Dancers in the Wind: a gripping psychological thriller

by Anne Coates

  “Discovered at…”

  “I’m sorry?”

  “I thought their bodies were discovered there, but they’d been killed elsewhere?”

  “Yes, whatever.” Stuart sounded a little irritated. “The point is, the newspaper wants to do a bit of a follow up on her. You know, have you seen this woman etc… reward offered and we’d like you to use bits from your interview with more of your impressions about her and we want you to speak to the cop again.”

  Hannah’s hands were damp with perspiration. She could feel the pulse in her neck echoing in her ears, louder and louder. She was caught in a spider’s web and every move she made to extricate herself only meant she was more entangled.

  “Han-nah?”

  “Sorry Stuart, I was just thinking…”

  “Think out loud… the news desk pays double feature rates, you know.”

  She didn’t know and swallowed hard. Scruples didn’t pay the mortgage. “Great, when do you want it by?”

  “As soon as. Apparently the inspector is a little difficult to get hold of, but this is urgent. Rory on the news desk will fax you over a brief and you should contact him direct if you have any problems, though I’m sure you won’t.”

  Stuart sounded more confident than he felt. They had been unable to secure an interview with Tom Jordan and hoped that Hannah could prevail upon him since she’d interviewed him before. And a little bird had told him that she’d seen Hannah having lunch with him in Jo Allen’s. It was a long shot but if she pulled it off, his credibility on the paper would definitely go up.

  “Okay Stuart, what’s his number?”

  “Extension 228. And good luck.”

  “Thanks. I think I’ll need it.”

  Hannah was thoughtful as she replaced the handset. She was suddenly aware of Caroline standing in the study doorway staring at her. Hannah smiled. “And where did you sneak off to?”

  Caroline looked hurt. “I didn’t sneak off. I was just doing what I was told.”

  In reply to Hannah’s raised eyebrow she said, “I went to that place over the road.”

  Bemused Hannah sat down at her desk. “I’m sorry?”

  “I went,” said the girl, smiling at her, “to photocopy me notebooks.”

  “Oh good,” said Hannah.

  “And I took two copies.”

  “That was very diligent of you.”

  “Well,” Caroline looked sheepish, “the bloke in there was chatting me up. He’s a bit of alright, isn’t he?”

  “Yes, he’s very attractive,” Hannah replied absently. Then the two women looked at each other and burst out laughing, easing some of the tension between them.

  “Right, so where shall we send them for safe-keeping?” asked Hannah as the telephone rang again.

  “Hannah Weybridge.”

  “Hi Hannah, it’s James.”

  “Hello – you’re still speaking to me then?”

  “Just about.” James laughed. “Still got your lodger there?”

  “Yes, she standing right next to me,” she said in the hope of forestalling any disparaging comments that Caroline might overhear. James always spoke loudly on the phone.

  “Good, can I have a word?”

  Hannah tried not to show her surprise. “It’s James,” she explained to the girl at her side. “He’d like a word. You can use the phone in the sitting room if you’d prefer.”

  With a hasty “Ta”, Caroline disappeared down the stairs and Hannah put the phone down. The hum of the fax machine diverted her attention and she was engrossed in Rory’s brief when Caroline bounded back into the room.

  “Brilliant news!” she exclaimed as she promptly sat down in the rocking chair. She appeared very much at home and Hannah hoped she wasn’t going to lose this refuge as well.

  “It’s negative.”

  “What is?”

  “My HIV test, it’s negative.”

  “Wonderful – but I didn’t know you’d had one done.”

  “James arranged it for me when he took the blood sample to see if I was anaemic.”

  “Oh.” Caroline’s use of his name plus his consideration to her made Hannah feel unaccountably jealous. It was extremely selfish and childish but she didn’t want to share her close friends with this girl. It niggled. She certainly didn’t want Caroline to become an established part of her life. Hannah felt invaded by her presence. The sooner she left, the better.

