The Runaway Read online

  Jo sifted through the papers. And sure enough, there amongst the bumf I caught a glimpse of A4 lined paper, torn from a book and folded in half. I snatched it and opened it up.

  Professor Kendrick peered over my shoulder as I read:

  Matt. I’ll be in Old Bar, Thursday two o’clock. Be there. I mean it.

  The note wasn’t signed but there was a letter at the end of it. The letter ‘S’. No kiss, not underlined, just an S and a full stop, all in purple biro.

  ‘When did you see this woman?’ Jo asked Sally.

  ‘Yesterday, just before lunch.’

  I turned to the professor. ‘What’s he like, Matt?’

  ‘Bright. Well-bred. Popular.’ She pushed her glasses back up her nose. ‘I ought to inform administration.’

  I wasn’t keen to get any kind of authority involved, not until we knew what we were dealing with. ‘He might just have had a row with his girlfriend.’

  ‘And you said his parents are aware?’

  ‘If there’s another woman on the scene,’ said Jo, waving the piece of paper in the air, ‘he might be in hiding from his girlfriend. Case she breaks his legs.’

  ‘The eternal curse of good-looking men.’ Professor Kendrick shrugged her shoulders. ‘I imagine.’

  ‘Of course, the girl you saw might not have left this note. It’s not dated.’ I turned back to Sally. ‘What did she look like?’

  Professor Kendrick took off her glasses, polished them with a cloth handkerchief.

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Sally. ‘She was young. I assumed she was a student.’

  ‘Glasses? Braces? Blonde, redhead?’ asked Jo. ‘Clothes?’

  Professor Kendrick returned her glasses to her face and checked her watch. ‘I expect she wore clothes, didn’t she, Sally?’

  Sally’s cheeks grew pink and she threw a grateful glance at the professor. ‘I didn’t take much notice, I was late for my meeting. She had dark hair, I think. About this long.’ She pointed to her shoulders.

  ‘Young, female and dark, long hair? Anything else?’

  ‘I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this kind of thing.’

  ‘Anything at all.’

  ‘Eyeliner,’ said Sally with a note of triumph in her voice. ‘I remember thinking she wore too much eyeliner.’

  Great. That should narrow it down to well over eighty per cent of the student population, even if you included the boys.

  ‘Well,’ said Jo. ‘Here’s our card. If you remember anything, give us a ring, let us know. There’s a … an office manager if we’re not available. You can leave a message with her.’

  Chapter Three

  We trudged back up the hill towards the office. We hadn’t found out a right lot, and it was hard not to feel a bit deflated. We decided we’d wait till teatime to go round to Matt’s house on The Turnways again, see if anyone turned up. Before that we were meeting Martin Blink.

  Martin arrived at the offices on the stroke of half past four. He limped through the front door, and Jo jumped up from her desk and hugged the life out of him. They’d spent a lot of time together, after our last case, when Jo was in hospital recovering from her surgery on her shoulder, and I was trying to handle the chaos of the aftermath of what had happened. I think now he sees her as his protégée.

  I hung back, tried to position myself so that Aunt Edie wouldn’t see Jo’s eyes tight shut in the embrace. ‘Good to see you,’ I said. ‘How you doing?’

  He didn’t answer me, staring instead at Jo, running his eyes up and down her frame like he was looking for weak spots.

  I tried to see Jo through Martin’s eyes. I know I take her for granted. She’s the stronger one, I mean, mentally – the least neurotic person I ever met. To Jo everything is black or white. There’s the wrong way and the right way. Good versus evil. If there’s ever anything on her mind, she’ll go out, get hammered and forget about it. She doesn’t have brain worms – the things that wriggle around in your headspace, won’t let you go.

  I had noticed that since the last investigation she was smoking and drinking a bit more than she used to, and I was keeping an eye on it. But who wouldn’t be, in her position, after what had happened? She’d been shot and the physical scars were still healing. The mental scars might take even longer. She’d get there though. I’d make damned sure of that.

  Jo seemed to pass Martin’s inspection, because he took a step back, nodded and said, ‘Doing all right, kid.’

