Minutes later, a beaming Todd Mallett strode across the grass towards her and held out his hand in greeting. A little formal, she thought, but he was, after all, a police inspector in front of all his men.
‘Congratulations on your promotion,’ she said, grinning.
‘Not before time, some say,’ he replied.
‘Which is probably to your credit.’
‘Glad something is,’ he said.
He looked her up and down appreciatively. She was wearing the same tight black jeans she had worn for the journey down the day before, along with black leather boots and a heavy black leather jacket with a lot of shiny metallic bits and pieces on it. An expensive-looking silk scarf was just visible at her neck. Her thick brown hair had been blown all over the place by the wind and her skin, as clear as ever, appeared lightly tanned. He supposed she could afford to buy sunshine any time of the year she pleased. Her eyes were just as emerald green and sparkling with life as he had remembered them. She wore no make-up. He thought that, by and large, the years had been kind to her. The hand which he clasped in his returned his grip firmly. She had workmanlike hands, the nails on her long fingers, although immaculately manicured, were clipped short and unvarnished. Her body remained as slim and lithe as ever. She never seemed to put on weight, and remained athletic-looking, even though she probably still took little or no exercise. He remembered that, apart from her swimming at school, Jennifer had always been totally uninterested in any kind of sport or exercise routine. He thought she looked like a biker, which he assumed was the intention, and reflected briefly that she was about the only woman in her forties he knew who would not appear totally ridiculous in such an outfit.
‘It’s been a long time,’ he said.
‘Not since the funeral...’ she responded.
‘Must be almost ten years?’ His voice a query. ‘You look good.’
‘So do you.’
It was the truth. Unlike his father, Todd Mallett had not thickened in girth with the years. He was a sportsman who still played cricket and had only recently given up rugby. His sporting activities had broadened his shoulders over the years, and given him plenty of muscle, while keeping in control any family tendency to fleshiness. The straight set of his mouth left no doubt as to his physical and mental toughness, but his grey eyes remained gentle and honest. He was just as she remembered him.
‘Are you here for long?’ he asked, trying to make conversation.
He was aware of the constable watching them with interest.
‘Maybe for ever,’ she replied.
Naturally he thought she was joking, but she wasn’t.
‘I’d like to talk to you,’ she said. ‘About all of this really...’
She gestured towards the activity around Bill’s cottage.
‘Is that why you came?’ he asked.
‘No. Sheer coincidence,’ she replied truthfully. ‘But I can’t help wanting to ask some questions now, now that...’
Her voice trailed off. He understood though. One of the few that did.
‘A pint tonight, at the Old Ship? Round eight o’clock?’ he queried.
She nodded enthusiastically.
‘Thank you, Todd,’ she said.
She hurried back to the car then. She’d kept her mother waiting far too long, selfish as ever, but meeting Todd like that, and with him apparently in charge of whatever inquiries were going on, was a stroke of luck. She’d always been a lucky reporter. She smiled at the memory of her first Fleet Street news editor, who had told her when she had once remarked on a piece of extraordinary good fortune that he only employed lucky reporters.
She took her mother out for lunch at the Waterside Hotel and then drove home. She was restless during the afternoon, eager to meet up with Todd.
Eventually eight o’clock arrived, and she pulled into the car park of the Old Ship just as Todd arrived in a big Volvo estate car with a baby seat strapped in the back. It was a timely reminder of his marital status.
‘Good God, you haven’t got another one, have you?’ she asked with singular lack of tact.
He smiled ruefully.
‘Yup, the three boys almost grown and bingo, along comes Charlotte Anne. As far as I can recall, I haven’t touched Angela much more than four times in the whole of our marriage, and every time a coconut.’
Jennifer laughed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said.
‘Not as ridiculous as you might think,’ he told her. ‘Just a very small exaggeration. Still, I wouldn’t be without the little one. I’ve always wanted a girl, and she’s a cracker.’
Not for the first time, Jennifer reflected on what a good decent man Todd was, and wondered why she couldn’t have grabbed him with both hands when she had the chance. No way, she thought. He was far too nice for her.
Inside they sampled some locally-brewed ale and she started to ask about Bill Turpin, his death, and the discoveries at his cottage.
It was then that Todd dropped his bombshell.
‘Look, this is going to shake you,’ he began. ‘You may as well know the biggest news first. We did a complete search of Bill’s cottage, including digging the garden. You saw that today.’
She nodded. On edge now.
‘This afternoon we found the remains of a young woman. She had been buried there for many years. That news is just about to be released.’
Jennifer looked at him as steadily as she could. She knew what he was going to say next. She just knew.
‘All we know for certain so far is that she was extremely small, in her late teens or very early twenties, and the approximate year she died. We have to wait for forensic now to help us identify the body, and of course there is always a chance with a corpse of this age that it never gets identified at all. But I have a hunch.’
He glanced at her. She was gazing at him steadily. She looked pale. Vulnerable. Not like herself at all.
‘Go on,’ she said quietly.
‘My hunch is that we’ve found Irene Nichols,’ he said.
A cold sweat enveloped Jennifer. So Irene had been dead all these years. She supposed she must have known it really. She struggled to keep her composure, and when she spoke she realised that her voice sounded perfectly level, which was not what she had expected. Years of Fleet Street training, clearly.
‘What else did you find?’ she asked.
Todd looked uneasy.
‘There’s one thing I must ask you,’ he said. ‘This is private isn’t it? Nothing to do with the paper?’
‘What paper?’ she replied.
‘Oh, like that is it?’
‘Yes, very like that,’ she said.
He had told her all of it then. Maybe he shouldn’t have, but he appreciated her urgent need to know.
Bill Turpin’s body had been discovered by the postman. Twice he’d called and heard Bill’s dogs howling. The house was shut up, so he had hammered on the back door to no avail. The door was bolted on the inside, but a kitchen window had not been properly fastened. The postman was a small man, slim and athletic. He clambered through the window and found the old man slumped across the kitchen table. He had used Bill’s phone to call the police. Two local officers and an ambulance were on the scene within half an hour and were immediately confronted with their first surprise. Bill had been sitting at the table surrounded by papers and money. A great deal of money. Nearly a quarter of a million in used notes, and over a million quid’s worth of share certificates. There were also statements and various papers referring to numbered Swiss bank accounts. Just a brief glance had showed Todd that Bill was worth four or five million. And probably much more. Everybody knew he had been successful in the holiday trade, but his local business ventures could not possibly have netted a fraction of the riches Bill Turpin had accumulated.