Dear Departed (11 page)

‘The credit-card statements bear that out,’ Atherton said. ‘Quite a few donations to charities – I’m making a list of them. But lots of jollies, too – restaurants, theatres, cinema tickets, big food and drink bills. She didn’t stint on enjoying herself.’

‘Well, she was a good-looking bird, why not?’ Hart said. ‘If she had a lot o’ boyfriends, what of it? This is the twenty-first century. Women are just as entitled to enjoy themselves as men.’

She had turned her head as she said that last bit, and she and Atherton looked into each other’s eyes.

‘I hate to interrupt this episode of
Oprah,’
Slider said, ‘but could you concentrate on the problem in hand? Have you looked for a birth certificate?’

‘Yes, but we haven’t found one,’ Atherton said. ‘It’s possible it’s in the safe. Any word on when that’s going to be opened?’

Slider shook his head. ‘Some time tomorrow is the best I can get out of them.’

The phone on Atherton’s desk rang and he answered it. ‘No, he’s here.’ He handed it over. ‘For you, the front shop.’

It was Sergeant Paxman, who was manning the front desk. ‘Someone here to see you, about the Cornfeld case.’

‘On my way,’ said Slider.

The public access to the police station was a square room with the big, high desk across one side and a bench running round the other three. On the bench were two rather hopeless-looking young males with chronic sniffs and terminally baggy trousers, and, sitting as far away from them as possible, a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed though in cheap clothes, with a large shopping bag on her knee. She had grey hair with a few blonde highlights, done in the eternal short, rollered perm of the Decent Working Classes, and her face was tidily made up with blue eyeshadow and pink lipstick. She and her kind were the backbone of the country and Slider hoped it was her he was down here to see, and not one of the sullen youths.

Paxman pointed her out discreetly. ‘Says she knows Cornfeld.’

‘How did she know the name? We haven’t released it yet.’

‘She didn’t. She says she thinks she knows deceased, wants to be sure.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Hammick. Maureen. Mrs,’ said Paxman.

Slider resisted the urge to say, ‘Lot. A. Thanks,’ and went out to accost the woman. ‘Mrs Hammick? I’m Detective Inspector Slider. I believe you wanted to talk to me.’ She lifted suffering eyes, and he said, ‘Would you like to come somewhere a bit more private?’ and led her through into one of the interview rooms. He chose No. 1, which was marginally less repulsive than No. 2. They both smelt of sweaty feet, but someone had thrown up in No. 2 yesterday and it took time for the vomit stink to fade completely.

As soon as the door closed behind them she said, ‘It’s about Chattie – Chattie Cornfeld. Someone said – they said she was – that she’s been murdered. Is it true?’

‘Where did you hear that?’ he asked neutrally.

‘A neighbour of mine was in the Wellington lunch-time and she said there were policemen there showing a picture of Chattie and asking if anyone knew her. She recognised her because she’s been with me when I’ve met Chattie in the street. But I thought maybe she’d made a mistake. I mean, she doesn’t know her well. So I thought I’d – but it
isn’t
her, is it?’

She looked at him with appeal, but not much hope. Silently Slider held out the photos. The woman took them, and her hand began to tremble. ‘You took this one from her bedroom,’ she said, as if that clinched it. ‘You’ve been to the house.’ She looked up at him. ‘She’s dead, then? She’s the one – the Park Killer’s latest victim?’

Slider nodded, reflecting how even at times of great emotion people couldn’t help talking like the tabloids. ‘Would you like to sit down?’ he asked gently. He pulled out the chair from under the table and she sat, blindly, her eyes fixed on the empty air, her hands moving in slow distress, massaging the handle of her shopping basket. Slider took the seat opposite, and was glad to see that, though deeply affected, she was not crying or heading for hysterics. A sensible, level-headed woman – could be a good witness, if she had anything to tell.

‘How do you know her?’ he asked, after a respectful moment.

‘I clean for her,’ said Mrs Hammick.

Well, that accounted for the immaculateness of the house, anyway, Slider thought, because if this woman wasn’t a thorough cleaner he’d eat his feather duster.

‘I work for Merry Maids agency in Brook Green. They’ll give you a reference, if you want. But we’re more like friends now, really, and I do other bits of things for her as well, not through the agency – pick up her dry-cleaning, wait in for the plumber, that sort of thing. Well, I’ve got the key anyway, and I only live in Greenside Road, just across the road from Wingate.’

‘So you know her quite well?’

