Dancers in the Wind: a gripping psychological thriller

by Anne Coates

  Hannah smiled. The interview had been remarkably easy. Too easy. Hannah almost had the impression that they were humouring her, though she couldn’t think why. Elizabeth had gurgled happily throughout the entire proceedings.

  “I’ll run Ms Weybridge home.”

  Avril, who had sat in on the interview, and Hannah looked at each other.

  “I’m off duty now.”

  So it was true, thought Avril gleefully.

  Oh no, thought Hannah, her heart sinking. Now he would really grill her.

  FORTY-FOUR

  “I still can’t understand why you didn’t tell me.” Tom was driving fast, but skillfully. The roads were busy but not yet clogged with early evening rush hour traffic. “Why didn’t you trust me?”

  “I promised Caroline. And she thought that with the type of people involved – well, that the police wouldn’t exactly be on her side.” Plus, she thought some officers were involved. Certainly one was.

  Tom grunted. “I hope nobody is above the law,” he said, but it was without conviction. He knew in his bones that there would be a cover-up. Someone would go down for the murders, but not the real killers – of that he was sure. Unless… unless The News came up trumps. And then, where would that leave him?

  He pulled up at the red lights and stared at Hannah until she felt herself blushing under his scrutiny.

  “There’s something else, isn’t there?”

  The lights changed.

  “Isn’t there, Hannah?” he asked quietly.

  “I don’t know,” she answered. And she didn’t. She didn’t know if she could broach the subject of his ring. Did he find it with Caroline’s possessions, she wondered?

  She was still wondering when she became aware that they had stopped outside her front door.

  “That white van,” Hannah began.

  “Is one of ours.”

  Hannah stared at him, wide-eyed and incredulous.

  “This is a very nasty business, Hannah. It’s there for your own protection. Just to make sure you don’t have any unwelcome visitors.”

  The revelation made Hannah even more uncomfortable. Who or what was the “ours” referred to? Surely BT Police didn’t have that sort of surveillance gear. Special Branch? she asked herself as she carried Elizabeth into the house.

  “There’s a beer in the fridge if you’d like one,” she said.

  “Thanks. Look, Hannah, we do need to talk.”

  Hannah looked up into his face. Her pallor spoke volumes. “Not now Tom, please. I can’t take any more. I just want to have a shower and put on some fresh clothes. I…”

  “Okay, okay.” Tom grinned his boyish grin. “How about you take a shower and I entertain this young lady?” He swung Elizabeth into the air, sending her into peals of giggles.

  “It certainly sounds a good idea.” Hannah left them to it. She was amazed that Elizabeth didn’t protest. She usually made such a fuss when Hannah left the room these days.

  ◊◊◊

  As she stood under the shower, letting the jets of cool water blast away some of the tension in her body, the image of Tom swinging Elizabeth into the air stayed with her. Hannah wondered how Elizabeth would feel about not having a father. Would she blame Hannah? Would she feel deprived of masculine company and dash out and marry the first unsuitable man who showed her some tenderness? Hannah snorted. Time enough for those thoughts.

  ◊◊◊

  When she went downstairs, wearing an old but comfortable cotton dress, the cigarette smoke from the pub she’d been in with Rory washed from her hair, Hannah felt more able to face Tom and his inevitable, awkward questions.

  Then came the sudden awareness that the house was quiet. Ominously quiet. For one heart-stopping moment she thought Tom had run off with the baby. The events of the last few days had had an alarming effect on her imagination.

  She swallowed hard and pushed open the sitting room door, stopping short at the sight before her. Tom was slouched in an armchair, Elizabeth in his arms. Both bodies absolutely motionless. Deadly still. It was several seconds before Hannah realised they were both sound asleep.

  Her first reaction was to remove Elizabeth, but as she stood watching them, one small blond head tucked comfortably under a stubbly chin, one tiny hand clutching a reassuring thumb, they seemed so at peace she didn’t want to rouse them. Tom certainly looked as though he needed some sleep.

