Dead of Winter (31 page)

Fenwick bit his lip hard.

‘We can deal with all the personal baggage some other time, right now I need you to listen, goddamit! I had a choice before making this call – several, actually. Norman is in charge – I could have called him; or I could have followed up on the lead personally – I nearly did to be honest; but then I thought, no, call Deidre, it’s what you would expect if roles were reversed. I’m beginning to wonder whether I’ve made a mistake.’

‘Lead; you said “lead”. What lead? What did Jane Saxby say?’

‘It wasn’t from her.’ Fenwick tensed his left hand, the pain from his burns a welcome distraction. ‘It’s something you said, actually – last Saturday when we met up.’

‘Me?’ Her disbelief made him swallow hard; some people just wouldn’t be helped.

‘You mentioned a call from an estate agent, Ms Nicholls.’

‘So what?’

‘Well, she’s based in Petworth, on the junction between the A272 and A283 where it runs south from Haslemere – that’s one of the likely escape routes we plotted for Mariner, if you remember.’

Silence; he could hear Bernstein chewing.

‘She came back from a week’s holiday and reported seeing someone resembling Mariner before she left.’

‘I remember; there’s no need to lecture me with my own case, Andrew.’

Why was he bothering to be diplomatic?

‘Who did you send to interview her?’

‘What?’ Ice down the line.

‘You heard.’

‘I … it will be on the file if you’re so damned interested.’

‘It’s not.’

An audible gulp, then, ‘It must be, but from memory it would have been Bazza, or perhaps Cobb … they did most of the follow-up.’

‘Have you got your notebook with you; it would have been the sixteenth?’

It was a dumb question; he could already hear pages turning.

‘Yup, found it; it was Cobb.’

‘There’s no record of an interview on file, Deidre.’

‘So he’s a bit late posting. For heaven’s sake, Andrew, this was sighting number two hundred and sixty-three! What’s this all about?’

‘It was in Petworth. That makes it sighting four in one location on one day, the ninth. You took the other three seriously enough to send a team of two; and I bet neither of them was Nutty Cobb.’

‘Tell me what you think.’ No more bullshit.

‘I’m not sure but I have a theory based on nothing more than a loose end and instinct.’

‘That strong?’

Fenwick didn’t laugh.

‘Ms Nicholls says a man matching Mariner’s description picked up a flyer in front of their agency. What if there were house details in there including properties available for immediate possession? That means some of them could have been vacant.’

‘Mariner’s not that smart.’

‘I’ve looked up the address for Engleworth and Rodgers while we’ve been speaking. It’s away from the town centre and close to a petrol station with a food outlet, the sort of place Mariner could have stopped.’

‘Does it say on file what the flyer was?’

‘No; someone needs to call Ms Nicholls and find out. It will look better in your casebook than mine.’

‘And I’m checking because?’

Fenwick shook his head. Did the woman need spoon-feeding?

‘Forget I said that. I’ll call you back.’

And she was gone; just like that. He waited twenty minutes for her callback then couldn’t stand it any longer and went for a walk, collar up, scarf obscuring his face in case Norman returned unexpectedly. The driving sleet forced him back inside and he climbed the stairs to the detectives’ floor. On his temporary desk was a note saying that Lulu Bullock had called. He screwed it up and tossed it in the bin.

Nightingale arrived early in Harlden. Superintendent Whitby had insisted she return despite her request to stay with Jenni. The girl remained unconscious and the doctors could give no indication of when she might wake up. In the circumstances Nightingale had no choice but to do as ordered. Her confidence in Milky, who would stay at the girl’s bedside, was small consolation.

Nobody in the detective room showed the least curiosity for her visit to Guildford but were pleased to find out that Big Mac was on his way home. She was just settling at her desk when her phone rang.

‘DI Nightingale.’

‘Louise! Oh, thank goodness,’ Nightingale felt a spurt of indigestion, ‘I hoped I’d be able to reach you. Superintendent Whitby has come down with the flu …’

So her meeting was cancelled; she could sneak back to the hospital!

‘…She was due to speak at a career’s conference to young women this afternoon and wondered whether you would mind standing in for her rather than letting the organisers down. Her speech notes are all typed up.’

‘I’m sorry, did you say a speech?’

‘Yes, she’d be so grateful and I could drop the notes down to you.’ Nightingale’s silence prompted her to up the offer. ‘And her personal driver is available, if that would help. I know it’s quite an imposition.’

It was an order couched as a request. Naturally Nightingale agreed. She would need to change into her dress uniform, and to be at the venue in time meant leaving before lunchtime. It was to be held in Dorking Hall at two, which might just give her time to pop in and see Jenni on her way as long as nothing came up before she left. Unfortunately, the fates were not kind and she was running late by the time she met the driver, who waited while she changed and drove them out of Harlden in professional silence.

Nightingale opened the file Brenda had delivered and started to read. The talk was part of a panel presentation to an audience of about one hundred and twenty students. As well as Superintendent Whitby there were going to be speakers from other professions, all of them successful women with something to say about making choices and pursuing a career.

