In Bitter Chill (3 page)

‘It’s not much. Haven’t you got anything more for me?’

Sadler fiddled with his papers. ‘I’ve told you all there is so far. I thought you’d be interested in even the scant details we have.’

‘Oh, I’m interested all right. It’s just you haven’t got much for me to comment on, have you?’

Sadler dropped his eyes to Superintendent Llewellyn’s desk. A family photo was set to one side. It was an outdated practice in these modern times, thought Sadler, displaying your family to every visitor to your office. At the centre of the studio shot stood the Superintendent, his carefully brushed ginger hair, freckled complexion and broad shoulders giving off an air of solidity and integrity. Next to him, his wife and two children seemed oddly lacking in personality. Sadler had heard that Llewellyn’s wife was ambitious and eyeing up a soon-to-be-vacant chief superintendent post. In the photo she merely looked tired.

Sadler swung his eyes back to Llewellyn behind the desk. If it had been any other case, would he have gone straight to his boss without first digging a little more? Yes, was the honest answer, although perhaps he would have made a few quick phone calls first before he presented himself for inspection in front of his keen-eyed boss.

‘Bill’s carrying out a post-mortem tomorrow. He tried to squeeze it in today but unexplained deaths no longer jump the queue, apparently. There’s a rota they have to stick to. She’s been scheduled in for tomorrow. He did say that it looked like a textbook suicide, except for the absence of a note.’

The book of news clippings hadn’t been mentioned, although Sadler had spotted the doctor flicking through the pages, humming quietly to himself.

The Superintendent was sitting behind his desk but, unusually, he had taken off his jacket and, in his short-sleeved shirt, seemed to be sweating slightly. He rubbed his ruddy face with large freckled hands and looked at Sadler.

‘What a mess.’

Sadler, irritated, shook his head. ‘It’s not a mess. It was neatly done some time between eight and ten p.m. yesterday evening. We know she checked in at eight and Bill is pretty sure that she wasn’t alive after ten o’clock last night. She wasn’t dressed for bed; she had no night things with her, which suggests that she had never intended to make it through the night. It seems that she turned off the hotel radiators, although we’re not sure why. In my experience, they’re usually turned up high in hotels so maybe she didn’t want to feel too comfortable.’

Llewellyn grimaced. Well, he had wanted more details, thought Sadler.

‘The time she chose also meant that it would have been a clear twelve hours before the body would be discovered. As it happens, the maid didn’t even get round to opening the door of the room until about one p.m.,’ Sadler continued.

‘It was the anniversary of the girls’ kidnapping yesterday,’ said Llewellyn, dropping his eyes to the calendar on his desk. ‘The twentieth of January. That could be a reason for the timing. Any idea why she chose the hotel?’

‘Connie’s on the way to the woman’s house at the moment. But my guess would be that she didn’t want to end her life in her own property. Suicides in hotels aren’t uncommon.’

‘Is she still in Arkwright Lane?’

Sadler nodded and Llewellyn once more rubbed his face.

‘Still in the same house, then. After all these years.’

‘She never moved?’ asked Sadler.

‘Well she was hardly going to at first, was she? After the girl went missing. Five, ten years. How long are you supposed to wait? With the lack of anything else, we were all hoping that one day the girl would just reappear.’

‘And she didn’t.’

Llewellyn smiled bitterly. ‘Sometimes I forget how old I am. But no, you’re right. Sophie Jenkins did not reappear and at some point I suspect we all just assumed that was it.’

‘But you think that Yvonne Jenkins stayed put, hoping that one day her daughter would return.’

‘Good God, Francis.’ Llewellyn’s ruddy complexion had gone purple. ‘How the hell would I know? Maybe she did expect her forty-four-year-old daughter to come waltzing back into her bungalow. Or maybe she couldn’t face the move. It gets harder as you get older, believe me.’ Llewellyn’s puce face gradually began to pale into a normal hue.

‘You were involved in the initial investigation?’

Llewellyn leaned back in his chair. ‘Of sorts. Young PC. First major case. All I did was door-to-doors for about four weeks. I lost a stone in weight, I remember. I was about to get married and Carol was delighted by the new trim me. Funnily enough, the weight then stayed off for years. It’s only now going back on again.’ Llewellyn rubbed a hand over his stomach.

‘What would you like me to do?’

Sadler tried to sound neutral, but the discouraging tone of his voice had clearly conveyed itself to Llewellyn. He saw two red patches appear in his boss’s cheeks but he said nothing, merely spread his hands and looked at them.

‘I’m going to think about it.’

‘It was suicide.’

Llewellyn looked up at him and slowly nodded.

