A Wreath for my Sister (7 page)

Joanna leaned forward. ‘He rang her?'

Christine shook her head violently. ‘He wrote. They both did – used the box number.'

‘Which paper?'

‘
The Evening Standard
.'

The door opened and was quickly closed again, and Christine stared at Joanna. ‘What about the kids?' she asked. ‘I can't manage them. What'll happen to them?'

‘Please ...'Joanna said, handing her a mug of strong, sweet tea. ‘Don't worry. The Social Services can take over. Then usually relatives ...'

Christine Rattle took a large sip of scalding tea. ‘Not her mum,' she said. ‘She could never cope with Sharon's three, especially Ryan. He's just a baby. Maybe the other two, but Ryan — no way.' She frowned. ‘Tell me. What happened?'

‘I can't give you all the details,' Joanna began, ‘but the woman we found was murdered.'

Christine was staring at her through a wisp of blue cigarette smoke. ‘She was so excited,' she said.

Joanna's mobile phone crackled. She answered it.

‘Car found. Green Fiesta,' came the message. ‘Check registration. X – X-ray; W – Whisky; O – Oscar. 4-3-6 – W – Whisky. Repeat ... car park of the Quiet Woman ...'

‘Don't touch it,' she said, and, to Christine, ‘Was Sharon in her car on Tuesday night?'

Christine nodded.

‘Registration?' And Joanna read out the number plate she had written down during the phone call.

Christine looked uncertain. ‘I can't remember the number.' Joanna relayed the details down the phone. ‘Check with Swansea.'

‘Already have. Registered owner Sharon Priest ... forty-five Jubilee Road ...'

‘Don't touch the inside. Get it to forensics. And I'll see you all later.'

She turned her attention back to Christine. ‘Who was he?'

‘It was just a date,' Christine said, pulling away at her cigarette as though it was her lifeline. ‘I told you. She hadn't been out with him before. She was lonely. She'd been on her own with the children. She wanted some excitement.'

She looked across the table at Joanna. ‘Why shouldn't she have had some fun? She deserved it.'

‘No reason,' Joanna soothed. ‘No reason at all, except I don't call being killed fun, do you? And I know she didn't deserve what happened to her.'

Christine mopped her eyes again. ‘Did she suffer?'

‘No,' she said. She felt a lie was justified.

Christine swallowed, tears flowing freely again. She sniffed and looked at Joanna. ‘I can't believe it,' she said. ‘The scum. The dirty, rotten scum. I suppose he came over a bit strong and she resisted?'

And again, although Joanna knew it had not been like that, she nodded.

‘Now tell me everything you know about the man she had a date with.'

But Christine Rattle looked blank. ‘I didn't know anything about him,' she said.

‘Did you see a photograph?'

She shook her head.

‘Well, where did he live?'

Christine looked panic-struck. ‘I don't even know that. In his letters he just said it wasn't far.'

‘But wasn't there an address?'

Blindly Christine shook her head again. ‘They wrote to box numbers, like I said.'

Joanna felt frustrated. ‘You don't know anything about him?' she said incredulously.

Christine shook her head for a third time.

‘Well, where had she arranged to meet him?' Something like a dark, angry cloud crossed Christine's face. ‘There's not many decent blokes here in Leek,' she said. ‘Sharon had had a couple of boyfriends. One was married. One was just no good. And her ex was violent. He's been inside for ABH. So she put an advert in the paper, saying she wanted a good time. She had loads of replies.' Christine sounded almost envious. ‘More than forty. Some of them sounded really nice. You know – decent and kind. And they didn't mind about the kids at all. Some of them.' She made an expression of extreme distaste. ‘But some of them – you could tell what they was after. One, he made a great thing about her wearing high-heeled shoes and glamour-girl stuff.'

‘Did he now?'

Christine nodded.

‘Why did she pick out the one she met on Tuesday night?'

‘She said ...' Christine gazed at the tip of ash glowing on the end of her cigarette. ‘She thought he sounded exciting.'

‘What do you mean, exciting?'

‘She said there was something about him – something mysterious. He said things.'

‘What sort of things?'

