by JANICE FROST
“It seems that Mr Taylor left very suddenly,” the young woman added, shaking her head. Reading off the screen, she said. “It says here that one of his classes did exceptionally well, and they were interviewed for a feature in the local paper. There was a picture of the group with their tutor,” she said, directing a meaningful look at Ava.
“Thank you,” Ava said, smiling back, already planning a detour to the newspaper office.
In less than an hour, on the pretext of being a sociology PhD student researching the impact of learning English on recent immigrants’ chances of finding employment, Ava had a copy of the photograph and the names of all the women pictured with a smiling Christopher Taylor.
Locating them would be easy, as they all lived in one or other of the estates serviced by the community centre. Stopping only for a takeaway coffee and croissant in a Costa near the newspaper office, Ava made tracks for the centre, armed with a copy of the picture.
The community centre was housed in a former primary school building of Victorian origin. Carved in stone above the two doors, you could still see the separate signs for boys’ and girls’ entrances and the date — 1862 — when the school had been built. There was nothing dreary about the place, for all that it was utilitarian in purpose and over one hundred and fifty years old. The doors were painted a cheerful glossy red and the windows were UPVC and brilliant white.
The old school playground at the side of the building had modern play equipment, a wooden tower with a twisty slide, swings and tunnels and climbing frames in bright primary colours. On the other side there was a garden landscaped with shrubs and wooden seats. It was a multi-cultural, multi-purpose centre intended to cater for the needs of the local community, both educational and recreational, like hundreds of others across the country. It wasn’t the sort of place Ava could imagine the suave Taylor fitting in. She was in no doubt that his volunteering there had been a means to an end, had ticked some boxes on his career path, or maybe he just needed the money.
Ava stepped inside, pausing at a notice board that displayed signs about clubs, events and classes being held at the Centre. ESOL, or English as a Second Language classes were held on Mondays and Wednesdays in the afternoon. Ava jotted down the contact details for the class and then followed a sign directing visitors to the information desk. The young woman she had seen earlier was nowhere in sight. The information desk was in a small classroom that a couple of paid community workers and volunteers used as an office.
As soon as she walked through the door, Ava was greeted warmly by a middle-aged woman in an emerald green sari. On her way to the Centre, Ava had embellished her background story. She was a social sciences student, researching the experiences of women from other cultures learning English, and was interested in interviewing the women to find out how the lessons had benefited them in the years since their qualification. She had been given a copy of the photograph of Christopher Taylor’s former class by the professor himself, she said, as well as the names of some former students of his who might be willing to talk to her.
It all sounded a bit implausible to Ava, but the woman in the makeshift office seemed genuinely pleased to help and — amazingly — contacted three of the women there and then to see if they were available for interview.
* * *
That was how, only twenty minutes later, Ava came to be sipping warm, milky tea in the flat of one of the women, while they waited for more members of the group to arrive, her enthusiastic hostess having made calls to several of the others.
As she sipped, Ava began feverishly putting together a list of questions to ask the women, feeling a twinge of guilt at exploiting their willingness to help.
Six members of the group turned up within ten minutes of Ava’s arrival. They were all complimentary about Taylor, saying what a fine teacher he had been and so handsome and charming. Clearly, he had made an impression. Of the ten members of the class, four were missing. Two were at work, one was visiting relatives and the last, pictured with her arm around a beautiful young girl, had moved away.
As they looked at the photograph, and were reminiscing, one of the women pointed at the missing group member, prompting a discussion about her sudden departure from the estate, soon after the photograph was taken. It was the last time the group had been together. Mr Taylor had departed soon afterwards and his students were split up, most of them going to a class run by his replacement, a retired female schoolteacher, very dull by comparison.
From their hushed voices as they discussed the woman’s departure, Ava could tell that something was amiss.
“Why did she leave the group?” Ava asked, noting the way they all looked at each other, unwilling to talk.
“She was transferred to another estate. It all happened very quickly, within a couple of days,” one of them volunteered.
