Irrefutable Evidence: A Crime Thriller (21 page)

The old lady was beginning to look flustered.

“No, well, that is, yes, I think so. Look, why don’t you come indoors? We’ll have a cup of tea and I can explain. I don’t think it will do any harm.”

“Thank you,” said Jennifer. “A cup of tea would be lovely.”

The picture-postcard imagery of the cottage continued inside. Jennifer was led through a small, carpeted hall, hung with a series of signed prints of Peter Scott watercolours. She stopped to admire the paintings.

“These are beautiful. So precise and so full of movement.”

Grace smiled. “Yes, they’re lovely. I knew him, you know. Peter Scott. He used to come up here to sketch along the rivers and streams, and up at the reservoir. The third one along is an original, not a print like the others. He gave it to me. Delightful man. It must be worth something these days, but I couldn’t bear to part with it. Not with any of them.”

She ushered Jennifer into the sitting room and pointed towards a small, floral-patterned armchair with a white, embroidered cushion.

“Make yourself comfortable, dear, I’ll pop along to the kitchen and make some tea. Let me introduce you to Languid.”

“Languid?”

Grace gestured towards a large, long-haired white cat stretched out on a small sofa facing the fireplace.

“Languid, this is Miss Cotton. It is ‘Miss’, isn’t it, dear?”

Jennifer smiled. “Yes, it is. What a lovely cat.”

“I think of him as more than a cat. He’s my constant companion, aren’t you, Languid?”

Languid looked up sleepily to assess the newcomer before slowly closing his eyes as he settled his chin back on his paws.

“He has a beautiful coat,” said Jennifer.

“He does, but it takes a lot of brushing. Fortunately, he loves it. In fact, he loves nothing more than listening to the radio with me while I untangle his fur.”

Jennifer looked around the room. “You don’t have a television?”

“No, dear, I got rid of it. It used to be quite good, but these days there’s so much swearing and yobbish behaviour. And the news! The pictures were too awful. I didn’t want Languid to see them. We much prefer the radio. It’s far more civilised, don’t you think?”

Jennifer smiled and reached out to stroke Languid. He responded with a contented purr as he stretched luxuriously.

“I’ll fetch the tea,” said Grace. “I think he likes you.”

Five minutes later, Grace Taverner returned carrying a tray loaded with a teapot covered with a white linen tea cosy, two porcelain cups and saucers, and a matching milk jug and sugar bowl.

“Oh, he really does like you! He doesn’t often do that to people he doesn’t know.”

Languid had vacated his spot on the sofa and taken up residence on Jennifer’s lap, a substantial amount of him flowing over the edge.

Grace sat down, a look of glee on her face. “It’s not often I get to sit on the sofa, not unless I’m brushing his royal highness.”

Languid ignored her as he gently extended his claws into Jennifer's thighs, purring loudly.

Jennifer was keen to continue her conversation. She took a cup and saucer from Grace, a somewhat awkward manoeuvre with a large cat now hooked on to her lap, and smiled.

“You were telling me about the bank’s letters, Mrs Taverner.”

Grace stirred her tea with a small silver spoon, an uncertain look on her face.

She sighed. “As I said, I do get them, now and again; every two or three years, I should say. But I don’t open them.”

Jennifer adjusted her position; Languid was heavy.

“Really? Why is that?”

Grace continued stirring. “Well, they’re for Diana, you see, not me. They might be addressed to my name, but they’re for her.”

“Diana?”

“Yes, she lived here with me some years ago after her father died. Long before Languid’s time. It’s funny though, when he came along, he never really liked her. I’ve never known him reject anyone the way he did her. As soon as he met her, he started to growl and hiss. Most unlike him.”

“She lived with you?”

“Yes, while she finished school and then when she was a student. She’d come back in the holidays, or whatever the university calls them.”

“Vacations?”

“Yes, that’s it. She was very hard working, you know.”

