Simone was bone-weary. It had been hot in Shrewsbury, and she’d spent the best part of the day going from shop to shop looking, without success, for a comfortable pair of shoes. Tired and discouraged, she had made her way to the bus, only to be told that the three-o’clock bus no longer ran on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. She would have to wait for the four-fifteen.
And now, instead of going straight home and putting her feet up for an hour before going out on the street again, she was sitting on a hard chair in an interview room, facing a detective sergeant and a detective chief inspector, and wondering what the hell it was all about.
“Thank you for coming in, Miss Giraud,” said Paget once the preliminary information had been entered on the tapes. “We’ll try not to take up too much of your time.”
Simone leaned back in her chair. “I didn’t know I had a choice,” she said. “Does that mean I can leave?”
Paget nodded. “You are free to go if you choose,” he told her. “We cannot make you stay, but I believe you may be in a position to help us with our enquiries, and I’d very much appreciate your cooperation.”
Simone eyed the chief inspector suspiciously. Was this some kind of “good cop, bad cop” routine, or what? she wondered. But the man intrigued her, and it had been a long time since anyone had bothered to call her “Miss Giraud.” She nodded cautiously. At least she’d stay until she found out what it was all about.
“Thank you,” said Paget as he placed the photographs of Julia Rutledge on the table in front of Simone. “I believe you know this girl. I’m told she has been staying with you. Can you tell us where she is now?”
Simone glanced at the picture. Julia Rutledge? So that was Vikki’s real name. Not that she was surprised. Most of the girls had used other names at one time or another, but what did surprise her was that Vikki had been inside. That was evident by the pictures. But it did explain why the kid had been so scared when she’d been picked up the other week. She’d been afraid they’d find out who she was. But she’d been lucky; they’d just held her overnight and hadn’t bothered to take her prints or run a check on her.
She shrugged and shook her head. “Doesn’t look like anyone I know,” she said.
“I think you should take a closer look,” Paget suggested. “Bearing in mind that the penalties for obstruction, harbouring a person suspected of having committed a criminal act, and being an accessory to a crime are considerably harsher than those for soliciting.”
She didn’t like the sound of that, and she didn’t think the man was bluffing. What the hell had the kid got herself into? Criminal act? Accessory to a crime? What crime? It went against the grain to help the police with anything, but on the other hand it wasn’t as if she owed the kid anything, especially since Vikki had taken off with some of her stuff.
Simone tapped one of the prints with a blood-red fingernail. “So what’s she done?” she asked.
“We think she may be able to help us with our investigation into the murder of James Bolen, last Saturday night,” said Paget, “and we are anxious to talk to her.”
Simone sucked in her breath. The Bolen killing! It had been all over the papers that morning. A chill ran through her. Surely to God the kid hadn’t been involved in that! Suddenly, the image of a red Jaguar and a driver wearing sunglasses stirred in her mind, and she remembered watching Vikki as she leaned inside the car, all spindly arms and legs, and wondering why the man would prefer Vikki when he could have had her. And then the man had driven off, and Vikki had told her he’d changed his mind.
And that was the last she had seen of Vikki Lane.
The thoughts flashed through her mind in an instant, but Paget had been watching her closely. “So you do recognize her,” he prompted. It wasn’t a question.
“I don’t know anything about a Julia Rutledge,” she said slowly, “but this does look a bit like a kid I’ve seen around. Goes by the name of Vikki. Vikki Lane.”
“I’m told she was staying with you,” said Tregalles.
Simone shrugged. “I gave her a place to sleep for a couple of nights, that’s all,” she admitted. “But she left sometime last week.”
“When last week?”
“Thursday, Friday, I’m not sure.”
Tregalles shook his head. “She was with you for the best part of a month,” he said, “and we have witnesses who saw you with her as late as Saturday night.”
“So it was Saturday. What difference does it make?”
“Where is she now?” It was Paget who asked the question.
Simone tilted her head and met the chief inspector’s steady gaze. “I don’t know,” she told him. “And that’s the truth. I haven’t seen or heard from her since she left.”
“But she was living with you; she must have told you something
about herself,” he insisted. “What brought her to Broadminster? Had you known her before? Is that why she came?”
