Standing in the doorway to the sitting room, he said, ‘Tell me a bit more about Patrick Jennings.’
The man Mary and Ella had mentioned in the car.
‘She met him about three months ago, I think,’ Ella said.
‘More like four.’ Mary sat forward. ‘In the pub after some university thing.’
‘You thought he was nice,’ Ella said.
Mary shook her head.
‘To begin with, at any rate.’
‘So, you met him a few times?’ Thorne asked.
‘Yes, Pip was keen to show him off,’ Mary said. ‘She’d been on her own for quite a long time.’
‘He was certainly charming.’ Ella looked at her mother. ‘You have to admit that much. I mean, I can see what Pip saw in him. A bit of a silver fox, she said.’
Mary curled her lip. ‘Yes, he was … elegantly greying.’ She spoke the words with evident distaste, as if she was actually saying morbidly obese with the breath of a syphilitic dog.
‘I don’t suppose either of you have got a picture?’
Ella said that she didn’t.
‘I don’t think Patrick was very fond of having his picture taken,’ Mary said. ‘I was going to take one when he and Pip came over for dinner and I remember that he wasn’t keen.’
Ella nodded. ‘Well, some people aren’t, are they?’
Thorne felt a prickle on the back of his neck; something disturbing the fine hairs at the nape, just for a moment or two.
‘I’m sure there are some pictures of him on Pip’s phone, though. Do you still have it?’
Thorne nodded, remembering the mobile in Chall’s plastic bag, the smear of blood on the screen. He wasn’t sure if it was even working, but if it was, it was almost certainly locked. He thought that he might ask one of the team in the phone-tech unit to sort that out for him, just to satisfy his curiosity.
‘So, why do you think he dumped her?’
‘He didn’t dump her,’ Ella said. ‘He ghosted her.’
Thorne had heard the term before, but Mary looked confused.
‘He just disappeared one day and cut her off.’ Ella leaned towards her mother. ‘Not returning calls or messages, like he’d never existed. Like a ghost, Mum.’
The older woman nodded. ‘Oh, I see. Well, whatever the right word is, it was certainly a shock. One minute he and Pip are all lovey-dovey and talking about setting up some sort of business and the next thing she’s crying down the phone.’
Thorne felt that tickle again. ‘What sort of business?’
‘Some computer thing, I think.’ Ella looked at her mother. ‘Videos?’
‘An educational resource,’ Mary said. ‘Putting lectures online so students could access them. Pip thought it was a great idea.’
‘Well, it is a great idea,’ Ella said. ‘Just a shame they split up before they could get it going.’
‘Yes, a shame.’ Mary waited until Ella had turned away, then looked at Thorne and widened her eyes. As though silently articulating a suspicion her daughter was refusing to entertain. ‘I suppose we should start thinking about what to do with everything.’ Mary was looking around, a film of tears appearing suddenly as she clutched at her handbag. ‘Pip had such a lot of stuff …’
Thorne told them that he was, of course, happy to drive them home, that he would wait in the car and give them a few minutes alone.
‘That’s very kind,’ Mary said.
He closed the front door behind him and walked quickly towards the car, sensing that the rain was ready to return, dialling Nicola Tanner’s number as he went.
‘Can you do me a favour?’
‘Tell me what it is first,’ Tanner said.
‘Can you take a quick look at Philippa Goodwin’s finances for me? Bank statements, building society, whatever.’
‘The suicide?’ Tanner’s tone was much the same as Chall’s had been the day before. An enquiry as to why Thorne was following up on a death that was not, strictly speaking, his to investigate.
‘It won’t take you five minutes,’ Thorne said.
‘I know how long it’ll take me,’ Tanner said. ‘But that’s not really the point, is it?’
‘I’m at her house, that’s all, and—’
‘Is there a problem, Tom?’
