I’ve heard it said nothing is ever truly forgotten, we merely sometimes misplace information in the overloaded memory bank that is our brain. Whether that’s true or not, I do seem to be able to remember a lot of useless details, long after you’d expect such information to be filed away in unmarked storage boxes, mentally speaking. Out of nowhere, I remembered the Tower Hamlets address Sophie Long had given when she’d been hired at my bookstore.
The last time I’d been in London and wrapped up in a police investigation, I had to travel through the city relying only on my memory, as I didn’t want traces of my movements going into any databases, anywhere. This time, as I was not (I hoped) under suspicion, and I had not been warned away from interfering, I freely looked up the location I wanted and the best route to get there.
Jayne and I went to Charing Cross station and took the Baker Street Line to Oxford Circus. From there, we hopped onto a train on the Central Line to Bethnal Green.
“I’m impressed by the London subway system,” Jayne said, swaying as she clung to a pole for support in the crowded train. “It’s so efficient and easy to use. Apart from all the running up and down stairs, that is. Of course, all I’m doing is following you around. If I had to find my own way, I’d be totally lost.”
I stepped back to allow a pack of people off and another pack to get on. “A lifetime of travel and a good map helps.”
We emerged into the daylight and I consulted the map on my phone again. “Not far from here. We’re not all that far from Pippa and Grant’s.”
“We could be on the far side of the moon for all I know,” Jayne said as we set off walking. “Totally different area, isn’t it?”
When we reached the street I was looking for, she said, “Looks like a movie set, or something from the Jeremy Brett Sherlock Holmes show.”
“This is the real London, as it was a long time ago.” Row houses, a line of two-story brick buildings with white trim stretching from one street to another, opening directly onto the pavement. Most of the houses had lace curtains hanging in front windows. Inside they would be dark and narrow. Two up, two down, unless interior walls had been torn out. A patch of a fenced garden not much bigger than a place to store the rubbish bins out back. In the old days, people would have raised geese or chickens in those yards.
Some of the homes had been spruced up with fresh paint, new windows, a brightly colored front door, good lamps. After all, nothing is cheap in London anymore.
Number 12 wasn’t one of the most run-down, but it wasn’t the nicest either. Rather in the middle, as befitted, I hoped, a home in which one family has lived for many decades.
“Why didn’t we phone ahead?” Jayne asked.
“Two reasons,” I said. “One, I don’t know the number. Two, I prefer not to give people advance warning I’m about to call on them.”
“Do you think we’ll find this Sophie at home?”
“No, I do not. This is her mother’s house. It was her mother’s house seven years ago, and I’m hoping it still is. Sophie told me when I hired her she was between flats. I took that to mean she couldn’t afford the rent on anything she fancied. Not an unusual situation, then or now, for a shop clerk in London.”
We climbed the step. I rang the bell and then stood back, a pleasant smile on my face. “Look friendly,” I said to Jayne.
“Don’t I always?” she mumbled.
The lace curtains in the window to the left of the door flicked and moments later I heard footsteps in the hallway. The lock turned, the door cracked open, and a woman peered out. She was in her early sixties, a network of deep lines radiated out from her eyes and the corners of her mouth. Her hair was piled high on the crown of her head, behind a heavy fringe drooping over her eyebrows. The hair was dyed a shocking shade of deep, unnatural brown. She was even shorter than Jayne’s five foot two and likely tipped the scales at a hundred pounds if she was soaking wet and carrying a sack of potatoes. She wore a pink blouse with a frilly neckline and black leggings sagging around her knees. The corridor behind her was dark and narrow, and I smelled something not very appealing cooking.
“Hi,” I said. “Mrs. Long?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who’s asking?”
“I’m Gemma Doyle. I don’t know if you remember that name.”
“From the bookshop where my Sophie worked.” Obviously, I am not the only one with a good memory. Sophie’s mother and I had never met.
“Yes, that’s right. I’m in London for a visit with my parents, and I was hoping to catch up with Sophie. Is she still living here?”
Mrs. Long glanced behind me to check out Jayne. “Hi,” Jayne said. “Nice day, isn’t it?”
“Not so as I’d notice. I don’t know what you want, Ms. Doyle, but my Sophie’s done and dusted with that shop.”
“I am aware of that, yes.” Cars drove past on the road, and pedestrians hurried by. A woman approached walking a small dog. Her steps noticeably slowed as she reached the house. “Might we come in? I don’t want to take up much of your time.”