  Smiling to herself, Hannah tiptoed out of the room. There was something she had to do and now was probably as good a time as any. She braced herself and walked into what she had come to consider as Caroline’s room. She had no need of a bed now. Sadness threatened to engulf her until she looked at the nursery rhyme figures on the wallpaper. This was Elizabeth’s room and needed to be so again.

  Hannah removed the bedding and started to roll up the futon. The wooden base was strutted and as she pulled it into its upright position, something, or rather two things caught her eye.

  The leather-bound picture frame was lying face down on the carpet. A strange place to leave it, thought Hannah as she picked it up and stared into the youthful face of a man dressed in an army uniform. He bore a remarkable resemblance to Caroline.

  And I didn’t believe her when she did tell me the truth, reflected Hannah sadly.

  She put the frame to one side and then reached over to retrieve the other object whose hiding place she had disturbed.

  It was Tom’s ring.

  She stared at it as it rested in the palm of her hand. Now why had Caroline left this and the photo? Had she hidden them on the day she left – or some time before? What did it mean?

  One thing it means, Hannah told herself, is that you’ll have to give it back to Tom. His reaction would be interesting, she reflected numbly. And more important than she cared to admit even to herself.

  FORTY-FIVE

  Tom stared down at the ring Hannah had handed to him with a terse: “Yours, I think.” There was no mistaking the signet ring; the insignia was so distinctive.

  “Where on earth did you find this?” Tom looked totally bewildered.

  “You’d be surprised,” Hannah mumbled almost to herself.

  She searched Tom’s face for some clue in his expression. He looked amazed but not in any way embarrassed as she thought he would be. In fact, he had a slightly dazed air about him, which was partly due to the fact that he had not long woken up to find Elizabeth still slumbering in his arms, her mother watching him speculatively from the other armchair.

  “You said you’d lost it.” Hannah’s tone was nothing if not accusatory.

  Tom ran his fingers through his hair and shook his head. He must be missing something here. “I did lose it.”

  “Where?”

  They stared at each other. Their eyes locked, the tension between them almost palpable.

  “Does it matter where?” he asked, his calm tone deceptive.

  “Yes it does.”

  “Would you mind telling me why?” A muscle in Tom’s jaw was working overtime. She was almost mesmerised by the agitated movement.

  “Because of where I found it.” Hannah’s heart was pounding. Although she stood her ground, she mentally cursed herself for confronting him like this. Elizabeth sleeping on the sofa afforded no safeguard. If he turned nasty now there was little she could do to protect herself.

  Tom saw the fear in her eyes and bit back what he was about to say. Sit down. He told himself. The last thing he wanted to do was intimidate her. He sank into the armchair and leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees.

  “I lost my ring on duty one evening,” he said quietly. “I was arresting a dope pusher who suddenly turned violent and in the scuffle that ensued my ring must have slipped off.” He spread his hands and met her eyes. “I went back and searched the area the next day but there was no sign of it.” He smiled. “So how do you come to have it?”

  Hannah sighed. This was going to be worse than she imagined. “Caroline –Princess – left it here.”

  The
silence hung heavily between them. Tom was the first to speak. “How?”

  Hannah misunderstood him. “It was hidden under her bed.”

  “No, how did she have it? Did she find it?” He shrugged. It was hardly important now. Or so he thought.

  “She told me she had been given it – by a punter.” The last word seemed to have been dragged from her.

  It was several seconds before Tom realised what Hannah meant. “You surely don’t think I gave it to her?” Hannah’s expression confirmed that that was exactly what she thought.

  “Oh come on. What do you take me for?” Tom stood up. “Jesus, Hannah!” He wiped his hands over his face, then knelt in front of the silent woman and gently took both her hands in his.

  “Let’s get this straight. I am not and never have been a –” he looked as though even using the word with reference to himself was a trial – “a punter. I have never had sex with a prostitute and don’t intend to. I would have thought,” he said looking into her face and willing her to believe him, “that you would have known that much about me by now.”

