Liar Page 14

  Amelia saw from the photographs that Mrs Lark was beautiful, too. In some of the pictures she looked very much like Jacqueline Kennedy, the same elegant style and the chiselled cheekbones.

  ‘How is Mrs Lark coping?’ Amelia asked tentatively.

  ‘Not at all well,’ he said sadly. ‘She’s just folded in on herself, if you can understand what I mean. She isn’t talking, or even crying. She’s just blank, as if everything she was has gone. She’s with her sister Madeline in Surrey, but Madeline told me this morning she refuses to consider any kind of counselling or psychiatric help. She says her life is over now.’

  ‘That’s absolutely awful!’ Amelia exclaimed. ‘But I have to say hundreds of thousands of people lose a child, and go on to do something worthwhile with their lives. What about all those people who lost their sons in the war? Their grief is just as fierce as Mrs Lark’s.’

  She stopped, suddenly aware her outburst was too much. ‘I’m sorry, that was unkind of me,’ she ventured, waiting to be shown the door.

  To her surprise, he smiled. ‘Not unkind, truthful,’ he said. ‘I agree with you entirely. But I’ve been fortunate to have you to talk to. You’ve been a shaft of light in an otherwise dark tunnel. Tell me how one so young can be so wise?’

  ‘I didn’t know I was wise, Henry,’ she said. ‘I understand pain because my childhood was pretty awful. I’ve had times I thought I would never fit in anywhere.’

  ‘I sensed your understanding of pain in the articles you wrote. Which I might say were brilliant. You’re not just a journalist, you’re a lioness on the side of truth.’

  Amelia wanted to punch the air in jubilation. But instead she merely smiled.

  ‘That’s a lovely thing to say. Now, I ought to contact Mabel and try to find out about the Guide mistress. But I don’t want to go if you still have things you want to tell me about.’

  ‘I think I should show you Rosie’s bedroom,’ he said. ‘I think we’ve talked enough for one day. But I’m sure by the morning I’ll have more to tell you, so could we meet again then? Maybe we could walk in Richmond Park and have some lunch.’

  Amelia hesitated. That sounded dangerously like a date. He was alone, grieving, and he felt she understood him. What if that led him to make a pass at her?

  But it was possibly more dangerous to be alone in the house with him.

  ‘Okay – well, as long as my editor and my boyfriend are happy about it. Let me jot down Mabel’s address and the Guide mistress’s name and number. Then I’d like to look at Rosie’s room. I expect the police have been all over it.’

  Henry sighed. ‘Yes. They were looking for evidence of men she might have been seeing, and wanted to look at letters, diaries and photos.’

  ‘Did she have a boyfriend?’

  ‘She had many.’ Henry shrugged and pulled a face. ‘She was always attracted to the arty sort. Musicians, mainly. Usually they were scruffy, weak, dreamer types, but they were harmless, or I assumed so anyway. I can’t think of one I could imagine lying in wait for her on a frosty night to kill her.’

  ‘How did these relationships end?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘They usually fizzled out, nothing dramatic. Musicians travel about quite a bit, and they aren’t available at weekends or evenings when they’ve got engagements. She liked going to gigs with them, but even that wore thin. She said once that standing around watching and waiting wasn’t really for her. Sometimes she said she felt like she was just a trophy.’

  ‘So did she ever have a serious romance, a steady boyfriend, whatever the word is to describe a feeling of permanence?’

  ‘At sixteen to eighteen she had Albie.’ Henry smiled. ‘He’d been her friend since they were toddlers and lived just down the road. They did everything together until he went to Newcastle University. But then her modelling took off, Albie got into the university social life, and gradually they drifted apart. No dramas there.’ Henry smiled. ‘They remained friends. Rosie even went to his wedding last year. He rang us when the police announced the identity of the Creeper’s latest victim. He was terribly upset. He said you always hold a torch for your first love.’

  Amelia nodded. ‘Shall we go upstairs now?’

  ‘You go alone, my dear,’ Henry suggested. He looked tired and drained. ‘I can’t face that room now. It’s the one to the right at the top of the stairs.’

