Liar Page 13

  ‘I’m not always like that.’ He laughed. ‘But when I read your articles, I felt something special about you. Not many journalists seem to care the way you obviously do. And I noticed you understand the forces that make people react as they do. So when they put me on this job, I hoped I’d get the chance to talk to you. So tell me about your boyfriend.’

  ‘He was a bit nasty, that’s all, and I told him to get out.’

  ‘Permanently?’

  ‘I didn’t think that far ahead.’ She smiled sheepishly at him. ‘But he seems to be becoming a bit of a controller. That worries me.’

  Sam looked at her for a minute or two without speaking. His blue eyes had clouded over to become grey, the way the sky often did. ‘It should worry you,’ he said. ‘We see some nasty stuff between married couples on this job. What you must remember, Amelia, is that some men find a perfectly lovely woman and then, because they have problems themselves, try to mould that woman into whatever they think they need to make them happier. Don’t you ever let that happen.’

  Sam’s words made her feel protected, but also told her she had to be realistic where Max was concerned. As she walked up the stairs to the office, she recalled something her mother had said once. Amelia was nine or ten at the time and her father had given her mum yet another black eye and wrenched her arm so badly she could barely hold the teapot at breakfast.

  ‘Never fall for a man, Amelia, who thinks you’re lucky he even looked at you. He’ll only ever see you as his slave and punchbag.’

  Amelia didn’t think Max thought she was lucky to have him, and neither was he likely to use her as a punchbag, but he’d made many remarks that suggested he believed he was the clever one. The good catch.

  It was good to be at work, busy with phone calls to advertisers: it took her mind off Max. She’d been at her desk for about an hour when Jack appeared. ‘Come into my office,’ he said.

  Mystified, Amelia followed him. His usual way of summoning anyone was to roar at the top of his voice.

  ‘Shut the door,’ he said. ‘And sit down.’

  Amelia obeyed. ‘Did I do something wrong?’ she asked.

  He smiled. ‘Why is it you always assume you’re in the wrong?’ he asked. ‘Keep it up and that boyfriend will blame you for everything. That’s how it works.’

  Such wisdom on a day when it was kind of relevant seemed nothing short of miraculous to her.

  ‘I spoke to Mr Lark, the father of the latest murdered girl, late last night. He isn’t impressed by the police inquiry. He thinks they’re sitting on their hands. He’s read your two articles about the other girls and the one thing that struck him was that you believe there was a connection between the girls. Then he’d heard you’d been attacked. He said, and I quote, “If the killer wants to silence her, I think she might have got something.”’

  ‘Bloody hell!’ Amelia exclaimed. ‘I didn’t expect that!’

  ‘Nor me, but Mr Lark is a highly intelligent man, and one of those people who believes that if you want something done, do it yourself. He wants to talk to you, Amelia, as he put it, “to thrash a few ideas around”. He’s grieving. He can’t believe his beautiful daughter has been taken from him, and his wife is almost a basket case.’

  ‘Surely he wouldn’t want to see me now when it’s all so raw.’

  ‘That is exactly why he wants to see you now. He needs to pour out all he feels, his stories of when Rosie was little, her boy- and girlfriends, the things she cared about. He could talk to a counsellor, a priest, a friend or a colleague but, as he said, “There was something about those articles that makes me think she’s the one to talk to. Maybe together we can find a way to the truth.” So, Amelia, what do you think? Want to give it a shot?’

  Amelia felt like smiling to see Jack’s face. He was lit up from inside, she could see, convinced he’d got the golden goose right here on his newspaper and she would lay the golden egg today and on many other days too. He was, of course, hoping for an exclusive story, though knew he wouldn’t have it straight away. But by getting Amelia in with the murdered girls’ families, he felt certain he’d have what he wanted once the killer was caught.

  He was something of a reprobate, but at heart he was honest and brave. He also cared about getting to the truth, though he went to great pains to make out he didn’t.

  Did she want to give it a shot? Of course she did. This was no time for acting bashful.

  ‘Well, how can I refuse? When do I start this thrashing out?’

