by A J Waines
‘Take your time,’ said the attendant, with a well-practised sympathy he must use every day for relatives taking those fateful steps towards the glass.
‘She’s stopped chewing…’ I said in a whisper.
‘Sorry?’
I stared at the large hoop earrings and the unmistakable double-stud in her nose.
‘Yes, I know her. I can’t remember her second name, but she’s recently been to see me at the clinic where I work. I’ll have a record…’
‘Okay. Can you take one more look to be sure.’ He tapped the glass.
I forced myself to look again. I was sure. It was Aysha, the girl whose mother had answered all the questions, while she’d sat listening to her iPod. She wouldn’t be responding to any more music, no matter how loud it was.
‘Which clinic was it?’ the attendant asked.
‘Fairways in Wimbledon. She came for a termination.’
‘And you work there?’ I nodded. ‘This will be useful for the police,’ he added.
Just before the trolley was wheeled away, I raised my arm. The figure on the other side took her hand off the grip bar.
‘Can I see what she’s wearing?’ I said to the assistant on my side of the glass.
He didn’t look fazed by my request - presumably he’d received far stranger demands in his time. He clicked a button by the window and spoke into a small box, asking for the covering sheet to be pulled right back. I avoided Aysha’s face this time and took a good look at her clothes. Tight halter-neck top, thick gold belt, ribbed mini-skirt, bare legs. The same kind of outfit she’d worn when she came to the clinic. Certainly none of these items had ever belonged to me. I let out a low breath and allowed myself to be guided back into the corridor.
The acrid smell was strong enough to take the skin off the inside of my nostrils. As soon as I was outside, I drew in the welcome air as if I’d been holding my breath under water. I pulled out a bottle from my bag and took several long swigs of juice to swill away the sickly taste that had turned the inside of my mouth into a foul-smelling pit - and headed back.
DCI Madison sounded pleased to hear from me.
‘You said in your message that you think you know the girl we found at Richmond Bridge?’
‘Yes. I’ve been over to the clinic and got her records. I’ve got them in front of me. There’s not much, but her name is Aysha Turner and there’s an address and telephone number.’ I read out the details. ‘She had a termination last Friday at Fairways.’
‘That’s really helpful. No one has come forward yet to identify her. You said her mother was with her when you saw her?’
‘Yeah. The long-suffering type. Looked like Aysha had already put her through enough turmoil for one life-time. She’s probably used to Aysha not coming home.’
‘Listen - the Senior Investigating Officer wants to see you. Asap.’ He pronounced it like it was a word. ‘Can you bring the clinic records with you - this afternoon? We’ve had the PM results from the first woman at Hammersmith and there could be a connection. In fact, can you bring all your recent records from the clinic? Is that too much for you to manage?’
I laughed. ‘I’ve only been there a few weeks, so there isn’t much paperwork. I’ll go back and see what I can find.’
Chapter Seven
DCI Madison showed me to a seat in a small office inside the police station on Shepherds Bush Road. It smelt of stale coffee. As he poured me a mug, I took a surreptitious look at him. We’d spoken on the phone a few times, but until then we hadn’t met in person. His hair was thick and dark brown, cut short with a clean side parting and his eyes were the kind of blue that made me think of outdoor swimming pools. Tall and charismatic, he looked like a hybrid between an airline pilot and an Italian waiter. The kind of pilot who would wink at you as you boarded the plane. The kind of waiter who would give you extra parmesan on your spaghetti bolognaise.
‘This is a bit awkward,’ he said. ‘The SIO wants to formally interview you before we go any further..’
I pushed the mug away. ‘I’m a suspect?’ I felt my eyes bulging, my jaw sag. ‘You should have warned me.’
‘It’s standard procedure.’ He shifted in his seat. His voice was cooler this afternoon, his words clipped. None of the matey tone he’d used with me so far.
I shrugged. It didn’t seem like I had much choice.
‘We need to go to another room. Follow me.’ I almost expected him to pull out a pair of handcuffs.
‘Don’t I need a lawyer, or something?’
