Текст книги "Scarred for Life"

Автор книги: Kerry Wilkinson

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Текущая страница: 13 (всего у книги 18 страниц)

When they were finished, Dave shoved the empty plates to one side and wearily took a handful of printouts from his bag. Jessica placed the envelope that had been put through her door in the centre of the table, showing Garry the note inside: ‘You’ve got the wrong man’, and explaining that it could only relate to Holden Wyatt. Then she showed him the logo, saying that Damon Potter had been looking into getting a tattoo of it on the day he died, and that they’d spotted it on a builder’s van the night before.

Garry took it all in his stride, saying the logo seemed familiar but he didn’t know what it was, before taking a photo of it on his phone.

Knowing she was under scrutiny at the station, Jessica had to be careful about the type of searches she ran but Garry and Dave had done the work between them.

Dave was skim-reading the top sheet of paper on his pile, before catching Jessica’s eye. ‘You know you said last night that you didn’t know why the website belonged to just a normal building company? That isn’t quite true. Bunce ’N’ Builders was only set up in the last two years and is owned by a guy named Freddy Bunce – except that he’s also involved with at least three other building companies in the area. Triple-A Builders and One-Stop Builders are in the name of his wife, with him as a director, and FB Builders seems to be entirely owned by him.’

Dave fanned the pages out so that Jessica could see what he’d found.

‘Is that some sort of tax thing?’ she asked.

‘Probably, but there’s also a branding thing when you look at the four individual websites. The Bunce ’N’ Builders name seems to be more down-to-earth. They advertise saying there’s no job too small and I think it’s mainly subcontractors. That’s not what’s interesting, though.’

Dave nodded at Garry, who had his own pile of papers. ‘Freddy Bunce is a name that’s vaguely known in news circles,’ he said, passing Jessica a printout of an article. She read the top few paragraphs and then snorted in surprise.

‘I suppose that explains why he’s got such a big house.’

‘Exactly,’ Garry replied. ‘Nine months ago he was given a contract by the council to build a new housing estate for them. No one would reveal the exact amount but we know from freedom of information requests that the council have put in a seven-figure sum; then there’s private financing and central government funding too. In all, it’s going to be eight figures comfortably. That comes on the back of him building up the original company – FB Builders – from scratch. He was a self-made millionaire before this new money.’

‘Do either of you actually know anything about him?’

Garry and Dave were both blank. ‘I found his name in Companies House but that’s it,’ Dave said. ‘That’s when I called Gaz.’

Garry nodded. ‘Apart from the obvious use of his name in the company’s name, there’s hardly anything about him to be found. The council made a big thing of their social housing push and so they had to use the builder’s name on the press release but I couldn’t find anything about him at all. That’s not necessarily a surprise – there are all sorts of people with money around here who you wouldn’t know the name of unless they made a big deal of it.’

‘So we still don’t know anything?’

Two shrugs. ‘No.’

Jessica turned to Garry and raised her eyebrows. She didn’t want to ask out loud but the journalist nodded anyway and told Dave everything about Graham Pomeroy and the phone calls he had made to the newspaper. They all agreed that it was unlikely that the Herald was the only place the assistant chief constable had contacted, trying to force the agenda over Holden Wyatt. Dave had never met him; the only scrap of knowledge he had was the fact that the man’s nickname was Porky.

Spotting the logo on the van had left them with one more mystery – how did it connect a millionaire builder to a tattoo that a dead student wanted, to a letter put through Jessica’s door? And what role, if any, did their assistant chief constable have in it?

Dave packed his papers away, adding Garry’s to the stack, but there was a general sense of confusion. ‘There is one thing you could do,’ Dave said.

‘What?’

‘Ask.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Phone up the number on the back of Freddy’s van, say you like the logo and ask where it comes from.’

Sometimes the simplest solutions were the easiest to overlook.

Jessica took her phone out, checked the number on the website and then called it. A woman answered after one ring: ‘Bunce ’N’ Builders, how can I help you?’

Jessica cupped a hand around the mouthpiece, trying to drown out the sound of the screaming children. ‘Can I speak to Freddy, please?’

