A Deadly Thaw (12 page)

After leaving Patricia’s house, Kat returned to her silent consulting room to wait for her next client. She was early and, as she sat in silence, could feel the heavy weight of misery descend on her. If she’d been the religious type, she’d have offered up a prayer to whatever God there was, asking for help.

She’d been given two ‘gifts’, if that’s what you wanted to call them. The gun was now with the police. Patricia had teased out of her that there might be a message associated with the presents but what could it be? Could Lena be saying, ‘Here is the gun that I shot my husband with?’ If so, then her sister was a murderer. Possibly twice over.

Then there was the second gift of a blouse. More innocuous but also more perplexing. It had come via the same boy. Of this Kat had no doubt, but why would Lena be giving her the present of a blouse? There was a resonance to the garment, but Kat couldn’t put her finger on it.

A noise outside the front door made her jump, and she got up and went to the window. It was just the movement of one of the other businesses shutting up for the day. A short woman with a riot of blonde curls was taking in a sandwich board for her dressmaking business. Kat watched as she heaved the heavy wood through the narrow door and then came back to pick up the rack of silk scarves that she left outside when it wasn’t raining. Against the darkening sky, the scarves waved gently in the wind.

The silk reminded her of the blouse in her bag. Kat racked her brains trying to remember the name of the woman across the way. It began with a T. Tana, Tara? They hadn’t spoken since the time of the power cut last month.

She went to her front door and opened it, startling the woman. ‘Hi. Sorry for making you jump. I just wanted a quick favour. Can I ask you something?’

The woman smiled. ‘Of course. Is everything all right?’

‘Well, I’ve got a bit of a mystery. I could do with some help. It’s confidential . . . ’ Kat let her voice trail off, and the woman nodded understandingly. She clearly thought it was something to do with one of Kat’s clients. Kat felt a pang of guilt, which she quickly quelled. In the general scheme of things, this minor lie hardly counted. ‘I’ve got a yellow silk blouse here. No label, I’m afraid. I wondered if you could have a look at it for me? See what it says to you?’

‘I’ll certainly try.’

Kat suddenly remembered the woman’s name. Terri.

Terri took the blouse with a professional air and examined it, first by opening it out fully and then examining the stitching. ‘Where did you get this?’ she asked, handing it back to Kat.

‘I’m sorry about the smell. It’s probably been lying in a drawer for a while.’

‘A long while,’ smiled Terri. ‘I used to have one of those myself at the end of the eighties. During my Madonna phase. You remember? Silk shirt, black leggings. I think I even had a black hat to complete the outfit.’

With a jolt, Kat did remember. Both she and Lena had dressed like that. She remembered an emerald-green silk shirt that she’d worn over leggings with black gym pumps. No hat though. She clearly hadn’t been as fashionable as Terri. ‘You think it dates from back then? The late eighties?’

‘Smells like it does.’ The woman smiled. ‘It’s the sleeves that give it away. The cut of the body could be from any time but look how the sleeves are designed: narrow at the shoulders, puffing out at the elbows and back in at the cuffs. When did you last see a blouse looking like that?’

Now that Kat looked, she could see what Terri meant. There was a dated feel to the garment, but she wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint what it was. ‘Why’s there no label?’

Terri shrugged. ‘It’s not home-made. The stitching is professional enough. Sold at a market, I’d guess.’

As teenagers, Kat and Lena had often bought their clothes from one of the stalls in the Bampton market. Could this blouse be one of them? It’s something she might have worn. In fact, they had swapped clothes during that time. ‘You definitely think this is from the eighties?’

‘It’s eighties style, certainly. It might have been designed retro, but the smell . . . ’ She let her voice trail off.

Kat grimaced at the dank odour emanating from the cloth. With a smile of thanks she went back inside to think.

Mary Alton looked like her mother. Tall, with long limbs, she was dressed in faded jeans and a floral shirt that hung off her thin frame. Connie looked up at the clock. Eight o’clock. Those with normal jobs would be home, having a glass of wine with their partners. Discussing the day’s events and settling into a relaxed evening. Here she was in a dreary interview room with a grieving daughter.

The girl was wearing a lot of make-up that had smudged with recent tears. Perhaps she’d been on her way out when she was informed of her mother’s death. Her brown eyes were ringed with thick black eyeliner, and her eyelashes stood to attention in a row of spikes interspersed with glittering tears. The intensity of her gaze on Connie contrasted with her pink frosted lips, which were turned down in a sulky expression.

