Liar Page 7

  ‘Did you get chips that last night?’

  ‘No – my feet were killing me. I was wearing new shoes. We came straight back, and we both went to bed within ten minutes of getting in.’

  Amelia tried another tack. ‘So what were Lucy’s interests?’

  ‘Dancing, obviously. She’d given up on being a ballerina – she was getting too old. She was toying with the idea of applying to be a Redcoat at Butlins. I did my best to talk her out of it – I’ve heard ghastly stories about Butlins. But I suppose I was being selfish, I liked having her at the club with me. She’d been very sporty, tennis, netball and gymnastics, but I think she felt dancing was enough exercise now. She practised for at least two hours a day as well as doing three sets in the evening.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘She loved board games – she was extremely competitive and took them seriously. She once told me that at a Girl Guides camp they were playing Monopoly and there was a girl cheating. She said she told on her because she was horrified. I thought nearly everyone cheats at Monopoly – it’s such a long-winded game you have to so it ends.’

  Amelia laughed. She’d cheated many times when round at friends’ houses after school. ‘So she was in the Girl Guides? Did she take that seriously?’

  ‘Oh, yes! “Be Prepared” was her motto. I saw a photo of her once in her Guides uniform – she had an armful of badges. I never got more than three. They despaired of me.’

  Frances made Amelia some coffee, and it seemed she had now run out of steam.

  ‘I think it’s best if I leave you in peace,’ Amelia said. She could see how stained the cups were and didn’t fancying drinking from one. ‘But if you think of anything else, could you drop me a line or ring me at work?’ She jotted down the address and her work phone number. ‘Before I go, you said she pretended to have a boyfriend to stop men pestering her. But did she have one? Or who was the last and what happened to him?’

  ‘She was seeing Dan – that was a good six months ago. He dumped her because she was always working at weekends. She wasn’t bitter. She said she liked him but wasn’t in love with him. Since then she hadn’t bothered. Dancing filled her life, really. There wasn’t much room for anything else.’

  Amelia sensed Frances had nothing more to say. ‘Just one more thing,’ she said as she got up. ‘Could I come with my boyfriend to the Beachcomber? Just to get a feel for the place?’

  ‘Of course you can! Anyone can come in as long as they’re smartly dressed and can afford the hefty drink prices.’ She paused and looked at Amelia. ‘I’ll tell you what, I’ll explain to the manager, and I’m sure he’ll keep you a table, maybe throw in a few drinks or waive the entrance fee. After all, everyone, including him, was very fond of Lucy.’

  ‘That would be wonderful,’ Amelia said. ‘So kind of you. Could we come on Saturday?’

  ‘Yes, that’ll be fine. I’ll leave your name on the door. Come about eight, before it gets frantic. Don’t bank on Mr Edwards the manager being overly generous – he blows hot and cold – but I’ll do my best for you.’

  Amelia took both of Frances’s forearms. ‘Thank you for seeing me. It must’ve been hard when you’ve just lost your friend.’

  ‘I miss her so much.’ Frances’s eyes filled with tears. ‘But if I can help in some small way to get her killer caught and locked away, that will be something.’

  The only nightclubs Amelia had visited were smoky dives in Soho, like the Bag o’ Nails, and they were usually in cellars. The main music venues, like Wardour Street’s Marquee, or the Flamingo, were called clubs but they were all about the music, with live up-and-coming bands. They usually closed by half past eleven, and there was no glamour, just a big space where people mostly stood around to listen.

  There were discos too, but in the main they were cramped, expensive and something of a meat market. Amelia often wondered how girls expected to find the man of their dreams in a place so noisy you couldn’t hold a conversation.

  The thought of going somewhere ritzy like the Beachcomber was exciting. It was a chance to dress up too. She had a red crêpe dress trimmed with marabou feathers. It was gorgeous, had cost nearly a week’s wages and she’d only worn it once. She had a feeling Max would be just as excited.

  7

  ‘Her name is – or, rather, was – Carol Meadows,’ Jack said, the moment Amelia stepped through the door the next morning. ‘And I’ve already rung her mother and asked if you can go and see her this morning.’