  “Well,” she said into the uneasy silence, “I always knew he was a kind man.” She smiled brightly and decided to change the subject. “Now, where are we going to send these?”

  Caroline looked coy. “D’you think James would mind holding onto one for me?”

  Hannah held onto the sigh that threatened to escape her. “I’m sure he wouldn’t. And how about sending the other to the Reverend John Daniels?”

  Caroline looked blank.

  “The vicar I told you about. The one I think you should stay with for a while.”

  “Right.” Caroline’s expression was closed.

  The author sealed the copies in envelopes, while Hannah wrote hurried explanatory notes asking the recipients not to open the enclosed unless asked to by Caroline or herself. Both women signed the letters and then they were packed into jiffy bags.

  “Registered post, I think, don’t you?”

  “What’s the difference?”

  Hannah explained.

  “I think I’ll take them down to the post office straight away.”

  “Oh, by the way,” Hannah said as she was leaving. “Your alter ego is going to be famous again.”

  Caroline looked at her blankly.

  “I’ve been asked to write a piece about Princess’s disappearance.”

  “Je-sus!”

  “My sentiments entirely,” replied Hannah.

  “And you’re going to do it?”

  The journalist was surprised that the girl would even ask the question, but she sensed an implicit criticism, which irked her.

  “It’s my job,” she said. “And it’s money.”

  It could have been Princess talking.

  TWENTY-SIX

  While Caroline was out, Hannah took the opportunity to phone Tom Jordan on his mobile. It took her by surprise when he answered on the second ring.

  “Yes,” he barked.

  “Have I caught you at an awkward moment? It’s Hannah. Hannah Weybridge,” she added for good measure.

  “Hi.” Tom’s voice softened appreciably. “I’m up to my eyes as usual. What can I do for you?”

  “Well –” Hannah felt reluctant to ask such a big favour but needs must. “You won’t believe this, but I’ve been asked to interview you about Princess’s disappearance.”

  “Oh yes.” Tom’s voice was markedly cooler.

  “Yes. The News is doing some sort of ‘have you seen this girl?’ feature and are offering a reward for information.”

  “Hmm.”

  “I know you’re extremely busy, but I thought as you were so concerned about Princess, you wouldn’t mind talking to me.” Hannah tried to keep the pleading note out of her voice.

  Tom said something she couldn’t make out to someone who must have been with him. Then: “Okay, on one condition.”

  “What’s that?” Please don’t ask for copy approval, prayed Hannah. She hated it when interviewees wanted to check what she had written.

  “That you interview me over dinner.”

  “Oh, that’s no hardship.” Hannah felt light-headed with relief. “When?”

  “Tomorrow?”

  “Fine.”

  “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Great. I’ll have to go now. Elizabeth’s crying. Bye and thanks.”

  ◊◊◊

  “News desk.”

  “Hello is Rory there please?”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Hannah Weybridge.”

  “Right. Hang on a minute. He’s just on the other line, Hannah.”

  Hannah hung on for abo
ut three minutes before she heard the news editor’s voice.

  “Hello, Hannah. Nice to speak with you. Did you get my fax?”

  “Yes and I’ve arranged a meeting with DI Jordan for tomorrow evening.”

  Rory whistled. “Nice one.”

  “There’s just one thing…”

  “Ye-es.” Rory wondered what stipulations the inspector had made.

  “Do you think your crime desk could run a check on him?”

  Rory was intrigued. “Sure thing. Any particular angle you have in mind?”

  “I’m not sure really. He seems straight but you never know. And it does seem a bit strange that a British Transport Police Inspector is apparently leading a murder enquiry.”

  “Mmm.”

  “I’ve already phoned Scotland Yard Press Office, but you know how tight-lipped they can be.”

  “Only too well.” Rory laughed. “Everything has to be a written request, in triplicate…”

  “So you’ll be able to do that?” Hannah interrupted.

  “No problem. Anything else?”

  “Well I’m going to try and talk to some of Princess’s friends. I’ve still got the video of the programme on King’s Cross, so I thought I’d attempt to find the woman she was interviewed with. You never know, she might know something and might prefer not talking to the police.”

