Animal Instinct (11 page)

*****

Charles Howard's housekeeper answered the door to find Turner accompanied by Roker standing before her.

“Oh, it's you again,” she said, recognising Turner. “Now what?”

She looked his colleague up and down, as though suspicious of his reason for being there.

“I'm Detective Sergeant Roker, ma'am,” he said, producing his warrant card. “Can you afford us a couple of minutes of your time?”

She nodded, but remained steadfast in the doorway, barring their entry into the house.

“How long have you worked for Mr. Howard?”

“Only since the renovation work was finished and ‘e moved in. ‘E's a real gentleman, never interferes, just let's me get on with my job and pays more than the goin’ rate. E'll be terribly upset when ‘e gets back.”

“Upset?” asked Turner. “You mean after what happened to Fred, the gardener?”

“Well, yes, that an’ all…but more upset about ‘er.”

“Her?”

“Yes, the girl, you know the one in all the papers. That's why you're ‘ere, innit? It's a cryin’ shame what ‘appened to ‘er. I reckon she would ‘ave been a top model. I mean, she was such a beautiful girl. I thought she was a film star or summat like that when she first came ‘ere. There's a lovely framed picture of ‘er in the livin’ room.”

Turner looked at Roker in disbelief. He swallowed hard and turned back to the housekeeper. “Are you positive that it's the same girl?”

“There's not many girls as pretty as ‘er round ‘ere. I knew it was ‘er as soon as I saw the photo in the newspaper.”

“I take it that Mr. Howard knew Lara Crawford quite well, then?”

“I've only seen ‘er a few times, but I think she was a regular visitor, ‘cos ‘e was always talkin’ about ‘er.”

Roker felt his heart beat faster. He had to control his excitement; the ensuing questions had to be focussed. “When was she last here? Do you remember?”

“Can't say I do. You'd best ask Mr. ‘oward. She could ‘ave been ‘ere on my day off.”

“You told Inspector Massey yesterday that Mr Howard would be back some time this week. Do you have a specific day for his return?”

“Not yet, ‘cos ‘e said ‘e would phone the ‘ouse one morning, so I could ‘ave it ready for ‘im, you know all neat and tidy like. ‘E's usually away only for a few days at a time, so it could be today, tomorrow…who knows?”

“What about a contact number, a number which you could call in an emergency?”

“Yes, but it's just an answerin’ machine. I've already left ‘im a message about Fred, but I ‘aven't the ‘eart to tell ‘im about the girl.”

“If and when he does contact you, it will probably be best not to tell him about our visit. It may worry him unduly and, of course, you would have to tell him about Ms. Crawford which could be very difficult and distressful for you.” Roker imagined that the newspaper coverage could have already put him in the picture.

“Mum's the word,” said the housekeeper.

Roker passed his card to her. “Perhaps you could contact me as soon as you hear which day he'll return.”

*****

Unaware of the outcome of his colleagues’ visit to the mill, Massey entered the reception area of Kam-AO Studios. The interior design of the establishment impressed him immediately. The walls were evidence of the company's expertise in the photographic world. The majority of the framed photos, which strategically adorned all sides of the oval entrance hall, were portraits. Few were in colour; most were greyscale or black and white. Massey smiled as he reflected on the basic ‘mug-shots’ used in his line of work.

Lighting from banks of spots suspended from the high ceiling on tracking added to the overall effect. A variety of potted plants and shrubs complemented alcoves where clients could relax in a secluded area, enhancing the tranquil ambience. Compared to his ‘pokey’ office he considered it an idyllic work environment. A rather attractive and smartly dressed receptionist blended impeccably into the luxurious surroundings. She moved gracefully away from a computer monitor and interrupted his reverie.

After wasting several minutes explaining that an appointment was unnecessary as he was there on official police business, she called someone in authority. The response must have been favourable, as he was eventually shown into an office to meet Anthony Saunders, who announced that he was the senior partner in the company.

Although deeply shocked by the news of Lara's death, he found it within himself to praise her photogenic attributes, adding that, despite the extremely competitive industry, a successful modelling career would have been inevitable.

