‘Lovely.’ Mariner grimaced.
‘There’s also the missing shoe,’ said Croghan. ‘If she was that drunk it’s possible that she lost it before she got as far as the railway track.’
‘Along with her handbag and phone.’ Mariner added. The immediate area around the bridge and that end of the park had also been searched without a result. ‘We can put out an appeal for them.’
He and Knox adjourned to his office, where Mariner pinned up the photo of Christie next to the photo of Madeleine. Two young lives ended for no clear reason.
‘If Christie was hit by a car we can probably rule out suicide. It’s not the most obvious or effective method.’
‘—unless she deliberately stepped out in front of a vehicle.’
‘It’s messy though and by no means certain death. If you’re serious about killing yourself that way you choose a busy road, something like a motorway. If she’d done that, even during the night it would have caused chaos and we’d have known about it. It makes it more likely to have been an accident, doesn’t it? She could just have been the victim of a hit and run. She’s drunk, staggers out into the road and is hit by a car or lorry. The driver panics, bundles her into his car or van, drives to a quiet spot on the railway line and throws her over the bridge to cover it up.’
‘In which case, it could have happened anywhere in the area between the pub and the railway line.’
‘Any reports of RTAs on Saturday night?’ Mariner wondered.
‘Don’t remember seeing anything,’ said Knox. ‘But I’ll check again.’
Mariner put together a press release including an appeal for anyone to come forward who may have witnessed or been involved in a hit and run. He put with it descriptions of Christie’s handbag, phone and missing shoe.
‘A witness is more likely. If someone went to the trouble of disposing of a body, I don’t think we can count on them giving themselves up any time soon. Now we sit back and wait.’
* * *
Anna was ‘out with friends’ according to the note left on the kitchen table when Mariner got home that evening, so he made himself beans on toast and was enjoying the quiet when he heard the unmistakable twang of a text message arriving. It wasn’t the sound of Mariner’s alert, so it could only mean that Anna had left her phone behind. He should and could reasonably have ignored it, but something compelled him to look. He found the phone in the pocket of one of her many jackets and didn’t much like what he saw. The message was from Gareth of all people, urging her to have a good time tonight. Did he know where she’d gone? It was more than Mariner did. He’d signed off with four kisses.
Mariner felt the first tickle of unease. He should have stopped there, but curiosity dictated that he check Anna’s inbox as well. Opening and deciphering the messages was a laborious process, as he’d never really got used to text-talk, but what he found turned his stomach. Since they’d come back from Herefordshire only yesterday, there were half a dozen more messages from Gareth that Anna hadn’t bothered to delete, all flirtatious to varying degrees and with kisses all over the place. Anna had replied to them all in the same tone. A lot of them referred to the planned move to Herefordshire that she seemed to be discussing in far more depth with Gareth than she ever had with Mariner. The last in particular caught his eye because of the enigmatic title: Progress? Anna’s response shredded his heart. No chance 2 talk yet Bp8tient 2gethersoonxxx.
2gethersoon? What the hell did that mean? Mariner went to bed thinking that he wouldn’t sleep. He’d lie awake and question Anna about it when she got home, and she’d have a perfectly rational explanation. But he remembered nothing until he woke the following morning, Anna curled up beside him in their bed, but facing away from him, as far as she could get. He had work to do, so he let her sleep on.
* * *
First thing, Mariner and Knox returned to Phyllis Gates’ house to do a more methodical search of Christie’s room. There was a monster of a four-wheel drive standing outside. The door was opened to them by a small black woman with a head of grey, tight curls. ‘Who are you?’ she demanded, eyeing them with suspicion.
Mariner produced his warrant card and made the necessary introductions. ‘We’re from the police.’
‘Phyllis is very upset,’ the woman told them, as if scolding a couple of inconsiderate little boys. ‘She’s not seeing visitors.’
‘This isn’t a social call. We need to have another look at Christie’s room,’ Mariner explained.