‘Freddy who?’

‘The owner, Freddy Bunce.’

‘Oh, Mr Bunce – he doesn’t work Saturdays.’

‘Do you know when he’ll be back in?’

There was a pause and some tapping on a keyboard. ‘Can I ask who’s calling, please?’

‘I’m from the council . . .’ Jessica shrugged at the two men, who were clearly unimpressed at her feeble lie.

The female voice on the other end suddenly sounded more attentive. ‘The council? Right, I . . . er, hang on.’

The line went dead, but Jessica covered the mouthpiece again just in case, whispering: ‘It was the best I could think of.’

‘Why didn’t you say you were a customer?’ Dave asked.

‘I don’t know – I wasn’t thinking.’

There was a pop and then the woman’s voice blurted out again: ‘Sorry – I’ve just checked and he’s going to be in the office on Monday. I can book you in for an appointment, or perhaps there’s something I can deal with?’

‘I’ve got a really busy day on Monday. Perhaps if you can remind me of your office’s address, then I’ll see if there’s a time I can drop round.’

The receptionist gave Jessica an address in Prestwich and then hung up.

Jessica turned to the two men. ‘Did either of you know they had an office?’

Two head shakes. ‘I assumed they worked from that house,’ Dave said.

‘At least it gives us somewhere to go on Monday.’

‘Are you really going to ask him about the logo?’

Jessica smiled. ‘If I can’t think of anything else. It’s not as if I can ask the DCI. If we’re going to look into this, then it has to be us.’

They were interrupted as one of the boys who had tried to mug Dave screeched past their table, making a nee-nar siren sound before clattering into a chair and going flying elbows first across the polished floor. Before anyone else could move, the woman in the leggings was on her feet again.

‘Kevin, what have I told you about running?!’

She shuffled from her seat towards her stricken son and helped him to stand. Jessica thought Kevin was upset at falling but there was a twisted fury in his face. As his mother brushed some dirt from his arm, he reeled back and punched her hard on the shoulder.

‘Ow! What did you do that for?’

Kevin started to run off again but his mother held his wrist.

‘What have I told you about hitting people?’

The boy was still snarling. ‘What?’

She released him, wagging a finger in his face: ‘Look at this.’ She rolled the sleeve of her jumper up, revealing a mass of purple, blue and black on her shoulder. She was practically pleading with him. ‘You don’t realise how much you’re hurting Mummy. It’s painful when you hit people – do you understand?’

Kevin’s brow was furrowed, body still tensed. ‘Yes.’

‘Really? Look at these.’

She pointed at her shoulder again and her son peered in, his stance softening a little. ‘I’m sorry.’

His mum rolled her sleeve back down. ‘Are you really?’

‘Yes.’

‘Okay, come here.’ She pulled her squirming son towards her and hugged him, before leading him back to the table.

Dave and Garry looked at Jessica blankly. ‘What was all that about?’ Garry asked.

Jessica was fairly sure she knew the answer: ‘If you grow up seeing one person hit another person regularly, then you think that’s normal.’

‘You think she’s got someone at home who beats her up?’

Jessica shrugged. ‘She wouldn’t be the first. There’s not a lot we can do unless she comes to us, or something happens in public and it’s reported.’

Garry was peering over Jessica’s shoulder towards the woman, who was now going through the menu with her sons. ‘I’ve never understood why people stay with someone who hits them. It’s not love, is it?’

Jessica was about to reply that things were never that simple when she remembered visiting Joe Peters when his girlfriend Leanne was missing. He’d placed their baby in his lap and massaged his own upper arm. Their next-door neighbour had told Jessica that they fought physically as well as shouting at each other. Perhaps it hadn’t been the baby that had taken the toll on his arms; maybe they hit each other too.

And then she remembered that he wasn’t the only person she’d noticed nursing bruises recently.

