Jack woke just after 1 p.m., after at least a few hours deep sleep. He showered and dressed and went into the kitchen. Penny was setting up the ironing board.
‘Heavens, Jack, you sleep like the dead. I don’t know how Maggie does these night shifts; she’s amazing. She was already gone when you got home this morning, and probably won’t be back until late tonight.’
‘I know, the night shifts really do your head in; next week I’m back on days, so that’ll be a relief. Tell her I had to go and that I’ll make it up to her.’
‘Well, this Friday I need one of you to look after Hannah as I have another bingo session and then dinner with my friends.’
‘I’ll sort it . . . and I’ll grab some lunch in the canteen.’ He kissed his mother on the cheek and left the house. He had already googled the village of Pyecombe where Lorna Elliot’s aunt supposedly lived, which was about ten miles outside Brighton. He thought he would call on her first and then try to find the headstones in the Brighton and Preston graveyard. Jack felt hungry and picked up a coffee and a sandwich at a petrol station on the way. He headed onto the A23 and after almost forty-five minutes he turned onto the A273, eventually arriving in the small, picturesque village. He pulled up in front of an attractive old-fashioned pub called The Plough to double check the address, turning off Waze and looking up the address on Google maps.
Jack eventually found the narrow lane which led to the little cottages which had probably at one time been farm labourers’ accommodation. They had white picket fences and neat gardens with a profusion of flowers surrounded by manicured hedges. He parked near the end of the lane and then walked back to number 12. The curtains were drawn over the latticed windows, and Jack wondered if anyone was at home.
He walked up the path, noticing a lot of dry, unswept leaves. He rang the bell, cursing that he had driven all the way there for nothing.
He pressed the doorbell again and suddenly the dark-blue door was opened. A middle-aged woman appeared, wearing a pink knitted cardigan and matching pink and grey pleated skirt, looking rather like a school mistress.
‘You’re earlier than I expected, but I’m almost finished,’ she said.
‘I’m sorry, I’m Detective Sergeant Mathews.’ Jack flashed her his ID.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I thought you were from the Red Cross. We’ve just finished labelling everything to go to their charity shop. Do come in.’
Jack stepped into a small, dark hallway. The woman led him into an old-fashioned but tasteful drawing room, with a settee and matching chairs and large Persian rugs over polished wood floors. There were numerous glass-fronted cabinets filled with china dinner services, and a tiled fireplace with a three-bar electric fire in it.
‘I wanted to talk to Ms Barbara Elliot.’
‘Oh goodness me, are you here officially, or as a friend?’
‘Officially . . . and you are?’
‘Mrs Foster . . . well . . . I’m sorry to inform you but Barbara died three days ago.’
Jack closed his eyes with frustration as Mrs Foster gestured towards the cabinets.
‘I’m putting red dots on all the things to be sold and green dots on the ones for the Red Cross and Macmillan’s. I’ve been cleaning and getting everything ready. Please, do sit down. Would you like a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you. Can you tell me how Miss Elliot passed away?’
‘She’d been suffering from dementia for a few years but was in good health otherwise. As old as she was, she still took care of herself. She cooked and gardened but was becoming increasingly frail. I’m an old family friend. I live on the outskirts of the village, so I was a sort of carer for her, checking in on her almost every day. They think she went into the garden and fell, but she hadn’t taken her panic button with her. She usually wore it around her neck. The next door-neighbour found her and called an ambulance. She was in her nightdress and freezing cold. So very sad. She was a really lovely lady.’
Jack sat down on one of the big comfortable cushioned seats.
‘You say you were a family friend?’
‘Yes, for many years. Are you sure you won’t have a cup of tea?’
‘No, thank you. I just wanted to ask Ms Elliot a few questions regarding an enquiry I’m working on, but sadly it’s too late. Do you know if she had any visitors recently?’
‘Yes, a surprise one, actually, I don’t think she’d seen her for many years. Her niece came, quite a few months ago now. I’ve been unable to contact her, as I am sure she would want to know.’
‘Lorna Elliot?’
Mrs Foster looked surprised.
‘Yes, Lorna, she had arrived from LA, but said she didn’t want to stay too long as she had to get to her hotel. I offered to let her stay with me, but she declined.’
‘How well did you know Lorna?’ Jack asked.
‘I used to know her very well a few years ago, but . . .’ She hesitated.
‘It is important to my investigation, Mrs Foster.’
