Killing Me Softly (18 page)

But Nick, when he'd been in Lavenstock CID, had had his own methods, his own informants. She went on to describe the visitor whom Amy had seen, aware how meagre the detail was, though Nick, like every other detective, had often worked successfully on less. ‘Maybe,' she suggested, carefully watching him, ‘you could do some ferreting around.'

His face immediately darkened and he moved his hand in a violent sideways denial. ‘Uh-oh. Not me. No way. I'm strictly non-operational nowadays.'

There was something over the top about his refusal, something too vehement that she didn't understand. She put a little more pressure on. ‘The girl, Wishart's daughter, helped us with a photofit picture.' She fished the picture which had been compiled with Amy's help from her bag. It looked up from the table, side by side with Wishart's.

He shook his head. ‘Don't know him. And still no deal.'

‘Tit for tat, Nick.'

They eyed each other steadily. This was the sort of bargaining he understood, but she knew it was an offer he was about to refuse. She sighed. It had been worth a try, all the same.

But his hands, as he lit another cigarette, were not quite steady, and his answer, when it came, wasn't what she'd expected. ‘Haven't much choice, have I, really? Roz is my wife. And I want her found.'

‘Much more satisfaction in doing things by hand,' Ellie said, wielding a murderous-looking knife on a slippery-looking onion with the rapid nonchalance of the practised cook. ‘Quicker, too, in the long run.'

She was looking sallow and drawn, Abigail thought, and too nervy to be safe with a knife like that in her hand. A white head-covering was swathed around her head, totally obscuring her hair. The soft fronds of her fringe normally concealed a forehead that now seemed large and rounded; beneath it, her brown eyes looked enormous, devouring her whole face. ‘We don't make huge batches of anything, you see, we try to cater for a more individual market ... I'm concocting a new sauce for venison, it can be such a dry meat if you're not careful –'

‘Ellie –'

Ellie scraped the onions into hot oil before lowering the heat. ‘I'd advise you to sit over there,' she said, waving her knife dangerously to where two or three stools were drawn up to a counter at the far end of the kitchen, ‘otherwise your clothes will pong.
Nothing
is worse than fried onions.'

She went to wash her hands at a sink with a tap she could operate with her elbow, like a hospital nurse. The gleaming kitchen had white paint, white surfaces and shining, stainless steel sinks and appliances, but its warm yellow walls cast reflections on the batteries of cooking utensils massed in ordered chaos on racks and shelves, or hanging from hooks, witness to the amount of serious cooking that went on here. Scrupulous hygiene would have to be followed, the premises would be subject to official inspections and regulations, but the abundance of paraphernalia gave it a warm and homely clutter that was comforting and appealing, rather than clinical.

Abigail went to sit on one of the stools, as she was bid. ‘Ellie, I have to know this, officially, otherwise I wouldn't ask, but ... The man you were talking about the other day, when you came to lunch – it was Tim Wishart, wasn't it?'

Ellie turned abruptly and removed the skillet of gently sizzling onions from the ring. She picked up the knife she'd been using and stared at it, then put it into a dishwasher. ‘Yes,' she said, returning to stand in the centre of the room, looking lost. ‘How can I bear it?' she asked, closing her eyes.

‘Come and sit here,' Abigail replied, taking charge of the situation, unsure of how deep this went with Ellie, bearing in mind her propensity to dramatize herself. ‘We have to talk.'

‘You can't
possibly
think any worse of me than I do myself!'

‘Ellie, I'm not here to make judgements. I just want the facts. What I have to know is – did you see him after you left me?'

Even allowing for her state of mind on Saturday, it still didn't seem likely that she'd have made the attempt to see him. She would have known how he'd planned to spend his Saturday. On the other hand, armed with this knowledge, she could have waited for him in the woods ...

‘You mean, did I tell him we were finished and did he kill himself because he was devastated? No, he didn't, because he didn't know. I didn't see him after I saw you, but it wouldn't have mattered enough to him if I had told him,' she said bitterly. ‘He'd have been furious, but not desperate. Not enough to kill himself.'

She put her head in her hands.