‘We’re
friends,’
she said, with a little, desperate emphasis, as though that would change things, make the bad news not to be. ‘It’s not like with my other clients. I hardly see them, and most of them I wouldn’t care if I never saw. But she works from home, so from the beginning she was often there when I came to do my work, and she’s such a nice, friendly, cheery person we got
on right away. She’d come up when I was halfway through my time and say, “Come on, Maureen, come and have a cup of tea and a good old chinwag,’ and down I’d go to the kitchen and we’d have a chat over a cuppa. After a bit, I never bothered about how much time I spent there. I just did whatever she wanted doing, and if it took me over my time the agency was paying me, well, so be it. But she was a real lady, she always gave me a Christmas present and something on my birthday – “For all the little extras you do for me, Maureen,” she’d say. And I’d tell her, “You don’t have to give me anything for that, I’m your friend.” But she did, anyway. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.’

Slider felt there was more and waited in silence. She looked down at her hands, and said, ‘Last year when I had my divorce, I wouldn’t have got through it if it hadn’t been for her. I mean, just someone to talk to, yes, and she always had time for me; but apart from that she gave me advice, helped me with the papers and made phone calls for me. I mean, she was a person that just knew what to
do
about things, you know what I mean? I don’t know what I’d have done without her.’

‘How long have you known her?’ Slider asked.

‘I’ve been cleaning for her for three years, ever since she moved into that house. But it feels like a lot longer.’ She looked up. ‘She was a lovely person, ever so kind. Just last week, Friday, when I came in, she had this visitor, a poor lad with terrible acne. I could hardly look at him, poor soul, but the way she was looking at him and listening to him, giving him all her attention, you’d think there was nothing wrong with him at all. And then there’s an old lady down the street she visits, spends hours down there talking to her – not a relative or anything, just to cheer her up. She was always cheerful, always smiling, full of jokes. And she worked so hard at that business of hers, all the hours God sent. She said, “Maureen, I’m going to make good, and it’s going to be all on my own efforts.” I admire that, people who do that. I can’t stand freeloaders, people who expect you to carry them – like that sister of hers.’

‘Sister?’

Mrs Hammick’s mouth turned down in disapproval. ‘That Jassy. You couldn’t want a bigger contrast between two people.’ She looked at him questioningly. ‘You’ve been to the house? You’ve seen that room of hers?’

Slider was enlightened. ‘The top-floor room.’

‘That’s it.’

‘The sister lives there?’

‘No, not now. She’d like to, but Chattie put her foot down – which is rare enough, because she’s
too
kind, if anything, and people take advantage. Jassy walks all over her, and she’d have the shirt off Chattie’s back if she could, in a minute. She lived with Chattie for about six months and it nearly drove her mad. Never cleaned up after herself, wore Chattie’s clothes and spoiled ’em, brought people home without asking – not nice people. She was supposed to be putting up just for a week or two until she got her own place, but it was weeks and then months and I thought she was going to be a permanent fixture, only Chattie finally had enough and told her she had to go. But Jassy still regards that room as hers, and she’s got a key to the house, so she comes and goes and sleeps there when she feels like it – when she has a row with her boyfriend, I expect. Or she wants to cadge money off her sister.’

‘I gather you don’t like her.’

‘Jassy? She’s one of them that thinks the world owes them a living. Never done an honest day’s work in her life, lives on the dole and doesn’t even try to get a job. Borrows money and never pays it back, takes Chattie’s things without asking, and then complains that Chattie doesn’t do enough for her.
And she
hangs around with a nasty rough lot. That boyfriend of hers – well, if he’s not a criminal, I don’t know! He’s a coloured, you know.’ She looked at Slider to see his reaction. ‘I’ve got nothing against them as such, but I’m sure as I stand here that Darren’s up to no good. He’s got a shifty look in his eye, and once when Jassy brought him back to the house I found him snooping about where he’d no business. Casing the joint, that’s what you call it, isn’t it?’

‘Did anything go missing?’

‘Not that I heard, but that doesn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about it. I wouldn’t put it past Jassy either. Just this Monday I caught her sneaking around the house. I’d just popped in with some croissants for Chattie – I get them at a bakery near a lady I do on a Monday afternoon, and Chattie likes them specially, so I often get her some and drop them round for her Tuesday breakfast. I was just walking down the hall when Jassy pops up the stairs from the kitchen, and as soon as she sees
me she looks guilty. Gives a little jump, you know, and says, “Oh, it’s you, what are you doing here?” or something like that. I said, “Chattie knows I’m here. I wonder if the same could be said for you,” and she said, “I was just passing and I thought I’d drop in and see my sister. I just went down to the kitchen to make myself a coffee.” And I thought, Yes, very likely, but I didn’t say anything. I just stood there, and she sort of sulked off. I had a good look round, I can tell you, but I never saw anything missing. Interrupted her in time, that’s what I think.’