  ‘Immediately. I’ll get Peanut to drive you there. Mr Lark will see you’re brought home later in the day. Depending on how it goes he might want you there tomorrow too.’

  Amelia was still surprised that Mr Lark wanted to do it right now, but it was fine with her. It might even take her mind off Max. ‘Who else will be there?’

  ‘I think you’ll be alone with him. He said his wife had been taken to her sister’s. Rosie was an only child.’

  Ten minutes later Amelia was sitting in Peanut’s car on the way to Bedford Park in Chiswick. She remembered that back in the sixties the local council had wanted to tear down the beautiful old Arts and Crafts houses, because so many had been neglected and divided into bedsitters. The council had wanted to replace them with blocks of flats. But a few staunch locals had fought to get the houses listed, and now they were being bought up and renovated to bring them back to their original beauty.

  ‘Mr Lark was one of the people who fought to save Bedford Park,’ Peanut informed her. ‘Some will say he did it to feather his own nest – he’d already bought three properties there. But I for one applaud his actions. Beautiful buildings shouldn’t be torn down to be replaced by blocks of flats. We all need beauty around us to inspire, whether that’s parks, buildings, theatres or art galleries.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more,’ Amelia said. She’d often walked around Bedford Park, looking at the houses that had been restored and dreaming of living in such a place one day.

  The Larks’ house was very imposing, one of the three-storey semi-detached ones, the gate and railings white-painted wrought iron. Its warm red brick looked so inviting in the pale winter sunshine, she could hardly wait to see what it was like inside.

  Mr Lark opened the front door before they reached it. He was a big man, at least six foot two, with broad shoulders and a mop of thick grey hair. She guessed him to be in his late fifties, but he looked younger, strong and fit. ‘You must be Amelia,’ he said. ‘Do come in.’

  Peanut backed away. He’d done his duty in getting her to the front door. Amelia glanced back and saw he looked a little anxious. She wondered why.

  The house smelt of polish, and as the hall had the original parquet flooring it was clear someone was looking after it. She had a glimpse of a grand sitting room, with midnight blue sofas and a Chinese rug, but Mr Lark led her to a far smaller room towards the back of the house. ‘We call this the snug,’ he said, ‘because it’s much cosier on a cold evening, and I use it as an office if I need to work at home.’

  ‘It’s lovely,’ Amelia said. The walls were painted a very dark green, which set off a white marble fireplace to perfection. ‘So many books,’ she added. One whole wall was covered with them, from floor to ceiling.

  There was a glazed door onto a small yard and beyond that the garden. She could see a great many conifers at the end, making it private.

  Amelia took a buttoned leather seat by the fire and got out her notepad and pen. ‘I won’t be taking notes, Mr Lark. This is for the names of places, schools, or something like that, which I might want to check later.’

  He had a stern face, and although no one would have expected him to be laughing today, Amelia had the impression that he was always serious, maybe even dour. His eyes were grey, like his hair, and the lids drooped. He had deep frown lines on his forehead.

  ‘Call me Henry,’ he said.

  ‘Well, Henry, first may I offer my condolences. What happened to Rosie was terrible and it must be the very worst
nightmare for you and your wife.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He nodded as he took the seat opposite her by the fire. ‘We still can’t really believe that’s it, that we’ll never see her again. We were always worried that we’d go while she was still young enough to need us, but it never entered our heads she might go first.’

  ‘Can you tell me where she went that last evening?’

  ‘To her friend Mabel Livingstone’s. She’s another model, living further up Chiswick High Road. They went to the Golden Orchid Chinese restaurant, which I believe is close to Mabel’s home. They had made plans to go to a club afterwards, but it was so cold they decided against it and parted outside the restaurant.’

  ‘You’ve obviously spoken to Mabel. Did she say if anyone was hanging around outside?’

  ‘She didn’t notice anyone. She said there wasn’t much traffic … but someone wasn’t put off by the cold.’

  ‘So Rosie walked home alone?’

  ‘She’s done that walk hundreds of times in all weathers, just as her friend would walk from here back to her home. When the last girl was killed in Ravenscourt Park, I did try to stop Rosie going out alone after dark. I said I’d take her anywhere she wanted to go, but my protests fell on deaf ears.’