‘I’ve seen you on the TV, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you probably have.’ It was enough to get them over the threshold at least. Considering she wasn’t seeing visitors, there seemed to be a large number of voices emanating from Phyllis Gates’ living room. A glimpse of the age, profile and dress code as the lounge door opened and closed told Mariner that they were probably church women, come to offer solace. The black woman disappeared and after what seemed like a lengthy consultation returned and allowed them up to Christie’s room.
As they reached the landing, they met Trudy Barratt on her way down. She was clearly startled to see them, but then hadn’t, as they had, been forewarned. ‘Inspector, I didn’t expect to see you here. I brought some flowers for Christie’s grandmother, and had to “use the facilities.”’ It appeared she cared more about her staff than Mariner had first thought. ‘Must be getting on though.’ And she continued on down without another word.
‘What was she doing here?’ Knox wondered when they reached the landing.
‘Such a suspicious mind,’ said Mariner.
* * *
Undisturbed now for several days, the atmosphere inside Christie’s bedroom was stale and heavy, with the cloying smell of old makeup and perfume. On investigation, most of the black bin bags were found to contain clothing. ‘Christ, how many pairs of jeans does one girl need?’ Mariner said pulling out pair after pair in various shades of denim. But having gone through all the bags they were no nearer to finding Christie’s white handbag. Stacked plastic boxes contained scraps of multi-coloured paper, card and fabrics, clearly used for making children’s craft items for the nursery, and a cardboard carton held dozens of magazines of the celebrity variety, some of them with pictures and articles cut out.
They had almost come to the end before they actually found something of use — a box file containing a handful of personal documents, including cheque and paying in booklets. Among the papers were half a dozen recent bank statements, a couple of them complete with ringed stains from coffee mugs. There was never much in the account, though the regular monthly credits probably indicated her salary.
‘Is that all she gets?’ Mariner was astonished. ‘It only adds up to about ten thousand a year. It’s barely more than the minimum wage.’
‘Like Mrs Barratt said, I don’t suppose hers is considered a skilled job,’ said Knox.
‘No wonder these girls can’t wait to leave and have their own families.’
Also contained in the folder was a sales brochure for the flat that Christie had talked to her nan about buying. Side by side, the two items just didn’t add up.
‘This is way out of her league,’ said Mariner, reading the description of the luxury apartment. ‘I could barely afford a place like this on my salary.’
‘Kids these days have such unrealistic expectations,’ Knox said. ‘Our Gary thought he was going to move straight into his penthouse flat after uni.’
It wasn’t only the kids, thought Mariner, remembering Heron’s Nest. Even a grown and rational adult could have her head turned by the right temptation. He shelved the unwelcome distraction.
There was one other payment into Christie’s bank account only three weeks ago. It corresponded with the scratch card win her nan had talked about, and was for the princely sum of five hundred pounds. ‘That won’t get her very far either,’ Mariner observed. ‘It wouldn’t even make the deposit. And any pay rise she might have negotiated with Mrs Barratt wouldn’t be that much. So where the hell did she thi
nk she was going to get the money for this flat?’
‘Don’t you think it’s strange that none of the other girls at the nursery mentioned her win? Most people would want to celebrate something like that with their friends. They wouldn’t keep it a secret.’
Mariner pulled a face, the significance of that lost on him for the moment. Downstairs the doorbell rang again and Mariner peered out of the window. ‘Phyllis certainly has her support network in place,’ he said, expecting to see more blue rinses. But he was wrong. ‘Marcella Turner. Christ. What on earth is she doing here?’
Mariner descended the stairs to see Ms Turner standing on the doorstep, her mouth agape in a rare moment of speechlessness. Phyllis Gates’ white-haired minder must have broken the news. Beside her was another younger woman, with pink spiky hair and wide black-framed glasses. The silence didn’t last long.
