by Anne Coates
Mike Jones held the glass door open for her. “Take care.”
They were inches apart. And she knew. Her body remembered the way he had pushed her and stood there. Taking a bullet for her on the steps of St John the Evangelist, seconds before Tom had arrived.
“Thank you,” she said and walked swiftly to the awaiting car, wondering what the hell he was doing as a supply teacher. Unless, of course, he had been given a medical discharge and this was a new career. Somehow she thought not. She felt sure the man who had been Sherlock, living among the homeless in Cardboard City, was on another undercover mission. But in a school? Linda’s school?
When she returned home there was a message on the answerphone. Sunita Kumar’s distinctive tones greeted her. “Hannah. We have read the article. Thank you.”
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Sasha admired the ring on her finger, twisting her hand to examine it from all angles. It was by far the most beautiful piece of jewellery she had ever owned. The fact that it had been given to her by Ahmed made it even more special. He had been so excited when he presented it to her.
“I know it isn’t new but when I saw it in the shop window, I knew it was perfect for you.”
He kissed the top of her head and caressed her bump.
“It’s lovely. But you shouldn’t spend money on me. Not now.”
Ahmed’s face darkened. “I can do what I like for my wife. I want you always to have beautiful things.” He couldn’t see the irony of the words, which were spoken in their pokey one-bedroomed flat with its tiny kitchen and bathroom. They were on the council list but it could take ages for them to be rehoused.
Sasha pulled him down on to the sofa beside her. “Thank you. I love it.” She kissed him out of his bad mood.
Now she looked at the ring with a heavy heart. Her mum had read in the newspaper that a similar ring had been missing from a girl found drowned in Peckham Park. Sasha knew it wasn’t just similar. She had read the inscription For Amalia all my love Sunita. She knew the jewellery shop where Ahmed said he had bought it was also a pawnbroker. She had thought someone down on their luck had had to sell it. That is if Ahmed had actually bought it. Maybe he had found it. Either way she would have to hand it over to the police. And Ahmed would be furious with her.
She hauled herself up off the sofa, put the ring into a zipped pocket in her bag and locked the door behind her when she left. The rest of the house, divided into flats, was quiet. Unusually so for this time of day.
As she made her way down the stairs, her heel caught in the threadbare carpet on a stair and she went flying forwards. She tried to stop herself, terrified for her baby, but landed in a heap, hitting her head on the tiled floor.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Hannah was curious to see a teenage girl standing outside her front door. She was in school uniform, with her satchel hooked over one shoulder. Her hair had a luminous black sheen and was neatly braided. She appeared relieved at seeing Hannah who wondered how long she’d been waiting there.
“Hello. Can I help you?” She pulled the keys out of her pocket and the girl moved aside for her as she unlocked the door.
“You came to give a talk at my school. On Tuesday this week,” the girl said without preamble.
“Yes?” Hannah switched off the alarm placed just inside the door.
“Well, you’re a journalist and you write about people’s difficult situations.”
“Sometimes I do, yes.”
“I need your help.”
Hannah’s throat tightened as she remembered the last young woman who turned up on her doorstep. Caroline – the prostitute known as Princess – was never far from her thoughts. That she had not been able to prevent her death weighed heavily in her heart. She had let her down. At least this girl wasn’t badly beaten up, and it wasn’t the middle of the night but a bright, spring afternoon. Janet was out at the baby gym with Elizabeth, so she invited the girl in, wondering if she really should have told her she’d meet her somewhere else. A public place?
“So –?” Hannah directed her into the sitting room with a gesture.
“Alison.” The look on Hannah’s face must have betrayed her thought. “My name is Alesha Kaur but I use Alison sometimes – it helps with forms and things.”
Hannah nodded feeling more uncomfortable.
“Alesha is such a pretty name.”
The girl smiled and sat down on the sofa.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, I’m fine thank you.”
“So why have you come to see me Alesha, and how did you get my address?”
“Oh that was easy – I asked at the school office. Said I wanted to send a thank-you note and the temp working there gave it to me.”
Hannah tried not to let her annoyance show as she scratched her left hand. She’d had to fill in a form at reception before being allowed to enter the school. As she’d waived her speaker’s fee, she’d assumed the school hadn’t kept those details and certainly wouldn’t give them out to pupils. She would phone the school later. And ask Linda. It was a terrible lapse of confidentiality. Although under ordinary circumstances, she supposed it wasn’t.
“I see. And you are here because –”
“My cousin has gone missing. My aunt said she’s away visiting family but I’m sure she would have mentioned it. We get on really well. We talk all the time. Surjit is not much older than me. She is to be married soon. It’s an arranged marriage. But she seemed happy. No, not happy, resigned to what would happen, I think. I’m worried about her.” The words came out in a rush as though the speaker had to say them before they disappeared. The face looking at Hannah was a mixture of anger and anxiety.
“But maybe she’s doing exactly what your aunt said and visiting family?”
“I don’t know. I think it’s more than that. There have been arguments. And I’ve heard my parents talking…”
“Have you asked them outright?”
