“See, there’s the side street. He was parked just there. You could only see a bit of the car,” Carol was saying.
Tennison offered her cigarettes round. “You couldn’t tell me the make of it? The color?”
“It was dark, I reckon the car was dark, but it had a lot of shiny chrome at the front, y’know, an’ like a bar stuck all over with badges an’ stuff. He called out to Jeannie…”
Tennison grabbed the remark. “He called out? You mean he knew her name?”
“I don’t think it was her name. It was, y’know, “How much, slag?” I said to her, hadn’t she had enough for one night…”
Carol put in: “Ah, but she was savin’ up, wanted to emigrate to Australia if she could get enough.”
“So Jeannie crossed the road? Did you see her get into the car?”
Linda replied, “She went round to the passenger side.”
“I looked over, y’know, to see, but he was turning like this…” Carol demonstrated. “I only saw the back of his head.”
Tennison stepped to the kerb and peered around the corner as Linda said, “We never saw her again. She had no one to even bury ’er, but we had a whip-round.”
“Fancy a drink?” asked Tennison.
They piled into the pub and found an empty booth. Carol went to the bar while the locals sized up Tennison. They were mostly laborers in overalls.
Linda had produced a photograph of herself and Jeannie. “Lovely lookin’, she was. That’s me-I was thinner then, and blond. Cost a fortune to keep it lookin’ good, so I’ve gone back to the natural color. Set me back twenty-five quid for streaks! We used to get cut-price, mind, at the local salon, but they’ve gone all unisex, y’know. I hate having me ’air done with a man sitting next to me, don’t you?”
Tennison opened her briefcase to take out her copy of the News of the World, but was interrupted by a man in dirty, paint-splashed overalls who strolled across from the juke box. He put a hand on Tennison’s shoulder and leaned down to whisper, “I’ve got fifteen minutes, the van’s outside…”
Turning slowly, she removed his hand from her shoulder. “I’m busy right now.” He made no move to go, so she looked him in the eye. “Sod off!”
He looked in surprise at Linda, who mouthed “Cop!” and shot out before anyone could draw breath. Tennison carried on as though nothing had happened.
Carol returned with the drinks as Tennison placed the newspaper on the table.
“The barman says you just missed the London Express, but there’s a train at four minutes past five.”
“I’ll be cutting it fine…” Tennison checked her watch and smiled. “Dinner party! Is this like him?” She pointed to the newspaper photo of Marlow and took a sip of her drink.
“He’s a bit tasty, isn’t he?” Carol commented, and glanced at Linda. “He was dark-haired…”
“You thought he had a beard, didn’t you?” Linda said.
“Beard? You never mentioned that in your statement.”
“She couldn’t get out of the nick fast enough, they’re bastards,” Carol informed her. “An’ I’ll tell you something for nothing-they never gave a shit about Jeannie. We’re rubbish, until they want a jerk-off! Four kids we got between us, and no one’s interested in them. An’ that inspector geezer, y’know, him…” She nudged Linda. “I’m not sayin’ any names, but…”
“I will,” said Linda. “It was that big bloke, John Shefford. They got rid of him faster than a fart.”
Tennison asked, deadpan, “What do you mean?”
“I reckon they found out about him an’ Jeannie,” Carol told her confidentially. “Next thing we knew, he was on his bike, gone to London. He was as big a bastard as any of ’em-bigger. Jeannie never had a chance: her stepdad was screwin’ her from the time she was seven. She was on the streets at fourteen, an’ that Shefford used to tell her he’d take care of her. Well, he never found out who killed her; they never even tried.”
“Poor kid, strung up like that, like a bit of meat on a hook!” Linda said. “You have to be really sick…”
Tennison jumped on her. “What? What did you say?”
“The dosser who found her, he told me.”
“You know this man? He got a name?”
“Oh, he’s dead, years back, but he told me all about it. Hanging by her arms from a hook in the ceiling.”
It was getting late. Peter checked his watch anxiously and started to lay the dining table. Where the hell was she?
The front door crashed open and Jane rushed in, yelling, “Don’t say a word, I’ve got it timed to the second. Don’t panic!”
True to her word, everything was just about ready by eight o’clock, and she had put on a nice dress, though her hair was still damp. She ran quickly around the table, distributing place mats.
“Water’s on, what else can I do?” Peter asked.
She stood back to look at the table. “Right, glasses for red, glasses for white, starter plates, teaspoons… Napkins! Shit, hang on…”
She shot out to the kitchen, returning to fling a packet of paper napkins at him, then disappeared again, shouting, “Bread, bread!”
The doorbell rang as she came back with the basket of rolls. She gave Peter the thumbs-up.
“All set! Let them in!”
Peter grabbed her and kissed her cheek, then they both headed for the hall.
When they had finished eating, Jane cleared the table and went to make the coffee, taking her glass of wine with her. The kitchen was a disaster area with hardly a square foot of clear work surface. She tidied up a little while she waited for the percolator.
Peter rushed in, obviously panicking. “You’re taking your time! Where are the liqueur glasses?”
“We haven’t got any! You’ll have to use those little colored ones Mum gave me.’ She drained her glass of wine. “How’s it going?”
He relaxed a little. “Just getting down to business. Can you keep the women occupied? I’ll take the tray.”
As he hurried back to his guests, Jane yawned and pressed the plunger on the percolator. The hot coffee shot from the spout, all over her dress. “Shit!” Then she shrugged, wiped herself down as best she could, fixed a smile on her face and marched out with the coffeepot.
Frank King was obviously the dominant male, the one with the money and the big ideas. He had spread some plans on the table and was explaining them to Peter and Tom.
Frank’s wife, Lisa, and Tom’s wife, Sue, were sitting in the armchairs at the other end of the room, drinking apricot brandy from tacky little blue and green glasses. They were both dressed to the nines, perfectly coiffed and lip-glossed, but Lisa was the one with the really good jewelery. Jane poured them coffee.
“It’s nice, isn’t it? I like sweet liqueurs,” Lisa was saying to Sue. “We spent three months in Spain last year; the drinks are so cheap, wine’s a quarter of the price you pay here. Oh, thanks, Jane. Mind you, the price of clothes-all the decent ones are imported, that’s what makes them so expensive.”
Jane moved on to the men. Neither Tom nor Frank thanked her for the coffee and Peter, intent on what Frank was saying, refused it.
“Like I said, no problem. Get the bulldozers in and they’re gone before anyone’s woken up. Don’t know why they make such a fuss about a few trees anyway. So, we clear this area completely, but leave the pool, which goes with this house here. The other we build at an angle, the two of them have to go up in less than three-quarters of an acre…”
“What sort of price are we looking at?” Tom wanted to know.
“The one with the pool, four ninety-five. The one without we ask three fifty. That’s low for an exclusive close…”
Leaving them to it, Jane found a small glass that Peter had poured for her on the dresser. She carried it over to the women and sat down.
She took a sip from the glass. “Christ, it’s that terrible sweet muck!” Up again, Jane fetched a wine glass and went looking for the brandy. It was on the table beside Frank’s elbow, and she helped herself to a generous measure. She had been drinking since lunchtime: gins in the pub, on the train, wine throughout dinner. She was tying one on, but it didn’t show, yet. She captured a bowl of peanuts and sat down again. It seemed as though Lisa hadn’t stopped talking.