Songs of Innocence: The thrilling third book in the Hannah Weybridge series

by Anne Coates

  The evening loomed before her. Elizabeth had gone off to sleep almost immediately and Hannah was left with that familiar half-empty feeling. Restless. A nameless energy within her that couldn’t find an outlet. She gathered up the books she’d been reading with an exhausted toddler and put them on their shelf before picking up a novel she’d started the evening before. Somehow it held no allure for her now. Maybe a video? The Remains of the Day? Maybe not.

  And there was nothing she fancied watching on television either. What was Tom doing now? She wished he wasn’t so far away. Still no point in dwelling on his absence and making herself feel more miserable. That way madness lies.

  How she envied Linda and David. Their lives seemed to dovetail into perfection, or as near to it as humanly possible; from her perspective anyway. It irked her that she made comparisons like this. She had never seen herself as part of a conventional married couple. When she’d discovered she was pregnant and Paul wanted her to have a termination she had chosen to be a single parent – it hadn’t been forced upon her. And judging by what Paul had subsequently been up to she’d had a lucky escape. Briefly she wondered how he was coping. He was currently on remand in Brixton prison. His visiting orders were a thorn in her side. Why would he think she would even consider visiting him?

  Her thoughts turned to Linda’s suggestion that she should give a talk to her pupils. That appealed to her but at the same time she found the idea terrifying. What if she couldn’t hold their attention? Would her voice be loud enough?

  The thought of a lecture hall full of teenagers sent her into a blind panic. Then she giggled to herself. After everything she’d faced, she shouldn’t be intimidated by some stroppy pupils. She couldn’t let the shadows blight her life. Linda was right.

  The telephone rang. Hannah was tempted to let it go through to the answerphone but it might just be Tom. Not many friends rang her at this time on a Sunday evening. Not many friends full stop, she thought bitterly. She picked up the handset and a well-modulated voice with a hint of an accent Hannah couldn’t identify asked to speak to her.

  “Speaking.”

  “Good. My name is Sunita Kumar and I would very much like to meet with you.” The name meant nothing to Hannah but the tone of voice made it sound like a royal summons.

  “In what connection, Ms Kumar?”

  “My niece who was found drowned in Peckham Rye Park. Would two-thirty tomorrow afternoon be convenient?”

  “Ye-es.” Hannah was intrigued.

  Sunita Kumar gave her an address in Herne Hill and abruptly hung up.

  Hannah was bemused by the woman’s attitude. Still there could be a newsworthy story about the suicide. The journalist in her hoped there was, though the part of her that was a mother was appalled that she should have entertained such a thought.

  Hannah searched through her videos again. Nothing interested her. She phoned James and got his paging service. No point in leaving a message. She needed to get a grip on her life – it couldn’t just be motherhood and work. She wanted something more for herself. But what? Tom?

  She went upstairs to her office and dialled up the internet connection. No emails. But that didn’t stop her sending one.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “I assure you, Ms Weybridge, my niece did not commit suicide. Amalia had absolutely no reason, no reason at all, to take her own life.”

  The suppressed rage emanating from the other woman brought to mind Lady Rayman when Liz had been murdered. Sunita Kumar was not at all how she’d imagined the aunt of the teenager found drowned in Peckham Pond. She was in her late thirties or early forties and her dark hair, with a startling streak of grey at the front, was styled into a short bob. Her top and trousers looked bespoke, a silk scarf with an intricate pattern was draped about her neck and shoulders and various gold bangles adorned her wrists; but she wore no rings. She was elegance personified. Her grief, however, was like a chiffon cloud blurring her evanescence.

  Hannah shifted awkwardly in the armchair. They were in one of the reception rooms of the house Sunita Kumar shared with her brother and sister-in-law in Herne Hill. The room, like the aunt, was elegant and beautifully proportioned. It was, she had been told, her sitting room. Its twin on the other side of the large, square entrance hall was her brother’s. The décor was fashionably muted. The room was warm, almost too warm, with a faint smell of something spicy.

