by Anne Coates
“Ms Weybridge, I am aware of the investigative work you have done for The News.” She pronounced the name of the newspaper as though someone has waved something unsavoury under her nose. “I admire how you’ve handled some of the more sensitive exposés.” The compliment seemed to have been wrenched from her. “However, I can assure you there is nothing untoward going on in this establishment. Nothing that will interest your readers.”
Hannah smiled and tried to look as placatory as she could. “I’m not here as a journalist, Dr Landcroft –” she metaphorically crossed her fingers – “but as an advocate for Amalia’s family. They are convinced – contrary to all evidence, I grant you – that she didn’t take her own life. I’m just exploring all avenues for them.”
“Quite.” She looked at her watch. “It’s break in a few minutes. I’ve already asked the girls to meet you in the upper sixth common room. Mrs Conway, our head of year 13, will be there as an appropriate adult.”
“Thank you very much for your time, Dr Landcroft.”
Hannah stood up as the Head commanded “Enter,” in response to a knock on her door. She smiled at the girl. “Thank you, Sophia. Please accompany Ms Weybridge to the common room.”
The girl smiled at her. “If you’d like to follow me, Ms Weybridge?”
Hannah shook hands with the Head and followed the girl.
Looking at her notes later, Hannah couldn’t see one remotely possible reason why Amalia would commit suicide. As far as was possible to judge, she certainly wasn’t being bullied. She was cherished at home by both parents and aunt. She hadn’t left a note or any clue as to what had driven her to such an extreme act.
Her friends were deeply shocked and subdued. Hannah thought she saw a hint of fear in the two Asian students’ eyes. But that might just have been her imagination. Go back to facts, she told herself.
So:
Amalia Kumar DOB: 12 June, 1976
School: excellent and gifted student
Parents: supportive (I assume) given aunt’s stance
Aunt: cannot come to terms with a suicide?
Manner of death – why would she have chosen drowning?
As she had been about to leave the sixth form common room, a girl came up to her. She spoke quietly, rapidly as though trying to get her words out before courage deserted her.
“I saw Amalia having an argument with a man outside school one afternoon.”
“What sort of man?” Hannah was intrigued. “Young? Old? Could he have been a boyfriend?”
“I don’t think so. He looked … well he looked threatening. And at one point he grabbed Amalia’s hand, but she pulled away from him and came back into school.”
“Sensible girl. Go on.” Hannah was making notes as the girl spoke.
“I asked her what that was all about and she said,” the girl paused. “She said ‘Just some creep who should know better.’ That’s all. Then a group of us left the building together and she got on the no.37 bus home.”
“Thank you –?”
“Harriet.”
“Thank you Harriet. When was this?”
Harriet’s eyes welled up with tears. “The day before she died. I’m sorry. Maybe if I’d said something…” The girl blinked rapidly and tore at the screwed-up tissue in her hand.
Hannah touched her shoulder. “Please don’t torture yourself. That encounter could have been nothing to do with Amalia’s death. Here’s my card in case you remember anything else. You’ve been really helpful.”
The girl pushed back her strawberry blond curls from her face and sniffed loudly. “Sorry.”
“Is there someone here you feel you can talk to?”
“Not really. I tried to tell our form tutor about that man, but she said I’d exaggerated it.”
“Did she?” Hannah was struggling not to say what she really thought. “Well I don’t think you were exaggerating. Ring me if you or any of the other girls think of anything unusual about Amalia before she died.”
The girl nodded. “Shall I walk you back to reception?”
“Thank you.” Hannah smiled and followed Harriet out of the room, aware that the sixth form tutor’s eyes had never left them and she did not look pleased. Now why was that?
CHAPTER NINE
The pathologist who undertook the second post mortem was the same one Lady Rayman had used. Hannah assumed the two women had conferred. Dr Matthew Carter phoned Hannah first as Sunita Kumar had instructed him to do. With little preamble he launched into his findings.
“Obviously the death was caused by drowning and it looks like suicide from the description of how she’d weighted her clothes and body.”
There was a pause. “However I did find a tiny thread in her mouth. And a slight sticky residue on her upper lip. This may lead to nothing but if there was concern that she had been coerced into taking her own life, I would suggest that these two findings could be due to a gag being placed in her mouth and then held in place with duct tape which was removed prior to her drowning.”
Hannah was silent absorbing these facts. She felt sick.
“Ms Weybridge?”
“Yes, I’m sorry I was thinking about what you just said.”
“There’s more.” Hannah could hear the rustle of paper. “I also found the slightest of abrasions on her left wrist. This may have been caused by having her wrists tied with something soft but strong. Like silk.”
“So she could have been taken to the lake by force and then…”
“Pure conjecture, but someone or some persons could have induced her to drown herself.”
“Which would be murder.”
“Exactly.” Dr Carter coughed. “Ms Kumar asked me to contact you with my findings in the first instance. Shall I fax or email them to you and leave you to deal with the results?” He sounded relieved that he didn’t have to speak to the grief-stricken aunt.
“Yes. Thank you. Email – you have my address.”
