The Hollow Woman

by Philip Saunders

  The white, minimalist room had a plush, white carpet and a series of French windows leading out to the terrace, all of which were open, and the light wind was billowing the white curtains. There were two, identical, white leather sofas situated in the middle of the room that were positioned opposite each other and separated by a coffee table.

  Catherine slunk down on one, crossed one leg over the other, and patted the seat next to her. With masterful self-control I sat on the opposite sofa and got down to business.

  ‘What exactly did you have in mind?’ She ran her hand along the collar of her gown, pulling at it slightly at the top to expose even more bronzed skin.

  ‘Drop the act. I want information.’

  She threw back her head and laughed, loudly. ‘What could I possibly know?’

  ‘It is about someone you know quite well.’

  ‘And who could that be?’

  ‘Rachel Sterling,’ I answered.

  Chapter 14

  Catherine laughed again and said, ‘I didn’t have you down as a fool.’

  ‘A fool?’

  ‘I’d forget about her, if I was you. You don’t stand a chance.’

  I pressed on, ‘You two were housemates at university?’

  ‘That’s right.’ Catherine nodded. ‘What do you want to know about her?’

  ‘Everything.’

  ‘Where to start?’ Catherine smiled. ‘I suppose the first thing you should know about Rachel is that she is the queen of deception.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘She’s quite the actress. Rachel is so good at lying it’s hard to know when she spins a story if she is telling the truth or her own, preferred version of it.’ Catherine elaborated, ‘Of course, she’s had plenty of practice at it. I mean, her whole life is a lie.’

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Because I know the truth about her past.’ I leant forward. ‘Rachel puts on a classy act but that’s all it is - an act. She likes people to think she was born with a silver spoon in her mouth but in reality nothing could be further from it. You’d never know by looking at her now that Rachel grew up on one of the roughest council estates in Croydon. Her Mother was a benefits scrounger and part-time prostitute, and her Father could’ve been any guy who had a tenner going spare in his back pocket. The heartless bitch doesn’t even acknowledge her Mother’s existence anymore. If anyone asks, she tells them both her parents are dead. Fucked up, right?’

  I asked, ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She transformed herself - quite the little Pygmalion. I never would’ve guessed the truth if she hadn’t told me.’

  ‘Rachel told you this.’

  ‘We were close once. We shared a similar goal in life, but even ensnaring a multi-millionaire like Lawrence to marry her was not enough to satisfy her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t be deceived by their marriage. It’s all smoke and mirrors. Believe me.’

  ‘Really?’ This interested me very much and it must have showed on my face because Catherine was quick to shoot me down.

  ‘When I said that you don’t stand a chance with her, I didn’t mean you weren’t attractive, you are, in my opinion, a very attractive man.’ She stretched her arms out along the back of the sofa. ‘No man stands a chance with her.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t you know? Rachel loves and only loves one man, and it definitely isn’t her husband. Lawrence found that out too late.’

  ‘And who is that man?’

  ‘His name is Grahame Kingsley. They dated, off and on, whilst we were at university, and a year or two afterwards.’ So here it was - the verification that Rachel had been romantically involved with Grahame. It came as no real surprise to me. Catherine continued, ‘I don’t know what she saw in him, personally, he’s so boring, but then she told me all about his country estate down the coast, I suddenly realised why Rachel had targeted him.’

  ‘So she was after his money?’

  ‘And his status. At least, in the beginning anyway, but as time went on, I believe she fell in love with him. Rachel loved him a bit too much, she became totally obsessed with him. She began smothering him to death with her love. All she could talk about was Grahame. Let me tell you, it got very tedious very quickly. Rachel would repeatedly tell me how she dreamt about marrying him and one day being lady of the manor. But life doesn’t always work out the way we want it to, even for someone like Rachel. And when he broke up with her…’

  ‘He broke up with her?’ I interrupted, somewhat surprised.

  She nodded. ‘You would’ve thought by looking at them that it’d be the other way around, right? I think most people would think that too. But it was definitely Grahame who dumped her. I heard all about it, through the endless tears and histrionics, night after night, on the phone. She can be really tiresome sometimes.’

  I asked, ‘Why did they break up?’

