Warrender Lane lay at the
furthermost point of Kendal’s outskirts. It wasn’t densely-housed, though; in
fact, Suzanne only counted six individual homes. They were scattered around
three other buildings: a sorry-looking youth hostel, a cafe and a tourist gift
shop for visitors who might pass this way. That 3rd building was the
largest. Pulling into the kerb against a spindly street, too narrow for two
people to walk along side-by-side, Suzanne glanced at the address for Laura’s
family again and memorised the house number.
“Number four, Warrender Lane –
right!”
She made a flawless three-point
turn and manoeuvred her vehicle so it was in the right position to go down the
side road leading to her destination. The view ahead of a road boasting natural
landscapes on either side changed to a poorly-maintained one with a pair of
cattle grids locked within that surface. For motorists, this type of terrain
was challenging. To lessen the impact of the juddering, she raised her bottom
off the seat by an inch and moved her back away slightly from the vertical part
of the driver’s seat. When the car had cleared both grids, she felt the upper
part of her body relax and retain the most comfortable position for her whilst
driving. All the while she was making her final approach to the house in
question, she wondered if this journey could be a waste of time. The possible
realisation it might be was an occupational hazard. On the other hand, she
didn’t want to discard the certainty her journey hadn’t been taken for nothing.
It had to be too much of a coincidence that Samantha burst on 14th
February, the day Laura was born. It then tied itself to the business of making
an expenses claim. Hers would undoubtedly be centred on the money needed to
reimburse her for the cost of petrol. Replenishing her car’s fuel supply in the
course of an investigation justified employing that procedure. As Ameera made
plain to her, she was going quite a way to see if this development panned out.
The obvious fact was that the longer the journey, the more she would be
required to claim. This opened up the thornier part of this issue; namely, the
tightening of the purse strings. Suzanne saw at once how this could be
problematic. Her intuition was in nagging mode. It was steering her thoughts towards
more than one trip here being necessary, and DI Andrews was forced into
wondering whether her mum would permit this spate of expense claims to cover
the fuel costs to these excursions. Budgetary constraints had to be taken into
account every bit as much as methods of solving cases, and the rash of
complaints from the public that were expected as a result of their efforts.
She was also highly aware she was
venturing somewhere that officers from Greater Manchester Constabulary had no
official jurisdiction in. That was why she had no plans to go to any other area
of Kendal. Hers was a flying visit. Talking to the Blackwell family was her
sole purpose. Once she’d done it, whether the trip was fruitful or not, it was
back to base for her – no detours.
A quick check outside the car
demonstrated there was nowhere else to park in this vicinity but the gift
store’s forecourt. Because of the way the six houses were positioned, it was
going to involve an extra few minutes being spent trying to reach there.
Ordinarily, she would walk along a street to locate an address that she might
be compelled to visit, but nothing resembling that existed here.
Number four was located directly
behind a tree and the ground floor of the building was hidden by a tall, thick
hedge. As soon as she bypassed the large oak, she saw the front gate to the
property. The top of it was arched and a portion of the hedge was cut to an
identical shape to accommodate what had been inserted into that gap. There was
no road to cross between the house and the rear of the tree, just a small
field. The only areas where traffic had passage through were to the right and
left of where she was walking. She looked momentarily at the left of the house
and saw a lorry hurtle down this way. The driver of this leviathan didn’t care
if his trip was causing sufficient amounts of air and noise pollution. Craning
her neck a little to see more of this small road, she saw that there was a
route where cars belonging to more occupants of the house could drive into the grounds.
She followed the turn-off and the aspect of the house’s exterior that caught
her eye the most were the hexagonal windows on the 2nd floor and the
pebble-dash walls lower down. All the stones concreted in bore different
colours. They were vibrant, but the outer decor wasn’t to DI Andrews’ taste:
the visual concept served to clarify what happens when creativity goes
unchecked. It was the phoniest attempt to introduce natural objects into the
general construction, and thereby give the house an organic ambience. Suzanne
couldn’t be sure whether it was the family who asked for it or if it had been
there before they moved in. That was the kind of pot luck all residents faced
when seeing their new home for the first time.
