Liar Page 4

  ‘Goodnight, then,’ he said, kissing her forehead one more time. ‘Sleep tight.’

  Back in her own room next door, Amelia got into bed, feeling as though she could have burst with happiness, not just at getting a story on the front page of the local paper but at the prospect of a new romance. She couldn’t help but relive that kiss, wanting to rush back to Max for more.

  Mostly she’d been extremely unlucky with the opposite sex. She’d watched other girls going to work on the tube with their man, strap-hanging and looking into each other’s eyes. Often couples kissed and cuddled on the platforms. At lunchtime they were in the park, sharing their sandwiches, and clearly couldn’t get enough of each other. At weekends Goldhawk Road market was full of loved-up people wandering along hand in hand. She’d never had that with anyone.

  Men always wanted to get her into bed, but where was the courting, the interest in her as a person? She wasn’t a virgin: she’d been to bed with four different men, each time thinking he might be The One, only to be disappointed.

  Disappointment was a thread that ran through her life. It had followed almost everything right from when she was old enough to remember. When she’d started school a girl called Marcia Reynolds asked if she’d be her best friend. The very next day she turned her back on Amelia and went off with another girl. Her mother would say she was going to buy Amelia new shoes, and Amelia would ask for red ones. But she never got new red shoes, not even brown ones: her mother would just put cardboard inside hers over the holes in the soles, and wait until a pair that fitted her turned up in a jumble sale.

  Her parents were one long round of disappointment for the shabbiness of their home, her father’s nasty temper and her mother’s apathy. There was never money for school trips, a haircut, or even a day out at the seaside in the summer holidays. She grew used to her mother never keeping her promises, for buying drink rather than food for the family, and her father showing no interest in her at all, unless it was to hit her. She dreamed of being taken away to live with nice people.

  There had been two exceptionally inspirational teachers at school, but they had left after just one term, and it was back to the teachers who couldn’t have cared less whether their pupils learned anything or not. When the youth-employment officer had come to the school to advise on careers, Amelia had told her she wanted to be a journalist. The woman said, ‘It’s no good aiming for something you can’t possibly achieve. I could get you an interview at Woolworths.’

  She didn’t go to Woolworths: she refused to believe that was all she was worth. Instead she had a series of office-junior jobs, but she enrolled at night school to learn shorthand and typing and scored the highest marks in her class. Even then she got no praise. Her father pulled a face, telling her to find some rich bloke and marry him. Her mother sniffed and said she was getting above herself. It was at that point, when she’d got her first job in a typing pool, she left home.

  She had believed that getting away from a family who dragged her down with their negativity and nastiness would change her life dramatically, that she’d make dozens of new friends she could ask over for supper or a drink. That would lead to invitations to parties and suddenly she’d be at the centre of everything.

  Painting her room, pinning up art posters and covering her bed with a red blanket made it look so inviting. Bright cushions and lamps fashioned from Chianti bottles with gaily coloured shades created a lovely atmosphere. Yet she didn’t make new friends: all the other tenants in the house kept themselves to themselves, and when she tried to invite the couple on the ground floor for a drink, they made a pathetic excuse, which left her feeling very awkward.

  It was the same at work. No one socialized, and when Amelia had got brave and asked people if they fancied a drink after work, they were always in a hurry to get home.

  At the height of Flower Power in 1968, when she worked three evenings a week in a pub in Holland Park, she met people who were more friendly and approachable. Some were squatting in empty properties in the area, and she was often invited to their places for impromptu parties. It was so exciting – they were all so radical, throwing overboard standard morality and beliefs. They talked about travelling to India, setting up artistic communes and changing the world.

  For a long time she immersed herself in this new way of life, convinced she’d found the Truth and the Way. But as time passed she noticed it was always she who brought the wine when she was asked round. She lent money that was never paid back, and cooked meals for people who never reciprocated. Gradually she began to see that her new friends didn’t care about her: all they wanted was someone to lie around with while they got stoned and listened to music.