  “I appreciate how hard this must be for you, Ms –”

  “Do you? Do you indeed?” Her eyes blazed in fury. “Let me tell you, Amalia had a brilliant future ahead of her. A brilliant future. She had been accepted to study medicine at Oxford. Why would she kill herself? And in such a way? I just cannot believe it.” She studied Hannah’s face. “And I know what you are thinking.”

  Hannah’s confusion must have been apparent.

  “That suicide by drowning is common in India. That…”

  “Is it? I had no idea.”

  Sunita Kumar stood up and walked towards the window. Hannah’s hope that she might open it was not fulfilled. The aunt returned to her seat and stared at Hannah.

  “I am so sorry but it does seem that your niece intended to take her own life. She had weighted her clothes with stones –” Ms Kumar dismissed this with a wave of her hand. “However –”

  “However?” Ms Kumar’s face brightened at this glint of hope. The crack in the wall of bleakness.

  “However, I can, if you would like me to, make some enquiries. But I can’t promise you that the answers will be any different.”

  “You come highly recommended, Ms Weybridge.”

  Did she indeed? Hannah assumed Claudia had landed her with this to get the distraught woman off her own back.

  “And when I spoke with Lady Rayman she…”

  “I’m sorry, am I missing something here?”

  “I’ve no idea what you may or may not be missing.”

  “You mentioned Lady Rayman.”

  “Yes. I am a trustee of the charity Lady Rayman set up in honour of her daughter. She suggested I contact you.”

  Hannah sent out a silent sorry to Claudia.

  “I see.” Hannah let the silence stretch between them.

  “Amalia’s parents – my brother and his wife – were too distraught to contact you but they have given me their permission to offer you whatever it costs.” She reached across and clasped Hannah’s hand. “We really do need your help, Ms Weybridge.”

  Hannah understood her sorrow and grief and wondered if her regret would be worse if she didn’t help this woman? “In that case let’s start by you calling me Hannah.”

  “And please call me Sunita.” The other woman’s relief was palpable.

  “If you would like me to look into this, as a journalist, I cannot accept any payment from you. And you have to be prepared for the fact that any investigation may uncover things you’d rather not know and would prefer not to see printed in a newspaper.”

  “I would rather know everything, however unpalatable, than to know nothing. To have this uncertainty. This…” She gave up trying to describe her feelings.

  “Do you have anything for me to go on?”

  Sunita went over to a chest of drawers and came back with an embroidered tote bag. “I have Amalia’s diary, her school reports. We’ve made a list of her close friends at school.”

  Hannah glanced at the sheet of paper Sunita handed her, which was headed by the name of a local independent girls’ school known for the academic achievements of its students.

  “We shall also write to the Head Teacher, giving her our permission to reveal anything that may be relevant.”

  “Thank you, Sunita. I’ll make an appointment with the Head and take it from there. But you know it really does look like Amalia…”

  “I know, we know, what it looks like. But appearances can be deceptive, as you yourself have reason to believe.”

  Hannah wasn’t quite sure what Sunita meant by that. The aunt handed her a copy of the post mortem report. Priv
ately she didn’t think she’d be able to add anything to what the investigation and post mortem had so far revealed: Amalia Kumar had filled her pockets and clothes with stones and had willingly walked into the lake in Peckham Park with the deliberate intention of drowning herself.

  “Who identified Amalia’s body?”

  Sunita studied her hands. Hannah noticed her fingernails were cut short and looked recently manicured. Sunita, just like Celia Rayman, did not let standards slip, no matter how distressed she was. “I did. My brother and sister-in-law… I was anxious to spare them further grief.” She inhaled deeply. “I was very close to my niece, but obviously not more so than her parents,” she added hurriedly. “I just can’t accept or understand why she wouldn’t have spoken to me about anything, anything at all, that was worrying her.”

