Liar Page 3

  They were both attractive blondes, like Lucy, with glowing complexions and slim figures. Amelia guessed they were in their late twenties or early thirties. ‘The police haven’t told us much, only that she was left on some rubbish in Shepherd’s Bush. They said she was knocked out, then stabbed.’

  ‘I didn’t know how she died. They didn’t tell me that,’ Amelia said. ‘It was her boots I noticed, sticking out the rubbish, much too nice to have been dumped. When I touched one the rubbish shifted a bit and I saw her leg.’

  There was a strained silence.

  Mrs Whelan brought Amelia a cup of tea and a slice of cake. ‘We can’t believe we aren’t going to see our Lucy again,’ she said, slumping into one of the armchairs, fresh tears welling up and spilling over. ‘She went off to work like always the night before, but she said she’d probably sleep at her friend’s place and see us the next day. She often did that so I had no reason to be anxious.’

  ‘What did she work at?’ Amelia asked. She thought it more diplomatic not to admit she already knew.

  ‘She was an exotic dancer,’ Mrs Whelan said. ‘The policeman who came today to tell us she’d been found said she was a stripper. But she wasn’t. She worked in a smart nightclub called the Beachcomber and did hula dancing. I didn’t like the policeman. The way he spoke about her, it was like he thought she was a cheap little tart and led her killer on.’

  Amelia was horrified as Mrs Whelan began to cry in earnest. Not silent tears, but roars of anguish. She reached out and took the woman’s hand. ‘I saw her picture when I gave my statement. She was a beautiful girl, and you mustn’t take notice of a stupid policeman not knowing the difference between dancing for a living and being a stripper. As for Lucy leading her killer on, that’s just more stupidity. Men always seem to claim such things when a woman is hurt.’

  ‘Our Lucy was a ray of sunshine,’ Tracy the younger sister said, her voice hoarse with emotion. ‘She always saw the best in people. She was never fearful at being out at night either. The killer could’ve asked her the time, or where the nearest tube was, and she’d have stopped to answer him.’

  Amelia sensed that the four women needed to pour out their feelings about Lucy so she just sat back and listened.

  As they shared their opinions and memories of Lucy it was clear to Amelia that she had been a well-loved girl. These women didn’t just know her superficially, as Amelia suspected her own siblings knew her: no, the Whelan clan had known Lucy inside out. Not just her love of dancing or the Rolling Stones and fancying Sean Connery, but that she liked walking in woods, corny Disney films, and often went to the Tate and the National Gallery to admire the paintings. She might come across as a modern, switched-on girl to other people, with her confident air, her hair and clothes always immaculate, but she really wanted to get married, have four children and live in a country cottage.

  Nichola said Lucy didn’t have a serious boyfriend, and that she’d jokingly claimed she’d need to kiss a lot of toads before she recognized her prince when he came along. She saved her money, played tennis and was doing a cookery course one night a week. As Nichola pointed out, this was preparation for the life she really wanted.

  ‘She liked to show off a bit,’ her grandmother said, as if to illustrate they all knew both sides of Lucy. ‘That’s why she liked being a hula girl. Her mother and I went to the Beachcomber one night to check it out. It was everything she said – posh, expensive, but all above-board. I suppose it’s likely her killer met her there. Maybe he followed her when she left. But it would be wrong to suggest that the club is a low dive. Her killer could just as easily have followed her from the National Portrait Gallery.’

  Amelia thought she had a point there. ‘Did the police ask about the friend she normally stays with when she doesn’t come home?’

  The grandmother looked puzzled. ‘No, they didn’t. But we thought that was because she was killed on the way to stay with Frances.’

  Amelia didn’t say what she was thinking: that, as far as she knew, Lucy had been killed sometime the following day, late morning or even afternoon. She thought it very odd the police hadn’t asked for Frances’s address. It seemed remarkably unprofessional not to check with her before anything else.

  ‘The police said that by tomorrow morning the press will be pounding on our door,’ the grandmother said.

