Chapter Twenty
It was rather grand with a concierge behind a desk on the ground floor. Venn showed his warrant card and asked after the couple. The elderly guy grinned.
‘I did my time with the Met. Been retired twenty years now. They’re on the third floor. Nice couple. I haven’t seen them for a couple of weeks. They told me they were off on their holidays. Cornwall, was it?’
‘They live here full time?’
The man shook his head. ‘Nah, they split their time between here and New York. Usually go back to the US in the summer, but this year it seems there was a change of plan.’
‘Could they have come back from the West Country without your noticing?’
‘Yeah. Could have done. I’m only here during the day. But there’s still mail here for them.’ He nodded to the pigeonholes behind him.
‘Okay if I go up and see if they’re there?’
‘Sure. Want me to phone them first?’
Venn thought for a minute. They might be more willing to answer a call from the desk than him knocking on the apartment door. At least then he’d know where they were. ‘Please.’
There was no reply. ‘Still okay if I go up and check?’
The man shrugged. ‘They seem like a lovely couple, though. I can’t imagine why you might want to speak to them.’
Venn tried to sound reassuring. ‘They might be witnesses. Nothing sinister.’
‘It’s a long way to come to chat to a witness.’ He wasn’t stupid.
‘Ah,’ Venn said. ‘I was in London anyway.’
‘Shall I tell them you were looking for them if I see them?’
Venn thought for a moment. ‘No. Maybe not.’ He put his card on the desk. ‘But I’d be grateful if you can give me a shout when they get back.’
The concierge looked up sharply. ‘Like that, is it? Okay.’
Venn used the stairs to get to the third floor. They were carpeted and his footsteps were cushioned and quiet. Older lifts could wheeze and clunk. The building seemed sleepy, empty. He knocked on the Kinzalows’ door. It was heavy and he wasn’t sure anyone inside would hear.
Standing in the corridor outside the flat, he heard the lift approaching and waited.
It stopped at the floor, and the doors opened.
A wiry, elderly woman got out. She was immaculately dressed in smart linen trousers, a white blouse and a straw hat.
She carried a string bag, and Venn saw fresh vegetables – celery, tomatoes and peppers.
A big lettuce. She seemed surprised to see him there.
‘Can I help you?’ The voice was sharp, educated.
‘I’m looking for the Kinzalows.’
‘Oh?’ She was suspicious but not scared by the intruder. Certainly not overawed.
‘I’m a friend.’ Venn smiled. ‘Tony said I could come up to check if they’re back from their holiday.’ Tony was the concierge. He’d been wearing a name badge.
‘Oh,’ she repeated, but this time she was reassured. ‘No, they’re not back yet. They’d have called in to see me if they were. We’re old friends. Besides, I’d have heard them moving about the flat.’
Venn nodded his thanks and left.
The Armstrongs’ house was in a part of north London that looked as if it had once been a village. Leafy. Expensive. A main street with artisan bakeries and fancy restaurants serving food from all over the world. Coffee shops with tables outside. In the sunshine the place seemed continental, exotic.
The house itself was relatively modest, a mock-Tudor semi, a few streets away from the heart of the community, but in this location and within walking distance of the Heath, it would have cost a fortune.
Venn stood for a moment, looking in. He could imagine the family living here.
The loft had been converted into an extra bedroom, and he thought that might have been Hannah’s space, the place where she and her two friends had met, listened to music, done homework and talked about boys.
Then he decided he was being fanciful, making up stories without any evidence.
A local specialist search team had already been through Hannah’s bedroom and discovered nothing that might make her a victim.
After all, he’d learned nothing about the Armstrongs by being here.
Perhaps they were an ordinary family with an ordinary home.
He’d just satisfied his curiosity by seeing it for himself.
Through the next-door window, a neighbour glared at him, assuming, he supposed, that he was a reporter or a ghoul. He walked quickly on.
He arrived at the school fifteen minutes early and waited outside the gate.
Students were still leaving, wandering towards the exit in small groups, chatting.
He was expecting something more uptight and formal in a private school, but most of the young women were wearing jeans and tops.
The only thing identifying them as pupils of the place was the logo on some of the shirts.
He supposed it must be the type of school where rules were minimal.
Perhaps the children were expected to express themselves.
Though they were still wearing a uniform of a sort.
Expensive denim and Converse trainers. At their age, he would have found the notion of expressing himself terrifying. He still did.
The school itself was small for an institution.
Perhaps once it had been a domestic house, Edwardian, three storeys, with a large garden.
The garden was still there, though part of it had been covered by an extension.
That was sensitively designed with a lot of wood.
He made his way to the main entrance. Inside, it felt cool and airy.
There was a smell of lavender furniture polish.
The head teacher was waiting for him in her office on the ground floor.
She’d obviously been expecting him, despite his arriving a little early.
She had the kind of nervous energy that develops after waiting a while, anticipating that something unpleasant is about to happen.
She was older than he’d supposed from her voice, late fifties or early sixties, but she was informally dressed too in crumpled black linen trousers and a brightly coloured silk tunic.
Her hair was dyed an improbable red. It was thin and her pale scalp showed through.
She looked as if she could have been an actor.
A good actor, because the phone conversation had left him with a very different impression.
In reality, she seemed more theatrical than academic.
Usually that would have intimidated him, but her nervousness made him reasonably confident.