“Yes, but they change the subject. My aunt is a very difficult woman. Miss Weybridge, I’m scared for Surjit. I have written all her details down for you.” She handed Hannah an envelope just as the doorbell rang. Alesha grabbed her hand. “Please help me find her.”
Hannah looked at the portable video monitor on the table beside her. An irate-looking bearded man wearing a turban was pushing the bell again. “Do you know this man?”
Alesha looked over Hannah’s shoulder and nodded, her dark eyes widened in fear.
Hannah went and opened the door but before she could say anything the man had pushed past her, shouting, “Where is she? Where is my daughter?”
Uninvited he went straight into the sitting room. “Dad?” Alesha moved towards her father.
Hannah realised that what she had thought of as fear was surprise. Alesha was surprised but she clearly wasn’t afraid at seeing him.
He, on the other hand, was furious. “What is she doing here?” He rounded on Hannah. “What is she saying to you?”
Hannah had seconds to absorb the situation. “You must be Alesha’s father.” She smiled in what she hoped was a placatory manner. “You must be so proud of her. My name is Hannah Weybridge and I met Alesha at her school when I was giving a talk. One of her teachers, Linda Brown, knew I was looking for an occasional babysitter and recommended your daughter. We were just having a chat about it.”
“Is this true?” The man had lost some of his bluster. “Daughter, are you trying to find work as a babysitter?”
The girl looked mortified and nodded. “I can earn some money and still do my school work.”
Hannah had swiftly pushed the envelope Alesha had given her out of sight.
“Perhaps you could leave me your telephone number, Alesha. Here’s my card with mine on. If that’s okay with you, Mr Kaur?”
“Mr Singh. My name is Mr Singh – Kaur is for the women.”
“I apologise.”
“It doesn’t matter. If you two have finished, I’ll take my daughter home now.” He was a
lready pushing Alesha out of the room.
“Of course.” Hannah smiled at the girl.
“And if you do want her to babysit you should arrange it through her mother or me and I will bring her and collect her.” He had snatched Hannah’s card from his daughter’s hand. “Our number is 081 777 7878.”
Hannah scribbled it down on a scrap of paper. “Thank you, Mr Singh.”
In the hall Hannah managed to slip another card into the girl’s hand. Alesha secreted it into her pocket.
“Thank you, Miss Weybridge.” Alesha, she realised, had visibly relaxed after her lie about babysitting and from that moment didn’t look at all intimidated by her father. His bluster had all been for her benefit.
As she shut the door behind them, Hannah wondered if the father always followed his daughter like that. She went back into the sitting room and retrieved the envelope.
Inside was a photo of a pretty girl in a turquoise sari. On a sheet of paper in precise handwriting were Surjit’s date of birth, full name, address and the shop where she worked. Alesha had also written a note to Hannah asking her to contact her via a friend’s address but said she would phone her when she could, assuming Hannah had given her the number. Hannah smiled. The girl seemed to have covered all bases.
The name of Surjit’s workplace rang a bell. It was a fabric shop in Peckham. Hannah had been in there once looking for a particular silk she wanted to make a dress. That was a while ago. She never had the time for dressmaking now. But she still had a fabric remnant somewhere. She could use that.
Hannah’s mobile rang. Unusual during the evening. Claudia Turner sounded a little breathless.
“Is your TV on? Switch on Crimewatch. We’ve got a slot at the end of the programme. Only just heard. It’s their one hundredth anniversary edition so a bit of a coup really. They’re going to show pictures of Amalia Kumar’s ring…”
“That’s brilliant, Claudia. Does her family know?”
“Yes, we contacted them and we have an officer sitting with them just in case anyone rings.”
“Right thanks for letting me know.”
“Let’s hope it generates some useful leads. Good article by the way.” And with that Claudia rang off.
Hannah switched on the TV. It was ten-twenty and the programme presenters Sue Cook and Nick Ross were asking the public if anyone knew anything about the murder of a fifty-six-year-old man who had been found in East London in February.
What a long time to wait to find out this man’s identity. And then, there it was, the photograph of Amalia’s ring as well as a photograph of the girl herself who “had drowned in suspicious circumstances in Peckham Rye park”. Viewers were invited to phone the studio on a free dedicated number if they had any information about any of the crimes featured in the programme. The Crimewatch Update would be on at 11.50pm. Hannah wondered if she should stay up to watch it but suspected she’d know soon enough if there were any promising leads. Let the police do their job.
CHAPTER TWENTY
There was a buzz in the office the following day that had nothing to do with it being a Friday and the thirteenth. Seeing the photographs of Amalia and her ring on the television had reminded people of the information telephone number the newspaper ran under Hannah’s story on Amalia Kumar, which had now received quite a few calls. Many of them anonymous. Some trying to sell info. One of the secretaries had been given the tedious task of transcribing them all.
“But you never know,” Rory said as he sipped his coffee and sat on the corner of Hannah’s desk, “there might just be a golden nugget in all that shit.”
“Let’s hope so. The ring has such sentimental value for the aunt and could lead to Amalia’s killer or killers.”