  Amelia noticed other members of staff further back in the open-plan office watching Jack and listening to him. She could almost smell the hostility that he was singling out one of the younger members of his staff. ‘They agreed just like that?’ she exclaimed. While she felt awkward that he was favouring her, she was also stunned that he had the ability to arrange such a meeting. She knew Jack had a silver tongue when he chose to use it, but this seemed far too invasive. ‘Surely her parents have only just been told she’s dead. Aren’t the police still with them?’

  ‘There’s no dad, just a mother,’ he said. ‘I telephoned her an hour ago, and the police had already left. She needs someone there with her – she even said as much. When I explained about you finding Lucy, I told her she’d find it comforting talking to you and she agreed immediately. There’ll be a press release at eleven this morning, so get there now and pull out all the stops before the press hounds descend on her. Do what you did before and fend them off. Stay all day, if necessary, but bring me back a sizzling story.

  ‘Peanut is waiting downstairs with the car to take you there. It’s really close to where you live.’

  Peanut was the sports reporter, an ex-professional footballer. He’d earned his nickname from the shape of his head. With straggling sandy hair doing little to disguise it, white eyelashes and badly pockmarked skin, he was unfortunate in his looks, but he was a kind and popular man, with an attractive wife and two sons. He was also a great sports journalist and had written three successful biographies on sportsmen.

  Amelia had always liked him and, in her view, he had it all. She was glad he’d be taking her to Mrs Meadows as it was a chance to air her anxieties about this job and get his advice. Grabbing a notebook from her desk, she ran out of the door. If Mrs Meadows was expecting her that was half the battle, but she knew she must brace herself for high emotion.

  ‘Jack’s taken quite a shine to you,’ Peanut said, as he drove underneath the Hammersmith flyover. ‘You must have really impressed him with how you tackled the Whelans. He’s also got the police to hold off questioning this woman further until later in the day. That was quite a feat.’

  ‘I’m a bit scared he was too pushy,’ she admitted. ‘Don’t you think it smacks of taking advantage when a woman is at her lowest ebb?’

  ‘I might have been horrified if he’d sent one of the other reporters, who act like rampaging bulls. But not you, Amelia. I know you’ll be sensitive and kind.’

  Amelia smiled weakly. It was a lovely compliment, but she wasn’t entirely convinced.

  ‘I hope so. I think it’s a shame the police don’t always appreciate how terrible it is to have questions fired at you when you’ve only just heard your child has been murdered. It’s a miracle they can even string a sentence together. The Whelans told me they felt as if they were under suspicion themselves. And they said that one of the policewomen kept on asking creepy questions about Lucy’s sex life, as if she’d done something mucky and that was why she was killed.’

  ‘The police have to get in quick because they say the first twenty-four hours is the window of opportunity when they’re most likely to catch the killer. But, hopefully, you’ll be able to give this poor mother a bit of support and comfort,’ Peanut said soothingly. ‘All of us on the paper were touched by what you wrote about Lucy Whelan.’

  ‘It’s kind of you to say that, but I got the impression earlier everyone was angry I was getting the breaks.’

  The traffic was unusually heavy today: it was stop
and start constantly. Amelia fiddled with her handbag on her lap. She didn’t want to bleat to Peanut, but he was the one person who had his finger on the pulse of the office and would know how her workmates were feeling.

  ‘They’ll soon get over it.’ Peanut smiled at her. ‘There’s always a bit of initial jealousy when someone gets singled out. But they know you’re the person to handle Mrs Meadows, and it’s not a job any of them really wants. You’ll see when you get back. They’ll all be fine again.’

  ‘I hope you’re right – and let’s hope the police can find this maniac before he captures a third girl.’

  ‘Good luck,’ Peanut said, as he dropped her at number fourteen Atwood Road, near Ravenscourt Park. ‘You’ll be fine. Of that I’m sure.’

  Amelia waved as he drove off, but her heart was thumping, and her legs felt like rubber.

