Lucia had undergone a similar experience, kidnapped by Jenna’s useless boyfriend, Pat Harris, tied up and left on her knees in the dried out paddling pool at the derelict holiday camp. She appeared to have recovered well, but perhaps the incident had had a greater impact on her than they’d thought.
Charlotte wanted to reach out and hug her daughter through the wall of the adjoining room. But Lucia just shrugged off any attempts at closeness. They put it down to her being a teenager. Perhaps they did need to spend a little more time with her.
There was a scratching just to the side of Charlotte’s head. It shocked her, and she dropped the torch. She recovered quickly; it was just the sound of a bird nesting under the tiles of the roof. It had been right next to her ear.
As she moved to pick up the torch, Charlotte noticed the beam illuminating a dulled carving in the floorboards. She’d missed it before, but she might have been standing on it. She brushed away the coating of dust and debris to get a closer look, moving the beam of the torch so she could make out what the carving said: Piper Phillips, age 16, 2006.
It was a simple enough carving, scratched with an old nail or perhaps a fragment of a chipped brick. But Piper had displayed that most human of instincts: even as a prisoner, she had wanted to record that she’d been there, that her life counted for something.
But why Piper Phillips? She knew her as Piper Lawrence. Was that her escorting name, perhaps to protect her real identity from her clients?
Charlotte checked the time on her phone; it was just before ten o’clock. If she moved fast, she’d still be able to get to the press conference in time. She had to speak to Piper, and it couldn’t wait. She had to know if it was a coincidence that she shared the same surname as Jenna.
Chapter Sixteen
Charlotte didn’t bother packing anything away in Olli’s bedroom. She left everything exactly as it was. Neither did she care about disturbing Lucia any more; this had to be more than just chance.
Leaving the light on in the roof-space and rushing down the flights of stairs two steps at a time, Charlotte listened to be sure that Isla was still around to pick up on any straggler guests, then shot out of the front door without even announcing her departure. This couldn’t wait.
She crossed over to the promenade side of the road. It was always faster-moving along that side; the pavements could become congested further up where the B&Bs and hotels were replaced by stores, arcades and coffee shops.
It was cold along the promenade, making her wish she’d brought a coat, but it was reasonably quiet and she could make fast progress. It also meant she could jog along and send Nigel Davies a text message at the same time.
I’ll make my own way to the Winter Gardens. See you there at 10.30.
She was out of breath already. She slowed to a fast walk, the strong wind blowing along the sea front making it difficult to run. She passed the RNLI hut, then the town clock and eventually the Midland Hotel. The West End seemed a long way away on foot, but it was such a nuisance getting the car out of the back alleyway that most days she walked; it was usually quicker.
She passed the bus stop opposite the end of the promenade where she and Will used to catch the last ride back to the Sandy Beaches Holiday Camp. They’d usually been for a scampi and chips at the restaurant close by, which was now closed. For a moment, she thought back on that time with fondness. Then she remembered the danger that it had placed them all in.
When she reached Piper’s street, Charlotte couldn’t remember the house number. They all looked the same to her, houses of multiple occupancy with clusters of doorbells to the side of their front doors. She wished she’d taken more notice when she’d visited with Nigel.
Charlotte knew roughly where the house was positioned on the street, but had to step up to a couple of front doors to check the names on the doorbells. At last, she found Piper’s. She rang the bell but there was no answer. She tried again. It was just past half-past ten. There was no way Piper could have a client in at that time of day, surely?
A man walked up to the door with a dog which looked like it had seen better days. Both dog and owner appeared tired out by life; both needed a haircut, and neither looked like they’d eaten properly in some time.
‘Excuse me, luv,’ the man said, pushing past.
‘Okay if I go in behind you to see my friend?’ Charlotte asked.
‘Be my guest,’ he replied.
Once inside the property, she recalled the layout and headed up the stairs to Piper’s room. She banged at the door.