Abigail noted that Clare didn't appear to have passed on the news that his death was now being looked on as murder. ‘A cup of coffee would be nice,' she said eventually.

Ellie roused herself. ‘I'm off coffee, as from today. I need to sleep, not keep awake,' she added with a touch of humour, though her voice trembled. But that's better, thought Abigail. She did look as though she needed to sleep, for a week maybe. She seemed emotionally wrung out. ‘I'll make you some coffee, but I'll have tea.'

‘Tea will do fine for me. I don't need any more coffee, either.' Nor tea, for that matter, but still.

The tea, unsurprisingly, was excellent. Earl Grey, the bergamot flavour enhanced by a sliver of lemon, and served in a thin, delicate cup. ‘I don't really know why I came in today, there's no point,' Ellie said when they were sipping it. ‘We're not expecting any deliveries, and with Clare not here, I could have shut the place up, but I need to cook when I'm upset, you know? I suppose it's a sort of therapy, and it's the only thing I'm any good at, anyway.' She was trying to avoid any more discussion of Tim. Abigail recognised the need to distance herself. ‘And I'd some idea I could maybe get on with some ordering or checking stock or something like that, with Barbie gone.'

‘Gone?'

‘She's left. When I got back from having lunch with you, there was a message on my answerphone from her. She'd decided to leave. Just like that. And I'd only been speaking to her that morning.'

For no accountable reason that Abigail could think of, a sharp prickle of warning touched the back of her neck.

‘Isn't that rather sudden?'

‘Yes, but that seems to be our fate, they never stay long, the women who help us here ... it's only menial work they do, not high on job satisfaction, or pay if it comes to that – and I told you, didn't I, that I thought she was under-employed? It appears she's been feeling that way herself, and thought it time to move on. She could have given us more notice, though. Ungrateful, I call it, to leave us in the lurch like this.'

Not so much ungrateful, Abigail thought, as questionable, in the circumstances. ‘She certainly chose her time.'

Ellie shrugged. ‘She'd no allegiance to us. We shall miss her, though,' she admitted, ‘she'd turn her hand to anything. We shall have to replace her.'

Abigail was thinking of the last time she'd seen Barbie, perhaps only the third or fourth time she'd ever seen her, in fact. Five days ago. Barbie, larger than life, a little bothered about the situation at Miller's Wife, but seemingly involved enough to want it to succeed. It was something that needed thinking about. Meanwhile, she had other questions to ask Ellie.

‘Remember a woman called Roz Spalding? I believe she worked here for a while.'

Ellie immediately looked guarded. ‘Of course I remember her, I've known Roz for years, that's how she came to work here. I offered her the job, as a matter of fact.'

‘Tell me about her.'

‘If it's that husband of hers –' Ellie began.

‘You know Nick, too?'

‘Heard of him, and I'm not very impressed by
what
I've heard. She's a fool to have gone back to him, which was what she was intending to do when she left here.' Her eyes widened. ‘There's nothing wrong, is there?'

‘I hope not, but at the moment, we don't know where she is. She seems to have disappeared.'

‘
Disappeared
? Roz? Disappeared, how?'

When Abigail had explained, Ellie said positively, ‘I'll tell you what I think: I can see Roz taking off in the state she was in, but she would never have done anything stupid. She'd got past that stage, thank God.' She sipped her tea and said soberly, ‘Poor Roz, she was devastated when she came here at first, that goes without saying. I can't think of anything worse to happen to anyone – I mean losing her child like that ... this job was just something to occupy her time, but she needed a supportive relationship, and I think we were able to give it.'

Miller's Wife induced the sort of sisterly solidarity that women were good at. But, working so closely together, it could also have generated the sort of hothouse atmosphere where passions and jealousies developed ... ‘Did she ever meet Tim Wishart?'

‘
Tim?
Why yes, he was never away from the place. He was hankering after an active share in the business, but Clare wasn't having any.' She watched Abigail thoughtfully. ‘You're on the wrong tack there, though. Roz couldn't stand him, and vice versa.'

‘Why?'

