Death Bed (18 page)

A
s far as they knew Donna hadn’t been planning to meet anyone the night she disappeared but it was possible she had arranged to do so without telling Lily. Her flat in Highbury had been searched without results so Geraldine decided to check her room in her mother’s flat near Regent’s Park, in case Donna had left a note there. Mrs Henry buzzed her into a wide entrance hall with deep-pile carpets and elegant watercolour prints on the walls. She took the lift to the second floor and entering the apartment found a spacious split-level living area. The flat was immaculate and obviously expensive.

‘Do you live here alone?’

‘Yes, my ex-husband went to live in Scotland.’

‘Does he come back to visit?’

‘He lives in Aberdeen with his Russian wife.’

Mrs Henry waved a manicured hand dismissively.

‘How long has be been living there?’

‘He moved there when we split-up, nearly twenty years ago.’

‘Do you know when he last saw Donna?’

‘He was down here about six months ago, in the New Year. I think he probably saw her then. That is, I’m sure he would have done.’

She gave a bitter smile.

‘I don’t speak to him.’

‘But he was in touch with Donna.’

‘He’s still her father,’ Mrs Henry retorted, as though it was inevitable a father and daughter would have a close relationship.

Geraldine didn’t even know who her real father was.

‘When she was at school he took her out three or four times a year and he used to send her extravagant gifts.’

‘And after she left school, did they continue in regular contact?’

‘They still saw each other occasionally, maybe two or three times a year. I told you, he lives in Scotland.’

Geraldine made a note of Mr Henry’s address.

‘Did Donna ever go to Scotland?’

‘Never, as far as I know. I can’t see why that’s relevant.’

‘It’s impossible to say at this stage what might prove to be relevant.’

‘You mean, you still have no idea who did this to my daughter.’ Mrs Henry’s voice rose in agitation, her self control lost for a few seconds.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Henry, I really can’t discuss the investigation with you.’

‘But you will tell me - ’

‘Yes, of course. As soon as there are any developments I’ll let you know personally, straight away. Now, it would help us if you could answer a few questions. How long have you lived here, Mrs Henry?’

‘I’ve been here since the divorce. My husband wasn’t ungenerous. I sold the house in Hampstead and I’ve been here ever since.’

‘And you and Donna lived here alone?’

‘I didn’t remarry and yes, it was just Donna and me.’

Geraldine looked around the luxuriously furnished room with its pale yellow walls and cream carpet, and tried to picture a child living there.

‘I’d like to take a look at the room Donna slept in when she lived here. How long is it since she moved out?’

‘Four months. This way.’

She led Geraldine to Donna’s room and stopped at the door.

‘I don’t go in there.’ Her voice was taut, controlled again. ‘I don’t know what you’re expecting to find but please don’t move anything. I like to keep it exactly as it was.’

‘Thank you, Mrs Henry. I’ll just have a quick look around.’

Donna’s room was beautiful. The floral wallpaper and carpet were pale pink, co-ordinating with a matching bedcover and curtains. A shelf unit displayed tiny dolls and miniature glass animals. Everything was neat and pretty, and clearly designed for a young girl. There was nothing in the pink bedroom that could add to Geraldine’s existing image of the adult Donna Henry who had been brutally battered to death. Geraldine looked through the drawers in a white desk that stood beneath the window and found a diary that Donna had written in her early teens. She flicked through the pages but the twelve or thirteen-year-old jottings about a teacher she had a crush on and a classmate who had copied her school work, had no bearing on Donna’s adult life. The wardrobe was full of designer label clothes and there was a collection of
Vogue
and
Elle
magazines on a light wooden bookshelf.

Leaving Regents Park Geraldine drove east to Highbury Fields. By following in the wake of Donna’s life she vaguely hoped she might stumble across the identity of someone with a grudge against her, although she was already afraid her attacker had been a complete stranger, impossible to glimpse from visiting Donna’s apartment.

Lily smiled nervously when she saw Geraldine at the door.

‘Have you found out - ’

‘I haven’t got any news,’ Geraldine interrupted her. ‘I’d like another look at Donna’s room though.’

