‘William Blake,’ said Banks.
Blackstone raised his eyebrows. ‘I see your poetry babe must be doing a good job.’
‘She’s not a “babe”, but she is doing a good job. Anyway, people often take the words as licence, or as an excuse, for extreme behaviour, though that wasn’t exactly what Blake had in mind.’ He paused. ‘Though maybe it was. He was an odd one, Blake. One of a kind. Even Linda didn’t quite know what to make of him. Anyway, it tells us at least that your girl didn’t mind flaunting it a bit, being outrageous, whether she followed Blake’s advice or not.’
‘From what I could gather she liked people to believe she was more adventurous than she really was.’
‘These quote tattoos are a bit of a trend, anyway. I wouldn’t read that much into them. Last one I saw was on a girl on the Tesco’s checkout. “L’enfer c’est les autres.” I asked her what made her choose that particular quotation and she couldn’t really say except that it was a good fit. She didn’t even know what it meant. I think the tattooist had a book of quotes for people to choose from, and she just liked the look or the sound of it. How was Sarah Chen’s state of mind on this shopping expedition you mentioned? Did she give any indication to her friends as to where she was going that night, what she was doing?’
‘She just mentioned that she was going to a party. Didn’t say where or with whom. Her friend asked about it but couldn’t get any more out of her. She didn’t think it odd, though, as Sarah often liked to sound a bit mysterious and secretive about what she was doing. Part of giving the impression she was up to all sorts of things, no doubt. Where does that quote come from?’
‘It’s from a play by Jean-Paul Sartre. “Hell is other people”.’
‘Ah.’
‘What made Sarah’s friend report her missing after only a week?
‘She was used to Sarah coming and going without notice, but this seemed just a bit too long. She’d missed an important essay deadline and a tutorial. Apparently, that wasn’t like her. She liked her fun, but she took her studies seriously. People were asking her friend where she was, if something had happened to her. Sarah liked to keep people guessing, but according to those who knew her, she wasn’t in the habit of disappearing for as long as a week.’
‘What did you find out from her friends?’
‘Nothing much. We asked around. Nobody seemed to know where she was going, if anywhere. According to everyone who knew her, she was a normal student. Conscientious, hard-working, maybe a bit given to depression on occasion, though that’s hardly surprising given her home circumstances.’
‘Boyfriends?’
‘Nobody serious. We talked to two students who’d dated her so far this year, and they both said she could be a bit enigmatic — I think one actually said “inscrutable” — but other than that she was fun to be with, and not in the least interested in commitment. She could hold her end up in most conversations, whether about world affairs or the FA cup, liked to drink and dance and let her hair down now and then. Apparently, she was no shrinking violet. We assumed she’d run off with a new boyfriend or something, or that there was some family crisis nobody knew about and she was taking care of that. But the staff at the mother’s care home hadn’t seen her since the week before. We checked out her room, and there were no signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate that she’d been abducted from there.’
‘What did you find in the room?’
‘Nothing of interest. She shared a house with three other students, communal living and eating areas and each with their own bedroom-cum-study. It was just as you’d expect a student’s room to be. A bit messy, discarded jeans and T-shirts and stuff scattered about, books, piles of paper and research material. But it was basically well ordered. No sign of handbag or shoulder bag there, either.’ Blackstone paused. ‘There was another odd thing, too, though.’
‘Yes?’
‘Her mobile. It was still in her room. It was quite an expensive new model, too. A ten or something. I mean, have you ever known a teenager who doesn’t pick up her mobile first thing when she goes out anywhere?’
‘Tracy certainly does,’ said Banks. ‘I can only think of one who didn’t, and that’s Adrienne Munro.’
‘Your dead girl in the car?’
‘Yes.’
Banks finished his pie and washed it down with some IPA. The other similarities with the Adrienne Munro case weren’t lost him. She was also a second-year student, dressed for an occasion, found dead in an out-of-the-way spot. Only the way it looked, Adrienne had committed suicide and Sarah Chen had been murdered. The timing was also curious. Nobody Banks or Blackstone had spoken to so far knew exactly when either girl had been seen last, but it appeared that they had disappeared around the same time. The weekend before last. Saturday.
‘So apart from the superficial similarities, why am I here?’ Banks asked. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’
Blackstone smiled. ‘I was just coming to that.’ He reached for his briefcase, and passed a photograph and a torn-off slip of paper protected by a plastic cover over to Banks. The photograph showed a smiling, beautiful Sarah in full bloom. It was easy to see her different ethnic characteristics, and how they helped form her particular kind of beauty. Blackstone tapped the slip of paper. ‘We found this on the desk in her room.’
Written on the slip were a name and a telephone number. The name was Adrienne Munro, but the telephone number wasn’t hers.
9
Dr Anthony Randall’s house formed quite a contrast to Adele Balter’s and Annie’s tiny cottages, though it wasn’t quite as large and ostentatious as Rivendell. Nor was it built in the art deco style. It was an old detached house of brick and stone with mullioned windows and a slate roof, surrounded by a couple of acres of garden dotted with trees, all enclosed by a moss-covered wall. It was probably a listed building, and perhaps at one time had belonged to the lord of the manor. Dr Randall clearly didn’t restrict his duties to NHS work.
Neither Annie nor Gerry had phoned Dr Randall to let him know they were coming. They wanted the element of surprise, so they had to be prepared for his being out. The sight of the BMW parked in the semicircular driveway by the front door seemed to indicate that he was at home, however. Gerry had told Annie that Randall was a cardiothoracic surgeon, not a GP, and that he was sixty-five years old and divorced. The rest they would find out when they talked to him.
They parked the car in the street, opened the heavy wrought-iron gate and walked around the drive. There seemed to be no doorbell, so Annie banged the brass lion’s-head door knocker.
A few moments later, the door was opened by a tall, rangy man with a shock of curly grey hair, wearing a V-neck jumper over a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, and grey trousers with creases sharp enough to cut yourself on. His bushy eyebrows were raised in a questioning arch. Annie and Gerry introduced themselves and flashed their warrant cards. Randall managed to look put out as he gave up his precious time and led them through a cavernous hall into a large sitting room. There was no decorative fireplace, but the room was warm enough without. Most of the furniture seemed antique to Annie, except for the three-piece suite, which was far too comfortable to be old. The doctor offered no refreshments or small talk, but simply sat at the edge of his armchair with his hands clasped on his lap as if he were about to head off somewhere at any moment and said, ‘What do you want with me? You’ll have to be quick. I don’t have much time.’
‘Busy surgery?’
‘As a matter of fact, it’s a private consultation.’