friend of Lena’s.’
‘Lena’s?’ Kat couldn’t hide the incredulity from her voice. How would Lena know this boy?
He looked hurt at her tone and turned away. Over his shoulder, he shouted, ‘I know her better than you,’ then broke into a run. As he turned the corner, she saw Miriam pass him and come towards her. For once, she was on time. Kat swore silently to herself and waved a hand at her client. She assessed the package in her hand. It was heavy, about the weight of a bag of sugar and not dissimilar in dimensions.
Miriam came puffing up. ‘Broken a habit of a lifetime. I’m on time.’
Kat, sharper than she’d intended, said, ‘You’re early actually.’ Seeing Miriam’s face, she backtracked. ‘I’m sorry. You’re a few minutes early. I’ll let you into the room, and you can make yourself comfortable.’
Miriam relaxed. ‘Sure. Why not? I need a bit of time to catch my breath.’
Kat led the way into the room and watched distractedly as her client settled herself into the chair. ‘Will you excuse me for a minute?’
In the hall, she peeled the newspaper off the package. Underneath there was wadding, which looked like it had been pulled from a Jiffy bag, closely bound together with Sellotape. She tugged fruitlessly at the binding, then went into the small kitchen and pulled a knife from a drawer. She sliced away at the tape until one side was completely open. Gently she slid the contents onto the counter, and started in horror.
20
Connie was in the part of Bampton that made her heart sink. During the Second World War, there had been a revival of the town’s fortunes due to the need for textiles. Soldiers returning from the fighting, buoyed from victory and wanting to start a family or add to their existing ones, were seeking new housing for their expanding broods. The properties that had sprung up must, once upon a time, have seemed appealing. However, years of wear and tear and a haphazard approach to maintenance in this largely working-class area had given the street a hotchpotch look. It was an estate ‘known to the police’, that catch-all phrase used in these politically correct times to indicate trouble.
She made her way towards one of the nondescript houses that ringed the cul-de-sac. The woman who answered the door looked like she was eagerly expecting her visitor. Connie wondered if it had been a good idea to call ahead, but turning up without warning and asking someone to remember an incident four years earlier was hardly playing fair.
Jane Reynolds was styled perfection. The money she had clearly went on her own upkeep. She had coiffed blonde hair in curls that licked her face. Her face was heavily made-up, and Connie could smell her face powder, which she found repellent. Her living room was frozen in the 1950s. It presumably had been furnished when she had bought the house and had never been updated. The sofa was comfortable but the springs worn, and Connie felt her small frame sink so low that her bottom was almost touching the floor.
Over a cup of hot tea and bourbon biscuits, she confided to Connie what she had seen. ‘I was on the coach tour to the North Yorkshire coast with my neighbour. You know, Robin Hood’s Bay and the moors. Anyway, one of the days, we stopped off at Whitby to see the abbey and have fish and chips in the town. It was while we were having lunch in one of those chip shops that I saw him.’
‘The man who looked like Andrew Fisher?’
Jane Reynolds took on a hurt expression. ‘Looked like Andrew Fisher? It was definitely him. His mum went to Women’s Institute with me. I’ve known him since he was a little lad. It was definitely him.’
‘But if you were so sure, why didn’t you make more of a fuss when reporting it to the police? The officer I spoke to thought you weren’t at all sure.’
Jane Reynolds smoothed down her skirt. ‘Have you ever tried to report something? Of course you haven’t. You’re police yourself. It’s different
‘Lena’s?’ Kat couldn’t hide the incredulity from her voice. How would Lena know this boy?
He looked hurt at her tone and turned away. Over his shoulder, he shouted, ‘I know her better than you,’ then broke into a run. As he turned the corner, she saw Miriam pass him and come towards her. For once, she was on time. Kat swore silently to herself and waved a hand at her client. She assessed the package in her hand. It was heavy, about the weight of a bag of sugar and not dissimilar in dimensions.
Miriam came puffing up. ‘Broken a habit of a lifetime. I’m on time.’
Kat, sharper than she’d intended, said, ‘You’re early actually.’ Seeing Miriam’s face, she backtracked. ‘I’m sorry. You’re a few minutes early. I’ll let you into the room, and you can make yourself comfortable.’
Miriam relaxed. ‘Sure. Why not? I need a bit of time to catch my breath.’
Kat led the way into the room and watched distractedly as her client settled herself into the chair. ‘Will you excuse me for a minute?’
In the hall, she peeled the newspaper off the package. Underneath there was wadding, which looked like it had been pulled from a Jiffy bag, closely bound together with Sellotape. She tugged fruitlessly at the binding, then went into the small kitchen and pulled a knife from a drawer. She sliced away at the tape until one side was completely open. Gently she slid the contents onto the counter, and started in horror.
20
Connie was in the part of Bampton that made her heart sink. During the Second World War, there had been a revival of the town’s fortunes due to the need for textiles. Soldiers returning from the fighting, buoyed from victory and wanting to start a family or add to their existing ones, were seeking new housing for their expanding broods. The properties that had sprung up must, once upon a time, have seemed appealing. However, years of wear and tear and a haphazard approach to maintenance in this largely working-class area had given the street a hotchpotch look. It was an estate ‘known to the police’, that catch-all phrase used in these politically correct times to indicate trouble.
She made her way towards one of the nondescript houses that ringed the cul-de-sac. The woman who answered the door looked like she was eagerly expecting her visitor. Connie wondered if it had been a good idea to call ahead, but turning up without warning and asking someone to remember an incident four years earlier was hardly playing fair.
Jane Reynolds was styled perfection. The money she had clearly went on her own upkeep. She had coiffed blonde hair in curls that licked her face. Her face was heavily made-up, and Connie could smell her face powder, which she found repellent. Her living room was frozen in the 1950s. It presumably had been furnished when she had bought the house and had never been updated. The sofa was comfortable but the springs worn, and Connie felt her small frame sink so low that her bottom was almost touching the floor.
Over a cup of hot tea and bourbon biscuits, she confided to Connie what she had seen. ‘I was on the coach tour to the North Yorkshire coast with my neighbour. You know, Robin Hood’s Bay and the moors. Anyway, one of the days, we stopped off at Whitby to see the abbey and have fish and chips in the town. It was while we were having lunch in one of those chip shops that I saw him.’
‘The man who looked like Andrew Fisher?’
Jane Reynolds took on a hurt expression. ‘Looked like Andrew Fisher? It was definitely him. His mum went to Women’s Institute with me. I’ve known him since he was a little lad. It was definitely him.’
‘But if you were so sure, why didn’t you make more of a fuss when reporting it to the police? The officer I spoke to thought you weren’t at all sure.’
Jane Reynolds smoothed down her skirt. ‘Have you ever tried to report something? Of course you haven’t. You’re police yourself. It’s different
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