‘You needn’t have come here. You could have gone back home to your flat after visiting the mortuary. I’d have happily spoken to you there.’

The family-liaison officer who’d brought Mary into the station and who was sitting in the interview room looked like she wanted to say something. To justify her actions. But Connie had already been brought up to speed by the duty sergeant. The girl had been informed of her mother’s death, had insisted on seeing her body and had then refused to go back to her flat. She wanted to be interviewed at the station.

Mary looked at her nails. The varnish appeared recently applied. ‘I hate my flat. It’s like a prison. It’s a shoebox. Mum and I wanted to move in together somewhere. Like the old times. We were waiting to see what the Council could come up with.’

Connie frowned. ‘Are you working, Mary?’

The girl shook her head. ‘I’m on the social at the moment. There’s only part-time stuff around at this time of year. It’s not worth my while coming off benefits. I’m waiting for the summer. Last year, I got a job in a gift shop selling tat. They’ve said they might take me on again come July. When the kids are off school.’

Nineteen years old. In the prime of her life, and it wasn’t worth her while coming off government support. Connie shook the thought away. Not her job to judge. ‘You were close to your mum?’

Mary looked defiant. ‘She’d had a hard life. It’s not easy bringing up a child by yourself, and she did a pretty good job.’

Connie massaged her head. The words sounded formulaic, an oft-repeated mantra that had become second nature. ‘Didn’t you spend some time in care?’

The girl winced but kept eye contact. ‘Only now and then. Usually only for a few weeks at a foster place. When she couldn’t cope.’

‘How long was your mum at Shallowford House?’

‘About a year. Things got bad again, and she went there to get help with her problems. I couldn’t go. I was too old. So they found me that shoebox to live in.’

‘Julia Miles, the manager at Shallowford, says that your mum had been doing better recently.’

Mary Alton once more inspected her nails.

‘Mary?’

‘It was always like that with Mum. Sometimes she’d be okay. She taught me to drive last year. I passed my test first time. Then other times she got really down. Couldn’t be bothered with anything. Angry with everyone, including herself.’

‘When did you last see her?’

The girl hesitated. ‘About two days ago. We met in town and had a coffee.’

‘And how did she seem?’

‘Okay. We talked about the usual stuff. Me finding a job and her looking for a flat for us. Nothing out of the ordinary.’

‘She didn’t seem depressed?’

‘No more than usual. Did she kill herself? I’ve been told she was found in the river.’

Connie looked across to the family-liaison officer. ‘We’re waiting for a few more tests. I’ll let you know the cause of death as soon as it’s confirmed. I’m sorry I can’t be any more specific than that. Do you think your mother was suicidal?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘There’s one thing though. The news is beginning to leak out. It’s on Twitter that a body was found down by the mill, and the local press have picked up the story. The more reputable sites won’t mention your mother’s name until we confirm the identity of the body but we can’t control what gets put online. Is there anywhere else you can go? Apart from your flat.’

The girl shook her head. ‘Back to the shoebox.’

Connie rapidly typed up the notes of the interview and left copies on Sadler’s and Palmer’s desks for next week. She didn’t mind working late on a Friday night if it got the paperwork out of the way.

The station was quiet. She could hear footsteps at the other end of the corridor, but the CID room was silent.

A voice behind her made her jump. ‘I’ll be off then.’

Connie swivelled around in her chair. The family-liaison officer was belting up her coat, holding a set of car keys between her teeth.

‘How was she? When you dropped her off?’

‘She seemed a bit subdued, but that’s not surprising. Probable suicide is one of the causes of death that I hate working with. It leaves the relatives completely dumbstruck. They have to live with the “whys” for the rest of their lives.’

Connie picked up her own coat. ‘Funny she didn’t want us to go to her flat. What was it like?’

The other woman shrugged. ‘Small.’

Monday morning, Palmer and Sadler sat with Connie’s interview notes in front of them. Palmer had also arrived early and had telephoned Julia Miles for some additional information. It all tallied with Mary’s account. ‘Stephanie Alton left school at sixteen and went to work in a card shop in Bampton town centre. Her employment record was mainly in retail. A series of jobs in Bampton’s small shops. None held down for a long period of time.’