  There were many substantial houses in the area, but the Meadowses’ was a small terraced one and a bit neglected. The woman who opened the door was clearly Mrs Meadows: her eyes were red and puffy from crying. She was a dumpy woman, with a round face and a tight old-lady perm. Amelia was shocked that she appeared to be entirely alone in the house.

  ‘I’m so glad you’ve come,’ she said, in a weak voice, and her eyes filled with fresh tears.

  Amelia went in, shut the door behind her and enfolded the older woman in her arms. ‘I’m so sorry, Mrs Meadows. This is just the worst thing in the world that can be thrown at a mother. But I’m going to stay and look after you, until you can tell me who you’d like here, and we’ll ring them.’

  She held the sobbing woman for some minutes. When her tears had slowed to sniffs, she led her into the sitting room and directed her to the sofa.

  ‘Tell me about Carol,’ Amelia asked, once Mrs Meadows had lit the gas fire and they had a cup of tea in their hands.

  ‘She worked as a waitress in the King’s Road, in Chelsea,’ Mrs Meadows said. ‘She liked to be there – she said it was where everything happened. If it wasn’t for me, I think she would’ve moved into a flat there with other girls. I didn’t mean to hold her back, but when her father left us, I couldn’t cope. He went off with a younger woman.’

  ‘That’s so sad,’ Amelia said. ‘How did Carol take it? And how old was she then?’

  ‘Eighteen. He said he’d waited that long so she wouldn’t be affected by it. Stupid man, children are always affected however old they are. Carol hated him, and Melissa, his woman. But I think Carol hated me more because I was so dependent on her.’

  Amelia was surprised she’d already slipped into the past tense. Was that acceptance, or did she feel she’d lost Carol some time ago? ‘I’m sure that isn’t true,’ she said firmly. ‘She wouldn’t have stayed living here if that was how she felt.’

  ‘She’s all I had. No brothers or sisters, no parents any longer, and no real friends. Carol once said that I had no personality, and that was why I had no friends. She could be cruel, like her father. But when I married Edward, a wife was supposed to stay at home, cook and clean, make everywhere nice for her husband and children. I didn’t have enough time during the day to make friends.’

  ‘Carol was a lucky girl to have such a devoted mother,’ Amelia said. However sorry she felt for Mrs Meadows, she was well able to see what a strain it was for a young woman to have a mother who relied on her for everything.

  ‘She wanted to be a gymnast,’ Mrs Meadows volunteered. ‘But I said, “That isn’t a proper job, that’s just a hobby. You should get yourself down the council offices and get a job for life.”’

  ‘Was she a good gymnast?’

  ‘I suppose she must’ve been – she won cups and rosettes. But I didn’t go to the competitions because I had to get Edward’s tea.’

  ‘He could’ve got his own tea! Carol must have felt very alone without you cheering her on.’ Amelia couldn’t help but speak out because, like her own mother, this silly woman appeared to have no understanding that children, even the most confident ones, needed support. But no sooner had the words left her lips than she was sorry she’d been so sharp with a grieving mother.

  ‘You see? You’re turning against me now,’ Mrs Meadows said, and began crying again.

  ‘I’m not,’ she said, and went to sit next to the older woman and put her arms round her. She thought Mrs Meadows had been living in a kind of bubble, never realizing that her husband and her daughter had needed her to be more than just a housekeeper.

  The woman began to cry harder, huge racking sobs. Amelia held her, rubbing her back and making comforting noises, until at last she began to come out of it.

  ‘What we need to do now is try and see if there was any connection between Carol and Lucy Whelan, the other girl who was killed near here,’ she said. ‘Maybe that will help the police find their killer.’

  ‘Why do you think there has to be a connection?’

  Amelia picked up a framed photograph of Carol from the sofa table. Like Lucy, she was remarkably pretty, with long straight blonde hair, prominent wide blue eyes and full lips. In the picture she was wearing a checked mini-dress, which barely covered her bottom, and long, tight boots that showed off her shapely slender legs.

  ‘Some people might say the girls were picked by the killer because they were the same age, slim, blonde and pretty. But I believe there’s something more between these two girls and the killer. It might be the smallest of small connections, like they were both in the same train carriage as him one day. Or he saw them both in the park, the swimming pool, a nightclub. I don’t know, but we need to try and find that common denominator.’