Connie used the keys that she had retrieved from the dead woman’s handbag to open the front door of the bungalow in Arkwright Lane. It was a solid-looking building. Bungalows, which had gone strangely out of fashion, held an enduring appeal for Connie as her grandmother had lived in one in the same village as her parents. As a teenager after school she’d spent many an afternoon watching telly with her nan when really she should have been doing her homework. Bungalows conjured up images of warmth and the smell of food. This one, though, had a sterile feel to the outside, from the too-tidy garden to the blank windows unadorned by any vases or other bric-a-brac.

The front door opened onto a small hallway, an umbrella stand propped up in the corner and a row of coat pegs fastened to the left hand side of the wall. Connie recognised the coat rail as similar to one owned by her family when she was growing up. A cheap wire frame with white orbs attached to each peg that Connie could remember her mother buying in Woolworth’s. There was a single raincoat hanging on the stand, a shade of drab beige.

‘Are you supposed to be here?’

Connie whirled round to see a white-haired pensioner with a walking stick clenched across her body like a Samurai warrior.

‘Police.’ Connie went to get her identification, but the woman had already relaxed.

‘I thought you were. I was just checking. It’s just been on the news about Yvonne.’ The old woman stared around her. ‘I haven’t seen inside here for a while.’

‘I doubt it’s changed much.’ Connie was discomforted by the woman’s stare. Her small black eyes held on to Connie’s gaze with a fixed intensity.

‘Do you believe in inherited memory?’

‘I’m sorry?’ Connie wondered if there was a relative anxiously pacing the streets looking for this woman.

‘Don’t look at me as though I’m daft. It’s the concept that places leave a trace or memory that is inherited through your DNA. You know, so a person can remember a place that they’ve never visited but where their ancestors lived, for example.’

‘And your ancestors lived here?’

The elderly woman rolled her eyes. ‘It can occur in houses too. Inherited memory, I mean. When this bungalow was built, it was over an old pit from the Black Death.’

‘A plague pit?’ Connie was determined to see this conversation out. ‘The only place in Derbyshire hit by the plague . . .’

‘Was Eyam,’ finished the old woman. ‘I didn’t say the plague, did I, though? I said the Black Death. In the fourteenth century. It spread from Derby up through to Bampton and by the time it rolled past, half the town had died. And they buried them in a pit.’

‘What, underneath this bungalow?’

‘Around here. No one knows exactly but in this street somewhere. And some think that Arkwright Lane remembers those bodies well enough.’

Connie shook her head and saw the woman frown.

‘You don’t believe me. Well, fair enough. But this house brought nothing but grief for Yvonne.’

‘You knew her, then? What was she like?’

The woman turned to go, clearly tired of the conversation. But over her shoulder she said, ‘Frozen. She was frozen.’

Connie shut the front door to ensure no other eccentric neighbours could disturb her. She inspected the cheerless living room. There was a mustard-coloured carpet on the floor, worn, but very clean. Perhaps, thought Connie, the woman had hoovered it before leaving the house for the last time. The Wilton Hotel had been a strange destination for this woman living in a spartan bungalow. The hotel was the height of modern chic. Why hadn’t Yvonne Jenkins chosen somewhere more comfortable or anonymous?

Connie pushed open the doors of the other rooms that radiated off the hall. All were old-fashioned, clean and devoid of any personality. Even in the kitchen, the dishcloth was hanging over the tap, a practice that Connie hadn’t seen for years. She touched the stained material. It was bone dry. She checked all the rooms, but if she was hoping for something untouched since the 1970s, she was disappointed. All traces of Yvonne Jenkins’s daughter had been erased, at least from sight. With a sigh, Connie put down her bag and looked at the trapdoor to the loft above her.

When she had finished, Rachel became aware of the stillness surrounding her. Nearing four o’clock on a wintry afternoon, the evening twilight was approaching fast. Rachel looked down at her damp notebook. The ink of the names was beginning to smudge and she wiped some of the sheen off the page with her sleeve. Shutting the notebook, she tucked it into her jacket and trudged back to the car. A lone man was making his way towards her, a stocky figure in a large dark overcoat. A scarf was wound around his head like a mediaeval shroud. She looked towards her car, wondering if she could make it there before he reached her. Perhaps her anxiety conveyed itself to him and he called to her across the thin air.

‘I was checking your car wasn’t stuck. If it’s not now, it soon will be.’

She recognised the voice. He was the vicar, new to the village, and he clearly didn’t know her. ‘I’m moving it now.’