‘Any reasons given for her leaving her work?’ asked Sadler.

‘I’d guess a mix of personal circumstance and her addiction problems. According to Ms Miles, she became pregnant in her twenties and was given a flat in a housing-association development. After eight years, she fell behind on rent payments and was eventually evicted. She doesn’t seem to have been working at that time.’

‘And a history of substance misuse?’

‘Mainly alcohol and codeine, which seems to have been fed by easy access via the Internet. It was only in the past year that she had made a serious attempt to clean up. And, according to Julia Miles, she’d been largely successful.’

Sadler picked up Connie’s report. ‘The daughter seems to have had a clear-eyed view of her mother’s problems. She hints at frequent relapses.’

‘Ms Miles seems uncertain why Stephanie suddenly started drinking again. But it’s not that unusual. The demon never leaves you, apparently.’

‘That it? So, according to Bill, it’s a clear case of suicide. No marks to suggest she’d entered the water involuntarily.’

Palmer frowned. ‘So not worth us bothering about?’

‘I didn’t say that. When’s Connie coming in?’

Palmer shrugged and repressed the stab of jealousy that he felt when the DC’s name was mentioned. He was her superior. So why couldn’t Sadler discuss anything important without her being present too? He twisted around and looked through the window into the CID room. ‘She’s not at her desk.’

Sadler sighed. ‘Any connection whatsoever with Andrew Fisher?’

‘None that I can see, sir, although she’s a similar age to Lena and Kat. As well as Andrew Fisher, come to think of it. They may have bumped into each other socially.’

‘It’s possible.’ Sadler didn’t look convinced. ‘I’m the same age as the sisters and I certainly hadn’t met them before the investigation in 2004. What else did Ms Miles say?’

‘She gave us quite a lot of background on Steph. It’s a sad story really. The only possible lead is there’s a man Stephanie used to talk about a lot. A “Philip Staley”. Said he’d ruined her life. Possibly worth looking into? It could be a love affair gone wrong.’

Sadler nodded. ‘Her daughter didn’t mention him, did she? But if he’s her absent father, that’s not surprising. Look into it but don’t spend too long on this, will you? There’s a possibility it’s a dead end, a strong possibility, and we don’t have time to waste.’

‘Of course.’

Palmer left the office and saw Connie breeze in. ‘Where’ve you been?’

She looked up at the clock. ‘It’s only five past nine. That’s normal starting time for most people, you know.’

‘Having a lie-in then?’

She picked up a paper cup from a nearby desk and threw it across the room at him. He ducked, but not before drips of water settled on his suit jacket. ‘Bloody hell, Connie.’

‘Whoops, sorry.’ She didn’t sound it as she slid behind her desk. ‘Any news?’

‘I’m doing a final check on Stephanie Alton. It’s probably nothing.’

She looked across at him. ‘Bit boring that. Surprised the boss didn’t give it to me.’

‘Well, he did wonder where you were.’

She looked up. ‘Really? Shit, Palmer. What did you tell him?’

‘I told him I didn’t know. Which I didn’t.’

‘Are you two going to shout across the office at each other all day?’ An irritated voice from another detective got them smirking at each other.

Connie got up and walked across to Palmer’s desk. She cleared some papers and then sat on it, swinging her legs. ‘How’s married life?’

‘It’s okay.’

‘Just okay? That’s hardly the greatest advert for matrimonial bliss.’

‘It’s not that much different from being engaged, to be honest.’

‘Does Joanne feel the same way?’

‘I’m not sure.’

‘I saw her the other day. On the street. She stopped to say hello. It looked like she’d been doing some shopping.’

Palmer rolled his eyes.

‘She asked where you were.’

‘Me?’ He looked angry. ‘What business is it of hers where I am during working hours?’

‘Innocent enough enquiry.’

Palmer tried to swallow his irritation. It was natural enough for Connie to side with another female, but he wanted her on his side. Her robust attitude was what he needed now in contrast to Joanne’s neediness. Her eyes were on him, but he couldn’t read her expression. ‘She wants us to try for a baby.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Connie slid off the desk. ‘That’ll be the end of your night’s sleep. Is that what you want?’

‘What? A baby?’

‘Yes, idiot. A baby. Is that what you want?’

She was standing completely still and he felt the sudden need to confess. ‘No.’