by Danuta Reah
Friday morning, Debbie sat at her desk staring at nothing, trying to let the thoughts in her head settle into some rational focus. She had already been on the receiving end of Louise’s waspishness for forgetting the marks list she’d promised to bring in at the end of the week. She’d found her keys slung carelessly on her desk. She must have left them there last night. Debbie thought that if she’d known the keys were still on her desk she might not have gone down the long staircase in search of her briefcase. She could have managed without her purse until this morning. Maybe it would have been better. This morning … Louise was asking her something and she brought her attention back. ‘What? Sorry?’
‘I said, have you got the Al’s first set of essay marks? I also said, “Do you want to borrow a million pounds?” Either way I didn’t get through.’ Louise’s voice was sharp.
‘Sorry.’ Debbie shook her head to clear it, knowing she wasn’t responding properly. Louise gave her a look and returned to her notes.
Last night …
His flat was just across the road. He didn’t say anything as he let her in, ushering her into the small room – narrow bed against one wall, shelves with books and some sound equipment, a chair, cushions on the floor, gas fire turned low. He switched on a table lamp, poured her a glass of whisky and put some music on – beautiful, melodic music that was surprisingly joyful. He wasn’t, she realized, someone she associated with joy. There wasn’t any need to say anything then. He watched her as she swallowed the whisky nervously. She looked at him, but he didn’t look away, kept his eyes on hers, watching.
He came over to where she was standing, and took the glass out of her hand. He unbuttoned her blouse and she let it slide down her arms to the floor. She unfastened her skirt, and let it fall round her feet, slid off her shoes and stockings. He put his hands round her waist and kissed her open mouth. She could taste the whisky on his tongue. The rough cloth of his shirt and the cord of his trousers pressed against her skin. She could feel his erection. He ran his hands down her back, hooking his fingers in the top of her pants and pushing them down. She let them drop to the floor, stepped out of them and kicked them away.
He lifted her on to the bed, and undressed in the shadowed light, watching her all the time. She felt a nervous excitement in her stomach, the beat of her pulse in her throat. He lay down beside her, putting his hands behind her head to release her hair from the pins and combs that held it. It tumbled down round her face and over her shoulders. He was confident, knowing, and she relinquished control to him. He was unhurried as if they had all the time there was. She lost herself. He could see it in her face and whispered, ‘Come on, Debs, that’s right, that’s good.’ He put his arms round her, stroking her, prolonging the moment.
Later, he got them more whisky, and they leaned back against the pillows, listening to music. Debbie drifted into a doze against his shoulder. Later still, they stood under the shower together, and he laughed as the water ran down her face and into her mouth. He gave her a dressing gown and towelled her hair in front of the fire, letting it stream through his fingers as it dried. He pushed her down on to the cushions, his hands finding the knot in the dressing gown cord.
After, he said, ‘Do you want to stay? I can still take you home if you want.’
‘I want to stay.’ They drank more whisky, then she felt hungry so he got them some bread and cheese.
‘I didn’t cater for a guest,’ he said.
The bed was small, but she fell into a dreamless sleep beside him. She woke up in the night, three-thirty the luminous face of the clock said. The moon was full, shining through the window, icy and still. He was awake, lying there staring at the ceiling. He smiled when he saw she was awake too, a warm, unguarded smile she hadn’t seen before. She moved on top of him and he was gentle, drawing her hair down until it hung like a tent around them, pulling her head down to kiss her, and afterwards he buried his face between her breasts and murmured, ‘Debs, beautiful Debs.’
She woke in the morning alone in the bed. He was making coffee in the small kitchen, and she realized how much his customary daytime face, that relaxed friendliness, acted as a mask to the man behind it. And the mask was back. He was friendly, casual, closed. It was still early. ‘Do you need to go home?’ he asked. Debbie checked the time. Buttercup would need feeding, but she could phone Jill from work. She shook her head. He took her into college, driving fast and competently, drawing up away from the car park and main entrance, ten minutes later. He didn’t say anything until she got out of the car, then he said, ‘I’ll see you later, OK?’
