Jacqueline joined her aunt in the conservatory, which was connected to the kitchen. The only furniture in the glass-enforced room was a cane two-seater settee and a small heater. The furniture shared the space with a variety of plants and flowers. Anei Bâlcescu had a passion for nature. Jacqueline figured her aunt knew more about plants than anyone living. It was not uncommon for Anei to while away her evenings in the conservatory, surrounded, as she put it, by her ‘family’.
As she watered, the old lady continued their conversation. “You like him, no?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“It is to me. And why shouldn’t you? You’re a beautiful young woman. You’ve had a terrible life. Now you should take your pleasure. And if this policeman can provide it, then you have my blessing.”
“I’m afraid he doesn’t know how I feel. More to the point, I don’t know how he feels.”
“Tell him.” Anei’s reply was matter-of-fact.
“What about the church?”
“The church will not deny you your happiness. We all go through life missing out because we lose the nerve to simply ask. Or say what we mean.” Anei turned to face Jacqueline. “Don’t become one of those people.”
The minister knew there was a lot of truth in what her aunt said. It still wasn’t easy to tell someone your true feelings.
A sad expression crossed Anei’s face. “I myself must now practice what I preach. There is something I would like to do for Christmas. I know we are planning to spend the festive season together, but I would like us to go home, to Romania. Only for Christmas. To see my homeland. I have not seen it since I was a baby. I want you to see your heritage, too. My sister would have wanted this for us.”
Anei reached up towards the shelves circling the perimeter of the conservatory. To her pride and joy, her Venus flytraps. There were a dozen in total. As far as Jacqueline knew, Anei was the only person other than her late grandmother who knew the secret to cultivating the carnivorous plant all year round. In Anei’s eyes, no other plant compared.
Jacqueline hesitated before answering her aunt’s proposal. “If that’s what you want.”
Chapter Twenty
“Mrs Janet Soames?”
“Yes.”
Gardener could see very little of the woman save for a pair of accusing eyes staring through the small gap left by the safety chain between the door and its frame.
“Detective Inspector Stewart Gardener and Detective Sergeant Sean Reilly, Major Crime Team.” Gardener held out his warrant card for her inspection.
“Yes.”
He couldn’t quite determine whether her reply was an answer, a question, or confirmation that she’d accepted who he said they were. “You called the station this morning. You have some information about David Vickers?”
Behind him, Reilly rubbed his hands together and exhaled a long breath, mumbling to himself.
Gardener didn’t hear his partner’s comment, but he could guess what it was. Janet Soames closed her front door and slid back the chain. Gardener turned and surveyed the area. The Soames’ residence was a large, two-storey house with a white facade, leaded dark oak windows, and a front door to match. The grass was trimmed, with an assortment of colourful gnomes, a fishpond, and a bench. He imagined it was peaceful in summer, despite being opposite a school.
The door finally opened. “That’s better,” she said. “Could I trouble you for identification again, please?”
Both men held out their warrant cards.
“Please, come in,” she said, satisfied. She led them through a long hall into a highly polished, tiled kitchen, offering a seat at the small round table and chairs. Reilly sat down. He produced a notebook and pen.
“I’m sorry about keeping you at the door, but you can’t be too careful, can you?”
Janet Soames sat opposite Reilly.
Gardener smiled, removed his hat, placed it on the table. From his inside jacket pocket, he produced a photograph of David Vickers and passed it over. He’d obtained it from Lesley and Jim when he’d interviewed them.
“Can you confirm from the photo, Mrs Soames, that we’re talking about the same boy?”
She adjusted her glasses. “Yes, that’s the boy. I’m not sure what I can tell you, though.”
Janet Soames had a soft voice with a clipped accent. Gardener estimated her age around mid-fifties. She had bleached blonde hair, the roots of which were dark brown. Her face was long and drawn, and she wore too much makeup. She was dangerously thin.
“You’d be surprised,” replied Gardener, concerned by her constant fidgeting. She was clearly uncomfortable.
“I used to see him every day,” she continued. “Leaving school. He was a beautiful child. Blond hair, lovely complexion, well-mannered. He once asked my husband if he needed any help to carry his equipment from the car.” She paused.
Reilly took up the conversation. “What do you and your husband do for a living, Mrs Soames?”
“Photography. We take pictures of old castles and stately homes in England and Europe. Then we go across to America and sell them. In frames, of course.”
“Well now, that sounds a grand way to earn a living. I wouldn’t mind having a pop at that myself.” Reilly gave her a reassuring smile. Gardener recognized the tactic for what it was. A pleasant diversion, a clever way to encourage her to open up.
“Have you ever been to Ireland?” he asked her.
“My husband has. We’re both hoping to go next year.”
“Well, you be sure to give me