  Amelia was glad to be alone. Poking around in someone’s bedroom was testing with someone standing by watching.

  It was the kind of bedroom Amelia had daydreamed about when she was back in White City sharing a tiny grubby box-room with her sister. It was mostly green and white, but with splashes of bright pink here and there. The bed looked fit for a princess, a small double with pretty lace fabric draped from the ceiling to either side of the pink velvet headboard. There was a kidney-shaped white dressing-table with a triple mirror under the window, which overlooked the back garden. The entire surface was covered with cosmetics, hairbrushes and bottles of perfume. The small drawers beneath were full of costume jewellery, all in a jumble. Opposite the bed there were wall-to-wall wardrobes, all packed with clothes, so many that Rosie must have struggled to remember what she had.

  Amelia ran her hand beneath the rails. In her experience, women tended to hide things there. Sure enough she drew out an old chocolate box with a picture of a thatched cottage, a metal cash box and a jewellery roll.

  The jewellery roll was full of clearly valuable pieces, among them a plain gold necklace, a white gold one studded with diamonds, a chunky silver bracelet and some sapphire earrings. Amelia put them back where she’d found them. The cash box wasn’t locked: it held fifty pounds and some loose change. She put that back, too, and opened the chocolate box. It held love letters, many from Albie. She read the one with the most recent date. It was a lovely letter. He’d clearly told her previously that he’d met someone important to him and she must have responded wishing him well with no hard feelings because he said he valued all the good times they’d had together and she’d been the very best of friends. He hoped they’d stay that way and he’d be watching her career, feeling proud that he knew her so well.

  There was nothing creepy, cruel, sarcastic or nasty in his letter. Amelia was certain he was a genuinely nice young man, writing to an equally kind and caring old girlfriend. Not one word in it was reproachful or bitter.

  She picked up the letters to group them together better, and underneath them she discovered a few black-and-white snapshots. She thought they were taken on a Box Brownie, as they were small and square – more modern cameras produced bigger oblong prints.

  A row of bell tents, with a kind of camp kitchen in the foreground. A fire with a rack above the flames for cooking on. She had seen people camping with similar equipment.

  A group of Guides and their mistresses. Amelia peered closer and saw Rosie. She looked so different then, her hair tucked up under her beret, and she was plump, but the picture was too small to see faces clearly.

  She flicked through the remaining pictures and found one of three Girl Guides.

  Taking it over to the window she peered at it – the faces were a bit blurred. She was certain Rosie was in the middle, but could the girls at either side of her be Carol and Lucy?

  12

  Deciding it was kinder not to give Henry false hope until she found out if the other two girls in the photo were Lucy and Carol, she slipped the photograph into her jacket pocket.

  Back in the snug he was waiting, looking expectant.

  ‘Anything?’ he asked.

  ‘Afraid not, nothing but the usual girls’ stuff. What a lovely room.’

  ‘It was never normally so tidy.’ He half smiled. ‘Rosie had a clear-up a couple of days before … Her mother was cross with her, saying if she wanted to live in a pig-sty, she could arrange it. Rosie only laughed, but she did tidy it. I know her mother would welcome an untidy room if we could have Rosie back.’

  ‘I’ll go to Mabel’s now. Would you mind giving me her a
ddress? I’ll see you in the morning, if you still want me to come.’

  ‘Yes, I do, but you can’t go walking up to Mabel’s alone. I’ll take you there and perhaps you can get the man who brought you here this morning to drive you home.’

  Amelia had forgotten she wasn’t supposed to go anywhere unescorted. ‘I don’t want to put you to that trouble.’

  ‘You’re going to a lot of trouble for me,’ he said, and he squeezed her shoulder in an affectionate manner. ‘Let me just ring Mabel first, though, to see if she’s in. As for the Guide mistress, you’ll have to contact the vicar for that, but I can give you his number. He’s the Reverend Charles Turner. A good man.’

  Mabel was at home, and twenty minutes later Amelia was in her sitting room.

  Her flat was above a furniture shop in Chiswick High Road, but it was reached through a little courtyard at the back. Amelia’s first reaction was surprise. It wasn’t a couple of ordinary rooms but big, modern, light and bright. Newly decorated, it was filled with the kind of super-smart contemporary furniture that could only have come from Heal’s on Tottenham Court Road.