‘Inspector Venn,’ she said. ‘Do take a seat. This is a terrible tragedy. We’re all trying to come to terms with it. Such a terrible waste.’
‘Of course.’ He paused. It was important to get her on his side. ‘I’m sorry that you’ve been hassled by the press.’
‘They’re monsters. Such prurient interest when two young lives have been lost, and their families have been grieving.’
‘Thank you for making time to see me.’ He wondered now if her previous lack of co-operation had been the result of anxiety, if the girls’ deaths had placed her in a situation she couldn’t quite handle.
‘I see now that it’s quite natural you should want us to meet.
’ It seemed that she wanted to repair relations with him too.
She leaned forward across her desk, becoming earnest and intense.
‘This school isn’t just about academic results.
We develop our girls’ minds, hearts and personalities.
’ The last sentence sounded like a mission statement, and he’d never been able to take those seriously.
He was practised, though, in keeping a straight face.
‘It would be helpful for me to understand Hannah and Lottie better.’ He paused. ‘As you said, the parents are grieving, and I prefer not to trouble them with too many questions. This is a small school, so I presume you knew them well, even though they were about to leave you.’
‘Oh yes!’ Her nervousness seemed to have faded. ‘That’s why parents choose us. Because we can provide such a personal education for each child. Many of our students have struggled in mainstream education. We can be more flexible.’
‘Lottie and Hannah had problems before they came to you?’
‘Lottie came to us straight from primary school because our ethos is artistic. Both parents have a theatrical background. They wanted something to suit Lottie’s talents.’
‘I understand she was a sportswoman too. In the past, at least.’
‘Oh, she was!’ The teacher was enthusiastic.
She might have been selling real estate, and he could have been a parent seeking reassurance that he’d made the right choice of school for his daughter.
‘Lottie was multi-talented. A real all-rounder. Academically very bright. She would have thrived wherever she went. Of course, there was a break during Covid when Lottie was in the first year, but we provided very full teaching. All in real time with individual tuition, even though much of it was digital.’
‘And Hannah?’
‘She came to us a little later. She struggled in more traditional education after lockdown. We attracted quite a number of girls who couldn’t quite settle. It’s even harder when the parents are high-profile of course. In a mainstream school.’
‘But Hannah settled with you?’
‘It took a little while, but absolutely!’ That same salesperson’s enthusiasm.
‘And the two were close friends?’
This time Sylvia paused for a moment before speaking.
She seemed less certain. ‘Not at first, perhaps. As I say, Hannah took a while to settle. She was a rather shy and nervous child, given to bouts of anxiety. Then, in Year Ten, Lottie took her under her wing. She had her own little gang, and Hannah became one of the tribe.’
Venn conjured up the impression he’d gained of the pair. ‘Would you say that Lottie was a kind girl?’
The question obviously surprised the teacher and again, it took her a moment to respond. ‘That isn’t the adjective that would first come to mind. She was assertive and confident. Perhaps not as empathetic as one would hope.’
‘A bit of a bully?’
‘Oh no!’ The teacher sounded horrified. ‘We have no truck with bullying here. This is not that kind of place.’
There was a moment of silence, while Sylvia James shuffled a little uneasily. Venn hoped that her discomfort might lead to more revelations about the relationship between the girls, but she held her ground, staring him down.
‘Tell me about Elizabeth Kinzalow,’ he said at last. ‘She was another of your pupils.’
She continued to hold his eye. She was sharper than her appearance would suggest. ‘Why on earth would you want to know about her? She went back to the US before the girls started their A levels.’ The question seemed to have thrown her.
Venn wasn’t quite sure how much to give away. ‘Her parents were holidaying close to where your students were murdered. Perhaps that was a coincidence?’ He turned the last sentence into a question.
‘I can’t help you with that.’ She was dismissive. ‘I explained. We lost contact with the family two years ago.’
‘Was Elizabeth one of Lottie Cauldwell’s tribe?’
Another uncomfortable silence. ‘Really, Inspector, I can’t remember.’ She stood up to indicate that the meeting was over. Venn thought that was an answer of a sort. ‘Is there perhaps another pupil, a friend of Lottie and Hannah’s, that I might talk to?’ he asked.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector. I can’t help you with that either. All our sixth formers left as soon as their exams were over. They could be anywhere by now.’
‘Perhaps you could give me the contact details of very close friends.’
She shook her head. ‘They’ll be upset enough by Lottie and Hannah’s passing. I won’t have them disturbed by unnecessary questions. I think I’ve given you all the information you need.’
‘I’m sorry,’ Venn said. ‘I really must insist. This is a murder inquiry.’
‘And I’m sorry too, Inspector, but I take my students’ need for privacy extremely seriously. Many of their parents are in the public eye. Come back with a court order, and then I can help you.’
Venn was still sitting, and she looked down at him, gathering together a pile of papers on her desk. She sensed victory. ‘I’ll take you to reception so you can sign out.’
Now, he did stand up. The woman might look flaky, but he changed his mind about her again. She was once more as steely as she’d seemed on that first telephone conversation. And something about Elizabeth Kinzalow had made her very uneasy.
He walked along the street to the nearest underground and took the tube to Paddington, which seemed to be full of Londoners with loud voices, wearing shorts and flowered shirts, on their way to holiday in the South West. He felt a moment of distaste, then guilt.
He hated the idea that he might in any way be like Jim Hooper, resentful and prejudiced.