She didn’t know what to think.
He was angry with himself. He hadn’t intended to take Debbie home with him – it was as if some kind of automatic pilot had taken over. She wasn’t the first woman since Angie. He had women friends like Lynne, women as unattached – and as unwilling to be attached – as he was. Sometimes he got together with somebody for an evening out, a friendly fuck and home. That was the way he wanted it. The last woman he’d spent the night with, spent all night making love to, had been Angie, and he didn’t want that with anyone else. The night with Debbie had touched something he thought was safely buried.
She had stood there watching him and he’d put that bloody music on, the quartet that Borodin had written when the composer was newly married and deeply, sensually in love with his young wife. Something about Debbie had made him play it, and then it was as if the music had taken over, wrapped them both in its spell. He could hear it now, and he couldn’t stop himself from remembering the way she looked, her gently rounded belly, her small, high tits, the way her face had gone warm and dreamy when he ran his thumbs over her nipples, the way she let him watch her eyes, and the urgent way she had responded to him.
He didn’t want it. He really didn’t.
Just like all the rest, then. They think they can get away with it, think that no one knows. But he is watching now. She’ll know that in time, in his time.
He knows from his past experience that it is easy to move around public buildings as long as you know where you are going and look as though you belong. Most people would think that the best camouflage for this kind of terrain would be the guise of a student. But he knows better. Students belong in groups. A stranger in a group will cause the group to take alarm. There are better ways he can watch his quarry. They see a sparrow in a hedgerow of sparrows, not the shadow of the circling eagle.
And talk, talk, talk in that flat, local voice. Common. He really couldn’t be bothered to listen to it all. But the hunter is patient, the hunter waits and observes. And the hunter’s patience is always rewarded. Hunters are valuable, hunters serve a purpose. They weed out the weak, the tainted – and the careless – and she was careless. He was not. She mustn’t see the noose, the jaws of the trap, the glint of the knife, not until he decides it, not until it is too late. But oh, the surge of triumph – the bag, left behind, ripe for the picking. And if someone should come? He is prepared. The light is gone. He doesn’t need it.
And then she is there. For a moment, it is as if the hunt is over, the time is now. For a moment … To everything there is a season.
It was not the time. He had taken his trophy and gone. Then he had waited. And he knew what she had done.
It’s easy to get keys copied – twenty-four hours a day. And the keys will be very useful. Luck? Yes, but he knows how to use luck. There is something else, though, something that can’t be ignored. He’s just a bit displeased with that one detail. He was noticed. And by someone who could be a nuisance. He’ll have to do something about that. He mustn’t spoil the ship for a ha’porth of tar.
7
Midday Friday, Lynne Jordan and Dave West were in the offices of Broughton and Partners, Julie Fyfe’s employers. Lynne was with Julie’s boss. She glanced at her notes. Andrew Thomas, entrepreneur and partner in a thriving company. She looked across the desk at the man facing her, and decided he was also an arsehole. He’d been away after Julie’s death, on b
usiness. ‘Talk to him,’ Berryman had said. She smiled and said again, ‘I need all of the information from Julie’s personnel file, Mr Thomas. I’ll give you a receipt for anything I take away with me, but you do understand this is urgent.’ The files had been slow in coming, and Berryman, and Lynne, wanted to know why.
‘Well, Officer,’ said Thomas, with a smile that confirmed Lynne’s opinion, ‘you do understand that I can’t release confidential information just on your say-so without consulting my partner.’
‘Mr Thomas, I suggest that you do that. This is a murder investigation and I was given an assurance that all of the material would be available to me as soon as I came down this morning.’ Lynne was keeping her temper for the moment. Berryman had said that he had some questions for the little shit and she wanted him to jump then, not now. Thomas picked up the phone and dialled.
‘Suzy? Get me Peter will you? Thank you so much.’ He held the receiver, staring into space, smiling his small, complacent smile. ‘Peter! Andrew here … How are you? … Fine, fine … Is it? … Is it really … Hey!’