“Is that unusual?” Ava asked. Her question sparked a heated debate about how long most people waited for the council to transfer them, even in circumstances of severe overcrowding. Even though she had been their friend, the woman had apparently left without a word of explanation. For a few minutes they chattered in their own language, but from their lowered tones and furtive glances, Ava could tell they were gossiping.
“Was there some kind of emergency?” she asked, eager to know more. She directed her question at the group, but let her eyes linger a little longer on one woman, whom she believed to be the lead gossip. At first it seemed that no one was willing to answer, and then the woman she had singled out confirmed Ava’s suspicions.
“We don’t really know, but we think there must have been some scandal involving the family,” she said. “For a family to move so quickly, it must be something of that nature.” It was clear to Ava, that this implied some kind of sexual scandal, though she was certain the woman would never say so.
On a sudden impulse she asked, “Who is the young girl with her? Is it her daughter?”
“Yes, that’s Rohina, her daughter. She sometimes came with her mother to the evening class. Very pretty girl. Only fourteen when picture taken.” The others looked at her as though in warning. There was a silence. A couple of the women looked down. No one spoke but the atmosphere had changed suddenly. Ava felt less welcome than before.
“Is it alright if I ask you some questions relating to my research?” she asked hurriedly in a bid to repair the situation. For the next half hour she played the part of academic researcher. The women were cooperative and answered her questions fully and honestly, but they were a different group now, guarded, closed, wary of the outsider in their midst.
Back at the information desk, Ava spoke with the woman in the green sari, whose name was Rukhsana, this time revealing her true purpose in visiting the estate. At first Rukhsana was angry at being deceived, but she also seemed a little in awe of Ava’s badge, and her rank of Detective Sergeant. Before she said goodbye to Rukhsana, Ava had elicited a promise from her to find out what she could about Rohina and her family, and pass on what she knew to Ava.
It was mid-afternoon by the time Ava left the estate with a notebook full of notes for an imaginary thesis. She had also made other, more relevant notes, and in particular, about the coincidence of Taylor’s sudden departure from the class at roughly the same time as Rohina and her mother’s disappearance from the estate.
Chapter 13
A little before eight the following morning, Ava slipped into Neal’s office, coffee cup in hand, and made a beeline for her boss’s black leather chair, that he had brought in personally when a trapped nerve in his spine had made it impossible for him to sit comfortably in anything else. Every time she sat in it (and that wasn’t often) Ava too felt spoiled for any other chair.
There was a lot of paperwork on the desk in front of her. Jim Neal was normally a neat person, but this morning his desk was strewn with the detritus of a late night: an empty coffee cup, a pizza box sitting atop a pile of untidy files, mail left where he’d opened it the previous day.
Ava felt no urge to
tidy up. Instead, she picked up the framed photo of Neal and his son, Archie, that always sat by the phone. She found her gaze lingering on the father’s face, taking in the dark hair and the blue eyes that could only be described by resort to cliché — in other words, they were piercing. His eyelids were slightly hooded, giving him a permanently seductive look.
Suddenly embarrassed by the direction in which her thoughts were nudging her, Ava hurriedly returned the photo to its spot on Neal’s desk. She couldn’t afford to permit herself to see her boss as anything other than a colleague — possibly a friend, but no more. She suspected he worked to a similar code. Most men seemed to be attracted to her, but if Jim Neal appreciated her natural charms, he was doing a good job of not letting it show.
She remembered how flustered he had been when she had teased him about Anna Foster, and wondered if he preferred older women? There was no doubt that Anna was attractive, but she had about her an air of sadness that spoke of small tragedies in her life. Physically, she was fragile and unthreatening. Perhaps she aroused Neal’s male protective instinct, unlike Ava who was hale and athletic, her body honed and ready. Ready for what? One of her ex-boyfriends had suggested she was perpetually ready for flight. Ava preferred to think that she was ready for its corollary; a body prepped for flight was also one ready to kick ass.
