Murder in House

Mindful of the appalling weather, Ellie summoned a minicab and had herself conveyed to a narrow street of modern terraced houses at the back of the town centre. Ms Woodyates was an over-the-top anorexic blonde living in overheated, over-furnished surroundings decorated with photographs of old playbills. Ms Woodyates was powdered, painted and well over sixty, but was dressed in a bilious green silk suit with a décolleté neckline.

‘My little collection,’ said Ms Woodyates, waving towards the playbills and trying to be modest about her hobby. ‘You are a theatregoer aren’t you, Mrs Quicke? Most intelligent people are, aren’t they? Theatre is the very pulse of life in society, don’t you agree?’ She didn’t wait for a reply, but continued, ‘I’ve heard lots about you, so kind to so many, we really must have you on our Ealing branch of the National Trust committee.’

Coffee was offered. In fact, had already been prepared against Ellie’s coming. Coming in out of the cold, Ellie dived for her paper tissues and blew her nose. She remembered Pat’s words of warning, and prepared for a lengthy visit and a lecture on the benefits of the National Trust and all the good it did. It was no use saying that she was convinced and already a contributor, for Ms Woodyates – ‘call me Grace, please’– did seem lonely and was delighted to have a visitor. The coffee was good, anyway. At last Ellie managed to insert the name of Mia into the conversation.

‘Mia,’ said Ms Woodyates, ‘a delightful child. Bright but polite with it. Most bright children are not polite nowadays, have you noticed? I am surprised to hear that she’s gone missing. Not the sort to get into trouble, I would have thought.’

‘We’re not sure that she’s in trouble, exactly. It’s just that she seems to have dropped out; left home without leaving a forwarding address. Her friends are concerned – one in particular. I’m trying to get a picture of what Mia was like. I suppose girls change enormously after leaving school, and it’s hardly fair to ask you for your opinion, although –’ as Ms Woodyates arched pencilled eyebrows – ‘I would certainly welcome it.’

‘You are referring to those girls who can’t wait to experience life to the full, the ones who are ruled by their hormones from an early age. They may “blossom” out – or “bosom out” as I like to put it – but you can usually see the signs before they leave school. Mia was not like that. I don’t mean that she was underdeveloped physically, because she wasn’t. She was beautiful in a quiet way, with lovely eyes and long dark hair, much longer and thicker than most. Have you met the mother?’

Ellie shook her head.

A frown disturbed Ms Woodyates’s smooth brow which had, Ellie thought, probably been treated with Botox. ‘A trifle, shall we say, flamboyant? She was quite a beauty in her day, she tells me, though I’m not sure she realizes how many years have passed since that time. Mia was her daughter by her first marriage, you know, and perhaps . . . the Snow White syndrome, you know? I think she was jealous of the girl’s beauty, because she used to put her down at every opportunity. In spite of what her mother said, Mia was a bright girl, currently studying some foreign language, I believe.’

Well, that was an interesting sidelight on the mother and daughter relationship.

‘Perhaps it’s an odd question to ask nowadays, but do you think Mia was still a virgin when she left school?’

A moue of distaste. ‘In the staff room we believed you could count them on the fingers of one hand. But yes, I would say that Mia was still a virgin when she left school.’

Ellie sighed. ‘So many years ago; so much may have happened to change her.’

‘Oh, I don’t think so. I don’t know if it’s scientifically proven but we used to say in the staff room that, after a girl has experienced sex, her lower eyelids appear more prominent, almost pouched. I can honestly report that Mia’s eyelids showed no sign of it when I last saw her. Now when would that have been?’

She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, holding up one hand to prevent Ellie from interrupting. ‘Ah, I have it. It was just before Christmas; carol-singing in the tube station. Someone had bought the choir these adorable little red Father Christmas caps, and the boys were all wearing them but the girls!’ – a shrug – ‘I suppose they didn’t want to crush their hairstyles. Mia was wearing one. I was coming back from town and got out my purse to make a donation. I don’t remember exactly what charity they were singing for, but Mia recognized me. I put the money in her tin, she smiled at me and said “thank you”. I remember thinking then that she hadn’t altered at all from when she was at school. I’m sorry to hear she’s missing. What do you think happened?’

‘That’s what I’m trying to find out. Can you work out which day it was that you saw her? Perhaps I can trace her companions through the choir she was with.’

Ms Woodyates sought for her last year’s diary. ‘The Saturday before Christmas. I’d been up to town for a matinée. I suppose it would have been half six or a quarter to seven in the evening. And, let me think . . . if I could only visualize the banner they had with them, or the stickers on the collecting tins . . .’