Crossing the pale blue hall, the walls also decorated with tiny flowers, Geraldine thought about the pink child’s room in Mrs Henry’s flat, every detail carefully selected to harmonise. Suddenly an image of Jessica Palmer’s room slipped into her mind: messy and cramped, the walls badly whitewashed and pockmarked from Sellotape or Blu-tack, one cheap narrow wardrobe overflowing with a jumble of dresses.

Geraldine wasn’t surprised that there were fitted wardrobes lining the length of one wall of Donna’s spacious bedroom. She opened each of the doors in turn. Tall mirrors inside the doors reflected rail after rail of clothes, enough it seemed for Donna to have worn a different outfit almost every day of the year. One of her handbags alone probably cost more than Jessica Palmer could earn in a month. Some of the outfits were gorgeous. Geraldine touched a long burgundy coat and her fingers lingered. Cashmere. However sordid the circumstances of her death, Donna Henry’s life had been passed in luxury. She wondered if Donna had faced her end with any less fortitude than Jessica, who must have been accustomed to degradation and pain. Was it easier to die when your expectations of life were at best callous indifference? With a sigh she moved on, hoping to find a diary or mobile phone in a jacket pocket, but there was nothing of interest that hadn’t been picked up by the team who had already searched the flat.

‘Did you find what you were looking for?’ Lily asked when Geraldine emerged from the room.

But Geraldine didn’t know what she had been hoping to find; the room had already been thoroughly searched. Sam’s words echoed in her head. ‘You want to do everything yourself because you don’t trust your colleagues on the team. You might as well run the investigation single-handedly …’

Her colleagues’ sneering was justified, but somehow she couldn’t control her need to see everything for herself. If that made her unpopular, she could live with that, but only if her drive helped them to find the killer. Right now, there was no reason to suppose it would.

The morning after the television reconstruction was broadcast, a woman called the station to say that she had seen a black girl matching Jessica Palmer’s description leaving the pub on the Holloway Road where Jessica had been drinking with her workmate. Geraldine went straight round to see her.

A short grey-haired woman opened the door and stared blankly at Geraldine.

‘Maeve Law?’

Geraldine held up her warrant card.

‘Yes. Are you from the police then?’

‘That’s right. Detective Inspector Geraldine Steel. You called the station about the reconstruction on television earlier this evening?’

‘You’re quick enough to come when you want to,’ the woman replied sourly.

Geraldine watched her fiddle about lighting a cigarette, inhale deeply and blow smoke out of the side of her mouth.

‘I’m not sure but I think I might’ve seen her. She was killed, was she? Is that it?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Bloody hell. I’ve got daughters, Inspector, and what happened to that poor girl, well, it’s a terrible thing and I hope they lock the filthy bastard up. But I can’t say I’m surprised she got herself in trouble, the state she was in.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘She was pissed.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I’ve been around enough to know when someone’s had a few too many. She could barely put one foot in front of the other without falling over. She was pissed alright.’

‘What time was it when you saw her?’

‘It must’ve been around ten-thirty. I was walking up from the bus stop and she came out of the pub and went round the corner, off the main road, just ahead of me.’

‘Did you see her leave the pub?’

‘No, not exactly, but she couldn’t have come far, the state she was in, so it’s a fair bet.’

‘Can you describe the woman you saw?’

‘She had boots with very high heels. I think they were black. She wore them outside her jeans and - ’

Maeve frowned with the effort of trying to remember.

‘I think she was wearing a short jacket. It might have been some sort of fake fur, but I couldn’t swear to that.’

She tossed her cigarette end past Geraldine onto the path where it lay, giving off a thin trail of smoke.

Geraldine considered. The killer must have removed Jessica Palmer’s boots so he could shackle her ankles more efficiently.

‘Did you see what happened to her after she left the pub?’

‘Yes. That’s the thing. She got into a car with some bloke.’ Geraldine felt the breath catch in her throat.

‘What did he look like?’

‘I don’t know.’

‘Please try to remember. Anything at all you can tell me about him might be vital.’

Geraldine struggled to suppress her impatience while Maeve hesitated.

‘Did it look as though she knew him?’

‘She might have done. I don’t know. It’s impossible to say, really.’

‘And you didn’t get a look at his face at all?’

