by H. Y. Hanna
Then I realised. Of course, my mother.
Just like when I was still living at home, my mother had probably come in to my room and decided to take some clothes hostage in the laundry. Let’s just say, my mother and I had very different ideas about when things needed a wash and especially when things needed to be ironed. Irritated, I hurried down the hallway to my parents’ room. The door was open and I stepped in—reluctantly admiring the tidy elegance of the room, the bed beautifully made up with matching pillows and bedspread—and felt a twinge of guilt at my own slapdash efforts in the morning. My mother was in the en suite bathroom and I went over to the interconnecting door.
“Mother?” I shouted through the door, above the noise of water sloshing in the sink. I heard the electric toothbrush going and realised that she was probably brushing her teeth, following breakfast. I did a mental eye roll. My mother’s idea of proper oral hygiene involved a full floss and brush after every meal—and I knew it was only a matter of time before she started trying to convert me to the same routine.
“Mother? Did you put my dark blue jeans in the wash?”
There came a garbled reply, which sounded like “Yes, darling.”
I blew out a breath of annoyance and hurried downstairs. Maybe she hadn’t loaded the machine yet and I could still rescue them from the laundry hamper. I rushed into the kitchen and stopped dead.
My mother was standing at the kitchen counter, peeling potatoes.
“Good morning, darling!” She smiled as she looked up. “I thought I might make a shepherd’s pie for lunch—”
“Mother…” I went towards her, confused. “Weren’t you just…? I thought you were upstairs in your bathroom?”
“Oh, no, that must have been your father. He’s just gone back upstairs to get ready for his meeting this morning and—why, whatever is the matter, Gemma?”
I stared at her, my thoughts whirling. In my mind’s eye, I could see myself standing outside Jenn’s door: sticking my head in through the door, leaving the handbag on the side table, calling out to Jenn. She had replied to me from the bathroom… or at least, I’d thought she had. Just as I’d thought my mother had replied to me from her bathroom just now—when it fact, it wasn’t her at all. And yet, garbled and muffled by the electric toothbrush, my father’s reply had fooled me…
I thought back to my second interview with Inspector Glenn. He had been convinced I was lying because forensic evidence supported Andrew Manning speaking the truth. But I’d been convinced that I was speaking the truth—that Jenn had been alive when I returned to her room with her handbag. I had been certain of it because I had heard her speak to me from the bathroom…
But now I wondered…
Leaving my mother staring after me, I turned and walked slowly back upstairs to my bedroom, deep in thought. What if… what if I had been wrong? Or rather, what if I had been misled? In other words, what if I had been given the impression that Jenn was alive—by somebody in the bathroom, pretending to be her? It was difficult to distinguish voices when someone was speaking with a toothbrush in their mouth—especially an electric one with the mechanical buzz further muffling their words…
It was the murderer who had been in Jenn’s bathroom and who had called out to me.
The realisation made me sit down sharply on my bed. So if what Andrew Manning had said was true, Jenn must have been murdered not long after I left her room the first time. Her room was at the end of a long L-shaped corridor, with the lift at the other end. And there was a staircase near her door. Someone could have easily come up via the stairs and slipped into her room, even while I was standing at the other end of the corridor, waiting for the lift to come. Because of the bend of the L-shape, I wouldn’t have seen the murderer entering her room, even supposing that I was looking. And the stiff lock on Jenn’s door meant that when I pulled the door to, the latch might not have caught, leaving the door slightly ajar. That would explain why there were no signs of forced entry.
So the murderer had slipped into the room and killed Jenn. But just as they were about to leave, Andrew Manning had showed up at the door—which was once again slightly ajar because the stiff lock hadn’t latched again. The murderer ducked quickly into the bathroom and waited while Andrew Manning walked in and found the body… but luckily for them, Andrew hadn’t raised the alarm. Instead, he just ran away.
Then the murderer must have moved Jenn’s body to the bathroom. And just at that point, I returned with Jenn’s handbag. Again, their luck had held because instead of coming all the way in, I had simply stuck my head through the door and called out to Jenn. The murderer must have been a quick thinker, I marvelled, to have the presence of mind to immediately switch on the electric toothbrush and use that as a way to disguise their voice and fool me into thinking that Jenn was still alive.
But who was it? I wondered in frustration. I knew now that it couldn’t be Andrew Manning but who else could it have been? Someone from the hotel? I tried to think back on our conversation—aside from Andrew, who else had Jenn complained about or mentioned having a problem with?
I sighed. My mind was blank. But I’d decided that I couldn’t just sit around waiting for the police to solve the case. There was the looming deadline with the Chinese offer for the tearoom. I had to find the real killer, if only to prove my innocence to the bank and get them to approve the loan. Besides, while yesterday’s escapade with the Old Biddies had been stressful, yes, in a way, it had been empowering too. Just to be doing something, to take Fate into your own hands, instead of sitting around being a victim.
But what should I do? Where should I start? Then it struck me. The answer lay with the murder victim: Jenn Murray herself. There had to be a reason she had been killed. This wasn’t a random mugging in the street or a robbery gone wrong—this had been a calculated, cold-blooded murder. Somebody had wanted Jenn Murray out of the way.
