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Chapter 14
Friday 5th February
It’s after one o’clock on Friday and I’m cruising along the A40 on my way to Oxford when my mobile rings, Jess’s number flashing on the display. I have, in fact, just been thinking about her; as planned, I’ve been mulling over my concerns about Pete’s casino visit and Edward and Satish’s Oxford trip as I drive. Three people I know suddenly seem to have vague connections to the two murders; is that somehow linked to the fact it wasmewho was sent the diary, and am I being stupid not taking the information to the police? I’m just so tired of worrying about it all, but I’m still trying to decide if I’m overreacting when the call comes in.
‘Mary, we’ve had a little development in the case,’ Jess says.
‘A development? Do tell,’ I say.
‘OK, well first, this might sound like a very random question, and I know I’m going back a bit here, but would you know if your dad might have visited a casino at any point, as research for one of his books maybe? One of Jane Holland’s casinos in particular? Or whether he ever consulted a lawyer, again for research?’
I frown, hitting the brakes as I approach a red light.
‘Errmmm … I mean, maybe,’ I say, doubtfully. ‘There aren’t any casinos in any of his novels though, as far as I can remember. But the lawyer thing – possibly. There was quite a bit of legal stuff in some of his plots so he may well have needed to check some details. Why?’
‘Do you have any way of checking? Any of his old notes, documents, early drafts of manuscripts, anything like that?’
The light changes and I move off again, shaking my head at the speaker Jess’s voice is booming from.
‘Nope,’ I say. ‘Everything was destroyed in the fire. The one he died in, as I’m sure you’re aware? He was pretty old-fashioned – he still used an old electric typewriter to write his books. And so everything, including all his notes, was just on paper. There were no electronic back-ups or anything like that. I’m amazed his publishers allowed it, and they probably wouldn’t have for much longer, but it was over fourteen years ago and he was a really big name back then, so, you know … anyway, everything was lost. I have nothing left at all, except his finished novels and screenplays of course. But why, Jess? Why do you want to know?’
‘Well, it’s just a theory at the moment,’ she says. ‘But one of the DCs in Birmingham has spotted a possible – quite tenuous, butpossible– link between you and the first two victims. It’s to do with having a famous parent, or certainly a parent well-known insomecapacity, and with a connection to crime.’
She explains further, and I listen, fascinated.
‘Gosh,’ I say, when she’s done. There’s a little tight feeling developing in my chest, and I swallow hard before saying, ‘I mean, yes, a bit tenuous. But there might be something in it. Are South Wales Police taking it seriously? It could narrow things down for them, couldn’t it?’
‘It could, and yes they are,’ Jess says. ‘Still a bit of a needle in a haystack, and of course we could have this all wrong. It could just be a coincidence. But think about it, will you? And let us know if you remember anything about your dad that might help. Trips he might have made to Oxford or Birmingham, maybe? I’ll email you photos of John Holland and Alice Turner too, see if their faces ring a bell. Anyway, speak soon.’
I drive the rest of the way to Alastair Turner’s house in a bit of a daze, somehow managing to follow the instructions barked at me from my sat nav. My mind is racing.
More coincidences? What’s going on? And could this really be about our parents? Has whoever’s doing this picked us out not because of who we are, but because of who they are?
It’s a thought that’s simply never occurred to me until now, and as I turn onto Painton Road and slow down, looking for number eleven, something starts pinging in the far recesses of my mind, a new idea suddenly beginning to form. I don’t have time to think it through at the moment though, and I spot the house I’m searching for and pull into the small paved driveway, tucking my little Audi in next to a smart black Jaguar SUV.
Alastair Turner’s house is a handsome semi-detached Victorian property, a date stone above the porch telling me it was built in 1896. The front door is painted deep blue, and when I ring the bell I hear a rich, deep peal, followed moments later by rapid footsteps. The man who opens the door is dressed in charcoal suit trousers and a black and white checked shirt, the top button open, no tie. He’s tall and dark with a neat beard and he looks, I think immediately, very like his late sister – the same striking yellow-brown eyes.
‘Dr Turner? I’m Mary Ellis,’ I say, and hold out a hand.
He takes it briefly, his grip firm, then smiles and stands aside to let me in.
‘Please, as I said on the phone, call me Alastair,’ he says. ‘Go through – second door on the left. We have the house to ourselves for an hour or so, fortunately. My wife has taken our son to the park. Would you like a tea or a coffee?’
‘Oh, a coffee would be lovely,’ I say. ‘Black is fine, thank you.’
‘Won’t be a minute,’ he says, and walks briskly off down the hallway, presumably to the kitchen. I push open the door he indicated and find myself in a bright reception room, presumably once separate sitting and dining rooms but at some point knocked through to make one big, open-plan living space. It is tastefully decorated and has comfortable-looking, modern furniture; bi-fold doors open out onto a surprisingly large and very neat rear garden, crocuses and early daffodils bobbing their heads in the breeze in tidy borders.
I stand there for a moment, admiring the view, then turn away from the window to look around the room. There’s a long L-shaped white sofa and two large, matching armchairs with a low table in-between them. I choose a chair and sit down, pulling a notebook, pen, and voice recorder from my bag. Gathering my thoughts, I remind myself not to let anything slip about the fact that I’m a potential victim of whoever killed Lisa too.
Stick to the story, I think.Just try to find out if there’s anything else that might link us all. The police might be right about the parent thing, but they might not …
‘One black coffee. And a couple of chocolate digestives on the side. I always think coffee just isn’t the same without a little bit of chocolate,’ says Alastair, suddenly reappearing.
‘Mmm, I agree, thank you,’ I say, and smile, and he smiles back, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
He takes the chair opposite me, and we both take a sip of our drinks. Then he carefully puts his mug down on the table and looks at me expectantly.
‘So. What can I tell you, Mary? Oh, I had a call from the police a short while ago, by the way. They wanted to ask about my mother, rather randomly. They were wondering if I knew if she might ever have encountered a character up in Birmingham – a casino owner known as Big Johnny. They said they couldn’t really explain, but clearly they’re investigating some sort of lead. I can’t imagine what my mother’s work years ago could have to do with my sister’s death though. I don’t suppose you can shed any light on that?’