“Good morning, Ethel,” Mrs. Long said to the dogwalker in a loud voice. “Nothing to see here, love.”
Ethel and her small dog hurried on.
Mrs. Long turned her attention back to me. “What do you want my Soph for? Can’t be because you’re such great chums. I know her husband left you for her.”
“All water under the bridge now,” I said cheerily. “I bear her no ill will.”
She snorted. “I would hope not. It’s that former husband of hers, of yours, you should be talking to. I knew he was no good right from the beginning. I told her so, but would she listen? Oh, no, not her.” Her voice softened, just a bit. “Mustn’t forget I was young once too. No telling what gets into a young girl’s head, she meets a man like that Paul Erikson. Right charmer he could be. Talked the socks straight off my Soph.”
If that was the way Mrs. Long wanted to see it, I was not going to argue. As for being a young girl, Sophie had been twenty-five when she came to work for us, the same age as Paul and me. “Which is why I’d like to speak with her. It’s about Paul.”
She reared back, suspicion clouding her features once again. “Did he send you here? If she told him once, she told him a hundred times to stay away from her. They’re divorced now, and she’s not responsible for his problems any longer.”
“You haven’t heard what happened?”
“What happened?”
I didn’t think I needed to worry about breaking the news of Paul’s untimely death to this woman gently. “Paul died. Yesterday.”
She stared at me for a few long seconds. Behind me, Jayne said, “Are you—?”
Mrs. Long let out a bark of laughter. “Did he now? Can’t say I’m sorry to hear it. My girl was lucky enough to get out of that marriage before he took every penny she had and then went on to seduce some other sweet thing. Good riddance to bad rubbish, I say.” She stepped back and put her hand on the door frame. “I’ll tell Soph the news.”
I thrust my foot into the doorway. “Please, I need to talk to her. It’s about Paul’s financial affairs. With two ex-wives that we know of, things might get complicated. Dividing the estate equitably, I mean. Sophie and I need to get our stories together before his lawyers contact us.”
Her eyes gleamed at the word “lawyers.” I deliberately used the plural rather than the singular. “Lawyers” sounds as though one has a team at one’s back and is in possession of an amount of money that requires a team to manage it. Not that I thought Paul had any lawyers. Plural or singular. Or any sort of an estate to be divided between anyone.
“I can let her know,” Mrs. Long said. “Give me your number, and I’ll have her call you.”
“Great. Thanks.” I smiled at her, expecting Mrs. Long to pull out her own phone to take down my number. Instead, she held out her empty hand. I looked at it.
“Here.” Jayne rummaged in her bag and handed me the crumpled receipt from the coffee shop along with a pen.
“Oh, right. Pen and paper. Some people still use those.” I jotted my number down and handed the receipt to Mrs. Long. She snatched it. “How much do you think he had left? That Paul, when he died? That shop was worth something, right?”
“I have no idea,” I said honestly. New unsold books could be returned to the publisher. Provided someone was available to pack up the stock and send them back, and that was not guaranteed. The used ones would likely end up at a dump somewhere. As for the book that was so important Paul had sought me out wanting me to examine it, it might never turn up. Or turn out to be worthless if it did.
“Have a nice day.” Jayne and I walked away. I could feel Mrs. Long’s eyes on my back.
“She didn’t seem too terribly upset at the news of Paul’s death,” Jayne said. “I suppose that’s to be expected, if he didn’t treat her daughter well.”
I said nothing. Far from the sweet little innocent Mrs. Long believed her daughter to be, it was more that Sophie had set her cap at Paul, and poor, weak, foolish Paul gladly snatched at the bait. I remembered the day she confronted me. The look on her face had not been pleasant when she informed me that if Paul didn’t have the nerve to tell me they were “deeply, truly in love, as only two soulmates can be,” she would. It was not the look of a young woman in love, but more of smug satisfaction at putting one over on another woman. Sophie hadn’t liked me, and from the first day she came to work, I realized I’d made a mistake in hiring her. She was sullen and disrespectful, and when she thought my back was turned, she could be outright rude to the other staff and even the customers. If I hadn’t been married to Paul, it was unlikely she would have been at all interested in him.
People tell me I’m observant. In that particular instance, however, my skills and my instincts failed me. Perhaps I hadn’t noticed the burgeoning relationship between Paul and Sophie because I considered it part and parcel of her character. Perhaps I trusted him, far more than I should have.
