by Anne Coates
“Down and outs, tramps and whores,” someone muttered.
“Being homeless and poor doesn’t make someone a murderer. There was no reason to kill her. I want to make some sense of her death. I...”
Hannah realised she’d lost everyone’s attention if she’d ever had it. Her cheeks burned. She’d said too much yet again. Or rather she hadn’t said enough – she hadn’t been objective, cool. She’d let everyone see her hurt but not her professionalism, her...
“Okay Hannah.” Terry’s voice broke into her thoughts. “The story’s yours. We’ll have a first person account of what it was like to find a close friend murdered. Write that first then get some angle on the priest and see if you can get a few of her clients to talk. Liaise closely with Rory. Right that’s it folks. Hang on a minute Rory, will you? And you too Jude.”
The phone was ringing as Hannah unlocked the front door and stopped abruptly as she rushed up the stairs. From behind the study door she could hear her own voice asking the caller to leave a message or to contact her on her mobile phone. Hannah dived into the room and picked up the receiver.
“Hello this is Hannah Weybridge.”
“Oh Hannah, thank goodness. I do so hate leaving messages on those machines. Liz always...” The well modulated tones of Celia Rayman broke off. Hannah could visualise the older woman’s delicately made up face and elegantly groomed, steel grey hair. That was how she always looked but that was before Liz’s death. Maybe now Celia looked lined and haggard, her eyes haunted...
“I’m so sorry dear, I still can’t get used to...” Liz’s mother paused searching for a word to describe her daughter’s violent departure from the world. There was none.
“Neither can I, Celia, I...”
“Look dear, let’s not talk on the phone, it’s so difficult and I ... and I...”
The sob of desperation she could hear in Celia’s voice brought tears to Hannah’s own eyes. She swallowed hard.
“Could you come over to see me, Hannah? This afternoon? And bring that adorable baby of yours.”
“Well if you’re sure?” Hannah was referring to Elizabeth’s inclusion in the invitation. Celia Rayman had been forthright in her opinions when she had heard that Hannah was pregnant and intended to bring up a child on her own. It was surprising really since, after her husband had inexplicably walked out on her when Liz was just three years old, Celia had in effect been a single parent. Robert Rayman had never been seen or heard of again and his deserted wife had long since given up making any reference to him.
“She’ll do me the power of good,” the older woman continued. “Would two-thirty suit you?”
Hannah smiled. That was the old Celia. Always asking if a time would suit when you knew damn well it would inconvenience her greatly if you didn’t accept her schedule.
“That’ll be fine, Celia. I’ll see you then.”
If Hannah had expected a distraught and weeping mother made inarticulate by the sudden loss of her only child, she was in for a shock. Celia Rayman bore no outward signs of her grief. She did not look haggard, dishevelled. She appeared as immaculate as ever. Her white hair was caught back in its customary chignon, her nose was powdered and her lips defined with their usual pink lustre. If anything her eyes seemed colder, harder. But her expression softened when Hannah and Elizabeth were shown into the drawing-room of the large Kensington house the Raymans had owned for ever.
“Hannah!” Celia walked over to them her arms outstretched. Her cheeks made momentary contact with Hannah’s but for the first time in their acquaintance, the younger woman felt the older’s firm embrace.
Celia stepped back. Her eyes looked suspiciously aqueous but she turned her gaze to the toddler. Hannah was amazed by the tenderness of her smile. Celia knelt down.
“Hello Elizabeth. How lovely to see you. Come over here and I’ll show you what I’ve found for you to play with.”
With no hesitation Elizabeth clasped the proffered hand and waddled over to the sofa where there was a collection of cuddly animals, some of which must have once have been dearly loved judging from their battered and threadbare condition. Liz’s? Hannah had to press her fingernails into her palms. She couldn’t, wouldn’t break down in front of Celia.