‘Well, only with the way she arranged her bookshelves.’ Thorne keyed the fob to unlock the BMW. ‘You’d have a breakdown …’
FIVE
It’s not as if there’s any shortage of coffee shops within spitting distance of Brooklands Hill, but it had been clear – from the moment Sarah had become one of their number – which establishment had been chosen by the movers and shakers of the morning drop-off brigade. There are two of the well-known chains represented, the same as on almost any major high street, as well as a bakery that does a decent latte, but HazBeanz was always going to be the preferred option. The coffee’s good, obviously, the food gets rave reviews, and the décor is predictably … quirky. Mismatched metal tables and exposed brickwork. It’s friendly, with a nice, funky vibe, but most important of all, it’s an independent, which can’t help but reflect well on its customers.
It tells the world that they are independent, that they look beyond brands and are eager to do their bit in supporting local businesses. It says that they make informed choices. Above all, it trumpets the simple fact that they can afford to pay a little bit more, each morning, for their hand-ground espressos and fancy pastries.
None of it makes any real difference to Sarah, who would be perfectly content to get her coffee from the local garage or, better yet, free from the supermarket, because she’s got a loyalty card. She prefers builders’ tea anyway and is far happier with a bacon sandwich than a cranberry and macadamia muffin. It’s all a lot of flummery and fuss, she reckons. It’s style over content, same as with a lot of things, but that’s not really the point.
She needs to be where they are.
Sometimes, she has to kill a few minutes mooching around the shops, because she doesn’t like to be the first one there, but today she’s pleased to see that Savita, Heather and Caroline are already inside.
Their usual table in the window.
Coffees and cakes.
Chit-chat …
She waves as she passes the steamy window, then summons up the correct expression before she pushes open the door and steps inside. Happy to see them, but suitably harassed, as they all are, of course. Because the drop-off really is a nightmare, isn’t it? It’s no wonder they all need their overpriced coffees afterwards, a sugary treat and the chance to kick back and relax a little.
‘The truth is, I’m completely exhausted after getting Jacob ready every day,’ Caroline had told her once. ‘Absolutely wiped out. I need that jolt of bloody caffeine after I’ve got him to school, because I’ve still got a full day’s work ahead of me.’
‘Yeah, I know what you mean.’ Sarah had nodded sympathetically, then exchanged a knowing look with Heather. ‘Sometimes I go home and get straight back into bed.’
Caroline had looked as if she wanted to punch her.
As soon as Sarah has ordered – a skinny latte and a cinnamon bagel – she sits down at a table for one just across from the others. Sometimes she joins them if she’s feeling brave, but most of the time she prefers a bit of space and some time alone. Heather beckons her over, because she’s nice and she probably needs a break from Caroline, but Sarah shakes her head and holds up the laptop case she’s brought with her. Heather nods her understanding and Sarah mouths a sorry. There’s work she needs to be pushing on with, they always understand that, and if any one of them walks past or comes across for a chat, she’ll close the laptop before they can get a look at what she’s actually doing.
It doesn’t matter very much if they see her close it, because they all know why she keeps what she’s doing private.
‘So, what is it you do?’ Heather had asked her a couple of weeks earlier.
‘I’m a … writer.’
‘Really? That’s amazing.�
�
‘Not a very successful one or anything. Just a few short stories, you know.’
‘I’d love to read one. I’m in a book group actually, so maybe—’
‘No chance.’ Sarah had laughed. ‘I never let anyone I know read my stuff. It’s hard enough showing it to the people who pay me for it, to be honest. Not that there’s many of them. And I write under a pseudonym, so there’s no point looking for anything.’
‘I’ve always thought maybe I could write something,’ Heather had said.
‘So, why don’t you?’
‘Well, I’m sure it’s a lot harder than people think.’
‘It’s just making things up, really.’ Sarah had stepped away, keen to bring an end to it. ‘I’ve always been good at that.’
Now, she opens her laptop and stares at the familiar screensaver, then looks up from the screen as single father David comes through the door. He smiles automatically as he crosses to the counter to order. She smiles back, but actually she’s a little disappointed that Alex hasn’t shown up. He’s not a regular, but he comes in a couple of mornings a week and, had he done so today, she would certainly have been happy to join the larger group towards which he usually gravitates. There’s no future in it, she knows that. He’s a happily married stay-at-home dad, but still, she reckons there’s definitely a spark and a little flirting doesn’t hurt.
