I went into the kitchen and made a cup of tea. Settled into the old armchair by the big windows. Ray had been scanning the small ads; he hunts down auctions, gets tools that way. I flipped to the front page. BOLTON WOMAN BRUTAL MURDER. Photograph. Those large eyes, lit by a smile. I spilt my tea. My eyes raced over the print. I couldn’t make sense of it. Oh, the facts were there; where the body was found, how she’d been killed. But the woman that stared out at me, the woman who’d cried in my office two days ago, was Janice Brookes, a single woman living alone. ‘Miss Brookes leaves a mother and sister.’ No son. No husband. No Mrs Hobbs.
Now what the fuck was going on?
I rang the incident room number listed in the newspaper report and tried to establish whether the woman who’d been battered to death really was Janice Brookes. The man I spoke to was cagey. The police hate to answer questions. Oh, the bobby on the beat will give you the time of day or directions, but anything to do with a case is a no-no. He finally conceded that if the woman was named Janice Brookes then she must have been identified as such.
I told him that I’d recently been hired by her and emphasised that she was using an assumed name. He said he’d pass on the details to the officer in charge, who would probably contact me to arrange an interview. I tried to find out where I could contact her sister or mother, but he ‘wasn’t at liberty to divulge any information’.
I needed to talk to someone. Ray was out having a meal with friends, so I tried Diane. She sounded breathless when she finally answered the phone.
‘Diane, it’s Sal.’
‘Oh, look Sal, this really isn’t a good time…’
Whoops. Sorry. Right…erm…see you tomorrow.’
‘Yeah.’
What had I interrupted, a steamy session or a blazing row?
Harry was my last chance. The babysitter told me they’d gone to the pictures. Did I want to leave a message? No.
I paced around a bit then tried to tackle my confusion with pen and paper. I ended up with a list of banal questions thrown up by Mrs Hobbs’ double identity and her murder. The paper went in the bin. I was hardly going to forget what was on it. I paced around a bit more.
My earlier lack of energy had been replaced by the adrenalin buzz that a shock brings. Whilst I cleared up the lounge, my mind roamed back over my meetings with Mrs Hobbs aka Janice Brookes. Several small details began to make sense. She’d never given me an address. She’d paid in cash too. No cheque, no signature. Her responses to my early questions about what clothes Martin had taken when he left had been vague. And all the lies about reporting him missing to the police and how little they did. She’d never have been to them at all.
