10 #2
But that would have to wait for a while. She knew that finding and dealing with whatever remnants of Kyle’s old life she found there would make her miss him so much it would leave her feeling sad and depressed for days.
And right now she was too busy and couldn’t afford to be distracted. Once Wild Thing was written and ready to be published, she could see about disposing of whatever it was and relinquishing the unit.
That decision made, she changed into her running outfit, went through her usual warm-up routine and padded listlessly outside.
On the pavement, she donned her earbuds and called up the Lucky Cuckoos playlist she’d made earlier, and to the sound of their tracks, forced herself into a gentle trot, trusting in the music and the exercise to chase the ‘black dog’ of depression away.
An hour later, and telling herself that she felt better, she was back home and making some scrambled eggs and toast, instead of her usual breakfast of a cup of coffee. She made herself eat it all, for ‘doing something’ always helped, and after the run the extra calories wouldn’t hurt.
She’d just finished and was wiping her plate, when the sound of her doorbell made her jump a little. She wasn’t expecting any of her friends to be dropping in at this hour, as they’d all be at work. And cold callers to the flat were rare.
Aware of feeling just a little uneasy – and angry at herself for feeling that way – she approached the door.
Although she was beginning to suspect that there was more to Amelia Montrose’s death than at first appeared, she mustn’t let herself get spooked by it.
After all, anything bad that had happened, had happened sixty years ago.
Even if the worst-case scenario turned out to be true, and Monty was murdered, that could hardly affect her, here and now, could it?
If she didn’t get a real grip on herself, she’d be jumping at shadows next. Nevertheless, as she reached the door, instead of opening it in the normal manner, she found herself calling through it first.
‘Hello? Yes?’
Even as she did so, she was wondering what it was that she was really afraid of.
Did she truly suspect that the driver of the car that had supposedly followed her yesterday had turned up on her doorstep to warn her off and intimidate her, like they always did on television programmes?
Or that it was somebody claiming to be from British Gas in order to trick their way in, so that they could rob her?
(Which would have been a bit of a non-starter, since the flats didn’t have gas!)
What she got was a rather cross female voice, asking, ‘I’m looking for Alyssa Moore. She’s writing a book about my father.’
At this, Lyssa both relaxed and couldn’t help but give a small, rueful grin.
In the crime thrillers she watched at the cinema, wasn’t the heroine invariably lured into a trap by letting her curiosity get the better of her?
Or meeting strangers alone in out-of-the-way places, or falling for lines that were obviously phoney to everyone else?
Well, if that was so, she supposed she must be something of a living cliché, because she opened the door determinedly (instead of sensibly hiding somewhere or climbing out of a window) and regarded the woman standing there with a jaundiced eye. ‘Hello, yes, I’m Lyssa Moore.’
Her visitor was well into her fifties, with a slightly dumpy figure and hair that was clearly dyed platinum blonde. She was wearing over-large glasses and dressed in a trouser suit of moss green that made quite a fashion statement.
‘Ah, I hoped I’d got the right address,’ the woman said, looking self-satisfied. ‘You spoke to my mother, who told me all about you, and as I had to be in Wallingford today, I thought I might as well detour here first and save you the bother of coming to me.’
So far, Lyssa was standing firmly square in the middle of the door and had no intention, yet, of letting her in. ‘Your mother?’
‘Yes – Monica Farley, formerly Joiner. My father was a famous rock and roll musician in the 60s. You approached her about the book you’re writing about the Lucky Cuckoos, his band?’
‘Oh, you must be Jennifer,’ Lyssa said, satisfied as to her bone fides, and finally stepping to one side to let her in.
‘That’s right,’ her visitor said, taking in what she could see of the flat in one sweep of her grey eyes. ‘Nice view,’ she commented.
‘Thanks,’ Lyssa said, feeling just a little off-balance and unprepared.
Whenever she was doing an interview, she preferred to have done all her homework first and have a mental list of questions she wanted to ask.
Having an opportunity for work thrust upon her like this out of the blue was a new one for her, and she wasn’t sure that she liked it.
And was she overthinking things, or wasn’t this rather an aggressive move on Jennifer Joiner’s part? Or had she just – almost literally – got out of bed on the wrong side this morning, and was still feeling grumpy?
