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

by Anne Coates

  Hannah agreed to go to his office on Monday morning.

  “My deepest condolences,” he said as he rang off.

  Hannah was furious. The man had made her feelings seem insignificant. Still she supposed this was the last work he would be doing for Paul, who had saved the taxpayer an immense amount of money by avoiding a criminal trial. If only she had responded to his letter. Explained why she couldn’t visit him. Maybe if she hadn’t pushed him away… Her mind went back to the good times they’d had. It was like a film playing in slow motion in her head. Their life together such as it was. The fun. There had been a time when she thought they would carry on forever in their semi-detached way. Then Hannah had become pregnant and everything changed. Paul hadn’t exactly broken her heart but he had dented it.

  When the doorbell rang Hannah was surprised to see a motorbike courier standing outside. She opened the door and he handed her an envelope that she had to sign for. Hannah didn’t recognise the handwriting. As she walked upstairs to her study, she turned it over and over again in her hand. Why would anyone send a letter by courier rather than phone or email? She sat at her desk, took a deep breath and opened the envelope. The letter was handwritten on HMPS notepaper.

  Dear Ms Weybridge,

  Please excuse this intrusion, especially at what is no doubt a difficult time for you.

  I am the Chaplain at Brixton prison and during his time here Paul Montague came to see me regularly and attended services. This may surprise you. Paul told me that he had never previously been interested in religion. Loss of liberty affects people in all sorts of different ways.

  Paul talked to me about what he had done; his feelings and hopes. Obviously that was all confidential but what I can say is that at no time did he give me the impression he would take his own life…

  Hannah stared out of the window seeing nothing. Why had the chaplain contacted her? Clearly Paul had mentioned her and, presumably, given him her address. She wondered what he and Paul had discussed. Did this chaplain know more than he was letting on about Paul’s suicide? Prison must have affected him profoundly for him to have killed himself. There had been a good chance he would get a relatively light sentence as he had pleaded guilty and it had been his swift action that had saved Elizabeth and Janet. So why had he taken his own life?

  There were some contact details on the letter. The Reverend Martyn Jones had given her his home number. Should she phone him? Hear what he had to say? Interesting that a priest and Paul’s lawyer had made a point of contacting her.

  She rang the number but the call went through to the chaplain’s paging service. She left her name and number and tried to concentrate on the cuttings she had on missing Asian girls. There were not that many and most of them were short pieces reported in local papers. No one ever seemed to follow up the disappearances.

  When the telephone ringing broke into her thoughts, she was grateful for the interruption. She thought it would be the chaplain returning her call but was surprised to hear the voice of the pathologist, Dr Matthew Carter.

  “Hannah, I’ve got something that should help you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I kept thinking about Amalia Kumar and how she died. It just didn’t add up. Self-preservation would have made her fight for breath … Anyway, I ran a toxicology test and found a high level of diazepam in her blood. She was drugged before drowning.”

  Hannah silently absorbed his words.

  “I’m sorry, I should have thought of that before.”

  “Thank you, Dr Carter. That does make more sense now. Could you email the findings and I’ll pass them on to the police?”

  Hannah connected to the Internet in anticipation. There was an email from Tom. Hi, wonderful to be with you and Elizabeth last weekend. More anon. Love Tom. So brief she wondered why he had bothered. It unsettled her remembering the conversation she’d overheard. Had the weekend just been a ploy to check out whatever it was she was supposed not to know? Should she tell him about Paul? Especially as he had asked her what she would tell Elizabeth about him. She decided against it. Everything had changed now. She’d avoid the platitudes for as long as she could.

  She forwarded the email which arrived from Dr Carter to DI Turner.

  Claudia rang her about an hour later. “Thanks for that info from the pathologist. How are you?”

  “I assume you’re referring to Paul Montague’s death?”

  If Claudia was surprised by Hannah’s abrupt tone, she didn’t react. “Yes, that must have come as a shock.”

  “To be honest I just feel rather numb.”