He marched ahead of me. ‘Not at this stage. You’re not under arrest.’
‘I should think not!’
We moved to a stuffy windowless room with a black table in the centre, with three spindly wooden chairs not designed for sitting on parked around it and a tape-recorder, to one side. There was one-way glass along the wall. DCI Madison tried to placate me with another cup of coffee. I declined. Before I had a chance to sit, the door flew open.
Borough Commander Katherine Lorriman sliced the air with her arms as she breezed in. The SIO looked the part, with her navy-blue trouser suit, thick leather belt and flat shoes. Her thin lips had no trace of lipstick, but her no-nonsense approach was tempered by tiny pearl studs in her ears. DCI Madison introduced us all for the tape and BC Lorriman got straight to the point.
‘Ms Grey, you seem to be the common denominator. We need to find out why.’
That was my burning question, too, but I wasn’t the one who could answer it.
‘You’ve had one text message telling you to go to the scene of the first death. Then hours after you get a second message, we find ourselves with another dead body under a bridge…’ She stared at me as if expecting me to explain. As if somehow I was behind it all. ‘It’s a bit of a coincidence, Ms Grey.’
‘Listen,’ I said. ‘I’m terrified by this whole thing. I haven’t a clue what’s going on or why I’ve being singled out, like this.’ The temperature seemed to have suddenly risen in the room. I was finding it hard to breathe.
‘You say the first woman was wearing your old clothes?’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘We understand you’ve only recently started working at Fairways Clinic?’
‘Yes.’
‘It deals solely with abortions, right?’
I nodded.
‘Where do you stand, personally, with regard to abortion, Ms Grey?’
‘Me? I’m impartial.’ I didn’t hesitate. ‘I have to be, as a counsellor. I just help women explore all the options. Give them a non-judgemental space to check how they really feel about being pregnant.’
She stabbed her pen into the wad of notes in front of her, as if spearing a small fish. ‘Have you ever expressed views against abortion? Ever been in doubt?’
‘No, never. I’ve never been opposed to it. Never felt like that.’
The room was thick with an accusing tone, as thick as the smoke we would have generated had we all been heavy smokers. DCI Madison turned to me, his eyes lowered in apology.
‘We’ve had a minor breakthrough with the first victim.’ He was trying his best to diffuse the situation.
‘The woman at Hammersmith Bridge?’ I said.
‘She was American. It took us a while to track her down - her husband didn’t report her missing.’
BC Lorriman butted in. ‘Her name was Pamela Mendosa. She’d had a recent termination at Fairways. You’ve just identified the second victim as Aysha Turner, who had a termination there last week - so, you see, we have the same link to Fairways…and to you.’
So, they’d both had been to Fairways. Both had an abortion there.
I shook my head in frustration. ‘You really think I’m involved?’ Her gaze was fixed on me, her hands folded together, as if she was a judge about to pronounce her sentence. ‘Why would I draw attention to myself by sending obscure text messages to my own phone?’ I said. The room was starting to move of its own accord. I hadn’t eaten for a while and felt my han
ds shaking, my chest fluttering.
‘That’s what we’re keen to find out. It’s very personal, Ms Grey. Everything seems to point back to you.’ The Borough Commander leaned over the table at me. She looked like she was about to breathe fire into my face. ‘Where were you in the early hours of Sunday, 20th September and yesterday, Tuesday, 6th October?’
I thought for a second. ‘At home. Asleep.’
‘Can anyone vouch for that?’
My eyes flickered to DCI Madison.
‘No. I was alone.’
‘We’ll need to do some background checks into your history, Ms Grey, I’d like to —’
I cut her off.
‘Wait a minute,’ I said. I was on my feet. ‘The night before the first woman was found at Hammersmith Bridge, there was a break-in, downstairs.’ I was almost laughing with relief. ‘Your officers can vouch for me! The police came along sometime between two and three in the morning. Fulham Palace Road. I gave them cups of tea!’
BC Lorriman gave DCI Madison a sideways glance.
