No Help For The Dying

Chapter 37

The house where Madge and George Beckett lived was a large Victorian villa situated in a quiet cul de sac half a mile from Chesham town centre. Various owners had added to the building over the decades, giving the place the haphazard appearance of a giant Lego structure. It was screened from the road by a jungle of mature trees and towering rhododendron, and whoever was responsible for the gardens had an obvious laisser-faire attitude to mowing, planting or pruning. The overall effect was dated, yet oddly attractive.

‘Stone me,’ said Palmer. ‘Very Agatha Christie. Margaret Rutherford could potter out at any moment.’

Riley stared at him. ‘Margaret who?’

‘An actress my mother used to talk about.’

As they climbed from the car, Riley felt the tension of the chase beginning to fade. It had been Palmer’s idea to come straight here, partly, he said, to have something to do, partly to stay out of the way of Quine and his friends. Riley had agreed willingly, although she was anxious to see where Katie Pyle had been hiding herself all these years.

She pressed the lower button marked ‘Beckett’ and waited. Eventually, a large, comfortable shape appeared at the front door and a man looked out at them with raised eyebrows. ‘Not more of you — haven’t you finished?’

‘We’re not police, Mr Beckett,’ said Riley. She explained who they were and why they were here. ‘We think it’s possible that the woman you knew as Jennifer used to be known as Katie Pyle. Can we come in?’

Beckett led them along the hall to a conservatory at the rear, where a grey-haired woman with fleshy arms was folding some laundry. The room was light and airy and furnished with cane chairs, and it was evident by the books and magazines scattered around that they spent a lot of their time here.

This time Riley explained fully her connection with the missing teenager, Katie Pyle, and that they were looking for some confirmation that she and Jennifer Bush were one and the same. The Becketts stared at her throughout, evidently stunned by the idea that their tenant had been leading a second life.

‘We can only tell you what we told the police,’ said George, fiddling with a pair of reading spectacles. ‘She arrived here one day in answer to our advert in the local paper. We liked the look of her, she agreed to the rent… and here she’s been ever since. To us she was Jennifer Bush.’

‘She never mentioned anything about where she came from?’ asked Riley. ‘No mention of family… no names of friends?’

‘Not a word,’ said Madge. ‘Anyway, it wasn’t our business to ask, was it? She was a lovely girl, very polite, but quiet. She taught some autistic kids, she said, although we never found out where. There’s a couple of places in the area — one over near Rickmansworth — which do that sort of thing.’ She shrugged. ‘To tell the truth, when you get a tenant like Jennifer, it’s like having a good neighbour: you don’t ask questions. It’s like the Barnhams next door.’

‘Is it?’

‘Yes. They’ve lived there as long as we have. But do we know anything about them? Not a thing. They’re friendly, and cheerful enough, but that’s as far as it goes.’ She squeezed out a smile at Palmer. ‘It’s the British way, isn’t it?’

‘So in all the time she was here,’ said Palmer, ‘she never had visitors?’

‘Not one,’ said George. ‘Quiet as the proverbial. Apart from the music.’

‘Loud?’

‘Far from it. Sitar… guitar… whatever. Eastern music. I didn’t hear it too clearly, but most days you could pick up a faint tone in the distance.’ He looked upwards. ‘Good walls in this place. Keep out most of the noise. Didn’t do much for the smell, though.’ ‘Stop it,’ said Madge, glaring at him. ‘Honestly, he’s such a moaner. Jennifer — well, you know her as Katie, I suppose — liked to burn incense in her room. It was all part of her thing, I suppose — although that’s speaking with hindsight.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, we never saw it until the other day, when we went to her room, but one of the policewomen explained it was to do with Buddhism. She had a couple of pictures on the wall, and some incense sticks that she burned in a pot with sand in it, and a couple of other bits and pieces. The WPC said she must have been quite serious about it.’ She stopped and looked at George. ‘I thought they shaved their heads and wore yellow.’