“She had everything,” he said with tears in his eyes, “the looks, the figure, the deportment and, importantly, the driving ambition to succeed. She was on the verge of a breakthrough, as several agencies were already showing interest. She had compiled an amazing portfolio.”

“These photo shoots,” said Massey, “I assume that they must be quite expensive. How could she afford to fund them? She worked in a local boutique where, I imagine, she was only paid the minimum wage and, additionally, her mother survived solely on a pension.”

“She paid all the fees in cash. It was not my business to question the source. I think that maybe she had a sponsor.”

“A sponsor?”

“I had the impression that someone had spotted her potential and, to some degree, was pulling the strings. She was very specific about the style of each photo. She would arrive with a list of demands, as though a third party was directing her…quite professionally, I might add. Maybe that same individual was managing her career, knowing that the future held promise of a handsome pay-off.”

“Why would she choose to use your studio? It is hardly convenient to where she lived.”

“We have a first class reputation, which reduces our marketing costs by not having to advertise. Most of our clients are referrals, either on a personal level or through agencies.”

“Who suggested the photos of her naked?”

“Oh, you know about them?” Saunders smiled. “We almost came to blows about those particular sessions. That end of the market is not our normal business, but she was so insistent and her demands were so artistically based that eventually I caved in. In fact, I was delighted with the results.”

“But why did she need them? What was her motive to go to those lengths?”

“Her excuse was that it provided some insurance cover in case her modelling career in the world of fashion never took off. Deep down I thought that it had probably been prompted by her sponsor and, as he was possibly footing the bill, the only cost to her was her dignity.”

“Who took the photos?”

“My colleague, Simon. I know what you are thinking. Don't worry. It was all above board. In any case, he's gay.”

Massey grunted in a matter-of-fact manner. “Any idea who this sponsor may be?”

“I doubt if it was anyone from the agencies as they would have made the initial contact. Apparently, she participated in several fashion shows organised by the boutique where she worked. It's possible that someone in the industry clocked her and offered her a deal. I'm afraid that I only have her personal details on file.”

Massey thanked Saunders for his time and his candid responses. He walked back to his car convinced that Kam-A-O was a legitimate studio with high standards and professional ethics. His afternoon had been well spent. A more complete picture of Lara Crawford's secret life was beginning to emerge. There was one important piece of the jigsaw puzzle still missing. Who was her mysterious sponsor?

He was on the point of leaving Sharston House when his mobile rang. It was Roker. He listened intently as the detective sergeant related the gist of his earlier meeting with Howard's housekeeper. The connection to Lara was significant. Immediately, his thoughts centred on Anthony Saunders’ reference to a sponsor.

“What d'you reckon?” asked Roker.

“I believe we've struck gold. Anything from the Crawford residence?”

“Again, quite an enlightening visit,” replied Roker. “Not from the mother…she only confirmed that her daughter's room was as she had left it. However, we discovered a file and a diary tucked under a drawer full of underwear. The file contained correspondence alluding to arranging a meeting with her natural mother.”

“That's interesting,” remarked Massey. “Were they in contact, then?”

“It appears that it involved the adoption agency and some intermediary service that seems to act as a broker between the two parties. We deduced from some scribbled notes on one of the letters that a meeting with her ‘birth mother’, as she was referred to, was forthcoming but had not yet taken place. This was further verified by an entry in her diary, which, for the most part, was used as an appointments book.”

“So, was a meeting date planned?”

“Not as such. A final entry simply read, ‘call M2 for date’. That entry was down for Easter Monday, therefore it never took place.”

“Who the hell is M2?”

“My guess would be mother number two.”

“That's logical. I think that you should follow this up with the agency and ask where we may contact her other mother.” Massey's satisfaction with the day's revelations animated the expression on his face. His mind was racing with the sudden influx of information. “What else did the diary reveal?”

“Mostly appointment dates,” replied Roker. “All were entered in an abbreviated format, which fits with what we now know. There were several entries of ‘P-shoot’ and ‘F-show’, which obviously refer to photo-shoots and fashion shows…Get this! There were a few dates for ‘The Devil’. We assumed that they referred to meetings with Charles Devlin Howard.”

