The Merchant's House (16 page)

The next morning Wesley and Rachel arrived at the office of Tradmouth Models which was housed in a Victorian row of shops near the market, above an expensive-looking shoe shop. Once inside, the office was pleasantly appointed with a newish pale wood reception desk and a row of filing cabinets to match; thick sage-green carpet tiles covered the floor. Wesley had been in worse places.

Framed photographs of the agency’s protégées lined the walls. Rachel thought it was amazing what lighting, makeup and a professional photographer could do for a woman’s
looks. She noticed a small pile of business cards lying on the reception desk, picked one up and showed it to Wesley with a significant nod. ‘Snippers and Curls.’ Mr Carl had been right when he said his cards were everywhere.

As there was nobody on reception, Rachel walked past the desk and knocked on the door marked ‘Phil Tebbit, Director’. Wesley followed her, thinking that Karen Giordino had come up in the world. The pictures on display in this establishment were considerably more tasteful than the ones taken of Karen by Mr Keffer of Manchester at the beginning of her career.

Phil Tebbit managed to make the words ‘come in’ sound pathetically harassed. He was a small, dark man, balding. He scurried around clearing files off chairs so that Rachel and Wesley could sit down. He reminded Rachel of a small, busy rodent.

‘I’m so glad you’ve found Karen alive … and thank God she’s been with Maurice. If she hadn’t turned up for the job it wouldn’t have done this agency’s reputation any good. Our models have to be reliable …’

Wesley wasn’t there to listen to Phil Tebbit’s professional problems. ‘If she’d been dead, sir, she wouldn’t have been able to do very much about it.’

Tebbit blushed visibly.

‘Now, sir, we know she left a set of passport photographs here; on the reception desk, we think. We’re trying to trace who might have had them, if someone could have picked them up.’

Tebbit thought hard. ‘I remember something about… let me think.’

Rachel tried to help. ‘Did anyone mention them? Anyone show them to you?’

It did the trick. ‘I remember now. Someone found them. Now who was it?’ He shook his head. ‘No, no, it’s gone. I really didn’t take much notice. It was just one of those things that was going on in the background when you’re doing something else. Do you know what I mean?’

Rachel nodded. She knew. ‘Is there anyone else who might remember? Your secretary? The receptionist?’

‘Same job, I’m afraid. Actually, the girl I’ve got now is
new. She wasn’t here when…’ His eyes lit up. ‘It was Sharon. I remember now. Sharon came in with the photos and said one of the girls had left them.’

‘Can we speak to this Sharon?’ Wesley asked, trying to create order out of potential chaos.

‘She’s left now. She was my old secretary, left in August.’

‘Have you got her address, sir?’

‘Oh, yes. I can give you her address.’

‘And you don’t know what became of the photos, what she did with them?’ asked Rachel.

‘No, no, I don’t. I said to give them back to Karen next time she came in. I presume that’s what she did. I never thought about it.’

‘Why did she leave, Mr Tebbit?’

‘She never said. Personal reasons, that’s all. She was a quiet girl, never spoke much. Not one to tell you her troubles. Not like some – kept herself to herself.’

‘And she gave you notice, did she? She didn’t just disappear?’

‘Oh, yes. She gave a week’s notice, did things properly. And I told her she could use me as a reference any time. She was a good worker. I was sorry to lose her.’

‘Can you describe her?’

Tebbit suddenly looked uncomfortable. ‘Blonde, medium height. Why?’

‘Have you any pictures of her?’

‘I’ve got enough on my plate having pictures taken of my models without taking them of my secretary too. Sorry.’

Rachel and Wesley looked at each other.

‘Thank you very much, Mr Tebbit,’ said Wesley. ‘You’ve been a great help. We might want to talk to you again. And perhaps some of the ladies who work for you …’

‘Or gentlemen,’ corrected Tebbit seriously. ‘We have gentlemen on our books as well. There’s a lot of call for male models nowadays.’

‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Wesley, winking at Rachel. ‘If you’d like to give us that address, we’ll be off. Thank you for your time.’

