by Alison Bruce
CHAPTER 42
WEDNESDAY, 11 MAY 2011
‘Julie, please open the door,’ Marlowe called from the landing of the block of flats.
‘Who is it?’ Julie Wilson called back.
‘My name’s Marlowe. You don’t know me.’
The door cracked open. ‘What do you want?’
‘I need to talk to you about Peter Walsh.’
Julie hesitated, but then allowed the door to swing wider and she took a few seconds to assess Marlowe.
Julie wore a towelling robe and her hair was still damp; she clearly hadn’t expected a visitor. There was a strange look in her eyes: contemptuous maybe, or cynical or embittered, or perhaps she’d just been caught off-guard – Marlowe couldn’t tell.
‘Go through.’ She waved Marlowe inside, and through to the lounge. Julie herself didn’t follow. Marlowe sat down beside the window and looked across to the car park, trying to guess whether Julie owned a car and, if so, which one. Only an Escort, a large Citroën and a small Fiat occupied the parking area. Knowing which car someone drove was a small piece of very public information, but it made her realize how very little she knew about Julie Wilson. She turned her gaze back to the sitting room and something about the bookshelves caught her eye. Without thinking, she was on her feet and across the room. She squatted suddenly to inspect the lower shelves.
Her concentration was broken by a loud cough. Marlowe turned sharply, like a startled rabbit. Julie stood close behind her, now dressed in a purple jumper and an ankle-length black jersey skirt, with coffee mug in hand. She had clearly watched as Marlowe began poking through her bookshelves.
‘Sorry,’ Marlowe muttered.
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Julie’s voice had chilled from cool to icy. ‘He said you weren’t all there, so it’s nice to see you can at least read.’
Marlowe scrambled to her feet. ‘And write and add, if you’re really interested.’ A cheap clock ticked loudly from the wall above the television. ‘I’m not thick, if that’s what he told you. I know, for example, that he gave us both a bad time and …’ She let her sentence trail into nothing.
‘And?’ Julie demanded.
That single word instantly filled Marlowe with huge disdain for the other woman. ‘And?’ she echoed, her tone suddenly oozing with heavy sarcasm. ‘Oh yes, and you’re not that thick either, are you, so I thought you might be the one to give me the answers to some questions that are bugging me.’
‘About him?’
Marlowe felt a familiar anger beginning to fill her, and heard her words becoming angrier, driven from within. ‘Yes “him”. It’s wicked even allowing his name to pass your lips, isn’t it? Even after so long.’
‘What’s the point of this?’ Julie turned away, placing her mug on the table to avoid looking at her visitor. ‘Life goes on, you know.’
‘Maybe for you.’ Marlowe hesitated, picked a paperback from the lower shelf, and continued. ‘I have this book too, and most of these in fact, and that picture, and at least half of your videos…’
‘And so does Pete.’
‘But I had them first. And I’ve watched him with you, and with your replacement, and now with the latest one. And he’s taken us all to the same places and tried to make us the same.’
‘So what?’ Julie answered, turning back to Marlowe, her face now a mask, the eyes hard and ungiving.
Perhaps Julie doesn’t care. Marlowe dismissed the thought. ‘Julie, have you ever heard of a girl called Helen Neill?’
‘No, who is she?’
‘A murder victim. Her body turned up about a year before you met Peter. In the Forest of Dean.’
‘Did she look like you?’ Julie asked.
‘Yes, like both of us, I suppose.’ Marlowe stepped towards her. ‘You know who I mean, don’t you?’
Julie shrugged but didn’t move. ‘Pete showed me her picture in the paper one day. Said it was a bit like you.’
‘If I said I think Peter’s connected to her death, would you help me trap him?’ Marlowe reached forward to touch her arm.
‘No,’ Julie jerked away, ‘that’s crap.’
Marlowe pressed on. ‘He needs to be stopped.’
‘Stopped from what? Going out with other girls?’ Julie kept backing away until they reached the narrow passage approaching the front door.
‘No, from killing them,’ Marlowe pleaded, unaware of her left fist thumping the wall beside her.