Simone shook her head. “No. The first time I saw her was three or four weeks ago, when some bastard threw her out of a van right in front of me. She told me he’d picked her up on the road and said he was going as far as Hereford, but when he got into Broadminster, he turned off, stopped the van, then dragged her into the back and raped her. Took her knapsack and everything she had in it—not that she had much to start with, but he took it just the same, then pitched her out onto the street and drove off.”
“Did she report it? Go to hospital?” asked Tregalles.
“I offered to take her to hospital, but she wouldn’t have it. As for reporting it”—Simone shrugged contemptuously—“who would have believed her? Or me, for that matter? Not your lot, for a start. Besides, it was dark, it was raining, and I never thought to look at the number plate until it was too late.”
“You said the driver told her he was going as far as Hereford,” said Paget. “Was that her destination, or did she intend to go on from there?”
“I don’t know. I didn’t ask, and Vikki never said.”
“Did she ever talk to you of relatives or friends or anywhere she might go? She must have said something during the course of her stay. Please try to think, Miss Giraud. It’s extremely important that we talk to this girl.”
“So you can fit her up for murder?” said Simone contemptuously. She stood up and placed her hands on the table, her dark eyes flashing as she looked down at the two men. “Look, I told you, the kid had just been raped, thrown out of a van, and she was down to skin and bones. I don’t think she’d had a decent meal in God knows how long. So I took her in and tried to help her. All right? I don’t know where she came from; I don’t know where she was going; and I don’t know where she is now. And I don’t believe she had anything to do with any murder!”
Simone snatched up her handbag, slung the strap over her
shoulder. “I’m tired and I’m hungry,” she said, “and I’ve had a sodding lousy day, so unless you intend to arrest me, I’m going home.”
Tregalles moved to intercept her, but Paget remained seated. “If you wish to leave, then you are free to do so,” he told her, “but we do have hard evidence that places Julia Rutledge, or Vikki Lane, if you prefer, at the murder scene, and the sooner we can talk to her, the better.”
Simone started to speak, but Paget raised his hand. “That doesn’t mean that we believe Julia Rutledge committed the murder,” he said. “In fact, I don’t believe she did, but we do know that she was there in the room at or about the time it occurred. Which is why I would like you to stay and try to think of anything that will help us find her.”
Simone hesitated. There had been something appealing about Vikki, something forlorn and waiflike, and she didn’t want to drop the kid in it. But on the other hand, she knew nothing about her. And for some reason she could not explain, she believed this man when he said he didn’t think that Vikki was guilty of murder. Besides, on a more practical level, they could make life bloody miserable for her on the street if she didn’t at least appear to be cooperating, and she didn’t need the hassle.
Simone sighed and sat down again. Might as well get it over with now as later, she decided.
They were both dead-tired. Dee Bolen’s plane was two hours late arriving in Manchester and traffic was heavy on the roads, so it was after eight o’clock in the evening by the time she and Harry arrived home. Harry carried the suitcases into the house and set them in the hall.
“I’ll take the small case up, but everything else can wait,” said Dee as she moved toward the stairs. “I know it’s early, but I think I’ll go straight to bed.”
“I’ll see if there are any messages,” said Harry, “and then I’ll
join you. I could use an early night myself. It’s good to have you back, Dee.”
His wife mounted the stairs and entered the bedroom. She set the case down beside the dressing-table and sat down on the bed. She felt as if she hadn’t slept for weeks. She tried hard to talk herself out of having a shower, but she felt so grubby after sitting all that time on the plane, and then again in the car, that she couldn’t go to bed feeling as she did.
Harry came in as she started to undress. “There was a message from Laura on the machine,” he told her, “so I rang her back. She sounds upset. She wants me to go over. Says it’s important.”
“What, now?”
Harry gestured helplessly. “What could I say? She sounds really upset.”
“Have the police … ?”
“No. There’s been no word from the police. It’s just … To tell you the truth, I don’t know what it is except it’s something to do with the business. I’d better go.”
Dee began to dress again. “I’ll come with you,” she said. “I was going to go over first thing tomorrow, but I might as well go with you now.”
“No.” Harry put a hand on her shoulder and shook his head. “I don’t know what it’s all about,” he said, “but she was quite insistent that I come alone. Besides, you’re tired. You should get some sleep.”
Dee stared at him. “And you’re not? Look at you; you can hardly keep your eyes open. Did you tell her we’ve only just got in?”