A little … imagining.
She watches David go to join the three women by the window, and it’s only then that she sees the man sitting at the table next to her. Or at least, becomes aware that he’s looking at her.
Was he there when she came in? She can’t be sure.
He leans towards her and says, ‘Now, you’re either writing a hard-hitting literary novel, or …’
‘Sorry?’
‘I mean, definitely not chick-lit.’
She looks at him.
‘Or you’re just messing about on Twitter or something.’
She shrugs, trying to keep the panic in check.
He smiles and takes a sip of coffee. ‘I’m trying to decide, that’s all.’
He’s definitely not a Brooklands Hill parent, she’s sure of that because she knows them all by sight. Always makes a point of it. So, he can’t possibly know the things she’s told them about herself. But she’s equally certain that she doesn’t know him from anywhere else, so how could he know anything at all?
She feels the blood rising to her face.
She doesn’t like the feeling, never has.
‘Let me know when you’ve reached a decision,’ she says, turning back to her screen.
‘OK, I’ll do that,’ he says.
He’s somewhere in his mid-forties, she decides, a few years older than she is. He’s got a suit on, a thick pinstripe, but he has an open-neck floral shirt and a baggy flat cap. Smart but casual; trendy, she supposes. A look he’s certainly taken some time over. He’s got a silvery goatee beard and a small stud in one ear. He’s wearing glasses with thick brown frames and, behind them, his eyes are very green.
‘I’m struggling, to be honest,’ he says after a minute or so.
‘Shame,’ she says.
‘To be sure, I’d really need you to answer a few questions.’
Glancing over at the table in the window, she notices that Caroline is watching. It makes her happy. She slowly lowers the lid of her laptop and says, ‘You can have three.’
‘Three?’
‘It’s a one-time offer.’
He nods and sits back, like he’s thinking about it. ‘What’s your name?’
It takes her a few seconds. ‘Sarah.’
‘Do you live locally?’
‘I’m not far away.’ She bites into her bagel and chews. ‘One question left …’
‘I’d better make it a good one then.’
‘Yes, you better had.’
He leans towards her again and lowers his voice just a little. ‘Do you ever give your phone number to strange men?’
She feels herself start to redden again, but it’s for a different reason this time and she doesn’t mind it. ‘Are you strange?’
‘Definitely,’ he says.
‘You give me yours.’
He reels off a number and she keys it into her phone. She dials, and a few seconds later his phone starts to ring. He glances at the screen, nods, and turns the call off.
‘Well, strange but honest,’ she says.
‘Is that good?’
‘It’s OK,’ she says.
They fall silent after that, as if they have both decided that enough has been said. She looks across and sees that now, Heather, Savita and Caroline are all watching her. It’s a nice result. She likes the fact that, for once, she’s the one setting the agenda for later on, that she’s giving them something to talk about at pick-up.
She smiles.
Is this a pick-up?
Well, yes, it certainly feels like one and she’s surprised at how happy she is about that. It’s been a while.
When the man stands to leave, he ties a scarf at his neck and says, ‘My name’s Conrad by the way. Oh, and my money’s definitely on something literary.’
She watches him leave, then opens her laptop again, knowing she has no need to check that she’s still being observed by the trio of mothers in the window. Her screensaver appears again, and she doesn’t bother trying to hide the grin.
A dark-haired boy in a Chelsea shirt. Gap-toothed and goofy, thumbs held aloft. Squinting against the sun, with the unbroken blues of sea and cloudless sky behind him.
Jamie …
SIX
The look on the face of DCI Russell Brigstocke was, give or take a frown or two, the one Thorne had been expecting, but that didn’t make it any less formidable. He had seen the same confusion in Chall’s expression two days earlier on that platform at Highgate tube. He had heard it in Tanner’s voice when he’d called her from the dead woman’s flat. Coming from his senior officer, though, it was a different thing entirely, especially now that the initial bewilderment was playing second fiddle to serious irritation.