Again she closed her eyes and lifted her hands in an effort to recall the occasion. ‘Was it Help the Aged? No. The Hospice, I think. Now what choir was it? I recognized one or two faces, didn’t I? Yes, yes. My old friend Ronald was with them. Shall I ring him, see if he can cast any light . . .?’

She didn’t wait for Ellie to agree, but attacked her phone book and pressed numbers. ‘Ronald? Yes, it’s Grace here. Grace Woodyates. Yes, long time, but perhaps some time soon . . . oh yes, of course I understand. Well, what it was, I wondered, one of my past students seems to have got herself into a bit of a pickle; left home under a cloud . . . yes, in this day and age, but really she’s not like that. At least, I don’t think so. Now I spotted her in your choir at the tube station just before Christmas, and I wondered . . . Mia, a nice, quiet girl, with long, dark hair . . . no, I don’t know exactly what . . .’ The phone quacked on and on. Grace Woodyates gave a comically despairing gesture to Ellie, but continued to listen.

Ellie studied the tips of her shoes. Were they getting shabby? She wasn’t much good at cleaning shoes, but did try to keep them free of mud. Though when they developed cracks across the leather, you might just as well give in.

Finally Grace Woodyates put the phone down. ‘He doesn’t know anything, is very surprised to hear, she wasn’t involved with anyone in the choir that he knows about except for the lad who brought her along last term to sing with them, and of course, she joined in the session at the tube station. The boy’s name was Lloyd; sang bass. Ronald will look up the address, if you’re interested.’

‘That’s a dead end. He was killed in an accident early in the new year.’

‘Oh, that Lloyd? I read about him in the paper. Ronald says Lloyd wasn’t a boyfriend, not the kissing kind. Just a friend, he thinks. Anyway, she sang second soprano with them, hadn’t much of a clue about choral music, but had a pretty little voice, helped make the tea, that sort of thing. The only other thing he can remember about her is that she said she could get some posters put up in the Avenue for their concert, since she knew someone who worked there. The Palladian Singers, they call themselves. He’s always after me to join them, and maybe I will now I’m retired and have some time on my hands. I’m afraid I haven’t been very helpful so far. Now, who else can I ask who might know something? Do you know the Priors socially at all? Shall I arrange an introduction?’

‘So kind, but perhaps not at the moment,’ said Ellie, being polite. ‘And now I think I should . . .’ She made as if to rise, but her hostess stopped her with a dramatically raised hand.

Grace was anxious for Ellie to stay. ‘Do you have to go straight away? It’s so strange the way we’ve been thrown together. I feel we’re going to become great friends. I could rustle up something tasty for lunch, and we could talk some more, if you’re not too pressed for time? I’d like to tell you about our special spring programme for—’

‘I’m so sorry, but I really need to—’

‘I quite understand, but if I think of anything else I’ll ring you straight away, shall I? Are you in the book? Oh, but Pat can give me the address, can’t she?’

‘Of course, of course.’ Ellie made her escape, thinking that a little of Ms Woodyates went a long way.

Ms Woodyates had not thought she’d been very helpful, but Ellie – who knew the Avenue well – considered that, from what she’d been told, it shouldn’t be too difficult to locate Mia’s contact in the Avenue. For a start, there were only a certain number of shops that would put up advertisements for local events. The newsagent’s would, but they charged for the service, so they were out. The chain stores wouldn’t as a matter of policy. The pharmacies wouldn’t. This cut down the number of shops in which Mia might have known someone who’d do it for her.

Ellie decided to visit all those currently advertising spring sales, Open Days and concerts, to see if they knew anything. She could do her food shopping at the same time. Oh, and buy a birthday card for a friend, collect her shoes from the repairers and see if the bookshop had managed to locate the biography she’d ordered for Thomas.

But first: lunch. She had a choice of several coffee shops that served paninis and rolls and soup, but which of them also allowed posters to be put up? Not her favourite, unfortunately. The Sunflower Café had offered this facility in the past but, under a recent change of management, had done away with the board for public announcements in favour of a garish reproduction of one of Van Gogh’s Sunflower pictures.

There were other cafés which she liked to visit now and again for lunch, but two of them never put up local posters. She settled for the only one that did and, blowing her nose again, ordered a panini, which dripped luscious cheese no matter how carefully she tackled it. Plus a cappuccino. Stirring sugar into her coffee, Ellie planned her campaign.

Now, what fliers were on display here? Only after she’d eaten did she realize that the community notice board, which usually sported numerous posters, had been cleared in favour of a protest about a street-widening scheme. There was a new, very blonde girl – Polish? – serving behind the counter, and the place was heaving with customers. Eventually, Ellie managed to catch the attention of the manageress to ask if she happened to know where Ellie might contact Mia Prior, as she’d heard of a job that might suit her. The manageress shook her head, but somewhere – was Ellie imagining things? – she felt there had been a reaction to Mia’s name. Possibly in the queue behind her?