‘Right,’ she said, pulling her papers towards her. ‘We’ll need to look into that.’
DCI Madison took over, his voice softened now. It seemed I had slipped back into the category of helping-them-with-their-enquiries, instead of being about-to-be-arrested.
‘We’ll need to speak to your colleagues at Fairways and Holistica,’ he said. ‘Is there anything else we need to check out? Any clubs you’re a member of? Fitness classes? Church?’
‘Not really.’ I began to see what a paltry social life I’d managed to cultivate recently. Miriam was right. I needed more friends, but now wasn’t the time to find a salsa class or join the Ramblers.
‘Well - whatever - DCI Madison will take all the details,’ she said, as she rose to leave. He informed the tape that the interview was terminated and the SIO left the room without another word.
There was a pause, as if we were both waiting for her footsteps to recede.
‘I’m sorry about that.’ He said it as though he meant it. ‘She takes a hard line, but she gets results.’ I blew out a weary breath and sank back into the chair. ‘Got to be done, I’m afraid. Looks like you’re out of the frame now, but I do need to ask you a few more questions.’
My stomach gurgled and I realised how hungry I was.
‘Not without a decent sandwich,’ I said.
‘Fair enough. Let’s get out of here and go back to my office.’
The chicken was tough, the bread was dry, the lettuce was soggy, but it did the job.
‘The first woman you saw at Hammersmith Bridge, Pamela Mendosa, she was…strangled,’ he said, graciously allowing me to finish my last mouthful before informing me. A small involuntary sound slipped out of my mouth and I pressed my fingers over my lips. ‘Her husband had been abroad for three months, so the baby wasn’t his.’
‘No one missed her?’
‘Husband wasn’t in regular contact.’ He checked his notes. ‘On an archaeological site in Indonesia. They’d had a row before he left, apparently. When she didn’t answer his emails, he didn’t worry too much. He’s still there, so he’s not a direct suspect.’
I was mulling it over. ‘She’d had a termination at Fairways. I don’t recognise her name. Pamela something?’
‘Mendosa.’ He pulled out a pen. ‘Did you bring your records from the clinic?’
I lifted a manila file onto the desk. ‘I’ve spoken to the other counsellors and I’ve got a list of everyone who’s had a termination there in the last six months.’ I had a look down the extensive list. ‘Oh, yeah, here it is - Pamela Mendosa. Had a termination at Fairways on September 14th. Three weeks ago.’ I ran my finger across the page. ‘She didn’t see me for counselling, though. It says here she was down to see my colleague, Helen Boxer.’
‘Okay. We’ll be in touch with her and see what she can tell us.’
I took a sip of coffee. It was lukewarm and tasted like dust. I tried to turn my grimace into a silent comment on the case. ‘Can you think of any personal reason why London bridges or the Thames should have any connection with you?’ he said.
I leant on the table with my chin in my hand and stared into space.
‘No.’
‘Nothing connected to your parents, your family at all?’
I shook my head. ‘My parents moved to Spain in 1996, when I was eighteen - mainly for my Dad’s bronchitis. We used to live in Norwich. My brother was killed in a fire when I was twelve. There’s nothing in my parent’s lives that I can think of that might have any bearing on this…Dad’s quite well-off, he’s a property developer. He never lived in London, as far as I know.’
As DCI Madison added to his notes, I stared at the flip-over calendar on his desk and the surreal nature of the situation got the better of me. Here I was, sitting in the DCI’s private office, assisting the police with an investigation and viewing dead bodies as if this was normal life. It sent a shiver up my spine; an odd combination of intrigue and revulsion, with a smattering of excitement sprinkled over the top for good measure. Like a mountainous ice-cream that starts off tasting delicious, but you know will eventually make you sick.
‘And your mother?’ he said.
‘Mum was a social worker, before they both retired. She grew up in Cambridge.’
‘You can’t think of anyone your parents might have upset, or any disputes?’
‘Not a thing. Not during my life time. There’s no London connection at all that I can think of. I’ve only been here two years.’