  It had been great fun for a while, especially while she still believed that her entire generation was intent on changing the world into a better, fairer place. But as the sixties ended Amelia saw that was an illusion, and the mantra ‘All You Need Is Love’, which she’d clung to, was as phoney as her father’s drunken promises.

  As the bells rang out for the New Year of 1970, Amelia was in her room in Godolphin Road, touching up scuffs on the paintwork. Alone again, as she so often was, these days, she arrived at the conclusion that she was boring, with no personality, or spirit of adventure: that was why she had no close friends, and her family had always been indifferent to her.

  The only new friend she’d made was Kat Somerset. They’d met on a horrible stormy night at the launderette in Goldhawk Road. No one else was in there, and Kat had greeted Amelia with enthusiasm, saying she thought they both needed their heads seeing to, coming out on such a night.

  Amelia was immediately intrigued because Kat had such an exciting life. She was the buyer for the bathrooms department in Harrods and often had to travel to Milan to look at new products. ‘I’m sure you know the Italians lead the way in design,’ she said. ‘Many other bathroom companies buy products from China and other Far East countries, but not us.’

  She was not only well travelled and knowledgeable, but she was interesting-looking – not beautiful or even pretty, but striking. She had long, thick, wavy dark brown hair and was very tall, perhaps five foot ten, with a statuesque body. Her nose was a little too Roman, and her dark eyes rather small and beady, but she had the kind of presence Amelia wished she had.

  Kat lived further down Godolphin Road on the other side. ‘I’m looking to buy a small house or apartment, Amelia. I fancy Fulham, as my boyfriend, Grant, who deals in property, says it’s an area on the up and up.’

  ‘Are you getting married, then?’ Amelia asked.

  ‘Dear me, no.’ Kat tossed her hair back over her shoulder. ‘There’s far too many interesting men out there for me to tie myself down just yet. Grant is very generous, always taking me out to the smartest restaurants and to see shows. He’s a great lover, too, but I’m playing the field for now.’

  It was frustrating how rarely she saw Kat: she wanted to invite her in for a meal, perhaps get to know the friends she talked about when they ran into each other down by the tube in the early evenings. On those occasions they usually went for a drink, but Kat was always rushing off to the West End or meeting someone later.

  When Amelia got the job at the newspaper, she thought she might have a busier social life. Journalists were supposed to be wild, always up for a party or dragging you down to the pub with them. They did the pub thing sometimes, and Amelia had the odd date with men she met there, but most nights after one of those sessions she came home alone, a bit tipsy, and thought how shallow it all was.

  Recently she had begun to think she was destined to be an old maid, that life would be one long, dreary plod towards old age.

  Then, out of the blue, everything seemed to have changed. She could have done without finding a dead body practically on her doorstep, but because of it, her job was now looking decidedly promising, and Max even more so. But she wasn’t going to jinx anything by getting too excited and imagining happy-ever-after.

  That didn’t stop her mentally pl
anning the picnic for Sunday, though, and what she was going to wear.

  The following day, as the paper hit the streets, Amelia’s colleagues were remarkably interested in her and her story, stopping by her desk to chat. Frank, the top reporter, even brought her a doughnut and a cup of coffee and praised her story, which he said made ‘compelling reading’. There were telephone calls too, from other newspapers, but Jack dealt with them.

  Yet however impressed Jack and the other staff might be, Amelia was still expected to stay at her desk, take calls from would-be advertisers and cold-call businesses to sell them advertising space.

  But on Friday afternoon, not long before she was due to go home, Jack called her into his office. ‘I’ve had an update on Lucy Whelan’s death,’ he said, after inviting her to sit down. ‘I thought you had a right to know first, but I don’t want you bandying it around. Is that clear?’

  ‘Perfectly.’ She nodded. She assumed he’d got this information from a police source and had been told to keep it under his hat for now. Just that he was prepared to share it with her was a real compliment.

