Banks didn’t hear the thunder, nor did he see the lightning, when the storm passed over the London area in the small hours of the morning. What did awaken him, however, at shortly after three, was the distinct melody of “La donna è mobile” coming from very close by.
As Banks struggled to consciousness, his first thought was that that he didn’t remember putting a CD of Rigoletto on before he went to sleep. Then he remembered Roy’s mobile, which sat on the table beside him.
He picked it up and, sure enough, that was the source of the sound. The room was dark, but with the help of the blue back-lighting, he found the right button to push.
“Hello,” he mumbled. “Who is it?”
At first he heard nothing at all except a slight background hiss, perhaps some sort of static interference. He thought he could hear someone making choking or gagging sounds, as if they were trying to hold back laughter. Then he began to think that perhaps someone had rung by accident, and the sounds came from a television playing in the background.
A similar thing happened to Banks once when he had forgotten to lock his mobile. Somehow or other he had activated one of the numbers in his phone book, and Tracy got to listen to the questioning of a murder witness. Fortunately, she couldn’t make out the conversation clearly, and she knew enough to switch off when she realized what must have happened. Still, it made Banks paranoid about locking the device after that.
Or maybe this was kids, someone’s idea of a joke?
The muffled noises went on, followed by a thud and the unmistakable sound of someone laughing. Then, as Banks looked at the display, a picture began to form. It wasn’t very sharp, but it looked like a photograph of a man slumped in a chair, asleep, perhaps, or unconscious, his head to one side. Banks couldn’t see whether there were other people around, but given the sounds, it might have been some sort of wild party.
Why on earth would anyone want to send Roy such a picture? Banks was still half asleep and not thinking at all clearly, so he saved the picture and put the phone back on the table. Whatever it was, he would be better equipped to deal with it in the morning.
CHAPTER SIX
The thunderstorm that swept across the southern half on the country during the night drove out the muggy weather, and Sunday dawned clear and sunny, the streets rinsed and sparkling after the rain. The temperature was still in the mid-twenties, but with the humidity all but gone, it was a comfortable heat.
Annie woke late after a refreshing sleep, though her hotel room had been too hot and she had had to lie in her underwear on top of the sheets. She had turned the control on the wall to cold, but after nothing happened, she concluded it was only for show. Perhaps if you believed it really worked, then you would start to feel cooler, but she didn’t have that much faith.
After a lukewarm shower and a room-service continental breakfast, again scouring the Sunday papers for any traces of Phil Keane’s handiwork and finding none, Annie checked her mobile in case she’d missed a message from Roy Banks, but there was nothing. She rang the number again, and again she got the answering service. This time she left an even more terse message. She tried the mobile number, but had no luck there, either. She didn’t bother leaving a message.
Next she rang Melanie Scott to make sure she would be at home, then she checked in with Gristhorpe at his home and found out that Jennifer Clewes’s parents were being brought to Eastvale that morning to identify their daughter. Then Annie set off for the tube.
First she had to take the Northern Line to Leicester Square, then change to the Piccadilly Line, which ran all the way out to Heathrow. Given the more clement weather and the relative emptiness of the train, her journey out to Hounslow passed pleasantly enough, some of it aboveground, and she gazed on the rows of redbrick terraced houses, playing fields, concrete-and-glass office blocks.
She found Melanie Scott’s house with the help of her A to Z, only about five minutes’ walk away from the Hounslow West tube station. Cars filled every available parking spot on both sides of the street, sun glinting on their windscreens, so she was glad yet again that she wasn’t driving.
The woman who answered the door looked to be in her late twenties, the same age as Jennifer Clewes. She was one of those excessively thin yet nicely shaped women, with small breasts, coat-hanger hips and a narrow waist. She was wearing denim shorts, which showed off her long tapered legs to advantage. Jet-black hair hung straight down to her shoulders and framed a pale oval face with large brown eyes, button nose and full mouth. The red lipstick stood out in contrast against the paleness of her skin. Annie hadn’t told her much over the telephone, but she must have suspected something was wrong, and she seemed nervous, anxious to hear the worst.
“You said it’s about Jenn,” she said as she pointed Annie toward an armchair in the cramped living room. The front window was open and they could hear snatches of conversation and laughter as people drifted by. Melanie sat on the edge of her chair and clasped her hands between her knees. “Is something wrong? What is it?”
“I’m afraid Jennifer Clewes is dead, Ms. Scott. I’m sorry I can’t think of any easier way to put it.”
Melanie just stared into a far corner of the room and her eyes filled with tears. Then she put her fist to her mouth and bit. Annie went over to her, but Melanie waved her away. “No, I’m all right. Really. It’s just the shock.” She rubbed her eyes and smudged mascara over her cheeks, then took a tissue from a box on the mantelpiece. “You’re a policewoman, so there must be something suspicious about it, right? How did it happen?”
No flies on Melanie, thought Annie, sitting down again. “She was shot,” she said.
“Oh my God. It’s the woman they found in the car in Yorkshire, isn’t it? The one in the papers and on TV. You said you were from Yorkshire.”
“North Yorkshire, yes.”
“They wouldn’t give her name out on the TV.”
“No,” said Annie. “We have to be certain. Her parents haven’t identified the body yet.” She thought of showing Melanie the photograph, but there was no point in further distressing her. Kate Nesbit had already identified Jennifer, and soon Jennifer’s parents would confirm this.
“I can’t believe it,” Melanie said. “Who’d want to kill Jenn? Was it some pervert? Was she…?”
“There was no sexual assault,” Annie said. “Do you know of anyone who would want to harm her?”
“Me? No, I can’t think of anyone.”
“When did you last talk to Jennifer?”
“A few days ago – Wednesday, I think – on the phone. I haven’t actually seen her for two or three weeks. Both too busy. We were going to the pictures next weekend. Chick-flick night. I can’t believe it.” She dabbed at her eyes again.
“Do you know if there was anything bothering her, anything on her mind?”
“She did seem a bit preoccupied the last time I talked to her. But I must admit, Jenn goes on about work a bit too much sometimes, and I sort of tune out.”
“She was worried about work?”
“Not specifically. It was just someone she mentioned. One of the late girls, she said. She worked at a family-planning center.”
“I know,” said Annie. “Late girls? What are they?”
“I’ve no idea. That’s just what she said.”
“A workmate? Late shift?”
“No, I don’t think so. I don’t think they worked in shifts. It’s not a twenty-four-hour center. But sometimes she has contact with the clients, through paperwork and billing and what have you, or if there’s a problem or something. There was some woman…”