  And I felt my shoulders give a little.

  ‘I’m hanging in there,’ said Jo.

  She pushed a chair towards Martin and as soon as he sat down he didn’t look old. His face tells a lot of stories – frown lines buried deep in his forehead, but laughter lines like spiders’ webs criss-crossing from the corner of his eyes and disappearing into his hairline. When he’s not trying to walk you’d think he was in his fifties.

  ‘Doing just fine,’ said Aunt Edie.

  ‘Any ghosts?’ said Martin, setting a battered leather briefcase on the desk.

  Jo glanced at me and a wash of something that felt like acid burned my veins. I know she hates talking about the fact she killed a man. Even a man as bad as the one she killed. I tell her she did the world a favour, but I know she doesn’t believe me. Not yet.

  ‘I’m coping,’ said Jo.

  ‘It’s ace to see you, Martin.’ As I said the words I felt my breathing deepen, so that air made it past my chest and into the rest of my body. ‘What brings you here?’

  ‘Private matters.’ He tapped one finger against the side of his nose and then glanced across at Aunt Edie. ‘If your receptionist here could make us a cup of tea, I’ve a thirst like the Sahara. You got a room we could talk in?’

  I think I actually ducked. When I did dare risk a glance in Aunt Edie’s direction, she was holding on to the back of her office chair, her knuckles white under the fluorescent lights.

  ‘I’m the office manager, not the receptionist,’ she said in the tightest of voices.

  ‘Sorry, love.’ Martin held up his hands. ‘Didn’t mean to cause offence.’

  Aunt Edie bridled but managed to bite her tongue. She pushed her chair under the desk. ‘I’ll happily put the kettle on,’ she said. ‘And I was going to leave a bit early tonight, so no need to go through to the back. You can have the place to yourselves. Talk about your privates to your heart’s content.’ She stared unblinking at Martin as she spoke.

  I felt my cheeks burn.

  Once Aunt Edie had switched the kettle on and her computer off, she buttoned up her coat and let herself out.

  Martin loosened his tie.

  ‘Got off on the wrong foot there.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Her bark’s worse than her bite,’ I lied. ‘So, come on, spill.’

  ‘I want to hire you girls.’

  ‘Hire us?’

  ‘Women,’ said Jo.

  ‘I want to hire you women?’ asked Martin. ‘Really?’

  Jo nodded and put her feet up on the desk.

  ‘OK,’ said Martin, shrugging his shoulders. ‘I want to hire you women.’

  If I’ve got a weak spot, it’s lonely old men. You see them, shuffling round Morrisons, mismatched clothes, in need of a haircut. I can’t bear to think of them fumbling with the tin opener and being unable to reach out to people. Jo gives me hell for my sexism and it’s true – I don’t worry about women in the same way. I guess I think women have an advantage.

  I knew Martin was divorced, that he lived on his own, but I didn’t like to think of him living with the ghosts of the disappeared.

  ‘You’re missing someone?’ I wondered who it might be. He’d never mentioned much about his private life.

  ‘Been thinking, since you solved that last case. You found the answer to something that happened seventeen years ago. You went back and found something we all missed.’

  ‘Couldn’t have done it without you,’ I said. ‘And the—’

  ‘Enough, already. Don’t need to be damned with your faint praise, thanks all the same. Never doubted my investigative skills.’ He fiddled with the clasp on his briefcase and pulled out a newspaper. ‘But sometimes you got to wait till the window opens.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Jo, taking the paper from him.

  ‘Page thirteen.’ He pulled at his tie and loosened the knot. ‘Another one I never got to the bottom of. And this one nags me, buzzes round my head like an angry wasp. You know, when the 3 a.m. gets you?’ He looked to Jo and I found myself feeling resentful. I’m more than familiar with the early hours, thank you very much.

  Jo read while Martin continued, ‘One that won’t let me lie. And I thought well, if you could have a go at it, maybe the time is right.’

  ‘The body?’ said Jo.

  ‘Let me see.’ I peered over Jo’s shoulder, saw a small article, only a few lines with the headline: ‘Police discover woman’s body in garden of luxury flats.’