‘Oh, I’m so terribly sorry,’ Turner was saying. ‘We didn’t know. Of course we wouldn’t dream of intrud—’
But the younger woman had her notebook out at the ready and was not so easily deterred. ‘Can you tell us what’s happened?’
It was time for Mariner to intervene. In one swift and easy movement he leapt the remaining few stairs, swept past the minder and out into the garden, ushering the two visitors along with him as he went. ‘As you can see,’ he said, giving spiky hair a cold glare. ‘This is not the right time. What are you doing here anyway?’
Marcella Turner was defensive. ‘We came to talk to Christie.’
‘About what?’
Spiky hair shrugged. ‘About her experiences.’
‘And you are—?’ Mariner asked.
Spiky hair smiled broadly to reveal pearly white teeth, encircled by a vivid aubergine lipstick, oblivious to the contempt in his voice. ‘Jez Barclay, assistant producer for Angelwood TV.’
‘You’re a television producer?’ Mariner said with disbelief, ignoring the outstretched hand.
‘That’s right.’ The woman fished in her pocket and came out with a business card, which Mariner pocketed without a glance. ‘And you are—?’ she asked, the smile remaining nonetheless.
‘Detective Inspector Mariner. What did you want with Christie?’ He was careful to use the past tense.
The look on Jez Barclay’s face said that he’d already been a topic of discussion, but it was Marcella Turner who spoke up. ‘During the kidnapping I got to know Christie a little. I found that she was sympathetic to my concerns about the government’s childcare agenda. Jez’s company specialises in fly-on-the-wall documentaries. Christie seemed willing. We were here to discuss terms.’
‘And the story was baby Jessica?’
‘In the first instance.’
‘I trust you’ve got the parents’ permission.’
‘Oh, yes. Initially Miss O’Brien was going to take part, though she changed her mind about that, but she has given us her blessing. We’ve also spoken to your boss about the police viewpoint.’
‘Have you really?’ Mariner couldn’t imagine Davina Sharp wanting to get involved, but he resisted asking what her reaction had been.
‘Mrs Barratt at the nursery declined to contribute, and that was why we approached Christie.’
‘You said “in the first instance,”’ Mariner said.
‘We were planning a follow-up, too. Christie offered to help us with an undercover exposé of what really goes on in the day-care sector.’ The two women swapped glances, but not so fleetingly that Mariner didn’t notice.
‘But?’ he prompted.
‘At first we weren’t really all that interested, because it’s already been done. But then Christie called me back to say that she had a story we definitely would be interested in.’
‘About what?’
‘That’s what we were here to find out. All she would tell me on the phone was that it was “a cracking good story.” Unfortunately at the time we spoke, my diary was pretty full. The first time I had a window was today. Christie was going to fill me in.’
‘How much pressure were you putting her under?’
‘None at all. We were in preliminary negotiations — that was all. But she seemed very keen.’
‘Had you discussed fees?’
‘Only in general terms. Christie did seem pathetically excited by the initial offer and I did wonder if this “other story” might be her attempt to squeeze more money out of it. People do have a tendency to get greedy in these sorts of situations. And it seemed like a last-ditch thing. She left a message on my mobile late on Saturday night of all times.’
‘Do you remember exactly what time?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Let me see, we were still at Gill and Bill’s. Must’ve been around eleven thirty. There was a lot of noise in the background, as if she was in a club or bar or something, and her speech was slurred, as if she’d been drinking. Celebrating in advance perhaps.’ The pearly toothed smile flashed again.
‘But you hadn’t paid her anything at that stage?’ said Mariner.
‘Not a bean. It was way too soon for that. You can’t pitch a project until you know exactly what you’re getting, and even then it doesn’t necessarily get the green light.’
‘Did Mrs Barratt know about any of this?’
‘Given her attitude towards me, I can’t imagine that Christie would have told her,’ said Marcella Turner. ‘We weren’t made to feel terribly welcome. I mean the whole kidnapping thing didn’t exactly do the nursery any favours, did it? It wouldn’t have gone down very well.’