‘Piper! It’s Charlotte Grayson. I need to speak to you. Open up!’
She heard voices inside. She hadn’t even considered that Piper might have a personal life, a boyfriend or a husband, perhaps. There was a movement at the door. It opened, revealing a middle-aged man, his paunch hanging over a pair of ill-fitting boxer shorts. He was mostly bald, though he was hanging on for dear life to the little hair he still had.
‘Sling yer hook, darlin’, she’s on the clock until eleven.’
He began to shut the door, but Charlotte pushed it open. This couldn’t wait. The curtains were closed, and Piper was in bed. A plastic whip and a bottle of lubricant had been placed on the bedside table. She wanted to cry for her; there had to be better ways to make a living.
‘Jesus!’ Piper said, sitting up in the bed. ‘This is my work, you know. You can’t just come barging in here whenever you feel like it. If I don’t answer the doorbell, it means I’ve got a client in.’
‘I’m sorry, I won’t do it again, but I have to speak to you.’
‘Can’t it wait, luv? Me and Piper here can get a lot done in half an hour. Time is money yer know. I’m back at work for midday.’
Charlotte ignored the man, looking directly at Piper.
‘I went into the roof-space where you were held as a teenager…’
‘Do you have to?’ Piper said, agitated. ‘I want to forget all that. It was a long time ago. I need to get back to my client. I have rent to pay, you know.’
‘I saw your name carved in the floorboards. Piper Phillips. You’re Jenna’s daughter, aren’t you?’
Piper was silent.
‘Am I getting my punishment or not?’ the man asked.
‘How much are you paying?’ Charlotte asked.
‘One hundred pounds. So far, I’ve only had fifty quid’s worth.’
‘Look, give me five minutes, and I’ll be gone. I have to speak to Piper.’
The man mumbled something and went to sit on an armchair by the window. He found his phone and began scrolling through his messages. Charlotte turned back to Piper. She was sitting up in bed now, not bothering to pull the sheets up to her shoulders. Charlotte wondered what it must be like to be so lacking in self-consciousness about your body that you couldn’t care less if your top half was naked while you were talking to a stranger who’d just barged into your flat.
‘Piper, this is serious. I need to know.’
‘I detest the bitch,’ Piper said at last. ‘She gave me no help after the cops found me. It was like it had never happened.’
Charlotte thought back to Lucia; had they done enough to support her after her trauma?
‘So Jenna is your mother?’ she asked.
‘Yes, but I wish she wasn’t. I took my father’s name. I wanted to forget my mum. My dad was almost as useless as she was, but at least he’d take me to the pub and let me get drunk out my mind. It’s how I blotted it out. I was only sixteen years old.’
For the first time Charlotte heard Piper’s voice break, as if decades of pent-up emotions were about to spill over. She wanted to reach out her arms and hug her, desperately sorry for the life she was living.
‘Look, Piper, I’m going. I’ll book in with the agency for another time, but I expect that last half hour, right?’
Piper nodded at him. The man pulled on his clothes and checked his sparse hair in the mirror. Before he left, he took his wedding ring out of his trouser pocket and slipped it ba
ck on his finger.
‘See yah!’ he said, leaving the flat.
Piper exhaled, evidently relieved he was gone.
‘He has bad breath,’ she said. ‘It’s all I can do not to be sick, but he’s a regular. I don’t even have to have sex with him. He just likes the whip. He has a lovely wife and two teenage kids at home. That man pays my rent every month.’
‘You know, I have work at the guest house. I’d be happy to help you with a job if you think it would help?’
‘I’m not sure cleaning out rooms and wiping tables would pay as well as this. Some clients are horrible, but I can make good money at it, more than the minimum wage. And I don’t have a boss either. I control my hours. I’ve got the rest of the day free now, until nine o’clock this evening.’