It was raining again. When she got to the door to put up her umbrella, she looked back into the café, but no one seemed to be paying any attention to her.

The cobbler next. Her only pair of high-heeled shoes was ready for her. The cobbler did put up local notices now and then but he said he hadn’t had any posters from the Palladians, and who were they when they were at home. He said he hadn’t heard anything of a girl called Maria, and hummed the song from West Side Story, laughing at his own joke.

The bakery had some fresh almond tartlets and Ellie bought some from the usual girl, a merry-faced Pole whose ample girth encouraged everyone to indulge. There were two local posters up, but the girl said the boss would only allow posters from the local schools now, because Blu-tacking them to the wall took the surface off the paint, and no, she didn’t know anyone called Mia. There was a new girl cleaner there, a depressed-looking wisp of a girl with short, dyed blonde hair. Ellie didn’t think she’d last long as the baker was reputed to be something of a martinet.

Ellie collected the tome she’d ordered for Thomas from the bookshop. Their policy was to take every local poster offered them. The owner rather thought they had put up posters for the Palladian Singers some time ago, but couldn’t remember who’d brought them in because they did get so many. He had a couple of bright young things in training, but they were called Jessica and Mandy and looked like it too.

The gift shop took posters but were so busy – school had just come out – that they misunderstood Ellie and told her to leave her poster with them, and they’d see if they could put it up later. And no, they didn’t know anyone called May or Mira or whatever, and could she please let the little girl standing behind her come to the front to buy her chocolate rabbit or whatever it was she was clutching in her hot little hand?

Ellie was so flustered by this that she left without buying a birthday card for her old friend.

The butcher was relatively new – and good. Ellie bought lamb chops and sausages. A middle-aged man and his partner served. No posters, on principle.

The fish shop: two men, some posters, though not for the Palladians. Yes, they’d take any local posters but couldn’t remember who’d brought in what.

There were men putting up a new awning above the optician’s. The queue at the bus stop was alarming, but two buses came along in tandem and removed it. The women serving in the greengrocer’s were both heavy smokers in their forties; they did put up posters sometimes, but neither knew anything about a girl called Mia.

Someone had left a bicycle chained up outside the post office, but the front wheel had already been stolen. Oh dear.

The launderette; Ellie was getting tired. The manageress was brusque but kindly. No Mia. Yes, they took posters of all sorts, but only kept them up till the date of the event. The shoe shop; three young things serving, but one was heavily pregnant, one was black and the third was a big strapping lass, nothing like Mia.

The owner knew Ellie, and waved her over, asking how she was doing. Ellie said she was looking for a lost girl who’d had a friend who worked in the Avenue.

‘Polish? Czech? Serbian? Croatian? Japanese? The world and his wife are here.’

‘Japanese would be good,’ said Ellie, remembering that someone somewhere had talked about Mia taking a course in a foreign language.

‘They keep to themselves. Look for the most expensive baby buggies and the largest cars. Have you tried the Japanese school?’

Ellie shook her head. It was another line to follow but she didn’t know anyone there, did she? She was getting depressed. She decided it was time to take the weight off her feet. She went into the Sunflower Café, ordered a lemon tea and sat down to think about this and that. About how multicultural Ealing had become over the years, partly because the airport was so close and their local schools were so good. She’d heard that there could be as many as forty different native languages in just one school hereabouts. The Welsh, of course, had been here forever, and the first lot of Poles had arrived during World War II and stayed. The second lot had arrived more recently, of course. There were immigrants from every quarter of the globe: Pakistan, Middle East, Far East, Africa . . . lots of Somalis, and a new influx from the Balkans.

She let her mind rove over the number of people running shops in the Avenue who were probably British born, but whose families had arrived in this country knowing no English and without a penny to their name. Singhs, Patels, Mohammeds.

There were Polish people everywhere. Builders, waitresses, cleaners. They had their own newspaper in Ealing; their own church. Their own shops.

Ellie thought of the frisson she’d felt at the café at lunchtime. Of the way that immigrants hung together. Some would go out of their way to help others less fortunate than themselves; others took advantage of those less well off. Human nature, really.

She began to see a pattern.

When she’d finished her tea she went back to the bakery. The merry-faced girl was pulling the empty racks forward for the inefficient cleaner to swab down the floor behind them. Ellie pushed at the door.

‘Closing now!’