  ‘Carol didn’t go swimming, except on holidays, and she didn’t want to have holidays with me in Broadstairs any more. She went with a friend she worked with to Lloret de Mar in Spain this year.’

  ‘What nightclubs did she go to?’

  The older woman shrugged. ‘I don’t know that she ever went to one.’

  ‘What about one called the Beachcomber? Does that ring a bell?’

  Mrs Meadows looked blank. Clearly it didn’t, and Amelia was beginning to see that Carol probably led a life she never let her mother into. She needed to talk to the girls she’d worked with and the friend she’d gone to Spain with to get the full picture.

  ‘Might Carol have known Lucy Whelan?’ She got the photograph of Lucy from her bag. ‘Look at it carefully, please, and try to think back.’

  Mrs Meadows studied the picture for some time. ‘I don’t think I ever saw this girl, not at school, the park or anywhere. And Carol would surely have said she knew her, wouldn’t she? This girl’s face was in all the papers.’ She paused for a minute or two. ‘Mind you, she wasn’t much of a one for reading the papers or watching the news. If she was here, she’d be upstairs playing her records and doing her nails.’

  ‘What other interests did she have? Any sports, games? Did she join any clubs, singing, dancing, anything like that?’

  ‘She liked netball at school, as well as gymnastics, and she sang in the school choir, but she’d stopped taking part in any sport since she left school. She sang in her room and she liked dancing. She wanted to be a model. The police had a look in her room and they found some photographs I’d never seen. I wish they hadn’t showed me them. She was in her underwear.’

  ‘Did they take them away?’

  ‘Some of them.’

  ‘Could I see them? I’m not interested in the content, only the photographer.’

  ‘That’s what the police said too.’ Mrs Meadows sounded as if she was about to cry again. ‘I couldn’t believe my beautiful girl would cheapen herself like some common floozy.’

  ‘To get into modelling, they expect you to have pictures,’ Amelia said. She had to make this up as she knew nothing about modelling, but she didn’t want to leave Mrs Meadows with bad images in her head. ‘Those photos were probably the start of her portfolio. You might just as easily have found ones of her in a wedding dress, in a tweed suit or a ballgown. Now, may I go and look?’

&n
bsp; ‘All right. I left them on the dressing-table.’

  ‘Would you mind if I looked around a bit more in her room? You never know, I might see something relevant to other interests.’

  ‘Yes, you can, but please don’t disturb it. She hated me touching anything in there. It’s the bedroom at the front of the house.’

  Amelia couldn’t help but feel guilty as she walked up the stairs. She knew she ought to feel nothing more than sympathy for a poor mother who had lost her only child, but she was excited at the possibility of finding skeletons in Carol’s cupboard.

  The first thing that struck her about Carol’s room was that it was far bigger than the other two bedrooms upstairs, with a view of the park. Another pointer, perhaps, to the possibility that Carol had ruled the roost since her father had left and insisted on having the best room. It was also impersonal: there was nothing to say that a young woman had spent a great deal of time in there recently. The cups and rosettes for gymnastics were on a shelf in the alcove by the chimney breast but, like almost everything else in the room, they appeared to date from her schooldays.

  The photographs in a folder on the dressing-table were far more recent and were what was commonly known as glamour photography. Not pornography but very saucy, like the page-three girls in the daily papers.

  Amelia half smiled as she looked at them. Carol was striking the most seductive poses, wearing the skimpiest underwear and a come-hither smile. There was no doubt that she was extremely pretty and had a lovely figure, but Amelia thought she had hard, calculating eyes. She didn’t feel the girl would ever have wanted a holiday in Broadstairs with her mother. She was probably vain and selfish, on the hunt for a millionaire husband.

  Tearing herself away from the photographs, she did a quick search around the room. It didn’t reveal much more than Carol’s taste for expensive clothes and shoes. There were a couple of Ossie Clark dresses in the wardrobe, both of which must have cost more than Amelia earned in a month. A white kid coat, too, with the label Skin. Amelia had seen adverts for that shop in the King’s Road.