‘No, I couldn’t see his face, and wouldn’t have remembered it if I had. Unless he was George Clooney.’

She grinned suddenly.

‘Was he a big man, would you say?’

‘Big? Well, he was quite tall because when he got out of the car I could see he was easily taller than her, even with those heels she was wearing. Of course she could have been really short, I didn’t get a good look at her either. I just walked past on the other side of the road and I remember thinking, “You’ve had a few more than you ought, my girl,” like you do.’

‘Can you remember anything else about the man you saw?’

‘I think he was wearing a dark coat, but I didn’t see him for long and it was a while ago. I can’t be sure about any of this. My memory’s not what it was.’

‘What you’ve told me so far is really helpful, Maeve. More than you realise. What about the car? Can you describe it?’

‘I remember it was dark. It could’ve been black.’

‘Do you know what make it was?’

‘I haven’t got the foggiest. It was just a car. They’re all the same to me. It wasn’t a convertible or anything like that. Nothing I’d recognise.’

‘Did the woman get into the car willingly?’

‘Well, to be honest, something about that didn’t look right. I think that’s why it stuck in my mind. She was so drunk she could hardly walk. I got the impression the man almost had to carry her to the car. He was holding her by the arm pushing her along the pavement, and then he seemed to shove her inside and I wondered at the time if she’d really wanted to get in that car with him. I don’t know why, it was just a feeling I had.’

She shrugged.

‘And then, when I saw it on the telly, it gave me the creeps to think I might have seen her, the girl that was killed.’

‘Why didn’t you go over?’

‘Over where?’

‘You said there was something that didn’t look right. Why didn’t you go over and ask if she was OK?’

Maeve stared coldly at Geraldine.

‘It was nothing to do with me,’ she said. ‘I find it’s best to mind my own business. And anyway, it was all over so quick. One minute he was hustling her along, the next she was in the car and they were off.’

‘Did the man see you watching?’

‘Not bloody likely. I’d already gone round the corner. I only happened to glance back and that’s how I saw them together, just for a second, before I walked on.’

Geraldine took down the details.

‘There’s one more thing. Did you happen to notice if the girl had any injury to her right hand?’

Maeve shook her head.

‘No. But I didn’t get that close a look at her. I was some distance away.’

‘Well, thank you very much. That’s been very helpful.’ She gave the witness a card.

‘You can call me on this number if you remember anything else.’

‘I will. Well, I hope you catch the bugger soon, for all our sakes.’

Geraldine gave a nod.

‘I hope so too,’ she answered under her breath.

A
fter typing up her report, Geraldine set off on the drive back to Kent where she had an appointment at the adoption agency. She had asked the social worker on her case to approach her birth mother once again to try and arrange a meeting. When the social worker had declined to discuss the outcome over the phone, Geraldine thought the most likely reason was that her birth mother still didn’t want to have any contact with her. There were only two other obvious options. The adoption agency might have lost contact with her mother and been unable to trace her. Milly Blake could have moved, changed her name, even gone abroad to vanish without trace. Geraldine refused to consider the other possibility - that her mother might be dead. To lose her again without even meeting her would be too cruel.

She tried not to speculate too much about her mother as she drove, but the closer she drew to her appointment the more nervous she became. After all the dangerous situations she had faced in her career, she was caught by surprise at her extreme anxiety over the possibility of meeting her mother. Her thoughts were racing uncontrollably and she realised that she was trembling, her palms sweaty, her mouth dry.

‘Pull yourself together,’ she muttered crossly out loud, but it made no difference. She was distressed before anything had even happened.

Geraldine entered the rundown Victorian building where her adoption records were stored, gave her name to the receptionist in the dingy hall and paced restlessly around the hallway. She felt she had been waiting for hours, although in reality it was only a few minutes before a solidly-built blonde woman came into view and Geraldine recognised Sandra, the social worker she had met on her previous visit to the agency.

‘Hello, Geraldine.’

Sandra smiled warmly at her as though welcoming an old friend.

‘It’s good to see you again.’

She turned and led the way along a quiet corridor to an interview room where Geraldine recognised the same drooping plant on the table from her previous visit, and the same dusty box of tissues. It was as though time was suspended in that quiet room.

