A bay window was on the opposite side of the room, with a modern desk displaying a spread of glossy magazines. On top of the pile was a large leather photograph album.
‘You asked if Miss Lanark had any photographs, so I believe this was put out for you,’ Miss Thompson explained.
She then gestured for Jane to sit down and opened a door to a bedroom.
‘Your visitor is here, Miss Lanark. Would you like your shawl around your shoulders? I see you finished all your tea... and you look lovely... I think your hairdresser does a really good job.’
Jane felt even more irritated by Miss Thompson’s manner, which made it sound as if she was talking to a child. Then a few moments later, Helena Lanark was wheeled into the room. Miss Thompson stopped beside the desk and applied the brake on the wheelchair. Over her arm hung a pale blue cashmere shawl.
‘I’m just going to put this on you, Miss Lanark.’ She deftly wrapped it around the frail woman’s shoulders, then hurried to close the bedroom door, smiling at Jane.
‘She does love her pale blue cashmere shawl,’ she said in a conspiratorial tone. ‘In fact, when she first came here we found out that she can only wear the purest cashmere, because wool irritates her skin. I believe these come from France. Are you sure I can’t get you a cup of tea?’
Jane shook her head, eager for the woman to leave. She drew a chair up to the desk. As the door closed behind Miss Thompson, Jane took the opportunity to have a really good look at Helena Lanark.
It was hard to determine how tall she was, as she was hunched over in her chair and seemed swamped by her quilted satin dressing gown. Her ankles were swollen, and she was wearing very expensive-looking fur-lined suede slippers. Her slender hands were folded in her lap, and she had beautifully manicured shell-pink nails. She was also wearing a gorgeous-looking string of pearls.
Helena Lanark had made no movement whatsoever whilst Jane scrutinised her, which Jane found rather unsettling. She inched her chair forwards to have a full view of the woman’s face. Her hair had been cut in a 1920s style, with a parting on her right side giving a thick wave of silver hair. Her thin-lipped mouth was tightly closed, but there was a small blob of saliva at the corner. She had a prominent nose, but nothing really prepared Jane for the astonishing colour of her eyes. They were an almost translucent blue, giving the impression that she could be blind.
Jane leaned further forward. ‘Miss Lanark, my name is Jane Tennison, and I am a detective inspector with the Metropolitan Police. I am making inquiries about a property in Stockwell that I believe you inherited from your father.’
There was absolutely no reaction. Helena appeared to be completely unaware that Jane was there beside her. Jane reached over to touch one of the pale white hands and it was only then that Helena recoiled. She moved her hand very slowly away, as if she didn’t like to be touched.
‘Did you understand what I just said, Miss Lanark?’ Jane asked. The only other indication that this woman was even alive was a little puff of air coming from her mouth that made the saliva bubble.
Jane glanced at her watch. This was about as unproductive as it could be, and it was looking as if she’d made a very long journey for no result. She could easily imagine how DCI Carter would react when she reported to him. She eased her chair back.
‘Miss Lanark, would you mind if I used your bathroom?’ As expected, there was no reaction to her request.
Jane walked through the door that led into the bedroom and the en-suite bathroom. The same thick patterned wool carpet continued throughout. The room was not exactly bare, but there was a feeling of emptiness. There was a neat chest of drawers with a mirror, but no cosmetics or brushes and combs. There was a matching wardrobe, and the single bed had a very expensive-looking pale green satin bedspread with a matching silk drape beneath.
The only indication that this bedroom was used by an invalid was the large orthopaedic pillow which had a pristine white cloth over it. There were two small cabinets either side of the bed and a jug of water with a glass beside it. There were no photographs, just two prints on the walls similar to the ones Jane had seen along the corridors. Jane eased open the wardrobe door. There were numerous silk blouses and pleated skirts, and two pairs of leather court shoes, one in black and one in navy. Jane could see from the inner sole that they were handmade. There was one dark navy coat, which had a protective plastic cover over the shoulders.
On the shelves inside the full-length wardrobe were neatly folded cashmere cardigans, all in various shades of blue. Jane closed the doors, then crept over to the dressing table. She pulled open one drawer after another, finding white linen nightgowns, pristine folded underwear and petticoats. All the items appeared to be hardly worn and were clearly expensive.
The small en-suite bathroom had a special raised step beside the bath and a white handlebar around it. The same handlebar was by the toilet and there was a red alarm cord hanging from the ceiling. Jane flushed the toilet before opening the bathroom cabinet. There was an array of vitamins, sleeping tablets and prescribed medication for arthritis as well as numerous hand creams, all with expensive labels. There was an ornate bottle of Floris Lily of the Valley perfume and Jane eased open the gold cap to smell it.
On the opposite side of the medicine cabinet was a glass shelf with a silver-backed hairbrush and matching comb, which had probably at one time been part of a set.
Jane went back into the sitting room, unable to tell if Miss Lanark had moved since she’d gone. She remained with her perfectly manicured hands folded in her lap and was gazing vacantly out of the window.
Without asking permission, Jane drew the large leather photograph album towards her.
‘Would you mind if I looked through your album, Miss Lanark?’
She responded with the same strange puff from her lips, as more saliva gathered at the corner of her mouth.
The leather-bound album was heavily embossed with gold filigree and there was a brass clasp but no key. Jane opened it up and on the first page was a framed sepia photograph of Charles Henry Lanark, Helena’s grandfather, wearing the uniform of a high-ranking army officer. With his clipped moustache and chiselled face, he had the same cold, arrogant stare as his granddaughter. According to the inscription in faded red ink, he had been killed in the First World War in 1918.
On the second page was a smaller photograph of Charles Henry Lanark Jr, dated 1917. He had a hooked nose and like his father he was wearing an army officer’s uniform. Over the page was a large sepia picture of the Stockwell property, dated 1923. Standing on the steps at the front door was Charles Henry Lanark Jr. Beside him stood a very pretty young woman in a bridal dress and underneath was written ‘Marriage of Charles Henry Lanark Jr and Muriel Petrukhin’. It was obvious that Muriel was very much younger, almost childlike in appearance. Before Jane could begin making notes, there was a knock at the door and one of the young carers stepped in.
‘So sorry for interrupting, but it’s time for Miss Lanark’s medication, and then the night nurse will come prepare her for bed.’
Jane looked at her watch. It was only a quarter past five and it seemed sad that they were preparing this woman for bed at such an early hour. As she was wearing a dressing gown and slippers, she more than likely had slept for most of the day anyway. Jane went to pick up her coat beside the photo album, then made a spur-of-the-moment decision: it was obvious Helena Lanark couldn’t tell Jane anything about the people in the album, and she probably wouldn’t miss it until Jane returned it. She deftly covered the large photo album with her coat, as she smiled at the young girl.
‘Thank you very much... I’ll be leaving now anyway.’ Jane looked at Helena Lanark and said goodbye, but there was no reaction. She didn’t see Helena’s lips turned down in a grimace as she closed the door.