Jennifer took her notebook from her bag.

“Why would letters from the bank addressed to you be for her?”

Grace looked uncomfortable.

“Well, it all goes back to when she was a student. It’s probably different now, the banks have all changed, but then, in the early nineties, it wasn’t so easy, was it?”

“I’m sorry, Mrs Taverner, I don’t follow. What wasn’t so easy?”

“Getting a credit card, dear. For a student. Diana always said that the banks didn’t like giving students credit cards because they ran up huge bills they couldn’t pay. She could only get an ordinary bank account with a chequebook. So she asked if I could apply for a credit card that she could use. She knew I had no use for one. I don’t like owing money, as I said, so I agreed. She promised that she would always pay the bills, and she has. Always. She helped me to open an account at your bank that she would also use — I didn’t actually have an account with your bank, you see. I still don’t, not the one I use, that is, which is why I was a bit confused earlier.”

Jennifer nodded her encouragement, excited by Grace Taverner’s tale but not wanting to show it. She casually stroked Languid behind the ears and was rewarded with another ecstatic cramponed assault on her thighs. She smiled at Grace through clenched teeth.

Grace continued to explain.

“Diana told me that there needed to be an ordinary bank account to pay money into so she could pay the credit card bill. It all sounded so complicated, but once we’d opened the account, I had nothing more to do with it, and as I say, she’s certainly stuck to her word about payment. She must have done because there have never been any problems.

“For a long time, there were letters from your bank, which I left for her, but they stopped. She told me that was because she now does everything online, whatever that means. But I do still get occasional letters, as I said, every three years or so. Apparently they contain a new credit card when the old one expires. I’ve told her she should change the address, but she said that would be difficult, and anyway, she likes to have the chance to come and see me.”

Jennifer picked at a thread in her skirt and wondered about the state of her tights after Languid’s incisions.

“Why would it be difficult?”

“Because she lives in Australia and apparently can’t have a British bank account.”

Jennifer’s heart sank. If this person Diana, with Grace Taverner’s credit card, lived in Australia, how could she be committing murders in the UK? She needed some more background, hoping her questions wouldn’t sound too pushy for someone who was supposed to be from a bank.

“Mmm,” she muttered. “That’s not entirely correct, but never mind. It’s good that she visits you. How did she come to live with you, Mrs Taverner?”

“Diana’s mother was an old friend of mine from when we were young. Like me, she married quite late. I never understood her choice. Neville, her husband, was a brute of a man. I could never stand him. He was so rude and certainly not shy about using his fists on her.

“Anyway, she fell pregnant; she must have been about thirty-nine, if I remember correctly. She had a difficult pregnancy and she died when Diana was born. I kept in touch with Neville, well, my husband did until he died; I wanted as little as possible to do with the man. We felt obliged, you see, for Gladys’ sake — that was Diana’s mother’s name. We were concerned about how he might treat Diana. I don’t think it was easy for the girl, but then when Diana was fifteen, Neville was killed in a car accident. His brakes failed. The police blamed him; he tinkered a lot with cars, taught Diana to do so as well. It was about the only thing they had in common. She didn’t have anyone else, you see, no brothers, sisters, aunts, uncles, no one.”

Jennifer nodded. “So she came to live with you.”

“Yes, I suggested it at the funeral. My husband had been dead for some years by then. I thought the company would be nice and I’d be doing my duty by Gladys. I never had any children, you see, as I said.”

Jennifer glanced at her notebook, but decided that taking notes might stop the flow of information. She looked up at Grace, who was lost in her memories.

“So, she finished school around here, and then, what, went to university?”

“Yes, to Leeds. She studied criminology.” Grace shuddered. “It sounded horrible, learning all about those nasty types.”

“Did she go to Australia soon after she graduated?”

