Lillian Armstrong had to have been invited to this place. Laura was right about that.
She had been a small-time prostitute, working under the guise of a masseuse. If she was serious about her profession she had certainly picked the wrong city to work in. Despite its ancient history of debauchery, Bath had no red light area, so unfortunately, for the likes of people like Lillian Armstrong, when you came to the notice of the police you were remembered. She had been arrested and cautioned several times for loitering – once in Monmouth Street toilets on suspicion of soliciting, but the charge was dropped. And once, in a restaurant, where Greg and his then wife had been dining. His wife had just told him that she’d filed for divorce, and Greg had sat stunned until the raucous voice of Lillian Armstrong had penetrated his skull. Greg had gone to the aid of the restaurant manager as Lillian was disturbing one of the diners, a man sitting alone, trying to hide his face behind the menu. Greg had ended up accompanying Lillian to the police station, because while dealing with her, his wife had taken the opportunity to leave.
*
Back at the police station she had the audacity to claim that her business cards, printed on cheap pink card with her name and phone number, offered a legitimate service.
Unwind with Lillian. Spend your lunchtime with a relaxing massage.
Hence the nickname.
The pathologist had called Greg earlier and said there had been little chance of her surviving; she had injuries to her trachea and bronchus. Most patients die at the scene with this type of injury, coughing and drowning in blood. Even those who reach hospital alive have a high mortality rate. Greg would tell this to Dr Taylor when he next spoke to her, give her some peace of mind. He would give her his mobile number as well, save her calling the station and being on the receiving end of Laura’s wrath.
Poor Lilly, he thought. Beneath the make-up and the tarty clothes she was really just someone doing a job to earn money and look after her kids.
*
The communal area of Lillian Armstrong’s building was a stone stairwell with paint-sprayed graffiti, and other crap thrown by the residents, covering the walls. The block of flats, six storeys high, was an eyesore in an area where riding stolen mopeds and motorbikes was a hobby. Jola Bakowski, Lillian’s neighbour, didn’t look like she belonged there.
She had been living in the UK for four years and been a neighbour of Lillian Armstrong for three of them. She was single and shared the two-bedroom flat with another Polish girl. They both worked at the same hotel. The flatmate was working a double shift and was still at work. The small square living room with its low ceiling and bland beige walls was an uninspiring box, but was also immaculate.
It was the home of someone who prided herself on cleanliness. Jola placed a tray set with teapot, china crockery, and a plate of very moist looking cake on the table, and then proceeded to serve Greg as if he were an honoured guest.
‘Thank you, Jola,’ he said, taking the cup with every intention of drinking the tea, which was not something he chanced in most other homes he visited in the course of his job. He was parched and famished, but he’d talk first and then have a piece of cake.
‘Was Lillian a good neighbour?’
Jola gave a ghost of a smile. Her age was difficult to judge; anywhere between twenty and thirty, he guessed. She was small and wore her clean brown hair back in a short ponytail. She had a pretty, natural face, free of make-up, and shy brown eyes.
‘She was a friend. I liked Lillian very much. She was very kind. She show me the way when I move in – where to put rubbish, to catch buses, to say English words properly. She always say, “I went, not I go, to shops. I am. Not I is.” I am very sad she is dead. Her children will now be orphanages.’
‘Orphans,’ Greg corrected gently.
‘Thank you. Yes, orphans. Do you know where they go now?’
He nodded. ‘Temporary fostering. They’re with a family who look after children in these circumstances until such time as a permanent home can be found for them. Did you ever see their father?’
Jola shook her head. ‘Lillian never marry him. She say, he is bastard and better off without him. I never see him.’
‘Would you know what he looked like if he did visit?’
‘Lillian show me a photo when they are young. He is black man, but I never see him and Lillian say she never see him. She never have money from him for children. She say he hide from responsibility.’
Greg sipped at the tea and awarded it ten out of ten. A perfect cup of tea, and so much better for being in a china cup. A mug of tea never quite tasted the same. ‘Can I ask you about Lillian’s work?’
Jola shrugged. ‘Of course. She not hide what she do. But she very discreet and she change job this last year. She no longer give the sex.’
Greg was surprised at her directness and found it refreshing. ‘And why do you think she stopped? Did she not have men come to her flat?’
‘Of course,’ she replied with another shrug, which could only be described as Gallic – head tilted, and shoulders and hands rising. ‘But they not come for the sex. Lillian stopped the sex. She had problem with her .?.?. how you say .?.?. she say it to me. I erm .?.?. I get “the clap”, Jola. She not wear a Johnny one time cos she get more money, and she get the clap. So she no do it any more.’
‘Surely that would give her more reason to wear a condom in her business if she carried on?’
Her head slowly shook from side to side, and she stood up as if to reinforce her argument. ‘She no longer do the sex, cos she get a fright when that happen to her’
‘OK, OK. I believe you,’ Greg calmly replied. ‘Can you tell me why she was dressed in clothes that looked like she was working in her old job when we found her?’
‘I no idea,’ Jola said, looking a little distressed. ‘She dress nicely when she do her job – black trousers and black top. She give very good massage and she dress nicely when she not do job – jeans, top, nice coat. Even in old job she dress not too sexy. She look after her children and she always a happy mother, never shout at children, never hit them. And they happy, you can tell.’
After few more questions Greg stood up to take his leave. The last time Jola had seen Lillian was the day before her death, and she was happy and normal and had booked a Haven holiday for the February half-term. Weymouth, she’d told Jola, a seaside holiday for her and the kids. Even though it would be in the winter they’d build snow castles if need be.
As he made his way down the steps and away from the concrete building the image of Lillian Armstrong’s last choice of clothing filled his mind. She had been as obvious as a red light. Despite Jola’s protest that she had stopped selling sex, Lillian Armstrong had been dressed for business. But with whom, that was the question.