As soon as the landlord began to talk about needing bank references, I offered him six months rent, at his asking price, in advance. Cash, if he liked.
I saw his eyes light up.
‘I’m in a hurry you see,’ I said, by way of explanation.
He didn’t seem to really need one by then.
I went to the bank, drew out the cash, and I was in. Then I hired a car, using my driving licence and the debit card from my phoney bank account. I didn’t want to risk using my own car, any more than I wanted to use my own home.
I did some shopping, bought flowers and made the apartment as nice as I could. I scrubbed the kitchen and even found the time to slap a new coat of paint on the walls in the sitting room, in order to brighten the place up. I wasn’t an insensitive man. Then I was ready, or as ready as I would ever be, to drive to Heathrow to pick up Manee.
One half of me was excited. The other half already regretting what I’d done. I parked in short-term parking and walked swiftly into Terminal Three. Manee was flying Thai Air.
She arrived on a Saturday evening. I’d made myself look as much as possible like the picture I’d sent her. I’d given my hair a dark rinse and grown some facial hair, albeit little more than a hint of stubble after a day without shaving, which I planned to remove before returning to work on Monday morning. I was also wearing the tinted glasses.
I spotted her as soon as she walked into the arrivals hall. She was very small and pretty, prettier even than her picture had suggested.
Just as I’d told her I would, I’d printed out her name in big letters and stuck it on a piece of cardboard, like the chauffeurs do. Manee. Manee Jainukul. She’d said she was sure I would recognise her and she me, from our photographs. But I knew I didn’t look at all like my photograph, even with the amendments I’d attempted to make to my appearance.
I watched as she first spotted the name board I was carrying, then looked up at my face. At once, I saw the doubt in her. My stomach lurched. I forced my features into the most welcoming and reassuring smile I could manage.
Suddenly the doubt seemed to lift and she smiled back, brightly, excitedly. We walked towards each other. I put my hand on her trolley, proprietorial already.
‘Manee?’ I queried, though the question was unnecessary.
‘Saul?’ her voice was high-pitched, childlike, full of hope.
I felt like a rat. I suppose I was behaving like a rat and not for the first time, but I was already in too deep to do anything about that. I’d feared we might not even get beyond the airport, however things looked promising, so far. Manee was still studying my face though, scrutinising me.
I thought I’d better deal with that straight away.
‘Sorry about the picture,’ I said. ‘I know it’s not a good likeness. It isn’t very up to date, you see.’ I turned my smile of welcome and reassurance into a disarming boyish grin. Well, the best shot I could make at it anyway. ‘Vanity, I’m afraid.’ I continued.
It seemed ages before she spoke.
‘But you very handsome,’ she said eventually, ‘Very much more handsome than picture.’
I liked that. I liked that a lot. This was the sort of woman I’d been looking for all my life. I leaned forward and kissed her on the cheek, in a chaste sort of way. It seemed I did the right thing. She beamed at me.
I steered her out of the arrivals building and led her to the hire car in the car park. It was only a small Ford but, being a rental, it was nearly new and very clean. She looked at it approvingly or I thought she did, anyway.
On the way back to Bristol, we made polite and somewhat stilted conversation. I thought she was probably nervous. I was certainly nervous. Not least because I had another little problem to surmount before we reached our destination.
Stupidly perhaps, I’d emailed her a photograph of my real house when I’d invited her to the UK. I’d been trying to impress her, you see, to do my best to ensure that she would fly halfway across the world to be with me. It wasn’t anything special, but it was quite a nice house and was in keeping with the picture I had painted of myself and the profile I had created. But I couldn’t take her to my house, it would reveal far too much about me and I was afraid that things would go wrong. After all, they always had before, then I’d be trapped.
‘My house,’ I said. ‘I sent you a picture. Do you like it?’
She nodded enthusiastically. Her whole face lit up.
‘For me, very beautiful house,’ she said.
‘Yes, well it’s going to be even more beautiful for you,’ I told her. ‘I’m having some work done on it. A new bathroom and kitchen.’
‘Me very excited, Saul,’ she said.
‘Yes, but it’s meant quite a lot of structural work and disruption. I’m afraid the house isn’t liveable in at the moment,’ I lied. ‘There isn’t even any running water. So I’ve rented a little flat. It won’t be for long, few weeks at most.’
I watched her face fall.
‘I so want to be in your fine house, Saul,’ she said.
‘Me too,’ I responded. ‘We will be there together soon. It won’t be long, I promise and the flat is quite nice.’
She looked doubtful, very doubtful. I changed tack slightly.
‘It has two bedrooms,’ I said. ‘One each, if you like, until we are married, which will also be soon, I hope. And, I want you to know that I won’t be, uh, expecting anything until then. First, we can just get to know each other. No obligation to do anything else. Nothing like that.’
For a second or two she looked confused, then her face split into the big smile again. It seemed I had said the right thing.
‘You honourable man, Saul,’ she said. ‘Very fine, honourable man.’
I touched her hand lightly, affectionately.
Her assessment of my character, of course, could not have been further from the truth.
Fourteen
In the morning, Vogel made himself put all thoughts about the bombshell letter to the very back of his mind. He needed all his energy and brain power to be concentrated on the investigation into the death of Melanie Cooke.
He left the house just before six, as Mary had predicted, and caught the little train to Temple Meads Station. It was fifteen minutes or so walk from Kenneth Steele House, which he always said he didn’t mind, because it was the only exercise he got.
In keeping with Mary’s advice, he intended to call Dawn Saslow as early as he reasonably could, after the previous extended day. He didn’t expect his team to keep quite the working hours that he did — although very nearly.
It was extraordinary how often Mary had the knack of stating the damned obvious.
He’d been in too much of a hurry. It wasn’t a mistake he’d usually make, but all police officers were aware of the importance of the golden first 24 hours in a murder inquiry. He’d wanted to get the school visit over as fast as possible and move on, but Sally Pearson was 14, the age of keeping secrets. And, although he prided himself on his interviewing skills, Vogel, in common with most middle-aged men, was totally bewildered by both the mental and physical complexities of a young, teenage girl.
Vogel called Saslow just after seven.
‘I’m going to get Claire Brown to talk to that teacher and child from Moorcroft,’ he began. ‘It’s a long shot that either of them have any further information and, if they do, Brown’s just the sort to winkle it out. I’ve got something for you that could be more important. Have another go at Melanie Cooke’s friend, Sally Pearson, will you? I’ve a feeling she knows more than she’s letting on. As it’s Saturday she’ll be at home, presumably. I’m hoping it might help to be talking to her in her home environment, away from teaching staff, and without a bloody, great plod like me putting his size elevens in it. Get round there will you. Take Polly Jenkins. Tell Margot Hartley where I’ve sent you.’