She ducked to avoid an overhanging branch that was bouncing with its new load of compact snow. It hit the top of her head as she went past, sending a shower of ice into the cold air. Rachel looked up at the branch still hanging suspended above her – glossy green leaves, grey sky and white snow creating a kaleidoscope of colours and a heady aroma. He had reached her now.

‘Are you all right?’

She grasped the branch, feeling the spikes pierce her gloves and dig into her skin. ‘What’s this?’

He looked up. ‘It’s a yew tree. Why?’

Rachel let go of the branch, sending it soaring up above her and kept her fists clenched, feeling the blood begin to pool in her palm. She shook her head at him and carried on walking to the car.

‘Are you sure you’re OK?’

She waved an arm at him and climbed inside, switching on the engine to create some warmth. It was just as well that she had left the car on the road. The snow now covered the tarmac completely, but she should be able to exit the village at the other end, without having to turn the car round. She drove slowly and the car skidded to a halt at the T-junction. As Rachel turned onto the main road, she noted that someone, perhaps a local farmer, had been out to clear the worst of the snow. Breathing a sigh of relief she turned on her radio and listened as the announcer forecast more heavy snow for the weekend. As the pips of the four o’clock news sounded, she turned the volume up. The announcer’s headline caused her to slam her foot on the brakes and then curse as, despite the grit, the car’s two front wheels locked into an inexorable slide. Within seconds she had plunged off the road.

The ditch was shallow, but the wheels spun as she tried to reverse back onto where she thought the whitened road was. She opened the car’s boot but remembered that she had taken out the shovel to clear her back garden at the weekend. She needed help.

The tow truck took forty minutes to arrive, which gave her plenty of time to think. She found shelter under a small copse of trees and, crouching down, concealed herself from view of the road. A few cars slowed down, obviously concerned for the welfare of the car’s occupant, but Rachel refused to reveal herself. She was waiting for the authority of officialdom and would take no help from a passing stranger. Especially not one driving a car.

When the welcome lights of the red truck arrived, the driver looked surprised as Rachel slid out of the bushes. He had a thick Derbyshire accent, that strange mixture of clipped Northern and lilting Midland twang. The car was salvageable, with only a slight dent in the offside front bumper, but it took the pair of them fifteen minutes to retrieve it from the ditch.

‘You’re shaking, love. I’ll stick it on the back of my truck and drive you home.’

Rachel felt violently sick. ‘I’m fine to drive myself. It’s just the cold making me shiver.’

‘You sure?’ The driver again looked at her curiously. ‘Tell you what, I’ll drive behind you until we get into Bampton.’

This Rachel was willing to accept and she started the engine. At Bampton centre, the pick-up truck tooted and sped off. Rachel, instead of heading towards her house, drove towards the Wilton Hotel. The main square was still closed to traffic, but the side streets were clear. After parking her car, Rachel walked up to the police cordon that had been erected in front of the hotel and waited.

Sadler accompanied Llewellyn into the hotel room and the sea of police personnel parted to accommodate them, each continuing with their task but conscious that Llewellyn had moved out of his lair to the place of death. Llewellyn did attend crime scenes, of course. His rank didn’t shield him from the realities of working as a policeman, but Sadler couldn’t remember him ever attending something as mundane as a suicide. He hung back, letting his boss lead the way into the room.

The woman was still lying on the bed but now looked more dead than she had done a couple of hours earlier. It was one of the first things that Sadler had noticed as he had become more acquainted with death over the course of his career. There were degrees of being dead, despite what priests and other experts in the field might tell you. There was a time, just after the essence of the person had departed, when the cooling corpse would resemble someone sleeping, assuming the death hadn’t been too violent. Even at the more gruesome fatality scenes, there was a sense that, only recently, the body had housed a living and breathing person. But death set in quickly, robbing bit by bit all the attributes that were so essential to living. And now, here, Yvonne Jenkins looked more dead than she had done two hours ago.

The team around them looked a little embarrassed. The body ought to have been removed by now, but Sadler had telephoned ahead and informed them that the Super wanted a look. Two men from the hospital mortuary were standing to one side, arms folded, clearly waiting to be allowed to do their job. But Llewellyn gave Yvonne Jenkins only a cursory glance before nodding his head. Instead, his large hands, encased in latex gloves, were flicking through the photograph album that was still on the table.

‘What do you think?’ asked Sadler.

Llewellyn snorted. ‘It’s a selection of the most lurid headlines of the time. The disappearance was reported throughout the press, of course, for weeks on end. This seems to be a pick of the worst, so to speak. Bloody animals. Nothing’s changed as far as they’re concerned.’