‘Saffron,’ said George. ‘They call it saffron. And it’s only the monks who shave. And a few western supporters.’ He glanced at Palmer and shook his head with a feigned air of patience. ‘I’ve tried to educate her in the ways of the world, but what can you do, eh?’

‘No tea for you tonight,’ Madge muttered, but by the look she gave her husband, it was plain she was teasing him back. Riley wondered what it took for two people to have such a close and loving friendship after so many years.

‘Could we see inside the flat?’ asked Palmer.

The Becketts exchanged a look. ‘Why would you want to?’ asked George. ‘The police already did that.’

‘Just to get a feel of the place,’ interjected Riley, looking at Madge Beckett. She had a feeling the woman would understand. ‘We’d like to know what happened to her. There might be a clue which will help her family.’

‘Oh. Of course.’ Madge nodded immediately. ‘Those poor people — they must be distraught.’ She bustled George out of the way and led Riley and Palmer upstairs, and opened the flat. Then she left them to it, clearly not willing to go inside until she had to.

‘Toss the place?’ said Riley, closing the door softly.

Palmer stood in the centre of the beige carpet, looking round at the walls and furniture. ‘The police will have already done it,’ he said. ‘If there’s anything hidden here, it won’t be easy to find without going into the fabric. And we don’t have the time or justification for that.’

Riley nodded in agreement. This room was so ordinary and uncomplicated. And it was so obviously a home — or had been. Yet it revealed so very little about its former occupant. Whatever had driven Katie Pyle to become Jennifer Bush, it must have gradually possessed her, until she probably no longer knew what her former life had been. If there was anything of Katie left in her, it had been buried very deep. Maybe it was the only way she could handle it. The only exception would have been the bracelet found on her body, bearing her original name. The final link taking her back to the beginning.

Riley stared up at a large, colourful poster on one wall, showing a stylised portrait of a woman — or was it a man, it was hard to tell — sitting with legs crossed and dressed in elaborate swathes of cloth and ornate jewellery. It was obviously a deity, although Riley didn’t know which one. And on a bedside table was a heavy square frame with a picture of Buddha. Serene, gentle, smiling out at them. She wondered if the Buddha’s smile was enigmatic or whether his followers would prefer to think of him as all-seeing and wise.

Palmer picked up an object from a small cabinet and twirled it between finger and thumb. ‘A prayer wheel,’ he said. ‘Well-used.’ He put it down and rubbed a half-burnt incense stick. ‘But no sign of a bible. So why the crucifix on her body?’

‘De Haan’s final sign of control? Or is that too petty?’

He nodded. ‘It would fit. If they knew she was a Buddhist, it could have been a last turn of the screw for her parents.’ He frowned.

‘You’re frowning.’

‘I know. I’ve seen some ordinary places in my time, but never one as plain as this. Apart from the Buddhist stuff, there’s nothing personal here. Not a trace. But there’s no sign of the place having been sanitised. It’s just… ordinary — and the Becketts obviously didn’t notice anything unusual. I bet we could tear this place apart and not find a thing.’

Back downstairs, they thanked the Becketts for their time. As they were leaving, Palmer looked at Madge Beckett. ‘Did Jennifer ever wear any jewellery?’ he asked casually.

Madge shook her head without hesitation. ‘No, dear. Just a bracelet, that’s all. She was very… well, plain in that way. Didn’t seem interested. A pity, really, because she was quite pretty — especially when she smiled.’

They left and climbed back in the car, where Riley looked at Palmer. ‘It’s hard to believe anyone could leave a life without a ripple like that.’

‘Is it?’ Palmer shrugged. ‘I’ve seen professionals who lived that way because they had to. No history, no footprints. Maybe that’s how Katie Pyle decided it should be.’

He started the car and headed back into London. While he drove, Riley tried Friedman’s number again. There was no reply. She chewed her lip, feeling a frisson of apprehension. Eric Friedman hadn’t seemed the sort to leave his phone unattended, not after all the years spent searching for answers about his son’s death. And after his meeting with Riley, he would surely have been even more attentive, not less. She told Palmer to put his foot down.