Her study of it caught the
attention of a woman who had been staring out the window at the tree. She had
platinum blonde locks and facially was in her forties. Age-lines were beginning
to make a permanent home around her lips and near the forehead too. Suzanne
didn’t become aware of her features until she was joined outside by that same
woman.
“I thought I told you lot to piss
off!”
Without much brain work, DI
Andrews knew this comment stemmed from having to see off a particular sort of
unwelcome visitor who’d called round some time before. The acidic tone of the
lady who’d emerged from 4, Warrender Lane exposed her sheer annoyance that they
never took the hint, and kept coming around whenever they felt like it.
“I’m not a Jehova’s Witness.
Here, this should tell you who I am.”
Suzanne’s wallet was snatched
from her hand, demonstrating that her assurance that she didn’t belong to that
religious organisation wasn’t being taken as red. A prolonged stare of
disbelief highlighted this. When read, DI Andrews’ identification was handed
back to her several seconds later.
“Why does an officer from Greater
Manchester Police want to talk to me?”
“I need you to clarify your
surname: is it Blackwell?”
“Olivia Blackwell, yes”
“And does Laura Blackwell live
here?”
“Why do you want to know about
her?”
“If you could just answer the
question, please”
“She does, but she isn’t here at
the moment: won’t be until this evening.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s at university.”
“Which one”
“The one in your neck of the
woods”
“Salford”
“Yeah”
“It’s a long way for her to
travel.”
“I make sure she gets an early
start.”
“Was she born on the 14th
of February?”
“How the hell did you know that?”
“I’ll take that as a yes then.”
Self-revealing responses weren’t
a common factor when engaging in police enquiry-related conversations with the
public. DI Andrews didn’t focus on their rarity, though. She was concentrating
on Mrs. Blackwell’s body language. It gave away more than what she was saying.
Whether or not it was timely to do so, the photograph in which Laura and Samantha
were sitting on the same couch was produced.
“Do you know this woman sat next
to Laura?”
“Yes. It’s Samantha Williams –
Laura’s godmother.”
“Are you sure that’s all she is?”
“Come again?”
“Is she a blood relative?”
“Of course she isn’t!” snapped Mrs.
Blackwell defensively.
“How long have you known
Samantha?”
“Since we started junior school;
she befriended me the first day I went through the school gates.”
“When was the last time you saw
her?”
“Over a month ago”
“Did she say ever say anything
about someone called Helen Stephenson?”
“No. Look, I thought you were
asking about Laura. Why are you suddenly so keen to ask me about Samantha?”
“Can we go inside first, Mrs.
Blackwell?”
“No, tell me out here why you
changed the subject from my daughter to Sam!”
“I’m sorry to have to tell you
that Laura’s godmother is dead.”
“Did she commit suicide?”
“I really think we ought to
continue this inside.”
“Come into the kitchen – it’s the
quietest part of the house.”
The L-shaped area of Olivia’s
home was as pristine and fresh-looking as those sorts of fixtures and fittings
constantly paraded around TV adverts. Suzanne was immediately envious of how
plush the opening of the drawers and cupboard doors were: they were equally so
when being closed. The ones in her kitchen didn’t perform this function as
smoothly. They had already seen better days. Suzanne’s prediction concerning
the length of time her kitchen was due to last had been wrong by a few years.
She forecast twelve, but after half that period, she began noticing structural
problems with it, more and more.
“Coffee, Detective Inspector”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
“Are you sure? After what you’ve
just announced, I could do with one myself!”
“Go on then. Is your husband at
home?”
“He’s at work, which has become
more appealing to him than bothering to be at home.”
Mrs. Blackwell was rubbish at
hiding her resentment. Her voice gradually became bitterer halfway through her
reply.
“What’s his profession?”
“He’s a prominent member of
Cumbria County Council.”
“Is that how you see him?”
“It’s more how he sees himself.”
“Why did you ask whether Samantha
had taken her own life?”
“She had specific emotional
issues.”
“Well, she didn’t, Mrs.
Blackwell. She was strangled by an unknown assailant.”
“Unknown? I thought you said
Helen Stephenson killed her!”
“I never said such a thing. What
I asked was whether she’d shared any details about this Helen Stephenson with
you.”
“Since I never heard that name
until you told me about it, I thought it would’ve been obvious to you I’m not,
and never have been, familiar with this person.”
