Diamond Dust

Before doing anything else at Raynes Park, he needed to relieve himself. He found the 'Gentlemen' sign on the station platform and discovered from a smaller notice on the door that not every man in Raynes Park was gentle. 'Due to continued vandalism these toilets are locked. If you need to use the facilities please ask a member of staff for the key.' 'I should be so lucky,' he said grimly, looking along the deserted platform. There was a similar notice on the ladies' door. He went down the steps and into the street.

A sheet of rain and a buffeting wind hit him when he stepped out of the station. In the street, umbrellas were being blown inside out. He never carried one. He put up the collar of his old fawn trench coat, jammed on his trilby more tightly and set off for Stormy's local shops. They began almost at once, along one side of Approach Road, and they were about as accommodating as the station facilities. The pharmacy had ceased trading. The fish and chip shop wasn't frying. There were a couple of others with shutters up, covered in graffiti. There was a public convenience. The sign on the door read: 'These toilets are permanently closed.' Driven desperate by the sound and sight of the rain, he stepped around the back.

Feeling better, he applied his mind to other matters. He looked for the hairdressing salon. If you want to find out about a woman without speaking to her husband, try her hairdresser. A shop on the corner called Streakers had an art nouveau design, tastefully done, of running nudes with their hair in curlers. He went in with a gust that blew the showcards off the counter.

One of the stylists put down her scissors and came over. She was the manager, he discovered.

'I was wondering,' he began when he'd shown his warrant card, 'if by any chance you cut the hair of Mrs Weather, the local woman who was shot and found dead by the railway at Woking.' His voice was calm, but he hoped to God he'd struck lucky. There simply wasn't time to do the rounds of all the salons in the area.

'Trish was a client of mine, yes,' the bright-eyed, thirtyish manager told him - and it didn't escape him that she used the 'T' word unprompted. She took him into the staffroom and sent the junior there to sweep the salon floor. 'We couldn't believe it when we heard. She was such a sweet person.'

'You said she was your client. You personally did her hair?'

'I did.'

'For how long?'

'More than a year, once a week. After she left her job in the police she had a regular Friday morning appointment. Personal grooming was important to Trish.' She was eyeing his saturated old mac.

'You got to know the lady well, then? Did she talk about her life?'

She had, quite a bit, he learned. She had been struggling to build up the temping agency. Just when it was starting to take off, a big agency with a chain of branches opened right across the street. They spent a lot in advertising and offered better terms, so her business was hit hard.

The agency didn't interest him at all. 'Did her police work ever come up?'

'Not much.'

'It was a big part of her life. Didn't she talk about the people she worked with?'

She shook her head.

'Did she ever mention someone called Steph, or Stephanie?'

'No.'

Some of the gloss was knocked off his theory.

She told him, 'I got the impression the work was high pressure, but quite satisfying. She missed it after she left. Things got more difficult generally.'

'Not just the business, then?' He was alert to each nuance. 'Her personal life?'

She smoothed her hands down her white tabard. 'If you don't mind, I'd rather not go into that.'

'Why not? She's gone.'

'But Mr Weather hasn't.'

He told her sharply, 'This isn't about being good neighbours, ma'am. It's a murder inquiry. Did she complain about him?'

'No more than other clients do about their husbands. We hear it all. You get them in the chair and they tell you all kinds of confidences.'

He waited, and getting nothing, said, 'So the marriage was under some pressure?'

'I think being at home, Trish had more time in the house, and got rather, well, possessive.'

'And?'

'I felt sorry for Mr Weather, to tell you the truth. You know he slept outside in the van? If you went past in the evening, there was often a light on inside.'

'I didn't know he has a van.'

'When I say 'van', I mean a caravan thing, except it wasn't a caravan. You could drive it.'

'A motor home?'

'Yes. That's what I mean. Big enough to live in. It used to be on their drive.'

'It wasn't when I visited. Perhaps he moved it'

'After Trish disappeared he moved back into the house. He must have parked the motor home in some other place. Or sold it.'

'You were saying you felt sorry for him,' he prompted.