Elizabeth was happily playing with and rearranging the soft toys when tea and coffee arrived on a tray which was placed on the highly polished table at Celia’s side by her companion and housekeeper of many years standing. Mary Cuthrington smiled tremulously at Hannah, looked to be about to say something then left the high ceilinged room quickly but not as silently as she might have wished. Hannah glanced at Celia who made no comment on the receding figure.
“I remembered you don’t drink tea, my dear.” Hannah was touched. Although the older woman was certainly grief-stricken, she maintained her role.
The niceties over and Elizabeth chatting away to the teddies in some make-believe world, Celia turned her attention to Hannah. Without preamble she began, “I don’t believe for one moment that my daughter was killed by some ... some... “Celia’s hand shook as she took another sip of tea. “Some drunken down and out. There’s more to it than that and I want you Hannah to find out for me exactly what was so important that my daughter had to lose her life for it!”
Celia’s colour had risen and so had her voice but she was not about to break down. Celia Rayman was far too furious for that. Hannah felt her admiration for the woman she had grown to know through her friendship with Liz increase enormously.
“I’m not sure I understand you.”
In the cab going home, with Elizabeth slumbering peacefully in her car seat, Hannah mulled over her conversation with Celia. Her friend’s mother had astonished her with the proposal that Hannah should act for her and investigate Liz’s death. Celia had been adamant that she would pay Hannah.
“My dear girl you simply cannot afford to be sentimental in this world.” They were both silent for a moment. Had Liz lost her life for that emotion? “I phoned around some of these... agencies... and I believe this will cover your time and let me know if you have any expenses.”
Hannah’s eye’s hardly focussed on the cheque or the amount it was made out for but she did agree to meet Celia the next day at Liz’s Barbican practice where she also lived “above the shop”, very much to Celia’s annoyance.
Elizabeth sighed in her sleep and Hannah stroked her cheek. She still couldn’t take in Celia’s parting comment.
“Of course you knew she was pregnant, didn’t you?”
Hannah had felt her world tilt sideways. She was stunned by this revelation. She’d had no idea Liz had been even thinking about having a child. It made Hannah realise how far apart they had grown. How little she now knew of her friend.
What a double tragedy for Celia. The loss of her daughter and her unborn grandchild. No wonder she was angry.
FIVE
Paul Montague stared at the man sitting opposite him. He thought he’d never recognise him again if seen in a crowd. He was nondescript with his grey hair and horn-rimmed spectacles but he exuded an air of menace that made Paul more afraid than he’d ever been before in his entire life. He had never thought of himself as particularly principled but this man was in a league of his own. What he was asking…
“Do I have to make myself any clearer Mr Montague?” The silence stretched between them like an unplayed note on a violin string. “Either you do as we ask or we pull the plug on your company, your assets and your family…”
“My parents are dead,” he said as if that fact would save him.
“But not your daughter.”
“I don’t have a daughter.”
“Not what our intelligence leads us to believe. A liaison with a certain Hannah Weybridge … Elizabeth born...”
“You contemptible shit.” Paul’s collar felt tight, his hands clammy. He’d known when he’d borrowed the money against his house and company that he was taking a risk. But that was how business expansion worked. He hadn’t known that the loan
company had such dubious or frankly criminal connections. In fact how he’d got into this situation was a mystery. A decidedly scary one.
“How did you come to take over my loan. I wasn’t defaulting. There was no problem with repayments.” Paul was clutching at straws and he knew it.
The man before him in this pokey, grey office tucked away in a back street of Westminster, smiled. Icy fingers gripped his heart.
“No there was no problem.” Again that silence. “We made that company a very generous offer which they didn’t refuse. And now I’m making you an offer. A challenge if you like. All you have to do is ingratiate yourself with a certain journalist to find out what we need to know. Piece of cake for a man of your talents surely.”
Paul felt like a hooked fish gulping for air.
“What do you need to know?” He tried to keep his voice level but it betrayed his fear. His bespoke suit felt too tight. He undid the jacket button.