  Mabel was Eurasian, exceptionally beautiful, with short curly black hair. She was wearing a long, slinky red sweater dress, the kind that was unforgiving on most women.

  Amelia recognized her face from fashion magazines, and she had a vague recollection that her name had been linked with the photographer David Bailey.

  ‘I hope it isn’t an imposition descending on you like this,’ Amelia said, ‘but Henry Lark seemed sure you’d talk to me about Rosie.’

  ‘Do sit down,’ Mabel said, indicating the black sofa strewn with zebra-striped cushions. ‘Henry did explain your involvement and I’ll be glad to help in any way I can. I’m still stricken with guilt that I didn’t insist Rosie stay here that night, but I had a photo call at seven the next morning.’

  ‘When did you hear what had happened?’ Amelia asked, as she sat down.

  ‘The police arrived just a few minutes after I got home that evening. It was around seven, and I’d had an awful day. I was cold and hungry, and hearing Rosie had been killed was absolutely devastating. We’d been close friends for some years, and I can’t really believe she’s gone.’

  Amelia thought that sounded heartfelt, but she was surprised Mabel’s eyes didn’t well up. Were they really such close friends?

  ‘I’m sure the police asked you absolutely everything, including about anyone who might have had a grudge against Rosie, but if there’s something that perhaps you didn’t want to say to them, or just didn’t seem relevant, please tell me.’

  Mabel shrugged. ‘As models we get more than our share of odd bods hanging around trying to engage with us, over-enthusiastic fans and admirers, too. Then there’s women who resent us because either they couldn’t do modelling or they’re one of those feminist bra-burners and despise us. But we’re always careful with them, Rosie more so than most because she worked on wanting to please everyone.’

  ‘Any of these people stand out more than the others?’

  Mabel shook her head. ‘Certainly no one nuts enough to lie in wait and kill her on her way home.’

  Amelia got the pictures of Carol and Lucy out of her bag and showed them to Mabel. ‘I know you’ll have seen these in the papers and on the news but look again at them now and tell me if you’ve ever seen either of them before.’

  Mabel studied them carefully. ‘No, I haven’t – they’ve both got that sixties style that so many girls copied, but I’m a hundred per cent sure they’ve never been anywhere near me, or Rosie, for that matter. Well, while she was with me anyway.’

  Amelia wasn’t going to show her the old photograph of the three girls together in case she mentioned it to Henry. ‘Did she ever tell you stories about her friends when she was younger? I believe she was in the Guides.’

  Mabel sniggered. ‘She said she was a “keener”, always wanting to get more badges. By all accounts she got most of them. She used to make me laugh, telling me about the lengths she went to. I was never in the Guides, so it all sounded weird to me.’

  ‘Did she ever speak about going camping with them? And any friends she made there?’

  ‘There was Hilary, she often mentioned her. She used to call her Hairy Hilary sometimes. You can imagine why. Teenage girls are often a bit cruel. They went camping one summer and it rained all the time. She said the food was awful, and the toilets were the chemical kind. I think she gave up Guides after that.’

  ‘This Hilary, did she live near Rosie?’

  ‘She must’ve done as she was in the same Guide company, whatever they call it. But I think she must’ve moved away because I asked Rosie once if she was still hairy, and she said she hadn’t a clue as they last saw one another when they were fourteen.’

  ‘Any other friends she spoke about, from school, youth clubs or suchlike? I’m assuming you two didn’t meet until Rosie became a model?’

  ‘That’s right. We met at an agency in Knightsbridge. She was seventeen, I was eighteen, but I’d been modelling for two years by then. I kind of took her under my wing. She didn’t appear to have any real friends. But I think her parents were very picky about who she mixed with.’

  ‘Did she tell you that? Or did you guess because of stuff she said?’

  ‘Both, really. Back at the start of her modelling career, her dad used to drive her to jobs and wait for her. She had to escape him to go on a date or just down the pub after work. So when we were working together, or nearby, I’d tell her dad I’d bring her home. When he found out my family were rather grand, with a country seat in the Midlands, he suddenly seemed okay about her being with me.’

