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Chapter 5
Monday 1st February
It’s happened already.Overnight.It’s 10am. and I’m sitting at my desk at The Hub, constantly refreshing the online news pages, anxiety gnawing at my stomach, and suddenly there it is.
West Midlands Police have launched a murder investigation after a woman’s body was found in Edgbaston. The victim, believed to be in her fifties, was found in her back garden early this morning by a neighbour; she was pronounced dead at the scene. More to follow.
Scant details as yet, and no name. But she’s going to be a Jane: I can feel it in my gut.
MURDER JANE, BIRMINGHAM.
The 1st of February.
This is it, isn’t it? It’s happening, just as the diary threatened. Or is this just a horrible coincidence?
I take a deep breath, trying to calm myself.
What do I do now? Don’t panic, that’s the key. Wait until this poor woman’s been identified, for a start …
‘All right, Mary? Want a biccie?’
I jump as Eleanor zooms up behind me, one hand skilfully manoeuvring her wheelchair, the other proffering an open packet of fig rolls. I look quizzically at the biscuits and smile.
‘Fig rolls? I didn’t even know they stillmadefig rolls. I’m OK, thanks. You really do have the most retro taste in snacks, Ellie.’
Eleanor tosses her long red hair back with a flip of her head and grins. She is, as always, exquisitely made up, her eyeliner in perfect cat-like flicks, her full lips a deep burgundy.
‘Got to keep my energy up. Two weeks until Valentine’s Day, and the phone hasn’t stopped,’ she says. ‘Speaking of which …’
Down at the far end of the office, her desk phone has started to ring, and she drops the packet of biscuits onto her lap and whizzes off again, calling ‘Later!’ over her shoulder. Moments later she’s grabbing the phone and proclaiming:
‘Good morning, Sparkle Specialists, how can I help?’ in her lovely, sing-song Welsh accent. Her agency is thriving, it seems. Eleanor – or Ellie, as most of us call her – and her team travel far and wide: red-carpet events, fashion shows, magazine shoots, the lot. But their bread and butter is just normal women who like to have their hair and make-up professionally done for a night out. It’s not something which would ever occur to me – I’m happy with a heavy-duty concealer, a slick of mascara and lip gloss and a dab of blusher – but apparently it’s a growing trend, and things always get a little crazy for Ellie at certain times of the year: Christmas, graduation time, wedding season. And Valentine’s Day, of course.
I turn back to my computer screen, clicking onto the West Midlands Police website and navigating to theirLatest Newssection. There’s nothing more there than I already know, and there probably won’t be for a while. It’s beyond frustrating, and I wonder if it’s worth putting a call in to Sergeant Little, the local police officer I spoke to yesterday, because surely he’s been keeping an eye on Birmingham overnight too? Then I change my mind. It would be a waste of time; he’s not likely to know the victim’s name yet either, and even if he does, he won’t share it with me. I’ll just have to wait, and try to keep busy. I’m so tired though. I slept badly last night; at around nine, as we’d just started watching an old episode ofMiranda, Pete took a brief phone call from Megan, and after saying goodbye he looked at me with an expression which was a combination of sheepish and hopeful.
‘She says she’s really missing me. She really wants me to go over and stay the night. I mean, I’d like to, but I don’t want to leave you if you’re feeling shaky …’
‘Oh don’t be silly, go! I’m fine. Enjoy your night of debauchery,’ I said.
‘Are you sure? Really?’ he asked.
‘Yes! Get out of here, go on.’
But, alone in the house, my anxiety had flooded back, and I’d spent a restless night, sleeping fitfully and waking at the slightest noise. I had nightmares too; I’ve had them for years, on and off, but this was darker, more frightening, than any I’ve had in a long time, and twice I sat bolt upright in bed, gasping for breath, my pyjamas soaked with sweat. Now, I stand up, stretch my tense, stiff neck and shoulders and walk down to the kitchen to make a strong coffee. When I get back to my desk, mug in hand, I reopen the document I started working on first thing this morning, and stare at the photograph I’ve copied onto the top of the page. Lisa Turner, the young woman who died in Oxford on New Year’s Day.
She stares back at me, and I swallow hard, suddenly feeling as if I want to cry. Twenty-eight years old, a glossy dark-brown bob, soft fringe swept across her forehead, and quite remarkable eyes, yellow-brown like a tiger’s. She’d recently become a barrister, working for a leading chambers in Oxford city centre and specialising in insolvency and company law.
Such a waste,I think.
Every death is tragic, of course. But when it’s someone so young, with so much to give … I pick up my coffee and take a sip, then jump again as a voice behind me says:
‘A bit macabre, your job, isn’t it? Looking at photos of dead people again?’
Could people juststopcreeping up behind me?I think, with a wave of irritation, and turn to see Edward Cooper peering over my shoulder at the photo of Lisa. I close the document and roll my chair away from him.
‘I’m a crime writer, Edward. It’s what I do,’ I snap, not even trying to hide my annoyance, and he backs away, raising both hands in the air.
‘Sorry, sorry, just passing,’ he says. ‘That was that lawyer who was killed in Oxford at New Year, wasn’t it? Very sad.’