“Yes, she was offered a really good job at a university there, in Sydney. She comes back every two or three years and makes sure her visits coincide with the issue of a new credit card. She says it’s really useful having an account here; something to do with saving on exchange rates. I don’t understand all that myself. I’ve never been abroad; I don’t really see the point.”

Jennifer carefully adjusted her position in the armchair again while hoping that Languid wouldn’t do the same.

“So, she must be, what, in her late thirties?”

“Yes, she was born in 1974, late, so she’s coming up forty. Gosh, I must remember to send her a card.”

“You have an address for her in Australia?”

“Yes, dear, of course.”

“Is she married? Children?”

“No, dear. She’s always been something of a lone wolf. I don’t remember her ever having a boyfriend. She certainly never talked about anyone or brought anybody home. And when she was younger, still at school, if any of the young hopefuls from around here came calling, they were given short shrift. She sent them all packing.”

Jennifer smiled her encouragement again. “She sounds like an interesting person. Almost like a daughter to you. Do you have a photo of her?”

“Yes, dear, I do. There’s one in my bedroom. I’ll fetch it. Why don’t you help yourself to some more tea?”

Jennifer took the opportunity to liberate her tortured thighs from Languid’s caresses. Having carefully extricated his claws, she lifted him gently back onto the sofa, stroking him so he relaxed before she turned to pour herself some more tea.

When Grace came back into the room, Jennifer smiled up at her, her cup and saucer balanced on her knee as a barrier in case Languid was considering another sortie.

“Here we are,” said Grace as she sat down in the other armchair — Languid was now once again completely occupying the sofa. “This is a nice one taken in the garden. Martin, my odd job man was here and he took it. Well, it’s nice of Diana, not of me.”

She laughed self-deprecatingly. “I don’t make much of a subject, especially these days.”

She handed the photo to Jennifer who glanced at it and nearly knocked the cup and saucer from her lap in surprise. She hurriedly put the porcelain back on the tray and sat up to examine the photo, gripping it tightly in disbelief, her heart suddenly pounding. It showed two women. Amelia Taverner, or Grace, as she was now thinking of her, smiling sweetly at the camera, and a woman in her late thirties who was anything but smiling. As far as Jennifer knew, she almost never smiled. Staring back at Jennifer with that critical, accusing eye that she knew so well was her ex-boss, Olivia Freneton.

C
hapter 25

A
s Jennifer stared at the face in the photograph gripped in her hand, the world around her seemed to grind into slow motion, everything apart from that face blurring, distorting. She struggled to comprehend what her eyes were telling her. Olivia Freneton was a serial killer? How could that be possible?

She looked up at Grace Taverner, who was now registering Jennifer’s reaction and beginning to worry. Had she told her visitor too much?

“Are you … are you sure this is a photograph of Diana, Mrs Taverner?” stuttered Jennifer as she fought to control her breathing.

“Of course, dear. I may be old but I haven’t completely lost my marbles.”

She hesitated and then held out her hand. “But let me have another look, just to be sure.”

Jennifer handed her the photo and waited.

“Yes, that’s her all right,” said the old lady after a few seconds. “So serious. I wish she’d lighten up, as people say these days. She has a lovely smile when she chooses to show it.”

“Do you … do you have any other photos of her?”

“Yes, I do. I can fetch them if you like.”

As she stood and walked off to her bedroom across the hallway, Jennifer quickly pulled her phone from her bag and copied the photo.

By the time Grace Taverner returned a few minutes later, all she saw was Jennifer still staring at the picture of the two women.

“There are only three,” she said, handing more photos to Jennifer. One was a well-taken portrait that showed more detail, enough to leave absolutely no doubt about who the subject was, even if the Olivia Freneton it showed was several years younger. The other two were similar to the first one she had produced, but less clearly defined.

“Mrs Taverner,” said Jennifer once she finished examining all the photos. “Does Diana have a sister? Oh no, you said she was an only child. Does she have another name? Another first name, I mean. And, of course, what’s her surname?”

