In Bitter Chill (15 page)

‘I’m expecting Justine, my niece, sometime today. I offered to go to the house with her but she wanted to be by herself. There won’t be anything distressing there, will there?’

‘I was the first officer on the scene. There’s nothing distressing at all. It seems likely that Penny drove herself to Truscott Fields, where she was killed. We don’t think anything happened in the house.’

Bridget turned her face to the oven and squinted to see through the glass. ‘I’ve always liked Justine. She’s a down-to-earth person; she reminds me a bit of my mother, her grandmother. She’s always calm, doesn’t panic.’

‘And Penny?’

‘Penny was harder to get to know. I didn’t
not
like her; it’s just that we were never really close. She taught, of course, and in those days it was harder to have a family and a full-time job. I don’t think it left you much time for anything else. When she wasn’t working she liked to potter around the house. We didn’t go for coffee or any of things you do nowadays.’

‘Was theirs a happy marriage?’ It was an innocuous question but Connie saw a flash of anger in the woman’s eyes.

‘What’s that got to do with it? James is hardly a suspect, is he?’

‘It was just a question.’ Connie held the woman’s gaze.

‘As far as I’m aware the marriage was a happy one.’ There was a note of finality in the comment.

‘You were close to your brother?’

Bridget looked down at the table, her chin quivering. ‘We were very close. He was the elder by nine months. Irish twins, I’ve heard it called.’

‘Just the two of you?’

‘Yes.’

Connie looked at the oven. She had no siblings and wondered what it would be like to be so close to someone you had shared your childhood with. She turned back to Bridget, who was struggling to compose herself.

‘Have you any idea why someone would have wanted to kill Penny?’

The woman looked stricken. ‘Penny kept herself to herself. I can’t think of anything more ridiculous than someone deciding to kill her. All the years I knew her, she liked to keep herself in the background. She was a watcher, not a participator. The idea of someone killing her is ridiculous.’

Connie glanced around the kitchen. ‘Do you have any kids?’

Bridget Lander flushed. ‘I’ve never married. I spent my career working as a nurse. In the old Bampton hospital. When they shut it down, I decided to retire. I was too old for new things. So no children. But I am close to my niece. She used to come to me after school while we waited for Penny to finish work. I’d bake biscuits and bread for her then, too.’ She exclaimed as she looked at the oven, got up and opened the door, and pulled out a loaf of bread.

Connie idly watched her. She wasn’t sure if she had ever tasted homemade bread. ‘Did Penny ever mention the case of the two girls who were kidnapped in 1978? They were called Rachel Jones and Sophie Jenkins.’

Bridget was easing a pallet knife around the loaf. ‘She mentioned it at the time. I think she was one of the first people to find out at the school. But that was years ago.’

‘She had no idea what had happened?’

‘I think she was as mystified as everyone else.’

‘And she hadn’t mentioned the case recently. After the suicide of Yvonne Jenkins, Sophie’s mother, for example?’

Bridget Lander shook her head. ‘Nothing.’

‘And as far as you are aware, she never kept in touch with Rachel Jones, the kidnapped girl who was later found alive?’

‘Kept in touch? I don’t remember her knowing the girl in the first place. She was a teacher at the same school but she didn’t know either child very well.’

‘She wasn’t trying to trace her family history, was she?’

‘Her family history? What makes you say that?’

‘It’s just that Rachel Jones is now working as a genealogist in Bampton. I wondered if they’d had any contact.’

Bridget Lander stared in silence. She towered over Connie’s small frame and Connie, as she so often did in these situations, had to stifle the instinct to make herself even smaller.

Finally, she said, ‘I can’t see any reason why Penny would be interested in the services of a genealogist.’

‘Rachel. I thought it was you. I’d recognise your back anywhere.’

Rachel jumped when a hand was placed on her shoulder and she craned her neck round, cricking it in the sudden movement. She was still jumpy after the exit from Sophie’s house earlier that week but now felt ashamed. It could easily have been the police or a legitimate caller who’d arrived at the bungalow while she was inside. What must they have thought if they’d seen her clambering out of the window?