‘Might be worth checking things out with your parents as soon as you can.’
I wondered how I could do that without giving them cause for concern. I also wondered if my parents had got hold of any British newspapers recently. At some stage they were going to read about the murders and realise how close they were to where I was living. At least, as far as I knew, my name had never been associated with the killings outside of the police.
‘And you, personally?’
‘Sorry?’ I was miles away.
‘Have you had any problems with anyone? Ex-boyfriends, disgruntled clients?’
I thought about Andrew. Just because he had a problem with drink didn’t make him a killer. I dismissed him, then remembered the odd scratches I’d seen on his neck when he met me at Hammersmith Bridge. He’d certainly been jumpy about them. Could they have been defence wounds? Did the victim claw at him in her bid to escape some frantic attack? The whole idea was ridiculous. Not Andrew. I didn’t want the police to waste valuable time. Mr Fin? He was creepy alright. Had he been following me the other evening? I thought about it and dismissed him too. I was just being jumpy. Mr Fin looked decidedly ill and frail; there’s no way I could see him having the strength to lift a watering can, never mind corner a woman, strangle her, then drag her body down to the river.
‘I don’t think so.’
There was a tap at the door and a young female officer popped her head in.
‘Sorry, sir, the results of the PM on the Richmond Bridge murder are here.’ The WPC’s blonde hair was tied up in bunches, making her look like a cheer-leader. She gave me a glance, as if silently asking whether she should continue. DCI Madison nodded. ‘Aysha Turner was strangled, sir, like the other one…and they can confirm she had a recent termination.’
She handed the DCI the report and left. At that moment I regretted having bolted down the chicken sandwich. I wanted to go home. Pretend none of this was happening. I wanted to be tucked up under a blanket on my sofa, watching this sort of havoc at a safe distance on television.
DCI Madison closed his file and stood up. He offered to take me home and I was glad to accept. My car was playing up so I’d caught the bus over, but I didn’t feel like being in a crowd right now. As he opened the passenger door for me, I noticed he had no ring on his wedding finger. I guessed he was probably the right side of forty, although his healthy tan and trim frame could be concealing a few extra years.
As we drove back, I asked him
something that had been playing on my mind since the discovery of the first body.
‘Do you think I’m in danger?’
‘You?’ I caught the ever-so-swift reorientation of his eyes, as they shifted from my face back to the road.
‘Yes. You know, the text message sending me to Hammersmith Bridge the night before the first…’ I swallowed, ‘…murder…and the fact that the first woman was wearing my clothes…and I definitely had contact with the second victim…’
We pulled up outside my flat. He rested his hands on the steering wheel.
‘I know this must all feel a bit too close to home, for you.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I’d like to say you’re not in any danger, but that would be flippant. At this stage, we really don’t know what’s going on. Someone has killed twice, and we cannot deny that there are links to you: through the text, the clothes, the clinic where you work.’ I could see he was struggling to tread the fine line between caution and scare-mongering, but when he put it like that, he made me recognise how impotent I felt. I was a helpless fly caught in a giant spider’s web. I found myself gripping the car seat even though we weren’t going anywhere. ‘You’ve not been threatened, have you?’ he said.
I stared out of the window for a second, trying to think.
‘Not unless you count the guy at the demonstration outside Fairways, the other day.’
‘What?’ He turned to me, letting go of the wheel.
‘Yeah. I was shaken at the time, but I didn’t think much of it. You expect that sort of thing when you work somewhere like Fairways.’ I tracked back to that day. ‘He certainly looked rough, nasty…and angry…and said I was a murderer and I’d pay for it….’
‘We need to follow this up.’ He rammed the gear-stick into first and the tyres squealed as we swung into a U-turn and took off, back the way we’d come.
I felt the colour drain from my face. How could I have dismissed it? So busy putting up on a brave face, I’d almost convinced myself it was nothing. I was glad I was sitting down. I’m not sure my legs would have supported me at this stage. ‘Is it him? Do you think he’s connected? Am I at risk?’