33

Jessica walked into the maroon waiting room of Tim’s Taxis and took a seat. The smell of the furniture and feel of the velvet was so vivid that she could’ve been back in that working men’s club all those years ago, trying to figure out quite how people could become so angry over a piece of tape stuck to the floor. It was Saturday afternoon and raining, as ever, so a smattering of shoppers who had somehow figured out that the shop front with the lunchtime supplies sign was actually a taxi office were sitting around waiting for a lift home. In the back office, she could hear Tim talking into the radio. Jessica quietly showed her identification to the shoppers and asked them to leave.

Grumble-grumble-don’t-you-know-it’s-raining-out-there – and then the office was empty.

Jessica sat, running her hand across the tattered material of the chairs, listening to the rat-a-tat-tat of the instructions as Tim called them out to his drivers. In the background, there was commentary of a football match on the radio.

Tim’s voice rang out from the office: ‘Mrs Smith, your car’s here.’

After a few moments with no reply, he repeated himself, before appearing in the doorway. He stopped mid-sentence, taking in the almost empty waiting room, before noticing Jessica.

‘You’re back.’

‘Yep.’

Tim flicked his long hair behind him. He was wearing jeans, a checked shirt and a leather waistcoat, like a cowboy who’d taken a wrong turn somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic and lost his hat. ‘Hamish is off today. I think he might be at the football.’ He pointed a thumb over his shoulder. ‘Bloody United are one down.’

Archie would be fuming.

‘I’m not here for Hamish.’

‘Oh.’

‘Other half not around today?’

Tim’s features twitched slightly. ‘She has things to do on Saturday.’

‘Tell me about her.’

‘Why?’

Jessica stood and straightened her top, half-turning so he could see the earpiece she was wearing but deliberately not looking at him. ‘Because I’m asking.’

‘You heard us arguing the other day?’

‘Yep.’

Tim sighed, sitting on the dark red bench and resting his head in his hands. ‘I will never, ever, understand women. It’s like you’re a different species.’ Jessica said nothing, waiting. ‘I don’t know the official terms but she is mental. You’ve seen her, right? She’s stunning – I mean, what’s someone like her doing with someone like me? When we met a few years ago, it was at this rock night in this place just off Canal Street. They host them once a month or so and my band was playing.’

‘You were in a band?’

Tim looked up, half-smiling. ‘Metal – I’m on drums. We broke up in the summer because our lead singer wanted to go out to LA and try his luck with some band who’d put an advert on the Internet. Anyway, a couple of years ago, we were doing our thing. It’s just off the gay area, so you get a mixed crowd – straight, gay, old, young, queens, trannies, you name it. Normally you get your head down, bash away and hope for the best. It was a Sunday night and I noticed this blonde in the front row – just stunning. I say I noticed, but we all did – it’s not like you could miss her. After we were done, we walked off and the first thing anyone said was, “What about that girl at the front?” You know what it’s like with lads.’

He went quiet for a moment as the commentator on the radio went up an octave to describe a goal that would cheer Archie up wherever he was.

Tim undid his waistcoat. ‘Okay, maybe you don’t know what lads are like.’

‘I do.’

‘So you can guess the type of thing we were talking about. We were third on but it was a Sunday, so there wasn’t anywhere we could head out to for a few more drinks because it was closing time. Plus we had to load all our gear back into the van. I wouldn’t have minded heading down Canal Street – but one of the lads kept saying he didn’t want to get bummed.’

He caught Jessica’s eye, his lip curled upwards. ‘I know, right? It’s not the seventies any more – but that’s the way he was. We ended up going back into the main area of the pub and propping up one end of the bar. We didn’t have a big following or anything, but we wouldn’t usually have done that because people get a bit crazy at the end of the night and you’re just after a quiet beer with your mates.’

‘But the blonde was there, right?’

Tim’s slightly crooked features erupted into a full smile. He tucked his hair behind his ears and began fiddling with his waistcoat again. ‘Aye, she was. Our singer – the guy that went off to LA – he was there ordering rounds for everyone, flashing the cash, thinking she was there for him. You couldn’t talk to anyone because the final band was on and it was too noisy – but you could see it in the guy’s eyes that he thought he was onto a winner, except that every time he turned around to talk to the barman, she squeezed my knee.’