Phil Tebbit watched them go, relieved that no potential clients had dropped by. Police were bad for business.

When they reached the street, Wesley suggested they go straight to the address Tebbit had given them, but Rachel had another suggestion.

‘There’s one person I think we should see before we go. It’s only across the road.’

‘Who’s that?’ asked Wesley, following automatically.

‘I think it’s the hairdresser who cut the victim’s hair. Come on.’

Wesley didn’t argue.

Chez Danielle didn’t possess the intimidating atmosphere of Snippers and Curls. Rachel could quite imagine herself having a cut and blow-dry here. There was something homely about the Laura Ashley wallpaper and matching frilly blinds. The staff looked non-judgemental and a good proportion of the seats facing the mirrored wall were occupied by blue-rinsed pensioners. The prices displayed in the window seemed reasonable to Rachel. She looked upon the establishment and judged it to be good: clean, friendly and obviously popular.

She produced her warrant card at the reception desk and asked for Denise Wellthorne. The woman behind the desk, of maturer years than Mr Carl’s Michelle, looked worried as she called through into the back room; the worry that anticipates bad news rather than the concern that comes from a guilty conscience.

Wesley had looked uncomfortable as they had been about to enter Chez Danielle, so Rachel had taken pity on him and told him she could manage alone. She’d meet him at the Butterwalk in half an hour. She felt perfectly confident dealing with members of the hairdressing profession: she’d had plenty of practice.

She knew where he’d go. He seemed to spend every lunch-time with that friend of his who was working on that excavation in St Margaret’s Street. She’d heard him arranging to meet the archaeological friend for a drink in the evenings too. She wondered what Wesley’s wife thought: from the vibrations Rachel had managed to pick up, it seemed as if their marriage was going through a bad time.

Denise Wellthorne seemed nervous when she appeared
from the back of the salon. She had thought she’d done her duty as a citizen; she hadn’t expected to hear any more. Rachel smiled to put her at her ease and assured her it was just routine.

Denise led her through to the back. ‘I’ll get us a cup of tea,’ she said nervously. “There’s just one thing. I’ve got a lady booked at twelve o’clock and …’

“That’s all right, Mrs Wellthorne. This won’t take long.’

Denise visibly relaxed and offered Rachel a seat. The little staff sitting room was clean and cosy, the kettle and cups having pride of place on the melamine table in the corner. Rachel sank into a well-worn chintz-covered armchair, somebody’s cast-off pressed into use at their place of work. She accepted a mug of steaming tea gratefully and took a chocolate digestive; she was sick of dieting. They lived well at Chez Danielle.

‘Sorry to bother you again, but new evidence has turned up and we think the lady who came to you on the seventeenth could have been the murder victim after all. What can you tell me about her?’

‘She came in at lunch-time, when I was on my own. I told you that, didn’t I? She had straight blonde hair – natural blonde, not dyed – down to her shoulders. She said she wanted a trim, wanted it tidying up ‘cause it was getting a bit straggly. I gave her a wash and blow-dry. I asked her if it was a special occasion, if she was going out that night, like you do. I mean, it’s one of the things you talk about in my job, isn’t it? That and holidays, and the weather.’

Rachel smiled. ‘Of course. What did she say?’

‘She said she had an important meeting, wanted to look her best.’

‘She didn’t say anything about this meeting? What sort of meeting it was, who it was with …?’

‘No, and I didn’t like to pry. You’ve got to be tactful; can’t be too nosy.’

‘Did she say anything else? Anything at all? Where she lived? Her job? Her family?’

‘Nothing. We talked about the weather mostly, and she said she hadn’t had a holiday. She seemed a bit on edge – you know, like there was something she was nervous about.
She said she had something to sort out and that’s why she hadn’t managed to get away. I can’t remember her exact words. Something like “We wanted to get away but we didn’t manage it. We had something to sort out.” Then we talked about Tenerife. She said someone at her work had gone last year. That’s all, really.’

‘She said “we”, did she? “We wanted to get away?” Please think. It could be important.’