“That's intriguing,” said Massey. “I wonder if that was an affectionate nickname or her perception of his role in her life.” Caroline Finch had referred to her niece looking forward to meeting someone. Could that have been her natural mother or Charles Howard? “Was there an entry for a meeting with him on the morning when she was murdered?”

“No. We checked that day specifically. There was only a confirmation of the visit to the clinic. It was down as ‘T-Day’. We assumed that to be termination day.”

“Damn! That's a pity. Well, that apart, what a good day…plenty to follow up. Meet me in the office in about forty-five minutes. Quite an interesting picture is beginning to develop.” Massey smiled at his unintentional pun and set off towards Winsford.

*****

A distant rumble of thunder announced the first grey streaks of dawn. It was Friday. Eight days had flown by since Lara's murder. The media coverage had melted onto the inside pages of the tabloids and disappeared completely from the television screens. Sean sat amongst the impersonal austerity of his stainless steel and white tiled catering kitchen, nursing a beaker of strong, black coffee. He was unshaven and clad in denim jeans of a faded shade of blue, which blended remarkably with his washed-out Fosters tee shirt. A puff of cigarette smoke announced the arrival of the cleaner.

“That bloke's here again,” she said.

“What bloke?”

“Your Irish mate who stayed last weekend.”

“Oh, shit,” muttered Sean, spilling coffee onto the work surface. “I'd forgotten.”

He followed her into the bar where Jimmy Moran stood, smiling. “Jesus, you look like shit, Sean. Hung-over?”

“You could say that. I didn't realise you would be so early. How many rooms would you be needing?”

“All of them. Don't worry; your other guests won't be here for an hour or so. If you can give me the keys to my room, I'll open the passage door and check them in. You just carry on as normal. You'll hardly notice that we're here.”

Sean nodded…Normal! Fat chance of that, he thought.

“When I was here on Monday, I noticed that you had a meeting room upstairs. Any chance of using it to brief these lads…you know, spell out the dos and don'ts of their stay here?”

“Help yourself,” replied Sean, resigned to the ‘take-over’. He passed over the keys to room two. “It's the one with the shower.”

“How about knocking up one of your high cholesterol breakfasts whilst I'm unpacking?” asked Moran, lifting up a bulky holdall.

“Sure,” replied the licensee, wishing that he had never set eyes on the man.

Moran disappeared upstairs. The cleaner continued brushing up the previous night's debris, still chewing on her roll-up but overhearing every word. Sean returned to the kitchen. He glanced through the window, which overlooked the car park. It was now daylight, but heavy storm clouds cast dark shadows across the rutted tarmac surface. It reminded him of the black volcanic sand beaches in Tenerife on a bad day. A shaft of light appeared through a window from a room above, elongating itself away from the building. Jimmy Moran was here to stay.

*****

That same morning, Massey was adding notes to a wall-mounted wipe board in the incident room as several of the murder squad team entered for the scheduled briefing. Ignoring the influx of his team members, he continued to add key words around a photograph of Lara that dominated the centre of the board. Eventually the general hubbub died as the detectives began to absorb the information that was appearing like a gigantic spider's web across the screen.

Massey completed his mind map and addressed the group. He pointed at Lara's photograph. “Possibly raped, definitely murdered, in fact suffocated, but how is not yet apparent. It appears that Lara Crawford led a double life. Outwardly, she portrayed herself as a normal youngster with dreams of a career in modelling. She lived at home with her mother and teenage brother, worked as a sales assistant in a local shop and socialised with a small, intimate group of friends. Privately, she had been pursuing her dream with professional help She was on the verge of becoming a potential super-model.

So, the question arises, why was she murdered? Accepting the fact that, on the surface she was just like any other young woman in this town, there are maybe only four possibilities. Firstly, as she was pregnant, one could be forgiven for assuming that her boyfriend may have had a strong motive. If he was the father, maybe he feared that his life would never be the same again. However, Andrew Davenport was in Spain and is not due back until tomorrow.