  “Yes well,” Claudia sounded embarrassed. “Let’s have that drink sometime soon. I’ll call you next week. By the way, we haven’t had any leads on Amalia’s ring. If we do I’ll keep you posted.” And with that she hung up.

  Hannah looked at her watch and realised that Janet would be needing to leave. She went downstairs and found her giving Elizabeth her tea. She smiled as the child held out her sticky hands. “Mama.” She beamed.

  “There’s something I have to tell you Janet, and there’s no easy way.” She sat down at the table with her daughter and Janet. “Paul died this morning. Apparently he killed himself.”

  Janet’s face turned crimson, then paled. “Oh no how awful.” She refrained from making any further comment. Hannah supposed this was in deference to her as she’d always been so tetchy on the subject of Elizabeth’s father.

  “Anyway, I wanted to tell you just in case it comes up on the news somewhere.”

  “Thanks. Is it okay if I shoot off now?”

  “Of course.” Hannah’s smile was weak and weary. “See you tomorrow evening for babysitting?”

  “Yes.” Janet looked as though she wanted to say more but decided against it and quickly left the house.

  With Janet gone, Hannah hugged her daughter to her and wept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  Elizabeth struggled as Hannah strapped her into the buggy. “Walk Mama, walk,” came the imperious directive. No way, thought Hannah, not on a Saturday morning in Peckham. She squatted so their faces were level with each other and caressed her daughter’s cheek. She searched the face for similarities to Paul. Yes, there was something about the frown and the shape of her head. Hannah remembered that when she was born Elizabeth had looked the image of her father – as far as newborns can look like adults of the opposite sex in their thirties. That had gradually faded. She certainly looked like photos of herself as a toddler. She felt awful that she hadn’t wanted Paul in their lives and now he was gone forever. She’d assumed that Elizabeth might want to contact her father when she was older – now she would never have the opportunity of doing so or of knowing him.

  “We’re going shopping and they’ll be lots of people about.” That’s what Hannah needed. People she didn’t know filling the empty spaces.

  “Shops!” Elizabeth beamed. She associated shops with being given treats and made a fuss of.

  “Yes, and it’s a lovely day so maybe we’ll go to the park this afternoon.”

  Elizabeth clapped her hands. “Ducks,” she said. “Swings.”

  Locking up the house always took a lot longer now and Hannah was meticulous. Nasty surprises were the last thing she wanted. Her locks were top of the range but had they been secure enough to keep someone out of her house last weekend? Better not to dwell on that thought.

  She decided to walk via the bus route into Peckham rather than a stroll through the back streets. Hannah needed to be amongst the shopping crowds.

  Rye Lane on a Saturday morning was evidently the place to see and be seen. Hannah was grateful for the buggy, which helped to clear a pathway. As she made her way along the crowded pavement, the odour of raw meat assailed her along with far more appetising smells of spices and herbs, presumably unheard of when this first became a fashionable shopping street a century before. When she had first moved to the area, Hannah had loved shopping in Jones & Higgins, the prestigious department store which had closed do
wn some years before. Its distinctive 1930s building and tower remained at the top end of the Lane like a beacon to a more glamorous past. Now the area, although vibrant, was no longer smart, as evidenced by the copious amounts of litter everywhere.

  The shops boasted foods from Africa and Asia and everywhere in between. If you wanted some special ingredient for a recipe, this is where you came. Hannah slowed her pace to keep in step behind the group of Afro-Caribbean women who were strolling in front of her, hips swaying to the rhythm of their conversation and laughter. As they turned to each other she caught sight of their beautiful faces, alight with the joy of just being. Hannah envied them. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d laughed out loud with a friend. Even with Elizabeth she felt her isolation keenly, although her daughter did bring her a special joy. She hadn’t always been so solitary. As an only child she’d grown up loving her own company, being able to lose herself in a book with no sibling to disturb her. But as she made her way through school and university she found kindred spirits and passing friendships. Recently, however, there were too few disturbances of a joyful kind in her life.