The old lady was suddenly suspicious. “Why are you so interested, dear? You’re not thinking of getting her into trouble with the bank, are you? Or me, for that matter? After all, I don’t think we’re doing any harm with our little arrangement.”

“Absolutely none at all. Mrs Taverner. It’s … well … Diana reminds me of someone I once knew. It’s uncanny how alike she is, but it can’t be her, of course, because the person I’m thinking of is married and lives in America. She hasn’t been back to England for years. It was rather startling, that’s all.”

“What’s your friend’s name?” Grace’s question sounded like a challenge, making Jennifer think the old lady didn’t believe her.

“Deborah,” she replied, thinking of one of the girls in the typing pool at the SCF. “Deborah Thyme. Like the herb,” she added, hoping the addition of a surname would add some authenticity to her spur-of-the-moment story.

Apparently it did since Grace Taverner nodded absently. “What an unusual name. I don’t think I’ve ever heard of it before.”

She paused as she leaned forward to stroke Languid’s head.

“Diana’s name is unusual too,” she said. “Now that I think of it, I’ve never heard of anyone else with her name either.”

Jennifer waited but Grace just continued to stroke her cat. Come on, Mrs T, she thought, I want the name.

Finally, Grace looked up. “Interesting, dear, don’t you think?”

Jennifer smiled at her. “I don’t know, you haven’t told me her name.”

Grace put her hand to her mouth. “Oh dear, I get so easily distracted these days. Her surname is Freneton. What do you think?”

“Think?”

“About her name. Have you heard it before? I think it’s very unusual.”

“I couldn’t agree more, Mrs Taverner. It is. And does Diana have a middle name?”

“Yes, dear, she does. Olivia. She’s Diana Olivia Freneton.”

Jennifer was having a hard time controlling her reactions.

“Does she … I mean, are you … have you seen her recently?”

“No, dear, I told you, she lives in Australia. I haven’t seen her for, let me see, almost two years.”

Jennifer was still confused. “So, she’s back in Australia?”

Grace nodded. “That’s where she said she was going, yes.”

“You don’t have a phone number as well as an address, do you?”

“I do, dear, yes. But it doesn’t seem to work. I tried to call her last Christmas. I thought it would be nice; I was quite excited about it. But the call didn’t connect.”

She sighed, reliving the disappointment. Then shrugging, she added, “But I imagine she’ll be back sometime next year to collect her card when it’s issued.”

Jennifer glanced at her notebook where she had scribbled some points that morning. She was desperate to leave, to sit in her car somewhere and process the bombshell that Grace Taverner had delivered, but first there was something else she needed to know.

“Mrs Taverner. I’m really grateful to you for being so helpful. As I said at the beginning, the bank is committed to improving its services and I think what you’ve told me today will be extremely valuable in helping us achieve our goal. Before I leave you to your wonderful garden, may I ask you one more question?”

“Of course, dear, I’m only too pleased to help, although I really can’t see how anything I’ve said is of much use to the bank.”

Jennifer smiled. “I was wondering if you know a lady called Catherine Doughthey. She’s another customer in Pateley Bridge I’m hoping to visit who has been with the bank for many years and, as I have with you, I want to reach out to her.”

Grace chuckled softly. “I hope you’ve got a long reach, dear. She died two months ago. If you want to reach out, it will rather depend on what you do or don’t believe in.”

“She’s dead?”

“Yes, I’m surprised you weren’t informed. Her son is normally so diligent about these matters.”

“How strange,” said Jennifer, making a pretence of flicking through the bank papers. “Did you know her well?”

“Yes, we were good friends. We’d pop along to each other’s houses all the time. Her house is only about half a mile farther along the road.”

“Was she living here in Pateley Bridge when Diana lived here?”

Grace nodded. “Lived here all her life. She and Diana got on extremely well.”

“Really?”