All water under the bridge except that Sophie was one of the only tenuous leads I had to what might have brought about Paul’s death.
My phone rang before we reached the tube station. “What do you know?” I said to Jayne, taking a guess as to who the unrecognized number belonged to. “She couldn’t even try to pretend to be disinterested for a few minutes.”
“Hello?” I said sweetly.
“Is that Gemma Doyle?” asked an East End London accent.
“It is.”
“Sophie Erikson here. Sophie Long what was and should be again. You were at my mother’s just now?”
“I was. I’d like to speak to you, Sophie. If you’re in London, I can come to where you are.”
“Mum says Paul’s dead, and you want to talk about his inheritance. You think he left me something?”
“I don’t want to discuss it on the phone.”
“Why would you know?”
“Why would I know he died?”
“He didn’t marry anyone after we split so that means I’m the latest wife, right? Why would you know if I’m still in his will? He never spoke to you again. You left England. Ran off to America. That’s what he told me anyway.”
“When did you see Paul last?”
I could almost hear her thinking. If “latest wife” was supposed to be a dig at me, it went wide of the mark.
“Little over a year, maybe a bit more. We didn’t part on good terms. He … Never mind that. None of your business.”
“Are you going to ask me how he died?”
“Car accident or something, I figured. Wasn’t that it?”
“Let’s meet, Sophie. Some things need to be discussed face to face.”
“Yeah. Okay. I’m at work now. I just got in, so I can’t take my break until lunch. I work in a shop on Oxford Street, not far from Oxford Circus.” She named a restaurant. “I’ll meet you at one. Don’t be late. I don’t like to wait.” She hung up.
“Neither do I,” I said to the phone.
“I heard most of that,” Jayne said. “She doesn’t have a soft voice, does she? It’s quarter after ten now. What are we going to do until one? How long will it take us to get to where she is?”
“Not long. Fortunately, we have a way of spending the time until our appointment.”
I shopped.
I’m not usually a keen shopper. I go into stores, see what I like (or not) and buy it (or not). Jayne, on the other hand, loves to shop, and she loves nothing more than to help someone else (i.e., me) shop. It just so happens that Oxford Steet is one of the shopping meccas in London.
Once I located the restaurant where we were due to meet Sophie, I let Jayne lead me around. By ten to one, I had a new raincoat, a pair of trainers, jeans and two cardigans, a leather jacket, one nice dress (which would, the clerk informed me, “take you breezily from that important meeting to the school run to dinner at the hottest new place in town.”), shoes to go with the dress, a couple of T-shirts, several pairs of knickers, and even a new bra.
I staggered into the appointed meeting place several hundred pounds poorer and laden with a mountain of shopping bags. Jayne carried more bags. “That was fun,” she said. “We should do it again.”
“Never,” I said. “Table for three please,” I said to the hostess. “We’re meeting someone.”
“You don’t suppose this is Sophie’s regular lunch place, do you?” Jayne said when we were seated.
“I doubt she’s ever done more than glance wistfully through the window. I suggested the meeting, so she’ll be expecting me to pay.” Standard high-end steakhouse, comfortable chairs, polished wooden tables, big windows, cutlery wrapped in linen napkins secured by napkin rings. No candles on the tables, but I had no doubt those would appear in the evening. Most of the guests wore suits or perfectly coordinated business casual attire. Not a place for shop clerks snatching a quick lunch. “I do not want to linger, so let’s make this as quick as we can. Here she is, five minutes early, as expected.” I stood up.
Sophie Long approached our table. She stopped a few feet from us and stared openly at me, sizing me up. She did not smile, so I didn’t either. I’d last seen her, smug and self-satisfied, seven years ago. She’d been pretty then, in the way that all young women in good health with money to spend on themselves were pretty. The bone structure of her face was still good, her pale skin clear, her eyes large behind glasses with round, red frames. Her sleek brown hair was pulled back into a high ponytail that fell halfway down her back. She’d put on weight in the intervening years but not too much. She wore ironed cream trousers and a fashionably overlarge oatmeal jacket over an emerald-green blouse with huge gold buttons. If she worked in an Oxford Steet clothing shop, she’d have to look the part, and she did.
Her makeup was too heavy, lashes clumped with mascara, excessive amount of face powder, blush applied in visible strokes. Her mouth was a slash of deep red, better suited to a nightclub than a London restaurant at lunchtime. “I’m here now,” she declared.