  Hannah bit her lip.

  “And, equally importantly, I would never have given this ring to anyone. It was my father’s. He died a few years ago. He remarried after my mother died and we didn’t see so much of each other. I regret that deeply.” He swallowed hard and Hannah watched his Adam’s apple rise and fall. “It’s the only thing of his I had.”

  Tom stood up and pulled Hannah to her feet. He wrapped his arms around her and sighed into her hair. “Is that why you couldn’t trust me?”

  Hannah nodded into his chest.

  “Oh, Hannah. You didn’t think I was involved in all this mess?” His tone was resigned. He felt gutted.

  “I didn’t know what to think,” she said with a sob and he stroked her hair as once again she soaked the front of his shirt with hot, salty tears.

  When she raised her face, his lips brushed hers but there was a faraway look in his eyes and a tightness about his expression.

  “I think I’d better go.”

  Hannah searched his face for a clue to what he was really thinking. I’d be furious if I were him, she thought. She moved away from him, took a tissue from the box on the coffee table and blew her nose.

  “I’m sorry.” She couldn’t think of anything else to say. She willed him to go quickly, at the same time wanting desperately for him to stay. They stood across the room from each other. Tom was the first to look away.

  “I’ll be in touch,” he said in a way that made Hannah think that would be an unlikely event. “And, Hannah – “

  “Yes?” She almost held her breath.

  “For God’s sake, be careful!” In two strides, he was out of the room and she heard the front door close after him.

  Hannah collapsed onto the settee. Totally drained, sickened and, it had to be said, more afraid than she’d ever been in her life.

  FORTY-SIX

  For two days Hannah heard from neither Tom Jordan nor Rory at The News. She watched and listened to every news bulletin she could. There was nothing new on the prostitute murder hunt. In fact, it was suspiciously absent from the media.

  At last, she took matters into her own hands and rang Rory.

  “News desk.”

  “Rory?”

  “Yup?”

  “Hannah Weybridge.”

  “Right.” A pause. “Could I ring you back?”

  “Er – yes.” Hannah was surprised by his tone. She was even more surprised when, ten minutes later, her phone rang.

  “It’s Rory. Look I’m sorry about that but I couldn’t speak from the office.” It sounded as though he was ringing from a pub. “To put not too fine a point on it, your story’s been spiked…”

  “What!” Hannah was thunderstruck.

  “It was vetoed from upstairs.” Upstairs was the euphemism for the proprietor, Lord Gyles. “George is in on it too, I think, but I can’t be sure. All I know is that the copy has disappeared and I’ve been told in no uncertain terms to forget I ever saw it. The whole thing stinks.”

  “But, but they can’t do this!” Hannah struggled to control her voice. “They paid me all that money.”

  “A drop in the ocean to that lot, darling. Look, I must get back to my desk. Sorry about your story. I’ll let you know if there are any developments. Ciao.”

  Hannah carefully replaced the received. So it was happening. The cover-up. Everyone closing ranks. Well, she’d see about that. She’d take the story elsewhere.

  Hannah dialed again. “Georgina Henderson, please.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  When Hannah gave her name, she thought she heard a change of tone in the voice. “I’ll just see if Ms Henderson is available.” The secretary’s voice was replaced for several minutes with insidious music. “I’m sorry, Ms Henderson is in conference at present. Can I take a message?”

  “Yes, I’d like to speak to her about a story I submitted. Perhaps she’d call me back?”

  “Does she have your number?” Hannah would love to have rung the officiousness from that voice.

  “She does.”

  “I’ll see she gets the message.” The line went dead.

  Hannah cursed. If Georgina Henderson rang back, she’d eat her hat. But the phone did ring 20 minutes later making her nearly jump out of her skin.

  “Ms Weybridge?”

  “Yes.”

  “Larry Jefferson here.” He paused as if waiting for recognition. “We met at The News the other day.”

  “Ye-es.” If she had thought about it, she wouldn’t have been surprised to hear from The News’ lawyer.