‘I’m sure I’ve got a dictionary in here somewhere,’ Brigstocke said. He began to open and close the drawers on his desk, shaking his head in mock-annoyance.
‘Sir?’ When it came to showing due deference to rank in matters of address, Thorne had a small, emergency supply which he could draw on in situations like these. It was not a word which had ever tripped easily off his tongue, besides which, he was sure that Brigstocke could smell the sucking up a mile away.
A final drawer was slammed shut. ‘It’s probably me being a bit dim, but you know … I just wanted to check I knew exactly what homicide meant.’ Brigstocke peered beyond them, towards the incident room. ‘That is what it says on the door, isn’t it?’
‘Homicide and serious crime—’
‘I know what it says, Tom.’
Thorne said, ‘Right.’ He had been very well aware when he walked into Brigstocke’s office that, in every sense, he would need to make a case. It was why he fought to keep his own irritation in check and to make everything he said, however baseless it might sound, seem as reasonable as possible.
And it was why he had brought Nicola Tanner with him.
He mumbled another ‘Sir’ for good measure, and Tanner did the same.
‘And suicide hasn’t actually been a crime, serious or otherwise, for a long time.’
‘It was decriminalised in 1961,’ Tanner said.
‘Thank you.’ Brigstocke stared at her, thin-lipped and decidedly ungrateful.
‘Come on, Russell.’ Thorne took half a step towards Brigstocke’s desk. ‘It’s not the suicide we’re talking about. It’s this shyster, Patrick Jennings.’
‘Oh, I know that, too, because, surprising as it might sound, I’ve actually been listening. Same as I know that it’s sir when you want to kiss my arse and Russell when you’re asking me a favour.’ The DCI took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. ‘Christ almighty …’
Thorne said nothing; a decision, based on hard-earned experience, that it would be wise to wait out this minor storm. He had certainly come through worse. Yes, he and his boss had clashed countless times before, but Thorne knew the DCI to be a decent and humane copper who wrestled constantly with the demands of seniority. The Bullshit Bingo engaged in daily by those senior to him. Outside the grim, grey walls of Becke House, he and Thorne were still friends.
More or less.
He waited until Brigstocke had replaced his glasses before glancing at Nicola Tanner.
You’re up …
Tanner moved forward to Thorne’s side and opened her notebook. ‘Three weeks before she killed herself, Philippa Goodwin transferred seventy-five thousand pounds from her savings account to an account in the name of LectureCom Ltd.’
‘Jennings,’ Thorne said.
Brigstocke remained impassive.
‘That account was emptied and closed two days after the transfer was made,’ Tanner said. ‘We’re looking at the details used to open the account in the first place, but we can be fairly sure it was all done with fake ID documents, so it’s not going to get us very far. It’s one of these online banks that doesn’t even bother with credit checks. A couple of dodgy utility bills as proof of address and a few hundred pounds deposited to get it up and running. You can do it in minutes.’
Tanner put her notebook away. Thorne’s turn.
‘So … Jennings, or whatever his real name is, forms a relationship with Philippa Goodwin, gains her confidence and persuades her to invest all her savings in this non-existent company.’
‘I get it,’ Brigstocke said.
‘I mean, he’s probably shelled out for a few bits and pieces, just so everything looks kosher. You know, a nice-looking logo, some fancy presentation stuff, but the rest of it’s smoke and mirrors.’
Brigstocke shook his head to call a halt and sat back. ‘Look, I don’t need my dictionary to tell me that you’re describing a simple fraud, and any numpty with a warrant card could tell you there’s a huge team in a nice shiny office that deals with this stuff every day of the week. Because. That’s. Their. Job. One phone call to ActionFraud and you’ve done yours.’ He looked from Thorne to Tanner and back again. ‘Do you want me to give you the number?’
Their Little Secret Page 3