  Hannah was jerked from her thoughts when one of the women ahead of her stopped short, threw her head back and bellowed in delight. “Alleluia sister,” she said once she regained her breath and the group continued their saunter.

  Hannah could feel herself absorbing some of their delight. She had reached the fabric shop and wheeled Elizabeth inside. It was a tight fit, pushing the buggy down the aisles of fabrics of every hue and texture. There was that lovely smell of new textiles along with faint exotic aromas that Hannah couldn’t place.

  An assistant dressed in a bright orange sari with red and turquoise sequins decorating the edges greeted her with a smile. Hannah noticed the henna designs on her hands and a beautiful manicure.

  “Good morning. How can I help you, ma’am?” Her low sing-songy voice was inviting.

  Hannah smiled and produced the fragment of silk. “I was wondering if you had anything like this in stock? I bought it here some time ago.”

  The young woman’s hand caressed the fabric. Her whole face radiated her smile. “I think we may still have some in the stockroom. I’ll check for you.”

  Hannah watched her glide along the aisle, unhurried but purposeful. She glanced down at Elizabeth who seemed enchanted by the array of rainbow colours around her. “Aren’t these pretty?”

  Elizabeth looked up at her. “Pretty. Pretty,” she repeated.

  A group of teenage girls was huddled around a display of what must be, Hannah thought, a traditional wedding outfit. The mannequin wearing it had an elaborate hairstyle fixed with jewels, her hands were decorated with abstract henna designs and she sported a half-veil across her face. The eyes were dull in comparison to so much finery.

  Hannah edged nearer to eavesdrop – a futile action as their excited thoughts were expressed in what she thought was rapid Punjabi. The girls looked at her and giggled. Elizabeth shouted “hello” several times and they waved back to her.

  The assistant returned. “I’m so sorry, it seems we have run out of this one. May I show you some others? Very similar.”

  Hannah nodded and followed her with the buggy. “Is Surjit still working here?” she asked when they were out of earshot of the older woman who seemed to be the owner.

  “Surjit? I – ”

  “Surjit Gupta? My babysitter was telling me that she is brilliant at sewing.”

  The assistant looked at her through narrowed eyes. “I think you must be mistaken. We have no Surjit working here.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry, I must have got the name of the shop wrong.”

  “Yes.” The assistant looked away. “This fabric is very similar to the one you had. It comes in a range of colours.”

  Hannah ran her fingers over the silks. “Which colour do you like, Elizabeth?”

  The toddler wasn’t listening to her mother; her attention was absorbed by the assistant’s hands. The henna, colourful manicure and the rings adorning her fingers were like a magnet.

  The assistant knelt down beside her. “Do you like the pictures on my hand? They were done for a friend’s wedding.”

  Elizabeth grabbed a finger. “Pretty.” The assistant laughed and smiled up at Hannah.

  “She’s adorable.”

  “Thank you. I think so but then I’m biased. I think I’ll take three metres of this one, please.”

  The chosen fabric was lifted down and taken to the measuring table. As she unrolled the material against the ruler fixed on the side, she said so quietly that Hannah almost thought she’d imagined it: “Surjit does work here but she has not been in for some time. We’ve been told to say nothing.”

  “Thank you,” Hannah said as the assistant folded the cloth. “Do you know where she might have gone?” The girl shook her head. “I’ll be sure to come back if I need any more,” Hannah said more loudly as she smiled over at the older woman at the back of the shop who had been staring at them. The assistant took Hannah’s money and returned with her change.

  “Goodbye.” She handed over the package

  “Bye… bye…” Elizabeth waved enthusiastically from her buggy.

  The crowds on the pavement outside the fabric shop seemed to be even more animated. A group of young Rasta men leaned against the window openly smoking joints. Hannah gazed down at her daughter and decided to take the next left turning and walk back home via the residential streets in the hope Elizabeth would nod off in less distracting surroundings.

