‘She was choked to death. And the time of death was sometime between eleven and midnight last night.’
‘Choked!’ She poured out the tea. ‘What was a young girl doing on the cliff top at that time of night? Her father was so strict with Maureen and Gordon, her twelve-year old brother. They’re chapel goers and live under curfew rules in that household but Maureen might have felt like flouting them occasionally.’
As she sipped her tea, she pictured the girl as she had last seen her. Maureen had distinctive silvery blonde hair like her mother, fair lashes, deep cornflower blue eyes, dimpled pink cheeks, pouting cherry lips. And practiced a vapid bored expression when speaking to adults.
Her maternal grandmother was Danish, she’d been told by Paula Carey when Viviane commented once on her fair colouring. She’d reminded Viviane of a white mouse when she came into the library, usually accompanied by her friend, Susan Flitch who were as different from each other as chalk and cheese. Perhaps her father’s almost puritanical strictness had made her break out unwisely?
Kent studied her closely. He sighed and shook his head. ‘I suppose you must know most of these people. You come in contact with them at work, don’t you?’
She shrugged. ‘Some of them. I don’t know Mr. Carey that well.’
He drank a mouthful of tea. Grimaced and added another spoonful of sugar and stirred it in with a frown. ‘This is not a case that is open and shut. It’s not easy to put it into so many words. It’s a feeling I’ve got. I think we’re looking for someone who is mentally sick.’
Her spoon clattered in the saucer. ‘Really?’
He was holding her attention deliberately. But would he tell her more?
‘This is not for public hearing, Viviane. What I’m about to tell you now I don’t want to see reported in the papers.’ She nodded. ‘She was throttled and then the poor kid was choked to death on her panties. Literally. They were stuffed down her throat cutting off the poor kid’s air supply.’
Viviane closed her eyes, and sucked in her breath. It was much worse than she’d imagined it could be.
‘I’m telling you this, Viviane, because you were married to a copper. And I hope I can trust you not to say anything of this outside these four walls. Not even to your children.’
‘It has to be a local man, Jon. Someone she knew. Not a stranger - someone she liked and trusted even. She wouldn’t have been out so late unless she’d arranged to meet that person.’
He nodded, picked up his cup and finished his tea. ‘I thought that too. I’m glad you agree. This investigation is not going to be easy, that girl was adept at keeping her assignations secret from everyone including her best friend Susan Flitch and her previous boyfriend Raymond Perkins.’
‘So the killer could do the same to another girl, couldn’t he? Couldn’t he, Jon? Unless you find him soon.’
9
In the living room, a can of beer in his hand, Kent relaxed back into the chair. Memories were hitting him once again, bad memories he had tried to bury for so long in the dark recesses of his mind. Today had brought back the terrible time he’d lived through with his own family. The long night hours waiting for news when his sister had gone missing after a visit to a friend’s house. It was thirty two years now since the police had come to their house early one summer morning to tell his mum that her pretty, loving fifteen year old daughter, Briony, had been found lying under the swings in the local playground, her clothes and her young life taken from her. Today he had seen his sister, Briony, again when he looked down at Maureen Carey’s lifeless body lying on the cliff top.
‘A penny for them, Jon?’
He grimaced. ‘You wouldn’t want to know.’
He was twelve years old like Maureen’s young brother, when Margaret Kent, his mum, a staff nurse working on night shifts in the local hospital, had to identify her daughter. The year before, his dad had had an unexpected yet fatal heart attack, like Bill Sherlborne, that left Margaret Kent the sole provider for her young family.
He took a long drink of the fridge cold beer as he recalled that they had nailed his sister’s murderer after he was caught in the attempt of attacking another young girl. Terry Bolton, a nineteen-year-old youth of diminished responsibility, was a middle-aged man now who would be most likely out of prison. He would need to check up on him. Essex was not so far away.
‘Sorry, Viviane, I’m not good company tonight. And you’ve had a long day too. Thanks for being so understanding and the meal.’ His smile was tired but genuine.
‘My pleasure.’