‘Did you say anything to Chattie about it?’

‘No, Chattie’s too soft-hearted. It wouldn’t have done any good. She’s so honest herself, she can’t believe anyone else is different – though she did see through that Darren in the end and told Jassy not to bring him any more. But Jassy – well, you’ve seen that room of hers. I said to Chattie, in the end, I said, “I’m sorry, but I’m just not going to clean up in there any more. I’ll do anything for you,” I said, “but I’m not cleaning up after that little madam.” And Chattie said she didn’t blame me and she’d tell Jassy to clean it herself. But of course she never did. I always say, you can tell a lot about a person from the way they leave their house, and that Jassy’s room is filthy and nasty, just like her.’

‘Is she thin, black hair, lots of studs?’

‘You’ve seen her, then?’

‘No, someone described her. Said she had makeup like Dracula’s mother.’

Mrs Hammick gave a grim sort of smile. ‘That’s good! Dracula’s mother. Yes, black lipstick and purple eyeshadow and stuff like that. She’s pretty enough underneath, though not a candle to Chattie in my opinion, but she makes herself look as ugly as she can. It’s like she’s spitting in your eye, you know?’

‘Do you know her full name, and where she lives?’

‘Her name’s Jasmine – she hates it, that’s why she calls herself Jassy – and her surname’s different from Chattie’s. Her mum and dad got divorced and her mum got remarried. She’s called Jassy Whitelaw, and she lives somewhere down south of the river, Clapham, I think. Her address’ll be in Chattie’s book – the red address book on her desk.’

‘Yes, we have that. Do you know Darren’s surname and address?’

‘Well, the address is same as Jassy’s – they live together. But
his surname …’ She thought a moment, shaking her head slowly. ‘I think it might be Brown. Darren Brown. Or Biggs? Or Bates?
No, Brown,’ she said firmly; then paused. ‘Or was it Barnes? Yes, I think that was it. Darren Barnes.’

‘And would you know who Chattie’s next of kin would be?’

‘Ooh, I’m not sure. I suppose it would be her mother, with her being divorced as well. Chattie’s never mentioned her father to me, so I don’t know whether she still sees him or anything, but she talked a lot about her mum. She’s a writer – quite a famous one. Stella Smart – have you heard of her?’

The name was vaguely familiar to Slider, as something seen in passing, on a shelf in Smith’s. ‘I think so. She writes romances, doesn’t she?’

Mrs Hammick looked quite stern. ‘Not romances, they’re ever so much better than that. They’re like those Aga sagas of Joanna Trollope’s – good, long books you can get your teeth into, about real people. I’ve read quite a few of them now, from the library, and they’re ever so good. Anyway, Chattie goes to see her and her mum phones her up, so I know
they
get on all right, so I should think she’d be her next of kin,’ she concluded, as though it were something elective. ‘But as to her address – well, I know it’s in Hertfordshire somewhere, near Hemel Hempstead I think she said, but I don’t know exactly.’

‘I’m sure we can find it out, now we know who she is. If it isn’t in the address book, the publishers will be able to tell us.’

‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Mrs Hammick, looking despondent now, as her elation left her and she remembered why she was there in the first place. ‘It’ll be a terrible shock to her, poor lady. What a shocking, dreadful thing to happen to someone like Chattie. If it was Jassy, now, you could understand it, the sort of people she mixes with. I’ve often said she’d come to a bad end one day.’

‘You’ve been very helpful,’ Slider said. ‘One more thing perhaps you can tell me – did Chattie have a boyfriend?’

Mrs Hammick pursed her lips. ‘Well, she had a lot of menfriends, but not what you’d call a boyfriend, not one special person. She was always going out, meals and things, and it was generally with a man, but it was all casual, if you know what I mean. It seemed to suit her that way,’ she added sadly. ‘I sometimes said to her, wouldn’t she like to get married and
settle down, but she always said she was happy as she was. “I haven’t got room in my life for another man,” she said. “I’m too busy making my way in the world,” she said. I said she didn’t want to leave it too late, if she wanted to have kiddies, but she said she wasn’t interested in that. I think maybe it was to do with her mum and dad getting divorced. It was a real pity, but I always thought she’d meet someone one day and then she’d change her mind pretty quick. I used to say to her, “You won’t feel that way when you meet the right man.” But now she never will, of course,’ she remembered, and had to fumble in her handbag for a handkerchief.