Erika placed a call to Moss, but she got her answering machine.
‘Hi, it’s Erika. It’s coming up to five-thirty. I’m just on my way over to the Douglas-Brown house. Something is bugging me about Linda. I want to take a look at her bedroom. If I’m not back by seven, interview her again – and get Peterson to lead; she seems to have taken a shine to him. Get her talking about cats; I know it sounds mad but I think there’s something there, I can’t put my finger on it . . . She’s cat crazy, but she doesn’t have a cat . . .’
Her phone gave three bleeps and then cut off.
‘Shit!’ Erika cried, looking down at her dead phone. She’d barely been back at the hotel long enough to charge it.
She arrived on Chiswick High Road. She tucked her phone in her pocket and parked on one of the back streets, realising she would have to be quick, and would need to travel back on the underground to have any hope of making it to the station before the twenty-four hours expired.
70
The Douglas-Brown house sat resplendent at the end of the cul-de-sac, dominating the street like a polished, buttery block. Mist hung in the air, and the street lights blinked off as she reached the house. The front gate was well-oiled and opened soundlessly. The bay windows stared back at her blankly. She went to the front door and pressed the bell, hearing it ring deep from within the house. A moment passed, then she started to try the bunch of keys in the front lock. The third key she tried opened the door. She listened for a moment and then came inside, closing the door behind her.
She made for the hallway, past the grandfather clock with its swinging pendulum, and into the vast steel and granite kitchen. It was still and immaculate. Copper pots hung from a frame above a large black granite island, and the back wall was floor-to-ceiling glass. Beyond, she could see the landscaped garden. A blackbird landed on the smooth grass, but seeing Erika move inside, it took flight.
Erika came back out and climbed the sweeping staircase up to the second floor, moving past smart, neutral guest rooms, a marble bathroom, until at the end of the corridor, at the back of the house, Erika found Linda’s room. The door was closed with a small sign saying: Welcome to Linda’s bedroom, please knock before entering. Under it, and almost obliterated with crossings-out, was written: cos i might not be wearing any knickers! Erika couldn’t help but smile, and thought it must have been David. Little brothers liked to tease. She opened the door and went inside.
71
‘I’ve had a message from the boss,’ said Moss, when she came into the incident room. Peterson had arrived at the same time, bringing in a tray of coffee. He was handing them out to the officers who were arriving bleary-eyed and taking off their coats.
‘She wants us to go ahead and bring Linda back first for questioning.’
‘Has her solicitor showed up yet?’ asked Peterson.
‘Yeah, I just saw him in reception. He doesn’t look happy, being pulled in at this ungodly hour.’
‘Oh well, it will all be over by nine,’ said PC Singh, coming up and going to grab the last coffee.
‘Sorry. I need that one,’ snapped Moss. ‘Go and get one from the machine.’
‘That was a bit harsh,’ said Peterson, when Singh had walked off.
‘She made it sound like we’re just clock-watching until nine am . . . Like it’s a formality.’
‘Isn’t it?’ asked Peterson, awkwardly.
‘No,’ said Moss, pointedly. ‘Now listen, the boss has had an idea . . .’
72
Linda’s bedroom was small and gloomy. A sash window with a deep cushioned window seat overlooked the garden, and from above Erika could see that the lawn was still dotted with a few patches of dirty snow. A heavy dark wardrobe stood beside the window. The door creaked as Erika opened it. On one side hung a selection of dark voluminous skirts; next to these was a block of crisply ironed white blouses, some with lacework on the collar; and the rest of the wardrobe was taken up by a huge selection of cat jumpers, all thick and heavy. At the bottom of the wardrobe was a jumble of court shoes, some sensible sandals, a pair of powder-blue running shoes, a dusty pair of ice skates, and a pink Thighmaster.
A single bed with a dark wood frame was tucked in the corner against the back wall, and above its curved wooden headboard was a thick metal crucifix. A line of toy cats sat guard on the neatly made patchwork bedspread. They were arranged in descending height order. Their Disney-esque eyes looked heartbreakingly optimistic amongst the sad gloom. Erika paused for a moment to consider that Linda had made her bed and arranged the cats before she was hauled into a police car.
On the bedside table was a small, Tiffany-style lamp, and a little curved plastic box containing a clear plastic bite guard. There was also a small picture in a frame taken a few years back, of Linda sitting on a swing chair in the garden with a beautiful black cat on her lap. It had white fur on its paws. Erika picked up the frame and turned it over, unhooking the metal clasps and pulling off the cardboard backing. On the back of the photo, in a neat hand was written:
My darling boy, Boots, and me.
Erika held onto the photo as she carried on looking around. An old-fashioned secretary desk in matching dark wood was against the wall at the end of the bed. It was filled with pens and a girly stationery set. A large square in the dust showed where the police had removed Linda’s laptop. A dressing table between the window and the secretary desk held the bare minimum of make-up, a large pot of E45 cream and a bag of cotton wool balls. A brush lay on its side, and strands of Linda’s mousy hair caught the light from the window. Beside the door was a large bookcase crammed with novels by Jackie Collins and Judith Krantz, and scores of historical romance novels. There were a couple of photos from the family holidays in Croatia, Portugal, and Slovakia – mainly of Linda and Andrea with various stray cats – and there was a photo of Linda standing at the base of a cliff with a large tanned guy with dirty blond hair. Linda wore climbing gear and a red plastic hard hat. She was grinning so hard that the chinstrap cut into her shiny tanned face. There was nothing written on the back of the photo.
On the wall beside the door was a large pinboard with a photo collage. The photos were pinned overlapping and were all of Boots, the beautiful black cat with the white paws: Linda sat astride a bike with a wicker basket where Boots perched on a blanket; Linda on a swing in the garden with Boots on her lap; Andrea and Linda eating breakfast in the kitchen, Boots sprawled on his back across the middle of the breakfast bar holding a piece of toast in his white paws. Linda and Andrea’s heads were thrown back laughing. There was a picture of Boots on Simon’s desk, lounging on a pile of paperwork. Despite him being in the middle of something, he had allowed Linda to take a photo of his work being disrupted. Erika began to remove the pins and take away the photos. In several of the photos, where they overlapped, a figure had either been cut out, or the end of the photo had been snipped off unevenly. Scanning the photos of family gatherings, Erika realised who the missing person was.
73
Linda looked drained when Peterson entered the interview room. Her hair was tousled, and she didn’t look like she’d got much sleep in her cell. The solicitor finished polishing his glasses and put them back on.
‘Here, I got you a coffee, Linda,’ said Peterson, sitting opposite and pushing the takeaway cup towards her. The solicitor saw Peterson had a coffee of his own, and looked annoyed that he hadn’t been included.
Peterson tilted up his cup to the light. ‘Look, they never get it right; I said my name was Peterson. They’ve written “Peter Son”.’