  ‘I’m sure parents all over the world have that problem,’ Amelia said in sympathy. ‘It was suggested I got a taxi to Kew and back the evening I was attacked, but I didn’t want to spend money on a taxi when the tube was so close.’

  That wasn’t true – no one had suggested a taxi – but she thought it might make Henry feel a little better.

  ‘What time were you expecting Rosie home?’

  ‘I never knew when she was coming in. It was something I used to nag her about. She’d say she’d be in by eleven, then go on somewhere else and come back at three in the morning. I’d given up, though. She was twenty-six, and you can’t keep your kids wrapped in cotton wool for ever.’

  ‘No, you can’t,’ she agreed. ‘You went to bed and it wasn’t until morning that you found she wasn’t at home?’

  ‘That’s right, and even then I didn’t think any harm had come to her. I thought she’d just stayed the night with Mabel. She often did. Just after eight I walked along to Turnham Green Terrace to buy a paper and I saw all the police activity on the green. I spoke to a policeman, who said they’d found another girl. I felt queasy then and asked what colour coat she was wearing. When he said red, I nearly collapsed.’

  ‘How awful for you, Henry.’ Amelia could see he was shaking as he relived that terrible moment. ‘That must have been worse than a policeman coming to your door.’

  ‘He didn’t realize straight away what was wrong with me – I think he thought I’d had a seizure and needed to go to hospital. I swore at him when he kept fussing, and screamed out that it was Rosie.’

  Henry closed his eyes and wiped his hand across his forehead, a gesture Amelia thought meant he wanted to get rid of the pictures in his head. Her heart went out to him. She felt he was on the verge of breaking down and howling like a child, but he was holding it in because he believed that was what men should do.

  ‘It’s okay to cry, Henry,’ she said softly. ‘It might help release the anger and hurt inside you.’

  He looked at her, and briefly she thought he was going to shout at her.

  ‘I got the feeling when I read your articles that you’d been in a dark place too,’ he said, his voice shaking.

  ‘Not as dark as you’re going through, but bad enough for me to understand. Would you like to be alone for a bit? Let me make you some tea or coffee, or we can carry on and you can tell me what Rosie was like when she was younger.’

  He didn’t answer for a moment, sitting forward in his chair, his whole body sagging.

  ‘Tea would be nice,’ he said, after a bit. ‘A neighbour brought round some homemade chocolate cake. Rosie used to say that chocolate was the cure for everything.’

  Amelia smiled. ‘I think that too. So tea and cake it is.’

  The kitchen was galley-style, with a pine refectory table and benches right at the end by doors that opened onto the garden. Amelia thought it was the nicest she’d ever seen, with its pale green cupboards and white Formica work surfaces, so fresh and modern-looking. She liked the way saucepans were hung on a brass rail and the doormat by the back door said, ‘Lots of Larks to be had here’. Someone must have had it made for them.

  She found the tea things, and the chocolate cake in a tin on the work surface. While she waited for the kettle to boil, she arranged everything on a tray.

  Talking to the Whelans had been tough, Mrs Meadows even worse, but Henry Lark was in a league of his own. She thought he must normally be like a bull elephant, charging through life with ruthless efficiency, scattering all those who didn’t fit in with his plans. But, with her suspicion of his true character, it was so sad to see him crushed and defeated.

  The kettle boiled, she made the tea and put the pot on the tray, then carried it into the snug.

  As she put it down on a coffee-table, she saw he’d pulled out some photo albums.

  ‘That’s good thinking, Henry,’ she said. ‘It will help me to visualize Rosie and get to know her. I haven’t seen any pictures of her yet.’

  Henry handed her a large black-and-white photograph.

  Amelia almost gasped. Rosie was a classic beauty, a perfect oval face, prominent cheekbones, wide brown eyes and long, silky chestnut hair. In this picture she was wearing a slinky white evening dress studded with sequins. ‘Was this from one of her modelling assignments?’ she asked.

  ‘Yes. It was in the Christmas issue of Tatler. She was advertising the watch.’

