Read Online The Merchant's House by Kate Ellis - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Kate Ellis
Tags: Mystery
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man’s attitude was beginning to needle Wesley.
“The girls. They all see themselves on the front cover of
Vogue
, poor cows.’ He paused for a second, lighting a cigarette. ‘Gordino, that was her name. Something like Gordino.’
‘Would you have such a thing as a phone book, sir?’ Heffernan enquired with measured politeness.
The phone book produced no Gordinos but one Giordino. Wesley wrote down the address.
‘What do you think of our photographer friend?’
Wesley looked disdainful. ‘The word sleazy springs to mind.’ He decided on a direct approach as hints seemed to have no visible effect. ‘Look, sir, I’m going to have to make a phone call. I’ve got that appointment this afternoon and…’
‘Don’t worry, Wes, I’ve not forgotten. We’ll call on this Mrs Giordino then we’ll be straight off. If she’s the girl’s mum we’ll be taking her back with us anyway. We’ll be back in time. Trust me.’ He grinned and slapped the sergeant on the back in an avuncular manner.
After consulting the
A to Z
, they found themselves on a small council estate. The redbrick semis, of 1920s vintage with front gardens, had once achieved the pinnacle of municipal respectability; the lawns cut, paths swept and net curtains snowy white. But now, although most looked well kept, some were letting the side down, and a few overgrown gardens displayed broken toys and rusting cars mounted on bricks.
Wesley opened the wooden gate to a neat garden path. The house beyond, although the curtains were beige rather than white, gave the impression of being well cared for. Their knock at the recently painted front door was answered by a woman in her fifties who stared at them suspiciously from behind a door chain. The beige cardigan and cheap brown skirt she wore gave an impression of unrelieved dowdiness.
Wesley was struck by the gentle way in which his boss spoke to the woman, the sympathy with which he broke the news. As she sat on the beige Dralon sofa, surrounded by cheap-framed photographs of her dead daughter as a schoolgirl, sipping tea from a chipped flowered mug – the first one Wesley had been able to lay his hands on –Heffernan continued speaking softly to her, asking questions with a delicate tact, gauging the woman’s feelings. Wesley, not hearing clearly most of what was said, looked at his notebook in despair.
Mrs Giordino silently packed a small suitcase then went next door to leave her key with a neighbour.
‘I didn’t get most of that, sir. What’s going on?’ Wesley looked down at the notebook’s virgin pages.
‘Plenty of time for getting things on paper when we’re back on home ground. Time and a place for everything.’
Heffernan sat in the back of the car with Mrs Giordino and Wesley drove – an arrangement that filled him with relief. Like most of his generation who had never encountered death and grief in their personal lives, he felt awkward with the bereaved: it wasn’t that he didn’t sympathise, he just didn’t know what to say. He ran through a mental calculation: the journey would take four and a half hours, five at the outside – he wasn’t a reckless driver. It was ten to ten. They would be in Tradmouth by three. The appointment was at four thirty. It wouldn’t be a problem.
The carpets at the Morbay Clinic were thicker than those Pam had been able to afford for her new home. She sank her toes into the pile, feeling its depth, as she sipped freshly percolated coffee and scanned an interior design magazine.
Her palms felt clammy and she needed the toilet again. Nerves. They always affected her like this: interviews, exams, her wedding day. Where was Wesley? He should be here. He should be going through this with her.
The receptionist was still giggling furtively into the phone. She was dressed in what appeared to be a nurse’s uniform, although her heavy make-up and blond curls hinted that she was employed more for her appearance than her professional
“The girls. They all see themselves on the front cover of
Vogue
, poor cows.’ He paused for a second, lighting a cigarette. ‘Gordino, that was her name. Something like Gordino.’
‘Would you have such a thing as a phone book, sir?’ Heffernan enquired with measured politeness.
The phone book produced no Gordinos but one Giordino. Wesley wrote down the address.
‘What do you think of our photographer friend?’
Wesley looked disdainful. ‘The word sleazy springs to mind.’ He decided on a direct approach as hints seemed to have no visible effect. ‘Look, sir, I’m going to have to make a phone call. I’ve got that appointment this afternoon and…’
‘Don’t worry, Wes, I’ve not forgotten. We’ll call on this Mrs Giordino then we’ll be straight off. If she’s the girl’s mum we’ll be taking her back with us anyway. We’ll be back in time. Trust me.’ He grinned and slapped the sergeant on the back in an avuncular manner.
After consulting the
A to Z
, they found themselves on a small council estate. The redbrick semis, of 1920s vintage with front gardens, had once achieved the pinnacle of municipal respectability; the lawns cut, paths swept and net curtains snowy white. But now, although most looked well kept, some were letting the side down, and a few overgrown gardens displayed broken toys and rusting cars mounted on bricks.
Wesley opened the wooden gate to a neat garden path. The house beyond, although the curtains were beige rather than white, gave the impression of being well cared for. Their knock at the recently painted front door was answered by a woman in her fifties who stared at them suspiciously from behind a door chain. The beige cardigan and cheap brown skirt she wore gave an impression of unrelieved dowdiness.
Wesley was struck by the gentle way in which his boss spoke to the woman, the sympathy with which he broke the news. As she sat on the beige Dralon sofa, surrounded by cheap-framed photographs of her dead daughter as a schoolgirl, sipping tea from a chipped flowered mug – the first one Wesley had been able to lay his hands on –Heffernan continued speaking softly to her, asking questions with a delicate tact, gauging the woman’s feelings. Wesley, not hearing clearly most of what was said, looked at his notebook in despair.
Mrs Giordino silently packed a small suitcase then went next door to leave her key with a neighbour.
‘I didn’t get most of that, sir. What’s going on?’ Wesley looked down at the notebook’s virgin pages.
‘Plenty of time for getting things on paper when we’re back on home ground. Time and a place for everything.’
Heffernan sat in the back of the car with Mrs Giordino and Wesley drove – an arrangement that filled him with relief. Like most of his generation who had never encountered death and grief in their personal lives, he felt awkward with the bereaved: it wasn’t that he didn’t sympathise, he just didn’t know what to say. He ran through a mental calculation: the journey would take four and a half hours, five at the outside – he wasn’t a reckless driver. It was ten to ten. They would be in Tradmouth by three. The appointment was at four thirty. It wouldn’t be a problem.
The carpets at the Morbay Clinic were thicker than those Pam had been able to afford for her new home. She sank her toes into the pile, feeling its depth, as she sipped freshly percolated coffee and scanned an interior design magazine.
Her palms felt clammy and she needed the toilet again. Nerves. They always affected her like this: interviews, exams, her wedding day. Where was Wesley? He should be here. He should be going through this with her.
The receptionist was still giggling furtively into the phone. She was dressed in what appeared to be a nurse’s uniform, although her heavy make-up and blond curls hinted that she was employed more for her appearance than her professional
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