Read Online Aftermath by Peter Turnbull - Free Book Online Page B

of her dentist and/or a sample of her hair if you have kept her hairbrush . . . failing that . . . a sample of your DNA.’
    â€˜You can have all three . . . our dentist is Mr Pick,’ Philippa Goodwin smiled, ‘appropriate name for a dentist don’t you think? He has a surgery in Gillygate . . . and yes, I have kept Veronica’s hairbrush. It has strands of her hair within the bristles.’
    â€˜If we could take the hairbrush with us, that will suffice.’
    â€˜You’ll return it?’
    â€˜Yes, I will personally see that it is returned to you.’
    â€˜I’ll let you have it before you go.’
    â€˜Appreciated. Are you happy for us to proceed on the assumption that the deceased is Veronica?’
    â€˜Yes,’ Philippa Goodwin nodded slowly, ‘I am.’
    â€˜The missing person’s report on Veronica states that she didn’t return from a night out with friends. Can you elaborate on that statement?’
    â€˜Elaborate? Well, I recall the last time I saw her, I remember that day like yesterday. The last time you see someone you love, you never forget it.’
    Carmen Pharoah smiled in response. ‘You don’t, do you?’
    â€˜Well . . . that day she came home from work . . . she was a telephonist . . . and she came home from work . . . it was a Friday. She looked a picture, even in her frumpy winter clothing she was still radiant. She had little to eat, she didn’t eat enough especially in the winter when we need more food than in the summer, but like all young women she was figure conscious, continually weighing herself, but she was not anorexic, I saw to that. That is something else you see in A and E, young women, girls even, who have collapsed in the street or at work or at school and when you peel off their clothes for the initial examination, you find that they are nothing but a skeleton covered in skin, but Veronica was not even close to that stage. I can be a bit ferocious when I have to be and if she didn’t eat at least one substantial meal and two snacks each twenty-four hours, I would get ferocious with her . . . and she knew it. So that day she ate, changed into her finery and went out with her friends.’
    â€˜Do you know the names of her friends?’
    â€˜Susan Kent.’
    Carmen Pharoah wrote the name in her notebook.
    â€˜Veronica and Susan were very close, as close as sisters . . . they were school pals.’
    â€˜What is her address? We’ll have to speak to her.’
    â€˜Her mother lives at the end of the street . . . that way.’ Philippa Goodwin pointed to the left-hand side of her house, as viewed from the outside. ‘You know, I don’t know the number but it has a loud . . . a very attractive red door.’
    â€˜Loud?’ Carmen Pharoah queried.
    â€˜As in colour, a “loud” colour, a colour which leaps out at you is a “loud” colour . . . apparently. That’s something I learned from my husband, Veronica’s father, he was an art teacher but only in his sober moments. So the Kent house has a “loud” red door . . . scarlet, fire engine red. You can’t miss it.’ Philippa Goodwin forced a smile. ‘The colour caused comments but they still repaint it every five years. Anyway, Susan said that she last saw Veronica waiting for a cab at the rank in the station. It’s a very short journey, walkable, but for a young woman alone on a dark night a taxi is very sensible, and so Susan didn’t worry about her.’
    â€˜Understandable.’
    â€˜But she didn’t return home. I started to worry by about ten a.m the next morning. If she was going to stop out overnight she would have phoned me, but by ten a.m. I had received no phone call so I phoned the police. They were very sympathetic but they told me that