a lamp and opened it up. The clothes she had taken from Louise’s bedroom were neatly folded, as she had packed them herself. She took out each item and laid them on the floor. She then searched the suitcase again for anything they might have missed.
The lining was frayed but there was nothing hidden inside it. She glanced at the sticker labelling the case with Sharon’s address, and then looked at it more closely. It had been pasted over another, so she cut the tag off, took it into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Holding it gingerly in the steam, she was able to pick slowly at the corner until she could peel the top sticker off. Underneath, in old-fashioned, looped writing, Mrs F. Pennel, Seacroft House, Bognor Regis, was written in ink.
Anna made a note of this and then placed the two labels in an envelope to take into the station in the morning.
Next, she began to check every single item she had removed; things that neither the forensic team nor Sharon had wanted. They smelt of a strange, musty perfume, which Anna recognised as stale Tudor Rose.
There was a child’s hand-knitted sweater with a zigzag design and some of the wool fraying at the cuffs. Anna could make out a smudged name on its label: Mary Louise P, Harwood House. Again, she jotted the information down. Next came a threadbare flannelette nightdress, a set of waitress’s collar and cuffs and a pair of tired-looking low-heeled court shoes with holes in the soles.
Anna knew that the more expensive garments, like the cashmere sweaters, had been taken to the lab for tests. She also thought it more than likely that, despite her protestations, Sharon had picked over Louise’s stuff and taken a number of things. The leftovers were a sad array that even the charity shops would not want. There were three paperback books, well worn, with many pages turned over at the top corner: it was a habit, even when exercised on paperbacks, that Anna loathed. There were also two Barbara Cartland bodice rippers and a small leather-bound dictionary; written on the flyleaf was Harwood House Library and an address in Eastbourne. It was dated 1964, but Anna knew that Louise Pennel was twenty-two years old, so she must have taken it from the library. The last book was equally well-thumbed with many passages underlined. It was a pocket book of etiquette, from table manners to serving dinners, circa 1950.
Packing all the items back into the suitcase made Anna feel a great sadness for the girl they had once belonged to. The tawdry remnants of her life gave Anna little idea of what kind of girl Louise had been, other than that she had wanted to better herself; the horrific circumstances of her death were a far cry from the romantic world of Barbara Cartland.
About to place one of the novels back into the case, Anna flicked through it; caught between the pages was a folded note written on lined paper. The handwriting was childish and there were a number of misspellings and crossings-out. It appeared to be a draft of a job application and began Dear Mr… It went on:
I am enclosing a photograph of myself. I would like to apply for the possition of personal assistant. I am presentlly working for a dental practise but have always wanted to travel and as I have no dependents this would not be a problem. I am able to type but do not have short hand.
That was all; no signature, no name and no address. It felt yet again like a step forwards that abruptly stopped.
Anna lay awake for a while, thinking about Louise Pennel. Could that job application have been how she met their missing tall dark stranger? Anna snuggled into her pillow and tried to distract herself by thinking about what she would wear for her date tomorrow evening. Dick Reynolds had just said a bite to eat, so she didn’t want to overdress. She hadn’t made up her mind by the time she fell asleep.
Her sleep was deep but not dreamless: the image of Louise Pennel’s ghostlike face, with her slit bleeding clown
The lining was frayed but there was nothing hidden inside it. She glanced at the sticker labelling the case with Sharon’s address, and then looked at it more closely. It had been pasted over another, so she cut the tag off, took it into the kitchen and put the kettle on. Holding it gingerly in the steam, she was able to pick slowly at the corner until she could peel the top sticker off. Underneath, in old-fashioned, looped writing, Mrs F. Pennel, Seacroft House, Bognor Regis, was written in ink.
Anna made a note of this and then placed the two labels in an envelope to take into the station in the morning.
Next, she began to check every single item she had removed; things that neither the forensic team nor Sharon had wanted. They smelt of a strange, musty perfume, which Anna recognised as stale Tudor Rose.
There was a child’s hand-knitted sweater with a zigzag design and some of the wool fraying at the cuffs. Anna could make out a smudged name on its label: Mary Louise P, Harwood House. Again, she jotted the information down. Next came a threadbare flannelette nightdress, a set of waitress’s collar and cuffs and a pair of tired-looking low-heeled court shoes with holes in the soles.
Anna knew that the more expensive garments, like the cashmere sweaters, had been taken to the lab for tests. She also thought it more than likely that, despite her protestations, Sharon had picked over Louise’s stuff and taken a number of things. The leftovers were a sad array that even the charity shops would not want. There were three paperback books, well worn, with many pages turned over at the top corner: it was a habit, even when exercised on paperbacks, that Anna loathed. There were also two Barbara Cartland bodice rippers and a small leather-bound dictionary; written on the flyleaf was Harwood House Library and an address in Eastbourne. It was dated 1964, but Anna knew that Louise Pennel was twenty-two years old, so she must have taken it from the library. The last book was equally well-thumbed with many passages underlined. It was a pocket book of etiquette, from table manners to serving dinners, circa 1950.
Packing all the items back into the suitcase made Anna feel a great sadness for the girl they had once belonged to. The tawdry remnants of her life gave Anna little idea of what kind of girl Louise had been, other than that she had wanted to better herself; the horrific circumstances of her death were a far cry from the romantic world of Barbara Cartland.
About to place one of the novels back into the case, Anna flicked through it; caught between the pages was a folded note written on lined paper. The handwriting was childish and there were a number of misspellings and crossings-out. It appeared to be a draft of a job application and began Dear Mr… It went on:
I am enclosing a photograph of myself. I would like to apply for the possition of personal assistant. I am presentlly working for a dental practise but have always wanted to travel and as I have no dependents this would not be a problem. I am able to type but do not have short hand.
That was all; no signature, no name and no address. It felt yet again like a step forwards that abruptly stopped.
Anna lay awake for a while, thinking about Louise Pennel. Could that job application have been how she met their missing tall dark stranger? Anna snuggled into her pillow and tried to distract herself by thinking about what she would wear for her date tomorrow evening. Dick Reynolds had just said a bite to eat, so she didn’t want to overdress. She hadn’t made up her mind by the time she fell asleep.
Her sleep was deep but not dreamless: the image of Louise Pennel’s ghostlike face, with her slit bleeding clown
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