‘You’re obsessed.’ Julie felt behind her for the door. ‘You and him are two of a kind. But he’s out of my life now, and you should stop trying to vilify him and just come to terms with being dumped.’
‘You’re wrong,’ Marlowe breathed.
‘No, no, you’re wrong! Wrong coming here and trying to drag me into your therapy.’ Julie unclipped the latch. ‘So what if Pete likes girls that look alike? And it’s all our own fault if we stick around for his abuse. But that’s what you haven’t come to terms with, isn’t it? He treated you badly because you let him. Get your head around that. Deal with it. Put him in the past.’ She stepped to one side. ‘Now I want you to leave.’
Marlowe dropped the book at Julie’s feet and drew herself closer until they stood eye to eye, and Julie’s shoulder blades were pressed against the passage wall. Marlowe’s voice went quiet. ‘You may be right about some of it, Julie, but I’ll tell you this. The next time another girl is murdered, it will be on your conscience as much as it’s on mine.’
Julie pushed herself away from the wall and shoved Marlowe back against the opposite one. ‘My life’s going well and he can’t touch me now,’ she hissed. She then clamped her fingers around Marlowe’s upper arm, digging her nails into the underside, and thrust her out of the flat.
CHAPTER 43
MONDAY, 16 MAY 2011
Fiona Robinson loved entering other people’s homes. It was the best part of being an estate agent, and it kept her competitive. She could always judge her own progress by comparing her home with the ones she was viewing, to decide whether she was achieving enough.
And, given her age, she knew she was doing better than at least ninety per cent of the clients she saw. Including This One, she thought, as she waited on the doorstep of the old terrace house in Glisson Road. The aluminium door opened a crack and Mrs Reynolds squinted at her from behind the chain.
‘Hello, I’m Fiona Robinson,’ she beamed, ‘from Sampson’s, the estate agents.’
‘Right-ho, dear. Hold on and I’ll let you in.’ The arthritic fingers trembled as she struggled with the chain.
Fiona wondered why such security gadgets weren’t designed to be easier for the elderly to use quickly.
Eventually the door opened and Fiona entered a small hallway bedecked in large-print, dark-brown leafed wallpaper.
She knew instantly this would be a ‘plenty of original features’ property, but ‘in need of updating’.
‘How are you, Mrs Reynolds?’
‘Oh, not so bad, my dear. Can I get you a cup of tea?’
‘No time, I’m afraid. I’m really busy today.’
Mrs Reynolds was a widow about to move into a development of flats for the retired. She talked constantly. ‘I lost my Eric four years ago this September, you know.’
Fiona smiled sympathetically, for a second.
‘He had cancer – was ill for two years before he went. We’ve got one daughter, a bit older than you, but I don’t see her much. She’s very busy. Well, you all are, aren’t you, you young people.’
‘Uh-huh’ Fiona noted down the dimensions of the dining room and proceeded to the kitchen.
‘Like you, I expect – busy getting ahead. So I’ve decided to buy a flat and spend any money left over so it never gets wasted on nursing fees when I’m really old.’
‘Good idea,’ Fiona replied, as she checked the under-stairs cupboard.
‘That’s what my daughter said. I said, “What about you?” and she said “Don’t worry, I’m doing fine.” I must admit that I thou
ght, then, if you don’t need all the money you’re earning, perhaps you could come round more often. But I didn’t say so, of course.’
‘No.’ Fiona made her way upstairs, still pursued by the lonely Mrs Reynolds.
‘Do you have family nearby, then?’
‘No, they’re in Bradford.’ Fiona wrote some brief notes and hurried on to the last bedroom.
‘Not married either?’
‘No, no, quite happy single, actually.’ Fiona reached the head of the stairs and closed her notebook. ‘All done, thank you, Mrs Reynolds,’ she said, smiling brightly.
They made their way back down, and Mrs Reynolds carried on chatting. ‘A nice young lady like you should be courting at least.’ Fiona opened the front door, keen to move on to her next appointment but, before she could speak, Mrs Reynolds continued, ‘Unless you’re one of these modern women married to their careers. I’ve been out with one or two men from the social club.’ She wrinkled up her nose. ‘I’d love to have a young man – or at least one with his own teeth and all his marbles.’
