‘She still lived with them?’
‘She was planning to move out and had been offered a flat. Even though she’d officially taken on the tenancy. She wasn’t in any hurry to leave; she had a good set-up there.’
‘What about the father of the child?
‘She’d split from the father. He’s part of the Romany community.’
‘Could it be some sort of retaliation for ending the relationship?’ asked Robbo.
Jeanie shook her head. ‘The father was interviewed when Emily first went missing. He was counted out of the equation; he was in prison. His family was cleared as well.’
‘And there was no one new in her life?’ asked Carter.
Jeanie shook her head. ‘Her parents didn’t know if she was seeing anyone special but she hadn’t gone so far as to bring anyone home.’
‘And what about her friends?’
‘The morning of the day she disappeared,’ answered Jeanie, ‘she phoned a friend at ten in the morning, and they met for coffee in Camden where she did a bit of shopping, hung around Camden Market for a couple of hours. Her friend left her there and she was picked up by cameras walking back towards Camden Town Tube.’
‘Was the person she went with a friend?’ said Robbo.
‘Maybe he was a potential boyfriend, under the radar,’ said Carter. ‘We need to open the investigation wider and we’ll take it over from MIT 15. Were her phone records requested at the time?’
Robbo shook his head. ‘This was a Mispers, not a murder investigation.’
‘We’ll do it now then. Get all her phone records from the last five years,’ said Carter.
‘What about any other social media?’ said Ebony.
‘I’ll put in a request.’ Robbo made notes as Carter talked.
‘Did she take a passport?’
‘No,’ answered Jeanie. ‘But she had a driving licence and she’d run away with the Romany community before. That’s how she ended up pregnant in the first place. She had a wandering heart. I guess that’s why her parents just accepted it.’
‘What are they like?’
‘Ordinary middle-class people. They brought her up in a good home but she rebelled from an early age. She was an arty child, a bohemian type. Her parents rode it all out in the hope that she would come home. When they finally persuaded her to come back, go to college, get a life, they offered her full support for her and Sky. It worked, but they thought she’d had enough of the struggle. They thought Emily had just decided to leave it all behind.’
‘What was her normal routine, Jeanie?’
‘She was in between jobs. Her parents supported her. In many ways she was quite privileged, spoilt even,’ answered Jeanie. ‘She took Sky to nursery most days, paid for by her parents. Otherwise she went to college. She met friends, went shopping. She hung out at home – normal stuff really.’
‘We’ll go and see the parents, prepare them for the worst, said Carter.
‘I’ll come too,’ said Jeanie. ‘It’s going to be a shock for them. I still think they were expecting her to walk back through their front door when she felt like it.’
Carter looked at the photo of Emily Styles.
‘What do we know about her lifestyle?’ Carter asked. ‘Could she have been moonlighting as an escort? Prostitute perhaps?’
Jeanie shook her head; ‘Unlikely but not impossible.’
Carter continued: ‘Murdered by a pimp and she was put in the Regents Canal as a warning to others? A place so that she would be seen? Otherwise, why not dump her in the countryside?’
Ebony had a map of the canal and the surrounding area on the screen.
‘He chose a place where there aren’t many cameras but you can see it from several vantage points, the bridges, the park.’
‘Hawk is a watcher,’ said Robbo.
Chapter 9
After Jeanie rang the doorbell they heard the soft shuffle of feet approach from the other side of the door. They waited on the step. The small front garden was occupied by a large magnolia tree that had been allowed to get leggy and was desperate for light.
‘Jeanie?’ A long-faced man in a grey V-neck sweater almost smiled at Jeanie until he saw that she was not alone and, judging by the look on the faces of the three people on his doorstep, had gauged that their visit was not going to make him happy.
‘Can we come in, Trevor? These detectives want to have a chat.’
Carter held up his warrant card. ‘Hello, Mr Styles. My name is Detective Inspector Dan Carter and this is Detective Constable Ebony Willis.’
Trevor Styles nodded slowly and stood back to allow them inside. The last of the colour was already draining from his face. He looked down the corridor to where his wife Elaine had stepped out of the kitchen, tea towel in one hand and plate in the other.
‘Hello, Elaine.’ Jeanie smiled at Mrs Styles; she nodded back, her eyes flitting worriedly from one detective to the other. ‘Will you come here please?’
Elaine Styles walked mechanically forward, clutching the plate in her hand.
Carter spoke: ‘Mr and Mrs Styles. A young woman’s body has been found that we believe to be Emily’s.’
The Styles stood apart from one another, each lonely in the grief, unable to stand it alone or together. Mr Styles nodded and turned to look at his wife as she stood in the hallway. Swaying, still clutching the tea towel, she dropped the plate. Jeanie went over, and knelt to pick up the pieces.
‘Have you got a dustpan?’ she asked Trevor, who nodded and went past his wife. She was still staring at Carter.
‘Are you sure it’s Emily?’ Elaine said as she wrapped her hands in the tea towel.
Carter nodded. ‘We are pretty sure. I’m so sorry, Mrs Styles.’
Trevor Styles returned with the dustpan and began sweeping up the last of the crockery shards.
Jeanie put her arm around Elaine. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She guided her in to sit down on the sofa in the lounge.
‘We just need to ask you a couple of questions,’ said Carter. ‘Did Emily wear an antique ring on a chain around her neck like this one?’ He showed her a photo of the ring.
Elaine looked hard at Carter, her mind revisiting painful images. She shook her head.
‘I’ve never seen it before.’ She looked at her husband, her eyes wide as he returned from the kitchen having disposed of the broken crockery. ‘Maybe it’s not her,’ she said as she shook her head, her face beginning to crumple.
‘Are you sure, Mrs Styles?’ asked Ebony. ‘About the jewellery?’
‘Yes, we’re sure,’ answered Trevor, looking at the photo whilst his wife fought to stop herself dissolving with the pain of grief.
‘Emily’s tattoo – the one on her ankle – can you tell us about that?’
Trevor shook his head sadly; his eyes were distant. ‘It’s an ancient Norse saying about the sea. We lost our son, Emily’s younger brother, when she was ten. He drowned off the beach in Cornwall. They were playing at the water’s edge. The next minute there was just Emily and he was gone. It was a calm day. He was only up to his knees. We will never know how it happened. They told us the current took him.’ Trevor shook his head again, his eyes misted as he still tried to understand what had happened. He looked up at them. ‘It looked so calm on the surface; we never knew there was a rip tide. Emily never got over it. She never went near the sea again. She was not the same girl afterwards. None of us were. You never get over something like that. Makes you feel like nothing you have is for ever.’