But why? Who was Jenn Murray and why was she important? I thought back again to our meeting on the plane. If I was honest with myself, I had felt all along that there was something mysterious about Jenn, the little things that didn’t quite add up. Like the way she had spoken about Oxford, mentioning the colleges with almost casual familiarity and yet claiming that she had only visited as a child and was a relative stranger… I sat up straighter as I remembered something: that story she had mentioned about the college cat at Locksley College—each kitten being given the same name and always being chosen to be the same colour… that was the kind of “insider trivia” that was only really known by a member of the University. A member of the college, in fact.
Had Jenn been a member of Locksley College? A student, perhaps, or a member of the faculty? I had no proof but I was willing to bet that was the case. How could I find out? I chewed my lip, thinking. I certainly wasn’t going to go through all the college records for the last twenty-odd years, searching for her name. And in any case, it might not have even been her real name. If she had deliberately concealed her past connection with Oxford, she might have lied about her name too. Or perhaps not lied, I conceded—remembering her passport and the positive ID from the Australian police—but maybe she had changed her name.
I snatched up my phone from the bedside table and quickly brought up the picture I had surreptitiously taken yesterday of Jenn’s passport. I looked down at her photo, noting the sun-bleached blonde hair, the tanned skin with premature wrinkles and age spots. She looked older than her forty-odd years, something that was fairly common in Australia’s relentless sun, particularly if she had been a keen sun-worshipper. I wondered how much she had changed from her younger self. Would she have looked very different as a younger woman? Thinner? Paler? Darker hair? If I took this picture into Locksley College, would anyone still recognise her?
I could try, I thought doubtfully. I knew that at Oxford, many of the college staff, such as the porters, often served for years, sometimes decades. It was a long shot but there was a chance that I might be able to find someone who had known Jenn. I
looked down at the photo again and sighed. There was a better chance of anyone recognising her if she looked the way she used to when she was at Oxford—particularly if she had put on a fair amount of weight and changed her hair since. If only I could have a picture of Jenn as her “young self”…
Maybe I can! I thought with sudden excitement. I brought up my Contacts list on the phone and scrolled through quickly. Bingo. Steve Cairns—graphic designer and Photoshop artist extraordinaire. I had worked with him on several marketing campaigns in my old job and I had seen him do things with airbrushing which should be illegal. If there was one person who could “reverse time” in a photograph, it was Steve. I glanced at the clock and calculated the time difference to Sydney. Steve usually worked late. I might just catch him before he left for the day. Hurriedly, I put the call through and a few moments later was listening to a familiar Aussie drawl.
“Gemma! Good to hear from you—how’s life back in England?”
“A lot colder,” I said with a chuckle. “I’m missing the Sydney sunshine already. How’re you doing, Steve? Are you still at work?”
“Yeah, you caught me just in time. Finishing up my last job for the day, then I’m outta here. Mate of mine’s having a barbie and I’m supposed to be bringing the beer. Anyway, you didn’t call me from the other side of the world just to ask me how I’m spending my arvo?”
I laughed. “Actually I called to ask you a favour. Listen, Steve, if I send you a picture, do you think you could do your Photoshop magic and make the person look a lot younger? Like recreate what they would have looked like twenty years ago? And if they were living somewhere that didn’t have a lot of sunshine?”
“Sure, I could give it a go. What’s this for? Not trying to pass yourself off as a spring chicken, are you? Twenty years back and you’d be barely a nipper, Gemma.”
I laughed again. “No, it’s not me. It’s someone else… and it’s rather urgent. Is there any chance you could do it before you leave work today? I know you’ve got your friend’s barbecue but—”
“No worries, Gemma. Won’t take me a minute. But this all sounds very mysterious. Urgent, huh? What’s it for?”
I hesitated, wondering how much of Jenn’s murder had been covered by the Australian media. Steve might make the connection when he saw the photo—but until he did, I was going to keep things low key.
“It’s… um… a bit confidential. But I’ll tell you the whole story later, Steve,” I promised. “Please can you just trust me and do this without asking any questions?”
“Oooh… now you’ve got me really curious! Okay, send it over and I’ll work on it now.” His voice turned serious as he went into professional work mode. “It’ll just be a rough approximation, though, Gemma—I won’t have time to do any fine detail stuff. And it’s just a guess, of course, based on the usual parameters of ageing, such as weight gain, pigmentation, and skin sagging.”
“Yes, that’s fine,” I said. “I know it might not look exactly like her as a young woman but I just need a rough idea.”
“Okay. And don’t forget that you promised to tell me what this is all about!”
“Promise!”
I hung up and carefully cropped Jenn’s passport photo out of the picture I had taken yesterday, then emailed it to Steve. Then I waited in an agony of impatience. Finally, I forced myself to tidy my room and return the rest of the pile of clothes to their rightful places in my wardrobe and drawers. It wasn’t as if Steve would work any faster with me sitting on the edge of my bed, chewing my nails, and at least this made me feel a bit virtuous. I was delighted as I folded the last sweater to hear the email notification on my phone and I pounced on it, eagerly opening the attachments.