‘I don't know.' Christine looked embarrassed. ‘Things about how he fancied her a lot. She didn't show me the letters. She kept herself to herself. Anyway, she thought she'd go out with him first. After all,' she said, dragging on another cigarette, ‘what's the point of wasting your time with some old bugger if all the time Prince Charming's waiting for you in the glass coach?'

‘Quite,' Joanna said drily. ‘So what was the arrangement?'

‘They was meeting at the Quiet Woman. He told her to get there for eight and then they'd go on for a meal.'

Joanna's mind returned to the stomach contents spilled out at the post mortem. She hadn't had that meal.

‘You last saw her when?'

‘About eight. She dropped the kids off at seven. I did her hair. She left at eight.'

‘Did she come back at all during the evening?'

Christine slowly shook her head. ‘No. She didn't. I know because I kept a watch on her house.' She flushed. ‘I wasn't being nosey, but I was itching to know who he was.'

‘So they were to meet at the Quiet Woman at eight?' Christine nodded. ‘He said he'd come in for her.' She looked as though suddenly struck by the thought. ‘Was it definitely him?'

‘We don't know,' Joanna said, ‘but her car has been found at the Quiet Woman.' She stood up. ‘Please, Christine,' she said. ‘Think. Was there anything else about this man? Anything at all?'

Christine blinked and stared ahead of her for a long tíme before speaking. ‘There was something funny,' she said slowly. ‘There was. Me and Sharon,' she licked her lips, ‘we got the feeling he already knew her.'

‘How?'

‘He said ... oh – I can't remember the exact words. In one he said something about, about her dark hair – and looking stunning in red.'

‘You're sure?'

‘Something like that.' Christine stubbed out her cigarette. ‘But the weirdest thing was that he knew her name. When he wrote to her he said “Dear Sharon.” And he said she wouldn't have to drive that battered old Fiesta for much longer.' She watched Joanna carefully. ‘We thought it was funny at the time.' She blinked back tears. ‘She said it made her feel a bit creepy – watched. You know. But she was still excited, though. She still wanted to meet him.'

‘Yes,' Joanna said. ‘I do know.' She sighed. ‘We'll need to sort something out for her children. How many are there?'

‘Three. October, she's four, then there's William, two. And lastly there's a baby, Ryan. He's only six months old.' Christine looked even more upset. ‘I don't suppose they'll remember their mummy, will they?'

How could she expect Joanna to have an answer to this? ‘I don't know.'

‘Christine ...'Joanna said tentatively, knowing she had to ask one of the most difficult questions of a friend. She had underestimated her.

With a resigned air Christine stood up. ‘I know what you're going to ask me,' she said. ‘To identify her.' She stopped and sniffed. ‘It'll give me nightmares but I'll do it,' she said. ‘I'll do it for her because I was her friend. And I'll do it for them kids in there. And because the sooner you're sure it was her the sooner you'll nail the bastard what did it. I'll identify her, provided she isn't all cut about.' She looked at Joanna. ‘She isn't – is she?'

‘No. No – she's quite neat and tidy. And it won't take long. Don't worry.'

There were other points she had to clear up. ‘Who was her next of kin?'

‘I don't know.' Christine looked confused. ‘She was married once, to a guy named Sam. Sam Finnigan. She left him because he beat her about.' For some reason she refused to meet Joanna's eyes. ‘He's the father of two of her children – but not Ryan. She had Ryan just before Paul Agnew – that's the boyfriend she lived with after Finnigan – after he kicked her out.'

‘So is Paul Agnew Ryan's father?'

Christine shook her head. ‘No, at least not that I could ever work out. She never really told me, but I think Ryan's dad was married. That's why Agnew gave her the boot. She was havin' an affair.'

‘Who with?'

Christine made a face. ‘Close as the grave she was about that one. She never told no one.'

And that, it seemed, was that.

‘Where will I find Paul Agnew?'Joanna asked.

‘He's got an oatcake shop in the High Street. But he lives in a flat in the town somewhere. I don't know where.'

‘Where does Finnigan live?'

‘I don't know where he lives now. Rents rooms somewhere, Sharon said. She told me that was why he didn't see much of the kids. Nowhere for them to play.' Christine made a face. ‘Just an excuse, if you ask me.'

