Piece Of My Heart

“Aha,” said Brian. “You two an item again?”

Banks felt himself redden. “Don’t be cheeky. And no, we’re not. Can’t a couple of colleagues have a quiet dinner together?”

Brian held his hands up, grinning. “Okay. Okay.”

“Why don’t we eat out later? Pub lunch, if I can make it. If not, dinner. On me.”

“Okay,” said Brian. “That all right with you, Emmy?”

“Of course,” said Emilia. “I can hardly wait to try some of this famous Yorkshire pudding.”

“You’ve never had Yorkshire pudding before?” said Banks.

Emilia blushed. “I’ve led a sheltered life.”

“Well, I think that can be arranged,” said Banks. He glanced at his watch. “Right now, I’d better be off. I’ll phone.”

“Cool,” said Brian. “Can you tell us which room we can have and we’ll take our stuff up while you’re out?”

Saturday, 13th September, 1969

The Sandford Estate was older than the Raynville, and it hadn’t improved with age. Mrs. Lofthouse lived right at the heart of things in a semidetached house with a postage-stamp garden and a privet hedge. Across the street, a rusty Hillman Minx without tires was parked on a neighbor’s overgrown lawn, and three windows were boarded up in the house next door. It was that kind of estate.

Mrs. Lofthouse, though, had done as much as she could to brighten the place up with a vase of chrysanthemums on the windowsill and a colorful painting of a Cornish fishing village over the mantelpiece. She was a small, slight woman in her early forties, her dyed-brown hair recently permed. Chadwick could still read the grief in the lines around her eyes and mouth. She had just lost her husband, and now he was here to burden her with the death of her daughter.

“It’s a nice house you have,” said Chadwick, sitting on the flower-patterned armchair with lace antimacassars.

“Thank you,” said Mrs. Lofthouse. “It’s a rough estate, but I do my best. And there are some good people here. Anyway, now Jim’s gone I don’t need all this room. I’ve put my name down for a bungalow out Sherbourne in-Elmet way.”

“That should be a bit quieter.”

“It’s about Linda, isn’t it?”

“You know?”

Mrs. Lofthouse bit her lip. “I saw the sketch in the paper. Ever since then I just… I’ve been denying it, convincing myself it’s not her, it’s a mistake, but it is her, isn’t it?” Her accent was noticeably Yorkshire, but not as broad as Carol Wilkinson’s.

“We think so.” Chadwick slipped the photograph from his briefcase. “I’m afraid this won’t be very pleasant,” he said, “but it is important.” He showed her the photograph. “Is this Linda?”

After a sharp intake of breath, Mrs. Lofthouse said, “Yes.”

“You’ll have to make a formal identification down at the mortuary.”

“I will?”

“I’m afraid so. We’ll make it as easy for you as we can, though. Please don’t worry.”

“When can I… you know, the funeral?”

“Soon,” said Chadwick. “As soon as the coroner releases the body for burial. I’ll let you know. I’m very sorry, Mrs. Lofthouse, but I do have to ask you some questions. The sooner the better.”

“Of course. I’ll be all right. And it’s Margaret, please. Look, shall I make some tea? Would that be okay?”

“I could do with a cuppa right now,” said Chadwick with a smile.

“Won’t be a moment.”

Margaret Lofthouse disappeared into the kitchen, no doubt to give private expression to her grief as she boiled the kettle and filled the teapot in the time-honored, comforting ritual. A clock ticked on the mantel beside a framed photograph. Twenty-five to one. Broome and his pal would be well on their way to Sheffield by now, if they weren’t there already. Chadwick got up to examine the photograph. It showed a younger Margaret Lofthouse, and the man beside her with his arm around her waist was no doubt her husband. Also in the picture, which looked as if it had been taken outside in the country, was a young girl with short blond hair staring into the camera.

Margaret Lofthouse came back with a tray and caught him looking. “That was taken at Garstang Farm, near Hawes, in Wensleydale,” she said. “We used to go for summer holidays up there a few years ago, when Linda was little. My uncle owned the place. He’s dead now and strangers have bought it, but I have some wonderful memories. Linda was such a beautiful child.”

Chadwick watched the tears well up in her eyes. She dabbed at them with a tissue. “Sorry,” she said. “I just get all choked up when I remember how things were, when we were a happy family.”

“I understand,” said Chadwick. “What happened?”

Margaret Lofthouse didn’t seem surprised at the question. “What always seems to happen these days,” she said, with a sniffle. “She grew up into a teenager. They expect the world at the age of sixteen these days, don’t they? Well, what she got was a baby.”

“What did she do with the child?”

“Put him up for adoption – it’s a boy – what else could she do? She couldn’t look after him, and Jim and I were too old to start caring for another child. I’m sure he’s gone to a good home.”

“I’m sure,” agreed Chadwick. “But it’s not the baby I’m here to talk about, it’s Linda.”

“Yes, of course. Milk and sugar?”

“Please.”

She poured tea from a Royal Doulton teapot into fragile-looking cups with gold-painted rims and handles. “This was my grandmother’s tea set,” she said. “It’s the only real thing of value I own. There’s nobody left to pass it on to now. Linda was an only child.”

“When did she leave home?”

“Shortly after the baby was born. The winter of 1967.”

“Where did she go?”

“London. At least that’s what she told me.”

“Where in London?”

“I don’t know. She never said.”

“You didn’t have her address?”

“No.”

“Did she know people down there?”

“She must have done, mustn’t she? But I never met or heard of any of them.”

“Did she never come back and visit you?”

“Yes. Several times. We were quite friendly, but in a distant sort of way. She never talked about her life down there, just assured me she was all right and not to worry, and I must say, she always looked all right. I mean, she was clean and sober and nicely dressed, if you can call them sort of clothes nice, and she looked well fed.”

“Hippie-style clothing?”

“Yes. Long, flowing dresses. Bell-bottomed jeans with flowers embroidered on them. That sort of thing. But as I said, they was always clean and they always looked good quality.”

“Do you know how she earned a living?”

“I have no idea.”

“What did you talk about?”

“She told me about London, the parks, the buildings, the art galleries – I’ve never been there, you see. She was interested in art and music and poetry. She said all she wanted was peace in the world and for people to just be happy.” She reached for the tissues again.

“So you got along okay?”

“Fine, I suppose. On the surface. She knew I disapproved of her life, even though I didn’t know much about it. She talked about Buddhism and Hindus and Sufis and goodness knows what, but she never once mentioned our true