‘Would you like tea or coffee?’ she asked, forcing herself to be pleasant.
‘Either’s fine, thanks, but I prefer coffee,’ her visitor said diffidently, trailing after her towards the kitchen area, but pausing by the balcony to look outside. ‘That the Thames?’
‘The Isis,’ Lyssa corrected with a smile. ‘This is Oxford – apparently we can’t call it the same as everyone else.’
Jennifer Joiner looked at her blankly, and Lyssa made a mental note to be very literal from now on.
‘It’s very kind of you to seek me out,’ she said, not really meaning it, ‘but I would have been happy to come to you. Your mother was very helpful,’ she added sweetly, afraid she might be letting her feelings of antagonism show.
‘Hmmm,’ Jennifer said sceptically.
Lyssa, a mental image of Jennifer’s mother slumbering on her sofa after one too many Pimm’s, hastily concentrated on making the coffee as her visitor liked it – black with no sugar – and then ushered her towards her most comfortable armchair.
Jennifer sat down in it and then watched, flat-eyed, as Lyssa gathered her accoutrements around her – notebook, pen and recorder.
‘Do you mind if I record this?’ Lyssa asked, and for the first time in a long time wondered if her subject would object. But after a long thoughtful glance at the gadget, Jennifer merely shrugged.
‘I don’t mind, so long as you don’t use it for any other purpose than your work,’ she said, with a little sniff.
Lyssa assured her she wouldn’t, but at the same time couldn’t help but wonder what other use Jennifer thought she might have for it. Incorporate it into a modern ‘audio artwork’ for the Tate Modern perhaps? Play it back at night instead of whale music to help her sleep?
Aware that her earlier depression was in danger of turning her downright snarky, she forced a smile and switched on the recorder.
‘Like I said, your mother was very helpful,’ she began, trying to summon up some professionalism.
‘She told me all about how she met your father, and being friends with his sister, and how she used to go around to Racey’s house and was friendly with his mum and dad.
She must have talked about him a lot, when you were growing up? ’
‘Not enough,’ Jennifer said flatly. ‘I was barely ten years old when he died. He always made me feel like I was special. Not like Mum. Of course, I have a fair few memories of him, but not as many as I’d like.
He was taken away too soon – it wasn’t fair.
And it’s a pity the band had broken up by the time I was old enough to understand their importance.
If he’d lived until I was older, I could have shared more of that part of his life with him.
I’d have been happy to talk to him for hours about his glory days.
Very few people can say they touched other people’s lives like he did.
Just knowing he was my dad made me feel special too. ’
Lyssa nodded. ‘It must have been quite something to have had such a glamorous figure for a parent,’ she began cautiously.
Perhaps flattery might improve matters? She hadn’t totally got the measure of her subject yet, but apart from the fact that Jennifer didn’t seem to have much of a sense of humour, Lyssa was now sure that she could detect some sort of latent hostility hovering somewhere under this woman’s surface manner, and she couldn’t quite figure out its source.
‘Oh yes – I had posters of him and the band up in my bedroom, and photographs of him in costume, performing on Top of the Pops. I think it was Alan Freeman who introduced them that time. My mother couldn’t remember.
Which is typical. They performed on all the shows, you know – Juke Box Jury with their first ever hit, and something called Thank Your Lucky Stars.
All my friends wanted to meet him,’ she added with the first hint of a smile. ‘You know what teenagers are like.’
Lyssa heard a faint warning bell pinging away somewhere in the back of her mind. It was something she’d developed over the years, and it only happened whenever she sensed that something she was being told couldn’t be quite right.
Rapidly, she did a mental trawl of what it could be.
She remembered Racey Joiner had died in 1980, so presumably, if she’d been ten years old at the time, Jennifer had been born sometime in 1970.
The Lucky Cuckoos had limped along for a few years after Glen’s death in December 1965, but surely they would have been long forgotten by the time this woman had become a teenager?
The music scene of the 1980s was vastly different from that of her father’s era – all Duran Duran and the New Romantics, wasn’t it?
She doubted that any of this woman’s friends would ever have heard of the Lucky Cuckoos, let alone been impressed by their out-of-date sound.
OK, so maybe the fact that she’d had a dad who’d been a rock musician would have given her some kudos, but even so.
‘You sound as if you admired him very much,’ she remarked gently.