‘Perhaps.’ He was cautious, surprised she’d used the word even to him.
‘But if it wasn’t random, if it wasn’t some psychotic who’d taken against attractive young people?’
He took a moment to think. ‘The second murder could be to cover up the first. I mean, we know that Lily Marsh was around in the area. She worked in Hepworth. What’s that? Six miles from Seaton where Julie Armstrong lives. If we can place her in Seaton at the time of Luke’s murder, we’d have a reasonable explanation. She saw something, heard something. Or she was acquainted with the killer, guessed. Confronted him.’
‘You’re thinking a boyfriend?’
‘Maybe. It’s odd that the parents don’t seem to know anything about him.’
‘So what do we do now?’ Vera shut her eyes as Ashworth drove too fast round a bend and had to brake sharply. A tractor was coming in the opposite direction. He didn’t swear, it wasn’t his style. She did, under her breath.
‘Make the link,’ he said, when he’d pulled into the hedge to let the tractor past. ‘Find out where she was the evening of Luke Armstrong’s murder. Talk to all her friends. Her tutors. The people she worked with.’
‘Nothing difficult, then.’ Vera stretched and yawned. ‘A piece of piss.’ Before he could answer she fell asleep.
She woke when they pulled up outside the house, lucky to find a parking place. It was Saturday morning; shoppers saved paying for city-centre parking by leaving their cars in West Jesmond and taking the metro into town. The flat was the ground floor of an Edwardian terrace; a bit grand, she thought, for a student place. There was blue-and-white tape around the door and Billy Wainwright was inside. She called to him through an open window.
‘You’re OK to come in,’ he said. ‘We’re just about finished. I’ll soon be away to my bed. The search team will be in any time.’
They all stood for a moment inside the front door. Billy seemed tired but too wired-up to relax, fidgeting with the clasp on his case.
‘What can you tell me, Billy?’
‘There’s no sign she was killed here. No break-in. No evidence of a struggle in her room. Apparently the lasses she was sharing with were out for the evening. They’re at a friend’s house up the road now, if you want a chat.’
‘You’ll have had a look in the bathroom?’
‘Of course. There were a few hairs in the drain, but I’d bet a year’s salary they belong to the tenants. There’s nothing to connect this place with the Luke Armstrong scene.’
‘Bath oils?’
‘Plenty. We’ll get them tested, but I couldn’t recognize anything that smelled like the water when we fished the Armstrong boy out.’ He yawned. ‘If you’re going to be here for ten minutes, I’m going. Like I said, the search team is on its way. The victim’s room is the last on the left.’
When he’d gone Vera and Joe stood for a minute in silence. The hall was cool. The floor was tiled, the ceiling high.
‘Not your usual student gaff,’ Joe said. He pushed open a door into the living room. They looked in at the stripped wooden floor, cast-iron fireplace. There was a sofa with a terracotta loose cover, an upright piano. Everything very tidy, spotlessly clean. ‘I couldn’t afford a place like this on my salary. How do they manage it? And I thought students were supposed to be mucky.’
Vera had moved on to the kitchen, which looked like something out of the style magazines she dipped into at the dentist’s. She opened the fridge. A box of eggs, a couple of bags of salad, some natural yoghurt. In the door two bottles of white wine. French.
There were three bedrooms, two at the front overlooking the small garden and the street, one, Lily’s, at the back. Vera saved Lily’s until last. The front bedrooms were in keeping with the rest of the house. So tasteful Vera had an urge to hang a Boots print on the wall or stick a cheap and nasty vase on the window sill. She’d always thought of the places she looked at in the magazines as fantasies, hadn’t believed they actually existed. They weren’t the sort of rooms she visited often through work.
Lily’s room was different. It was the smallest in the house, smaller even than the bathroom. The furniture was less grand; perhaps it had been left behind by the previous owners when the flat was sold. There were net curtains at the window, which looked out onto a yard where the bins were kept. Inside, a single bed, a desk and computer, a post-war utility wardrobe like the one in which Vera still kept her clothes. One wall was covered with cheap, bare-wood shelving, holding paperback books. Vera pulled on latex gloves, but stood, looking around, not touching anything. The room was so small that Ashworth stayed in the doorway.
‘A diary would be good,’ Vera said. ‘An address book.’
‘Wouldn’t she keep that on the computer?’
‘More than likely. We’ll wait for the experts to do that for us.’ The search team, specially trained. They’d not want her mauling through the evidence before they had a chance to do it properly. She opened the desk drawers. There were ring folders, envelope files, on the desk she saw a library card for the university and another for Northumberland Libraries. Exactly what you’d expect in a model student’s room. But this was like no student’s room Vera had seen. At least in the other two bedrooms there were personal touches. Family snaps, birthday cards, party invitations. Lily had lived in this room for nearly three years, but it contained nothing of her. No photos, no posters. It could have been a room in an anonymous, cheap B &B. She opened the wardrobe door and at last she caught a flavour of the dead woman.
The first impression was of colour. A rack held amber beads, a turquoise silk scarf with a silver thread running through it, long red satin gloves. She pulled out hangers holding a loose velvet jacket, blackberry-coloured, a dress in swirls of blues and greens, skirts in bright cotton prints. On shelves there were folded blouses, lacy underwear. Nothing cheap.
‘So,’ Vera said. ‘She liked to dress up.’ She looked at the labels at the necks of the jacket and the blouses. ‘Some of it from Robbins,’ she said. ‘But not all of it. She wouldn’t have got these at discount. She must have spent all her spare cash on clothes.’
And that, in the end, was all they learned about her. Nothing else in the room gave a clue to her life. They waited in the kitchen for the search team to arrive, not speaking, glad when they heard the van pull up in the street and they had an excuse to leave.
Chapter Fifteen
Lily’s flatmates were staying with a friend who lived in the same road. Another big house, this time on the corner, with a garden at the back. It didn’t seem to be split into flats. A student house, maybe. Vera rang the bell, hit it again when there was no response. She was about to ring it a third time when there were footsteps and the door opened. The young woman standing in the doorway was tiny, with chopped blonde hair, the build of a ten- year-old, eyes expertly made up to look enormous.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘Annie’s out.’
‘I’m not looking for Annie.’ Vera flashed her warrant card and walked in without waiting to be asked. ‘It’s Emma and Louise I’m after. Lily’s friends.’
The woman seemed flustered. ‘Of course. Sorry to keep you waiting. Annie’s taken her daughter to ballet. Lou and I were having a late breakfast in the garden. After hearing about Lily, then camping out here, neither of us slept very well. Come on through. I’m Emma.’ Not a local voice. Southern. Rich.
She was wearing leather flip-flops and tripped ahead of them, talking all the way. Not a student house after all. No beer cans or loud music, unsafe wiring or peeling wallpaper. A family lived here. There was a small bicycle propped against the wall in the corridor, a child’s paintings on the kitchen notice-board. But still wealthy. If Annie was a single mother she wasn’t struggling financially.
‘Is Annie a student too?’ No reason for needing to know, but Vera had always been nosy.
‘No. She’s older than me. She lectures. On the course Lily was taking, actually. She’s a sort of cousin of mine.