Llewellyn shut the album and looked back over to the woman on the bed. Reduced to grey permed hair and a thin body lying rod straight as white-clad experts moved about her.

‘Has she changed much?’ Sadler asked, unable to get any sense of the woman she had once been.

‘She’s virtually unrecognisable. She was attractive once. Trim, with short ash-blonde hair, cut in a feathered style. Her husband had left her and the child and wanted nothing to do with them. So she was bringing up Sophie alone. But she still looked after herself and made an effort. Then, after Sophie went missing, she had to cope with everything without anyone to support her.’

Llewellyn continued to look at the body as Sadler’s phone rang. He took the call quietly and then switched it to silent.

‘The PM’s been rescheduled for six tonight.’

‘That’s quick. I thought you said there was a queue.’

‘Bill remembers the case. Said he would give it priority and sod procedure.’

Llewellyn’s pale freckled face reddened. Voice thick, he said. ‘It’s fine to go. I’ve seen all I need to.’

In silence they walked back down the stairs and out into the Bampton cold. A lone woman was standing by the yellow and black police tape in a grey quilted jacket. She was looking up at the first-floor windows, ignoring the bustle going in and out of the front doors. Sadler saw Llewellyn looking at the woman. He moved towards the tape, his eyes squinting against the glare of the snow on the ground.

‘Rachel?’ he asked.

She stared at them both, her eyes cautious. She was tall and solid looking, but with an attractive face. Her dark hair was cut into a soft bob that suited her wide features but made her instantly recognisable from the photo of 1978 that had been plastered all over the media. Dark rings that had a look of permanence about them shadowed her eyes. Sadler, who was a poor sleeper, wondered if Rachel had the same problem.

‘Mrs Jenkins is dead?’

Llewellyn walked forward and touched her sleeve. ‘She is. I’m sorry you heard about it before we had a chance to contact you. I should have thought of it sooner. I’m sorry.’

He’d said sorry twice in the same breath, which must be a first, thought Sadler. He noticed that the woman responded to the kindness shown by moving closer to Llewellyn.

‘Was she killed?’

Sadler frowned, his detective’s instincts alert. Why was that her first question?

Llewellyn was shaking his head. ‘We don’t know. Why don’t you go home, Rachel? It’ll be better when we have some news. Proper news, I mean. Go home, and don’t turn on the television.’

In the attic, Connie had discovered two large wooden tea chests covered with blankets. Uncovering the first had revealed that here were the mementoes of the missing Sophie Jenkins, the first items being a pair of black leather shoes, the kind she herself had worn as a child. There was a stack of other stuff also in the chest, but in the pale yellow light it looked like a jumble of miscellaneous children’s items. She needed to get the chests down to have a better look but didn’t have the strength to do it herself. Presumably Yvonne Jenkins had got someone to lift these up into the attic.

Connie clambered back down the loft ladder and, leaving the opening ajar, she radioed for some uniforms to give her a hand. Until the post-mortem confirmed that Yvonne Jenkins had died by her own hand, the bungalow could be treated as a secondary crime scene. Which meant she could legitimately have a look through those packing cases before they were handed over to the woman’s next of kin. She switched on the gas fire in the lounge to take the chill off the room and knelt on the floor beside it.

The old neighbour had been right. If a place reflected the personality of its occupant then the woman had summed it up accurately. Frozen. Here, the impression was of a life encased in ice. And that had nothing to do with the temperature outside. Life had obviously stopped here in 1978 and there was little evidence of the next three decades. There were no photographs, no evidence of any hobbies. How had Yvonne Jenkins spent her days? Perhaps watching that flat-screen television in the corner, the only item that she could see that must have been purchased in the last few years.

Connie’s phone was buzzing in her bag. Sadler’s name came up on the display. He seemed to be walking as he spoke into his mobile, his voice just slightly out of breath.

‘Got anything for me?’

‘Not much here, I’m afraid. I’m waiting for some backup to help me get some crates down from the attic.’

A guilty tone had entered her voice, though realistically her inability to move the boxes was nothing to do with the fact that she was a woman. It needed two people to shift them. But she needn’t have bothered, Sadler wasn’t interested.

‘That’s fine. I
’ll
want to have a look through that stuff myself. Hang on there until the uniforms arrive; tell them to take the crates down to the station.’

‘You want to see them yourself – you mean it wasn’t suicide?’

‘The PM’s tonight so we might get a preliminary cause of death later, but we’ll have to wait for toxicology tests anyway. I want to see the contents of those boxes because Llewellyn’s asked me to take charge of this. We’re going to be relooking at the disappearance of eight-year-old Sophie Jenkins, abducted in January 1978.
’