This morning she had felt the urge for comfort food and Sorelle seemed just the place. As she had walked towards Bampton town centre, the pavements were still slippery but no longer treacherous. Instead the chill wind had increased a notch, blowing icy gusts into her face. The warmth of the restaurant was a welcome relief, although only a few of the tables were taken. People were presumably keeping to the comfort of their homes and staying out of the cold. She took a table in the corner, ordered a plate of pasta and sat down with her back facing the door. Clearly, this wasn’t incognito enough to fool someone like Sydney.

The librarian sat down opposite her without asking, pulled across a chair from another table and dumped her shopping down.

‘It’s market day today, not that you would know it. It’s like a morgue out there. And all the stalls had was a choice between oranges or cabbages.’

‘No wonder you came in here,’ said Rachel, shoving a forkful of spaghetti into her mouth. ‘We all need a bit of Mediterranean in our lives.’

‘The Med,’ snorted Sydney. ‘Fred who runs this place went to Bampton Grammar, same as me, although I do remember him having a foreign grandma – I think she was Irish.’

Rachel laughed and started to choke. Sydney, enjoying her audience, carried on. ‘If you want proper Med you need to go to Cafe Aroma on the high street. It’s run by Greeks, or is it Cypriots? I can never remember. Anyway, they are your authentic package.’

‘I rarely fancy it. It’s always full of students. And the decor is so 1980s: red, white and black.’

‘I know. William spends all his time in there. I tell him he can get a decent cup of coffee from the cappuccino machine at home. But you know what it’s like. Teenagers prefer to spend their money feeding themselves away from the decent stuff they can get in their own houses.’

Sydney waved at a waiter and ordered without looking at the menu. She was obviously a regular and, looking at her ample curves, Rachel wondered what her own body would look like in ten years’ time if she carried on eating as she did. She took a sip of her glass of white wine and luxuriated in the indulgence of lunchtime drinking.

‘How’s work?’

Rachel shrugged. ‘OK, I suppose.’

‘I’ve been looking at your website today. Don’t look at me like that. I felt guilty I hadn’t advertised your talk the other day. So I’ve updated all the links on the library’s site. And I had a good nosy around your site while I was at it.’

Rachel made a face and carried on eating.

‘I like your family tree. No men on it. Love it.’ Sydney laughed raucously and took a gulp of her wine.

It put Rachel on the defensive. ‘I’ve done both sides, you know. It’s just that it was my research topic at university. You know, the disparity between male and female lines.’ Rachel thought back to the conversation with her grandmother. ‘Which isn’t to say I’m not interested in the men in my family – or men in general, in fact.’

Sydney smirked across the table at her. ‘Well, I did see you leave with Richard after your talk.’

Rachel put down her fork and picked up the wine glass. ‘It was just a quick drink.’

‘Have the police been in touch with you again?’

Rachel shrugged. Should she mention having seen DC Childs at Richard’s house? It would lead to a line of questioning from Sydney that she wasn’t sure she could cope with. Coffee arrived and Rachel stared down at hers, the strong aroma making her nauseous. She pushed it away.

‘They’re keeping me updated as much as they can, I think. But it’s bringing things back to the surface. I have this image of glossy green and black. I know it sounds daft but that’s what I see when I think back to the time. I remember getting in the car and then it’s like looking down a kaleidoscope. Fragment colours come back to me. Green and black.’

‘From the woods, maybe?’

‘I’m not sure. Maybe. But when I was in the churchyard last week, when the snow arrived here, I saw a yew tree and I got the same sensation as now. I feel sick to the pit of my stomach.’

‘I’m not surprised that it’s all coming back again. First Sophie’s mum dies and then Mrs Lander is killed. They’re saying she was strangled.’

‘I know. The police have, at least, told me that.’ Rachel looked at Sydney, whose sympathetic eyes were assessing her. ‘Can I tell you something? In confidence, I mean. I don’t want anyone to know, not even the police.’

‘Sure. Is it something you’ve remembered?’

‘Nothing like that. You know you said you’d been looking at my website? Was it the first time you’d looked at it?’

‘I think I flicked through it last year sometime. It’d been a while, as I told you.’

‘Well, I noticed this week that my site had a huge jump in stats about three weeks ago. I’d gone on to check. What with everything happening, it’s not really surprising that more people are clicking on my site. Journalists and so forth. But what’s really strange is that the surge happened
before
Mrs Jenkins killed herself.’