Charlotte would rather make up a hundred guest bedrooms than have to spend an hour with a man like she’d just encountered. He made her flesh creep. How privileged she’d been in her relationships, except for Bruce. She’d had a good marriage with Will. Her life was punctuated with laughter and affection; she’d never stopped to appreciate that.
‘Do you know about me and your mother?’ Charlotte asked, sitting on the side of the double bed while Piper pulled on a T-shirt.
‘I’ve never heard of you. Me and my mother never hit it off.’
‘We were best friends at college. We worked together at Sandy Beaches Holiday Camp…’
Charlotte hesitated; did she know Jenna was in prison?
‘What do you know about your mum? Do you know where she is now?’
‘I wouldn’t even recognise her if I saw her in town,’ Piper replied. She spat out the words as if the hardness in her voice was well-practised, a defence mechanism to conceal the pain.
‘Did you know she was in prison?’ Charlotte said, as gently as she could.
‘Doesn’t surprise me,’ Piper said. ‘She used to jump into bed with all sorts of unsuitable men. Guys doing drugs, guys stealing stuff. It made my dad look like an angel.’
‘I still see your mother,’ Charlotte began, searching for the best way to frame what she was about to say. ‘She’s had some tough times, you know. She’d love to see you again, I’m sure. Would you be up for it if I suggested it to her? I’d be happy to come along with you if it made it easier. I know how I’d feel if I was estranged from my own daughter like that. It would break my heart.’
‘I’m not sure she’d welcome that,’ Piper answered, a glimpse of regret in her voice. ‘My mum has spent a lifetime trying to hide me from the world. She would never acknowledge me or tell people I existed. What kind of mother would do that?’
Charlotte was quiet as she thought it over. She knew one possible answer to that question. She’d have done the same thing too, in Jenna’s situation. The one thing that would force her to keep quiet about Lucia was if she was scared for her daughter’s life.
Chapter Seventeen
Charlotte was late for the press conference, having spent too much time with Piper. She ended up running along the pavement from the West End to the Winter Gardens, and was so out of breath she could hardly speak to the police officer who stood outside the ornate, wooden doors.
A TV van with a satellite dish had drawn up on the pavement outside. The BBC also had a broadcasting vehicle outside the building. It was creating quite a buzz among the locals.
‘I’m sorry, you can’t go in until the press conference is done. It’s media only.’
That stopped Charlotte dead in her tracks; she wasn’t media and the police officer at the door looked like he was accustomed to dealing with lame excuses. Without Nigel Davies, she had no access. There was little point arguing.
She pulled out her phone and sent a text to Nigel.
Sorry, I’m late. Cops won’t let me in. Can you help?
She waited a few moments, watching her phone.
Coming.
Seconds later, Nigel appeared outside the Winter Gardens and waved her over.
‘It’s all right—she’s with me,’ he said to the police officer. ‘She’s on a job exchange.’
The officer seemed to know Nigel already and was happy to wave Charlotte in.
‘Does that mean you’re going to clean the rooms in my guest house as part of the job exchange?’ Charlotte whispered.
‘Not a chance,’ Nigel replied. ‘But you won’t get in here unless you’re press, so a little white lie won’t hurt.’
Charlotte had been to look around the Winter Gardens before, and its architecture never failed to impress her. It was a well-preserved relic from a bygone age when the resort was flourishing, and thousands of tourists would flock there throughout the summer. The ornate boxes over-looked the stage area which was closed off by a heavy, velvet curtain. The seating had long since been ripped out, leaving a large, open area with a worn, wooden floor, where the press conference was taking place.
Charlotte had seen it a hundred times on the TV. Two wooden tables had been brought in, a white table cloth placed over them and four chairs positioned behind.
DCI Kate Summers sat in the middle of the table, surrounded by microphones bearing the logos of the various radio and TV stations. They included ITV and BBC; this had become much more than a local story.
