by Anne Coates
“Some of us believe in the sanctity of life.”
Gerry’s comment, innocent enough, defeated Chris’s logic. He rounded on Gerry. “That’s rich coming from someone who was involved in buying kidneys from impoverished Turks.”
Joe nodded. He too had made the connection a little earlier.
There was an unpleasant pause. Hannah had had no idea where Gerry worked. She was waiting to hear how he would justify himself, but Sarah was the first to speak. “Oh,” she said in honeyed tones, “Gerry doesn’t work at that clinic anymore and I don’t think…”
“You don’t think anything,” snapped her husband.
“Oh don’t be so pompous!” Chris rushed to Sarah’s rescue.
“That’s it!” A puce-faced Gerry got to his feet, his accent even more pronounced in his fury. “I’m not staying here to be insulted. Come on, Sarah.”
Sarah stood up. “I’ll have to use the bathroom first.”
By this time, everyone was standing, speechless. Sarah took an age. No one attempted to break the awkward silence.
“Ready.” Sarah, lipstick reapplied, smiled brightly at everyone.
Hannah saw them to the door, not knowing what to say.
“Sorry about this.” Sarah’s cheek brushed Hannah’s. “He really is the most objectionable man. Do be careful,” she whispered, “he is a self-confessed murderer.”
Hannah forced her face into a remorseful smile. “Have a safe journey home.” Then she leaned against the closed door and let out a huge sigh of relief.
The rest of the evening was a post mortem of what had happened, which became more and more hilarious with each glass of wine. At 1.30, everyone left and Hannah fell into bed only to be woken a few hours later by Elizabeth.
NINETEEN
Hannah had a major hangover the following morning and was glad that Caroline made herself scarce. It was all she could do to keep Elizabeth entertained. She was relieved when the girl put her head round the sitting room door to say that she was going out. And, still feeling distinctly the worse for wear, she didn’t even bother to ask where the girl was going.
As soon as she left the house, Caroline made for the newsagent’s across the road and bought an A-Z and a packet of cigarettes. She lit one and inhaled deeply before making her way to the minicab office a few shops along.
“How much to Mayfair?” She asked the female operator.
“Nine quid, love.”
Caroline had only £10.50 left on her; she’d have to do a bit of business later. “Okay. Got someone who can take me now?”
“Ben… You’ve got a fare,” the woman shouted to a man sitting in another room.
In the cab, Caroline put on her make-up and a blond curly wig. She wasn’t sure what she was going to do, but it was time for some action and Mayfair seemed as good a place as any to begin. With a bit of luck, she’d be able to pick up some trade as well.
TWENTY
Monday 2 August, 1993
Three rings. “Hannah Weybridge.”
“Oh good, I haven’t got an answerphone.” The voice was unfamiliar. “It’s Tom Jordan.” This was met with silence. “I’m the DI you interviewed at King’s Cross.”
Hannah came back to the present, “Sorry you caught me in the middle of working on a story and I was miles away. What can I do for you, Tom?”
“Well I just rang to congratulate you on the article you wrote.”
“But that was weeks ago.”
“I know but I’ve been really busy.
The was a pause, Hannah was wondering what the point of the conversation was when Tom said, “Sorry I was just using it as an excuse to ring and invite you for a drink and pick your brains.”
“Oh I don’t think…”
“Don’t tell me you don’t socialise with people you interview.”
“No… but it’s a bit difficult finding babysitters.” Hannah knew her excuse sounded feeble.
“What about lunch then?” Tom suggested. “You obviously have someone to look after the child when you’re working.”
“Ye-es.” Hannah felt pushed into the metaphorical corner.
“How about the day after tomorrow then? One o’clock, Joe Allen’s, Covent Garden?”
The element of surprise robbed Hannah of a ready excuse. “Okay, thank you. See you there.”
◊◊◊
Hannah had gone down to the sitting room after the phone call. It had unsettled her. She was suspicious. Why had he phoned her now? It was the Monday after the dinner party and some of Caroline’s paranoia had rubbed off. Although the prostitute’s equilibrium seemed restored. Whatever she’d been up to the day before had had a positive effect on her.
