Careless Love

8

Sunday had brought nothing in the way of developments in either case, and it was already lunchtime on Monday. Toxicology on the sleeping pills Adrienne Munro had taken still wasn’t ready. Though they were fortunate at Eastvale HQ in having a top-notch Scientific Support Department adjacent to the police station, and their Crime Scene Manager Stefan Nowak worked closely with the Scientific Support Manager Keith Atkinson, they still couldn’t make nature move any faster.

Jazz Singh, their DNA, blood and toxicology specialist, had said on Friday that she could identify the kind of sleeping pills Adrienne Munro had been given, but that it might take a while. Knowing the specific brand could provide a useful lead; sleeping tablets of any kind were not that easy to get hold of without a prescription, and DS Steph Dobyns of the drugs squad might be able to trace a supplier or specific batch if she had more detailed information to go on.

Banks had spent a relaxing Sunday catching up with the latest series of Black Mirror on Netflix, then taking his wine out to the conservatory to listen to his recent download of Thelonious Monk’s Piano Solo. As a consequence, he felt refreshed that Monday morning, but he also felt in need of a lead, of something to fire him up before these cases went completely stale on him. It happened that way sometimes. Day after day of little or no progress, and he started not to care, bit by bit he began to shove it to the back of his mind without even realising he was doing it, until he finally ground to a halt.

Banks got up to stretch and looked out over the market square, where the citizens of Eastvale were going about their business, shopping, delivering, chatting with neighbours, a horde of schoolkids piling into Greggs for a pasty or WHSmith for the latest comics. A gang of workmen had cordoned off one area and were hammering away at the cobbles, which seemed to require a lot of maintenance these days. The usual group of elderly ladies was meeting for morning tea in Garfield’s Tea Room above the minimart on the corner of Market Street. There were enough patches of blue in the sky to give the appearance of a fine day, even if there was a damp winter chill in the air.

Banks thought he would go over to the Queen’s Arms for a portion of Cyril’s scampi and chips for lunch, but just as he took his overcoat from the hook behind his door, his phone rang. He supposed he could ignore it, but he wasn’t that kind of person. Instead, he hurried over and picked up the receiver.

‘Alan?’ a familiar voice said.

‘Ken? Good to hear from you.’ It was DCI Ken Blackstone from the West Yorkshire Homicide and Major Inquiry Team, one of Banks’s oldest friends and colleagues.

‘Yeah. It’s been a while. Sorry.’

‘No matter. Busy?’

‘It never seems to end.’

‘It’s been pretty quiet up here until recently,’ said Banks.

‘I heard about that. That’s why I’m calling.’

‘Aha. Do tell.’

‘I’d rather not talk about it on the phone. Can you get down here?’

‘You know me, Ken. I never turn down a chance to visit the big city. Especially when an old mate is buying lunch.’

Blackstone groaned theatrically. ‘If that’s what it takes. It’s twelve o’clock now. Can you get down in an hour?’

‘Should be able to.’

‘What do you fancy?’

‘Whitelock’s would suit me. Can you at least give me a hint?’

‘Your suspicious deaths. We’ve got one, too, and we might be able to help one another.’

‘I’m on my way.’

Banks hurried down the stairs. Winsome was out working on Adrienne Munro’s financial details, so he left a message at the front desk to say where he was going and that he wasn’t sure when he would be back, then he nipped out of the back door and into his increasingly ancient-looking Porsche.

Annie had finally got Poppy settled in a taxi on Saturday after coming to a price arrangement with the stunned driver. Poppy had even flashed him a roll of twenties to assure him that she could pay. Though he hummed and hahed and acted like a put-upon, long-suffering oppressed working man, he had nothing to complain about, Annie thought, considering the sum. All he had to do was drive down the M1 and back, and he would be making a nice profit for his day’s driving, rather than hanging about on street corners hoping for a fare. Of course, there was Poppy to deal with. She had seemed to be on the verge of sleep when they set off, but Annie knew quite well that she could wake up at any moment and make the five — or six — hour drive feel like an eternity. Especially if the driver tried on his oppressed worker routine.

Once Poppy was gone, Annie had gone straight home from Rivendell and phoned Carrie in Ripon to thank her for the party and accommodation, and apologise for dashing off without saying goodbye. Then she took a long bath, followed by a talent show on TV, a cup of camomile tea and an early night. Sunday morning she spent reading the papers and the rest of the day semi-comatose on the sofa. Now it was Monday and back to work.

