‘No problem,’ said Jenny with a smile. ‘Annie?’
‘Er, whatever’s going, please,’ Annie said.
‘I’ll make a nice pot of tea,’ said Jenny, and patted Maureen’s shoulder before heading into the kitchen. She seemed to know instinctively where it was, Annie noticed. Maybe these posh houses were all the same inside.
Maureen smiled after Jenny, then it faded like the Cheshire cat’s when she turned back to Annie. ‘She’s nice, isn’t she?’ she said.
‘Very,’ said Annie. ‘Do you know why we’re here?’
‘No. Should I? Something to do with Laura? The wedding?’
‘Sort of.’
‘You must think it’s very odd, me being in bed at half past two in the afternoon.’
‘That’s not for me to comment on.’
‘But Dr Graveney says I need plenty of rest after, you know, the trauma of what happened.’
‘Of course,’ Annie said. ‘We won’t disturb you for very long.’
Maureen consulted her watch again. ‘Robert will be home soon,’ she said, as if to herself.
Jenny Fuller reappeared with a tray. ‘We’ll just let it brew a few minutes, shall we?’
Even as she played mother with the tea, Jenny didn’t have a hair out of place, didn’t spill a drop as she passed over the cups and saucers. When she had done, she sat down in her corner again and set her Moleskine on her lap, as if she were signalling Annie to get started.
‘The last time I talked to you,’ Annie began, ‘I noticed that you seemed a bit anxious when I mentioned the possibility of something from your past being connected with the shootings.’
‘Did I?’ said Maureen.
‘Yes. Wendy Vincent.’
‘I can’t imagine why.’
‘It would be only natural. Wendy Vincent was your best friend, and something terrible happened to her.’
‘How could that possibly have anything to do with what happened to Laura?’
‘We don’t know that it does yet, but it’s the kind of coincidence that makes us prick up our ears. Wendy was murdered, wasn’t she?’
‘Yes,’ Maureen whispered. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Why should you say that?’ Annie asked.
Maureen glanced between the two of them. ‘You know, don’t you? I should have known you’d find out. Who told you?’
‘Know what?’ Annie said. She was sure the exasperation sounded in her tone.
‘It wasn’t in the papers. I never told anyone.’
Annie felt as if she were struggling to land a particularly slippery fish. ‘What happened, Maureen?’ she asked. It was all she could think of to say. ‘Were you there? Did you see something?’
Maureen clutched her dressing gown at her throat. ‘See something? Oh, no. Nothing like that.’
‘Then what is it?’
Annie thought the silence was going to last for ever, then Maureen said in a barely audible voice, ‘I was supposed to meet Wendy at the bus stop after lunch. I’d been to visit my granny in Bradford. We were going to go shopping in town. Clothes and records. We’d arranged to meet in secret because Wendy’s parents didn’t like us being friends.’
‘Why?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. I suppose I was a bit more grown up than Wendy. I’d matured quickly. Her father tried to kiss me once. He was drunk and sloppy and I slipped out of his grasp easily enough, but he remembered. He never liked me after that. Wendy was fifteen and never been kissed. A bit of a goody two-shoes, I suppose, and sporty, but she could be a laugh and... well, what can I say, we got along really well. We were different, but we were friends. I didn’t lead her astray or anything. I wasn’t really a bad influence.’
‘We’re not saying you did, Maureen. Go on. You were supposed to meet on the day she disappeared?’
‘That’s right.’
‘And you didn’t tell your parents or her parents where you were going?’
‘No. Not even after. And not even later when the reporters came talking to all her friends. And Susan Bramble didn’t tell anyone, either.’
‘Susan Bramble?’
‘Another girl from school. From the hockey team. Another friend. She told me later she saw Wendy at the bus stop, and Wendy admitted she was waiting for me, but to keep it secret in case the Vincents found out. Susan knew how to keep a secret.’
‘But you didn’t meet Wendy?’
‘I was late. By the time I got to the bus stop, Wendy was gone. She must have taken the short cut through the woods. It was my fault.’
‘Listen to me, Maureen.’ It was Jenny talking again, and this time her voice was concerned but authoritative. ‘Nobody’s blaming you for anything. Anything at all. Do you understand?’
Maureen nodded, but Annie doubted that she was convinced.
‘What DI Cabbot needs to know is what happened that afternoon. What stopped you from meeting your friend? This might be important. Why does remembering that day make you feel so anxious?’
‘It was a terrible day,’ Maureen said. ‘Wendy was... stabbed and... I... it was the worst day of my life.’
‘I know,’ said Jenny moving forwards, going on her knees and taking Maureen’s hand. Annie could only look on. Jenny was good with people, she had to admit. ‘All these years you’ve been blaming yourself, haven’t you?’
Maureen hesitated, then said, ‘It was my fault. I was selfish. I should have been there to meet her.’
‘Where were you, Maureen?’ Annie asked. ‘What happened that afternoon?’
Jenny let go of Maureen’s hand and went back to her place on the sofa. After what seemed an eternity, Maureen picked up her tea. The cup and saucer were shaking in her hand.
‘I was with a boy,’ she said.
Having got nowhere in the squad room checking out property rentals and purchases in the Swainshead area for most of the morning, Gerry decided it was time to go out and visit a few Walkers’ Wearhouse branches. There was no sign of Doug Wilson, but that was only to be expected as he had Sunday off. She did, too, but she was working anyway. She was better off doing it by herself, she thought. Doug would only sulk or complain and slow her down. Before she left she phoned Paula Fletcher at the Lyndgarth branch to ask her whether the two-for-one sale had extended to all branches. She said it had.
Gerry studied the photocopy of Ray’s sketch. She still didn’t know how closely it resembled their man, but it was a hell of a good drawing. Ray was a talented artist, despite the drinking and childish behaviour. The thought passed through her mind that perhaps she should let him paint her in the nude, then her modesty pushed it away quickly. She wasn’t prudish — far from it — but the idea of posing nude in front of Ray Cabbot held no appeal. She didn’t even think her body was worth the canvas. She was too skinny by far, had no true womanly curves like Jenny Fuller, or even Annie. She was all bones and planes. And while she was quite willing to believe in the purity of Ray’s artistic intentions, or at least suspend her disbelief, there was something just a bit too louche about him for her liking. And he was old enough to be her father. Christ, he was Annie Cabbot’s father. He was old enough to be Gerry’s grandfather. Why couldn’t some clean-cut handsome young artist come along and want to paint her, or a composer write a song for her like that Mahler had for his Alma?
She took out the list of branches they had already visited, wondering whether it was worth calling again on any of them with the sketch of the man Paula Fletcher had described. Someone had already talked to the press, and word was getting around that the police now had an Identikit picture of their person of interest. While this wasn’t quite accurate, it was enough to make her feel a sense of urgency. She decided it definitely was worth visiting the shops again. On previous visits, they hadn’t had the sketch to show around. It might jog someone’s memory.