“Good on you, Steve,” I murmured, smiling to myself.
He had done a fantastic job and had even given me three versions of a “young” Jenn: the first with her skin smoother and tighter, the eyes lifted and the cheeks fuller, so that she looked like she was in her twenties. Her hair was darker blonde, without the sun-bleached streaks, and her complexion was paler. The second version was similar but with Jenn as a brunette. And the third was blonde once again but this time with a lot less weight, so that her cheeks were hollowed out slightly and her nose seemed narrower.
I sent Steve a fervent thank you, then smiled again as I looked down at the pictures. Armed with these, I was sure I was going to solve the mystery of who Jenn Murray was.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
When I arrived at Locksley College later that morning, however, and introduced myself in the Porter’s Lodge, my confidence took a knock when both college porters shook their heads at the pictures on my phone.
“Sorry, luv. Never seen ’er before.”
“Are you sure?” I persisted. “What about this one? Or this one as a brunette?”
Again, they shook their heads. My heart sank.
“She might not have looked exactly like this,” I said desperately. “But doesn’t anything about her look familiar to you? Please try to remember! It’s really important. Is there any chance you might have seen her passing through, either as a student or a member of the staff?”
The first porter leaned forwards and peered at the picture again, then shrugged. “If she ’ad, I don’t remember ’er.”
“If it were a long time ago, then it might’ve been before our time,” said the second porter. He pointed to the first porter and himself. “We’ve only been here the last ten years or so. You need to be speaking to one of the old chaps.”
“You mean, the previous porters? Where are they now?” I asked eagerly
“Old Charlie’s dead,” said the second porter, scratching his chin thoughtfully. “And Gerald’s gone off to live in Spain.”
“There’s old Tom Dooley,” the first porter spoke up. “’E was ’ere when I started. Used to know every single one o’ the students by name. Amazing memory, that man ’ad. If anyone can ’elp you, ’e can.”
“And where can I find Mr Dooley?” I asked, holding my breath and hoping they wouldn’t say that he was living in a nursing home and completely senile.
“’E’s down in Abingdon, lives with ’is married daughter. ’E’d be getting on now—got a dodgy ’ip, you know—but I think ’e’s going strong otherwise. ’Ere…” The first porter pulled out his own ancient mobile phone and began scrolling through it. “I reckon I might have ’is number in ’ere somewhere…”
Thankfully he did, and a few moments later, I was putting a call through to Tom Dooley’s daughter. She sounded a bit bewildered at my request but agreed readily enough to let me visit her father. She gave me the address and added:
“He’s usually pottering around the garden in the mornings, unless it’s raining. It would be a good time to catch him now.”
I hopped back on my bike and cycled out to Abingdon-on-Thames, a little market town to the south of Oxford. I had no trouble finding the house and a kindly-looking old man with wispy white hair and drooping cheeks opened the door and surveyed me with rheumy eyes.
“Mr Dooley?” I said.
“Aye?”
“I was wondering if I could ask you a few questions… about someone you might have known at Locksley College?”
His eyes brightened at the mention of the college and he held the door open wider. “Aye, come in. You from Locksley?” he asked.
“No,” I said as I stepped into the front hall. “Although I am—I was—a student at the University. At another college. But I’m… er… interested in someone who might have once been at Locksley College.” I paused as I saw him staring at me strangely. “Is something the matter?”
“Eh? No, no… it is just that you seem to be very shiny.”
Shiny? “Oh…” I gave a sigh. “I—er—had a bit of an accident with some glitter.” I was beginning to sound like a broken record.
He gave me another odd look, but seemed to accept my explanation at face value and led me into a neat little living room and gestured me to sit down. “Fancy a cuppa
?”
I perched on the couch next to him and gave him a smile. “No, thank you. I don’t want to put you to any trouble. I just wanted to ask you, Mr Dooley…” I took my phone out and brought up the picture of Jenn, holding it out to show him. “Do you recognise this woman? Do you remember seeing her around the college during your time there?”
He peered at the photo for a long time, then shook his head. “No, don’t reckon I’ve seen her before.”
I was unprepared for the deep disappointment that stabbed me. Somehow, I had been so sure that this was the end of the road, that Tom Dooley would instantly recognise Jenn and tell me who she really was. I swallowed a sigh and began to take my phone back, then I thought of something. I scrolled through to the other two versions that Steve had done.
“What about this one? Or this one?”
He started to shake his head again, then paused, his eyes on the last picture, which showed Jenn much thinner. “That one looks familiar. Aye… I remember now. But she had glasses then. And her hair was shorter.”
My heart beat faster. “So you’re saying you do recognise this woman? That she used to be at Locksley College?”
The old ex-porter nodded. “One of them Fellows at the college. Interested in primitive people and how societies change… what they call anthropology, I think. Always going on about tribes and such.”
I felt a surge of excitement. “So she was a Fellow in Social Anthropology and a tutor at the college? What else do you remember about Jenn Murray?”
He frowned. “Name wasn’t Jenn Murray,” he said. “She was called Lynn. Lynn Williams. That’s right—Dr Lynn Williams. ’Twas very sad. Only been with the college a short time when the tragedy happened.”