Lynne stood up and took the phone from him. ‘Is that Mr Broughton?’ She identified herself. ‘Right, can you arrange with Mr Thomas now to release those personnel details for Julie Fyfe? Thank you.’ She handed the phone over to Thomas, who took it, listened for a moment, flushed and then hung up.
‘Well, Officer, if I’d known you’d talked to Peter … Come this way. I’ll get you the stuff.’ He led Lynne into another room where three women were sitting at screens, typing. ‘Sandra,’ he said to one of them. ‘Will you get this lady Julie’s personnel file. Will that be all, Officer?’
‘For the moment, thank you, Mr Thomas.’ Lynne gave him her brief, professional smile. Then she looked at the woman waiting at the desk. ‘Did you work with Julie?’ she asked.
‘Oh, I’ve already spoken to the police, to one of you, I mean.’ The woman seemed nervous, but in Lynne’s experience, nervousness wasn’t an unusual response from people who had come into contact with crime as witnesses. ‘Not all the time; she didn’t work in our office. She was Mr Thomas’s PA.’
‘What did she do on Thursday evenings, to be working so late?’
‘Oh, it’s part of our small business service. We run training courses and seminars in the evenings. We all work one evening a week. Julie’s was Thursday.’
‘Did she always travel on the train?’ Lynne knew these questions had already been asked, but she found that people often added the significant detail if they were asked again.
Sandra nodded. ‘Always.’
‘I’m surprised she didn’t drive.’ Lynne knew the answer again, but she wanted to get the woman relaxed, talking.
‘She couldn’t drive. She failed her test five times.’ Sandra looked smug.
‘Wasn’t she supposed to have a company car after she got promoted?’
Sandra looked at her screen for a moment and called down a menu. She frowned in concentration, then said, ‘Yes, she was a bit sick about that. But Mr Thomas arranged for her to have the money for a travel card – a full card for all round the region.’ She turned off the screen. ‘I’ll get you that file now. It’s this way.’ She was ushering Lynne towards the door of the office. ‘We keep the records down here.’
‘Isn’t it all on the computer?’ Lynne asked, surprised.
‘Some of it is, I’ll get you all of that in a minute, but the files are kept in here.’ She unlocked a door that led into a large walk-in cupboard, and went over to a filing cabinet. She sorted through the keys on the bunch that Thomas had given her, and unlocked it. She started flicking her fingers through the hanging files. ‘Here we are – Julie.’
‘What was she like, Julie?’ Lynne asked, taking the file from her and glancing at the contents.
‘She was very nice.’
Don’t speak ill of the dead. ‘She looked very efficient. Was she good at her job? She’d got a long way in a short time, hadn’t she?’ Lynne’s voice was chatty, indifferent.
Sandra gave Lynne a sideways glance. Lynne went on sorting through the papers in the file. ‘She got on well with Mr Thomas,’ Sandra conceded.
‘Is he one of the partners, Thomas?’ Lynne was reading one of the forms in the folder.
Sandra nodded her head, then seeing Lynne wasn’t looking said, ‘Yes, but he’s the junior partner. Mr Broughton, he’s the senior partner.’
‘Well, that’s one way to get on,’ Lynne agreed.
‘Oh, I didn’t mean …’ Sandra weighed discretion against wanting to have her say. ‘It wasn’t anything, you know, as far as I know, but she got all the best jobs, the best breaks. She used to be a typist, but she went on this course, and she got to go to these conferences … and then they promoted her this August. Then when we got the Small Business of the Year Award, there she was with the bosses in the photograph and the rest of us were all just in the background. It was in the paper, the Standard. You couldn’t even see me.’ She looked at Lynne with indignation. ‘We’d all worked, and we did get a bonus and everything, but that picture made it look like it was them, the bosses, and Julie. They should have had us in properly so everyone would know, you know.’