‘Before?’ Sydney’s voice rose a fraction and she turned around to check no one had heard.

‘Yes, that’s what’s so strange.’ Rachel’s voice had dropped to a whisper. ‘The week before Mrs Jenkins died, the hits to my website quadrupled in number. But what’s really strange is the page they were looking at.’

‘Which was . . .’

‘My family tree.’

Sadler’s phone vibrated on his desk. Christina. He couldn’t hold the conversation off any longer and he answered the call. ‘How are you?’

She didn’t return the greeting. ‘Are you in work?’

‘Yes, but at my desk.’

‘I’ve been trying to get through to you.’ There was a reproachful tone in her voice that had become more and more common in the last few weeks.

‘Yes, I saw. I’ve been busy.’ It was lame, and it sounded so to his ears, but there it was. Lack of will to make it better.

‘Is this it?’

Sadler didn’t pretend not to understand her. ‘Christina. I have a case on, and I need to concentrate on that. I hope . . .’

The line had gone dead. Once, she would never have done that. She’d been one to stand up and make her point. Say what she was happy about and what needed addressing. The silent line was one more confirmation of how things had changed. But was it the end? It was a question that demanded an answer and he hadn’t given her an honest one. Not for the first time a relationship had petered out with little or no effort on his part. And yet he was fond of Christina and, if pushed, he would have said that he felt love. But there had never been a discussion about her leaving her husband. No talk of long-term commitment. Surely, in the end, that wasn’t what real love was.

His mind strayed to Justine Lander. She must be at her parents’ house by now, sorting through things. Connie was out interviewing Penny’s friends. And Palmer? Well, Palmer, whom he could see through his office window, looked busy but was undoubtedly winding down in anticipation of his forthcoming nuptials. Sadler opened the office door and walked over to him.

‘Found anything?’

Palmer waved a sheaf of papers helplessly. ‘Nothing at all. These are Penny Lander’s phone records. She didn’t make or receive a single call or text message on the day she died.’

‘But the half-finished sandwich suggested she’d been interrupted by someone.’

Palmer shook his head. ‘Not by telephone, she hadn’t. And I’ve looked again at the interviews with neighbours. No one remembers seeing a visitor arriving at the house. And in that cul-de-sac I doubt a strange car would go unnoticed.’

‘What about her computer?’

‘I’ll follow it up. I suppose it’s possible an e-mail might have come in.’

Sadler thought it unlikely. Penny Lander didn’t sound like the type to eat a sandwich in front of the computer. And her laptop had been found in the small upstairs office, not on the coffee table where the remains of the meal were. Sadler’s mobile rang once more; Christina must be having second thoughts. He let the phone go to voicemail and didn’t bother to check the message as he walked out to his car. He missed having Connie with him and would have welcomed her presence. Whether she liked it or not, Connie was a catalyst for change and that was what this case, or cases, desperately needed.

The drive to Truscott Fields was short. The police station was in the same location as in 1978 and it had taken officers a few minutes to respond to the 999 call received after the discovery of Rachel Jones. Sadler, usually happy to walk, couldn’t face the bite of the winter wind and so drove the short distance to the woods. It took him six minutes exactly.

The car park was deserted. Presumably the cold was deterring people from taking their dogs for a walk. The place where Penny Lander’s car had been left for two days was still visible. Deep indentations scored the ground, which also showed evidence of the forensic team having done their work.

Sadler walked over to the edge of Truscott Fields where her body had been found. Again there was evidence of the work of the Scientific Support Unit but little else. Sadler was convinced that the woman had come here to meet someone, although the mystery of the half-finished food was yet to be explained. Without any phone records it was impossible to identify the time she had arrived at the fields. Sadler doubted that she had been killed in broad daylight but she would only have driven here in the dark if she was meeting someone she trusted. Sadler suspected that the killing had taken place at night, as the killer would have needed time to bury the body under leaves and branches. It had been a fullish moon on the day she was killed, perhaps providing enough light by which to cover up a body.