  ‘Don’t speak to them,’ Amelia advised them. ‘I work on the clerical side of one of the local papers and I know how pushy journalists can be. They’ll twist your words, write half-truths and often complete lies. Just keep the door locked and the curtains drawn so they can’t see in. The police sometimes send a woman officer round to be with the family in cases like this. I don’t know why there isn’t one here now.’

  ‘Probably because they’d already made up their minds our Lucy was no better than a prostitute so they aren’t going to bother,’ Tracy spat out bitterly.

  ‘I’m sure it’s not like that,’ Amelia said quickly. ‘I was at the police station for three hours this morning and I didn’t hear anyone saying anything like that.’

  ‘People are always quick to believe the worst,’ Mrs Whelan said. ‘My Roger will be turning in his grave to hear such things said about his baby girl.’

  ‘I didn’t realize you were a widow, Mrs Whelan. I’m so sorry.’ Amelia wished she’d checked about Mr Whelan before she’d set out today.

  ‘He passed away five years since.’ Mrs Whelan’s eyes filled with fresh tears. ‘It was cancer, and it took him so fast. If he’d still been with us, he would never have let our Lucy dance up west.’

  ‘Dancers and musicians have no choice but to work evenings in places their families would prefer them not to be,’ Amelia said. ‘Even if she was dancing with the Royal Ballet, she’d still be up west!’

  ‘That’s true, Mum,’ Nichola said, reaching out to squeeze her mother’s hand. ‘You’ve got to stop blaming yourself. Lucy wanted to work there – if you’d said she couldn’t, she might have left home. She was that determined.’

  A loud rapping on the front door made them all jump.

  Amelia peeped out through the net curtains. ‘Oh dear,’ she exclaimed. ‘It’s the first bunch of reporters.’ She saw the horror on all four women’s faces. ‘Don’t look so scared. Look, I ought to go now – I’ve taken up enough of your time – but I’ve got an idea. What if I tell them you’ve given me an exclusive story and you aren’t going to talk to anyone else? Would that be all right with you? They’ll go away then.’

  ‘Are you going to write something in the paper you work for?’ Nichola asked, her face full of suspicion.

  ‘Not me, I’m just a junior, but I can tell one of the experienced reporters the stuff about me finding Lucy, and a little bit about your family.’ She glanced at the photograph of Lucy on the mantelpiece. It was a classic ballet picture, taken perhaps when she was thirteen or fourteen, hair up in a bun, wearing a tutu. ‘If it’s okay with you I’ll borrow that picture and get them to do a piece about her ambitions as a dancer. That’ll scotch any stories about her being a stripper. I promise you I won’t let them write anything I wouldn’t be proud to show you. But I warn you, those hyenas out there will tell you anything to get a sensational story. They’ll offer you money and hound you. This is the best way to put a stop to that.’

  The banging on the door and the bell-ringing were becoming more insistent. All four women looked scared.

  ‘Look, let me do what I said. I’ll also ring the police from down the road and tell them you’re being harassed. They’ll send someone round to get rid of them.’

  Surprisingly it was Mrs Whelan who got to her feet and moved towards Amelia to take both her hands. ‘You do that and take the photograph with you. I trust you. I know you have a kind soul.’

  Amelia smiled and reached out to stroke the older woman’s cheek gently. ‘I can imagine how awful this is for you, Mrs Whelan, and for all your family. My heart goes out to you. I’ll give you my number at work, in case you nee
d me, and if it’s all right with you I’ll come back tomorrow to return the photograph and see how things are.’

  The last thing Amelia said to the family before she left was ‘Don’t open the door to anyone tonight. Stay strong, and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

  Amelia knew something of how journalists and photographers hung around on doorsteps, desperate for any crumbs of information, but she hadn’t realized just how many would be there and how hard it was to shout over the babble of questions they were firing at her.

  Her legs turned to jelly, and for a moment or two she wanted to run away without saying anything. But she had to speak out. She’d promised she would.

  ‘I have an exclusive contract with the Whelans for any news about the tragic murder of Lucy, their daughter and sister,’ she announced, as loudly as she was able. The hubbub paused and suddenly all eyes were on her.

