Liar Page 8

  There were no letters or diaries, just a few old photographs stuck onto the glass of a picture. Beneath them was a print of Rupert Bear on a toboggan. That made Amelia smile as Rupert books were the very first she had read, and she’d always wanted yellow checked trousers like his. She assumed that, at some time, Carol’s tastes had run to simple things too.

  The photographs were of Carol with six girlfriends, when she was twelve or thirteen, and appeared to have been taken in a park. They were all in school uniform, but they’d taken off their ties and blazers. She didn’t think they’d had an adult with them because it seemed that each of the girls took a turn to be the photographer. They had all pulled their pleated skirts up to show a great deal of leg – she remembered doing the same – and they were posing like fashion models. If there had been an adult with them, they would have tried to make them look more natural and suggested they took at least one complete group picture.

  Amelia took two of the photos, making sure she had all the girls in them, put them into her bag and stuck the rest back onto the picture.

  There was little else to look at: a few books, of the sensational bestseller sort, like Forever Amber, Mandingo and some Harold Robbins novels. A Beatles poster hung on the wall, and there was one of Elvis Presley in his army uniform, which was fading with age. There was a Dansette record player too, pale blue imitation leather. She lifted the lid and found several singles on the spigot: the Everly Brothers, Elvis, Bobby Vee and Adam Faith. As these were all hits from the early sixties, she assumed Carol had another more up-to-date record collection elsewhere.

  In fact, Amelia sensed that Carol had taken all her favourite things from this room, leaving a few bits, like her winter coat, some other clothes, shoes and makeup to satisfy her mother that she still thought of it as home.

  When she got back downstairs Mrs Meadows was crying again. ‘I’m so alone,’ she said, through her tears. ‘I don’t know if I can stand it.’

  ‘It will get easier,’ Amelia said, once again moving to sit next to the woman and taking her in her arms. ‘Maybe when all this is out of the way you could get a paying guest. You’d have someone else in the house and some money coming in. If you cooked for them, too, that would keep you busy.’

  There was no response to that suggestion and Amelia found herself wishing the police would come back so she could slip away.

  ‘Did Carol come home every night?’ she asked. ‘Or did she stay over with a friend?’

  ‘She said the tubes had stopped running by the time she finished work.’ Mrs Meadows sniffed back her tears and wiped her eyes on her cardigan sleeve. ‘So she stayed with a friend. I think it might have been a man friend, but she wouldn’t admit it. She knew I didn’t approve of sex before marriage.’

  ‘What was the name of the restaurant she worked at?’ Amelia thought it best not to comment on the possibility of a man friend. She felt it was extremely likely Carol had been with a man. But if she could meet the staff at the restaurant she might find out for sure.

  ‘The Bistro in King’s Road,’ Mrs Meadows said. ‘It’s near Sloane Square tube station and Peter Jones. She took me there once, but the food was too fancy for my taste.’

  ‘I’ll need to go soon,’ Amelia said, looking at her watch. It was nearly eleven, and once the other newspapers heard the press release about the murder, they’d be here in their droves. ‘Now I have to tell you something, Mrs Meadows. Very soon now, all the daily papers will know about Carol and they’ll come here. It’s not nice – they’ll bang on your door, ring you and even rap on windows to get a story. What I want you to do is to ignore them. Don’t let them in. Maybe go up to your bedroom and stay there. Put the phone down if it’s one of them, and only speak to the police if they ring. Can you do that?’

  The poor woman looked terrified and Amelia’s heart went out to her. ‘I know it’s scary, but they’ll wear you down if you speak to them, twist your words, and may even print things that aren’t true.’ She paused as a bright idea came to her. ‘I can stay a bit longer and tell them you’ve given me an exclusive story, if that would help? If they think you really won’t or can’t speak to them, they’ll go away.’

  ‘If you could, my dear,’ she said in a wavering voice. ‘I can’t take any more.’

  ‘I know. You’re in an impossible situation. All I can do is try and make it a little less awful. Now is there anyone I can ring for you to ask them to come?’

  She shook her head in sorrow, and Amelia’s eyes welled with tears. No one should have to go through something like this without a friend or family member for support.