  Both women were silent.

  “Are there any siblings?” Hannah asked.

  “No.” Sunita wrung her hands. “Sadly not.”

  As an only child herself, Hannah wondered if it was worse for parents when you lost that child. Liz too had been an only. Her own child would probably remain so… She cut short her thoughts.

  “Did you see the police photographs taken at the scene?”

  The aunt nodded. “Not something I would wish on my worst enemy.”

  “I don’t wish to be insensitive, Sunita, but was there anything at all, apart from the obvious, that seemed strange to you.”

  Sunita had produced a lace handkerchief and was dabbing her eyes. “No. Nothing.” The woman gazed into the distance. Then Hannah realised she was staring at a framed photograph of a young woman who, she assumed, was Amalia.

  “She wasn’t wearing her ring.” The words came out like an exhalation of breath.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “She wasn’t wearing the ring I had made especially for her on her sixteenth birthday. She never took it off.”

  “Maybe she did this time because of…”

  “No. It certainly wasn’t in her room. I was there when the police went through everything.”

  Hannah remained silent.

  “I think they were looking for a suicide note. But of course there wasn’t one.”

  “I could contact the police, on your behalf, just in case they have it among her possessions?”

  “But I saw photographs of her hands. She definitely wasn’t wearing her ring.”

  “Perhaps it came off in the water.”

  Sunita was shaking her head even before Hannah had finished her question.

  “Do you have a good photograph of the ring I could have? And one of Amalia?”

  “There is a photograph in the bag.” She stood up and walked over to an ornate writing table and came back with an envelope which she handed to Hannah. Inside were two photographs of the ring, one showing the simple inscription: Amalia with all my love Sunita. Another sheet of paper bore the name and address of the jeweller.

  “Thank you.” Hannah paused. She remembered Tom’s advice when she’d told him she was investigating Liz’s death for Lady Rayman. “One thing you could do, Sunita, is to arrange for a second post mortem. Sometimes things are overlooked, but –”

  The aunt snatched at the suggestion. “I’ll get on to that straight away. Thank you.”

  Hannah stood up and held out her hand. “My sincere condolences, Sunita. I’ll get back to you as soon as possible.”

  Back at home in her study, Hannah mulled over the facts that she had been given. Amalia Kumar had been reported missing when she’d failed to return home after a late piano lesson at school. Her distraught parents had been told to wait. She was seventeen, may have gone off with a friend … Her body had been found in Peckham Pond the next morning. The day Hannah had been walking through the park and ran into DS Mike Benton. She had apparently been in the water for some hours.

  Why had she gone to Peckham Park? Why not Dulwich Park? There was a lake there as well. It was nearer her school and it would have been easy to find a place to hide until the gates were locked.

  According to the post mortem, she had not been assaulted in any way and was still a virgin. Small comfort for her family, thought Hannah. To all intents and purposes, it looked as though she had indeed weighted her body with stones and deliberately drowned herself.

  Hannah shuddered. How long did it take to die? Wouldn’t the body’s innate will to survive overcome suicidal thoughts? It seemed a terrible way to end one’s life. But then the thought of ending one’s own life was totally alien to her. No wonder Sunita Kumar refused to believe her niece had taken her own life in this way. But if she didn’t kill herself, how did she die? And why?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  “Hannah.” Tom’s voice was loud and clear after the initial pause of the transatlantic call. “How are you?”

  “I’m fine. All things considered.” A tightness in her throat made speaking difficult. His voice evoked a miasma of memories. Her body relived the comfort of his strong arms around her. Then she remembered his coolness when they had parted. He’d seemed indifferent to her then as he left to return to the States.

  “Did Graham sort out the security for you?” Tom spoke as though they had seen each other yesterday.

  “Yes, he’s been such a help. I didn’t know half of these things existed.”

  Tom chuckled then sounded serious. “I wish you didn’t have to know they did.”

