‘Poor Genevieve,’ Julia said.
‘Ah yes, the poor Genevieve narrative,’ Alan said. ‘The script she wants us all to stick to. Well, you can if you like. I’ve better things to do with my time.’
He ended the conversation by turning from her and exiting the room, leaving Julia unsure what to believe.
I hunch next to the door and listen as two sets of footsteps ascend the stairs, one a dull thud, the other a light, barely audible tap. The last time I’d been interviewed by the police, over twenty years ago, I had the arrogance of youth on my side. Now, my heart’s pounding and my palms are clammy.
As they come closer, I can hear panting and pauses. Finally, I open the door to a man in late middle age, with a heightened complexion and moist brow, his gut spilling over his trousers. The other is young, slim and slight. Barely out of breath, she’s obviously been slowed down by her boss. They introduce themselves again.
Warren has a northern twang, too soft to identify any specific location. Akande is a South Londoner, trying to sound Home Counties. She has eyes the shape of a cat’s, sharp and sly. The dislike is instant and mutual. My instinct is to slam the door in their faces, but I have little choice other than to invite them in.
‘Can I get you a cup of tea?’ I ask.
Warren looks at my glass of wine. It’s late on a Friday night. He can’t normally work these hours. A glass of wine would be his preferred option, or perhaps a pint of bitter. He sees me watching him.
‘Just water, thanks,’ he says.
‘Nothing for me,’ Akande says.
‘Take a seat,’ I say as I head to the kitchen.
I watch the detectives’ reflections in the window above the sink. Neither has sat down. Warren is standing where I left him and Akande is moving about the room, looking at my small collection of books, then at my phone on the table. She looks at Warren expressively. He doesn’t react. Perhaps he’d be more interested if she found the one stuffed down the side of the sofa, a poor choice of hiding place. They have no right to take it, no warrant has been produced. But other than love cheats, who needs a secret phone?
I’ve been away from them too long. I fill the glass and return to the lounge.
‘So, you’re from Surrey,’ I say on my return. ‘How can I help?’
My voice sounds strained, my words contrived.
I should have been bold and said, ‘I suppose you’re here about Brandon,’ or, ‘If you hadn’t contacted me, I’d have contacted you.’ My breezy manner won’t fool them. They deal with liars every day.
‘I don’t know if you follow the news,’ Warren says. He’s still a little breathless from climbing the stairs. ‘And perhaps you don’t get the Surrey news up in London, but I understand you used to live in Guildford.’
‘A long time ago,’ I say.
‘At 72 Downs Avenue, owned by a Mrs Jennifer Pike.’ He observes my confusion. ‘Perhaps you knew her as Genevieve D’Auncey.’
A swish of silk. The scent of lemon and cinnamon.
‘Yes, of course. It was very sad.’
Again, my words sound forced, like lines learnt and repeated.
‘You shared the house with four other lodgers. Gideon Risborough, Alan Johns, Lucy Moretti and …’ He pauses. ‘Brandon Wells.’
‘That’s right.’
‘What do you remember about Brandon?’
‘It was a long time ago.’
‘Anything?’
‘He left suddenly. Genevieve’s sister thought he’d stolen some money.’
‘Are you aware that, in 1995, his parents contacted the police and reported him as a missing person – his last known address being Downs Avenue?’
‘You know, I’d forgotten until you mentioned it,’ I say. ‘But, yes, a man did come and speak to me. I can’t remember his name.’
‘Lancaster,’ Akande says. ‘Michael Lancaster.’
‘It could have been.’
Corduroy trousers, blue parka; he waited outside my house, not two streets from here.
‘Do you recall what you told him?’ Akande asks.
‘I don’t know if I had anything to tell. Brandon’s leaving, well it was all overshadowed by the whole thing with Genevieve.’
‘Brandon never told you he was going, even though you were close?’
‘Who said that? We weren’t close. Not at all.’
‘He told a friend he was seeing a girl in the house. Her description matched yours.’
I don’t reply straight away. Akande waits.
‘I don’t recall Brandon having any friends. I can’t remember meeting any. He just hung around with people in the house.’
‘So, when you say you weren’t close at all …’ Akande says.
‘I wouldn’t have expected him to remain in contact after he left, even if he hadn’t stolen that money.’
‘You hadn’t argued.’
‘We had nothing to argue about.’
Warren looks unconvinced. ‘There were no conflicts – what about the male occupants of the house?’ He refers to his notebook. ‘Alan Johns and Gideon Risborough – did Brandon argue with them?’
‘I really can’t remember. Why are you asking me all of this?’
Warren looks to Akande.
‘A body’s been found on the Downs, less than a quarter of a mile from the house you shared. We believe it to be Brandon Wells.’
A dull thud lands in my guts. However much I expected this, it’s a shock, hearing the words from a policeman. The identity of the body is no longer confined to website supposition and all hope that the past week was some surreal nightmare is erased.
‘It can’t be him,’ I say.
‘Forensics are sending DNA confirmation, but we’re pretty certain that the body discovered is Brandon Wells.’
I