Well I’m not a good example.

The more she read Whitby’s notes about her impeccable career, the more Nightingale realised she would feel a fraud presenting them. She tried to tell herself that the audience would be
pre-programmed
to ignore the advice anyway, and hearing it third hand would give them even more excuse. What a mess. By the time they arrived she was wondering whether it would have been better to decline.

‘Oh, thank you so much.’ The organiser looked like a stuffed Christmas turkey, with wattled neck and feathery red hair above a full chest swathed in a bacon-coloured shawl. ‘When we heard that Alison was ill we thought we’d have a problem. One of the other speakers has already cried off because of the weather and another is sending a substitute too. Still, I’m sure what you have to say will be most edifying for the girls. I think you have time for a cup of tea before we start and that way you can meet the other panellists.’

Nightingale was led down a short flight of concrete steps to a windowless room, overly hot after the frigid walk from the car. Inside there were four other women, all considerably older than she was. The turkey gabbled rapid introductions.

‘This is Professor Downey, a consultant neurologist who is researching Alzheimer’s and did that marvellous paper you probably read about.’ Nightingale shook hands, noticing that she wasn’t introduced in return, probably because gobble-gobble had forgotten her name. ‘Lady Helen Sanders, was a prominent civil servant, as you must know, and now chairman of our board of governors, among her many other responsibilities – we are really so grateful, Helen, that you could spare the time.

‘Wendy – I’m sorry, dear, I can never remember your last name – Evans, yes of course. Runs a successful investment company and also set up a charity that provides used books to underprivileged children in Africa. And this lady is another kind substitute for her headmistress who was unable to come. We are lucky, as she is, of course, famous in her own right for her art. Lulu Bullock, may I introduce …sorry, dear, your name again?’

Nightingale’s mouth fell open but fortunately Lulu was looking down to place her empty cup on the table and missed it.

‘I’m Louise Nightingale,’ she said and stuck out her hand not knowing what else to do.

‘Hi, Louise,’ the woman said calmly but when she looked up her face was a picture of – what?

The detective in Nightingale watched to see if this woman had any idea that she was meeting her own child, the daughter she thought had died twenty-nine years before. No she didn’t. There was confusion, a frown, the head tilted to one side as Lulu searched her face.

‘I’m sorry, did you say your name was Nightingale? It’s just that I knew a Nightingale once; it was a long time ago and in a place far away, as they say.’ She gave a twisted smile.

Nightingale couldn’t speak. She gulped down tea.

‘My father, perhaps,’ she managed at last.

‘Oh dear, I hope you’re not losing your voice,’ the Turkey remarked. ‘I say, excuse me for being personal, but are you two related? The resemblance is uncanny – you could be mother and daughter. Ha, ha! Silly old me.’

They were saved from answering by a call from the doorway.

‘Miss Wright says it’s time to go onstage and everyone’s here.’ The girl who threw in the prompt was gone before anyone had a chance to argue.

Nightingale followed the line of eminent ladies onto the platform in a daze, noting the clip of their heels on the wooden stage and the different variations of smart that they had chosen to wear, all except Lulu who looked the artist she was, in a long woollen skirt, peasant blouse and loose-knit cardigan. Her clothes were loose and shambolic. She should have looked untidy but somehow the soft jades and heathers went together perfectly. In Nightingale’s opinion, she was the most elegantly dressed of the lot.

There was nothing onstage to hide behind, just a semicircle of seats with a low table in front for water glasses. Nightingale put Superintendent Whitby’s notes down carefully. She was to speak last. One by one the other women stood and delivered their advice eloquently, sometimes with humour that raised polite laughter. Nightingale barely heard them. She would have to stand up soon and say something.

To her chagrin she had stage fright. Until the point her foot stepped onto the platform she had been all right but now she was terrified. She had faced down rapists and murderers, ended up in hospital for her pains and come very close to dying once in the line of duty but never had she felt as frightened as she did at that moment. Her hands trembled when she sipped from her glass, spilling water onto her notes. Helen Sanders passed her a tissue and smiled reassuringly.

When Lulu Bullock stood up Nightingale paid attention for the first time. She wasn’t as tall and wore her grey hair long but otherwise, the Turkey was right, they looked like the same person with just the passage of years between them.

‘I shouldn’t be here at all,’ Lulu started, ‘I’m only a stand-in; sorry for that. I’m a really bad role model for any of you; I’ve been in trouble with the police – in fact I’m nervous even being on the same platform as the inspector there!’ Pause for laughter; Nightingale felt mortified – she was a figure of fun and she hadn’t even spoken – worse, it was Lulu who mocked her.

‘I was arrested I think six times before I was twenty,’ that caused a ripple, ‘mainly for drugs but also for breaches of the peace.’

The Turkey was sitting in the front row. Nightingale watched her face change from white to pink to bright red as Lulu continued. Despite herself, she found that she was laughing with everyone else and she could see that all the girls were paying attention for the first time, even at the end when she became serious.