A blast of wind rattled the windows at the front but Tim was back in the moment. ‘After about an hour, the final band had finished and they called last orders. He held out his arm for her to cling onto as if he was going to take her home and she had no say in it – but she just smiled sweetly, gave him a wink and said, “I’m already sorted, thanks.” His eyes almost popped out of his head when she turned around, grabbed my hand and marched me out of the pub. Mine too, if I’m honest.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Mandy. The thing is, the pretty ones are always the mental ones, aren’t they? My ol’ dad used to tell me that when I was at school – ignore the prettiest ones, they’ll always fuck you up. Course, the only thing that fucked him up was the booze.’

Tim stood abruptly, making Jessica step back quickly, one hand close to her ear. Tim held his hands up to show he didn’t mean anything by it, nodding towards a filing cabinet in the corner of his office.

‘Do you wanna check out the top drawer? It should be unlocked.’

Slowly, Jessica crossed the room, not taking her eyes from him until she was at the cabinet. She slowly pulled the top drawer open, ready to leap back at any moment in case there was a nasty surprise in there. Instead, there were three bottles of vodka.

‘Take your pick,’ Tim called out.

Jessica took the one that had already been opened and returned to the office, handing it to Tim, who had sat again. He unscrewed the lid, took a breath, and then swigged heavily. ‘Course, he may have had a problem with this stuff but he had a point – you go out with a normal girl and it doesn’t take three hours to get ready to go out. You go out with a normal girl and she understands that money don’t grow on trees. She gets that when you’re in a band, it’s mainly playing dingy small pubs for a couple of hundred quid that you’ve got to split between you.’

‘Mandy’s not a normal girl?’

Tim laughed and took another mouthful, holding the bottle close to his nose and breathing the fumes. ‘How many girls do you know who look like that and are perfectly normal?’

Jessica shrugged – there was little point in arguing but she didn’t think looks came into it. Tim took the gesture as an admission that he was right.

‘Exactly, but that just meant she was the type of woman you couldn’t say no to. After a year or so, she wanted to get married and I went with it. I’ve never wanted to be married, never wanted kids, a house, any of that stuff. I just wanted to go on the road and play drums. Suddenly, there I was in this two-up, two-down wondering what the hell I’d got myself into.’

‘How long ago was that?’

Jessica already knew the answer – she’d done her homework before coming anywhere near the office – but that didn’t mean it wasn’t worth hearing it from him.

Tim started counting on his fingers. ‘A little over a year and a half.’

‘But somehow you moved from playing in a band to owning a taxi company?’

‘Stupid, right? We’d been playing all around the area and not really getting anywhere. There were a few hardcore fans who’d come along and make up the numbers but there was never going to be any money in it. When I was on my own, that would’ve been fine. I was happy living place to place, eating cold pizza and doing a gig every few nights. That was never going to suit Mandy. She liked the idea of going out with someone in a band, she just didn’t want me actually being in the band – especially one that wasn’t successful.’

‘So it was her idea to start a business?’

Tim swigged his vodka again. ‘Not exactly. It took me ages to realise but I did eventually figure out why she started seeing me – it was because she really thought the band was good. She thought we were playing local pubs at that point but then within a few months we’d be doing bigger clubs, then arenas. She thought she was buying into something that was going to be successful. When I realised that, I kept thinking I’d let her down. She thought she was marrying a soon-to-be rock god, but instead she got the hairy bloke at the back with drumsticks. None of that bothered me; I just wanted to play drums – if it was in front of a dozen people in some back room, that was fine. If it was in front of thousands of people at some festival, I would’ve treated it the exact same way.’

‘I understand.’

Jessica really did. To an extent, on a different scale in a different line of work, she was the same. Big case or small case, there was a bad guy to catch. If you started prioritising one victim over another then you’d begin to see them as numbers, or targets, anything except people.

Tim took another drink, going silent as the commentator on the radio got excited again – United were two-one down.

‘Bastard defence again,’ Tim muttered, just as the internal radio rattled into life. One of the drivers was trying to get in contact but Tim ignored him.

