They drove another half-mile in silence.
‘I said I was out of order, didn’t I? Meant it, too. You know me by now, Julie. Things start going wrong and I get stroppy. That’s all it was back there. Jim Marsh had just been on the line telling me his tests were negative.’
She was driving as if she had a sleeping cobra on her lap.
‘There’s the difference between you and me,’ Diamond talked on. ‘I take my disappointment out on other people, anyone in the firing line, while you get on and sort out the problem.’
Not a flicker.
He opened the glove compartment. ‘There were some Polos in here last time I looked. Fancy a mint?’
She mouthed the word ‘no’ without even a glance towards him.
This was becoming intolerable. He said, ‘Well, if you want to cut me down to size, now’s as good a time as any.’
‘You mean in private,’ she ended her silence, ‘where the rest of the squad can’t overhear us?’
‘I don’t follow you.’
‘What really got to me,’ Julie went on in a level tone that still managed to convey her anger, ‘is that you put me down in front of the rest of them, people I outrank. You do it time and again. I don’t mind taking stick. I don’t even care if it’s unjustified. Well, not much. But I really mind that you don’t respect me enough to save it for a private moment. That’s what you demand for yourself. Here, in the car with no one listening, you invite me to cut you down to size. Big deal. I’d rather save my breath.’
She had blown him away and she was talking of saving her breath. Like this, she was more devastating than Ada Shaftsbury turning the air blue with abuse.
He had no adequate response. All he could think to say was, ‘Point taken.’
In the silence, he dredged his brain to think of something even more conciliatory, but Julie seemed to sense what it would be. ‘Don’t make promises you can’t keep. You’ll do the same thing again and I’ll get madder still with you next time. Yes, I will have a Polo now.’
The traffic ahead was slowing. The motorway narrowed to two lanes as they approached Chiswick. Excuse enough to sink their differences for a while and consult over the route.
Just before the Hammersmith Flyover they peeled off and joined Fulham Palace Road. Diamond opened the read out the names of the streets on the left. Gowan Avenue came up in a little over a mile, long, straight and dispiriting, the kind of drab terraced housing that obliterated the green fields of West London in the housing boom at the start of the twentieth century.
The landlord had been tipped off that they were coming and had the door open. He was Rajinder Singh, he told them, and his property was fully registered, documented and managed in accordance with the law of the land.
Diamond put him right as to the purpose of their visit and asked if he knew his tenant Christine Gladstone personally.
‘Personally, my word yes,’ Mr Singh said, eager to please. ‘We have very close relations, Miss Gladstone and I. She is living in my house more than two years, hand in glove. Very charming young lady.’
Diamond thought he knew what was meant. ‘Pays her rent by banker’s order, I understand?’
‘Midland Bank, yes. The Listening Bank. No problem.’
‘Does she work nearby?’
‘I am thinking she does. In shop.’
‘You wouldn’t know which one?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Does she drive a car?’
‘Miss Gladstone? I do not think so.’
There was a pile of mail on a chair just inside the hallway, all addressed to Christine Gladstone. Diamond riffled through it. Mostly circulars and bills. A couple of bank statements from the Midland. The earliest postmark was 29th September.
‘When did you last speak to her?’
‘August, maybe. Some small problem with loose tile on roof. I am fixing such the same day.’
‘She lives upstairs, then? Shall we go up?’ When the door at the top of the stairs was unlocked for them, Diamond added, ‘We’ll be taking our time over this, sir. No need for you to stay.’
Mr Singh brought his hands together in the traditional salute of his race, dipped his turbaned head, and left.
‘Don’t know about you, Julie,’ Diamond said when he had stepped inside, ‘but I’ve lived in worse drums than this.’
They were in a small, blue-carpeted living-room, with papered walls, central heating, television, a bookcase and a pair of brown leather armchairs. Large framed posters of Venice lined one wall.
Julie picked a photograph off the bookcase. ‘Her mother, I think.’
He studied it. The improbably blonde, gaunt woman must have been twenty years older than she had been in the picture he had found in the Bible in the farmhouse. The eyes were more sunken, the lines either side of the mouth more deeply etched. The leukemia may already have taken a grip, yet the smile had not changed.
‘No question.’
His attention was caught by some cardboard cartons stacked along the wall below the posters. The first he opened contained pieces of used china and glass wrapped in newspaper, presumably treasured pieces brought from Meg Gladstone’s house after she died.
Julie had gone through to the bedroom. ‘More photos in here,’ she called out.
‘Any of the father?’
‘No. Mummy again, and one of Rose arm-in-arm with a bloke.’
He looked into another box. Cookery books. The boxes were not so interesting after all.
Julie announced, ‘There’s a folder by the bed with a photocopy of the will inside. And other things. Solicitors’ letters. Her mother’s death certificate.’
He walked through to the bedroom and looked at the contents of the folder. It was a simple will leaving everything to ‘my beloved daughter, Christine’. The Midland Bank were named as executors. No mention of the husband.
‘She seems to have travelled a lot,’ said Julie, running a fingertip along a bookshelf beside the bed. ‘France, Switzerland, Iceland, Italy, Kenya, Spain. Maps, too, that look as if they’ve been used more than once.’
‘She ought to have some personal papers. Income tax forms, passport, birth certificate.’ He started opening drawers. The clothes inside were folded and tidily stacked. Then he found a box-file. ‘Here we are. The dreaded Tax Return.
‘Courier?’
‘Not bad. Travel agent employed by Travel Ease. Fulham High Street. We’ll call there, Julie. See if they know what her plans were.’
He returned the box to the drawer and took a more leisurely look at the bedroom, getting an impression of its user. It was without the frills and furry toys often favoured by single young women. A distinct absence of pastel pink and blue. The duvet had a strong abstract design of squares in primary colours. Against the window, the dressing-table was long, white and clinical, with a wide, rectangular mirror. A few pots of face-cream, more functional than expensive, a brush and comb and a small hand-mirror suggested someone not over-concerned with her appearance.
He picked up the photo of Rose (he couldn’t get into his head that she was Christine) with the young man. More relaxed than in the police picture, her dark hair caught by a breeze, she looked alive, a personality, intelligent, aware and enjoying herself.
‘If we could find an address book, we might learn who the boyfriend is.’ He unclipped the photo from its frame, but nothing was written on the reverse.
‘She may use a personal organiser.’ Seeing the uncertainty in his eyes, Julie said, ‘You know what I mean? One of those electronic gadgets that tell you where you live and when you were born and when to take your anti- stress pills? John Wigfull has one.’
And he would, Diamond thought.