‘The one thing I want you all to remember is that the only reason I am here, with the benefits of a great job and the ability to pursue my art with passion, is that I have been incredibly lucky. When I was arrested my family found me excellent lawyers – we could afford it because both my parents had worked hard. I had no gratitude, of course,’ a sardonic smile, ‘but the reality is if I had been the daughter of someone else my life would have been a complete mess. Instead I have few regrets – other than the fact that I don’t have a child of my own to be as kind and supportive to as my parents were to me.

‘So if you are going to remember any advice from what I have shared with you it is to value your family, not trust to luck but be true to yourselves.’

She received a genuine round of applause that continued even as Helen Sanders stood up. Nightingale felt a bit sorry for her – how do you follow such a popular speaker? – but Helen was equally entertaining, making government work sound not just an important public service but also interesting and influential. As she concluded her talk Nightingale’s butterflies threatened to overwhelm her. She stood up on automatic pilot, then realised she hadn’t picked up her notes, half turned to go back and then decided on the spur of the moment to ignore them.

‘Good afternoon everyone, my name is Louise Nightingale and, as you’ve heard already, I am a detective inspector in Sussex Constabulary, based at Harlden. Like Lulu Bullock I’m a stand-in as well, for an amazing woman who is the superintendent in charge of Harlden and my boss. She is ill today, which is why you’ve ended up with me.

‘What am I going to say to you?’ She paused and looked at the one hundred and twenty faces staring at her with a mixture of anticipation and indifference.

As she waited she noticed that, curiously, her silence was having more effect than her words. She held the moment a fraction longer. From the corner of her eye she watched the Turkey shuffle in discomfort and smiled.

‘You see I have a choice and I need your help. I could either read out the superintendent’s notes – and they are really good,’ she gestured back at the table, ‘or I could tell you how I ended up in the police, became a detective and as a result have come face to face with rapists and murderers. Which would you prefer?’

There was another silence but she didn’t break it and eventually one of the girls sitting close to the front called out.

‘Your story, of course.’

Nightingale nodded; the moment of theatre had given her confidence. If she treated this as a performance and not a speech she would be all right.

‘Very well; I must start by saying that, like Lulu, I too have been arrested.’ That caused a ripple. ‘It was after I ran away from home for the fourth time. The first three were uneventful, though I managed to get to France once before I was deported back.’

Beneath her the Turkey appeared about to faint.

‘On the last occasion I made it as far as Glasgow. Don’t ask me why I went there, it just happened to be where I ended up. I stayed for two months, sleeping rough and eventually doing drugs.’

There was a soft cry of dismay from one of the teachers that Nightingale ignored.

‘I only tried crack once. I had a terrible reaction to it and nearly
died. That’s my first piece of advice: don’t ever do drugs because they can kill you. I was in hospital for a long time but considered myself lucky. Another girl who had been with me also had a bad reaction; she almost died.’

She continued with the story she had shared with Jenni; just the plain facts, no embellishment.

‘There was a female police constable that kept coming to see me. I didn’t have any visitors and I was miserable and lonely. She didn’t want anything and she certainly wasn’t stupid enough to try and give me advice. I ended up looking forward to her visits and – to cut a long story short – she persuaded me to go home. She was really great. I don’t know what she said to my father in private but he started to treat me differently – like a grown-up – from that point on.’

Nightingale went on to describe how she had scraped into her father’s old university thanks to his contacts but decided while she was there that the only thing she wanted to do was police work, much against her parents’ wishes.

‘This is my second piece of advice; if you have a vocation, no matter how unpopular it might be, go for it – but don’t assume it will be easy. I had to work really hard to gain the degree I needed to be accepted onto the police graduate entry scheme, plus there was the physical fitness side of it to master as well. Before uni I wasn’t in good shape but knowing I needed to be fit to pass the entrance tests was a real incentive.’

She kept the description of her career short, not mentioning that she had been promoted quickly or that she had received a commendation for bravery before she was twenty-five, but she did mention how tough it was to progress in a male-dominated world.

‘That’s my third and last piece of advice; unfortunately there is still some passive discrimination out there – not just against us women but against all minorities – and not only in the police. Be ready for it; don’t accept it and be confident enough that you will be good enough to succeed despite it. There are some tremendous women in the force; my boss, Superintendent Whitby, is one of
them, a real inspiration.’ As she said it, to her surprise, Nightingale realised it was true.

After she sat down and the applause finished, Helen Sanders said there was time for questions. At first there was silence but then one of the teachers asked Helen about her own role models and mentoring, a nice safe topic that put the afternoon’s agenda back on track. This was followed by a question to Lulu about how difficult it was to be successful as an artist. After this there was a flurry of hands in the air with sensible questions, until at last there was one for Nightingale from the back of the hall.

‘Could you tell us why you ran away from home, please?’

Helen whispered to her.

‘That’s a bit personal; you don’t have to answer if you don’t want to.’

‘No, it’s all right.’ She raised her voice. ‘I left home because I didn’t get on with my parents, simple as that.’

‘But four times, you said you ran away four times!’