“Hands off, he’s mine.”
Ava looked up to see Polly Jenkins, or ‘PJ’ as she was better known, standing in the doorway, a big grin on her face. PJ was a police constable and she and Ava had hit it off at a drinking session at the White Hart, the station’s favourite watering hole, after Ava’s long first day on the job. Having been invited to come along and toast another colleague’s birthday, Ava had walked into the pub in her running gear intending only to stay for a polite fruit juice. But she and PJ had got talking and discovered they had a lot in common. It had been raining outside, and the lure of good conversation as well as the opportunity to make a new friend had persuaded Ava to stay on, and she’d never regretted that decision. On that first evening, an inebriated PJ had confessed that she had a major crush on Jim Neal.
“You know I only go for good-looking men,” Ava joked.
“That’s why I’m worried. The man’s a babe magnet and he doesn’t even know it, which makes him all the more desirable, of course.” Though attractive, PJ could in no way be described as a ‘babe.’ She was on the short side and was a little heavy for her small frame. But she had a pretty face and perfect hair, dark brown and wildly wavy in its natural state, though today she had it straightened within an inch of its life, and that suited her too. PJ was also funny and good-natured, and a great favourite with the men at the station, particularly Steve Bryce, a DS who was often assigned to Neal. PJ continued to pine for Jim Neal rather than accept the sad reality that her love for him was doomed. And she was blind to Steve’s adulation.
“Where is he?” Ava asked, taking a sip of her coffee and planting her dodgy foot on the edge of her boss’s desk. “It’s not like him to be late.” PJ gave a loud, exaggerated cough, and Ava looked up to see Jim Neal looming in the doorway, his eyes on her raised foot. She dropped her leg to the floor and stood up, coffee splashing over her mug onto the desk.
“He’s here,” Neal said, amusement in his eyes.
“Can I do anything for you, sir? A coffee maybe?” PJ asked sweetly.
“Thank you, constable; that would be welcome.”
“Milk, no sugar?” Did she really have to ask, Ava wondered. There wasn’t much about Neal’s likes and dislikes that PJ didn’t already know. Ava had once caught her scrabbling around in his waste bin looking for clues to his preferences.
Neal settled into his chair with a grunt. Too late, Ava remembered that she’d adjusted the height slightly and her heart sank. As Neal fiddled with the lever, she plonked herself down in the regulation chair on the other side of the desk.
“Sorry, sir.”
“Trying it out for size were you, Sergeant?” Ava flushed, catching his meaning.
“Oh no, sir. It’s just so comfy and my ankle was playing up a bit.”
“Have you seen anyone about that yet?”
“I borrowed my mum’s foot massager last time I was down there. Haven’t tried it out yet. Maybe I’ll have a go this evening.” Ava was glad Neal didn’t comment; he’d made clear his opinion on the subject of alternative remedies on a number of occasions.
Ava had spoken with Neal after she’d returned from Sheffield the previous day. She could tell he was dissatisfied with the lack of progress on the case, not least because their DCI, George Lowe, was making noises, never a good omen.
“Archie okay?” she asked, wondering if Neal had been held up by some family crisis.
“Archie’s fine.” Okay, that’s the niceties dispensed with, Ava thought, catching the hint of impatience in Neal’s tone.
“It’s been confirmed that the cause of death for both Becci and Gary was carbon monoxide poisoning. However, there’s no evidence to suggest that the gas fire in Becci’s room had been tampered with. It looks like an unfortunate accident resulting from a fault that would probably have been picked up on in its next service, which was due next month.”
“What about the carbon monoxide detector?” Ava had already reported what Bradley had said about Nancy making sure there had been a functioning carbon monoxide detector installed in Amy’s flat. He’d also mentioned that the device had been checked at the beginning of term.
“Batteries were dead.”
“Someone could have replaced the batteries Nancy put in with duds.”
