Harold then handed Anik an expensive-looking smart phone and pulled out an envelope from the drawer.
‘These are all the bills I’ve paid. Rodney upgraded the original phone with this one, which I had to pay for. But he gave it back to me when he came out of Brixton, and then when I wanted to give it back, he told me to just keep it for him.’
Anik looked at the phone as Sara passed him an evidence bag. Harold said he had no idea what the password was, but Anik knew the tech team would be able to open it within seconds.
‘You said that Rodney’s father and Joyce know something; what do you think they know?’
Harold was now sweating profusely as he shook his skinny shoulders.
‘I don’t know their secrets. You tell me what makes a woman eat herself to death? That’s what she’s doing, and I’m trapped here looking after her and am too scared to walk out. That bastard is in prison at the moment, but he’ll get out and I’ve got to look out for myself. Now you’re telling me that Rodney is being charged with something terrible, but I’m not involved. I swear before God. You can take all the receipts and bills. Take everything.’
Sara collected the stack of phone bills and receipts, placing them in another evidence bag. Anik stopped Harold from closing the drawer and held out his hand.
‘What’s that?’
‘Family photo album. It belongs to Joyce. She doesn’t like to look at them.’
Sara looked at Anik, who nodded for her to take it.
‘Thank you for your cooperation, Mr Miller; I’ll see that it goes in your favour, just in case this information you have given us implicates you in any way.’
Harold ushered them out of the flat and stood by the open front door looking relieved at their departure.
‘I can’t leave. I have to stay here. I’m as much a prisoner as she is,’ he muttered.
Harold closed the front door as the internal bell rang from Joyce’s bedroom. It was time to feed her.
Chapter Twenty-One
Jack woke just after 1 p.m., after at least a few hours deep sleep. He showered and dressed and went into the kitchen. Penny was setting up the ironing board.
‘Heavens, Jack, you sleep like the dead. I don’t know how Maggie does these night shifts; she’s amazing. She was already gone when you got home this morning, and probably won’t be back until late tonight.’
‘I know, the night shifts really do your head in; next week I’m back on days, so that’ll be a relief. Tell her I had to go and that I’ll make it up to her.’
‘Well, this Friday I need one of you to look after Hannah as I have another bingo session and then dinner with my friends.’
‘I’ll sort it... and I’ll grab some lunch in the canteen.’ He kissed his mother on the cheek and left the house. He had already googled the village of Pyecombe where Lorna Elliot’s aunt supposedly lived, which was about ten miles outside Brighton. He thought he would call on her first and then try to find the headstones in the Brighton and Preston graveyard. Jack felt hungry and picked up a coffee and a sandwich at a petrol station on the way. He headed onto the A23 and after almost forty-five minutes he turned onto the A273, eventually arriving in the small, picturesque village. He pulled up in front of an attractive old-fashioned pub called The Plough to double check the address, turning off Waze and looking up the address on Google maps.
Jack eventually found the narrow lane which led to the little cottages which had probably at one time been farm labourers’ accommodation. They had white picket fences and neat gardens with a profusion of flowers surrounded by manicured hedges. He parked near the end of the lane and then walked back to number 12. The curtains were drawn over the latticed windows, and Jack wondered if anyone was at home.
He walked up the path, noticing a lot of dry, unswept leaves. He rang the bell, cursing that he had driven all the way there for nothing.
He pressed the doorbell again and suddenly the dark-blue door was opened. A middle-aged woman appeared, wearing a pink knitted cardigan and matching pink and grey pleated skirt, looking rather like a school mistress.
‘You’re earlier than I expected, but I’m almost finished,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, I’m Detective Sergeant Mathews.’ Jack flashed her his ID.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were from the Red Cross. We’ve just finished labelling everything to go to their charity shop. Do come in.’
Jack stepped into a small, dark hallway. The woman led him into an old-fashioned but tasteful drawing room, with a settee and matching chairs and large Persian rugs over polished wood floors. There were numerous glass-fronted cabinets filled with china dinner services, and a tiled fireplace with a three-bar electric fire in it.
‘I wanted to talk to Ms Barbara Elliot.’
‘Oh goodness me, are you here officially, or as a friend?’
‘Officially... and you are?’
‘Mrs Foster... well... I’m sorry to inform you but Barbara died three days ago.’
Jack closed his eyes with frustration as Mrs Foster gestured towards the cabinets.
‘I’m putting red dots on all the things to be sold and green dots on the ones for the Red Cross and Macmillan’s. I’ve been cleaning and getting everything ready. Please, do sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you. Can you tell me how Miss Elliot passed away?’
‘She’d been suffering from dementia for a few years but was in good health otherwise. As old as she was, she still took care of herself. She cooked and gardened but was becoming increasingly frail. I’m an old family friend. I live on the outskirts of the village, so I was a sort of carer for her, checking in on her almost every day. They think she went into the garden and fell, but she hadn’t taken her panic button with her. She usually wore it around her neck. The next door-neighbour found her and called an ambulance. She was in her nightdress and freezing cold. So very sad. She was a really lovely lady.’
Jack sat down on one of the big comfortable cushioned seats.
‘You say you were a family friend?’
‘Yes, for many years. Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you. I just wanted to ask Ms Elliot a few questions regarding an enquiry I’m working on, but sadly it’s too late. Do you know if she had any visitors recently?’
‘Yes, a surprise one, actually, I don’t think she’d seen her for many years. Her niece came, quite a few months ago now. I’ve been unable to contact her, as I am sure she would want to know.’
‘Lorna Elliot?’
Mrs Foster looked surprised.
‘Yes, Lorna, she had arrived from LA, but said she didn’t want to stay too long as she had to get to her hotel. I offered to let her stay with me, but she declined.’
‘How well did you know Lorna?’ Jack asked.
‘I used to know her very well a few years ago, but...’ She hesitated.
‘It is important to my investigation, Mrs Foster.’
‘Oh, is it about that terrible thing that happened? Her fiancé disappeared... it must be almost thirty years ago now. It was so shocking, and she never really got over it.’
‘Did she say anything about it when she came here?’
‘I think she said that she had found something out, but she didn’t elaborate. After it happened, she sold everything, including the flat in Mayfair and the country house they had bought together. There were too many memories. She was very well off, but she was bereft. He had been the love of her life, and to never find out what happened to him... I think that made it even worse, it broke her heart. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea, or perhaps a sherry?’
Jack was so eager to keep her talking that he accepted the sherry. Mrs Foster left the room, and returned a minute later with a bottle of sherry and two small glasses. She poured a liberal amount in both glasses and passed one to Jack.