“I do. Well good luck with your investigations.” He hung up leaving Hannah feeling stunned and confused. She’d have to think carefully about what she’d say to Sunita Kumar. But she also needed to inform the police.
DI Claudia Turner answered her mobile on the third ring. “Turner.”
“Hi Claudia, have you got a moment? I need a favour.”
“Go on.”
“I need to know what has happened about Amalia Kumar who was found drowned in Peckham Park?”
“The suicide? I assume the file has been sent to the coroner. Why?”
“I have some new evidence from a second post-mortem which suggests it may not have been suicide.”
Hannah thought she heard a mumbled, “You would, wouldn’t you”. There was a sigh. “Okay why don’t you forward me the report and we’ll take it from there.”
“Thanks. And one other thing.”
“Go on.”
“Did you find a rather distinctive ring? Amalia wasn’t wearing it in the photos, but her aunt is convinced she would have been.”
“Well I’ll check that out. I’m assuming you have a photo of it for me?”
“Yes – I thought it might be worth checking out the Peckham pawn shops.”
“Grandmothers and eggs, Hannah. Grandmothers and eggs.” And with that she hung up.
Hannah clicked on the dial up Internet connection. It was always slower in the afternoon after the US had woken up. She always checked for emails from Tom but there was rarely anything.
The report had come in from the pathologist. She read it slowly, absorbing the implications and what it might mean for the family. Sunita had been vindicated in her suspicions. But what good would that do her? It wouldn’t bring her niece back. Then she chided herself. Of course it would be better not to think that someone close to you had deliberately ended her life and you had no idea why.
Hannah copied the report and pasted it into an email to Claudia, then checked for any work emails. There was one from Rory asking when she’d be in the office next as he had an id
ea to discuss with her. She replied saying she’d be in later that day. Then she called and arranged to meet Sunita.
The room was just as she remembered it except there seemed to be more photos of Amalia, most in silver frames on top of the mahogany chests of drawers and cupboards. Sunita had answered the door and led her into the room without a word.
“My brother and his wife are still too distraught to see anyone,” she replied to the question Hannah hadn’t asked.
“And how are you bearing up, Sunita?”
“My anger keeps me going. Now what do you have for me?” She indicated a seat for Hannah who sank into the deep cushions and wished they could swallow her up rather than face this woman’s anguish.
Hannah removed an envelope from her handbag. “I have the second post mortem report.” Hannah was unsure whether she should say more or just hand over the report she’d printed out. In the end she let Sunita read it for herself without comment.
“I knew it. She didn’t kill herself.” She looked terrifying. Fury burned in her eyes. Then suddenly tears poured down her face unchecked. Hannah felt uncomfortable witnessing such raw, silent grief.
She pulled out a packet of tissues and handed them to Sunita without comment. The other woman blew her nose and wiped her hands across her face. “I do apologise for my lack of restraint, Hannah.”
“Please don’t. Sometimes it’s good to let go for a moment.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.” She sniffed. “So where do we go from here?”
“Well, I’ve forwarded this report on to the police. To Detective Inspector Turner.”
Sunita shook her head. “I don’t know this Detective Inspector. We were informed of Amalia’s death by a Sergeant Benton. He seemed competent but… what will the police do?”
Hannah was surprised at the bitterness of her tone.
“An Asian girl getting herself killed isn’t top of their priorities, is it?”
Hannah’s face must have betrayed her shock.
“They are racist, Hannah. We face prejudice all the time.”
The ‘but’ she was about to pronounce stuck in Hannah’s throat.
“They will not investigate in the same way as they would if it was a white British girl.”
“Then we’ll have to make sure they do, won’t we?”
Sunita glared at her for a moment then her face relaxed. She actually managed a smile. “Celia told me how tenacious you are. I know you put yourself at risk to expose Liz’s killers. But she was your close friend. That was your motivation. We are strangers to you.”
Hannah said nothing for a moment. “The Somali girls who were trafficked were unknown to me. Yet I don’t regret for one moment that I put myself on the line for them.” She looked across at the large photo of Amalia now adorned with a garland of silk flowers. “I do however regret exposing my own daughter to extreme danger. I could never do that again.”
“And nor should anyone ask that of you.” Sunita clasped her hand and smiled. “Never again. But I should be eternally grateful if your investigations could prompt the police to find Amalia’s killer.”
CHAPTER TEN
The shrill sound of the whistle caused everyone to stop in their tracks. No one spoke. Above them crows circled. Bluebells nodded silently in the gentle spring breeze. Sunlight filtered through the ancient treetops of Dulwich Woods.
“Over here.”
Three figures moved through the undergrowth to the officer at the left of the line. Shock bleached his face.
Looking down they saw what in all probability had been dislodged by a fox from its long term resting place. The visible part of the skull was dirty with a fragment of fabric still attached in some way.
The four officers stared at the ground and then each other. This was obviously not the missing girl they were searching for.
“Shit. Sorry Sarge.” The constable who had spoken let out a low whistle. “Not exactly what we were expecting. God knows how long this one’s been here.”