  ‘It’s worth a crack, that’s what I’m saying.’

  We heard the kettle whistle in the kitchenette out back. Martin Blink looked up at the clock. ‘Sun’s almost over the yard arm. You gi— women got a local?’

  Martin doesn’t know about my issues with alcohol. Not that I’ve had a drink since the last case. And I try not to beat myself up too much about that one. Surely anyone in that situation, faced with the immediate prospect of their own death, would succumb to one last shot? Especially when it was one of the finest whiskies money could buy. So fine that when I close my eyes, I can still taste it.

  But before that one slip, in extreme circumstances, it had been nearly a full twelve months since I’d given up drinking.

  I know now that that’s the difference between the addict and the social drinker. To the addict, it doesn’t matter how long it’s been si
nce the last one, because they’re focused on the next. The social drinker can enjoy a drink, the one they have in their hands – as a self-contained event, an occasion all in itself. Which is a nice idea, but a single drink doesn’t exist for the addict. The addict is thinking about the future, about what will happen when the one in their hands runs out. To the addict one drink is only ever the start.

  Addicts are people who have never experienced enough. Enough of what, I don’t know. Therapists would tell you they haven’t had enough love. I don’t know about that. I just know there’s never enough alcohol to get me out of my mind.

  ‘Well?’ asked Martin.

  I nearly said no, but I caught the look on Jo’s face. And, I reminded myself, it’s good for me to be challenged. An opportunity to reassert my faith, my resolve. Least, that’s what the textbooks tell me.

  I switched the phones over to the night-service and unhooked my jacket from its peg. ‘There’s The Brudenell,’ I said as Jo’s eyes lit up. ‘Just round the corner.’

  Chapter Four

  The Brudenell is a social club but it’s not like your average working men’s club. For a start, nearly everyone in it is a student and probably not one of them has ever done a full day’s work in their lives – at least, not the kind of work that working men’s club implies. Recently, The Brudenell has been building a solid reputation as a kind of secret gig venue, with unadvertised performances by some big-name bands.

  We were seated in the bar less than ten minutes after leaving the office, Martin and Jo both with pints – Landlord for Martin, lager and lime for Jo. I nursed a blackcurrant and soda. I can’t drink cola because the caffeine makes my heart race, and I’m never sure what else to order. ‘Let’s hear it then.’

  He glanced around but it was still early, even by student standards. The closest drinkers were seated three tables away. ‘Trouble was no one was pushing for it to be solved. A body – young girl – young woman, a prostitute—’

  ‘Sex worker,’ said Jo.

  Martin nodded and took a swig of his pint. The head of his beer left a foam moustache along his top lip. It suited him, matched the white of his hair. ‘Sex worker. Like it. Anyway, that was as far as they got. A body. A sex worker, they decided. No one ever came forward to claim her.’

  ‘Murdered?’

  Martin popped a Fisherman’s Friend in his mouth and crunched. ‘She was dead. That’s about the only fact. Police decided it was suicide although they never found a note. Pathologist said somewhere between twenty-two and twenty-five. Autopsy showed she’d carried a child. Slip of a thing. Bruises that looked like she’d had some kind of fight, but they were old – not related to her death.’

  ‘Suicide?’ I know I’ve got an issue with suicide. To me, it’s selfish and passive-aggressive – a way of handing on your problems to someone else. It’s the easy way out. Jo gives me hell for my views but I can’t seem to change them. It’s like they’re ingrained in me. I took a sip of my blackcurrant and tried not to gag. ‘How she do it?’

  He slapped me on the knuckles. ‘Not proved.’

  ‘Well, how’d she die?’

  ‘Poisoned.’

  ‘Poisoned? What, like an overdose?’

  ‘Strychnine – know how that works?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Starts with twitching. Facial muscles go first.’ Martin clenched and unclenched his fingers, balling his hand into a fist, then flinging his fingers back. He still wore his wedding ring and it squeezed the flesh of his third finger. ‘Spasms spread throughout the body, progressing to convulsions as the nervous system runs out of control.’

  ‘Weird way to kill yourself,’ said Jo.