  ‘I am the person who found Lucy’s body, and the family have asked me to tell you all to leave. They won’t be talking to anyone but me, and they ask that you respect their grief and need for privacy.’

  She told them her name, and that she worked for West London Weekly, then pushed her way through the crowd and hurried off down the road.

  The last thing she remembered seeing out of the corner of her eye was a television camera. Jack would be thrilled by that.

  4

  Amelia went straight back to the office, hoping Jack would still be at his desk. It was now six in the evening, but she had suspected for some time that he rarely went home.

  He was still there, the customary cigarette dangling at the corner of his mouth, smoke swirling above his head. Yet it was strangely quiet for the night before the papers hit the newsstands. Every other Thursday the noise from the print room on the floor below was deafening, but tonight it was silent. It seemed that everyone had gone home.

  ‘Well?’ he asked, barely looking up from his typewriter.

  ‘I’ve managed to get an exclusive,’ she said nervously. ‘But before we go any further, I’ve promised I’ll write it.’

  ‘I don’t know about that,’ he said, removing the cigarette from his lips and raising one eyebrow. ‘You’ve no experience.’

  ‘Well, let me write it now and you can see what you think. I’ve also got this.’ She took the ballet photograph out of her bag. ‘This picture should set the tone of the piece. She was a nice girl who had dreams of being a ballerina, not a tarty stripper.’

  There was a long silence.

  She knew he’d much prefer a tarty-stripper murder, and a dysfunctional family thrown in. He certainly wasn’t wild about stories of would-be ballerinas. If he refused hers, she would have to walk out, and risk being sacked. She couldn’t let the Whelan family down.

  He sighed, scrutinizing her through half-closed eyes. ‘Go on, write it. You’ve got an hour. I need to nip out, but I told them downstairs to hold the front page and they’ll be sitting there twiddling their thumbs. When I get back, if I think it’s good enough it can go in.’

  Amelia’s mouth dropped open. She had fully expected opposition and ridicule. The best she had hoped for was that he’d write it himself from her notes. She certainly hadn’t counted on him letting her write it. What thrilled her most, though, was that he’d had enough faith in her to get a story and come straight back with it. So much faith that he’d halted the printing in the belief she could give him a great front page.

  Now she had to deliver. Thankfully, on the journey back to the office she’d been planning the story in her head.

  ‘Shut your gob and get started,’ he said, his mouth curving into a seldom-seen smile. He might be setting her up to fail, but she was going to disappoint him on that score.

  As he came back into the office an hour later, she was just finishing. She didn’t say a word, just pulled the paper out of the typewriter and handed it to him.

  She had told the story as it had happened: her finding Lucy on the rubbish, what she had learned from the police, then going to see the girl’s family because she’d felt she had to. Portraying a girl with aspirations to be a ballet dancer had come easily to Amelia. As a young girl, she used to dream of it herself but had never had the chance to take ballet lessons. However, she had listened carefully to what the mother, grandmother and sisters had said about Lucy’s hopes and ambitions, and her place in the family. By being in the girl’s home with her family she’d also picked up on things unsaid. To her it was a heartrending story about a life cut short and a family’s terrible loss, and that was how she’d written it. But Jack wasn’t a fan of tender stories. He liked them hard-hitting and sensational.

  He perched on the edge of a desk to read it. Amelia’s heart was thumping, her legs felt weak and she was perspiring as if she had run a mile.

  ‘Well, Amelia,’ he said at length, looking up at her and pausing as if choosing his words. Her heart plummeted, thinking he was almost certainly going to say it wouldn’t do.

  ‘You’ve done an excellent job.’

  Amelia gasped.

  ‘It’s probably beginners’ luck, so don’t think you’re on your way to a sparkling journalistic career. But this is good enough to go straight to print. I take it you’ve got all the ages and spellings of names right?’

  ‘I think so,’ she said. ‘I remembered you said that was important.’

  ‘You’re aware that when this hits the streets tomorrow you’ll be pestered by other journalists?’

  Amelia gulped. She hadn’t thought of that.

  ‘And some of them will take your story and rewrite it for their paper, putting their spin on it.’