‘Fine,’ said Ellie. ‘Ursula sent me with a message for Mia. I’ll wait for her outside, shall I?’

The girl with the mop flung it down and fled to the back of the shop.

‘Now look what you’ve done!’ said her friend.

Ellie sat beside Mia on the settee, and held her hand. Mia sat with eyes down, awkwardly posed yet still graceful. The left side of her jaw was puffy and discoloured, there was a healing cut just above her right eye, and there were fading bruises on her wrists. She didn’t speak at all, and every now and then she shivered so convulsively that Ellie could feel her distress. She wore a black sweatshirt and skirt that were too big for her.

The girls in the flat were not all Poles; one was from Slovakia, another from Albania. They spoke English with varying degrees of fluency. All were currently employed and all were nervous, though some showed it more than others. Several wore jewellery and items of good clothing, which Ellie fancied she’d seen in Dan’s photographs of Mia.

Ellie introduced herself. ‘My name is Ellie Quicke. One of Mia’s friends asked me to see if I could find her. Here is a photograph of the two of them, taken some time last year.’

‘Who’s that?’ Jackie pointed to the man leaning over their shoulders. ‘That’s the man who comes asking for Mia.’

They all looked and nodded. ‘That is the man,’ said the blonde, handing the photograph round. Each girl in turn looked at the laughing, glamorous Mia in the photos, and then at the depressed scarecrow sitting next to Ellie.

Jackie was the one most distressed by the contrast. ‘I will tell you everything. It is my mother’s friend Malgosia who asks us to look after Mia for a few days. Malgosia is cleaning for this rich family up the hill; big house, lots of parties, very messy. They do not ever pick anything up or look when they speak to her, or say “thank you” . . . except for Mia. Mia is always nice to Malgosia. Mia gives Malgosia her old clothes for my little sister back in Poland. Really nice things, my sister is so pleased. Before Christmas Mia came herself into the shop, with some posters for her choir’s concerts. So I know Mia.

‘Malgosia is away over Christmas and the New Year and when she goes back to clean, Mrs say Mia not well, and not to do her room. Then boss woman goes out. Malgosia is worried about Mia and goes to her room to ask if she would like a hot drink. The door is locked, but Malgosia know all the keys in the bedrooms are the same, so she goes in and there is Mia in her bathroom, trying to clean herself. Crying. She’s been – how you say? – beaten up. See the marks, even now?’ Jackie’s glance invited Ellie to inspect Mia’s bruises.

‘She’s been worked over, good and proper,’ a sharp-faced girl said. She was wearing earrings studded with diamonds, not glass. Her clothes were cheap and flashy, but she sported a leather handbag that bore a famous couturier’s name.

Mia didn’t react to what was being said about her. She was like a broken doll.

Jackie patted Mia’s shoulder. ‘Malgosia say, “Who do this to you?” Mia cries and will not say. Malgosia thinks it is her stepfather or brothers. Hard choices. Malgosia says “Mia, go to the police!” but Mia says they will find her and kill her. There is no phone in her room, and her mobile is smashed into pieces. Mia asks Malgosia to help her get away, says to leave the window open, pretend she went out that way.

‘But where to go? Malgosia has one small room with a bed that is also a settee, so she cannot take her in. Malgosia phones me at work and says can we give Mia a bed on the settee here for two or three days and I say yes, because Mia has sent me so many good things for my sister. Malgosia packs a bag and lifts up the window, and locks the door after Mia and puts the key back. Then she rings a friend who brings his van, and so Mia comes here and I let her in at lunchtime, and give her a key.’

‘At first she is almost all right,’ said Sharp-face. ‘She says she will stay only till her face heal, and then she try for a job. It is her idea to cut her hair and dye it, to look different. And we think this is OK, though not so nice for us, with another person always in the shower in one of the bathrooms. But she cleans and cooks for us, and that is good. And she lends us some of her things.’

They all turned to look at Mia’s down-bent head.

‘Then,’ said Jackie, heavily, ‘we hear a man is asking for Mia in the Avenue. He says he knows his sister is hiding nearby. In the shops we talk one to another, hear everything, you understand? It is the man in the picture. He say he is her brother, but he is blonde and she is dark and we are not sure. Is he really her brother? He has very expensive car, and parks where he likes and stops all the traffic. Also, he is not nice to us. He looks down his nose – so – at us who work in the shops. We think he is maybe the one who beats her. No one says anything to him, but we worry. We tell Mia that there is this man looking for her, and after that she is so frightened that she does not eat any more.’

Sharp-face said, ‘Maybe she did something to deserve the beating, and we are the ones who are in trouble for keeping her here. Maybe the police will arrest us all for hiding her.’

There were various nods of agreement.