‘How have you been keeping, Geraldine?’

Sandra sounded genuinely interested. She leaned forward as she spoke, her hands in her lap, her head tilted to one side.

‘I’m fine, thank you. Work’s been busy and I’ve moved to London.’

‘London? How exciting!’

Sandra beamed, as though speaking to a small child who had just won a trophy at school. Geraldine felt impatient. The woman was a stranger, her interest in Geraldine obviously no more than a professional ruse to lighten the atmosphere.

‘Yes, I’ve come all the way from London for this meeting,’ she said pointedly.

Sandra hesitated before replying with another question.

‘You requested a meeting with your birth mother, Milly Blake. That’s right isn’t it?’

Geraldine felt a sudden rush of excitement at hearing her mother’s name on someone else’s lips, as though her private day dream had suddenly become a reality.

‘Yes. I want to meet my mother.’

‘I’m sorry, Geraldine.’

Sandra paused and shook her head, an expression of regret on her rounded face. Under other circumstances Geraldine would have warmed to Sandra who was clearly doing her best in a difficult situation, but as it was she struggled to suppress her anger at the social worker’s fake empathy.

‘I’m afraid that’s not going to happen,’ Sandra continued. ‘We’ve done all we can, but your birth mother has made her feelings clear. This is nothing personal about you, but she doesn’t want to revisit the past. She’s written more than once to say she doesn’t want to have any contact with you.’

Sandra paused.

‘She feels that would be best for you both.’

‘How can she know what’s best for me? She doesn’t even fucking know me,’ Geraldine burst out, and was immediately shocked at her own loss of control.

She swallowed hard, fighting to control her shaking. It didn’t help to know that Sandra was simply doing her job. Geraldine had seen bereaved people resort to rage as a desperate shield against grief, driven by a compulsion to blame. Sometimes anger was all that stood between them and feeling their loss. Geraldine had always believed she’d felt genuine sympathy for their grief but she had never been in that situation. Until now. This wasn’t as final as death - but in some ways it was even worse because her mother had deliberately rejected her.

Geraldine’s training kicked-in and she gave a taut smile, seething behind a mask of composure.

‘Well, that’s that then, isn’t it?’

She looked directly at the social worker, making no attempt to conceal the bitterness in her voice.

‘You could have told me over the phone instead of letting me come all this way for nothing.’

It didn’t help to know that Sandra must understand the real reason for the frustration Geraldine was taking out on her. The social worker’s sympathetic expression didn’t waver.

‘I’m sorry, Geraldine. I’m afraid there’s nothing more we can do. We can’t act against your mother’s wishes, but if you’d like to talk with someone about it, we’d be happy to help you. You don’t have to cope with this alone.’

But Geraldine
was
alone. Alone in a world of strangers.

‘No, thank you. I’m fine. You’re quite right, of course. I shall just have to accept this and move on.’

While she drove back to London she ran over the meeting in her mind and tried not to succumb to an uncharacteristic mood of hopelessness as she considered her situation. No one really cared deeply about her. If she were to crash her car and die, who would actually be affected by her death? She thought about Jessica and Donna, and their mothers’ grief. No one would cry like that over her. There were people who would be shocked and upset, of course: Celia and Chloe, her old school friend Hannah, colleagues at work; but her loss wouldn’t make a significant difference to anyone’s life. Her own mother wouldn’t know. As for her biological father, he probably wasn’t even aware she existed. It made no real difference to anyone else if she lived or died. Admittedly her work was important, and she was good at what she did, but another detective could do her job equally effectively. So what was the point of her life if the only possible outcome was a death disregarded by strangers?

She had said she would respect her mother’s wishes and move on, but she wondered now if she would ever be able to accept this emptiness in her life. Her need to discover the people with whom she belonged felt more pressing than ever. They haunted her dreams, unknown siblings, and the mother who stared out of a photograph with her own face. If the social services were unable to put her in contact with her birth mother, she had the resources and the expertise to trace her for herself. If nothing else, at least the search would keep her hope alive. Anything was better than giving in to helpless despair. But for now she would continue to throw all her energy into the case, the one area of her life where she could make a difference.