‘Oh, is it about that terrible thing that happened? Her fiancé disappeared . . . it must be almost thirty years ago now. It was so shocking, and she never really got over it.’
‘Did she say anything about it when she came here?’
‘I think she said that she had found something out, but she didn’t elaborate. After it happened, she sold everything, including the flat in Mayfair and the country house they had bought together. There were too many memories. She was very well off, but she was bereft. He had been the love of her life, and to never find out what happened to him . . . I think that made it even worse, it broke her heart. Are you sure you wouldn’t like a cup of tea, or perhaps a sherry?’
Jack was so eager to keep her talking that he accepted the sherry. Mrs Foster left the room, and returned a minute later with a bottle of sherry and two small glasses. She poured a liberal amount in both glasses and passed one to Jack.
‘I am someone who knows what it feels like to be bereft. One morning, and in very few words, my husband told me he wanted a divorce. He also said he had asked our two sons, twin boys aged thirteen, which of us they wanted to live with, and he said they had chosen him. He was leaving for a new life in Los Angeles, along with his bimbo who was twenty years younger than him. I had been working for him and built up his practice until the boys were born. I had a terrible time getting over it, suffered from depression, but life does go on. I had alimony and a little studio flat in London, but my parents owned the cottage here. So, when they passed, I came to live here. Sad to admit it, but I am still heartbroken, same as poor Lorna.’
Jack sensed that she was eager to talk, perhaps from loneliness. But he was keen to get her back onto the subject of Lorna.
‘Did Lorna know your husband?’
‘Yes, she did; in fact, it was me that persuaded her to see him.’
‘Was he in finance?’
‘Good heavens, no! I was his medical nurse. He was a plastic surgeon and had a Harley Street practice. He opened up in LA and made a fortune. Married her, this so-called nurse! Brought up my boys, and they had another child, not that I ever met them again.’
Jack was becoming confused.
‘I don’t understand. You said you persuaded Lorna to see him. Did they go to LA together?’
‘No, no, that was quite a while later. It was me that suggested she made an appointment to see him. Lorna was rather a plain-looking young woman, with a very prominent nose. I said she should try to make herself feel better as she was so depressed and heartbroken. She was almost obsessed with trying to find out what happened to her lovely fiancé, Anton. She was calling the police every day, waiting for news. At that time, she lived here with Barbara, and in the end even poor Barbara was feeling the strain because Lorna wouldn’t leave it alone, accusing the police of begin inept. Anyway . . .’
She sipped her sherry, then took out a tissue from the sleeve of her cardigan and folded it into a square to dab beneath her eyes.
‘Please go on, this is all very helpful to me,’ Jack encouraged her.
‘Well, after a few years with no news and no hope of ever finding his body, she left to move to Los Angeles. I believe she contacted my husband, or some other surgeon, because when she came back, I honestly didn’t recognise her. She looked wonderful . . . quite beautiful.’ Mrs Foster gave a sad laugh. ‘Made me wish I’d done the same thing, but after being a nurse and seeing what was involved – unlike that other woman, I was qualified – I just couldn’t have it done myself. Maybe I should have . . . silly really . . . I’ve been on my own ever since my divorce.’
She poured herself another sherry and topped up Jack’s glass. He could feel his heart rate going up, as he now had the positive link between Lorna Elliot and plastic surgery.
‘I can understand your loss,’ Jack said. ‘My mother is a widow and I do worry about her being lonely. Perhaps if she could find someone . . .’
Mrs Foster lightly laughed again.
‘Yes, I have to say it creeps up on you. Now that my boys have grown up, they e-mail me. But I lost them when they chose to live with my husband and that woman.’
‘Do you think Lorna was lonely?’
She nodded as she sipped her sherry. ‘Yes, but she was always a loner. She was never that friendly, always very private. When she last visited, I felt that she was also very nervous. Her aunt didn’t really recognise her, and I felt she had not actually come all this way to see Barbara. There was something else . . .’
She took another sip of her sherry and gave a girlish laugh. ‘You know, young man, you do have a way of making me talk a lot about myself! You are very easy to talk to, but I don’t want to bore you with my life, and you’re here about Lorna.’
‘You are being exceptionally helpful, and the more I know about Lorna the better as we’re trying to trace her,’ Jack said.
‘Well, I keep calling her mobile but she never answers. I’m a bit worried about her, to be honest. As I said earlier, she was very nervous . . . even a little frightened . . . as if she needed protection. But she never told me what was bothering her. I suggested that she contact the police, but she became very tetchy and said that she didn’t trust them as they had done nothing about finding out what had happened to her beloved Anton. They’ve never found his body, you know . . .’ She paused. ‘But I’ve said too much.’
