by Abi Silver
‘Was she in good health generally?’
‘I think so. Oh, she was forgetful; we joked, Joe, my brother and me, that she was in the early stages of some kind of dementia. But I didn’t really think that. She had always been, well, a bit detached from reality. She was an artist. Not a great one but she had a studio when we were young and sold a few paintings. She’d shifted everything to her flat about five years ago.’
‘And your father?’
‘Miles? He left when Joe was a baby. He used to visit, but Mum brought us up.’
‘Did he provide financial support?’
‘Yes. I mean, I don’t know how much, but he put money in Mum’s account every month. Otherwise we wouldn’t have eaten. Mum didn’t sell that many paintings.’
‘Is your father still alive?’
‘Well I haven’t heard he isn’t. I had a Christmas card. The last one was from California.’
‘Have you told him about your mother?’
‘No. Do I need to?’
Inspector Dawson closed his notebook.
‘That’s really up to you, but I think you should probably try. Or give us his contact details and we can do it if you prefer. He may want to attend the funeral.’
Tracy shrugged, evidently thinking on the question, staring out past Dawson at the photo again.
‘Do you know any reason why anyone might have wanted your mother dead?’
Tracy shook her head slowly.
‘No. She was just an ordinary woman. OK, she lived an unconventional life when she was younger, but there was nothing dodgy going on. God! I sound like the mother of one of those kids who gets killed in a knife fight, don’t I? And when I read it I always think there must have been something going on. But this is my mother.’
‘No other men on the scene?’
‘Noooo. I think she scared the men off. She was a bit uninhibited. Said what she thought. But we weren’t that close. I don’t know much about her friends.’
‘Is there any reason why she might have wanted to harm herself?’
Tracy swallowed hard. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘We’re not ruling anything out yet.’
‘Not Mum. Never. And if you wanted to kill yourself, why on earth would you do it in a place full of people, when you live on your own?’
‘Where were you on Thursday night? We have to ask – apologies.’
‘I was at home, with the kids.’
‘And your husband was at home?’
‘Yes. All evening.’
Inspector Dawson stood up, walked to the window and picked up the photo Tracy had been studying during their talk. It showed a woman holding a baby in her arms and a slimmer Tracy standing behind. Dawson could only assume the woman was Barbara, her red hair was the only way to connect the corpse he had viewed with this image of the woman she had been.
‘That was just after Luke was born. She did come and help me, for a day or two. I think she wanted to be a bit more hands-on, you know, a better grandmother than she’d been a mother.’ Tracy stopped abruptly. She really shouldn’t be sharing confidences with a police officer. But his silences made her gabble.
Inspector Dawson returned the photo to its place on the window ledge. He noticed how sparsely furnished the room was, no rug, no coffee table, no ornaments of any kind. And while there was a curtain rail above the bay window, there were no curtains.
‘Just moved in?’
‘A year.’ Tracy opened her eyes wide. ‘It’s just temporary, till Pete gets back on his feet. I haven’t really bothered much with the furnishings.’
Dawson bowed solemnly. ‘OK, thank you. I’ll be in touch if we have any further information. There are one or two items we have kept hold of, but everything else should be in your mum’s bag. Actually, I do have one more question. There was a bunch of red roses in a vase by your mum’s bed. Did you bring them?’
‘No... And I don’t remember seeing them.’
‘So probably someone who visited after you then?’
‘Yes.’
Dawson tapped the end of his pen against his lip. ‘She didn’t say she was expecting more visitors, when you saw her, on Wednesday?’
‘No. But like I said she was a bit forgetful.’
‘Well, it’s probably nothing. The nurses could have transferred them from another patient, rather than throw them away. Your brother, Joseph. Were he and your mum close?’
‘No.’ Tracy wouldn’t drop Joe in it, but she was also keen not to lie when this was so serious a matter. ‘They didn’t get on very well. Just usual stuff. But you probably asked Joe about that, didn’t you?’
Dawson turned to go.
‘Can we organise the funeral?’ Tracy asked, standing up herself. The mention of flowers had turned her attention to more practical things.
Dawson attempted a reassuring smile.
‘Not yet. But soon, I hope.’
‘Will there be, well, a lot of publicity? We, Pete and I, we’re private people. I don’t even have a Facebook account. Lots of teachers don’t, in case the pupils see stuff, you know.’
Dawson examined Tracy’s face as a flush swept over it from the tip of her nose outward. What was she hiding? Then he chastised himself; her mother had just died, after all.
‘There might be,’ he said. ‘But if we find out there was no foul play, then things will die down quickly enough.’
‘And when will that be?’ Tracy was trying to repress the choking feeling which was seeking to overwhelm her. Maybe Joe had been right and this would be all over the papers. The sympathetic glances of parents at the school gates would rapidly transpose into suspicious murmurings, and she wouldn’t be allowed to help with breakfast club any more.
‘A few days. I can’t be more precise than that for now. You have my number. You’re not on your own all day, are you?’
‘No. Thank you. Pete’ll be back soon with the boys. You’ve been very kind. I know Joe appreciated it too. And I may not take any more time off work. It’s a busy time of year, and no point just sitting here moping around, is there?’
