‘Well...’ Again, Laura started a sentence and left Jack hanging. She had numerous annoying little habits, but this was one of her worst. It forced Jack to remain silent, flicking through one of Avril’s personal files collected from the cellar, until Laura snapped back into life: ‘. . . each call from the mobile did last less than twenty seconds — is that long enough to slag someone off and accuse them of stealing jewellery you’ve actually buried in your own back garden? There was no mobile in Jessica’s duffel bag to compare it to, unfortunately.’
Jack had found Avril’s marriage certificate. ‘Twentieth of June 1998. Frederick Jenkins marries Avril Summers. Can you look into her life before this, please, Laura, now we know her maiden name? We know she had no kids with Frederick, but...’ Jack turned to the timeline of images he’d created on the board and pointed to the small boy dressed in his school uniform. ‘Who’s this? I’ll send you a close-up of the badge on his blazer.’
‘You think it could be Adam Border?’ Jack had believed Avril when she said she’d only met Adam recently, but then again, she was hiding a cannabis farm in her greenhouse and she did get herself embroiled in something that resulted in her being dismembered in her own bathroom, so perhaps she was an accomplished liar.
‘You think she went on holidays to Brighton with her stalker when he was a kid?’ Laura was standing next to the photo of the pier on the whiteboard. She was momentarily bemused by the blank expression on Jack’s face in response to her question. ‘Oh my God, Jack! You didn’t know that was Brighton Pier? How long have you been living over this way? It’s literally just down the road. Never mind that, there’s somewhere else that’s just down the road: Hove. And who lives in Hove? Hester Mancroft, the lady who once owned the to-die-for property in Tetcott Street, where Adam Border was a... boarder.’ Laura sniggered at her feeble joke for a second before carrying on. ‘Hester’s son, Julian, was done for drugs several times and died of an OD. Remember?’
‘Yeah, yeah, I remember.’ Jack was troubled by all of these old connections. ‘God, I hope Avril wasn’t some bloody drugs empire mastermind dating back to the seventies. I liked her when she was just an eccentric old woman who could start an argument in an empty room.’
It was half past nine when Jack slid his key in the front door as quietly as possible. Coming down the stairs, wearing his dressing gown, was Penny. ‘Maggie’s asleep. Hannah’s just gone back down, although I don’t think she’s in the mood for sleeping.’ Penny passed Jack and headed for the kitchen. ‘And I’m wearing your dressing gown because Hannah was sick on mine.’ Penny flicked the kettle on, then went to the fridge and got out a clingfilm-covered plate of beef stew with a dauphinoise potato top. She put it into the microwave, set it to heat for three minutes, then began making two cups of tea.
She pointed to the stack of wedding invitations on the kitchen table, sealed, stamped and ready to go. ‘Maggie asked if you could post those on your way to work in the morning. And she said, remember you still need to sort out your best man.’ Penny smiled at Jack. He looked exhausted. ‘I’m sure Simon will say yes, dear.’ Penny’s assumption that he’d ask Ridley to be his best man was a sound guess, seeing as he was the man Jack had entrusted his little girl’s guardianship to. But her words stung, nonetheless. Because who else would Jack ask? Who else could he ask? He didn’t know anyone. His only friend in London was his boss and he’d never been to Brighton. Jack needed to get a life!
Penny picked up her tea and put a gentle hand on Jack’s shoulder. ‘Make sure your dinner’s hot in the middle.’ She then went onto her tiptoes, kissed him on the cheek and headed back upstairs. ‘If madam wakes, leave her to me, darling. You get some sleep.’ Jack left his cup of tea and beef stew in the kitchen, took a glass of wine into the lounge, sat down on the sofa and took out the one piece of evidence that, so far, he’d chosen not to share with anyone else.
The red A5 notebook was worn and tatty, with age-old greasy fingerprints ingrained into the leather. It was partly used as an address book and partly as a notebook, with no real semblance of order to it. Jack imagined that whenever Avril needed to write something down, she simply wrote on the nearest blank page to where the book fell open. Some addresses and phone numbers had been scribbled out over the years; some had worn away because they were only written in pencil; and the odd page had even been torn out. One phone number had the unfamiliar area code of 0113. Jack did a quick online search: Leeds.
He then began working his way through, starting with the most thumbed pages.
Towards the middle, scribbled across both pages, was a list of schools, all with the Leeds area code. He also found Hester Mancroft’s old address in Tetcott Street, her new address in Hove and both associated phone numbers. There was also Terence Jenkins’ address in California.
The last few pages were taken up by a list of bottle companies, complete with dimensions, delivery prices and phone numbers. Underneath a strip of yellowing sellotape was a picture from a magazine of a small brown bottle and, next to that, the words ‘corks extra’. Finally, on the same page, was the name MedGlobal and a phone number.
Deep in thought, Jack lifted his glass of wine to his lips — just as someone rapped on the living-room window. He jumped, spilling his wine on the notebook and leapt up, shaking the excess liquid from the pages and resisting the temptation to wipe them on his trouser leg in case the ink smudged and he lost vital evidence. He had no time to dab the pages dry, so he slid the open notebook underneath the sofa and went to the front door. At this time of night it would either be a scantily dressed, pissed and stoned teenager offering sex, or it would be Ridley.
‘Sorry it’s late.’ Ridley jumped in with his apology before the front door was fully open. ‘I knocked on the window because I didn’t want to wake Hannah.’ The troubled look on Ridley’s face said that something had gone wrong since Jack left the crime scene earlier in the day. Jack led the way into the lounge, poured Ridley a glass of wine without asking, then sat ready to listen.
‘Steve Lewis has been handed the operation. I’m not just playing second-fiddle now, he can actually pause our investigation if it’s getting in the way of his.’ Ridley savoured his wine as though it was the first alcoholic drink he’d had in weeks. ‘It’s the fentanyl, that’s what swung it. International intelligence from Josh says, together with cocaine and heroin, it’s coming in from China or the US. Steve thinks the marijuana’s just a cover... there to be found. Then, whilst the police are patting themselves on the back over that, the bigger deals are going on underground. Literally, in this case. I’ve got a meeting with Steve and Raeburn in the morning, when I can voice any objections.’
Jack asked Ridley what he intended to do.
‘I’m going to let Steve have it.’
Jack swirled the last of his wine round his glass as a distraction to try and hide his disappointment in Ridley’s newly resurfaced passivity. Ridley could see it as clearly as if Jack had called him a coward to his face and was determined to explain himself.
‘Two things: first, with a drug-smuggling operation of this size, it’d be catastrophic if we let it reach the streets. Hundreds could die. It’d be churlish not to use the expertise of Steve, Mal and Josh. Second, Avril and Jessica weren’t even mentioned in the meeting I’ve just had.’ Jack looked up and met Ridley’s stare. ‘I’m not having that, Jack. Foxy’s only halfway through Jessica’s post-mortem, but he called me this evening to let me know that she died of smoke inhalation. She was alive in that fire.’