  ‘What about your neighbours? I can pop along and ask one to come and be with you. Who is nice?’

  The woman sat with her head bowed for the longest minute. ‘There’s Miss Dawes. She lives at number thirty – she invites me in for tea sometimes. She’s kind, never says anything bad about anyone.’

  ‘Then I’m going to get her,’ Amelia said. ‘Now give me the key so I can let myself back in.’

  It was nearly twelve before Amelia finally got away. Miss Dawes was a kind, forthright and religious woman, with holy pictures and a crucifix on the wall. She was at least sixty-five, with white hair, a very lined face but the kind of soft blue eyes that suggested she’d seen a great deal in her time.

  She was, of course, horrified to hear Carol had been murdered.

  ‘That poor woman. Carol was the centre of her life, her only interest too. I can’t imagine how she’ll cope with this.’

  ‘As you know, she hasn’t got anyone. I was hoping you could spare some time to be with her. At least until the police come back.’

  ‘Of course I will,’ Miss Dawes said, without a second thought. ‘No one should be alone at such a time.’

  Amelia explained the situation with the press, and reiterated that it was best not to answer the door to them.

  ‘I quite understand. They can be like a pack of jackals,’ she said, with surprising vehemence, as if from personal experience. She took off her apron, put on her coat, picked up a cake tin, which contained a Victoria sponge she’d just made, and said she was ready.

  Amelia smiled at her. ‘I hope if I’m ever in a tough situation there’s someone like you around to help,’ she said.

  ‘My dear, you look the sort who could cope with anything.’

  Amelia had only just taken her in to Mrs Meadows when the first journalists arrived.

  ‘I’ll go out there and see them off,’ she told the two older women. ‘I have to go back to work now, but remember what I said. Don’t open the door to anyone but the police. Miss Dawes, will you answer the phone? If it’s journalists, just tell them Mrs Meadows can’t speak to anyone. They’ll try to ask you questions but be firm and refuse to answer them, then put the phone down. We can’t take it off the hook in case the police need to ask something.’

  ‘You go back to work, dear,’ she said. ‘I’ll look after Mrs Meadows. Don’t worry about her.’

  ‘You’re so kind.’ Amelia felt as if a weight had been taken from her shoulders. ‘I’ll ring later to see how things are. But it might be a smart plan to go upstairs.’

  The banging on the door was growing more insistent. Amelia shut the two women into the sitting room – with thick lace curtains at the window no one could see in, but to the occupants it would be like living under siege.

  Bracing herself, Amelia opened the front door and as the group of journalists surged forward, she closed it behind her.

  ‘Go away,’ she said, in a loud, clear voice. ‘Mrs Meadows is not going to speak to anyone else today. She is distraught, as I’m sure you can imagine. Please don’t make her pain worse by knocking on her door or windows.’

  ‘Who are you?’ one of the crowd called out. They were mostly men – she saw only two women.

  ‘Amelia White,’ she said. ‘I work for the West London Weekly. I was asked to come and be with Mrs Meadows because I found Lucy Whelan six weeks ago. Mrs Meadows has given me an exclusive
on the tragic story and, as I’ve said, she doesn’t wish to speak to anyone else about it. The police will be here very soon. I’m sure they will issue a further bulletin later. Now, if you would kindly go and allow Mrs Meadows to rest …’

  They didn’t want to. Amelia felt as if she was standing in front of a herd of cows, trying to make them move. She walked towards them, holding her arms out slightly to indicate they were to back up. For a second or two she thought they wouldn’t – she could hear murmurings of dissent – but suddenly they began to move. She walked through the front gate and shut it behind her.

  A camera was pushed close to her face, but she moved on regardless. She heard some cars start behind her, and three drove past before she got to the end of the road. As she turned the corner she glanced back: there was still a small coven gathered outside the gate.

  Jack charged out of his office as soon as she came through the door. His face was alight with excitement. ‘Well?’

  ‘That poor woman is so alone.’ She sighed. ‘I didn’t get the same pure-little-girl vibe I got from Lucy’s family. I hope some bad press doesn’t push Mrs Meadows over the edge. If you’re thinking I’ll churn out some of that, you’re mistaken.’ The moment her last words left her lips she was afraid she’d gone too far. Jack never liked anyone standing up to him.