  “Well it’s very reassuring to have them and it does mean I can stay here. If anyone’s going to come after me…”

  “They won’t.” Tom’s voice was harsh.

  “Well they would find me wherever I am, so I might as well be here.”

  Neither of them spoke of the reason for heightened security but it hung there between them as if suspended on a telephone wire, swaying gently. Hannah knew that MI5 had stepped in to round up the syndicate who were trafficking the Somali girls in the UK. She had been told to be vigilant – just in case… She assumed that meant just in case some of the ringleaders were still at large.

  Just in case another hit-man from the US arrived and found his target this time? Presumably the FBI was also making arrests. She sincerely hoped so.

  “I’m hoping to be finishing up here soon.” Tom’s tone was hesitant. “When my secondment finishes I should be back in London. Not sure in what capacity yet.”

  Hannah was silent.

  “Hannah I … I would like us to be able to get to know each other properly. I’d like…”

  “Yes I’d like that too.” They both laughed. The tension between them eased fractionally.

  “Do you think we can try to put all the past horrors behind us? Do normal things and not be trying to right the injustices of the world.”

  “Perhaps,” said Hannah. “I do have my new contract at The News.” He made a sound that Hannah couldn’t or didn’t want to interpret. “Lord Gyles has been so supportive and it does mean other news outlets can’t get access to me. It’s a protection of sorts.”

  Tom’s silence was eloquent. She knew he had mixed feelings about her newspaper connections. But then she wasn’t sure what she thought about what Tom was or wasn’t involved in. He was always so evasive. Presumably he’d signed the Official Secrets Act. But that could be a cover for so many things.

  “Actually,” she said on a more conciliatory note, “I think the editor has gone soft on me. Sent me off to interview a mother whose son weighed only two pounds when he was born prematurely and is now a healthy five-year-old. Women’s mag stuff.”

  “Sounds safe.”

  “Mmm – you’ve met the photographer; he was the one I worked with on the King’s Cross story.”

  Tom said nothing, perhaps remembering her interview with him and the murders of prostitutes that had first brought them together.

  When he spoke Hannah thought she could hear a catch in his voice. “I don’t ever want to see another gun pointed at you or Elizabeth.”

  Hannah breathed deeply, her memories too raw.

  “We could have a
holiday? Time to relax together?”

  “Sounds perfect. I’ll be due some leave. I’ll let you know as soon as I can about my return date.”

  “Okay. Tom, it will be so good to see you.”

  “You too. Give a hug to Elizabeth for me.”

  “I will.”

  As if on cue, as she put the phone down, Janet returned with the toddler screeching, “Mama! Mama! Come see me.”

  And Hannah was back in her world.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Why would an A grade student with everything to look forward to take her own life? Hannah had been to the school and the Head, Dr Stella Landcroft, confirmed that she’d had no problems, or none the school had any knowledge of. Hannah wondered how aware the school staff was of their students’ private problems and anxieties. Perhaps she was being unfair.

  “Amalia was a popular girl, Ms Weybridge. She was intelligent, diligent in her studies, a team player. She also did some voluntary work at the local hospice.”

  “Sounds like the perfect student.”

  Dr Landcroft peered at her over her glasses. Her steely grey eyes reflected her severe expression. “Asian girls who attend this school usually come from families where the parents are professional people. So they support and nurture their daughters’ aspirations. Our girls are encouraged and stretched but never beyond their capabilities. Amalia did not take her own life because of academic concerns, I assure you.”

  “No, I agree that seems unlikely.” Hannah paused. “Do you think she could have been bullied?”

  Dr Landcroft glared at her. “Certainly not, we have a robust anti-bullying policy at this school. Bullying in any shape or form is not and will never be tolerated.”

  Hannah wondered why the woman was so blatantly hostile. Protesting too much? “Amalia’s aunt gave me a list of some of her friends. Would it be possible to speak with them? Chaperoned, of course,” Hannah added seeing the frown on the Head Teacher’s face.