To the left of DCI Summers was a man who had the appearance of a performer; he didn’t seem to belong there. Sitting close to the right-hand side of DCI Summers, her eyes red raw from crying, was a family member, probably Fred Walker’s daughter, judging by her age. A police officer was to her side, her hand on the other woman’s arm. Charlotte assumed she was a police liaison officer.
Nigel guided her to a seat. It looked like they were about to get started. She looked up at one of the theatre boxes to her right-hand side and saw the police tape over the lip of the balcony. It chilled her to think Fred Walker had been found there.
‘Thank you for attending this press conference today,’ DCI Summers began. She was calm and business-like, treating it like a job that had to be done. ‘I’m joined by Mr Walker’s eldest daughter, Francesca, and Steven Terry, a clairvoyant performer. It was Mr Terry who helped to discover Fred Walker’s body. I’m sure you’ll join me in passing on our condolences to Ms Walker.’
Francesca Walker began to cry. DCI Summers stopped momentarily and reassured her.
‘I would ask members of the press to respect Ms Walker’s recent loss of her father in very tragic circumstances. She will be making a short statement but will not be answering any questions today. Mr Terry and I will be happy to field your questions once Ms Walker has delivered her appeal.’
DCI Summers then ran through the factual details of the murder, most of which Nigel had told her already. Fred Walker had not come home the previous night. The police had been informed, and his car had been found parked in a supermarket car park in town.
Steven Terry, who was due to perform at the Winter Gardens for a short run over the weekend, had immediately sensed that something terrible had happened while the theatre manager was giving him a tour of the venue. The clairvoyant had found the body and the police were alerted. That was all they had to work with.
‘Who’s this Steven Terry guy?’ Charlotte whispered as Francesca Walker was readied for her appeal.
‘Haven’t a clue,’ Nigel replied. ‘He’s one of these clairvoyant acts that constantly tours the country, I think. The posters say he’s doing four shows here over the weekend, including a Saturday matinee. I’ve never met him before. God knows how he sensed Fred Walker’s body. This clairvoyance business is just a big con act as far as I can tell. Still, it’ll help to pack out his shows, I guess.’
‘Francesca Walker will now issue an appeal to anybody who might know anything about her father’s tragic death,’ DCI Summers announced.
Charlotte had seen this before on the TV and always felt for the poor families, wheeled out in front of the media at the worst time possible. Francesca looked like she was struggling to get through it. It felt rawer to Charlotte, being there in person
.
‘Fred Walker was a much-loved husband and father. My sister, Anna, my brother Gerry and I are distraught at the loss of our role model, our inspiration and the most important person in the world to us—’
Her voice was faltering. DCI Summers gently encouraged her to continue.
‘We can’t believe that somebody would want to murder our father. He was well-loved locally and respected by everybody who knew him. He built up an incredible business in Morecambe and the north-west of England. Please, if you know anything about his disappearance and subsequent death, contact Morecambe Police. The Crimestoppers line is available if you wish to remain anonymous. Somebody must have seen my father leaving the supermarket car park. Somebody must have noticed something unusual around the Winter Gardens. If you saw anything—anything at all—please contact DCI Summers at Morecambe Police Station. Thank you.’
She’d delivered the words slowly and with pauses and interruptions. If it wasn’t for the constant reassurance of the police officer and DCI Summers, Charlotte didn’t believe she would have made it to the end. As she spoke her last words, Francesca Walker looked up towards the theatrical box where her father had perished, and became distraught. The police officer escorted her out of the press conference, and the members of the press maintained a respectful silence. The moment she’d left and Steven Terry had switched places to sit directly in front of the microphones, all hell broke loose.
What truth is there in the rumours that Fred Walker had been awarded building contracts in favour of more suitable construction companies?
Was Mr Walker having an affair with his secretary?
DCI Summer dealt with the questions in a calm, measured manner. She’d obviously heard every crass suggestion the press could come up with. She brushed idle conjecture or unsubstantiated rumour aside, admonishing the journalist each time with a reminder that somebody’s husband and father had died.
Circle of Lies Page 9