13
David Wolf sat at home with a brimming cup of coffee at his side. He was reviewing documents on his laptop, switching backwards and forwards, tutting, muttering under his breath and occasionally talking aloud. Once or twice he rotated a document or blew it up to larger than normal size. Then he made a couple of calls, checking up on lab results, clarifying information.
Jane returned home with a clatter, towing bags of shopping from the car. He glanced up in her direction and then closed his documents and laptop.
‘Hi,’ he called out with feigned enthusiasm. ‘You’re home early.’
‘Yes. My last operation was cancelled and I thought I would catch up on the paperwork at home. I bought some of that fresh pasta you like and a bottle of Prosecco. Thought we might even make it into the garden, pretend we’re on holiday?’
‘Sure,’ he replied, noticing for the first time what a bright afternoon it was.
‘Phew. Have you been sitting here all this time with the windows closed? It’s boiling.’
She pulled back the sliding door leading out onto the patio.
‘Maybe we should spend a few minutes running through what we’ll tell Hani next week about Mrs Hennessy’s operation,’ David said.
‘I’d rather not do it now. It’s been a long week.’
‘I just think we need to plan what we say carefully. Is Steven on board?’
Jane began to unpack the shopping bags.
‘I really don’t want to talk now.’
‘Can’t you just tell me what Steven said?’
‘He said he’s happy to confirm that it was all straightforward. I don’t know why you’re getting so stressed. He said he can even talk about post-op if you want.’
‘No. It’s OK. You can tell him I’ll cover that. But you didn’t see Hani’s face. He’s dying to trip me up, to find something I did wrong. Even though the woman fell from the top floor. Sometimes I think he hates the fact my record is so good.’
Jane shrugged.
‘I’m sorry if I’m annoying you but it’s not just me, you have a promotion coming up,’ he continued. ‘You don’t want suspicions hanging over you either. None of us will be off the hook till the police find the killer. And don’t assume Hani will stand up for you; if push comes to shove he’ll look after number one.’
‘You are being ridiculous. No one is accusing either of us of being involved in that woman’s death, including Hani, who is simply trying to protect us by making sure we follow the right procedures. So stop fussing, or people will be suspicious. And patients die every day, no matter how hard we try or how well we do our jobs. I have to remind myself of that or I would spend sleepless nights questioning my own ability, and that wouldn’t help anyone, let alone my “promotion” prospects.’
She took an apple from the fruit bowl and washed it under the tap.
‘Look, I thought we could try to have a relaxing evening together, just for once. So, can we make a deal? I cook the pasta and make a sauce and you stop talking about Mrs Hennessy. Deal?’
‘Deal. Sure, deal.’
14
Joe Hennessy sat at his desk, sliding his hands over the glossy surface in circular motion. Eventually he stopped and then stretched his arms out wide until his fingertips glanced its bevelled edges.
‘Mine. All mine,’ he murmured, giggling to himself, shifting his head from side to side to double-check that no one was watching or within earshot. But he had taken care of that; his new desk was at the far end of the gleaming showroom, in splendid isolation, just how he liked it. From his vantage point he could see everything that was going on, both inside and outside on the forecourt.
Joe enjoyed keeping tabs on the newbies; Kyla, only twenty-one and beginning to learn the ropes, and Simon, a decade older but still ‘wet behind the ears’. Kyla didn’t know much about cars but she made up for it with looks and enthusiasm. And Joe had already provided her with lots of information on the history of the BMW, and a guide to all the latest models, and she was catching on quick. He would have to be careful with Kyla. She was just his type: big boobs, tight arse and long, glossy hair. But he had vowed to keep things strictly professional after Debi (with one ‘b’), his last dalliance. That had almost ended in disaster.
Debi had finally come to accept (via Joe, delivered in a suitably contrite and panicked voice) that were Janice (his long-term partner) to discover the existence of their relationship, her wrath was likely to be of unearthly dimensions. Joe had conjured up images of Janice at the keyhole, stalking them day and night, hacking their social media accounts, even poisoning their food. Of course, Janice was at home watching EastEnders, oblivious to all these tall tales. But Debi had not been completely taken in. She had her price for relinquishing the love of her life; a ‘shoe in’ at the Beaconsfield branch, frequented by wealthier clientele than theirs, and a £5,000 ‘relocation allowance’. No doubt, Debi was already spreading her many talents among Buckinghamshire’s finest. No, he wouldn’t even dip his toe in the water surrounding Kyla Roberts. But her attributes would help draw in the customers.
Simon liked to be called ‘Si’ but Joe secretly called him ‘Si-co’, given his quick temper and the fact that he still lived with his mother. Joe had given himself a mental pat on the back when he had thought up that one. There were a couple of others who worked part-time but those two, Kyla and Simon, were his protégés, the ones who craved his approval and their bonus confirmation at the end of each month.
Joe was going to have to be very careful training them, to make sure they knew his way of doing things, and understood all the hurdles it was necessary to negotiate to make a success of the role. Sometimes unusual things happened, he had warned them. But they always had a sensible explanation. You just had to search for it; conversely, sometimes it was better not to look.