Jackie was worried too. ‘We ring Malgosia, say what to do. She says the brother hit her, saying “Where is Mia?” So now she will not work there any more. She says he is clever; he knows Malgosia helped Mia to run away and he says he will look for her where there are Polish people living nearby. Malgosia says Mia must go to the police, but when we say that to Mia, she takes a knife to cut her wrist and now we cannot leave her alone any more. I take her to work with me and the boss says she can clean the shop, but he will not pay her for she is not much good. Yesterday the man in the photograph comes and looks into the shop from the street. He comes to look but not to buy. Mia runs and hides at the back of the shop, and now she will not speak at all. We do not know what to do. And then you came.’

Ellie considered what had been said and what had been left unsaid. She didn’t think Mia had handed over her belongings to these girls out of the goodness of her heart. Earrings, handbag, an expensive T-shirt, a leather jacket. No. But it wouldn’t help to say they’d robbed a girl who’d come to them for help, because after their own fashion, they’d kept her safe. So far.

The blonde spoke up next. ‘The man – her brother – is saying he will give a hundred pounds to find Mia. Malgosia says “no”, but she needs the money.’

And so, thought Ellie, do you. Each one of you – except perhaps for Jackie – has already considered what they could do with that money and soon one of you will convince herself that telling the man is justifiable. Mia’s head drooped, but she said nothing.

Sharp-face said, with care, ‘Of course we wouldn’t tell, not for such a small sum.’

In other words, if Ellie offered a larger bribe, they’d keep quiet. Sharp-face couldn’t be trusted not to give Mia away, so Mia must leave. Besides, Mia needed a doctor and possibly a psychiatrist. She needed a safe place to hide until she could be nursed back to health. At that moment Ellie wondered, grimly, exactly what the girl had been through, and whether she would ever recover.

Ellie considered that the girl had witnessed Lloyd’s death and been beaten to prevent her telling what she’d seen. Or . . . no. Ellie didn’t want to think what else might have happened to the girl.

The blonde said, ‘He also say that he will come back and find where we live, and if we have been telling lies, and do know where she is, then he will not pay the money, but he will punish us.’

Jackie pleaded with Ellie. ‘So now you will take Mia?’

‘About time, too,’ said Sharp-face. ‘We don’t want a visit from her brother, do we?’

More nods. At least they were agreed on that.

Ellie tried to think through various possible courses of action. Yes, she must remove the girl, but where to? A doctor first? Yes, but what then? If Ellie took Mia to Accident and Emergency at the nearest hospital they’d admit her, of course, but would want her to see a psychiatrist. If she continued to be silent, they’d transfer her to a psychiatric unit. Would that be in her best interests? Possibly.

But would she be safe there? If she was admitted under her own name, how long would it be before the family discovered her whereabouts, and what action would they take?

Suppose Ellie took her to the police first? But unless Mia talked, the police wouldn’t be able to help her.

Consider what the brother would do. Stepbrother. He was not her actual brother. At some point – maybe even that evening – he was going to find out where the girls were living and come looking for Mia. Would the girls deny they knew Mia? They might. But more probably one or other of them would tell him that a Mrs Quicke had taken the girl.

And then he’d come after Ellie. Ouch. Ellie had visions of mayhem back at her house; of frail little Rose being pushed around, of bold Thomas defending his womenfolk with a walking stick. Thomas was a big bear of a man but no longer that young, or particularly fit. No, no. She couldn’t risk either of them being put into danger. So she couldn’t take Mia home with her.

She would phone Thomas and ask for advice. Ouch. She remembered that he had some meeting up in town that day and wouldn’t be back till late. Who else could she ask? Ah, but she only had that wretched iPhone on her at the moment, and if she asked to use one of the girls’ mobiles, the call could easily be traced and the information handed to the stepbrother. What on earth was she to do?

Ask for help, of course. Well, she hardly had time for a proper prayer, but perhaps, when you were in desperate straits, it didn’t matter what words you used.

Help, Lord. It was the best she could do.

‘Can’t say I like it. Beating up an old lady.’

‘Nothing to connect them with us, is there?’

‘Well, no.’

‘It’ll bring Ursula back in no time, nicely softened up.’

‘Hope you’re right. Did you find Mia?’

‘What did I tell you? Piece of cake. I can lay my hands on her any time I like. But not this evening. One of His Nibs’s charity dos up in town. Best bib and tucker, drinks at eight, carriages at one. He’s presenting the police with some bauble or other in consideration of this and that. Joy to the community and all that. You’ve arranged yourself an alibi too?’

‘Darts match, down the pub. Picking up Dan and Bullseye from their place at seven.’