  He perched on a desk and folded his arms, looking stern. ‘If you want to be a journalist you have to write what you see and hear. We don’t write fairy stories.’

  ‘I didn’t hear or see anything bad. I’ve just got a feeling. I can’t and won’t write my feelings because I could be wrong. If you want, I’ll write that Carol was the only child of a lone mother. That she worked in a King’s Road restaurant and wanted to be a model.’

  She wasn’t going to tell Jack about the saucy pictures because he’d get his teeth into that and never let go. ‘I’ll write a piece now for the paper tomorrow, and then I’ll go over to King’s Road to where Carol worked and see what I can find out there.’

  Jack crossed his arms and stared at her, as if he was considering whether or not to push her further. ‘Fair enough,’ he said eventually. ‘If you find anything interesting, ring me. I can slot it into the paper without you coming back here.’

  It took Amelia nearly an hour to write up the story as she found it hard not to allow her personal feelings about Carol and her mother to spill onto the page. ‘Tragic Widowed Mother and Resentful Wayward Daughter’ would delight Jack but hurt Mrs Meadows still more.

  Once it was done she handed it in and rushed off to the King’s Road.

  Mrs Meadows had said Carol believed Chelsea was the place to be, and Amelia agreed with that. Each time she went there she wished she could afford to live there. The amazing shops, fun pubs, great restaurants and clubs all added up to Wonderland. She had once spotted Scott Walker of the Walker Brothers walking down King’s Road. She’d thought he was the most beautiful man she’d ever seen and followed him for some time, trying to pluck up the courage to speak to him. She never did.

  The Bistro was by the Chelsea Antiques Market. It was a medium-sized eatery, which was surprisingly quiet considering it was two in the afternoon. Amelia went up to the man behind the bar. He was in his late thirties, slender, and looked Italian, with jet-black hair and a deep suntan.

  She introduced herself and discovered he was the manager, Antonio Perez. He spoke English without an accent, so she assumed he’d been born in England. She asked if he had been told about Carol’s death.

  ‘Yes, the police called on me this morning to question me,’ he said. ‘We are all so shocked.’

  Amelia then explained her part in this, but as she was talking about Mrs Meadows, something about his expression didn’t seem right. He looked anxious about something, wanting to say what it was, but hesitating.

  ‘Is there something more you could tell me about Carol? You look troubled.’

  ‘I don’t like to speak ill of the dead,’ he said, and beckoned her to a table in a corner at the back, signalling to a waitress to take over behind the bar, ‘but I have to tell you this as the police know so it’ll all come out. First, we called her Jazz here, and I sacked her the afternoon before she died. For theft.’

  8

  When Antonio saw Amelia was in shock he called the waitress to get her a coffee. He said later she looked like she’d just seen her granny run over by a bus.

  ‘I left her mother absolutely heartbroken,’ Amelia said, her voice trembling. ‘What on earth is this going to do to her?’

  He pursed his lips and shrugged. ‘Jazz had been stealing from me for months,’ he said. ‘But that wasn’t all. She was also manipulative, vain, greedy, a bully and a liar.’

  ‘My goodness!’ Amelia exclaimed, shaken to her core. She’d realized Carol hadn’t exactly been Daughter of the Year, but she hadn’t expected to find out from her employer that she was a thief and thoroughly reprehensible.

  Antonio looked upset. ‘I have to admit I was totally taken in by her. I thought she was wonderful at first.’ He paused, as if trying to decide whether he should reveal more. ‘It’s no good, I have to admit it,’ he said eventually, colouring as if embarrassed. ‘We had an affair. I thought I was in love with her. I even suspected another girl working here of being the thief.’ He hung his head in shame. ‘I realize now that Jazz strung me along to enable her to get away with it. She used to tell me about her sick mother who needed her home every night, but later I discovered she hardly ever went home, staying over with this man or that. Always looking for the main chance.’

  ‘Did the police reckon you might have killed her?’ She was sure he would be considered a prime suspect.