Hannah wished she could say the same of herself. Her nerves were on edge and Caroline was like a constant itch she couldn’t quite reach. The girl’s reaction on Saturday was curious. There was something that didn’t ring true. Caroline was obviously terrified, but Hannah wondered again about Gerry being one of her clients. It didn’t add up. However, the fact that Caroline was beaten up when she arrived at Hannah’s was indisputable. But were the perpetrators still looking for her? And who were they?
“Do you know a policeman called Tom Jordan?” she asked.
“Who doesn’t? The crusading copper!”
Hannah laughed. “Is he straight?”
Caroline pulled a face. “Why do you ask?”
“I interviewed him when I interviewed you. He’s invited me to lunch.” Under cover of examining her nails, Hannah watched Caroline’s reaction.
“So?” She shrugged. “P’raps he fancies you?”
Hannah wanted to scream. “So you don’t think it’s a bit strange that I get a call from him so soon after Gerry was here?”
Caroline’s face was expressionless.
“Do I have to spell it out for you?” Hannah’s tone could have cut glass.
Caroline’s face registered a dawning understanding.
Hannah’s patience was like strung-out elastic, which was about to snap. “Look –” her voice rose perilously – “you won’t tell me anything about your assault. You claim, without any evidence, that an acquaintance’s husband was one of your clients and could have recognised you here. By some quirk of fate, he’s bound to tell someone where you are. Presumably the same someone who beat you up in the first place, but how or why Gerry should be in league with pimps, I fail to fathom. And you expect me to sit here and wait calmly for all hell to break loose on my doorstep and threaten my baby, my very existence, and not do something.”
Caroline just stared. She’d never seen Hannah quite so angry. It suited her. She was too uptight most of the time. Then Elizabeth’s cries filled the room via the baby monitor.
“Oh shit!” Hannah stormed out of the room.
When she returned carrying a beaming Elizabeth, she was calmer. Caroline watched her carefully.
“Sorry.” Hardly an adequate response.
“I want you out of here.” Hannah’s voice was cold and hard. She sat down, and put the baby on the play mat. “I just can’t take any more.”
Caroline took two steps across the room and knelt in front of her. “Please don’t chuck me out yet,” she pleaded. “You’ve been so good to me. This is the nearest thing to home-life I’ve ever had.”
“Stop playing on my sympathies.”
“It’s true. I feel really safe here.”
“What, in spite of seeing Gerry?”
“Yes. I don’t think he realised who I was. I can see the funny side now.”
Hannah ran her hand through her hair. “Well I can’t. I can’t stand the tension and I don’t like having someone else living in my home.”
“I’ve tried to keep out of your way.”
Hannah sighed. “I know. I know, but it’s just too much of a strain. Look, I won’t just throw you out. But we must discuss what you are going to do, now, with your life.”
“I don’t want to go back on the streets.” Caroline’s lower lip trembled as tho
ugh she were about to cry. An art she’d often put to good effect with clients. “I just can’t face it after what happened.”
Hannah reached out and stroked the girl’s hair. “I’m not that much of a bitch. I’ll help you find somewhere else. But we also need to find out if anyone is looking for you.”
“Perhaps they thought I was dead when they left me.”
Hannah looked at her closely. “Then they would have expected a body to be found, surely?”
“Maybe.”
“And somebody else must be missing you.” Hannah was beginning to lose patience again. “Women working at King’s Cross? Friends?”
Caroline bit her lip.
“Well, what about that community worker friend of yours? What’s his name – Tony? Tony Vitello. Maybe he could help?” Hannah waited for a reaction. She’d had her suspicions about him when she’d interviewed Princess.
“I don’t know where he is.”
“Maybe I could find him,” Hannah suggested.
“No!” the vehemence of the reply surprised both women and the baby, playing with her stacking cups, jumped. Caroline leaned forward and tentatively stroked Elizabeth’s hand. “Sorry, little one.” Hannah couldn’t help feeling the action was contrived.