  ‘Her body wasn’t driven to the site where you found her. She was killed there, in broad daylight,’ he said, almost jubilantly. ‘It seems she was struck hard on the back of her head. The post-mortem revealed traces of lead in the head wound, so most likely she was hit with a length of piping. Then, when she fell backwards, she was stabbed through her side. It seems she may have fallen directly onto the rubbish, which was why there was no blood on the path. The killer then moved some bags on top of her.’

  ‘Good heavens,’ Amelia exclaimed. ‘I can’t believe anyone would kill someone in broad daylight with so many houses close by.’

  ‘My source referred to him as “a creeper” – creeping up on his victim. But so far they don’t have any leads on him.’

  ‘Did they check with Lucy’s friend Frances, the girl she usually stays with?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Lucy was with her overnight. Frances was still in bed after her pal had left, but Lucy left a note thanking her. The woman downstairs spoke to her as she left – that was around twelve noon. She told the neighbour she was going to Goldhawk Road market before she went home.’

  The market was only a short walk from Amelia’s home and from where she had found Lucy.

  ‘But that suggests it was an entirely random killing. If she was followed back from work, it’s unlikely the killer would have waited all night for her to surface again.’

  ‘She got a taxi to Frances’s anyway,’ Jack said. He looked a bit perplexed. ‘Unless, of course, he’d followed her to Frances’s place another day and knew what time she’d surface the following morning. He could’ve been waiting there and followed her when she came out.’

  ‘But why would she go into Godolphin Road and Scotts Road where I found her? It’s not the way back to Chiswick.’

  ‘Her friend said she’d mentioned checking out a hairdresser’s in Uxbridge Road. If that was where she was heading it would’ve made a lot more sense to cut through Lime Grove. But maybe she missed that turning. The point is, was the killer following her all the time? And what was it about her that made him want to kill her?’

  ‘An old boyfriend?’ Amelia suggested. ‘Someone she rejected?’

  ‘If I killed everyone who rejected me,’ Jack joked, ‘the bodies would stretch from Shepherd’s Bush to Marble Arch.’

  Amelia laughed. Yet although that was funny here in the safety of an office, it made her think along another track. ‘If he’s killing because he was rejected, there’ll be others,’ she said.

  ‘You’re right. In that case, we’ll have to wait until another body turns up. Then police can look for common denominators.’

  A shiver ran down Amelia’s spine. She had a feeling that was exactly what was going to happen.

  5

  Amelia woke early on Sunday to find the sun shining and not a cloud in the sky. She leaped out of bed fizzing with excitement. She’d bought the picnic food the previous day, even though she was afraid it would pour with rain and they wouldn’t be able to go to Hampstead Heath.

  Max said he’d call for her at eleven, but at six in the morning that seemed an eternity away.

  By ten she had cleaned her room, changed the sheets, and was ready, bathed, hair washed, and wearing her newest dress. It was a copy of a Mary Quant sleeveless shift, white but with a flash of scarlet down one side. Flat sandals, as heels on Hampstead Heath would be folly, and she had a red cardigan in case it turned chilly later. She had used the last of her Madame Rochas perfume, but Max was worth it.

  The picnic was all packed into a basket: pork pie, hard-boiled eggs, ham and cucumber rolls, some peaches and plums, a bottle of lemonade and a bar of chocolate. She’d wanted to add more but it was already heavy to carry.

  She looked in the mirror to tweak her hair. Mostly when she studied her appearance a small voice in her head whispered that she was fat, plain, her nose too big, or her eyes too small. She was certain such thoughts were her father’s doing as she’d grown up with his continual nasty, barbed remarks, which, she knew, were intended to undermine her confidence.

  However, today she was about 90 per cent certain she looked fine, even pretty. Her bobbed hair was shiny chestnut, her legs were good, she had a golden tan and she certainly didn’t look fat. Today’s positivity was all down to her success in writing the story about Lucy. She’d bought all the daily newspapers yesterday to see how they had chosen to write up the murder, and she’d been delighted to see small elements of her story in each. That at least meant all those big-name journalists had read hers. It was interesting to see the different slants they’d put on the facts. The Daily Telegraph and The Times were the most truthful, and they had used the photograph Amelia had borrowed from the Whelans. They had cut it down to a head shot, though, and didn’t mention ballet. There was a quote from a neighbour, who said, ‘Lucy was a pleasant girl, but a bit headstrong.’ At least that wasn’t really damning.

