“Why don’t you come back to Eastvale? Give my contact on the restoration project a call? He’s always looking for keen apprentices.”
“Dunno. I might do. To be honest, right now, I just want a bit of space, some peace and quiet. I want to try and get all these horrible pictures out of my head.”
Good luck, thought Banks, who hadn’t succeeded in getting the nightmare images out of his own head after years of trying.
Leslie Whitaker seemed to have done a runner. His shop was closed, and he wasn’t at his Lyndgarth home. Cursing herself for not keeping a closer eye on him, Annie set the wheels in motion to track him down.
They had at least been lucky with Friends Reunited, Annie thought, pulling up outside the small detached house with Winsome late that afternoon. Elaine Hough lived on the outskirts of Harrogate, where she worked as an executive chef in one of the spa’s best restaurants. Elaine wasn’t the only one to reply to Winsome’s request, saying she remembered both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner – two others out of the 115 alumni registered at the Friends Reunited Web site had also responded quickly and said they remembered the two – but she was by far the most easily accessible of the three – one being in Eastbourne and the other in Aberdeen – and she also said that Gardiner and McMahon had been good friends of hers.
Elaine Hough seemed a no-nonsense sort of woman with a brisk manner and short black hair streaked with gray. If she ate what she cooked, she didn’t show it on her tall, lean frame.
“Come in,” she said. Annie and Winsome followed her through to the sparsely decorated living room, all exposed beams and stone and heavy oak furniture.
“Nice,” Annie said. But if truth be told, it wasn’t her favorite style of interior decoration.
“I’m glad you like it. It’s more a reflection of my husband’s taste, really. I spend most of the time in my little den when I’m at home.”
“Not in the kitchen?”
Elaine laughed. “Well, it’s true, I still do love cooking, and I don’t get much of a chance to do any at the restaurant anymore. It’s the old, old story, isn’t it? You work your way up in an area you love, and then you find you’re so successful you spend all your time running the business side, and you don’t have time to do what you love best anymore.” She laughed. “But I can’t complain. And I don’t. I know how lucky I am. Would you like tea or coffee or something?”
“Coffee would be nice,” said Annie. Winsome nodded in agreement.
“Come through to the kitchen, then. We can talk there.”
They followed her into a modern kitchen with stainless steel oven and fridge, copper pots and pans hanging from a rail over the central granite-topped island, and a wood-block of expensive-looking chef’s knives. Annie had sometimes thought that she would like such a well-stocked and attractive kitchen herself, but her cooking skills extended about as far as vegetarian pasta and ordering an Indian take-away, so most of the fancy equipment would be wasted on her.
Elaine put the kettle on, and while it boiled, she ground coffee beans and dropped them in a cafetière. The aroma was delicious. All her movements were economical and deft, Annie noticed, betraying her occupation and her training. Even something as simple as making coffee got her full attention. She probably even knew how to chop up a string of onions quickly, and without crying, too.
They sat on stools around the island while the coffee brewed and Annie went through her mental list of questions.
“You said you knew both Thomas McMahon and Roland Gardiner at Leeds Poly?” she started.
“Yes.”
“Did you know them together, or separately?”
“Both, actually. Look, I was in the School of Cookery – surprise, surprise – but four evenings a week I worked behind the bar in the student pub. My parents weren’t well off and my grant wasn’t exactly huge. At least we still got grants back then, not loans, like today. Anyway, that’s where I first met Tommy and Rolo. That’s what we called them back then. I was so sorry to read about what happened, but I couldn’t see how it could be at all relevant to me until your e-mail. Otherwise, I’d have come forward sooner.”
“That’s all right,” said Annie. “How were you to know what we were looking for? Anyway, we’re here now.”
“Yes.” Elaine poured the coffee. Winsome asked for milk and sugar while Annie and Elaine took theirs black. “Actually,” she said, “I went out with Rolo a few times. Just casual, like. Nothing too heavy.”
“What was he like?”
“Rolo? Well, I heard he was living alone in a caravan when he died – very sad – but back then he seemed ambitious, bright, ready to take on the world. I remember we all used to get into a lot of arguments because Rolo was a Thatcherite and the rest of us were wishy-washy liberals.” She laughed. “But he was fun, and intelligent. What can I say? We got along fine.”
“Even after you split up?”
“We remained friends. It wasn’t a serious relationship. You know what it’s like when you’re a student. You experiment, go out with different people.”
“Did you go out with Thomas McMahon, too?”
“Tommy? No. Not that he wasn’t attractive, or that he had any shortage of admirers. We just… I don’t know, we just didn’t hit it off on that level. Besides,” she added, “you may have noticed I’m a bit taller than the average woman, and Tommy was short. Not that I’ve got anything against short men, you understand, but it’s always been, well… just that little bit awkward. Even Rolo was only just about the same height as me.”
“I understand what you mean,” said Winsome, looking up from her notebook and smiling.
“Yes, I’ll bet you do,” Elaine said.
Annie sipped her coffee. It was still hot enough to burn her tongue, but it tasted as wonderful as the ground beans had smelled. “So Tommy and Rolo were good friends?” she went on.
“Yes. They met in the pub, liked the same music, and even though he was studying business, Rolo was no slouch when it came to the arts. I think he liked hanging around with the artsy crowd. He said more than once that most of his fellow business students were boring. I remember, he used to write. Stories, poetry… His poems were quite good. What he showed me, anyway. Not your usual adolescent rubbish. Thoughtful. Some of them even rhymed. And he was well-read.”
“So they weren’t such odd bedfellows?”
“No, not at all.”
“Did you ever know anyone back then by the name of Masefield? William Masefield?”
“No. I can’t say I did. Why?”
“Doesn’t matter. What about a Leslie Whitaker?”
“Can’t say that rings a bell, either.”
“Was there anyone else?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was it just the two of them hung out together, or were they part of a larger group?”
“Oh, I see what you mean. Well, there used to be quite a few of them sat in the back corner. Mostly art students, and a few guests from outside. But it was the three of them stuck together most of all.”
“Three of them?”
“Yes. Rolo, Tommy and Giles.”
“Who was Giles?”
Elaine smiled and, to Annie’s eyes, even seemed to blush a little at the memory. “Giles was my boyfriend. My real boyfriend. For the second year, at any rate.”
“And he was a friend of Tommy’s and Rolo’s?”
“Yes. Thick as thieves, they were.”
“This Giles, what college was he attached to?”
“He wasn’t. Giles went to the uni, Leeds University.”
“To study what?”
“Art history.”
That was interesting, Annie thought. “He wasn’t a painter or a sculptor?”
“No.” Elaine laughed. “He said he had no talent for it, but he loved it. The same with music. He liked to listen – classical mostly, but he did often come to see bands with us – although he couldn’t play an instrument.”