  “Sure…” Rory anticipated her request. “You’ll need some readies. I’ll get some cash biked over –” Rory paused as if looking at his watch – “within an hour or so. Anything else?”

  Hannah hesitated for a moment. “Yes. There’s a community worker who was influential in Princess’s life. Apparently he’s now working in Streatham. I’d like to root him out. They may have been in touch with each other.”

  Hannah could hear Rory tapping something against the phone. “Yep. He might need some persuading. I can authorise you to offer to pay for his story… I’ll send a contract over with the cash. If nobody else has got to him, he’ll probably talk for £1000. If not, give me a ring. If I’m not here, speak to John Estry, the night editor. Okay?”

  “Fine.” Hannah felt a buzz of adrenalin. “Could I ask another favour?”

  “Fire away.” Rory was in a good mood, he was getting a lot more than he expected and if Hannah didn’t get everything, at least she’d succeeded where he’d failed – in getting the DI to talk to her.

  “Could you lend me one of those hidden mikes and recorders? It might facilitate things.”

  “It’ll be in the package. Right I’d better get someone on to all this. I’ll speak to you later and…

  “Yes?”

  “Take care, won’t you.”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  “Streatham Advisory Services. Deidre speaking, how may I help you?”

  “I’d like to speak to Tony Vitello.”

  “I’m sorry there’s no one of that name working here.”

  Hannah replaced the receiver. It was the third call she’d made with no success. Lambeth Council had never heard of him. Nor had the Pinfold Road Information Centre. She could, of course, have asked Tom Jordan where he had found him but she didn’t want Tom to know. He might try to warn her off or… Hannah didn’t want to follow where those thoughts might lead. With the telephone directory open before her, she ran her finger down a column of entries. It skimmed over the Streatham Echo then stopped. It was a long shot but …

  She tapped out the number. “Echo.”

  “Oh er, hello. I was wondering if you could help me.” She spoke hesitantly, not enjoying the subterfuge. It was a bit off picking a local reporter’s brains.

  “I’ll try,” said a friendly voice.

  “I’m trying to get in touch with someone. I think I read about him in your paper a few weeks ago. Tony Vitello’s his name.

  “Oh Tony. Yeah he’s always being quoted about something or other. He works from an office on the Tyneswell Housing Project. I have his number if you just hold on…”

  Hannah held on to the phone and her breath.

  “Yeah, here it is…”

  Hannah wrote down the number and thanked him humbly. Well, that call saved a lot of work. She rang the number but it seemed to be permanently engaged. Time to put in a personal appearance, she thought. Her package from the news editor, Rory, had arrived. She fitted the micro recorder into her bra as per the enclosed instructions and rang for a cab.

  ◊◊◊

  The office of the Tyneswell Housing Project was on the ground floor of a four-storey block of flats, on an estate that looked as though it had never seen better days. The building dated back to the ’30s and you could see similar blocks all over London. Most of the windows looked as though the tenants had given up fighting the grime that had accumulated on them, but in contrast, some had a sparkling freshness. The majority of the balconies had washing hanging from makeshift lines and Hannah thought the clothes probably smelled worse after their “airing”.

  A few youngsters clothed in the latest fashions and wearing, Hannah assumed, the most expensive trainers, were kicking a football around the forecourt. Hannah was willing to bet their parents didn’t look half so smart. Disembodied voices from TVs and radios clashed and bounced off walls covered with graffiti, which dated back to George Davies’s innocence and announced to the world, graphically, who was screwing whom. A few babies were crying. Momentarily, Hannah thought of Elizabeth then deliberately turned her mind back to Caroline and the elusive Tony Vitello.

  There was a note taped to the door: “Back in half an hour.” As she didn’t know when it had been written, Hannah had no way of knowing whether she had the time to go for a coffee or if Mr Vitello’s return was imminent.

  “’E won’t be long, luv.”

