Skinner's Mission

43

Pamela Masters had never been to Marco’s before. She practised her aerobics at the Edinburgh Club, just off London Road, where she was a member. The reception area was thronged when she arrived and so, while it cleared, she took a walk around the rambling building, looking in on the sweaty glass-walled squash courts and at the lines of snooker tables, a green baize archipelago in the midst of a dark sea.

Eventually she found herself back at the reception desk, from which the queue had disappeared. Showing her warrant card, she asked to see the duty manager.

‘That’s me,’ said the girl on the desk, offering her hand as she stepped out of her cubicle. ‘Sheila King. How can I help you?’

Sergeant Masters shook the outstretched hand. ‘It’s to do with a death which occurred on Wednesday,’ she said. ‘Mrs Carole Charles. You may have read about it.’

The manageress nodded. ‘Yes, I did. That was awful. Poor woman.’

‘I’m led to believe that Mrs Charles was a member here, and that she attended a Yoga class twice a week?’

Sheila King’s mouth dropped open in a gasp. ‘No! Was that her? I’d never have known from the picture in the News. Blonde woman, late forties but really good looking and fit for her age. We just knew her as Carole; it’s first name terms in my Yoga class.’

‘You take it yourself?’

‘Yes, Mondays and Thursdays, eight till nine.’

‘Was Carole Charles a regular attender?’

‘We-ell.’ Sheila King paused. ‘If you call about once or twice a month regular. She certainly didn’t take every class. No-one does that.

‘Fit woman, though, as I say. And no kids.’

‘How did you know that?’

‘The bum, dear.’ She glanced down at Masters’ midsection. ‘Tight, like yours. Pelvis hadn’t spread.’ She slapped her own backside with both hands. ‘Nothing you can do about it. I’ve got two, and look at mine. Dead giveaway.’

Pamela smiled. ‘I understand that Mrs Charles had a friend at the class, a woman called Donna. Is that right?’

The yoga teacher looked puzzled. ‘Donna? No Donnas in my class. I’m certain of it. I’ve got Eileens, Aileens, Irenes, a Bernice and a few Maggies, but no Donna.’

She beckoned the Sergeant to follow. ‘Come on through and we’ll look at the membership records, but I can’t remember a single Donna.’ She led the way into a small back office where a computer sat on a table switched on. Quickly she keyed in ‘Donna’ and pressed the search button. The machine buzzed for about twenty seconds, then flashed up a message: ‘No Donna found.’

Pamela Masters frowned. ‘How strange. Did Mrs Charles have any other friends at the club?’

The mother-of-two shook her head. ‘No. She wasn’t a mixer. Friendly enough, but she didn’t invite conversation. Once the class was over, she didn’t hang around, just showered, changed and out the door.’

‘Hmm,’ said the Sergeant. ‘A mystery woman. Two of them in fact, her and Donna. My boss isn’t going to like that. Not at all!’