’s just say my husband had a temper, and a penchant for whisky. In large quantities. That’s what killed him.’
‘He was violent towards you? Towards James?’
‘Never towards James. But yes, my husband would drink, and lash out at me. He had a highly stressful job, and I wa
s his human punchbag.’
Sandra was shocked. Both by Janis’ revelation and her apparent blunt acceptance of it. ‘You didn’t think about leaving him? Going to the police?’
‘The late seventies, early eighties might not seem that long ago, but it was a very different world. Things have changed massively for women. They’re much freer, with far more opportunities to make something of themselves, to be less dependent on their husbands. I didn’t have those choices. I left school at eighteen in search of a rich husband. I had a child, and there was nowhere for me to go.’
There was no denying she was a bit of a battle-axe, but her eyes were sad, and Sandra found herself feeling sorry for Janis, despite her dismissive treatment of her daughter-in-law. Her husband had been a bastard, and she’d sought to escape the misery of her rotten marriage with tennis, bridge and coffee mornings.
Sandra again thought about her two-year-old son; the way she relished every moment spent with him.
If only Janis had realised that she needn’t have looked further than her son to make up for the unhappiness in her marriage – for a sense of solace and purpose in her life. If only she’d recognised that tennis, bridge and coffee were meaningless trivialities that didn’t come close to the bond shared between mother and son.
Then Sandra was sure that both Janis and her son would have had a much better chance of happiness in life.
***
‘I have no idea where my husband is.’
Elizabeth Stirling was a sylph-like woman and as she stood before him, Carver could understand why James Stirling had once fallen for her.
But he imagined she was now a shadow of the girl he’d married, no doubt driven to her current state by her husband’s adultery. Carver wondered if they’d ever tried for children. Maybe Keel had got some answers from the elder Mrs Stirling.
‘Are you aware of your husband’s affairs, Mrs Stirling?’ He didn’t enjoy asking her the question, but it needed answering.
‘Yes.’ Her response was cool.
‘It doesn’t bother you?’
The Scribe Page 17