  She put her hand on her heart, saying, ‘Honestly…I don’t know.’

  ‘What do you think caused it?’

  Catherine shrugged. ‘I think she didn’t really understand him, who he was, beyond his title. It wasn’t long after they’d broken up that she got engaged to Lawrence. She was his PA at the time. He was completely smitten with her and could provide her with a comfortable lifestyle.’

  ‘And Lawrence never knew about Grahame?’

  She shook her head. ‘I don’t think he did, certainly not before they were wed. Rachel told me that she’d married Lawrence on the rebound and unsurprisingly, things weren’t going well, mainly because of her “friendship” with her ex. Understandably, Lawrence didn’t like it. But Rachel wasn’t going to let him go. They remained friends and Grahame was too weak to push someone as determined as Rachel out of his life. I think on some level, he may have been scared of her.’

  ‘Scared of her? Do you think she’s capable of harming him?’

  ‘You don’t believe me?’

  ‘I don’t know what to believe.’

  ‘Believe whatever you like, all of what I have told you is all true. Speak to Grahame, he’ll tell what a psycho she is.’

  ‘It would kinda be a one-sided conversation.’

  ‘Huh?’ She uttered, confused.

  ‘He’s dead.’

  ‘What?’ Her shock seemed genuine.

  ‘He was murdered.’

  ‘That is terrible,’ Catherine stated apathetically.

  ‘Don’t get too cut up about it,’ I commented dryly.

  She smiled, saying, ‘Rachel must be devastated.’

  I said, ‘She hired me to find out who murdered him.’

  ‘Can I ask - how did he die?’

  ‘He had his head bashed in.’

  ‘What a way to go.’ Catherine seemed morbidly amused. ‘It’s true that I never liked him but I’d never have wished that on him.’ She paused, and asked, ‘You said, Rachel hired you?’

  ‘Yes, she has.’

  ‘Then why do you want to know about her?’

  ‘I have my reasons.’ I stood up and, before I left, said, ‘Consider this visit a warning.’

  ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘I know what you were doing earlier. Or maybe, who you were doing, would be more apt.’ She scowled at me. ‘I don’t want my friend being messed about. Either end it with Sylvain today and remain faithful to Sean, your husband, or divorce him and fuck off with Frenchie.’

  ‘You’re giving me an ultimatum?’ Catherine deduced with a grimace.

  ‘Yes, and next time I catch you, you won’t be so lucky to get that,’ I said. ‘And you don’t know when I’ll be watching.’ Catherine narrowed her eyes and tightly pursed her lips, as if she was suppressing the urge to say something that could get her into more trouble. ‘Always a pleasure, Mrs O’Flaherty, please, don’t get up, I’ll see myself out.’

  When I got in the car, I called Sean on my work mobile. It went to voicemail. I left him a brief message asking him to call me back. I took one last
look at Greenways and then set off for the village of Meppershall.

  Chapter 15

  Meppershall was one of those quaint English villages, located on a hilltop, with one pub and village hall and surrounded with farmland.

  I followed the sat-nav down a cul-de-sac, made up of terraced houses, with small front gardens, neatly separated by either fences or hedgerows.

  I parked outside Number 13, Imogen’s house, and walked up to the pale blue door. I tried ringing the doorbell three times and knocking but no luck. I trod over the small flowerbed, crushing a few innocent daffodils, in order to peer through the window with cupped hands. I was looking into a cosy, unlit living room but saw no signs of life or movement inside.

  ‘Excuse me.’ A stern voice alerted me. I slowly turned and saw a head floating above the bordering hedge of the adjoining property. ‘Can I help you young man?’ The head belonged to that of an elderly woman with a bright purple rinse, armed with a sharp pair of gardening sheers and even sharper eyes, which were fixed on me.

  ‘Yes, you can. I was looking for Imogen Alderney. I believe she lives here?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, she does. Who are you?’

  ‘Fred Sorensen.’ I approached the hedge. ‘I’m a private investigator.’ I presented her with my card.

  She took my card, read it with interest and then looked back up at me and asked, ‘What do you want with Imogen?’

  ‘I need to speak to her. Do you know where she is?’