“Thanks for meeting me.” I introduced her to Jayne. Sophie barely glanced at my friend before plopping herself down. She picked up the menu. “I don’t have long for my break, so I need to order quickly.”
The waiter appeared. “A pint of lager,” Sophie said. “And the steak pie with mash.”
“Jayne,” I said. “You should have lunch. I don’t know when we’ll be stopping again.”
“Okay. I’ll have the pie too. With a side salad. I don’t suppose you have any iced tea?”
“We do, madam,” the waiter said.
“Then I’ll have one, thank you.”
“Just tea for me, please,” I said. I didn’t bother to say hot tea. In England, that is assumed.
The waiter collected the menus and slipped silently away. He would not be stopping at our table, interrupting the conversation every ten minutes to ask if everything was “okay here?”
Sophie shook out her napkin and leaned back in her chair. She made an attempt to look comfortable, relaxed, not particularly interested. In that, she failed dramatically. Her eyes were wide with curiosity, her neck stiff with tension. She twisted the napkin between her fingers. The polish on her nails matched her lipstick, and it was beginning to peel. “I’m here. So talk. You think Paul left us each something? Why would he remember you?”
“You’re divorced from him also,” I said.
“I got bored of him right quick, but I stuck it out for a couple of years.” She looked so directly at me, I knew she was lying. “I should have listened to me mum and left him long before I did. But I was too nice, you know? Not just him, but I was bored working at that awful bookshop. I don’t know why anyone would want to own a bookshop. They’re dying, right? Independent bookshops. Can’t make a living out of that anymore. Not with ebooks and online shopping and the rest, right?”
“Some stores have found their niche in a difficult environment and are doing very well,” I said.
She shrugged, not interested. A tall glass of beer appeared in front of her and she grabbed it. She took a long drink. Jayne sipped at her iced tea, while I poured tea into the fine china cup provided and added a splash of milk.
Before Sophie joined us, I told Jayne to make light, friendly conversation. She threw me a panicked look now, then said, “You work in a women’s wear store, your mother told us. I love the color of that blouse. It’s so deep and rich. Did you buy it at the place where you work?”
“Yes. We get a discount on the end-of-season stuff. It’s a summer blouse, but it’s okay with this jacket, don’t you think?
“What’s the name of your store?” Jayne indicated the mountain of shopping bags piled around our feet. “As you can see, we’re here to shop until we drop.”
“You’re from America, right?” Sophie asked. “We get plenty of Americans in our shop. Some of them buy a lot.”
“I love the cut of that jacket,” Jayne said. “So big and loose and … fun.”
“I don’t,” Sophie said. “I feel like I’m playing dress-up in me mum’s clothes. But we have to wear what’s in, don’t we?”
“We do,” Jayne said.
The steak pies arrived, hot and fragrant. Jayne and Sophie picked up their cutlery and dug in. I sipped my tea. I let Sophie enjoy the first few bites and then said, “I don’t actually know anything about any inheritance from Paul.”
She froze, fork halfway to her mouth. “But you said—”
“I know what I said. It’s unlikely Paul had much to leave anyone, other than a mountain of debts and a skipload of used books. When did you say you last saw him?”
She resumed eating. “About a year ago, round about. He moved out of our flat when we split up, and he left some of his stuff behind. When I had to move … I mean, when I decided to move back with me mum, to take care of her, like, I told him to pick it up or I’d put it out with the rubbish.”
“Did he come to collect it?”
“Yeah. He wanted to go out for a coffee or something, for old times’s sake, he said, but I had to get to work, and I told him so.”
“What sort of stuff?”
“Some clothes. A suitcase. Not much.”
“When did you stop working at the bookshop?”
“When we separated. I wasn’t going to stay there, was I, and see him every day? Besides, by then I knew it was a no-hope business. Some days, we didn’t sell a single book.”
I’d intended to ask Sophie if she had any financial interest in the bookstore, or if she’d helped manage it. I decided not to. The answer was obvious.
“I didn’t think he looked too good, tell you the truth. He said the business was going well. I didn’t believe him. I was well out of it. Him and that stupid shop.”
“You had no further contact with him over the past year?”
She stopped shoveling steak pie and potatoes into her mouth and looked at me. “What’s it to you?”