  ‘I was so caught up in her beautiful face I hardly noticed that,’ Amelia said. It was white gold with diamonds and probably cost a king’s ransom.

  ‘Most of our friends said something similar,’ Henry said. ‘But, of course, in the magazine the details of the watch are emblazoned on the page. Rosie wasn’t a beautiful child, though. She was remarkably plain. Crooked teeth we had to get straightened and puppy fat too. We thought she was lovely, of course, but she suffered from bullying at school. Children can be very cruel.’

  ‘I bet the kids who bullied her felt very ugly themselves when later they saw her in magazines. How did she get to be a model?’

  ‘She was approached by a woman who worked for an agency. We were on holiday at the time in Wales – Rosie was coming up for eighteen. I thought the woman was a chancer – you know the sort, target the kid with stars in her eyes and talk her into paying for an expensive portfolio of photographs.’

  ‘But this woman was genuine?’

  ‘Yes. In fact she made us see how beautiful our daughter had become. You don’t really notice change when you see someone every day. Rosie was so shy, she didn’t show off, didn’t wear makeup, didn’t have much confidence either. But Caitlin, that was her name, saw what was there and eventually convinced my wife and me of it. It was Rosie who took the most persuading.’

  He showed Amelia several other glossy fashion pictures, in all of which Rosie looked fabulous. But then Henry put an ordinary snapshot into her hand. This was Rosie on a beach when she was about seven. She’d lost her front teeth, her hair was plaited, and she was wearing an unflattering ruched swimsuit. Amelia had had an almost identical one. She remembered that when she got into the paddling pool at the park it filled with water and she’d had to press it out or risk looking as if she had a weird big bottom.

  Henry was right: she was plain. What Americans called ‘homely’. She’d read that word in What Katy Did and liked that it didn’t sound cruel. At seven there wasn’t so much as a hint of what Rosie was to become.

  Amelia couldn’t bring herself to describe any child as plain, so she asked where the picture had been taken.

  Henry showed her many more over the tea and a slice of the delicious chocolate cake. There were lots of little stories, and through them Amelia saw Rosie at private school, at sports day in the eg
g-and-spoon race, in the swimming gala, in the back row of angels in the nativity play. Then one in the Guides.

  ‘She was in the Guides?’ Amelia said.

  ‘She loved it. She did so many badges, used to talk to us about being kinder to our neighbours and helping people every day.’ He laughed as he said it and Amelia was able to imagine the intense young girl wanting to make the world a better place.

  ‘Any particular friends there?’

  ‘There was Hilary, though we were never sure she was a good influence. Bossy, you know – I saw her as typical Girl Guide material.’

  ‘Did she keep in touch with Hilary? I mean, after she left the Guides.’

  ‘For a short while. I always felt that Hilary was the one who put her off Guiding. What makes you want to know about Guides?’

  ‘As I said, I’ve been looking for something all three girls shared, a place they went to, or even a fourth person. So far, nothing’s jumped out at me, other than all three of them being beautiful. Possibly dancing or sport, like gymnastics.’

  ‘Rosie liked dancing, but never did gymnastics. I wouldn’t call her sporty. She was the kind to curl up with a book.’

  ‘I see, but Guides came up with Lucy, so I’m going to check again and see if Carol was a member. Which Guide troop was Rosie in?’

  ‘One that met at our local church, St Michael and All Angels. She went to church with her mother regularly until her modelling career took off.’

  ‘Do you think the Guide mistress who knew Rosie will still be around?’

  ‘It’s highly likely. Women like that tend to be very committed. And it wasn’t so long ago, only twelve or thirteen years.’

  Henry talked and talked as he got out more photographs. He told stories about Rosie being naughty or disobedient as easily as he talked about occasions when he was proud of her, for winning a prize or doing something good.

  Again and again he was overcome by emotion. But he bit back his tears and carried on. ‘I can’t believe I’ve been robbed of walking her down the aisle to get married or holding a grandchild in my arms,’ he said at one point, his strong voice wavering. ‘My business, this lovely house and the money in my bank mean nothing now. I’d give up everything for one more day with my Rosie.’