‘And there’s no way she can have found out about what Christie was planning?’
‘Not from our side.’ Jez couldn’t resist. ‘How did she—?’
‘Her body was found on the railway track, below a footbridge.’
‘She threw herself under a train?’ She gaped with horror.
Mariner took the official line. ‘It’s how it looks.’
‘Go-d.’ It was said slowly and pensively and Mariner could almost hear the cogs turning as she weighed up whether this in itself might be enough of a story. ‘Do you think any of the other girls would be up for it?’ Jez asked. She was staring into the middle distance and the question could have been directed at anyone.
‘I think it’s time you went,’ Mariner said.
Jez smiled artfully. ‘Your boss wasn’t interested, but if you felt like giving us an interview, on or off the record—’
‘Just go,’ said Mariner.
Chapter Thirteen
Back in Christie’s room Knox was continuing to work his way systematically through her things. He’d gathered together a small collection of evidence bags, containing anything he thought may be significant, but he had still uncovered no handbag, purse or mobile phone.
‘We’ll take what we’ve got with us,’ said Mariner. As he went to pull the door closed behind them, he noticed pinned to the back, a month-to-view calendar with a photograph of some cute-looking puppies and space below to record any engagements.
‘Springers,’ said Knox, recognising the dog belonging to the lady in the park.
But Mariner was staring at the single entry made on the previous Tuesday, which said simply, 4:00 p.m. clinic.
‘What sort of clinic?’ he wondered aloud.
‘Could be anything,’ said Knox, helpfully.
‘She’d have been at work on Tuesday.’ Mariner took out his phone and called Jack and the Beanstalk. He asked to speak to Joy. ‘Christie had an appointment last Tuesday afternoon,’ he said, when she finally came on.
‘Oh yes, I remember, she left work early.’
‘Do you know what it was for?’
‘It was a doctor’s appointment, I think.’
‘She told you she was seeing a doctor?’
‘I don’t remember if she actually said that. She may have just told me it was an appointment and I assumed—’
‘Thank you.’ Mariner ended the call. ‘That’s not what she wrote though,’ he said to Knox. He was thinking about the calendar at home i
n Anna’s kitchen. ‘If it’s a doctor’s appointment, that’s what you write — “doctor.” If it’s a dentist’s appointment she’d have written “dentist.” Either Joy made an assumption or Christie told her that, to cover up what it really was. What clinics are there?’
‘All sorts. Family planning?’
‘But Christie had just finished with Jimmy Bond, so it wouldn’t seem a particularly appropriate time for that. We’ll ask her nan on our way out. Have we got everything?’
Even taking the processor of Christie’s computer didn’t amount to much. On their way out of the house Mariner managed to breach Phyllis Gates’ security for long enough to question her about the appointment but, like Joy, she knew nothing about it. She was however, able to give them details of Christie’s GP.
In the car Mariner reported back to Knox on his conversation with the two unwelcome visitors. ‘Never mind that a girl has just died,’ said Mariner in disgust. ‘All they’re interested in is a story.’
The health centre where Christie’s GP was based held a waiting room full of people, many of whom were curious yet not impressed when Mariner flashed his warrant card and got almost immediate access to Dr Samirayah. He didn’t side-track the doctor for long. As far as Dr Samirayah was concerned Christie had no health problems, nor any need to attend a clinic. He had made no referrals for her in the recent past, in fact, she hadn’t been to the doctor in months.
‘The only prescription I wrote in recent years was for the contraceptive pill, but she hasn’t renewed for about eight months.’
Mariner escaped just a few minutes later past the glares of the waiting patients.
* * *
Back at Granville Lane there was a pile of phone messages requiring Mariner’s response. He returned Louise Byrne’s call straight away.
‘Kenneth McCrae has been committed to Rampton secure psychiatric unit indefinitely. He won’t have much fun there.’
Baby Lies (Reissue) Page 20
