was that. We heard no more.’
‘You reckon she was making it up?’
‘Probably. I thought it was just a bit of a fling that went wrong and she was trying to get revenge.’
‘Did she mention a boyfriend? Mark Turner?’
Jane Gosling gave a laugh of irritation. ‘Two years ago, Anni. Can barely remember what I had for dinner last night.’
They both laughed.
‘She back in the news, then?’ said Jane.
‘Another stalker. Inside the flat this time.’
Jane’s turn to laugh. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘Another? What was it Oscar Wilde sort of said? To get one stalker is a misfortune. To get two is just carelessness.’
Anni laughed. ‘Oscar Wilde?’
‘Amateur dramatics. I was a very good Miss Prism. Got all the laughs.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘Look, I’d better go. Listen, get your paperwork done and get down here. We could use a bit of help.’
‘I’ll see.’
They made their goodbyes, Anni rang off. She sat back once more, considering her options. Polish off the paperwork of what looked like a fantasist wasting police time and go join Phil, or investigate Suzanne Perry’s claims thoroughly.
She checked her notes, moved her fingers over the keyboard.
Looked for Anthony Howe’s contact details.
15
P hil felt like a ghost hunter.
Julie Miller’s flat held a kind of terminal emptiness, a sense of a life interrupted, never to be finished. Sadness and loss hung heavier in the air than dust.
This was one of the things he hated most about the job. He could face down a knife-wielding drunk or tackle a two-fisted husband using his wife for target practice, no problem. He could hold his own in court against some defence barrister trying to provoke him and belittle him. He could even write up a whole barrage of arse-covering reports and attend box-ticking diversity training sessions. But to stand in the ruins of someone’s life and be expected to make sense of their absence just depressed him to the core. And left him with no answers.
Phil closed his eyes, blinked the thoughts away. They wouldn’t help him to find out what had happened, to catch Julie Miller’s killer. To do his job.
‘So Julie Miller went missing a week past Thursday,’ he said.
‘ Reported missing a week last Thursday,’ said Rose Martin. ‘By her mother. Lives in Stanway. Julie hadn’t been at work the day before. Missed some appointments. Parents were down as contacts. Work called them, asked if she was ill. No reply. Quick call, and there we were.’
‘And everything was checked? The doors, the windows—’
‘Yes.’ Exasperation in her voice. ‘CCTV. Door-to-door. Statements taken from neighbours. I am a professional, you know.’
Phil reddened. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I have to check.’
Rose nodded. Waited a few seconds before speaking. ‘I know. We couldn’t understand it either. It was like she had just . . . vanished.’
Phil looked all round the room as if the walls would answer him. ‘And no one saw her?’
‘No one.’
‘Upstairs? Downstairs? Heard nothing?’
‘Downstairs said they heard nothing. Concierge says upstairs are away on holiday.’
He sighed. ‘Let’s look round. See if anything stands out.’
They were in the living room. Phil tried not to acknowledge the cruel irony in that. It was sparsely furnished, what furniture there was chosen as if not to upset the bland, beige colour scheme on the walls and ceiling. A sofa in a darker shade of beige had a brightly coloured throw over it. A multicoloured rug covered the fitted beige carpet. A small, flatscreen TV and DVD recorder was on a glass stand against one wall, a small hi-fi unit with a docked iPod next to it. A blond wood bookcase stood in the corner of the room, the shelves mostly empty of books and ornaments, as if a life was just being acquired and collected.
The heavy-handed remains of a police presence also contributed to a sense of a life interrupted. Windowsills and door frames held
‘You reckon she was making it up?’
‘Probably. I thought it was just a bit of a fling that went wrong and she was trying to get revenge.’
‘Did she mention a boyfriend? Mark Turner?’
Jane Gosling gave a laugh of irritation. ‘Two years ago, Anni. Can barely remember what I had for dinner last night.’
They both laughed.
‘She back in the news, then?’ said Jane.
‘Another stalker. Inside the flat this time.’
Jane’s turn to laugh. ‘Good luck with that.’
‘Another? What was it Oscar Wilde sort of said? To get one stalker is a misfortune. To get two is just carelessness.’
Anni laughed. ‘Oscar Wilde?’
‘Amateur dramatics. I was a very good Miss Prism. Got all the laughs.’
‘I don’t doubt it.’
‘Look, I’d better go. Listen, get your paperwork done and get down here. We could use a bit of help.’
‘I’ll see.’
They made their goodbyes, Anni rang off. She sat back once more, considering her options. Polish off the paperwork of what looked like a fantasist wasting police time and go join Phil, or investigate Suzanne Perry’s claims thoroughly.
She checked her notes, moved her fingers over the keyboard.
Looked for Anthony Howe’s contact details.
15
P hil felt like a ghost hunter.
Julie Miller’s flat held a kind of terminal emptiness, a sense of a life interrupted, never to be finished. Sadness and loss hung heavier in the air than dust.
This was one of the things he hated most about the job. He could face down a knife-wielding drunk or tackle a two-fisted husband using his wife for target practice, no problem. He could hold his own in court against some defence barrister trying to provoke him and belittle him. He could even write up a whole barrage of arse-covering reports and attend box-ticking diversity training sessions. But to stand in the ruins of someone’s life and be expected to make sense of their absence just depressed him to the core. And left him with no answers.
Phil closed his eyes, blinked the thoughts away. They wouldn’t help him to find out what had happened, to catch Julie Miller’s killer. To do his job.
‘So Julie Miller went missing a week past Thursday,’ he said.
‘ Reported missing a week last Thursday,’ said Rose Martin. ‘By her mother. Lives in Stanway. Julie hadn’t been at work the day before. Missed some appointments. Parents were down as contacts. Work called them, asked if she was ill. No reply. Quick call, and there we were.’
‘And everything was checked? The doors, the windows—’
‘Yes.’ Exasperation in her voice. ‘CCTV. Door-to-door. Statements taken from neighbours. I am a professional, you know.’
Phil reddened. ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean it to sound that way. I have to check.’
Rose nodded. Waited a few seconds before speaking. ‘I know. We couldn’t understand it either. It was like she had just . . . vanished.’
Phil looked all round the room as if the walls would answer him. ‘And no one saw her?’
‘No one.’
‘Upstairs? Downstairs? Heard nothing?’
‘Downstairs said they heard nothing. Concierge says upstairs are away on holiday.’
He sighed. ‘Let’s look round. See if anything stands out.’
They were in the living room. Phil tried not to acknowledge the cruel irony in that. It was sparsely furnished, what furniture there was chosen as if not to upset the bland, beige colour scheme on the walls and ceiling. A sofa in a darker shade of beige had a brightly coloured throw over it. A multicoloured rug covered the fitted beige carpet. A small, flatscreen TV and DVD recorder was on a glass stand against one wall, a small hi-fi unit with a docked iPod next to it. A blond wood bookcase stood in the corner of the room, the shelves mostly empty of books and ornaments, as if a life was just being acquired and collected.
The heavy-handed remains of a police presence also contributed to a sense of a life interrupted. Windowsills and door frames held
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