  The nosey neighbour shrugged. ‘She was meant to come home on Sunday. We had planned to have lunch together on Monday but she hasn’t returned from her holiday.’ She swallowed. ‘Has anything happened to her?’

  ‘Do you know where she went?’

  The old woman nodded, saying, ‘Down to Devon.’

  ‘Does this belong to her?’ I took out and held up the butterfly brooch.

  On seeing the piece of jewellery, she lowered her sheers and dropped her guard, and asked, ‘Where did you find that?’

  ‘In Devon.’

  She kindly offered, ‘Why don’t you come on over, dearie. I’ll put on a nice pot of tea. I think I’ve got some lemon drizzle cake too.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you but you needn’t go to the trouble.’

  ‘No trouble at all.’

  ‘Thank you.’ I moved around the neatly trimmed hedge.

  ‘I’m Muriel, Muriel Goldberg.’

  ‘Fred.’ My work mobile began to ring. I took it out and saw that it was Sean calling. I looked back up at Muriel, smiled and rolled my eyes, saying, ‘Work.’ I cancelled the call. ‘It can wait.’ I switched my mobile off.

  I followed her inside the house. I observed Muriel remove her dark green wellies just inside the doorway and I did her the curtesy of removing my shoes, placing them next to hers.

  I found myself standing in a living-dining room festooned with photographs of younger relatives, amateur watercolours and porcelain cat figurines. It was such a homely, cosy kind of place that I found the faint stench of incontinence didn’t bother me. In the middle of the room there was an elderly man with bone white hair slumped in a wheelchair, which was positioned in front of the television. He was intently watching the snooker, so much so that he did not bother to look up when Muriel introduced me.

  ‘Ebenezer, this young man is Fred. He’s a private investigator.’

  Ebenezer responded with the single, guttural utterance, ‘Bah!’

  ‘Oh, don’t mind him, dearie, I have thought for a long time now that the word curmudgeon was invented especially for him.’ She tittered a little at her own joke and then lightly rubbed his shoulder. ‘I’m only teasing.’

  ‘Bah!’ He repeated with the same level of interest.

  ‘63 years we’ve been married…63 years...’ Muriel shook her head in sheer disbelief. ‘Where does the time go?’ She gestured to the cushioned window-seat, which was currently occupied by an outstretched, very fat tabby cat. ‘Mr Bigglesworth, get down off of there! We have company. Have a seat, dearie. I’ll go and put the kettle on.’ Mr Bigglesworth had raised his head at the sounding of his name but as soon as his mistress had turned her back laid his head back down with a low, contented purr.

  I perched myself on the window-seat and half-heartedly stroked the lazy Mr Bigglesworth’s belly. I’ve never been fond of cats. I’ve always thought that there was something unnerving about them that I did not like, their watchfulness, the shrewd, beady eyes that followed you wherever you went.

  I looked around the room and commented to Ebenezer, ‘Nice place you have. How long have you guys lived here?’

  ‘Bah!’ Came the predictable response.

  Muriel returned carrying a tray with a teapot, sugar and milk, china cups and saucers, and a plate of biscuits. ‘Ignore him, dearie. You’ll be lucky to get more than two words out of him when the snookers on. Isn’t that right, Eb?’

  ‘Bah!’ I think I witnessed the flicker of a smile appear fleetingly on Ebenezer’s wrinkly face but then again it could have been a trick of the light.

  ‘Here we go. I’m sorry, I forgot we finished off the lemon drizzle cake last night.’ Muriel set the tray down on the table. ‘Mr Bigglesworth! You naughty boy!’ She scolded the cat when she discovered that he had not budged an inch. Muriel picked him up and placed him down on the floor, suffering Mr Bigglesworth’s claws. ‘Honestly, I believe he is the laziest cat in the world.’ The tabby cat turned, stuck his tail up at us and waddled away. After Muriel poured the tea into the china cups, she asked, ‘Do you take sugar, dearie?’

  I watched Muriel heap three spoonfuls into hers and swish the light brown liquid around and then tap the spoon on the rim three times and set it down on the saucer. Muriel took one sip and then put the cup down delicately on the saucer.

  ‘Now, where were we?’ Muriel asked me.