‘Did you all feel like that? It doesn’t seem very fair.’ But Lynne’s question had alerted Sandra to the fact that she had perhaps said too much, and she just murmured that it wasn’t really anything, it was just the way Mr Broughton and Mr Thomas were. When they went back to the office and Sandra started running information off the computer for Lynne, Lynne saw the disputed photo framed on the wall. It did seem a bit unfair. There in the foreground were Andrew Thomas, a man who must be Peter Broughton and, smiling radiantly between them, was Julie Fyfe. In the background, sitting at three desks, the other women smiled from behind their machines. The head of one, presumably Sandra, was concealed by Julie’s elbow. The caption said Broughton’s Winning Team.
She made a note to tip Berryman off to ask some more questions about Julie Fyfe’s relationship with her bosses.
In the car, she asked West how he’d got on with the other women at the firm. ‘They didn’t like her,’ he said. ‘They thought something was going on with the boss, that Thomas.’
Lynne nodded. ‘That was more or less the impression I got from Sandra. What do you think?’
‘She was pretty fit.’ West shrugged. ‘Could be something, could be nothing. We need to know what was going on, though.’ He reached into the glove compartment and fished out a Mars bar. ‘Want some? Where are we going now, then?’
‘The Varneys’. We’re going to talk to Mandy’s mum. I want to find out more about these phone calls.’ West nodded. They’d discussed it earlier. She pulled out on to the dual carriageway and followed the bypass to the other side of Moreham. As they came off the main road and drove through the mellow stone and tree-lined avenues of what used to be Moreham’s wealthy suburb, she said, ‘You talk to her, Dave. She doesn’t like me – thinks I should be at home looking after my husband or something.’
West, working on his first big murder investigation, was keen to get more experience, be more involved. He liked working with Lynne Jordan. She was willing to let him have a go. The car pulled up outside the neat semi, at one end of a row built among larger Victorian stone houses. The front garden was a neat lawn behind a white fence, overshadowed at one end by the high wall and overhanging evergreens of the next-door garden that tangled in the dark neglect of multiple occupancy. They walked up to the front door and West rang the bell, aware of twitching curtains from the twin semi. A dog yapped furiously. There was a pause, then the door opened on the chain. ‘Who is it?’ The dog snarled and tried to push its nose through the gap.
Lynne stepped forward with her ID card held up. ‘It’s DS Jordan and DC West,’ she said. ‘We phoned earlier.’
‘Oh yes.’ The voice sounded vague. The door was pushed shut and then opened properly again. Lynne was relieved to see that Mrs Varney was now holding the dog, a small animal that struggled and bar
ked, straining towards the two officers with malign intent in its eyes. Lynne hadn’t seen Carol Varney since the murder of her daughter. Then, even in her shock and grief, she had been neat, organized, insisting on making tea and serving it up in matching china, biscuits arranged on doilies. She’d perched on the edge of her chair, well-groomed and in control, talking to the detectives in a carefully modulated voice, while her husband patted her hand and said, ‘Now, dear, now, dear,’ over and over like a mantra.
Today, she looked untidy. Her hair straggled and darker hair mixed with grey had grown an inch or more from the roots. Her skirt and blouse were slightly rumpled and her eyes were unfocused. There was a faint chemical smell about her. She showed them into the front room. This was as Lynne remembered it, pristine and precisely ordered. Ornaments carefully placed on shelves, a few books strictly marshalled into line, pictures square on the wall, everything sparkling and clean. Lynne wondered how many hours of the day Carol Varney spent washing, vacuuming, dusting. The two officers sat down at her gesture. Lynne nodded to West. He looked over at the woman, uncertain. Get on with it! Lynne thought.
‘Mrs Varney,’ West began. ‘We just wanted to go over some of the information you gave us last time we talked to you. It won’t take long.’ The woman nodded, showing little interest. West waited a moment to see if she’d say anything else. ‘Your Mandy’ – the woman looked at him for a moment when he said that – ‘you said that she’d been getting funny phone calls. Could you tell me a bit more about that? Can you remember when they started, and what happened when a call came through?’