And her parents?'

‘Just a mum, I think. I never heard her talk about her dad. But Sharon and her mum don't have a lot to do with each other. Not since Ryan was born. Funnily enough her mum quite liked Sam Finnigan. She was mad with Sharon for the business with the married man.' She thought for a minute. ‘I think she was a nursing auxiliary somewhere or other. I'm not sure where.'

On the way out they passed through the sitting room. Christine indicated a small girl in grubby blue dungarees holding the hand of a little boy in a red jersey and jeans.

‘These is Sharon's,' she said. ‘October and William. And that,' she indicated a baby crawling towards the television set, ‘that's Ryan.'

Joanna looked curiously at Ryan. There was something different about the child. He was plumper, pinker, rounder – a handsome baby with bright eyes that despite his youth looked out to the world with a knowing intelligence which seemed lacking from either his sister or brother. Correction – his half-sister and half-brother.

Still puzzling, she left Christine's house and crossed the road to number forty-five.

Mike had let himself in through the back door with the key he had found underneath the flowerpot. He'd drawn back the curtains and was standing in the middle of the cold room. He looked at her as she walked in.

‘I don't know what I'm looking for,' he complained.

The house smelt stale. Unlike Christine, Sharon had not been a scrupulous housekeeper. There was an unpleasant smell of cooking fat mingled with cigarette smoke, old perfume and hair lacquer. Toys were strewn around the room.

On the coffee table, in the centre, was a collection of make-up, mascara, foundation cream, a palette of eye colour and a mirror in a pink, plastic frame.

‘Was she killed here?' Joanna asked.

‘I don't think so.'

‘Any sign of a man?'

Mike shook his head. ‘Plenty of signs of kids,' he said, ‘in the kitchen. All over the place. Nappies, toys, kids' clothes. I haven't been upstairs yet.'

Joanna wandered through to the kitchen. It was untidy – a sinkful of washing up, an opened can of baked beans, a half-eaten loaf of white bread, its wrapper torn apart.

They walked upstairs and found the children's bedroom, strewn with toys, bunks with gaudy, bright quilt covers. And in the other bedroom was a double bed and a cot. So Ryan slept in his mother's room. And on his cot was an expensive satin and lace duvet. Not the cheap bedding of the other two. Joanna stared at the cot and again she was puzzled.

She crossed the room and opened the wardrobe. It was full of clothes, all for a slightly built woman.

Back in the sitting room Mike was looking at a newspaper marked with red pen.

‘Jo, look at this.'

It was the local evening paper, an edition almost three weeks old. Ringed in red felt-tipped pen was the shape of a love heart.

Woman In Red looking for romance and sparkle.

Wants a really good time with Prince Charming
.

Please apply BOX 397.

Joanna read it three times before speaking, then she met Mike's eyes. ‘This looks like it, then,' she said. ‘According to Christine, she had a date with Prince Charming last night.'

Mike put the paper down. ‘It was in here,' he said.

The shoe box had once held a pair of high-heeled black shoes – size 5 – according to the panel on the side. Now it contained a bundle of letters — most of them addressed in florid handwriting to Box 397. All of them had been opened.

‘Bring the box with you, Mike,' she said, ‘and get the SOCOs to comb through the house. Then ring the station and get the Social Services round to Christine Rattle's. We'd better go straight to the Quiet Woman. It seems they've found Sharon Priest's car.'

The Quiet Woman was living up to its name that afternoon. It was a small pub on the edge of the town with bowed windows which looked out on to the street. They found its car park at the back.

The car was neatly parked and gift wrapped with police ribbon.

Sergeant Barraclough walked towards her. ‘Inspector,' he said. ‘We haven't touched it except to try the handles.'

‘They were locked?'

He nodded. ‘It looks to me like she parked it here, locked it and went for a drink.'

She nodded at him. ‘But with whom?' she asked. ‘That's the question.'

Barraclough glanced back at the battered Fiesta. ‘The guy that killed her,' he said. ‘Went for a nice drinky, followed by sex in the car. Then murder.'

She peered through the windows. ‘Not in this car.'