Jack parked outside the large wood-and-iron gates and pressed the buzzer which was set into the brickwork. Nothing happened. No noise sounded and no light came on. The thick wooden parts of the gate were embossed with studs which made the front of this property look like a prison. Even the main private road that the narrow lane to Mrs Jenkins’ house veered off had a red-and-white striped barrier, clearly telling passers-by that this area was access only. Jack had had to flash his badge at the private security detail pacing the end of the street looking bored out of his wits.
Through a thin gap in between the heavy wooden gates, Jack could see a wide gravel driveway and a parallel flagstone footpath that cut through a substantial garden of at least two acres. The driveway curved round to the right, so the house itself was obscured from the roadside. After waiting for another minute, Jack pushed the wooden gate to see if it was even locked. It wasn’t. He wondered if it had been left unlocked specifically for him because the buzzer didn’t work.
The garden to either side of the flagstone footpath was overgrown and untamed, but somehow managed to look as though it was meant to be that way. Jack noted that the main gravel driveway looked like it had been battered by heavy vehicles with wide tyres — goods lorries? Grocery deliveries?
By the time Jack reached the house, the front door was open, and Avril was waiting for him. She wore a knee-length frilly dress with puff sleeves, white buckled shoes and white ankle socks with a double frill around the top. Her hair was in a high bun and adorned with a flowered scrunchy that matched the dress. She had her hands on her hips and, as she looked him up and down, Jack could tell that she was already disappointed. ‘I know they told you I’m mad, but I’m not.’ She sounded as gruff as a forty-a-day smoker. ‘So, are you going to believe them or me?’
Jack walked up the three wide stone steps leading to Avril’s front door. ‘I thought I’d make up my own mind, Mrs Jenkins. How about you? Are you going to assume that my visit is nothing more than a placatory paperwork exercise, or do you want to tell me about Adam Border?’
The inside of Avril’s house made the back of Jack’s eyes hurt. There was so much information to take in, with an array of different patterns, textures, styles and colours. Avril led Jack through the house and out of the back door, into a sprawling wild garden contained by a crumbling, high brick wall.
‘He knows my home is full of antiques and collectables, the best of which are slowly going missing. I made a list. You have it on file. He knows my routine, although he also follows me. You see, he’s playing games and trying to scare me.’ Avril picked up a pair of shears from an old wooden bench with broken slats and randomly snipped at something that looked like a white aster. Avril threw the daisy-like flowers into an already full wheelbarrow, then headed away from the house along a stepping-stone path and disappeared behind a row of fruit trees. ‘Bring that, would you?’ Jack grinned as he obediently followed with the wheelbarrow. He liked Avril already.
As Jack emerged out of the trees, the garden opened up again. To his left, still about twenty yards ahead of him, was an extensive greenhouse with filthy, cracked windows, some of which had been whitewashed on the inside. To the left of that was a solid wooden gate leading God-knows-where, and next to that was a sprawling compost heap which was where Avril waited for him. ‘His intention isn’t purely to rob me, you see, otherwise he’d bring a van and get it over with... it’s to torment me. The biggest torment being that sometimes when he breaks in, he walks past a £5,000 painting, and steals a £5 ornament just because he knows it’s full of sentiment. It makes me sound mad when I report that!’
‘Avril...’ Jack couldn’t think of a subtle way to ask his next question. ‘How secure is your property? I ask because...’
‘I lock up! I have my routine and I stick to it.’ Avril sounded like a petulant child. ‘And, yes, I have changed the locks since he left. But maybe he can pick locks? How do burglars normally get into places?’
In the second it took Avril to inhale ready to continue her rant, Jack spoke. ‘Why is Adam Border trying to scare you, Mrs Jenkins?’ His polite, caring tone stopped her in her tracks. She breathed a heavy sigh and her body visibly relaxed. ‘That’s the first time anyone’s asked me that. Everyone else said, “Why would he try to scare you?” not “Why is he?” Them at Kingston station may as well have called me a liar straight to my face.’
Avril paused to lop the head off a sunflower and throw it onto the compost heap. By the time she turned back to Jack, her façade of ballsy old woman had returned, and she set about taking her frustrations out on a bed of perfectly good plants at the base of an ornate pillar. By the time she’d finished, she’d chopped everything into pieces and was left with a big ugly hole in the ground. ‘He’s scaring me because I kicked him out. And I kicked him out because he was scaring me.’
Avril’s large eyes suddenly locked with Jack’s and he got the distinct impression that she was about to say something that meant his report would make her sound just as potty as the previous fourteen.
‘I’m a single woman, DS Warr. I think Adam Border wants to destroy what he can’t have. Have you heard of gerontophilia? It’s when a younger man has a sexual preference for much older women.’
Jack quickly promised Avril that he’d find her list of stolen items, check out Adam Border and discuss home security with her on his next visit. He then left her with his card and retreated before she could accuse him of being sexually attracted to her too.
Back in the safety of his car, Jack read a grammatically perfect text message from DCI Simon Ridley:
Did Kingston station just waste an hour of your time? Or is Avril Jenkins the victim of a targeted terror campaign?
Jack didn’t mention her theory about gerontophilia in his reply. Instead, he said that he’d start by doing his own background check on Adam Border and see where that took him.
Laura stood by the open window of Elliot Wetlock’s living room, as the stench of peroxide was making her eyes water. Tania’s hairdresser friend had left the room to give them privacy, with the promise of returning in exactly twenty-eight minutes, otherwise Tania’s scalp would start to burn.
Tania was a beautiful seventeen-year-old who could easily have passed for mid-twenties, especially in her low-cut white dress. She was petite, very pale-skinned with stunning aqua-blue eyes, and she spoke with a Monroe-esque breathiness. She also had a beauty spot above and to the left of her upper lip, just like her idol. On the mantelpiece, pride of place, Elliot Wetlock had one framed photo of his daughter, aged about fifteen, and she looked like a different girl. Back then, she had a far more natural appeal, with long red hair, no beauty spot and a far healthier weight to her. Laura felt saddened by the fact that this lone photo seemed to represent a daughter long gone. There were no photos of this new version of Tania Wetlock, who was not a daughter to be proud of, it seemed.
Laura had been right to turn up during the bleaching phase of Tania’s hair appointment, because if she’d been able to flounce out, slam the door and totter off down the road on her too-high heels, she certainly would have done. Not that talking was getting Laura very far at all. Tania used the word ‘fuck’ as a verb, adjective and noun whilst flatly refusing to betray the confidence of her beloved talent scout. ‘I’m not stupid, Miss Police Lady. I tell you his name, and my dad pays you to scare him away. This is my life, and I can spend time with whoever the hell I like.’ She was also convinced that with his help she was on her way to Hollywood. Laura didn’t stay the full twenty-eight minutes. She stayed ten, leaving before she lost her temper.