Lorraine laughed. ‘We sold four paintings and this is my bonus!’
Rosie peered at the cans of paint. ‘Who’s gonna do all this, then?’
‘You and me!’
Rosie snorted, but by now she was busy unwrapping her gift. She took out the white cotton nightdress. ‘Oh, wow! This is pure cotton, and it’s new!’
She saw two boxes. ‘What’s this, shoes?’ She opened one, and looked at Lorraine. Wow! I might act like a mental nine-and-a-half-year-old, but...’
Lorraine took back the box, closing the lid. ‘They’re for my daughters.’
‘So you made contact, then?’
Lorraine walked out without answering. She had left more bags piled outside on the steps and yelled for Rosie to lend a hand. Jake arrived, unannounced, and was immediately recruited to carry in the rest of the paint, trays and rollers. He began to wish he hadn’t dropped by as he was cajoled into shifting furniture to clear the room ready for painting. He promised to return later in the evening to help out some more. Lorraine didn’t say goodbye — she was carefully putting the two doll boxes under a cushion in case they got damaged.
She and Rosie had a snack and then, draped in old nightdresses Rosie was now prepared to throw out, set to work. After seeing the way Art, Didi and Nula had transformed the gallery, Lorraine imagined it would be easy, but she had underestimated the threesome’s expertise. By the time Jake reappeared they had covered only one wall.
He and Lorraine finished the main room and by the time they had pushed all the furniture back into place, it was after midnight. Jake promised he’d return in the morning so they could start on the kitchen and maybe get around to the bedroom.
Lorraine showered and combed the flecks of paint out of her hair. It was good to feel so tired — it meant she didn’t have to think over what had happened during the day. She felt stiff from painting, and her back ached, but when she flopped onto the sofa she was too tired even to work out what she was going to do the following morning. She had a bus schedule, a street map of Santa Monica; she had even decided what she should wear. The two dolls were packed in a carrier bag: one blonde the other dark-haired. She didn’t think about the future, about having to find alternative work. Tomorrow, seeing her daughters, was all that mattered.
Chapter 6
Rosie woke up with a start, and then flopped back. Lorraine was in the shower. She squinted at the alarm clock: half past eight. She couldn’t go back to sleep, so she got up and went into the freshly painted main room. Lorraine’s bedding was neatly folded, and a pot of coffee was on the stove. Rosie toasted some muffins, then went out to see if the Sunday papers had arrived.
Lorraine emerged, made up and in her new blouse and the safari suit. She also wore the high-heeled slingbacks and skin-tone tights. She no longer needed to raid Rosie’s make-up or jewellery box, as she had bought her own cosmetics and a pair of fake pearl earrings.
Rosie gaped, and then sniffed. ‘My God, you look good and you smell terrific. Are you working today?’
‘Yeah, there’s a big art dealer coming so I’ve got to open the gallery early. I’m sorry if I woke you.’
‘No problem. You want a muffin... coffee?’
‘No thanks, I’ve had breakfast. I’m off now.’
Jake arrived about an hour later. Rosie was still reading the papers. ‘Morning. It’s baking out already. Where’s Lorraine?’
‘Gone to the gallery. You want some coffee and muffins?’
‘Wouldn’t say no.’
Rosie bustled around getting him a cup and plate, then sat and ate another muffin, washing it down with more coffee. She divided up the paper and they sat opposite each other, reading.
‘They found another body,’ said Jake. ‘Prostitute. Reckon she was killed the same way couple months back, this time in Santa Monica.’
Rosie slapped down the paper. She looked at Jake. ‘She’s lied. She’s not gone to that gallery, she’s gone to see her kids in Santa Monica. She’s so secretive... but I know she’s traced them ’cos I saw the address on a note by the telephone and I know she’s gone because she’s taken the dolls she bought. Now why does she lie?’
‘That’s maybe just the way she is,’ said Jake, folding his paper. ‘Why don’t we surprise her? Let’s get the kitchen started.’
Rosie pulled a face. ‘I was hopin’ you’d forget all about it, I hate painting, it gives me a backache, and then my arms ache from the brushes. Even Walter’s done a bunk — paint gets to cats, you know.’ She glared at the bedroom door. ‘This is bloody Sunday morning, for chrissakes, a day of rest!’
Jake began to clear the kitchen. It was so small it wouldn’t take long, and then maybe they could do the bedroom, really surprise Lorraine.
Rooney was sweating. Ten o’clock and it was way up in the seventies. He hated losing his Sunday: there was nothing he liked better than sitting in the yard with the papers. He had them all stuffed under his arm as he plodded along the corridors towards his office. He saw Bean up ahead with a balding man.
‘Morning, Captain.’
Rooney glowered, and waited for Bean to join him. ‘That’s not him, is it?’
‘Yep, he’s been working from home, seems a nice guy, real low key.’
Rooney snorted, and together they went into his office. Andrew Fellows was younger than Rooney had first thought. Prematurely bald, his rather handsome face was marred by a pair of enormous ears that constantly caught the attention — they moved up and down when he talked. The more animated he became, as Rooney was to discover, the more the ears worked overtime — and Professor Fellows was an animated man. He used his hands like a conductor, and his trim body in its pristine white T-shirt and tight jeans seemed incapable of staying still for a second. Rooney took him into the ‘Hammer Killings’ incident room. Photographs of all the victims had been posted up on the walls and rows of computers installed. He looked up expectantly at Fellows. ‘So, you come up with anything for us?’
Fellows nodded, his ears waved, and he opened a worn leather briefcase. ‘I’ve spent three days studying all the evidence to date, and I’ve tried to assimilate the most important aspects so we can cut through the dross. Much of the evidence you gave me was of no use, so I concentrated on this detailed description apparently given by an anonymous caller...’
He began to pace up and down. “The caller gave a concise and exceptionally clear picture of the assailant — apart from his actual size...’ Rooney sighed, looked at Bean and raised his eyes to the ceiling. Fellows flapped his hands. ‘... leading me to believe she had not met the man before. He was in the car when he picked her up, so she may have been a stranger to him. Let’s give him a name rather than have to keep calling him the assailant or killer. Why not — for want of better — “the Teacher”...’ Fellows laughed. ‘Sorry, it’s just that the description fits an old college professor I had.’ Rooney gave a faint grimace that was supposed to be a smile.
Fellows moved to the row of victims’ faces. ‘Now, we’re led to believe that all these women and Norman Hastings were killed by the Teacher — and this woman, Helen Murphy—’ Fellows pointed to the wrong picture, and Bean corrected him. ‘Ah, sorry, the body of Helen Murphy was found in the trunk of a car, so we are to presume the Teacher first attempted to kill her, failed, then traced her once more, or knew where she lived or the area she worked, whatever, and killed her, using the same method, claw hammer blows. Am I right so far?’
Rooney sighed. ‘Yes, but, frankly, you’re wasting time. What we need to know — what I need to know — is what sort of man is this bastard?’