  “Ms Henderson asked me to ring you…”

  Hannah decided a direct approach was the best policy. “My story’s been spiked, Mr Jefferson and I’d like to take it elsewhere.”

  “I’m afraid that’s impossible, Ms Weybridge.”

  “I will, of course, return the money.”

  “Ms Weybridge… Hannah, did you read the contract?”

  Hannah hated his supercilious tone. “Yes, I…”

  “It states quite clearly that The News owns the copyright. You accepted the payment. It is not your story, Hannah. We own it outright.”

  “I’ll rewrite it for another newspaper,” Hannah threatened.

  “Then we’ll have to take out an injunction against you. Until The News publishes the story, you are under contract not to talk or write about the subject.”

  “But it’s been spiked.”

  “Exactly, and so are you Ms Weybridge. Good day to you.”

  ◊◊◊

  Hannah phoned John Abrahams, a solicitor she knew. He asked her to fax the contract to him and got straight back to her. The News was totally within their rights and there was, it seemed, nothing Hannah could do.

  Hannah strapped Elizabeth into the pushchair. “We’re going on a nice long walk around the park,” she told the infant as she adjusted the sunshade. “Mummy needs to walk and think.”

  Elizabeth clapped and gurgled loudly.

  Dulwich Park was about 20 minutes’ walk away. Hannah and Elizabeth arrived there in just over ten. Fury drove Hannah on at speed. As she went through the tall iron gates, she slowed down and willed herself to think, calmly and rationally.

  She never thought to look behind her. If she had, she would have seen she had been followed. Her pursuer was hot and red-faced and spoke into a small radio before entering the park after her.

  FORTY-FIVE

  After lunch, Elizabeth had her nap and Hannah sat down to compose one of the hardest letters she’d ever have to write. It took several drafts, but eventually she was reasonably satisfied with the result.

  Dear Mr Collins,

  You don’t know me but your daughter Caroline spent the last few weeks of her life at my home. I know you must be extremely distressed by her tragic death, as I am.

  I am returning the photograph she kept of you on the back of which I found your address which I also gave to the po
lice, so they will have contacted you by now. Caroline was a lovely, brave girl who didn’t deserve her fate. And she loved and was inordinately proud of you.

  She told me that the reason she never contacted you was that she didn’t want you to see what she had happened to her. I hope, therefore, you will be able to remember the daughter she was, not the stranger she had become.

  After much deliberation I have decided to send you a copy of Caroline’s notebooks. It will not make easy or pleasant reading for you and I think you should consider long and hard before you open the enclosed envelope.

  I have tried to expose your daughter’s murderers through the press. However, they have closed ranks to protect the guilty. You may have access to people who may be able to help. I don’t know.

  I hope you have someone there to bring you comfort in your grief.

  Yours sincerely,

  Hannah Weybridge.

  Hannah stared at herself in the mirror. The image reflected had a haunted air. She was sure she could also see a few grey hairs. Her skin looked tired and dehydrated. Her eyes dull. With dark shadows beneath them. Small wonder.

  Some beauty writer eh? The laugh was hollow and the woman in the mirror did not look amused. Some news reporter too!

  Hannah stripped off and gave herself the sort of treatment she wrote about in women’s mags. Salt rub, deep cleansing, mud body wrap, shower and more showers – the works. Throughout it all, she gave vent to her emotions, allowing her tears to mix freely with whatever she happened to be applying.

  The physical cleanse made her feel marginally better. Elizabeth’s demanding company helped. She had to go on doing everyday things. Feeding, cleaning, changing and, above all, loving. Elizabeth made life bearable. But what sort of world had she bought her daughter into? And were they safe?

  ◊◊◊

  That evening, Hannah swallowed her pride and rang Tom Jordan. He was at home but he didn’t sound at all friendly.

  “I’m sorry I can’t talk now.” He sounded abrupt to the point of rudeness.

  Hannah was thrown of balance. “I just…”

  “I’m on my way out, Hannah.

  “Oh, sorry.”