  ‘Mr Lark’s a snob, then?’

  Mabel giggled. ‘He certainly is. The kind of self-made bloke who spends his whole life trying to act like he was born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Mrs Lark was even worse – I once saw she was reading one of those books on etiquette. You know the sort, where they teach you never to say “serviette”, only “napkin”, and don’t use words like “lounge” or “toilet”.’

  Amelia didn’t like her being so cutting about her friend’s parents. Especially as Rosie had just been killed. ‘I didn’t notice anything like that about Henry,’ she said. ‘But, then, I come from a housing estate in White City, and it was so rough there we called the lounge “the front room”.’

  ‘I didn’t mean to mock,’ Mabel said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘But this is just between us, right?’

  ‘Anything you say will go no further,’ Amelia assured her.

  ‘Well, if you want the truth, Rosie wasn’t the angel her parents are claiming. She took speed all the time to keep her weight down, and she often told her parents she was with me when she was off screwing around. She would walk over anyone to get a good assignment. Not me – she knew she wouldn’t work again if she crossed me – but everyone else was fair game. She was on the hunt for a rich husband, too, preferably someone in the film or music industry. She wanted to get into films – she did a couple of screen tests, but apparently she hadn’t got what it takes.’

  ‘So she might have really pissed someone off then.’ Amelia felt a flutter of excitement in her belly. This was better than hearing that Rosie had been perfection.

  ‘Yes, she did piss off a few people, but not enough for them to kill her. Her dad said you believed there was a connection between the three murdered girls. Well, I can’t speak about Lucy, the first one – she sounded saintly – but the description of the other was remarkably like Rosie.’

  Amelia looked at Mabel for the longest moment. It dawned on her that what this girl had told her wasn’t spite: she had liked Rosie, and as such she wanted her killer found and punished, so she’d decided to tell the truth, even if it put her and her friend in a bad light.

  ‘Thank you for being honest,’ Amelia said eventually. ‘It’s hard to admit a friend isn’t quite how others see her.’

  ‘We had a great deal of fun together,’ Mabel said, and
now her eyes were welling up. ‘I’ll miss her so much, but I wouldn’t be helping to find her killer if I pretended she was like a Sunday-school teacher. She was after the main chance. She wanted wealth and to get away from her parents because they suffocated her. But she and I had so many laughs. I loved her company. It’s hard for models to make real friends.’

  ‘Really? I always imagined you all lived in a rarefied world of fun, being wined and dined, admired by everyone.’

  Mabel shook her head sadly. ‘People may tell us we’re beautiful, but most of us are insecure. For instance, when I’m asked to do a swimsuit assignment, I feel physically sick because I’m too thin. None of us dares to eat what we like for fear of putting weight on. We’re afraid to be seen without our makeup on and our hair perfect. Sometimes I feel I don’t know what the real Mabel looks like. I know Rosie felt this too, always on show, perfection expected. It’s a strain. She took speed to keep slim, then sleeping pills to come down from the speed. I drink more than I should.’

  ‘I’m so touched that you felt you could open up to me,’ Amelia said. ‘It’s time I went now, though. Can I use your phone to ring the office? I’m not supposed to go anywhere alone since I was attacked.’

  ‘Of course.’ Mabel pointed to the white phone on a side table.

  Peanut asked no questions but said he’d be there within fifteen minutes.

  ‘Just enough time for one drink,’ Mabel said, when Amelia told her that, and before she could refuse, Mabel had disappeared through the door. ‘Just a small one,’ she called.

  ‘Will you keep in touch?’ Mabel asked, as she handed Amelia a glass of wine. It was small, but Mabel’s was huge. ‘I’d like to get to know you better. Not to talk about Rosie, just to be friends.’

  Amelia looked at the girl she’d thought had everything – the looks, money, the right upbringing – but for all that she was still short of a friend. ‘I’d like that,’ she said, and meant it. ‘I’m not on the phone at home but you can contact me at the office.’ She handed her a card. ‘This wine is lovely.’