“Fair enough, you don’t know who
she is – I’d prefer it if you didn’t get so defensive. These questions are
connected to Samantha’s murder. They’re not meant to be personal.”
“I’m sorry. It’s just that this
will hit Laura hard. She was fond of her.”
“How fond”
“Very, Detective Inspector
Andrews”
“Is Laura your only child?”
“No, I have any daughter from a
previous marriage.”
“What’s her name?”
“Charlotte Myers.”
Inspiration for Suzanne’s next
question came from the picture used to verify that Olivia knew the victim. She
had to establish who had captured this moment on film.
“Do you know who took the
photograph I showed you?”
“I ought to – it was Charlotte.”
Olivia’s reply was too stagey. DI
Andrews imagined Mrs. Blackwell rehearsing it repeatedly, waiting for the right
person to put forward the kind of question that could trigger that answer. A
veneer of sincerity placed it just within the bounds of possibility of it being
true.
“Can I see Laura’s room?”
“I’ll bring your coffee up to
you. It’s the first room on the left when you reach the top of the stairs.”
This staircase was devoid of any
carpeting, the smell of varnish and the customary presence of a banister. Each
step was made of some sort of material combining plastic and metal. There were
gaps that permitted whoever was climbing the stairs to see the floor below.
Lettering that dictated whose
room this was had been attached to the door. Inside, the three stages of life
before adulthood’s arrival were plainly represented. Though the books on the
set of shelves were geared to the mindset of a young woman undertaking further
education, there were a few that could be thought of as guilty pleasures.
Laura’s quilt cover on her bed was milky-white and printed onto it was one of
those art-deco style clocks. They were positioned in the way chessboard squares
were stacked. In the course of observing it from all sides of the bed,
Suzanne’s shoe tips bumped into something dense and wooden underneath it. She
knelt down and viewed what was hidden here. A light brown box with red wavy
lines all around its upper edges was dragged out. It was fastened by a hook
that fitted into a tiny horizontal brass ring. DI Andrews dislodged it and
lifted the lid to see what Laura considered precious and private enough to hide
here. Under the lid was a copy of Bunty from the 1960s laid out flat. Suzanne’s
first conclusion, as she gently handled it, was that it must be a keepsake from
someone who inhabited an older generation of her family. She couldn’t accept
that young women of Laura’s age would consider this comic a cool one to read.
Below that was a pile of letters, still in their envelopes – but the upper edge
had been cut with a sharp implement, as opposed to the sealed flap being ripped
open the finger-and-thumb way. Directly to the right of them was a
recently-purchased hardback on the subject of multiple personalities.
“Weird thing for a girl to read”
Suzanne then remembered Laura was
at university. There were bound to books she’d start reading that were absent
from bestseller lists and more likely to be found in the wide variety of
non-fiction category sections. All the same, it was an odd publication to have
as a cherished possession.
“Give me a Sophie Kinsella novel
any day” she said softly.
Behind her, Olivia entered with
DI Andrews’ coffee. She was alarmed to see Laura’s ‘treasure chest’ being
defiled.
“What are you doing, Detective
Inspector? That’s Laura’s private box!” said Mrs. Blackwell as she put down the
beverage she’d fetched.
“If there is a connection to the
murdered woman in this chest, it means that none of the contents are private
any longer.”
Suzanne reached in for the stack
of letters, bound together by a rubber band. Olivia’s current pose generated
her disapproval. It didn’t stop the DI from perusing through the letters. She
remained of the opinion that this breach of confidentiality was warranted under
the circumstances.
Olivia felt an abundant degree of
helplessness as Suzanne set about reading each letter. There were eight
altogether, but the Detective Inspector read just three. She harboured very
little doubt that the emotion-led sentiment would be present in the other five.
The three she’d examined were carefully returned to the interior of every
envelope. Laura’s box hadn’t given up all its secrets, however – one more was
ready to see the light of day. Beneath the letters was another photograph of
Laura. This time, she was stood by herself. She was all smiles and was holding
a sheet with all her exam results. The toothy grin educated Suzanne in the
knowledge they were all favourable.
“Did you take this photograph,
Mrs. Blackwell?”
“Yes, that was a happy day.”