He nodded. “She knows that. She said she’s been trying to ring me all evening. I think it might be best if I go alone. I’ll be back as soon as I can. It sounds as if she’s been stewing about something all day and needs to talk about it.”
“What about John? Can’t he go over?”
Harry shrugged. “She says it’s me she wants to talk to,” he said wearily. He kissed Dee quickly on the cheek and turned on his heel.
“I’ll make sure the door is locked,” he called as he started down the stairs.
Dee heard the front door slam and began once more to get undressed. She couldn’t understand why Laura was so insistent on seeing Harry now. Couldn’t it wait till morning? She took off her earrings, opened the little trinket box, and was about to drop them in when something caught her eye. Dee moved the box aside and looked blankly at the tear-drop earrings made of onyx. Earrings she knew belonged to Laura.
TUESDAY, 26 SEPTEMBER
Simone wasn’t asleep when the phone rang, but she was loath to answer it. She didn’t feel like talking to anyone, especially at two-thirty in the morning. She buried her head in the pillow, but the phone kept on ringing.
“What?” she snapped as she picked it up. “Don’t you know what time it … Vikki?” Simone struggled to sit up in bed. “Where the bloody hell are you?” she demanded angrily. “The police have had me in half the evening, asking questions about you. What the hell have you been up to? They say you were involved in this murder last Saturday. And what have you done with my dress and evening bag?”
Standing there in the box beside the road, Vikki shivered at the mention of the police. Simone sounded so angry. “What did they say?” she asked timidly. “The police, I mean.”
“They’ve got your picture. They know you’ve been inside, and your real name is Julia Rutledge, and they say they know you were in the room where this guy, Bolen, was killed. They didn’t come right out and say so, but they think you did it. Did you?”
Vikki’s legs turned to water. “I—I don’t know,” she said weakly. “Really, Simone, I don’t know. I might have done; it’s hard
to explain.” She rushed on before Simone could speak again. “I’m sorry I took your dress and bag, but that’s why I phoned. I hid fifty quid under the wardrobe, and I want you to have it. I know it’s not enough, but it’s all I’ve got. I’m sorry, Simone. Really I am.”
Simone brushed the apology aside, but at the same time her resolve began to weaken. The police had told her to inform them immediately if Vikki contacted her, and by the time they let her go she’d made up her mind to do exactly that. But now, hearing the kid on the phone, she wasn’t quite so sure.
“What do you mean when you say you don’t know?” she demanded harshly. “Either you killed him or you didn’t.”
Vikki gripped the phone and relived once more the scene that had rarely left her mind since she’d fled the Tudor. She’d expected Simone to be angry with her, but she hadn’t expected to hear such cold, accusing tones.
“I don’t know!” she said tearfully, “and that’s God’s truth, Simone.” Quickly, before Simone could speak, Vikki poured out her story. “Please believe me, Simone,” she pleaded, “that’s exactly the way it happened, and I don’t know what to do. Joanna’s been awfully good, but if I stay here much longer, she’s bound to find out, and …”
There was a sharp series of sounds and the phone went dead. “Vikki?” Simone held on, listening hard, but the line remained dead. “Shit!” She put the phone down. Call-box. Time had run out. She sat there on the side of the bed, waiting for it to ring again.
Inside the kiosk, Vikki crammed the remaining coins into the slot, coins she’d stolen from Bunny’s rucksack while she and Joanna were at the pub. But nothing happened. She pounded the box with her fist; there was a click, and the mechanical sound of dialling tone grated in her ear. Vikki put the phone down, rested her head against the side of the box as tears streamed down her face.
When the phone failed to ring again, Simone’s first thought was to tell the police, tell them what Vikki had told her, because if what the kid had said was true, there was a killer loose out there. On the
other hand, they weren’t going to be too impressed with some bizarre tale about her being knocked out and not remembering what happened. Come to that, Simone wasn’t sure she believed it herself.
She got back into bed. Best to stay out of it, she told herself. She’d done her best for the kid and there was nothing more she could do. She began to make herself comfortable when a thought occurred to her. She climbed out of bed again.
Simone got down on her hands and knees and slid her hand beneath the wardrobe. Her fingers touched something, and she slowly drew it out. An envelope, folded once, and inside was fifty pounds.