“It’s all here.” He pushed a large manilla envelope towards Paul. “That’s the background. Read it at your leisure. We need to know where certain information is or how far it has been disseminated. That’s all. Nothing too difficult for a man of your intelligence and connections.” That smile would curdle milk.
Paul picked up the envelope and stood up. He felt a trickle of sweat run down the inside of his shirt as he buttoned up his jacket.
“Don’t take too long, Mr Montague. Very powerful men are depending on you. Do I make myself clear?”
“You do.” Paul made his exit as quickly as he could without appearing to be running scared. Outside the door he put on his coat. It felt heavier than when he went in or maybe it was because he had withered inside. An hour ago he had not known of this man’s existence. An hour ago his life was on track. One phone call and a meeting later had put an end to all that.
Then as he walked out of the street door some of his previous confidence returned. He’d just find out whatever these people wanted – if he could – and then he’d be off the hook.
SIX
Celia Rayman sighed, stood up and walked across to the 15th floor window and looked out at the cityscape below. There was St Giles-without-Cripplegate engulfed in a maze of stairways, pedestrian bridges and high buildings. Only a few fountains to distract the eye.
“I’ve never liked this flat. Never... But I’d give anything to have Liz here now.”
Hannah heard the sob in her voice and hesitated. Celia was not the type of woman to encourage physical contact. She stood rigid in her grief and Hannah had to pull her away from the window to the sofa.
“Oh Hannah it’s such a waste. Such a loss. I...”
The younger woman embraced the slim frame, stroked her hand and murmured reassuring words much as she would have done if Elizabeth had fallen over and hurt herself.
“What must you think of me?” said Celia pulling away and blowing her nose delicately into a lace-edged handkerchief.
Hannah wiped her eyes with a crumpled tissue. “You’re a mother who’s lost her only daughter. I can understand that, although I can’t begin to imagine how you must feel...”
Celia patted her hand. “Yes, you have dear little Elizabeth. Liz was so delighted when you named her and asked her to be a godmother –” Hannah did not correct the use of the word but Celia interpreted her expression – “sponsor, whatever. It all comes down to the same thing. Now,” her voice took on a business-like quality, “the police have taken away a few things but my impression is that they weren’t looking for anything really. They still seem convinced Liz was murdered by one of her homeless patients. So I suggest we look for any of her diaries and appointment books and the computer disks. Yours is compatible, I take it?”
Hannah, amused at the technical phrasing, shook her head. “’Fraid not. Mine’s a ...”
“Never mind, you’ll just have to take the computer too. A nuisance, I know, but needs must.”
Hannah glanced around the room Liz used as a study. It was immaculate. Liz had furnished the whole apartment in a minimalist Swedish style and everything was glass and leather. Each of the five rooms was ordered and neat; it looked more like a show house than someone’s home. But that was Liz for you. Hannah thought of her own cluttered house and could never imagine her friend leaving a sinkful of washing-up or dirty clothes lying on the bedroom floor.
In fact, like mother like daughter, Celia had already switched on the washing machine when she arrived having stripped the bed. But a little while later, Hannah had found her sitting on the edge of the mattress clutching a blouse to her face, inhaling all that was left of her dead daughter’s fragrance.
“I’m going to leave everything else as it is,” she said as she made her way through the apartment pulling out plugs and making sure windows were firmly locked. “Anyway it might not be up to me. We haven’t had the will read yet.”
“But surely...” Hannah was about to say that surely the police had checked the will to see who would benefit from Liz’s death. Up until now she’d assumed her mother would inherit everything with perhaps a small bequest to Elizabeth. But as Liz had been pregnant, maybe she had left everything to the putative father.
“Had Liz planned to marry?” she asked gently.
Celia gave her a despairing look. “How should I know? It was the police who told me of her condition. The pregnancy was noted during the post mortem. Eight weeks gestation.” Celia’s tone was clipped and all at once she looked older than her years. “Perhaps no one else knew. Perhaps she didn’t know herself?”