Annie felt in a remarkably good mood as she drove along the narrow winding lane to Mossmoor past farmhouses, drystone walls and sheep grazing on the distant hillsides. Perhaps, she thought, it was because Poppy had gone home. Or maybe it was due to her dry Sunday and a Monday-morning lie-in.

Adele Balter lived in an old farm labourer’s cottage in the village of Mossmoor, only a few miles east of Annie’s place in Harkside, so Annie had decided to head over there before going in to the station, then meet up with Gerry later in Eastvale to plan their strategy. They had already spoken on the phone and Gerry had a list of names from Laurence Hadfield’s mobile. The last calls either to or from it had come on the Saturday before last. There were three incoming calls, all from a Dr Anthony Randall: one in the afternoon, lasting seven minutes, then another at 8.02 in the evening, this time for only four minutes, and finally at 11.26, when the call had gone through to Hadfield’s voicemail, but the caller hadn’t left a message. Gerry had also come up with an address for Dr Randall, in Bramhope, between Leeds and Otley.

It wasn’t much to go on, but it would be useful to know what Laurence Hadfield and Dr Anthony Randall had been talking about that Saturday, and why Hadfield hadn’t answered that last call. Annie guessed that he must have gone out by then, perhaps to his death, and his phone had been lying on the desk in his study, as it was when Poppy and Adele Balter arrived a few days later.

Annie finally came to the row of tiny old cottages that formed the village high street, along with a post office and general store, parked and went through the gate of the last cottage on the left. Adele, whom she had phoned in advance, opened the door before Annie had the chance to knock. She must have been watching through the net curtains.

There was no Tardis effect in the cottage; it was just as tiny inside as it appeared from without. Adele also kept a very neat and tidy house, which didn’t surprise Annie at all. Surfaces sparkled, there wasn’t a speck of dust or a cobweb anywhere and the whole place smelled deliciously of fresh baking.

‘I’ve made some scones,’ Adele said as she settled Annie on a flower-patterned armchair in front of the fire, where a couple of knotty logs gave off a soothing heat. Annie knew there was no use in protesting when Adele said she would just make a pot of tea and take the scones out of the Aga, so she relaxed in the armchair, admiring the oil painting of York Minster over the fireplace, and enjoyed the heat on her shins.

She heard Adele puttering about in the kitchen, and a while later she came out with a tray. Annie hadn’t bothered with breakfast that morning, settling for a pot of coffee, so her stomach rumbled at the sight of the fresh-baked scones, tub of butter and a dish of strawberry jam.

Adele put the tray on the table under the window. ‘Please, help yourself,’ she said. ‘It’s not often I get the chance to bake for someone.’

‘Well,’ said Annie, ‘I can guarantee you that this will be much appreciated. I’m starving.’

‘Then tuck in.’

Annie did, and when she had filled her plate and her teacup, she returned to the armchair, and to business.

‘You said you wanted my opinion on something?’ Adele asked.

‘Yes.’ Annie managed to rest her cup and plate on the floor beside her without spilling anything and took the plastic evidence bag out of her briefcase. She would have to drop it off at the lab for forensic testing later, but it had seemed easier to come and show it to Adele at home rather than have her visit the station.

Adele held up the transparent bag and stared. After a few moments, she asked, ‘What is it?’

‘You’ve never seen it before?’

‘No.’

‘It’s a charm for a bracelet.’

‘Oh, yes. I know what you mean. We used to have them when I was a little girl. And those ones with your name on. What did they call them?’

Annie nodded. ‘Identity bracelets. Anyway, these charm bracelets are popular again.’

‘But I don’t understand. Why are you showing it to me?’

Annie put the Pandora charm back in her briefcase and managed to balance her scone on her knees and hold the cup in her hand. She took a sip of tea and a bite of buttery, jammy scone. It was delicious. ‘You don’t recognise it at all?’ she asked again when she’d swallowed a mouthful.

‘No. I’d remember. Mr Laurence would never wear anything like that.’

‘I don’t suppose he would,’ Annie said with a smile. ‘But perhaps a visitor, or a guest might?’

‘I wouldn’t know about that,’ said Adele. ‘Nobody ever visited when I was there. Except the postman. Would you like another scone?’