I poured myself another serving of tea. I do like my tea served in a proper pot, not a mug of tepid water with a tea bag on the side like they bring it in America sometimes. Most of the time. “Have you heard from the police?”
“No. Why should I?”
“Paul was murdered.”
I stirred my tea while I paid close attention to her reaction. She stared at me and said nothing for a long time. “That can’t be right.”
“It is. The police are investigating. He was killed in the shop late Saturday night or early Sunday morning. I’m sure they’ll be around to interview you shortly.”
“Well, I didn’t do it, did I, and you can’t accuse me.” Indecision crossed Sophie’s face as she considered standing up and storming out of the restaurant in righteous indignation. But she hadn’t finished her beer and pie yet, so she remained where she was. “I was out with Kenneth, that’s me boyfriend, Saturday. We went back to his place after the pub closed. So I’ve got an alibi.” She smirked.
I hadn’t accused her of killing Paul, and I hadn’t asked for her alibi. Not that I consider a boyfriend to be a reliable alibi. I didn’t read too much into that. Spouses and ex-spouses are always at the top of any suspect list, and she would have known that.
“What’s it to you, anyway?” she asked. “Did you kill him?”
I sipped my tea. “Not me.”
“You’ve got your nice cushy life in America, right? You were well enough rid of the likes of Paul Erikson.” Her face twisted and the bitterness came through loud and clear. “If it makes you feel any better, I’m sorry he dumped you for me. I should have known better. He was a right chancer, that one.”
“I wanted to meet with you today to ask if you know of any reason someone might have killed Paul. Did he have any enemies? Did he owe money to someone he shouldn’t?” I’d hoped Sophie would know something about the book Paul wanted me to see, but I now realized there was no point in even asking. She had no interest in the business; he wouldn’t have shown it to her, and they hadn’t been in contact lately in any event. It was likely the book, whatever it might be, only recently came into Paul’s possession.
“You mean other than me?” Sophie asked.
“Other than you?” At first I thought she was saying she wanted to kill him. “You mean he owed you money?”
“He stuck me with a couple of month’s rent when he left. Never mind his share of the grocery money and the like. He always had some excuse about why he couldn’t pay, and I finally had enough, and I kicked him out. I told him I wanted me money when I saw him last, but he whined on and on about how business had been slow and he needed some time to get back on his feet. Whatever. I’ll give his mum a call. I have her number somewhere. She might know what’s happening with his will and the like.”
She scraped up the last of her pie and mashed potatoes. “I have to get back to the shop. I’m thinking of quitting, but I haven’t decided yet. That manager they’ve got there is a right dragon. Five minutes late, and she’ll be docking me wages. And giving me a talk about the importance of punctuality to boot.”
This was a wasted trip. Sophie Long, the second Mrs. Erikson, knew nothing that could help me find Paul’s killer. “You can’t tell me anything about what Paul’s been up to over the last few months?”
Sophie hesitated. She glanced at the pile of shopping bags around us. She lifted Jayne’s left hand and checked out the engagement ring. It wasn’t big or ostentatious, but it was tasteful and it was nice. The small diamond was genuine.
“I do know one thing,” Sophie said, letting go of Jayne.
“What’s that?”
“About two months or so ago, I was meeting a bunch of girlfriends for a hen night. I was late leaving work, hurrying down the street, when I saw Paul up ahead. I slowed down, just interested like in what he was up to. He was with a woman. They were coming out of a pub, holding hands and walking close together. They’d been drinking and were laughing and stumbling down the street and giving each other little kisses and all that stuff. I was curious so I followed them.”
“And?”
“They didn’t go far before they stopped at a door. She used a key and they went in.”
“Did you ever try to find her again, to speak with her?”
“I thought about it, but what would be the point? She isn’t going to give me the money he owes me. I left. Haven’t been back.”
“What’s the address?”
Sophie grinned at me. “A hundred pounds.”
“What?”
“I’ll tell you for a hundred pounds.”
“The police will want to know this, and they won’t pay for it.”
“Yeah, but the police aren’t here, are they? You are. You and your friend look like you’re not short a bob or two. For all that cardigan’s a horrible color on you and it looks like it came out of your mother’s closet.” Which it had, but I didn’t see that that detail was at all pertinent at the moment.
“Jayne,” I said. “Do you have a hundred pounds cash on you?”
“Gosh, no. I might have about fifty?”
Sophie held out her hand. “That’ll do.”