Caroline moved and sat down on the sofa. I need more time. “Please don’t throw me out yet.” Her expression was earnest and guileless. “I’ve thought a lot about Tony since you interviewed me. You made me wonder if he knew about Gaynor. You know, her being a lesbian and everything.” She paused. Tears threatened. “I trusted him… I trusted him. I thought he wanted to help me.” Her gravelly voice had risen precariously, ending in a sob that sounded more like a snort. She sniffed noisily.
“Oh, do stop sniveling.” Hannah aimed a box of tissues at her. “Blow your nose.” Hannah picked up Elizabeth and cuddled her tenderly. Caroline felt hurt and excluded. She wondered if it was deliberate. Hannah seemed to flaunt motherhood and she spent so much time with the baby. But Hannah’s expression had softened when she returned the girl’s gaze and Caroline knew she’d won a reprieve.
“What on earth am I going to do with you?” she asked, but her tone was kind. And a germ of an idea was already forming in her mind.
TWENTY-ONE
Wednesday 4 August, 1993
Jo Allen’s was packed. Hannah paused at the door as her eyes adjusted to the dimmer light. She’d taken ages deciding what to wear. Her body had slimmed down quickly after Elizabeth’s birth, but many of her clothes still didn’t fit. She was now a different shape. She would have loved to buy some new outfits, but with her precarious financial situation she was loath to spend money on herself. Still, she thought the long-skirted cotton dress she had finally decided upon didn’t look too dated. It was loose-fitting and, in this heat, easy to wear.
Just as a waiter minced over to her, she caught sight of Tom Jordan at the bar and joined him. He looked up as she greeted him.
“What’ll you have?” Tom asked with a smile of welcome, which deepened the laughter lines around those penetrating, blue eyes. She liked his easy grace and he certainly didn’t look out of place amongst all the media types who made this their lunchtime haunt. Hannah smiled at her thoughts. An inspector was hardly a Mr Plod.
“Oh, a dry white wine please.” She eyed Tom’s whiskey. “I’m surprised to see you drinking. I thought you were on duty or something.”
“No, I’ve just finished an early shift, so I can relax now.” His smile transformed his face into that of a rather cheeky schoolboy – a sixth-former. His fair hair flopped forward and looked freshly washed. He had a scrubbed and healthy appearance; you wouldn’t have guessed he’d spent most of his working hours investigating the seedier side of London.
“Why did you pick this place?” asked Hannah as they sat at the table they were led to.
“You sound as if you don’t approve.” Tom laughed. “I find it rather amusing to watch people and they make a nice change from the types I’m usually keeping an eye on.”
“I suppose they must.” Hannah wondered when he was going to tell her what all this was about.
They ordered and the waiter arrived with a rather expensive bottle of Chablis. Tom grinned at her arch look. “I’m not driving and I’m rather partial to this.”
Hannah smiled back, willing herself to relax. At the same time, she had the distinct impression of being set up. Tom wanted something from her and she had a horrible suspicion it would have something to do with her guest.
They were on to the main course when Tom said, a shade too casually, “What did you make of the documentary?”
“You came over very well.” Hannah could feel her stomach tighten. “I don’t think it did justice to the women, though,” she added choosing her words with care.
“No I …”
“Han-nah!” The shrieked appellation drew both Tom’s and Hannah’s attention to a woman who was standing two tables away to Hannah’s left.
Hannah didn’t know whether to feel relief or despair. Sharon Hardiman came over and kissed her. “Darling, fancy seeing you here. Where have you been?” Her earrings clanked as she turned her head to include Tom. “And who is this gorgeous man? Not…” her eyes gleamed in speculation.
“Tom Jordan.” Tom held out his hand, saving Hannah from having to answer. His smile was cool and calculating.
Sharon clasped his hand, “Haven’t I met you before?” There was a gleam of recognition in her eye.
“No, I certainly wouldn’t have forgotten you.” Hannah’s wince at the cliché was almost visible, but Sharon didn’t seem bothered. She gave Hannah a calculating look.