Kyla’s education had started yesterday when an old guy had come in, wanting to trade in his 2012 5 series for a newer, sportier model. Joe had thought he was too old to be driving a convertible, but hadn’t said that to the customer. He had learned that honest opinions were not always welcome – better to give customers what they thought they wanted – and he had passed the old man to Kyla, with a steer in the direction of a 2015 6 series model in midnight blue with only 11,000 on the clock, or at least that was what the clock said now. Kyla – not stupid that girl; head screwed on straight – had queried it with him. ‘That’s very low mileage,’ she’d said, calling up the details on her iPad.
‘Yeah. Geezer owned it got ill. It stood outside his house for months,’ Joe had replied.
This rehearsed line sounded plausible. In reality, Joe had accepted the car, after hours, last Sunday, so no one had seen the young and healthy owner arrive, springing out of the vehicle, gym bag in hand. And Joe had been cautious when he reduced the mileage. Everything was tracked on computer these days. And no one would believe that the car had only covered 500 miles since its last service, however ill the owner was. Still, winding it back 10,000 miles was probably worth four grand to him.
But then he heard Kyla providing her own, fabricated explanation to this elderly potential buyer. ‘Yes,’ she had said, beaming widely. ‘You have such good taste, Mr Carter. A man bought it for his wife but she didn’t like the colour. He kept it for ages to try to persuade her, but she refused to drive it and he had his own BMW; couldn’t justify driving two.’
When the customer went outside to phone his own wife, Joe had called her over. ‘Why did you give him all that bullshit about a wife?’
‘I thought it sounded better than what you said. No one wants a car that some invalid’s been driving!’ And he had to admit, it had worked. The guy, Anthony Carter, had bought it, almost straight away, joking with Kyla about how he would never even buy a handkerchief without consulting his wife on the colour or pattern.
Simon had made another good sale too, of a 2012 X5 for a cool £23,000. He had talked relentlessly at the customer, bamboozling him so much with all the specifications that he’d forgotten to ask for the log book.
‘I’m sorry Joe,’ Simon had lamented. ‘You rang me about my holiday just when I was closing the sale. I clean forgot to get the book for the guy and he never asked.’
‘Don’t worry, Si,’ Joe had replied with a smirk. ‘We’ve all done it. I once sold a car and forgot to get the guy to sign the V5 transfer form. If this guy makes a fuss just put him through to me; no problem.’
When he’d arrived home later than usual that evening, after two celebratory rounds of drinks, Janice had been cold and cutting, not appreciative of his tremendous business acumen and achievements. He kept to himself that Kyla had given him two sympathetic ‘how awful about your dear mum’ hugs, one on arrival at the pub and the second, rather more all-embracing, in the alleyway leading to the car park. Even Si had managed a pat on his back and a ‘We’ll cover for you, if you need some time out, mate.’
‘What’ll people say? Your mother’s not buried yet and you’re out bingeing.’ Janice had turned her head away with a moan when he went to kiss her.
‘What d’ya mean?’ he replied. Janice didn’t understand him. ‘What about me? I’m an orphan now. If I want to go for a drink with my team, I bloody will.’
Janice concluded sensibly that this was not an appropriate time to remind him that Miles, his father, was still alive, albeit a few thousand miles away. She kept her counsel. Part way through his sausage and chips, Joe stopped eating.
‘You’ll always stick by me, won’t you?’ he asked.
She lifted her head from her magazine and tousled his hair. He might be more upset by his mother’s death than he let on; that wouldn’t surprise
her. He didn’t find it easy to share things. It hadn’t been great having Barbara as his mum but the way she had departed had shocked them all.
‘Course I will. I’ll always be here,’ she replied.
15
‘Inspector Dawson?’
‘Yes.’
Dawson stood back from the flow of bodies on Haverstock Hill, into the shadow of the shop awning, and tucked his phone close into his ear. He wasn’t used to Hampstead with its constant stream of beautiful people up and down the street: mothers with babies in elaborate prams or strapped to their fronts in myriad different positions; older, coiffured, manicured women savouring long coffees; men in polo shirts doing business deals over lunch.
‘It’s Tracy Jones, Barbara Hennessy’s daughter.’
‘Yes, hello.’
‘It’s a silly thing really. And I don’t want you to think I care about this now. But just in case it’s important.’
‘Yes.’
‘Well. Mum had these rings. Really big and loud they were. One with a huge green stone, the other a big gold knot.’
‘Yes, go on.’
‘She had them at the hospital. But they weren’t in her things you brought over and they weren’t on the list of items you kept.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Yes. I was cross when I found out she had them in hospital. We had a bit of a row about it. I wanted to take them home for safekeeping, but she insisted she was going to keep them. In the end, I didn’t push it any further. She could be a bit stubborn.’
Dawson had to step forward as a customer prodded him from behind to exit the shop. He hoped Tracy was mistaken. He really didn’t want to think that any of his team had taken anything from Mrs Hennessy’s affairs. More likely one of the nurses or…
‘I don’t remember hearing anything about any rings in her possessions,’ he said.