  The Daily Mail and the Express had used another photograph in which Lucy looked drunk, wearing a very low-cut dress. Amelia wondered who had given it to them. Both portrayed her as a young woman who had been lured to the clubs of Soho to make a somewhat sordid living. They didn’t say she was a stripper, but certainly implied it, along with a subtle message about the dangers for young women in London’s West End.

  Amelia was glad she’d advised the Whelans not to speak to the press. Even without contact with the family, those journalists had decided Lucy was a wild girl who had done as she liked and paid the ultimate price for it. Had they spoken to the family and twisted any unguarded comments they might have made, goodness knows what they would have added.

  Amelia glanced out of the window at a quarter to eleven and saw Max standing by the steps to his house. She had a feeling he was excited, like her, but afraid to call on her early. That pleased her so she decided to go down.

  ‘Hello, Max,’ she said, pretending surprise when she opened the front door to see him standing at the bottom of the steps. ‘I didn’t hear the bell. I just thought I’d better come down and check as quite often it doesn’t work.’

  ‘I’ve only just got here. You look nice,’ he said, with a smile, holding up a rolled-up tartan rug. ‘I borrowed this from my neighbour. Good job I did – you wouldn’t want to get grass stains on that smart dress.’

  He was wearing jeans, an open-necked checked shirt and desert boots. He looked so different from how he did in a suit, and she liked it. It fitted better with him liking rock-climbing. ‘I hope I’ve packed enough food,’ she said. ‘The basket got heavy, so I stopped putting things into it.’

  ‘Then we’ll eat it quickly to make it lighter.’ He laughed. ‘I’m starving already.’

  Even before they got to the tube station Amelia had entirely forgotten how nervous she was. Max had such a lovely dry sense of humour, making little acerbic observations about the crummy shops they passed. Shepherd’s Bush shared nothing with Holland Park
and Chiswick, its glamorous neighbours, but however run down it was, they both liked it.

  Once on the tube they discussed Saturday’s reports in the dailies on the murder.

  ‘You’ve got your five minutes of fame as “the Girl who Found the Body”,’ Max said, his eyes twinkling. ‘That sounds like one of those cheap thrillers. But I love the Mirror’s pious “Her family are broken with shock and grief”, yet in the next sentence it’s saying she went to a friend’s home late at night, instead of going home, wearing skimpy hot pants. They might as well have said she was a girl of dubious morals and had it coming to her.’

  Max had bought today’s News of the World, which had stated she was a stripper in a sleazy Soho bar. It had sickened him to read that, he said. ‘It beggars belief,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘She was murdered, for Heaven’s sake. And she danced in an exclusive Mayfair nightclub. Even if she was on the game in the alleys of Soho, she still wouldn’t have deserved to be killed. I can’t imagine how devastated her family must be to see her portrayed in that way.’

  ‘Let’s not talk about it any more,’ Amelia suggested. ‘It’s too nice a day to dwell on sad stuff.’

  ‘A wise plan,’ Max said. ‘So, tell me what’s in the picnic basket.’

  Amelia laughed. ‘Nothing terribly exciting. I had a friend, Julia, whose mum made us picnics to take to the park. She was a proper mum, one that made cakes, sewed buttons on school blouses and was always there on sports day. Her picnics were amazing. She used to make us little trifles in jam jars. There were cold sausages and chicken legs too. I could never wait till lunchtime. I’d be drooling by ten in the morning, thinking about what might be in the bag.’

  Max smiled. ‘My mum made good picnics too, not as posh as trifles in jam jars, but thick slices of corned beef with Branston pickle in the sandwiches, and always nice cake. I take it you didn’t see yours as a proper mum.’