Again, Olivia had infused her
answer with staginess. It was simple to see straight through it.
“At the risk of sounding bolshie,
I think you lied just then, Mrs Blackwell.”
“No, I told you, I took the
photograph.”
“Not your husband then or
Charlotte.”
“Charlotte wasn’t there, nor was
Brian. His council work took priority, as it always fucking does!”
“So you maintain it was you who
took that photo of Laura holding up her exam results for the camera.”
“Yes I do! Have you got a problem
accepting I’m telling you the truth?”
“I do have one, Mrs Blackwell,
yes – the plain fact of the matter is that you are lying when you say you took
that snapshot. So, I am asking you again: who took that photo?”
“I’m starting to get pissed off
by you accusing me of lying!”
“Well, there is one way to end
your suffering, and that’s to tell me who really took that photo!”
Suzanne’s growing bullishness was
putting pressure on Mrs. Blackwell. Olivia’s face exhibited her inability to
ride the storm the police officer was whipping up. Finally, the pent-up
feelings broke free.
“Okay, okay! Shit! It was
Samantha; she fucking took it! She’s her mum – not me! You satisfied now!”
Olivia’s body recoiled like a
rifle after it had been fired. The outburst was so potent and emotionally
painful that the subsequent motion mirrored the discharging of a weapon. She
swayed a little, as if she’d been temporarily disorientated, and then put her
head in her hands, bursting into tears a few seconds after. Suzanne’s mood
re-instigated a more sympathetic aura as she tried to walk Mrs. Blackwell over
to one of the four edges of Laura’s bed so she could sit down. Olivia wrenched
her left shoulder away.
“I can manage without your
fucking help, Detective Inspector!”
“I’m sorry to have to confront
you with that.”
“I couldn’t give a shit whether
you’re sorry or not! It’s me who has to look at her daily, knowing she isn’t my
flesh and blood!”
“What about Laura herself – does
she have any idea about her real parentage?”
“She doesn’t exactly know that
particular truth, but I think sometimes she has suspicions about me being her
mother. I don’t want her to, but recently she’s beginning to notice how much
she looks like Samantha than the resemblance she bears to me.”
“That’s something of a burden for
any stand-in parent.”
“Do you have a husband or any
kids?”
“No, Mrs. Blackwell, I don’t.
“Then spare me the condescending,
pretentious psychobabble!”
DI Andrews took Olivia’s dislike
of her comment on the chin. Mrs. Blackwell was right to hate it. Suzanne’s
response reeked of a patronising attitude. That self-acknowledgement on the CID
officer’s part didn’t alter that there was another unpleasant duty looming
which she had to perform. Highly regrettable as it was, she had to make Olivia
aware of it.
“As you’ve effectively revealed
Laura to be Samantha’s next of kin, I’m afraid I’ll have to tell her who her
real mum is and that she was murdered.”
“Can I break it to her? She’ll
hate me for the rest of her life if she hears it from somebody else.”
“There are two conditions of me
letting you do that.”
“Which are?”
“Firstly, I want you to get Laura
to come to headquarters at some point tomorrow. I’ll phone her university, and
explain why she needs to be absent.”
“What’s the second?”
“There is a detail about Miss
Williams’ murder I want you to keep to yourself for the moment,”
“And that detail is...?”
“Someone cut out her tongue after
death and deposited it in her throat.”
The description of this act
forged a rapid flare of recognition in Olivia’s eyes. It summoned an available
memory.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” bellowed
Olivia. “It’s bad enough you force me to draw on something I find painful to
discuss, and now you’re bringing up that incident at Lancaster University as
well!”
“Wait – what incident?”
“You clearly used your detective
skills to unearth that Laura is not my daughter, so you’ve obviously found
about this too.”
The impression that the honesty
train was in motion couldn’t be more apparent. Olivia had let slip an event
that DI Andrews would never have learned about if she hadn’t travelled here.
“Are you saying that have
information that could explain why Samantha’s tongue was cut out?”
The sympathy had dissipated
quickly. A harder tone resonated in Suzanne’s voice.
“It happened a long time ago; and
why should I believe that you haven’t discovered it yourself. It was local news
at the time, you know!”
“In Lancaster, maybe, but not in
my neck of the woods, as you put it”
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