Fiona laughed then, caught off guard.
Her 3.30 appointment was in Queen Edith’s Way, viewing another property about to go on the market. The owner, Anita Marshall, hadn’t yet signed a contract and wanted to meet first to discuss details.
Fiona pulled into the cobbled drive and parked behind a new black BMW cabriolet.
This house, she decided, belonged to a client in the other ten per cent.
A dark-haired woman answered the door and motioned Fiona inside, whilst she continued chatting on her phone. Fiona hovered in the hallway, already making mental notes for the sale literature. Finally the woman finished her call. Her hand shot out and gave Fiona’s a swift shake. ‘Anita Marshall.’
‘Fiona Robinson, pleased to meet you,’ she said to the back of Anita’s head, as she followed her towards the kitchen. And then into each successive room, as she was marched swiftly on a tour of the house.
A brief fifteen minutes later, she was back in her car, her ears ringing from Anita Marshall’s self-satisfied tributes to her own success. ‘I worked for all of this.’ And, ‘I love living alone.’ And, ‘What could a man give me that I haven’t got here?’ And even, ‘I’d never have succeeded like this if I’d had children.’
Fiona realized how she herself probably sounded the same. Unconvincing. Unfulfilled. Lonely.
For the first time in her career, Fiona’s determination had wavered just a fraction. Oh, yes, she was galloping forwards all right. But she suddenly realized that she wasn’t sure where her final goal lay.
Her original motivation to succeed had been twofold: firstly to prove she could, and secondly to assure herself of an independent future. Even last Christmas, when everyone else was enjoying festive flings, she had been glad that she’d been too occupied to have time to meet anyone.
But now?
Now, she suddenly decided, she didn’t want to turn into poor, isolated Anita Marshall.
CHAPTER 44
THURSDAY, 19 MAY 2011
Fiona was waiting in Hanley Road. She stayed in her car and flicked through her diary, as six o’clock came and went.
Mr Kimber was late, but viewers often were.
Fiona doodled little boxes around the day’s appointments, then shaded them with light pen strokes. Yesterday she had written ‘Busy today, had lunch at Brown’s – very good. Sold Easter Cottage.’
Her diary entries were rarely more than one or two brief comments on the day’s events. And, so far today, she had nothing she wished to write down.
She looked up just as Peter Walsh crossed the road on to her side. He had spotted her already, and nodded to her as he approached. The neighbour? It wouldn’t hurt to say hello, she thought, and stepped out of her MX-5 to meet him.
They smiled politely at one another.
‘Have you been waiting long?’ he asked.
‘No, just a few minutes. I guess it’s just one of those afternoons,’ she said.
‘Estate agents are a nightmare.’
She smiled. ‘Aren’t they just!’
‘Yup, they should all be shot.’
‘You’re going to kill me, then,’ she laughed, reaching into her pocket and pulling out a set of keys clearly marked ‘28 Hanley Road’. She waved them in front of him. ‘I’m the estate agent, actually.’
He laughed, too, and then shook his head. ‘I’ve put my foot in now it, haven’t I?’
‘Depends on whether you were being sexist when you mistook me for the buyer.’
He pursed his lips, screwing up his nose, as he gave her a sheepish smile. ‘I think I probably was. That’s unforgivable, isn’t it?’
‘At least you’re honest,’ she admitted, and quite spontaneously she touched his arm.
Her diary entry for the day was to be typically short. She doodled a little bunch of flowers tied with a bow and wrote: ‘Client d.n.a. at Hanley Road, but neighbour interesting.’
CHAPTER 45
FRIDAY, 27 MAY 2011
The custody sergeant rang Goodhew as soon as Andy Burrows’ paperwork was in order, and he was thus free to leave.
Burrows waited for Goodhew in the lobby. ‘They said you’d offered to give me a lift home. I’d appreciate it – if it’s still OK, that is.’
‘Of course,’ Goodhew said, then walked him through to the car park.