As he spoke members from the scene of crime team, who had been on standby, were ready to mark out the area and take photographs. Within minutes a tent was erected over the site.
The shout went out for the officers to continue their painstaking task of exploring the area for any clue as to the whereabouts of the schoolgirl who had been reported missing twenty-seven hours previously.
Nadia Chopra, aged fifteen, had not turned up for school. But her attendance record was such that no one checked where she was. It was her mother’s frantic 999 call that had sparked the search. The distraught mother could hardly speak English so DS Benton interviewed her with her twelve-year old son acting as an interpreter. It crossed the sergeant’s mind that the boy wasn’t translating exactly what his mother said. She looked perplexed at times, repeatedly interrupting, saying “No, no Pashi,” but her son just said something in their language and Benton was none the wiser. He made a mental note to arrange for a professional interpreter to be present if they had to interview her again.
The search party had neared the pond that was covered with black gunge. Before anyone knew what was happening one of the police dogs had plunged in. His trainer called and whistled to no avail. The officers nearest the edge stood stock still in mute horror as the dog dived then slowly pushed what looked like a bag of sodden rags to the edge.
As the water and plants moved around the bundle, a hand became visible. Then the bundle flipped over. A face stared unseeingly up at the sky, the eyes already a delicacy for some creature below…
Nadia had been found.
DS Benton radioed into the station. “I’ll need an interpreter,” he said after explaining that they’d found, they assumed, the body of Nadia Chopra. “One who speaks Punjabi. And pronto. Yeah I’ll wait.”
Mike wandered over to where a group of officers had gathered. They looked as he felt. Shocked and sick. He thought back to the body of Amalia Kumar that they’d found in Peckham Park. In comparison she looked like the Lady of Shalott. Nadia had the appearance of having gone more rounds than you could count with Lennox Lewis. Added to which her hair had been shorn off … no attempt had been made to make this look like a suicide. If, that is, there was any connection between the deaths of the two girls.
He thought back to the hysterical mother who had reported her daughter missing and the interview conducted in part via her twelve-year-old son. His gut reaction had been that something was not right in that household and he was going to make it his business to find out what it was.
His radio crackled. The interpreter would meet him outside Nadia’s parents’ house. When he saw the interpreter he was relieved it was Sonia Arora, someone he’d worked with before. The interview ahead was going to be difficult and Benton certainly didn’t want the young brother in the room.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Rory was at his desk going through some page proofs. He’d had to clear a space among the piles of press releases, newspapers and half-empty coffee cups. He smiled as Hannah approached him.
“What?” she asked.
“You’ve got that look about you.”
“Which is?”
“Which is, ‘I’m just about to ask some questions and it might just lead us to a major story’.”
“Don’t hold your breath then.” She felt relaxed with Rory who had always supported her and gave her enough leeway to find herself in whatever she was researching. “But I do want to run something past you.”
“Excuse me, Ms Contributing Editor, you don’t have to do that.” From someone else that comment may have sounded snide but Hannah knew Rory had been pleased at her new contract, and, she was sure, had had some influence in instigating it.
“Fancy lunch later?”
“Half an hour?” Hannah nodded and went back to her desk to make a cuttings request: anything on arranged marriages, disappearances of young Asian girls and unexplained or unusual suicides in the Asian community. Something about Amalia’s death and Linda’s absentee pupil niggled. Were they bo
th part of a bigger picture?
They were early so managed to get a table in the corner of the Pen and Ink public house. Rory ordered a pint of best for himself, white wine for Hannah and some ham sandwiches. Their usual fare. While they were waiting for their order to arrive, Rory produced a photocopied cutting. It was dated two days previously from South Africa. Hannah’s vision blurred as the name Gerry Lacon jumped out at her.
Rory put his hand over hers. “He’s dead, Hannah. It’s been reported as natural causes but reading between the lines it looks like he was got at. That was always on the cards given his track record over there.” He smiled. “And it could be some people need to clear the decks before Mandela gets sworn in on Tuesday. Anyway, one less demon to haunt you.”
Hannah took a gulp of the wine. Dead. Gerry Lacon, the man who had held a gun to her baby’s head. The man who had ordered Caroline – and the others – killed. Poetic justice perhaps? For a moment she thought of Sarah, his wife. Had they divorced? She had no idea. No good dwelling on the past.
She realised that Rory was obviously waiting for her to say something. “Thanks. As you say one less demon…”
Their sandwiches arrived and between mouthfuls Rory filled her in about Judy Burton and her plea to George – no one called Georgina this to her face – to return to London. She obviously wasn’t enjoying her exile in Scotland.
“Oh, I thought she would have found her Celtic roots by now.” Hannah winked. “I thought she’d find Scotsmen in kilts irresistible.”
Rory looked about to choke.
“At least I don’t have to make that decision,” Hannah said.
“And what decisions do you have to make, then?”
Hannah stared across the bar. For a moment she thought she saw Paul standing there, looking across at her. She blinked and he was gone. In his place was a man who vaguely resembled him.
“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Maybe I have.” Hannah finished her wine.