  ‘Can they do that?’

  ‘It’s commonplace.’ He shrugged. ‘But you’ll be the first off the starting blocks, so that will be remembered. Let’s just hope the police find her killer soon and then they’ll all move on to stories about him.’

  Jack sent her out to get fish and chips for them both while the printers set up the front page with her story. Amelia was pleased he didn’t send her home: he appeared to understand that she couldn’t wait to see and hold the first copy off the press. If he had banished her, she might have just waited on the doorstep until daybreak when the vans arrived to collect the papers for delivery to shops.

  After the fish and chips, which tasted wonderful, Jack took her downstairs to see the printing, and she was so excited she could barely stand still. The noise from the press and the smell of the ink were intoxicating, even though when she had first joined the paper the noise had given her a headache and the smell had made her feel sick. Perhaps she was born to be a journalist.

  Nothing on earth could have been more thrilling than the moment the first paper was put into her hands. It was warm, the ink still a bit tacky, and the headline ‘Murdered and Thrown Out With the Rubbish’ was a bit tacky too. But Amelia was in no position to question her boss about that: it was the editor’s prerogative to choose the headline.

  ‘Off with you now,’ Jack said, waving his hand towards the door. ‘And don’t be late tomorrow.’

  It was half past nine, too late to call on anyone, but Amelia was so desperate she ran all the way from the bus stop to Max’s place, hoping he’d be in and willing to share her excitement.

  When he opened the door, she couldn’t speak: all she could do was wave the newspaper. ‘I almost didn’t answer because I was watching Monty Python, and I thought it might be Jehovah’s Witnesses,’ he said, with a broad grin. ‘But I think I might have wizard-like powers as something told me it was you.’

  ‘Well, Mr Wizard, can you tell me who wrote tomorrow’s front page?’

  He put two fingers to his forehead and closed his eyes. ‘Ah! Got it! Amelia White!’

  He asked her in, telling her she must ignore the disgusting mess his room was in, but Amelia would have sat down in a pig-sty if she could show off her story.

  In fact, his room wasn’t as bad as she had expected. A sink full of unwashed dishes, and his bed was unmade, but she’d seen worse.

  ‘
You read it while I wash up,’ she said.

  Max turned off the TV, put on a Marvin Gaye LP, pulled up the bedcovers and sat down to read. By the time he’d finished she was almost done at the sink. ‘It’s really good, and very moving,’ he said at length. ‘You’ve managed to portray her family’s loss and anger so well. But sit down now, and tell me how it all came about.’

  Amelia wasn’t used to having anyone’s undivided attention. She’d been brought up in a family where the one who shouted loudest got heard. All her past boyfriends had been more interested in telling her about themselves than in getting to know her.

  But Max wasn’t her boyfriend, she reminded herself. He was just a neighbour who’d happened to come along at a crucial time. For all she knew he might have a steady girlfriend he hadn’t admitted to.

  An hour later, Amelia had told him the whole story. He was a good listener, only stopping her occasionally to question something.

  ‘Gosh, it’s half past ten,’ she said, glancing at her watch. ‘I’ve stopped you watching Monty Python and now I’m keeping you up. I must go.’

  ‘I’d gladly be kept up by you,’ he said, with the kind of sexy grin that suggested he’d like her to stay all night.

  Amelia felt a little flip in her stomach, and noticed again how lovely his green eyes were, reminding her of woodland pools. ‘Maybe we can do something together on Sunday,’ she said, without, for once, considering rejection.

  ‘That would be good. A picnic somewhere lovely, like Hampstead Heath?’

  ‘A great idea. I’ll make the picnic,’ she agreed, her heart racing. ‘Well, if it’s not raining.’

  ‘It won’t be,’ he said, getting up as she moved towards the door.

  He leaned past her shoulder to open it, his face just inches from hers. ‘Sunday can’t come quickly enough for me,’ he said, in little more than a whisper, and suddenly he was kissing her.

  It was the most delicious kiss, sensitive yet sensual. Amelia leaned into him – she didn’t want it to end.