Neal looked sceptical, “The report is quite clear. The fault with the fire wasn’t a common one but it could have occurred at any time, given the age of the appliance. Moreover, the girls had cancelled an appointment made by the landlord for a safety check to be carried out, and failed to inform him so that he could rearrange it. If the scheduled service and safety check had gone ahead as planned, this tragedy might have been averted. Ava, your instinct to connect the deaths is sound, but we have to adhere to the facts, and right now they’re telling us it’s unlikely the fire was deliberately tampered with.”
“Unlikely, but not impossible,” Ava mumbled. “How many people had access to the flat?”
“The girls left a spare key under a loose slab by the door,” Neal replied.
Ava shook her head in disbelief, then thought ruefully of the spare key she had hidden under a terracotta jardinière in her back garden. At least it wasn’t in full view of the street.
“Anyone could have seen them use it. You can see the front door of the flat from the café across the street where we went after we interviewed Becci.”
Neal’s look of frustration mirrored Ava’s feelings.
“I’m afraid the verdict is going to be accidental death. There’s no reason for us to pursue any other line of inquiry on this one.” Neal’s voice carried a note of finality. He said, “I want you to go back to the girls’ flat and take another look round. See if you can determine whether any of those designer clothes were purchased locally. Then get Jenkins to show Amy’s picture around the stores and see if anyone remembers her. I have a meeting with Lowe this morning.”
Ava threw Neal a sympathetic look. As a chief, George Lowe was tolerable as long as a case was moving along at a jaunty pace. All he seemed to care about was how his stats looked to the people further up the line. Legend had it that he could bellow, “Get me results!” in a voice that shattered glasses in the White Hart across the street. Neal was probably nervous about the interview. That’s why he’d stayed late last night, why he was a little later than usual this morning; he was likely to be as well prepared as a newly qualified teacher facing the scariest class in school.
“Yes, sir,” Ava said as she limped towards the door.
* * *
Outside, the sky was overcast, but for the third day now it wasn’t raining. Ava drove to Amy and Becci’s place and found a parking space two doors along. She flashe
d her badge at the young police constable standing sentinel outside the house.
“Go grab a coffee if you like,” Ava said to her, nodding in the direction of the café opposite. “I’ll be here for at least half an hour.” For a split second, the young officer hesitated, before relaxing and expressing her thanks. Ava had guarded properties countless times in her career and she appreciated what a monotonous job it could be, not to mention the ache in your legs from standing still for hours on end.
Inside, the house was already beginning to smell fusty. Mrs Pringle had evidently been instructed not to come in and clean. Ava spent some time in the other rooms before revisiting Amy’s bedroom. It too smelled stale and unlived in. The curtains were drawn tightly against nosy thrill seekers, admitting only a laser beam of dust-speckled light. First things first, Ava thought, pulling the green velour drapes apart. The morning was too dull for the room to be flooded with light, but at least she would be able to see what she was looking at.
For a teenager’s room, it was surprisingly neat and tidy, especially the drawers and wardrobes, which were practically empty. The scant garments that were folded away in the drawers, or hanging on the rails in the wooden wardrobe, were arranged neatly by colour. They looked down-market compared to the garments Becci had helped herself to after Amy’s death.
Ava frowned, recalling Becci’s crowded wardrobe full of shiny new clothes. It was rather a mean thing to have done, but Ava didn’t feel genuine disgust at Becci’s behaviour. The cut and feel of some of the clothes hanging next door had brought out covetous instincts in her too. Who wouldn’t be tempted by some of those labels?
Forgetting the clothes for a moment, Ava scanned the room, taking in the neatly ordered bookshelves. A framed photograph on the bedside table caught her eye. She picked it up to take a closer look, frowning at the image. It was a picture of Becci and Gary standing outside the cathedral. With a start, Ava looked around the room again, taking in the faint traces of Blu-Tack on the walls where posters had been recently removed, the shabby cushions and the faded throw on the bed, the stained rug on the floor, the titles of the books on the bookshelf.