‘No. I’m still OK with this. It’s delicious.’

‘Thank you.’

‘You said you clean at Mr Hadfield’s once a week, usually on a Thursday. Am I right?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Where do you clean?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, it’s a big house. Three floors. You can’t get to every nook and cranny in a day, surely?’

Adele Balter sat up straight in her chair and thrust her shoulders back. ‘I defy you to find one spot of dust in that house,’ she said.

‘I know you’re proud of your work,’ Annie said, ‘and rightly so, but let’s be realistic about this.’

‘Many of the rooms are never used, especially those up on the third floor. They don’t take long, since nothing’s been disturbed. Just a quick flick around with the feather duster and a couple of minutes with the vacuum.’

‘Fair enough. What about the bathroom?’

‘Which one?’

Annie couldn’t for the life of her remember how many bathrooms there were. Three, perhaps, she guessed. ‘The big one upstairs. With the large hot tub on the platform and the bidet and everything.’ She refrained from saying that it was about as big as her entire cottage. Adele’s, too.

‘That’s the main bathroom, the one Mr Laurence uses most of the time, apart from the en suite in his bedroom, of course. But that’s just a walk-in shower and WC.’

We should all be so lucky, thought Annie. ‘So the big bathroom is the most used?’

‘Well, Mr Laurence likes a bath. I know that because he told me. “There’s nothing like a good long hot bath to wash away the cares of the world, Mrs B”, he said. A shower’s useful, of course, especially if you’re in a hurry, which he often is, but there’s nothing like a bath. Are you sure you won’t have another scone? I’ll never finish them all myself.’

‘No, really. That one did the trick. I’m full.’ Annie finished off her tea. Laurence Hadfield was right: there was nothing quite like a hot bubbly bath, a few scented candles, a good book and a glass of wine when you wanted to kick back and shut the world out. ‘So you clean that big bathroom every week?’

‘Yes. Even if it hasn’t been used. Like I said before, Mr Laurence is away quite a lot, so it doesn’t get used all that much. But I keep it clean, yes.’

‘And the floor and tiles?’

‘Of course.’

‘There’s a narrow gap between the back of the toilet and the skirting board.’

‘I’m aware of that.’

‘Would you happen to clean around there, too?’

‘Of course, I do. You’ll never cut the mustard as a cleaner if you don’t get to the tough bits everyone else ignores, young lady.’

Annie felt suitably chastised and thought rather guiltily about her own bathroom. Only one, and very small, but it wouldn’t sparkle anywhere near as much as the ones blessed with Adele’s magic touch. ‘And did you clean it the last time you did the house? That would be the Thursday before the weekend Mr Hadfield disappeared, right?’

‘Yes. If you say that’s when he disappeared. And I most certainly did clean it.’

‘So if anything like that charm had been lying around, you’d have found it.’

‘Naturally. And it wasn’t.’

‘Clearly not.’ Which meant, if Adele Balter was telling the truth — and Annie believed she was — that the charm had ended up where it was found after the last Thursday Adele had cleaned the house. Poppy had disowned it — and Annie had no reason to disbelieve her, either — so whose was it, and how had it got there?

‘I know I asked you this before, but it’s even more important now that you give it some more thought. Did you ever notice any signs that Mr Hadfield had female company between your visits?’

‘What signs?’

‘I don’t know. An article of female clothing in the laundry, for example, or a trinket like the one I showed you left on a dressing table. An unusual scent, perfume perhaps, or a stain that couldn’t be explained. Maybe a long hair on the pillow or the back of the sofa.’ If Hadfield had been having a woman over to the house on a regular basis, then it stood to reason that she had left something behind, however minute a trace.

Adele Balter bristled. ‘Nothing of that sort at all. Mr Hadfield was a gentleman, a decent person.’

‘I’m not saying he wasn’t a perfect gentleman, but surely he must have had... needs. After all, he’d been a widower for over two years.’

‘He adored his poor deceased wife. And even if he had been doing as you suggest, he would certainly not have left any traces for me to discover. He would have made sure nothing remained to upset my sensibilities. He knows I’m very sen—’

‘What did you just say, Mrs Balter?’

‘Adele, please.’

‘Adele. What did you just say?’

‘That Mr Hadfield would never leave anything around the house that he thought might shock me.’