  ‘Oh, yes. They were here when I arrived this morning to open up. Fortunately I had an iron-clad alibi. The day before yesterday, just after the lunchtime rush, I was holding Jazz here, intending to call the police to arrest her. I rang my accountant to come over too. I thought he could explain to the police what Jazz had been doing far more clearly than I could. But stupidly I had entrusted my staff to keep her locked in the staff room upstairs. Jazz, being as wily as a fox, realized this. She managed to fool one of the girls and slip out the back way.

  ‘Ken, my accountant, stayed sitting here at this table all afternoon talking to me and going through the books. I closed the Bistro at six – I had no stomach for greeting people or feeding them – and I went home with Ken to his house in Twickenham. I had dinner with him and his family and stayed the night.’

  ‘How awful for you.’ Amelia really felt for him. He was clearly a kind, decent man. ‘I came here to speak to some of your waitresses – I thought they might know more about Carol’s life. You see I think there’s a connection between her and Lucy Whelan, the other recently murdered girl. If I can work it out, it might make it easier to find her killer.’

  ‘Was she a conniving thief too?’ he asked bitterly.

  ‘No, she seemed a nice girl, but she did resemble Carol in looks.’ She got the picture of Lucy out of her bag and showed him. ‘Have you ever seen her? Did she come in here or might any of your staff have known her?’

  He studied the picture carefully. ‘I don’t think I’ve ever seen her. The trouble is she’s got that Jean Shrimpton appearance, long hair, wide eyes. It’s so fashionable that lots of girls copy it, especially here in Chelsea.’

  Amelia wanted to know so much more, such as how Carol had managed to steal from him for so long and how she’d done it. Was she taking money from the till, or getting it in some other way? Who were the men she stayed over with when she wasn’t with Antonio? She simply had to talk to the other waitresses … But all she could think of now was how devastated Mrs Meadows was going to be when the stealing came out. And it was certain to be revealed, given that Antonio had told the police he had tried to detain the girl to have her arrested for theft. In fact, it was likely that it had already been part of a press release, and that by tomorrow it would be front-page news.

  She said much of this to Antoni
o, and explained that she thought she should go back to Mrs Meadows to warn her.

  ‘I think you’ll find the police will have told her already, the poor woman.’ Antonio sighed. ‘I can’t grieve for Jazz. I’m just angry with myself that I got so infatuated with her I didn’t see what she was doing. I’m old enough to know better. But it is strange that when she escaped from here she ran for home. For someone as quick-witted as she was, that was folly – it would be the first place the police would look. So was it just a random killing? A man who likes her type and lives in that area? Or had the killer selected her some time ago, for reasons known only to him, and followed her from here? Or had she done something nasty to him and this was her punishment?’

  ‘I doubt it was something she’d done to him – at least, if she was killed by the same man who killed Lucy. From what I’ve heard about her, Lucy was angelic. He could’ve been here in the restaurant, though. Did you have words with her here where people could hear?’

  He looked sheepish. ‘I shouted at her, called her a dirty little thief and a liar. That was before I marched her upstairs and locked her in. I was so angry it was a miracle I didn’t hit her. I think that is why it’s so quiet today. My regulars haven’t come in. They don’t come here for a sideshow.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Antonio. It’s an awful situation for you. Could I come back another day and talk to you again? Not to write anything about it, just to see if I can piece this whole thing together.’

  ‘I wish you luck with that but, yes, you can come back. Just give me a ring to tell me when you want to come.’

  Amelia found a phone box and rang Jack to let him know of the latest developments. She told him everything because she felt she had to.

  ‘I feel so bad for Mrs Meadows,’ she said, her eyes starting with tears. ‘It’s terrible her daughter was killed, but then to be told she was a thief too.’

  ‘We can’t help that,’ Jack said firmly. ‘The police will have told her by now, and Mum is collateral damage, I’m afraid. Don’t go back there, Amelia. She isn’t your problem and you can’t make it better for her. Go home now. You’ve had a harrowing day. I’ll add this to the piece you wrote but, for the sake of your conscience, I’ll back-pedal on the sensationalism.’