  ‘You were going to tell me about Imogen.’

  ‘Oh yes, that’s right. Imogen is a pretty little thing and quiet as a mouse, isn’t she, Eb?’

  ‘Bah!’ He made a small wave gesture with his hand, as if to bat the question away.

  ‘She came over quite often, she’s very fond of my Eccles cakes, but to be honest dearie.’ She paused, focusing on dipping a biscuit in her tea. ‘We didn’t really get to know her all that well. Imogen has a tendency to clam up whenever I ask questions about her past, her family. The only thing she has shared with us is her writing.’ Muriel smiled. ‘She is rather peculiar like that, but these arty types usually are, that’s what they say, isn’t it. When I was younger...’

  ‘You said, she’s a writer,’ I interrupted, sensing that we were going to head off on a tangent, a long one.

  ‘Hold your horses, I’m getting to that, dearie. I can’t understand young people these days, so impatient, always in a rush, it can’t be healthy. Our grandson, Joshua, is exactly the same.’ I held my tongue and looked at her expectantly. My patience paid off. ‘Yes, Imogen writes short stories. She had a bunch of them published in one book. She had a fancy name for it, what was it now? She called it something...anthology, that’s it, an anthology.’

  ‘She had it published?’

  Muriel nodded. ‘She gave me a signed copy. It was sweet of her and a little strange. I still have it here somewhere…’ The old woman slowly stood up and went over to a small bookcase. She hunched over and scanned the shelves with her finger, muttering to herself, ‘Where is it? Where is it? Ah-ha! Here it is!’ Muriel handed the slim paperback book to me. ‘There you go, dearie. You can have it if you want.’

  The book was called Invisibility: A Collection of Short Stories.

  I smiled and asked her, ‘Why did you say it was a little strange?’

  ‘Strange? Oh yes, well Imogen signed it with the initial “E”.’

  ‘An “E”.’

  I opened the book, and found a handwritten message inside, To my dearest neighbours, Muriel and Eb, thank you for being so kind to me, with love, E.

  As I was reading it, a neatly cut newsp
aper extract slid out of the book and on to my lap.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Oh, call me a sentimental old biddy, but there was a piece about Imogen, in the local paper, she won a writing competition.’

  Accompanying the article was a photograph of the authoress on the inside of the jacket. Imogen was a pretty, petite, blonde - just as Steve had described her - and fastened upon her jumper was a butterfly brooch, identical to the one that was in my pocket.

  Muriel must have been watching me closely because she said, ‘It’s a nice picture of her, isn’t it.’ I nodded in agreement. ‘Its funny...’

  ‘What is?’ I asked.

  ‘I don’t know why but she was positively outraged that the journalist who interviewed her used the picture without her permission. At first I thought maybe she didn’t like the way she looked in it but it can’t be that, she looks so pretty, but young people, they are so vain these days.’

  ‘You said she is in a relationship? Is it serious?’

  She nodded. ‘They recently got engaged. Quite a modern romance. They met online.’

  ‘Her fiancé, is his name Grahame?’

  Her eyes enlarged with surprise. ‘Why, yes, it is. Imogen came over with him, quite late on Thursday evening, remember Eb, we were about to go to bed?’ Muriel didn’t bother to wait for her husband’s monosyllabic response, pressing on. ‘And she told us he’d proposed! And she showed us the ring, beautiful it was, white gold, sapphire and diamonds, must’ve cost a pretty penny.’

  Everything was tallying up. I had identified Grahame’s mystery girlfriend, Imogen Alderney. One pertinent question remained, if she hadn’t returned home from Devon, where was she?

  I asked, ‘Do you have any idea of where she is?’

  Muriel shook her head. ‘I’m sorry, young man, I don’t.’ She paused before asking, ‘Do you think something has happened to her? Why are you investigating her? I don’t think you said...’

  ‘She may have got caught up in something, something bad. I need to find her, to figure out the extent of her involvement.’

  ‘Oh dear. That doesn’t sound good. I can’t imagine her doing anything unlawful.’ She placed her hand on her heart and looked genuinely concerned. ‘Whatever has happened, with Imogen, will you please let me know.’