‘Why?' Ellie seemed nonplussed. ‘Why
do
people like or dislike each other? Chemistry? Or maybe she'd got wind of –' She fiddled with her teaspoon. ‘She's a straight down the line person, you know, a bit prim and proper.'

But she'd started to say something else entirely, Abigail thought as she finished her tea. ‘Got wind of our relationship'? Or ‘his reputation with women'? Maybe.

‘What about Barbie? How did they get on, she and Tim, I mean?'

‘Now, that's different. They had a very good rapport, as it happens. Friendly, joking, Barbie was good at that. Not sexual, of course –' She stopped and stared at Abigail. ‘Why am I saying
of course
? It's obvious now. She was chatting him up, letting him see she fancied him.'

‘Was it likely? That he'd fancy her?'

‘Remember what we were saying about her the other day – that she could've been very attractive if she'd bothered? Tim wouldn't have missed that – and he was nothing if not susceptible,' she added, sharp as one of the knives in the block in front of them, deliberately hurting herself. ‘That could be why she left, couldn't it? There'd be no reason to stay on, now.' She suddenly pulled off the ugly head-covering and ran her hands through her soft, dark hair so that it feathered around her face in the familiar way as she shook her head. ‘No, forget it, I'm being paranoid, I don't honestly think there was anything that serious.'

‘She lived in the flat above the premises, didn't she?' Ellie nodded. ‘Mind if I take a look around?'

‘It's empty. The furniture's still there, such as it is, but she's taken all her own things.' She stared at Abigail. ‘You can't believe there's anything
suspicious
about her leaving, surely? She hasn't run off with the takings, you know!'

‘All the same ...' People left their traces. And Abigail was more than intrigued by the suddenness of Barbie Nelson's departure.

Perhaps it wasn't the best moment, just now, to inform Ellie of the true facts of Wishart's death, but was there ever a best moment for that sort of thing? Ellie absorbed the news in silence. When she spoke, her voice shook, and her eyes were wide and frightened. ‘My God, that's terrible, but Barbie wouldn't have done anything like that!'

‘I'm not saying that, but I'd better have a look at the flat. You needn't come up with me, I'll find my way.'

Ellie didn't argue but produced a key from a key-cupboard on the wall. ‘There's only David Neale's office on the same floor. His name's on the door, but he's not there.'

Abigail left her sitting on one of the stools, staring into space. It was natural that she should be upset at hearing how her lover had died, but Abigail noted with interest that she hadn't seemed to find it incredible.

The premises of Miller's Wife as a whole weren't large – the big kitchen which was the heart of the enterprise, with cold rooms and storerooms and a cloakroom behind, the shop in front with its tiny glassed-in cubicle where Barbie had kept check of the stores, typed the odd letter and filed invoices. At the top of the stairs on one side was the office normally occupied by David Neale, on the other Barbie's bed-sitter, plus a minuscule bathroom-cum-kitchen.

The accommodation was spartan, furnished only with essential pieces, so that it didn't take Abigail more than a few minutes to establish that Barbie had left nothing behind in the drawers and cupboards. The wardrobe, likewise, revealed nothing but a few wire hangers. Behind the bedroom door a large black plastic bin liner stood on the carpet, about a quarter full, its neck twisted into a knot. Abigail undid it and peered inside, then began working her way through layers of discarded tights, old cosmetic jars, an empty talc container, and a screwed-up sheet of newspaper which contained a miscellaneous assortment of debris of the kind suggesting that Barbie had decided to tidy out the scruffy contents of a handbag by shaking it out over the newspaper. Among several till receipts for small amounts, a wrapper from a Cadbury's Fruit & Nut bar, a broken comb, an empty paracetamol blister pack, a safety pin and four one-pence pieces, was what looked like a small folded newspaper clipping.

It was fraying on the folds, and very gently Abigail opened it up, to reveal a grainy photograph of a young man and a woman. The caption underneath read: ‘Paul Matthews and his fiancée, Barbara Nelson.' It had been cut from the
Daily Telegraph,
August 22nd, two years previously.

Abigail perched on the edge of the bed, staring thoughtfully at the photo, trying to assess what it might mean. It wasn't until after she'd refolded it and slid it into her wallet that she noticed the knife.