her mortgage lender. According to them, she’d never missed a payment. Obviously Jean was getting quite a lot of money from somewhere, which pointed perhaps to a relationship with a wealthy gangster like Neil Vamen, who was going to have a lot more cash than most of the punters she’d ever been with. The question was whether he cared for her enough to kill a possible love rival like Shaun Matthews.
However, once again she wasn’t responding as I pressed the buzzer on the flashy-looking intercom system for the third time.
‘What do we do now?’ asked Berrin eventually.
‘What all coppers have to get used to doing,’ I told him. ‘Wait.’
‘She might have gone away. We could be waiting for days.’
‘Look, Dave, I’m not driving back out here again, and I’m not phoning her and giving her advance notice of us turning up just in case she’s got something to hide, so, for the moment at least, we’re going to stay put.’
‘But even if she is Vamen’s girlfriend, where does that leave us?’ he asked, leaning back against the wall of the porch. ‘We don’t even know if she was seeing Matthews. And where does Fowler fit into it?’
‘I don’t know is the short answer,’ I said, thinking that he had a point. ‘But at least we can hear what she has to say. If Vamen’s got something to do with it, and if she thought more of Matthews than he deserved, then maybe she’s feeling bad about it, and we may be able to get her to talk.’
Berrin nodded wearily. ‘Fair enough. Shall we go and get a cup of tea from somewhere while we wait? I need to rehydrate.’
‘Were you out again last night?’ I asked him in vaguely disgusted tones. I think I was jealous. He told me he was. Out drinking in the West End with one of the station’s more attractive WPCs. He started telling me all about it, but I couldn’t handle that, not after a night alone in front of an excruciating edition of
‘Of course,’ he said, sounding interested.
We were greeted at the top of the stairs by a very short gentleman in his early seventies who had a very wide head that was far too big for his spindly body, giving him more than a passing resemblance to ET. He had large amounts of fine white hair, tinged with orange bits, and big black heavy-rimmed glasses. A taller lady, about ten years younger, with a tent-like flowery dress on, stood behind him. They both smiled as we approached.
‘Good morning,’ said the man, as we produced our warrant cards. ‘We’re the Lackers. Peter and Margaret.’ He shook our hands formally with a surprisingly firm grip.
‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ said Margaret Lacker with an easy smile.
‘Yes, thanks, that’d be nice,’ I said, wishing there were more people I dealt with like the Lackers. Polite, accommodating, and not totally pissed off to see you.
They led us into their richly decorated apartment and motioned for us to sit down in their lounge, a place that looked more like a drawing room of old. ‘So, how can we help you?’ asked Peter Lacker, sitting down in a chair opposite. ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong.’
‘Nothing at all,’ I said, smiling. ‘We’re just interested in one of your neighbours, a Miss Jean Tanner. I understand she lives on this floor.’
‘That’s right. Next door. She’s all right, isn’t she?’
‘I certainly hope so. We need to speak to her in connection with a matter she might have some information on.’ Suitably vague, I thought. ‘We called yesterday but she wasn’t at home and she doesn’t appear to be at home now. Do you know if she’s gone away anywhere?’
‘I don’t think so. She was definitely there last night. We heard her.’
‘Heard her?’
He looked a bit embarrassed. ‘Jean’s a good neighbour, don’t get me wrong, please, but she does have male visitors and sometimes she can have disagreements with them. There were some loud voices last night.’
‘What? Like an argument?’
He nodded.
‘How many people were involved?’ asked Berrin.
‘Just two of them. Jean and someone else. A man. I didn’t immediately recognize the voice.’
‘She’s not in trouble, is she?’ asked Mrs Lacker, coming in with a tray containing a china teapot, four puny- sized china cups and a selection of what looked like custard creams.
I smiled reassuringly as she sat down in a chair next to her husband. ‘Not at all, but it is important we speak to her. You haven’t seen her this morning, then?’ They both shook their heads. ‘How violent was this argument you heard last night?’
‘It wasn’t violent as such,’ said Mr Lacker. ‘It was just quite loud.’
‘It didn’t last that long either, did it?’ added his wife, passing me a cup. ‘Jean tends to keep herself to herself. She’s not a difficult neighbour at all. Is she, Peter?’
‘No, not at all. She’s lived here for a long time. Three or four years, I think.’
I asked them how often she received male visitors but they were vague on this. Now and again, said Mr Lacker, adding that he and his wife were sexually liberal and so of course didn’t disapprove of such arrangements, which as far as I was concerned was one detail too many. They were also vague on how often Jean had had violent disagreements with said visitors. Mr Lacker backtracked somewhat on his earlier statement and said not very often at all. Mrs Lacker said she couldn’t remember the last time before the previous night.
I couldn’t help feeling vaguely concerned about what I was hearing. I took a sip from my tea and put the cup down. ‘I’d like to try her flat again, if I may,’ I said, standing up. Berrin, who was munching on one of the custard creams, followed suit with only limited enthusiasm. It looked like he’d been enjoying his sitdown. ‘Can you show me which one it is, Mr Lacker?’
‘Of course,’ he answered, and led us back out into the hallway. He pointed to a door at the far end. ‘That’s it.’
I stepped past him with Berrin following and knocked hard on the door. Nothing. I waited a few moments, then tried again. If she was in there, she would definitely be able to hear me. I put my ear against the door and listened to the silence. I tried the handle but it was locked. Then I had an idea. A highly irregular one, but on a day like this I wasn’t going to be fussy. ‘Have you got a key to Miss Tanner’s flat, Mr Lacker?’
‘I have,’ he said, ‘but I’m not sure I should be-’
‘I have reason to believe that something might have happened to her,’ I told him, ‘and I need to see if this is the case or not. To do that, I need access to her flat. You can come in with us if you want to satisfy yourself that we’re not doing anything in there that we shouldn’t be.’
‘Oh dear,’ he said. ‘I’d better go and get it.’
He turned and went back inside and Berrin looked at me quizzically. ‘Don’t worry,’ I whispered. ‘I know what I’m doing.’ Which of course were famous last words if ever I’d heard them.
A few seconds later, Mr Lacker emerged with the key in his hand and a worried-looking Mrs Lacker in tow. ‘I do hope everything’s all right,’ she said to me. ‘She always seemed such a nice young lady.’
‘I’m sure it’s nothing,’ I said, taking hold of the key, ‘but I think it’s best to stay on the safe side.’ With everyone crowded behind me, I turned the key in the lock and slowly pushed open the door.
The layout was different to the Lackers’ place and the door opened directly into a spacious lounge with an open-plan, newish-looking kitchen to the right. A wide-screen plasma TV hung from the wall in front of two expensive-looking leather sofas, and the whole effect was very minimalist but also very tasteful. It also looked very unlived in. There were no dirty cups or dishes and the large glass ashtray on the coffee table in the centre of the room was clean and empty. And no evidence at all of a row.
‘Well, she’s not short of a few bob,’ said Berrin, looking round admiringly at the furnishings, particularly the TV.
‘She never said what she did for a living,’ said Mrs Lacker, who had come in behind us. Her husband, meanwhile, hung back in the doorway. ‘It’s very nice, isn’t it Peter?’
Peter nodded. ‘I expect that kitchen cost a pretty penny,’ he said. ‘Those are granite worktops in there. They cost a fortune.’
Berrin looked across at me, presumably for guidance as to what to do next, now that we were in the place. The problem was, I wasn’t sure. I’d hoped there might be some clues to her where-abouts lying about — not that I