‘So if he had been seeing a woman, he would have cleaned up after himself?’

‘Well, yes. But he hadn’t been seeing anyone.’

‘Did he?’

‘I’m sorry?’

‘Did you ever notice any evidence that he’d been tidying up or cleaning up after himself?’

‘Once or twice, perhaps.’

‘Like what?’

‘Sometimes he washed his own bed sheets. He didn’t iron them, though. That would have been too much for him. That’s how I could tell.’

‘He put his own bed sheets in the washing machine?’

‘Sometimes. Yes. Why?’

‘My question exactly,’ Annie said, almost to herself. ‘Why?’ It wasn’t something, in her admittedly limited experience, that men usually did. Unless they had something to hide.

‘I assumed it was because he’d spilt something. He had a Teasmade, you know, and he was a devil for his morning cuppa in bed.’

‘Right,’ said Annie. ‘That must be it.’ Or not, she thought. ‘Did you do any laundry on your last visit?’

‘You mean last Friday?’

‘Yes.’

‘No. I didn’t have a chance, what with Poppy creating and me worrying something had happened to Mr Laurence. Then you lot came.’

‘OK,’ said Annie. ‘It’s fine.’ Hadfield’s house was still officially part of a crime scene, though the CSI officers would have left by now. They would have to go back again. If there were any traces of female presence, they would most likely still be there. Annie would get in touch with Frank Naylor and ask him to make sure they took in the bed sheets and pillow cases for forensic examination, which they may not have done, given that Laurence Hadfield’s death hadn’t been ruled anything but a suspicious accident. The CSIs didn’t think they were looking for signs of anyone else in the house.

Annie glanced at her watch and saw it was probably time to head for Eastvale to meet up with Gerry. As a final question, she asked, ‘Do you know a Dr Randall? He’s a friend of Mr Hadfield’s.’

‘Yes, of course. They play golf together, and I’ve heard them chatting on the phone from time to time. They have a club where they sometimes meet as well. For rich folks, like. It’s in Leeds, mind you.’

‘Do you remember what it’s called?’

‘Sorry, love. I don’t pay a lot of attention to things like that.’

Annie stood up to leave. ‘Thank you, Adele. You’ve been very helpful,’ she said. ‘But I have to go now.’

‘So soon?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Please. Just wait a moment.’

Adele Balter disappeared into the kitchen and came back a few moments later with a Tupperware container.

‘Scones,’ she said. ‘And a jar of my own special strawberry jam. I told you I’d never be able to finish it all myself. And don’t worry about returning the box. Any time will do.’

‘I can’t possibly...’ Annie began, and then realised she could, and that in fact it would be polite to do so. ‘Thanks very much, Adele,’ she said, opening the door.

‘And if you ever need a cleaning lady...’ Adele said. ‘Well, I’ve got a lot more time on my hands now.’

There was a thought. It would take Adele all of ten minutes to clean her bijou palace. ‘I’ll let you know,’ she said.

P.P. Arnolds’s The Turning Tide saw Banks down the A1 to Leeds quickly and pleasantly, especially her version of Van Morrison’s ‘Brand New Day’. He remembered drooling over P.P. Arnold singing ‘First Cut is the Deepest’ and ‘Angel of the Morning’ on Top of the Pops and Ready, Steady, Go! when he was a young lad. Over fifty years later, she was making a comeback with an album that had been languishing in the vaults since the late sixties.

Banks marched into Whitelock’s only a few minutes late, despite the length of time he had to drive around the multi-storey car park to find an empty slot. He expected to find Ken Blackstone at a copper-topped round table opposite the long bar, but instead the familiar figure, looking more and more like a cross between Philip Larkin and Eric Morecambe, waved from inside the dining area, with a glass of orange juice in front of him. Whitelock’s was as crowded and noisy as usual, and Banks had to thread his way through the groups of clerks, students and secretaries in the narrow space between the banquettes and the bar.

‘Don’t tell me promotion’s gone to your head?’ Banks said, gesturing towards the orange juice as he sat down.

‘No more than it’s gone to my bank balance,’ said Blackstone. ‘No, I’ve got a team meeting this afternoon. It wouldn’t do to go in smelling of booze or Polo mints.’

‘I’d be supportive and join you, but I plan on doing a bit of shopping before I head back to work. Plenty of time to walk off a pint.’

