“No. We just used to talk about rubbish on TV, about the men in our lives. I got the impression that she liked to let off steam with me. I was easy to talk to.”
“Did she ever talk in any detail about the Noah Huntley article she wrote?”
Marnie frowned.
“We did talk about that because it was such a big thing and the story got picked up by the national newspapers, and then he lost his seat.”
“Did Joanna ever talk about meeting Noah Huntley again, or a job she was applying for in London?”
“No. Why would she have met Noah Huntley again? I should think she was the last person he’d want to talk to.”
Kate hesitated and thought about her next question. She didn’t want to lead Marnie.
“Did Joanna ever mention a story she was writing about missing people? Young men who’d gone missing?”
“She hardly ever talked about work. Like I said, she liked to have a laugh with me . . . Were these young men murdered?” she added, her interest piqued.
“I don’t know. We’re rather vague about the details.”
Marnie rubbed at her face. “I remember Fred saying they took away all of Joanna’s work stuff. They interviewed everyone she’d ever spoken to and combed through her whole life. And they came up with nothing. Like I said, I think Jo was abducted or killed by someone she didn’t know. That’s what happens with most of the victims of serial killers. Serial murderers are opportunists. Impulsive. Any number of creeps could have followed Jo and seen that she left her car in Deansgate. That was always empty and about to be demolished. It was the perfect place to grab her, stuff her in their car, and drive away. If you discount everything else, it’s the only logical conclusion,” said Marnie.
Kate was becoming irritated with Marnie, only because she could be right.
“Did you know about Fred having an affair with the neighbors’ nanny, Famke?” asked Kate.
“Yeah, afterward I did.”
“Were you surprised?”
“Not really. Jo was obsessed by work, and Fred was a bit lost. They’d just moved in together, and their lives were going in different directions.”
“Do you think he did it?”
Marnie laughed.
“Fred? No. He couldn’t organize a piss-up in a brewery, let alone, I dunno, killing Jo and stashing her body somewhere so good that no one has found her in almost thirteen years. Unless he hired a hit man, but he was skint.”
“Did Joanna have any other friends from this estate, or enemies?”
Marnie shook her head.
“No, and Bev got on well with everyone. I know that this estate ’as got a bad name, but the people aren’t all bad. There are good people. There was a real community spirit, and people rallied around. Bev’s car got nicked the night Joanna went missing, right out on the road out front, and I had a crash the same day. And so many of the neighbors helped her out giving her lifts, and me too.”
“Was the crash you had bad?” asked Kate, her eyes moving to the crutch propped up against the radiator.
“No. That’s for early-onset arthritis,” said Marnie. “The crash was my own fault. I backed into a posh BMW parked on the road below. My shit-heap MINI was okay, but I ended up having to pay a five hundred quid excess on the owner’s insurance to have it fixed. I bet he could have paid for it easier than me, but that’s life.”
Marnie looked behind her, at the clock on the wall. “I’d better make a move in a bit. I need to pick up the kids from school. Can I show you something?”
“What’s that?” asked Kate.
“It’s in the lounge.”
Marnie got up and picked up the crutch. Kate followed her slow walk down the hallway. Marnie opened the living room door. It was furnished with a dark leather sofa and a flat-screen TV. To the right of the TV was a giant bookcase filled with DVDs. To the left was a large wooden shelf unit with four tiers of shelves behind glass doors. On the shelves behind the glass were rows of foot-high collector’s movie merchandise models: Freddy Krueger, Brandon Lee from The Crow, Pennywise the clown, Ripley from Aliens holding a tiny Newt in one arm and a flame-throwing gun in the other. There were two versions of Chucky, one with and one without a knife, and three versions of Pinhead from Hellraiser and his Cenobites. There was also a group of figures that Kate didn’t recognize.
“Wow,” said Kate, trying to keep her voice light. It was all rather creepy.
“Yeah,” said Marnie, misreading Kate’s reaction as being impressed. “I’ve got a YouTube channel: Marnie’sMayhem07. I demonstrate film-merchandise toys,” she said. “I’m waiting on a fifteen-inch talking Regan from The Exorcist, but she’s stuck in the sorting office.”
Kate smiled and nodded again. It was an oppressive room, and the smell of stale cigarettes was fighting with a cheap air freshener. Marnie had closed the thick curtains, and there was just a harsh overhead light, which bounced off the glossy cheap furniture. Marnie moved over to the DVD shelf, and at the bottom was a shelf of books, and as she picked up one particular book, Kate realized what was coming next. Marnie was holding a copy of No Son of Mine, the memoir written by Enid Conway, Peter Conway’s mother. Kate could feel her chest tighten and her heart begin to thump as she saw there was a black felt-tip pen hooked over the book cover.
“Would you sign it?” She smiled, leaning her elbow on her crutch and opening the book to the title page. There were already two signatures. One in blue that read Peter Conway, and one in black that was illegible, but because Kate had been sent a signed copy of No Son of Mine when it was published, she knew it was Enid Conway’s signature. Marnie held out the pen with an eager look in her eyes.
“But I didn’t write it,” said Kate.
“It would really help me out,” said Marnie. “Do you know how much this book could be worth if a copy has all three signatures?”
“I’ve never signed a copy,” said Kate.
“Exactly. I’ve helped you out, and if I remember anything else, I can help you out even more. Yeah?”
“Where did you get both of their signatures?” asked Kate.
“If you know the right person, you can get it.”
This was abhorrent to Kate. The book, when it was published, had been a cheap ploy by Enid Conway to make money.
“There’s a rare book dealer who’s told me I can sell this for two thousand pounds or more if it has your signature. Do you know how much me and my kids could benefit from two grand? I’ve got black mold in this flat!” Her nostrils flared, and she looked angry. It suddenly made her look like one of her foot-high film-monster models.
Kate thought back to the conversation she’d had with Jake that morning, and it was oddly prescient. The reality of her life was not up for sale. It made sense now, why Marnie was so keen to talk to her.
“No. I’m sorry,” said Kate. “I’m not signing that.”
23