As soon as Burrows fastened his seatbelt, he started to talk. ‘You heard about my mother, I suppose? I wish she’d lived to see me get let out. Since I found out I was going home, I’ve been saying to myself that she knows, though. She’s looking down on me, that’s what I think.’
‘Did you miss her funeral?’
‘No, it was on the Monday before last, and I had an escort, of course. I saw Margaret then. I felt so sorry for her, I couldn’t look her in the eye. You heard what I did, I suppose?’
‘Bits and pieces,’ Goodhew fibbed.
‘Well, I’ve made a proper statement now, but I don’t mind telling you again that it was you I wanted to talk to when I came in, in the first place.’ He paused and the silence jarred him into talking more quickly, chattering simply to avoid another lull. ‘She was keen to visit Woodbridge, and she’d mentioned it several times in the past, but with Mum’s birthday coming up it now seemed ideal. I don’t know what she found so interesting for so long, and the first hour was fine, but then she kept going round and round all the antiquey shops, peering at every little display case. D’you know what I mean?’
Goodhew nodded. ‘Not my cup of tea, either.’ He eased his foot from the accelerator simply to prolong the journey.
‘Well, I decided to wander off on my own for a bit, and in the end I popped into a pub for a pint. By the time I met up with her again, I’d had three but I was fine to drive. It had been a couple of hours since, and it’s supposed to wear off at a pint an hour. And it’s OK to drive on two, isn’t it?’
‘So I’ve heard.’ Goodhew made a deliberately non-committal response, keen to avoid being sidetracked into a debate on drinking. ‘Is that what you and Kaye argued about?’
‘How do you know we argued?’ Andy frowned.
‘Something made her get out of your car.’
‘How do you know she was ever in it?’
‘We found her purchases, remember?’ Goodhew glanced at Burrows, realizing that he’d now broken the flow of the story. ‘Where did she get out?’
‘We’d travelled five or six miles and we were approaching the centre of Ipswich – you know, near the hospital, by the roundabout? I’m not even sure that’s the best way back to Cambridge from Woodbridge, but that’s just where we ended up.’
Burrows’ voice trailed off and he turned his head away from Goodhew to stare through his window. Goodhew kept quiet, and when Andy spoke again the pace of his words had quickened. ‘She said I was irresponsible. She jumped out, yelling, said I had no right to put her at risk by drinking and driving. She marched off towards the city centre. I was sure she’d get
the train or the bus. And I thought serve her right for being stroppy, although I expected her to tell on me, just to make sure I’d get a hard time. So I didn’t go to Mum’s party.’
He began rubbing the knuckles of his left hand up and down in a curve on the inside of the door, making a deliberate distraction for himself, and his voice dropped to one notch above a whisper. ‘I didn’t even know she didn’t get back.’ His voice wavered, then choked with tears. ‘I feel so guilty … But I tell myself I wasn’t to know. Was I?’ Gulping, he rambled on, ‘Kaye made time for people. She was nice. And Mum’s died not knowing if it was me … I don’t understand why anyone would do this to us all.’
At last, Goodhew pulled up at Burrows’ flat.
A pane of glass in the front door had become the thoroughfare for half a brick. The jagged edges of the wound poked inwards, as the remaining glass fragments held each other in a wobbly grip.
Andy’s mounting anguish vanished, as if cut to size by those shards of glass. ‘I’m not popular, am I?’ he observed, and turned back to look Goodhew straight in the face. ‘Look, I know I’ve ballsed up from start to end, and I’m so, so sorry, but all I can say to help you is that I can’t imagine Kaye taking a lift from anyone she didn’t know. Even from a woman.’
Goodhew left Burrows standing on the pavement, glad to be free but not glad to be home.
He immediately rang Gully. ‘Sue, it’s me. I’ve just dropped Andy Burrows home. Can you find out who’s following up his statement? I’m sure they’re already checking the security cameras at the train and bus stations in Ipswich, but could you suggest they include the hospital? Just in case.’
‘Which one?’
‘Don’t know, but it’s a big one near the centre, at a roundabout, I think.’