The adjacent woods looked dank and uninviting. Sadler could smell rotting foliage from yesterday’s rain and the leaves underfoot had crisped to ice. He forced himself to cross the empty car park towards the narrow entrance. The first part of the walk took him along a gravel path where litterbins and dog-waste receptacles encouraged visitors to clear up during their visit. After a hundred metres this came to an end and two narrower paths, forming a Y, angled off. Sadler took the left one for no reason other than it would take him away from the road that led to the car park entrance and further into the woods. The path was one person wide, well maintained but eerily silent. He had noticed that there were no maps at the entrance. The woods were being kept as a wilderness of sorts. It was probably beautiful in the summer.

Sadler, feeling the cold seep into his leather shoes, came to a halt and looked around him. Sophie’s body could be anywhere in these woods. No wonder the initial investigating team had been so disheartened. Unless the body, assuming Sophie was dead, was personally revealed by someone who knew where it was, Sadler doubted that it would ever be found. She would be one of those eternally missing. To be discovered, perhaps in a hundred or so years from now, or possibly never at all.

Connie left Bridget Lander’s house and battled the wind back to her car. According to everyone she had spoken to, Penny Lander had led a blameless life and there was absolutely no reason for her to have been killed. As far as Connie could see she had exhausted the only leads that she had. Admittedly, it was interesting that she’d attended two meetings of the same society where Rachel Jones occasionally lectured. Interesting, but hardly earth shattering. And yet. Police work was based on anomalies. Something that didn’t fit. A crack in the smooth surface of truth that could be prised open.

It wasn’t a dead end. Experience told Connie that those two local history meetings were important. She checked her watch. It was coming up to two o’clock. She should really eat something but food at lunchtime always left her feeling tired and sluggish.

She drove to the college situated on the main Bampton Road. It was known as Bampton Tech in 1978, teaching mainly vocational subjects. Peter Jenkins, Sophie’s father, had lectured there in actuarial studies. Connie had looked up what an actuary did that morning. A specialist in statistical risk. Was that significant? There had been an element of considered risk – in snatching two young girls off the street in broad daylight and it made him, in Connie’s eyes, a person of interest.

He still lectured at the college one day a week. She’d telephoned the college from her office that morning and was told that Peter Jenkins now worked as an actuary from home and came in once a week to lecture two classes, at eleven and three. He’d be there that afternoon.

It was two thirty by the time she’d found a parking space and then a newsagent’s to change her five-pound note. She rushed back and found a traffic warden beginning to write her a ticket.

‘Hey, I went to get some change,’ she shook a fist full of coins at him which he ignored and carried on writing on his pad.

‘Look! I’m going to pay. I just need to go to the machine.’

He looked up at her now. ‘You’re too late. I’ve started writing.’

‘Bollocks!’ she exploded. ‘Don’t give me that bullshit.’

She dropped the coins in her pocket and pulled out her police ID. ‘I know for a fact you can tear that up.’

He glanced at the ID and then carried on writing. ‘Then you also know that the police don’t get any preferential treatment from us. Hard luck.’

Connie swallowed the fury rising in her chest and walked off.

‘Oi! That doesn’t mean you don’t still need to buy a ticket.’

She ignored him and walked towards the building’s entrance. Sadler would sign off the payment for the parking ticket. He had done it once before. He wasn’t bothered about that type of thing. He might have his ratty side, but minor petty infringements he seemed perfectly willing to ignore.

The college was pretty much what Connie had been expecting. The Victorian facade hid a utilitarian interior, designed to withstand the daily trampling of hundreds of young students. The woman at the reception desk seemed impressed by Connie’s badge and directed her towards a room at the far end of the building. When she got there, it was empty and Connie sat for a few minutes, catching up with the news on her iPhone. Penny Lander’s murder wasn’t headline material any longer on the Internet sites. Fortunately a popular politician had been spotted having an intimate dinner with a woman who wasn’t his wife and the papers were having a field day with the story.

Eventually, she heard footsteps coming down the corridor and a small man entered, wearing what she considered to be a ‘flasher
’
s’ mac, a flared raincoat, slightly too large for him in an indeterminate sludgy brown colour. It was belted tightly around his waist. He looked surprised to see her but as soon as she reached into her handbag for her card he spotted her profession.