  As she made her way home Hannah wondered about all the secrecy surrounding Surjit’s disappearance. Surely a girl going missing would be worrying at the least. A police matter? Or did someone know where she was? Her mother? Had she been spirited away for a reason? The journalist in her wanted to keep digging. Her maternal side thought there could be a good reason and she should leave well alone. Families. Hannah pushed a little faster and smiled down at Elizabeth whose eyes were heavy as she fought off sleep.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The sound of voices greeted Hannah when David opened the front door. She had been invited to dinner but had assumed it would be just her. She was also slightly late as Janet had had a last-minute problem with her mother. Hannah wondered how she coped, looking after a child during the daytime as well as caring for her mother who was becoming increasingly disabled and dependent on her. What sort of a life was that for a young woman?

  To add to her discomfort, it was raining heavily after the morning sunshine and although Linda and David only lived a few minutes’ walk away, her footwear and legs were soaked. Hannah hadn’t told them about Paul’s suicide and had anticipated kicking off her shoes and having a relaxing evening – just the three of them. Judging by the noise level coming from the sitting room, they would be far more in numbers and Hannah felt the familiar coil of anxiety gripping her stomach.

  David kissed her cheek and took her raincoat and umbrella. “Come through and have a drink – Linda’s in the kitchen just adding the finishing touches…” He steered her away from the direction of the kitchen where Hannah had hoped to sneak off to and into the sitting room. It was a larger house than Hannah’s and the furniture had been collected in an ad hoc fashion over their years together giving it a warm and lived in glow. Usually Hannah loved being here.

  Silence fell as she entered the room. Hannah smiled.

  “Meet Hannah the hack –” David’s joke was wearing thin for the butt of it – “Maria, Rob, Jude, Ben and Mike. Red or white?”

  “White, please.” Hannah tried not to show how disconcerted she was.

  “We met before – at the talk you gave at the school.” Mike moved forward and shook her hand. He looked relaxed and not at all put out to see her.

  “Of course, nice to see you again.” Hannah accepted the glass of white wine and took a large gulp. Mike was on his own. As she was. Surely Linda hadn’t set her up? He didn’t look at all embarrassed and as he seemed to know Maria and Ben; she assumed t
hey too taught at Kingsville.

  Hannah was intrigued that he fitted in so well here. Given that his last haunt was Cardboard City in the Bull Ring. She had always had her suspicions about the mysterious Sherlock. Then he had saved her life by taking the bullet meant for her and she’d never been able to thank him. He had disappeared in an ambulance and any enquiries she made about him had drawn a blank.

  Now he looked every inch the part of a supply teacher. Clean-shaven and serious with his heavy rimmed glasses. He pushed them up on to his nose as he stared across at her while he chatted to Ben. He was either a very good actor or she was completely wrong about him.

  They were seated next to each other at the dining table. “Think we may have been set up, don’t you,” he said under cover of refilling her glass. He didn’t look at all annoyed whereas Hannah was seething with embarrassment.

  Linda came in with the main course – poached salmon – and managed to avoid looking directly at her, a smile at the ready for all her guests.

  “So Hannah, what are you working on now or is it all under wraps?”

  Hannah composed her face into what she hoped was a secretive expression. She could almost feel Linda’s metaphorical kick on David’s shins.

  “Oh nothing high profile. I’m hoping Joe Rawlington will start dishing the dirt on his fellow MPs – we were at university together.” She poured some more wine into her glass. “Or perhaps we’ll start investigating John Major’s baby –” there was total silence before she added, “Ofsted” and everyone laughed.

  Mercifully the conversation moved on to school inspections, the fall in house prices and lack of nursery places.

  “Neat parry there.”

  She turned. Mike was smiling at her. “So what do you do when you’re not exposing the peccadillos of the governing classes?”

  “I’m a mother. Not much time for anything else.”

  He looked surprised. “Boy or girl?”

  “Girl. Elizabeth.” He didn’t register any recognition. Had she got this totally wrong? Maybe he was who he said he was. Sherlock was just an uncanny resemblance.