“Darling, we must get together soon. You look wonderful. How is er…”
“Elizabeth is adorable. Perhaps you’d like to come over and meet her,” Hannah asked sweetly.
“Ye-es. I’ll give you a ring.” She looked from Hannah to Tom, then squeezed Hannah’s hand. “Well, I was just leaving. Enjoy your meal. Nice to meet you, Tom. Bye darling.” She kissed Hannah’s cheek, leaving a smudge of lipstick and was gone.
“Phew.” Tom made a face and leaned forward to remove the scarlet smear with his napkin. It was an intimate gesture and it irritated Hannah – made her feel vulnerable in an odd way. “Rather heavy-handed with the Opium, isn’t she?”
Hannah laughed. “Yes, subtlety isn’t her strong suit.”
Tom seemed to consider for a moment, then asked, “Is she a close friend of yours?”
“No she’s an editor I sometimes work for, or rather, used to work for. I haven’t seen her for ages.”
Tom poured more wine. “Well, I imagine a little goes a long way with her.”
As he raised his glass, something that had been niggling at the back of her mind suddenly exploded into the foreground. “You’re not wearing your ring.” It came out almost as an accusation.
Tom looked at his naked fingers. “I’m surprised you should notice or remember my ring.”
Hannah felt rather silly at her outburst. “It was very distinctive. I remember wondering about it when I interviewed you.”
Tom looked rueful. “Yes I was pretty annoyed when I lost it. It was my father’s. Still…” He sipped his wine.
“Why did you want to see me?” The time had come for a more direct approach; she couldn’t bear this pussyfooting around.
“I wanted to see you again and… there was something I wanted to ask you about.” Tom gave her a searching look. “Remember the interview with Princess?” Hannah nodded mutely. “Well, frankly I’m worried about her. She seems to have disappeared. I’ve asked around but no one knows or is not saying where she is.”
“Maybe she just moved away?” Hannah could feel a trickle of sweat making its track between her breasts; her hands were clammy. “Anyway what’s it to do with me?”
“It’s just a long shot but I wondered if she’d said anything to you – something you didn’t use in the article – but which might give me a lead.”
“Why?”
<
br /> Tom sighed. “Thank you.” He smiled as the waiter cleared away the plates.
“Would you like a dessert or coffee, sir?”
Tom looked enquiringly at Hannah. “Just coffee please, black.”
“Make that two thanks.” The waiter slipped away and returned almost immediately with the coffees. Tom concentrated on stirring a spoon of sugar into his cup.
“They look worth more than a penny.” Tom glanced up. “Your thoughts,” she explained.
“Mmm. I was wondering how much I can or should tell you.” He sipped his coffee. “How d’you fancy a walk in the park?”
Hannah looked at her watch. 2.30. Elizabeth would be fine with Nicky for a while yet. “Okay – I’ll just have to make a quick call.”
“Be my guest.” Tom produced a mobile phone from his briefcase.
“Standard police issue?” Hannah asked.
Tom grinned. “No, I just love new gadgets.”
The phone call quickly established that Elizabeth had had a good lunch, was now sleeping peacefully and Nicky was quite happy to have her as long as necessary. Tom paid the bill in cash and they left the restaurant.
The heat and light as they emerged into Exeter Street was almost overpowering. Hannah quickly donned her sunglasses. They fell into step, walking easily beside each other. Tom took her arm as they crossed Southampton Street and turned into The Strand.
This must be the noisiest road in London, thought Hannah, glad that Tom was happy to walk along without trying to make conversation above the din of traffic. They had to compete for space on the pavement with office workers returning after a late lunch and tourists who held up the flow of pedestrians, walking slowly, guidebooks open in front of them, necks craned usually in the wrong direction.
For the life of her, Hannah couldn’t think what The Strand had to offer them apart from the theatres and, of course, The Savoy. The shops, now that the Civil Service Store had long since disappeared, bore no comparison to what was on offer in Covent Garden.