“Yes, Catherine had a couple of operations when Diana was at university. Hip and knee replacements, so she was laid up for a while. They coincided with Diana’s summer holiday and she used to go round every day to help her. Rose wasn’t really capable of helping, you see.”

“Rose?”

“Catherine’s daughter. She was about the same age as Diana, but she was — what do they call it these days? Special needs. Very. In my day she would just have been called simple. And to make matters worse, she was almost blind. It was about then that she went into a care home. She’s still there. It’s in Harrogate. I used to visit her with Catherine from time to time. Catherine’s son never did. Heartless, is Geoffrey. But Diana, gosh, it brought out another side of her. She couldn’t have been more helpful to Catherine.”

I’ll bet she was, thought Jennifer. Persuasive too, enough for the woman to let her use a credit card in her name. The scale of Olivia Freneton’s long term planning was beginning to amaze her.

“And did she continue her visits the times she came back from Australia to see you and collect her new card?”

“She most certainly did, dear. As I said, they got on well.”

She put a hand to her mouth as something occurred to her.

“Oh dear, I’ll bet Diana doesn’t know about Catherine. As I told you, the last time Diana was here was nearly two years ago.”

“You mentioned a son. Is he now living in Catherine’s house?”

“No, he lives in Manchester. He was up here long enough to clear out Catherine’s things and prepare the cottage for sale, not a moment longer. He had no interest in it apart from what it was worth. But that reminds me, he did give me a box of photos that he said were of Catherine and me. Would you like to see them? There might be one of Diana; Catherine was always snapping away with her camera. The box is in my wardrobe; I’ll fetch it.”

Ten minutes later, Jennifer was leafing through a pile of loose photos while Grace Taverner made some more tea. The photos were mainly of flowers from Catherine Doughthey’s garden, but in the box beneath them was an album. She opened it and struck gold. Two photos of Catherine Doughthey with Olivia Freneton — who was as unsmiling as ever — and a letter addressed to Catherine with the North Western Bank’s logo in the top left corner. The envelope was still sealed, but rather than open it, Jennifer slipped it into her bag. Grace was still fussing in the kitchen so Jennifer also had time to copy the two photos of Olivia onto her phone.

Jennifer was now even keener to get on her way, but she managed to sit through another cup of tea and some local gossip before she left Grace Taverner to her beloved Languid.

“I can’t tell you how helpful you have been, Mrs Taverner. Would you mind if I please leave my number and ask that you call me if you hear from Diana? I’d be only too pleased to help her make a less complex arrangement for using a UK-based credit card.”

“Sally, hi, it’s Jennifer. I hope I haven’t caught you at a bad time.”

“Of course not. I’m relieved to know that Mrs Taverner hasn’t tied you up so tightly that you can’t reach your phone. Where are you? How are you? Still in one piece?”

Jennifer laughed. “I’m fine. I’m in a car park at Pateley Bridge. I’ve spent the last hour with Mrs Taverner and I couldn’t wait to call you. Would it be all right if I popped in? I’ve got to discuss what I’ve discovered with someone; the whole case has blown wide open.”

“Really? So who is this Amelia Taverner?”

“She’s a sweet eighty-four-year-old lady who grows roses and lives in a picture postcard cottage—”

“Except when she’s prowling around the country killing prostitutes and framing innocent men,” interrupted Sally, and was relieved to hear a chuckle from Jennifer.

“Hard to imagine,” said Jennifer. “But the credit card was hers, and she knows that someone else has been using it. In fact she agreed to that arrangement, even though she has no idea what it’s used for and when. But I now know who the someone is and how she got hold of it.”

She paused as she realised the importance of what she was about to say.

“Well,” she heard Sally say, “don’t keep me in suspense.”

“Sally, you’re never going to believe this, but she’s my ex-boss, detective superintendent Olivia Freneton, aka the Ice Queen.”

“Holy shit, Jennifer. Are you sure?”

“Absolutely. There’s no doubt about it.”

“So what happens now?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”