  ‘Eventually the muscles that control breathing become paralyzed and the victim suffocates,’ Martin continued. ‘Stays conscious and aware the whole time up to death – in fact the nerves of the brain are stimulated, gives heightened perception.’

  ‘Christ,’ said Jo.

  He took another mouthful of beer. ‘Hard to think of a worse way to go.’

  ‘Where’d she get strychnine from?’ I asked. ‘Is it legal?’

  ‘It was. Used by mole-catchers – but you had to be a licensed pest controller to get hold of it. Police never found where she got it from, least not that they told me.’

  ‘You don’t think it was suicide?’

  ‘She was found in the communal garden of a block of flats, overlooking Roundhay Park.’

  I’d never been to Roundhay Park, but I’d heard of it. It was out to the north of the city, only about four miles away; but we’ve got Hyde Park right on our doorstep, so why travel?

  ‘She killed herself outside?’ asked Jo and I knew by the tone of her voice that she didn’t believe it. I could see where she was coming from – when you think of suicide, especially women, you think of pills in the bath, head in the oven. But then there were the jumpers, I thought. Beachy Head and that bridge near Hull. They were outdoors.

  ‘Perhaps she didn’t want a relative to find her,’ I said. ‘I mean, if it was suicide, and she’d killed herself in her own flat, chances are it would have been someone she knew who discovered her. Perhaps that’s why she went to the garden – she wanted a stranger to find her.’ Which, I thought, although I didn’t say aloud, made her more thoughtful than your average suicide. I don’t know how the tube drivers ever recover from what they must see when someone decides they can’t go on.

  ‘She didn’t live in the flats,’ said Martin.

  ‘Oh.’ I considered this for a moment. It didn’t make sense. ‘Why would you kill yourself in someone else’s garden?’

  ‘Where did she live?’ asked Jo.

  Martin shrugged. ‘That’s the trouble. We don’t know. No one knows who she is. No ID on her; all they found was a train ticket from Nottingham. Like she’d travelled all the way from Nottingham to kill herself in the garden of this particular block of flats.’

  ‘She must have known someone in the flats,’ I said.

  ‘She’d tied herself to a statue. Right in the middle of the grass.’

  ‘If they didn’t know who she was, how did they know she was a sex worker?’ asked Jo.

  Martin shrugged again. ‘Don’t know. And I’ve got to tell you here, after …’ He paused, looked at Jo again. ‘After last time. I want to put my cards right out there on the table, so you know what you’re getting into. I didn’t like the way the investigation was handled, if you catch my drift.’

  ‘Come on, Martin,’ I said. I banged my drink down on the table harder than I expected and caused the table to wobble and Jo’s pint to slop. I lowered my voice. ‘You can’t put your cards on the table and then ask us to catch your drift. What do you mean?’

  Jo mopped at the spillage with a beer mat.

  ‘The policeman in charge. I had my doubts. That’s all. Nothing concrete, just a feeling that perhaps he wasn’t as committed as he could have been.’

  ‘Wasn’t committed or was bent? Massive difference.’

  ‘Lee,’ Jo said. She put a hand on my arm. ‘We’ve got to come to each case blank, you know that. Empty.’

  I reminded myself to breathe. Martin looked at me and then at Jo, like he was watching a tennis match.

  ‘I don’t know why he decided she was a sex worker. That’s all. Maybe she was known to the police, or him; maybe he was working from the fact that no one ever claimed her, the bus driver’s impression … I don’t know. It might not be important. Anyway, to me it felt like she was trying to tell someone something. She was naked. Did I say that?’

  ‘She committed suicide naked?’

  ‘Bollocks,’ said Jo.

  ‘The report said she was naked as the day she was born except for a necklace,’ said Martin.

  ‘If she was naked, where was her train ticket?’

  ‘All her clothes were folded neatly next to the body. The train ticket was found in bushes less than three metres away.’

  ‘Might not be hers then?’ Jo said.

  ‘It had her fingerprints on it. And they found a bus driver who thought he remembered her getting the bus from the station.’

  ‘Did they check the CCTV?’

  Martin nodded. ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Not a lot to go on,’ I said.