‘Bastard.’

‘And I can’t help but notice that you’re sitting in the posh section.’

‘I thought it would be a bit more private,’ Blackstone said, passing a menu over. When the waitress arrived both Banks and Blackstone ordered steak and kidney pie and chips, and Banks asked for a pint of IPA.

‘Thanks for coming,’ Blackstone said.

‘No problem. If there’s any chance of a lead in either of the cases we’re dealing with at the moment, I’ll jump at it.’

‘I hope you won’t be too disappointed.’

Banks’s pint arrived and he took a long swig. Blackstone looked on forlornly.

‘How are things, anyway?’ Banks asked. ‘New job working out?’

Blackstone had recently got a promotion and a place on the West Yorkshire Homicide and Serious Crimes Team. ‘It’s working out,’ he said. ‘When you get right down to it, not much changes but the acronyms.’

‘Too true,’ said Banks. ‘Aren’t you due for retirement soon?’ He knew that Blackstone was a few years younger than he was, but not exactly how many.

‘Couple of years.’

‘Will you take it?’

Blackstone nodded. ‘There aren’t a lot of options — unless I get promoted like you did, and I think that’s unlikely. As of now, I think I’ll go quietly. But we’ll see what happens when the time comes. I may not go gentle.’

Their meals arrived. Banks reached for the HP Sauce and shook some dollops on his steak and kidney pie. For a few moments, they devoted themselves to eating, then Blackstone said, ‘Shall I start now, or do you want to wait until after?’

‘I can listen while I eat,’ said Banks. ‘I’m curious to know what it is.’

‘It’s not a pretty tale. Yesterday evening a bloke from a nearby village was walking his dogs in open country just off the A59 between Harrogate and Blubberhouses.’

‘Isn’t that near Thornfield Reservoir?’

‘Further south. And east of Brame Lane. You probably wouldn’t know the area. Anyway, he came to an old derelict bothy, and one of the dogs took an unusual interest, so he managed to get the door open — it was almost off its hinges — and take a look inside.’

‘And he wished he hadn’t?’

Blackstone nodded. ‘A girl’s body. Our pathologist hasn’t carried out the post-mortem yet, but he reckons she’d been there about a week, and death was due to a blow to the back of her head. Hard enough to fracture her skull. It seems like she’d put up a struggle, too. She was wearing a red dress made of some silky material, quite short and low cut, and as far as the doc could tell there were no evident signs of sexual activity. Though she was carrying no identification, no possessions of any kind, it didn’t take us long to link her to a missing person’s report we just got in on Friday. A second-year history and politics student from the University of Leeds called Sarah Chen. Her father was from Hong Kong and her mother was British, but Sarah was born here, grew up in Derbyshire. Her father died in a car accident two years ago, and her mother’s in terminal care for Alzheimer’s. No brothers or sisters. Sarah came late, in her mother’s early forties.’

‘Some lot in life,’ said Banks.

‘Makes you realise how lucky you are, doesn’t it? But by all accounts, Sarah was a gutsy lass. Bright, too. She took things in her stride. Got on with life. Quite a beauty, too.’

‘Until...’

‘Yes. She hadn’t been seen since the weekend before last. She went into town shopping with a flatmate from uni a week last Saturday, and that was it. That was when she bought the dress she was wearing.’

‘That Saturday keeps on coming up,’ said Banks. ‘What else did she have with her?’

‘Nothing. I mean, she was wearing some cheap jewellery, a pendant, bracelet, that sort of thing. And sexy underwear. Black, lacy.’

‘Identifying marks?’

‘A dragon tattoo on the inside of her right thigh. Our resident expert tells me it’s for the year of the dragon. And a quote tattoo on the back of her left shoulder: “The road of excess leads to the palace of wisdom”.’

‘William Blake,’ said Banks.

Blackstone raised his eyebrows. ‘I see your poetry babe must be doing a good job.’

‘She’s not a “babe”, but she is doing a good job. Anyway, people often take the words as licence, or as an excuse, for extreme behaviour, though that wasn’t exactly what Blake had in mind.’ He paused. ‘Though maybe it was. He was an odd one, Blake. One of a kind. Even Linda didn’t quite know what to make of him. Anyway, it tells us at least that your girl didn’t mind flaunting it a bit, being outrageous, whether she followed Blake’s advice or not.’