Jack was concerned that perhaps the sherry was not helping her to concentrate, but then she gave that girlish giggle again.
‘I told her what I had done, hoping that it might help her. I told her I had got myself onto the books of a dating agency. It was expensive and only had clients from good backgrounds in London. I still have my small flat in Pimlico which I use when I want to do a bit of shopping, so I applied using that address.’
Jack smiled, trying to sound calm. ‘A dating agency?’
‘Yes! Anyway, I told her about the date I had with a nice man whom I met for a drink. He was very kind and thoughtful. I was a bit naughty because I found out he was actually a police officer. I looked in the glove compartment in his car and saw that he was a detective, so I told Lorna that she should contact the agency and pick him out as he had not asked me for a second date, and he could protect her.’
‘Did she tell you she was concerned about her safety?’
‘Not in so many words, but you know, in the short time she was here it was obvious to me she was very anxious: if the phone rang, she’d physically freeze, checking at the window, and she was constantly on her mobile.’
Jack swallowed hard. Another link. He had not recognised Mrs Foster as one of the women Ridley had gone on a date with via the agency. He could hardly believe it! He was now eager to get back to London, and to talk to Ridley.
‘So, did Lorna contact the dating agency?’
‘I don’t know. She left here and I haven’t heard from her since.’
‘I am very grateful to you for all your information, Mrs Foster. Did Lorna give you any indication about where she was staying? Which hotel? Or anything else you can remember?’
Mrs Foster frowned and chewed at her bottom lip.
‘She said something about living in Monaco for a while, doing some investments. But she would always become very quiet if I asked anything too personal. She was quite a difficult woman, and as I said before, she was a loner.’
‘She never told you where she was staying when she was not here at her aunt’s?’
‘No, I offered her my flat in Pimlico as I was here looking after Barbara. I called the landline there just in case but got no answer, so I presume she didn’t take up my offer. Oh yes, I remember now, she actually had a copy of my flat keys made. She was a very methodical woman. She said she didn’t want to put me out in any way and didn’t want to take my keys in case I needed them . . . I didn’t have a spare set, you see.’
‘So it’s possible she did use your flat?’
‘I suppose so . . . as I just said, I called there but there was no answer. And I must have rung her mobile numerous times, and then it just went dead. I haven’t been to the flat in London since she was here. Poor Barbara needed me, and to be honest I expected Lorna to return. She might not even know that Barbara has died. I’m executor of her will. Barbara was rather like Lorna . . . meticulous and methodical and she left detailed instructions about everything . . . including which charities should benefit.’
‘Did she have much luggage when she came here?’
‘No, not really. Just a couple of rather nice matching suitcases and her laptop.’
Jack now had another urgent priority: checking out the Pimlico address. He stood up to indicate that he was leaving, and Mrs Foster jumped up and crossed over to the desk.
‘I don’t know if you have any of her family details. It’s very sad as there is no one but Lorna now. She had a sister called Norma who was tiny and very different from her. Norma married a rather tedious young man. I think his surname was Raynor. They lived in Hove and had a gorgeous little girl called Sandra. She tragically died very young, poor little soul; had what they thought was a bad cold, but it was tuberculosis. Norma never recovered and had a nervous breakdown. I think she died about ten years ago, and her husband died shortly afterwards of bronchial pneumonia. There was a little album somewhere, unless Lorna took it. You can tell how long I’ve known the family though.’
She started hunting through all the drawers and Jack explained that he should really be going, thanking her for her time.
‘Well, perhaps Lorna took it. I’m sure it was here, so you may want to come back. I hope I haven’t put a green sticker on it!’
‘Thank you. I really appreciate your time, Mrs Foster, and you’ve been very helpful. If you could just give me the address in Pimlico, I can check if Lorna is there and get back to you.’
Mrs Foster jotted down the address in a notebook and tore the page out as the doorbell rang.
‘Oh, that’ll be the Red Cross people coming to collect everything.’
As Jack left, two young women entered the cottage, carrying boxes, bubble wrap and large bags for the Red Cross charity donations.
Jack almost ran to his car, adrenaline coursing through him. He made a quick stop at the pub to use the restroom and have half a pint of beer, then bought a takeaway ham sandwich which he ate on the drive back to London. He would just have enough time to stop at the Pimlico flat before going on duty.