  Startled, Hannah turned to find an old lady had settled herself on a rickety chair on the adjacent balcony. Her smile betrayed ill-fitting dentures; her sparse grey hair was scraped back into a loose bun from which stray locks escaped from time to time, only to be tucked back in with surprisingly deft fingers.

  “I saw ’im go off about 20 minutes ago, an’ ’e never takes long for ’is dinner.”

  Hannah smiled and shifted her weight from one foot to the other. “Thanks. It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?”

  “Mmm. You from the council? ’Bout time someone came to see about the drains round ’ere.”

  “Sorry.” Hannah shook her head apologetically. There was a distinct smell of public lavatories about the place. The pungent smell of cheap disinfectant vying with something altogether more unsavoury.

  “Pity, you look like someone who’d get things done. Still ’ere comes ’is nibs,” said the old woman with a gesture of her chin.

  Hannah turned to see a shortish, well-built man walking through the arched entrance. His curly fair hair was a surprise. With a name like Vitello she’d expected him to be dark. She hadn’t dared ask Caroline what he looked like in case she got suspicious. Tony was one of the many angles she hadn’t discussed with her “missing person”.

  Vitello looked at her speculatively as he approached. He took in her briefcase, short-sleeved dress and jacket and obviously thought he had her number.

  “Mr Vitello?” Close to, he looked like the type of man you wouldn’t like to meet on your own on a dark night. His appearance must be an asset for a job like this, Hannah thought and smiled. If any of his clients cut up rough, Mr Vitello looked as though he could deal with it. She held out her hand. “Hannah Weybridge.”

  He shook her proffered hand, his expression quizzical. “I’m sorry, should I know you?”

  By now he had unlocked the office and had opened the door. Hannah activated the hidden recorder and followed him into a cramped room. A desk and four chairs were the only furniture. The walls were covered with shelves weighed down with books, pamphlets and cardboard files.

  “I’m a journalist.”

  “Oh yes. Come to do a bit on community housing?” There was a sneer in his voice that Hannah found intensely irritating. She wondered how ef
fective he was in his job if he always got on the wrong side of people like this, so early in a meeting.

  “No, I’ve come to talk to you about a young woman called Caroline.” She held out a photo that had been taken during the interview.

  For all of two seconds, Tony Vitello looked disconcerted but covered his discomfort by straightening some files on his desk.

  “You knew her a few years ago, I believe?”

  Vitello spread his hands and shrugged. “Caroline… now that was a long time ago. I haven’t seen her in…”

  “You may not be aware that she is missing, even presumed dead following a spate of murders at King’s Cross.”

  “I saw something on the news but I didn’t know Princess was involved.”

  Hannah wanted to jump for joy. Instead she coolly crossed her legs. He’d fallen into her trap. Hannah knew the police had questioned him. And her working name had slipped off his tongue so readily, it suggested he had seen or heard from her more recently than he’d admitted to.

  “She’s been missing for several weeks and I wondered if she was in hiding and had turned to you for help perhaps?”

  Vitello stroked his nose thoughtfully. Hannah glanced at his feet, which betrayed his apparent ease by tapping away on the worn, tiled floor. His shoes looked new and expensive. Just like the boys’ trainers in the forecourt. “Why would she do that?” he replied evasively.

  “When I interviewed her a month or so ago, she mentioned how you had helped her and that you’d rescued her from two rather violent pimps. She was grateful and spoke highly of you. Maybe she needs protection again?”

  Vitello’s eyes did not meet her own. Hannah was convinced that he had seen Caroline on the evening she had been working in Streatham. Relief permeated her body as she realised that Caroline hadn’t confided the name of the person she was staying with. Tony Vitello had looked totally disinterested when she’d introduced herself.

  “I am authorised by The News –” Hannah opened her briefcase and brought out the contract – “to pay you for any help and information you might be able to give me…” She allowed the offer to hang in the air between them. Vitello was obviously interested in making a financial deal. “Shall we say £500?” Hannah suggested.