‘From what I could gather she liked people to believe she was more adventurous than she really was.’

‘These quote tattoos are a bit of a trend, anyway. I wouldn’t read that much into them. Last one I saw was on a girl on the Tesco’s checkout. “L’enfer c’est les autres.” I asked her what made her choose that particular quotation and she couldn’t really say except that it was a good fit. She didn’t even know what it meant. I think the tattooist had a book of quotes for people to choose from, and she just liked the look or the sound of it. How was Sarah Chen’s state of mind on this shopping expedition you mentioned? Did she give any indication to her friends as to where she was going that night, what she was doing?’

‘She just mentioned that she was going to a party. Didn’t say where or with whom. Her friend asked about it but couldn’t get any more out of her. She didn’t think it odd, though, as Sarah often liked to sound a bit mysterious and secretive about what she was doing. Part of giving the impression she was up to all sorts of things, no doubt. Where does that quote come from?’

‘It’s from a play by Jean-Paul Sartre. “Hell is other people”.’

‘Ah.’

‘What made Sarah’s friend report her missing after only a week?

‘She was used to Sarah coming and going without notice, but this seemed just a bit too long. She’d missed an important essay deadline and a tutorial. Apparently, that wasn’t like her. She liked her fun, but she took her studies seriously. People were asking her friend where she was, if something had happened to her. Sarah liked to keep people guessing, but according to those who knew her, she wasn’t in the habit of disappearing for as long as a week.’

‘What did you find out from her friends?’

‘Nothing much. We asked around. Nobody seemed to know where she was going, if anywhere. According to everyone who knew her, she was a normal student. Conscientious, hard-working, maybe a bit given to depression on occasion, though that’s hardly surprising given her home circumstances.’

‘Boyfriends?’

‘Nobody serious. We talked to two students who’d dated her so far this year, and they both said she could be a bit enigmatic — I think one actually said “inscrutable” — but other than that she was fun to be with, and not in the least interested in commitment. She could hold her end up in most conversations, whether about world affairs or the FA cup, liked to drink and dance and let her hair down now and then. Apparently, she was no shrinking violet. We assumed she’d run off with a new boyfriend or something, or that there was some family crisis nobody knew about and she was taking care of that. But the staff at the mother’s care home hadn’t seen her since the week before. We checked out her room, and there were no signs of a struggle, nothing to indicate that she’d been abducted from there.’

‘What did you find in the room?’

‘Nothing of interest. She shared a house with three other students, communal living and eating areas and each with their own bedroom-cum-study. It was just as you’d expect a student’s room to be. A bit messy, discarded jeans and T-shirts and stuff scattered about, books, piles of paper and research material. But it was basically well ordered. No sign of handbag or shoulder bag there, either.’ Blackstone paused. ‘There was another odd thing, too, though.’

‘Yes?’

‘Her mobile. It was still in her room. It was quite an expensive new model, too. A ten or something. I mean, have you ever known a teenager who doesn’t pick up her mobile first thing when she goes out anywhere?’

‘Tracy certainly does,’ said Banks. ‘I can only think of one who didn’t, and that’s Adrienne Munro.’

‘Your dead girl in the car?’

‘Yes.’

Banks finished his pie and washed it down with some IPA. The other similarities with the Adrienne Munro case weren’t lost him. She was also a second-year student, dressed for an occasion, found dead in an out-of-the-way spot. Only the way it looked, Adrienne had committed suicide and Sarah Chen had been murdered. The timing was also curious. Nobody Banks or Blackstone had spoken to so far knew exactly when either girl had been seen last, but it appeared that they had disappeared around the same time. The weekend before last. Saturday.

‘So apart from the superficial similarities, why am I here?’ Banks asked. ‘Not that I’m complaining.’

Blackstone smiled. ‘I was just coming to that.’ He reached for his briefcase, and passed a photograph and a torn-off slip of paper protected by a plastic cover over to Banks. The photograph showed a smiling, beautiful Sarah in full bloom. It was easy to see her different ethnic characteristics, and how they helped form her particular kind of beauty. Blackstone tapped the slip of paper. ‘We found this on the desk in her room.’

Written on the slip were a name and a telephone number. The name was Adrienne Munro, but the telephone number wasn’t hers.