Oh I think she knew, thought Hannah. I bet that’s what she was going to tell me when ... But who was the father? Liz hadn’t had a regular boyfriend for ages. Still... “Had you met any of her boyfriends recently?” Hannah asked.
Celia shook her head. “I think I’ll lock up now. I told them we’d be at the surgery at eleven o’clock. We’ll leave that –” she pointed to the computer they had carried to the door – “for the porter to bring down.”
Hannah rubbed her eyes and swung her chair round away from the scrolls of information on the screen. She stood up and stretched to release the tension in her shoulders. Hannah looked at her watch. For two hours she’d been going through the files on Liz’s computer and disks. She needed a break and went downstairs to catch up on the day’s news.
She poured herself a glass of wine and just as she switched on the television, the telephone rang. Using the remote to turn the sound down, she settled herself on the sofa, her legs curled beneath her, and picked up the receiver. “Hannah Weybridge.”
There was a slight pause before Tom’s voice came over like a warm caress. “How are you and how’s little Elizabeth?”
“We’re fine.” Just hearing his voice brought memories. The lump in her throat threatened to put an end to all conversation.
“Hannah..?”
“Oh Tom I’ve just been through Liz’s files and...”
“What the hell for?” Tom sounded perplexed and irritated although Hannah couldn’t think why. She felt affronted.
“Celia, Liz’s mother, has asked me to investigate her death.” To Hannah’s own ears the word investigate linked to her feeble enquiries seemed nothing short of an exaggeration if not a blatant contravention of the trades’ description act.
“But Hannah you don’t know the first thing about investigating a murder!”
“I’m investigating as a journalist not as a detective and she’s paying me. Anyway if you have so little confidence in my capabilities you can give me some tuition.” She said this lightly but Tom evidently took her seriously.
“Have you got the results of the post mortem yet?”
“Well I haven’t seen the report but apparently Liz died of a massive heart attack presumably brought on by the knife slashing her neck and fear of her assailant.” Hannah marvelled that she managed to keep her voice so matter of fact.
“Go on,” prompted Tom, the time lapse in the conversation making it seem all the more weird.
“
That wound, it appears was not fatal. It seems strange to me though. Liz never had a problem with her heart, with her health in general. One surprise it did reveal is that Liz was eight weeks pregnant.”
A noise somewhere between a sigh and a snort emanated from the phone. “Get another one done.”
“I’m sorry?”
“Have another, private post mortem carried out,” said Tom.
“But why?” To Hannah a post mortem was a post mortem whoever carried it out.
“The pathologist may have missed something. Anyway it pays to be sure...”
“Of what?”
“We’ll see.” Background sounds suggested someone else had come into the room. “I’ll have to ring off now but you take care. And for God’s sake don’t take any risks. If you discover anything at all go to the police!” The last words were spoken as if underlined.
Hannah mumbled her goodbyes. A second post mortem, that was something positive to get Celia, as next of kin, to arrange. She turned her attention to the television screen but her mind was not engaged. Tom’s lack of confidence in her abilities to examine Liz’s death reinforced her own worries. She was out of her depth and she knew it. She wanted to phone Celia and release herself from the task but as she watched a film clip of flooding in the north east, it occurred to her that perhaps Celia wanted to use her because, as a friend, she’d be protective of Liz’s past life and reputation. And there was nothing to stop Hannah employing professionals to help her.
Feeling easier, Hannah stretched out her legs before almost leaping into an upright position. Filling the screen was the picture of an elderly man with a rather strange expression on his face. Expression aside, there was no denying his identity. The eyes were now opaque but the white leonine hair and craggy features were incontrovertibly those of the man who had asked her what was happening as she left St John’s on the night of Liz Rayman’s murder. And now he too had been found dead. In suspicious circumstances it would seem. The police were making this appeal to try to trace his family and ascertain his identity via the media.