‘I wondered if you lot would be paying me a visit.’ He put his leather case onto the desk and flicked up the clasps.

‘You know why I’m here, then, Mr Jenkins?’ Connie stood up and walked over to the desk.

‘I saw the news about Yvonne’s death. I wondered if you’d be getting in touch.’

Yvonne Jenkins’s next of kin had proved to be a distant cousin who was organising the funeral arrangements. And yet her death would still have impacted on her ex-husband’s life. You gave up some responsibilities on divorce, but not all, and Connie wondered whether this neat little man had any regrets over his failed marriage.

‘I’ve not come to see you about your former wife’s death. We’re treating it as suicide, but we are alarmed by its proximity to the later murder of Penny Lander. I’d just like to ask you a few questions about that.’

The man stopped shuffling his papers. ‘The teacher who worked at St Paul’s? What would I know about that? It was over thirty years ago. I never knew the woman.’

‘You didn’t see her at parents evenings?’

‘I never went. Yvonne used to do all that. I was too busy with work.’

Too busy carrying on with your soon-to-be new wife
, thought Connie. ‘You never kept in touch with Sophie after your divorce? It must have been hard to leave your child behind.’

He looked at her now. Willing her to judge him. ‘You have no idea what it was like then. I’ve never felt so much abject misery as I did in those early years of my marriage. Every day, when I came home from the college, I’d put my key in the lock of that door and feel sick to the bottom of my stomach. I couldn’t stand it. I was looking for any way out and then I met Margaret and it didn’t take me long to see where happiness lay.’

‘You’re still together?’

He looked angry now. ‘We’ve been married for over thirty years. Longer than most. That first marriage seems like a nightmare. Sometimes I dream about those days, the claustrophobia and the misery, and I have to force myself to wake up. Can you imagine that? I deliberately wake myself up so I don’t have to keep dreaming about the misery.’

‘And Sophie? Was she part of the misery too?’

Peter Jenkins sat down at his desk. Connie reckoned she had about five minutes maximum until students would start to trickle in but it looked like he still had something to tell her. He appeared even smaller sitting at his desk and she wondered how he dealt with rowdy students, but then perhaps the disruptive ones didn’t take actuarial courses. He seemed struggling to form a sentence, his small mouth working.

‘I met Yvonne at school. It was the early sixties and we were in the same class. We started going out when I was in the sixth form and Yvonne had left school to go to secretarial college. Our families knew each other and it was natural that we get engaged and then married.’

‘And marriage wasn’t all it was cracked up to be?’ suggested Connie. ‘It’s a common problem.’ She thought of Palmer and his white face that week. He was about to find this out the hard way. But Peter Jenkins was shaking his head.

‘It wasn’t that. I think we were happy those first few years. We were both working, we had some money coming in and we both enjoyed our jobs.’

‘So what changed? Did you meet someone else?’

His head shot up and Peter Jenkins glared at her angrily. Connie saw with a start that his eyes were red and bloodshot.

‘Despite what you and everyone else might think of me, I was for a long time a loving husband and father. What changed was Yvonne when Sophie was born. She suffered from postnatal depression. That’s all you read about these days in the papers. This person’s depressed after she’s had a baby. You have no idea, no idea whatsoever, how utterly destructive it can be.’

‘She was severely depressed?’

‘It was a nightmare. Yvonne couldn’t sleep. She would roam around the house with Sophie in her arms. I was absolutely terrified that she would drop her. She didn’t cook, she didn’t wash. She went through a stage where she would just knit. I can see her now, her elbows out at right angles, as those needles clackety-clacked. God I feel sick even thinking about it.’

‘Didn’t she get any help? I mean, I know we’re talking about over forty years ago, but a doctor would have been able to see she was depressed.’

‘I took her to a doctor. I had to force her into a car and he took a look at her. He wanted her to take Valium but she wouldn’t because she was still breastfeeding. She adored that baby. Whatever problems she might have had, she never took it out on Sophie.’

Yvonne Jenkins had died from an overdose of diazepam – unbranded Valium. Perhaps Yvonne had been sending a message to her ex-husband when she had taken that final overdose.

‘Was she ever suicidal?’ asked Connie, aware that time was ticking away.