“Be good to get a witness or two…” Rory wandered back to his desk and its usual clutter. He was supervising the team working on the follow up to the major political story – the death of Labour leader John Smith the day before after he had suffered the second of two massive heart attacks. Colleagues were describing him as “the best Prime Minister Britain never had” and most of the cuttings had mentioned his chosen luxury on Desert Island Discs – a crate of champagne.
Hannah made a note to remind herself to phone Joe that evening then straightened the papers Rory had moved when he’d perched on her desk.
She looked up when Rory slammed down his phone and came over to her looking grim.
“George wants to see you in her office.”
“And you’ve been delegated to escort me because…?” Hannah smiled up at him but the look of concern on his face brought a blush to her face in contrast to the chill she felt. Picking up her handbag, she walked through the gap between desks feeling that everyone was staring at her which most probably wasn’t true as they all had deadlines to meet. A mere glance was all she merited these days now that Judy wasn’t there to stoke the animosity.
Rory tapped on the editor’s door, stood aside and followed Hannah in. She was stunned to see the solicitor there. She immediately wondered if she’d breached her contract in some way and they were going to dispense with her services. However Georgina Henderson’s demeanour seemed reassuring. She indicated the sofa next to the armchair she was sitting in and nodded to the lawyer as Hannah sat down with Rory next to her.
“Larry has something to tell you. I am really sorry but it’s upsetting and seemingly totally unexpected.”
He cleared his throat. “Hannah, we had a telephone conversation a few days ago.” It sounded like a question but was a fact.
“Ye-es.”
“As you know I said I would be in contact with Paul Montague’s solicitor and the prison governor.”
Hannah nodded. Whatever it was, why didn’t he just get to the point?
“The governor contacted me today.” He swallowed hard and she was mesmerised the rise and fall of his Adam’s apple. “I’m very sorry to have to tell you that Mr Montague was found dead in his cell this morning. It appears he took his own life.” He looked down at his hands and then up into her face. “I’m very sorry, Hannah.”
The room was silent. She could hear her pulse beating in her ear. She felt sick. Her face was wet. The tears had leaked out silently. She hadn’t realised she was crying, but as she did so she felt her temperature rise.
“Here, drink this.” The editor handed her a glass of water.
“Think she needs something a bit stronger,” Rory said, but was ignored.
“We’ll get a car to take you home, Hannah. If there’s anything we can do?” Georgina let the question hang between them. It was her dismissal.
Hannah had no recollection of leaving the building. The car was waiting for her outside. Not one of the usual ones, Rory noticed. George’s chauffeur was at the wheel.
“Is anyone at home? Do you want me to call someone?”
Hannah shook her head. “It’s my fault. All my fault.”
“You are not responsible for Paul’s actions, Hannah. None of them.”
She gripped his hand. “Thanks, Rory. It’s just such a shock.”
He nodded. “I’ll call you later.” He stood back and the car glided away.
By the time Hannah was at home, ensconced in her study, she had calmed down and was embarrassed by her outburst of grief. She wasn’t sure what to do next. Paul’s parents were dead and she didn’t know anything about his brother or other family members. Presumably, the prison authorities would sort out all the formalities. And there would be an inquest. She wondered if she would be called to it. She had no idea how inquests were conducted. And then there was the question of Elizabeth. Paul’s name was not on her birth certificate – for that she was truly grateful – so maybe both of them would be out of the picture. She sincerely hoped so. She was saddened by Paul’s death. Was the fact that she refused to visit him a factor? Did it push him over the edge? Suicide made the people left behind feel guilty, that they should have or could have done something to prevent it. She was no exception.
She wondered how this w
ould be covered in the press. How had he done it? Hannah looked up the statistics for prison suicide – mostly single figures each year – and saw most killed themselves by hanging. Hannah managed to get to the bathroom just in time to bring up the bile, which had threatened ever since she’d heard the news.
She was just rinsing her mouth when the telephone rang. She let it go through to the answerphone and listened to a voice she’d never heard before: Paul Montague’s solicitor, Neville Rogers. Hannah picked up the phone.
“Hello, Hannah Weybridge here.”
“Ah, Ms Weybridge, I was just about to ask you to call me as soon as you could. As Paul Montague’s solicitor, I am very sorry to have to inform you that I’ve learned from the prison governor that Mr Montague died this morning.”
“Yes, I heard.”
“Really?” He paused. “The press hounds are quick off the mark.”
There was no answer to that. She assumed he knew where she worked.
“Anyway, Mr Montague left instructions with me that in the event of his death…”
“What? Did he plan it? Did he plan to kill himself?” Hannah’s voice had risen an octave.
“As far as I am aware, that was not his intention.”
“So why…”
Neville Rogers cleared his throat loudly. “There will be an inquest. But these cases are usually a formality. I can say that I never had the impression that Mr Montague would take his own life, but I do know he was devastated by the situation he found himself in. Especially in relation to you and his daughter.”
Hannah could feel her anger rising like a tide of coruscating acid. “A daughter he had never wanted or had anything to do with until… until…” Hannah swallowed the sob.
“That is as may be. However I do have some paperwork for you to see so perhaps we could arrange a mutually convenient time to visit my office?”
“You’re rather quick off the mark, aren’t you?”
“I am just following instructions, Ms Weybridge.”