‘I think so.’ She hesitated. ‘Oh, now you mention it, I can’t really be sure. I’m sorry.’

‘That’s all right. Don’t worry. Did she pay by cheque or credit card?’

‘No, cash. Look, will I have to make a statement and all that?’

‘Please. If you can come down to the station, I’ll get the police artist there so we can get some idea of what she looked like.’

‘You think it’s her then? You think she’s dead?’

‘We can’t be absolutely certain but it’s a strong possibility.’

Denise Wellthorne opened the drawer under the sink and took out a sketch pad. ‘There’s no need to get a police artist, I can draw her myself. I do art at evening classes. I’m not bad on faces.’

Rachel nodded. Why not? It would save time and the budget. She watched as Denise’s pencil moved over the clean white paper and a woman’s face appeared.

Rachel ran across the street, narrowly missing being hit by a passing Range Rover. She ran up the stairs to the offices of Tradmouth Models and burst in on a startled Phil Tebbit. He confirmed it: the picture Denise Wellthorne had drawn was indeed a likeness of Sharon Carteret.

Rachel knew where to find Wesley. He was there at the dig, deep in conversation with a scruffy-looking man, almost unkempt enough to be one of the travellers she had encountered at Neston. She called across to him and he signalled her to come through the gate onto the site. The sergeant seemed to be preoccupied by two ragged bits of tile he was attempting to fit together.

He turned to Rachel, his eyes aglow with enthusiasm.
‘These are the original Elizabethan roof tiles. Most of the stuff gets carted away when the place is demolished but you can always find a few fragments. See how they fit together. And there’s a nail hole. Look.’ He put the pieces in Rachel’s hand. ‘Just think. These were handled by people on this site before the Spanish Armada sailed.’

Rachel, who had hated history at school, was unimpressed. ‘Very interesting, Sergeant. I’ve just confirmed that the dead woman’s Sharon Carteret. I’ll tell you about it on the way. We’ve got to go over the river, remember? Check that address.’

Wesley turned to his friend who, to Rachel’s eyes, looked like he was covered by a layer of dust and needed a good bath. ‘Tomorrow, then, Neil. Let me know how you get on at the museum.’

Farewells said, Rachel led Wesley down the narrow side streets towards the river.

‘We’ll have to go back for the car.’

Rachel shook her head. ‘No need. It’s quicker to take the passenger ferry. The address is only a short walk from the station at Queenswear.’

Wesley followed her down the steep gangway to the ferry, acknowledging reluctantly that his unplanned exercise programme was indeed making him feel fitter. The sun was out so they sat on deck for the short journey across the River Trad, the smell of the ferry’s diesel fuel in their nostrils masking the salty smells of the river. The light glinted on the choppy water and flickered off the steel masts of the yachts moored on both sides of the river. So many yachts. Wesley wondered if the Drug Squad kept a regular eye on this place.

The ferry moored with a solid clunk and they disembarked. They found themselves beside the small railway station, painted in Great Western colours and now home once more to steam engines which chuffed their way between Morbay and Queenswear. In the summer the station would stream with tourists, but now it was quiet.

Rachel seemed to know where she was going. Did she have a remarkably good memory for street maps, Wesley
wondered, or did she just know the area from childhood? He suspected the latter.

The streets of Queenswear were as steep as those of the larger town of Tradmouth on the opposite bank. A long flight of stone steps led up to a narrow street of tall stuccoed houses painted, like their counterparts across the river, in pastel pinks, greens and creams. Number 38, a three-storey double-fronted dwelling, had two bells. The address Tebbit had given them indicated that it was Flat 1 they were looking for. Rachel pressed the brass bellpush.

The door was opened by a middle-aged man, wearing dark-rimmed glasses and a sour expression. ‘Whatever you’re selling I don’t want any. I’m sick of you people. You can’t get a minute’s peace.’ He was about to shut the door in their faces. Wesley fumbled for his warrant card. ‘Now go away or I’ll call the police.’

Wesley held out the card. ‘We are the police, sir. If you could just spare us a few minutes …’