‘Anyway, when I realised I’d let her down, I was trying to come up with something else I could do that she’d appreciate. She was always watching these shows about these crazy parties that people have, where they hire out a zoo for the day and invite their mates; or they have pop stars arriving in a helicopter to serenade them for their birthday.’

‘I once saw one where this girl dressed up as Snow White,’ Jessica said, ‘and hired seven dwarves to do her bidding for the day. All her guests were dressed up as Disney characters.’

Tim laughed. ‘Like I told you – girls are mental. What lad could ever come up with that?’

Jessica couldn’t disagree.

Another drink, smaller this time, and Tim continued: ‘On those shows, all the girls hire limos to get them to places. I told Mandy that we should start a limo hire business and I’ve never seen her so excited. I think she had visions of a fleet of pink cars chauffeuring her everywhere, and that we’d have a couple of others that would bring all the money in.’

‘But it didn’t work like that?’

‘Did it bollocks. Do you know how expensive those things are? Then you’ve got to get insurance and everything else. It’d have been cheaper starting a helicopter company. The bank was having none of it – but the guy suggested that if we could run our own taxi company, the limos would become a natural extension if we were successful.’

No wonder they were both miserable.

‘One thing led to another, and suddenly I’m here seven days a week trying to give directions to clueless drivers. Meanwhile, our lead singer’s off in America, where I should be.’

Jessica held out a hand and took the vodka bottle from him. He didn’t resist as she screwed the lid on and rested it under her seat.

‘Who hit who first?’

Tim had hunched forward with his forearms resting on his knees but his head shot up, searching for Jessica. She held his gaze as he said: ‘I’ve never touched her.’

‘When did she first hit you?’

Likely without realising, Tim began scratching at his upper arm, returning his stare to his feet. ‘Around a year ago.’

‘Have you ever told anyone?’

‘What do you think?’

‘You know why I’m asking, don’t you?’ Tim didn’t reply, tapping his foot and listening to the football commentary, so Jessica continued: ‘You must realise there’s a reason why no one’s come through that door in the last twenty minutes – and it’s not because you haven’t sorted the sign out yet. We’re trying to give you the chance to do things quietly. It will look better for you in the long run.’

‘How many people have you got out there?’

‘Enough.’

‘But you came in by yourself?’

It could have sounded threatening but it didn’t.

Jessica shrugged. ‘I know this isn’t the life you want – and I don’t mean the band or the taxis, maybe even Mandy. The other stuff.’

No reply. Still two-one in the football.

‘We’re going to have to interview you properly at the station, take fingerprints, talk to your drivers to find out who was running the desk on the evenings you weren’t – we’ll put it all together with your help or without it.’

‘What if I don’t want to go quietly?’

Jessica tilted her head again, brushing her hair back to make the earpiece as clear as it could be.

‘If I were you, I really wouldn’t repeat that.’

34

Jessica was feeling smugger than Hamish Pendlebury and his scumbag solicitor. She sat in the chair across from DCI Cole’s desk staring at the row of commendations and certificates pinned to the wall, listening to him on the phone waffling on about procedural stuff to someone she couldn’t care less about.

Eventually, he hung up and spun around in his chair. He still wasn’t looking at her, instead focusing on a spot just over her shoulder in a way that made Jessica so self-conscious she wanted to turn around and see if there was anything there.

‘I did say you didn’t have to come in today,’ Cole said, still watching the spot.

‘It’s a Monday morning – what else am I going to do with my time?’

‘Give me the rundown.’

This was the moment Jessica had been waiting for all weekend. Rarely did she gloat over her achievements, knowing that anything she was pleased about was tempered by other people’s heartache, but here, for once, it felt good to stick a big middle finger up to whoever was making her life hard. From where she was sitting, it was the man across the desk.

Jessica began to read from her notes: ‘On Saturday afternoon, I arrested Timothy Stoddard for the murders of Cassie Edmonds and Grace Savage. The profile said . . .’ Jessica paused, fumbling with her papers to find the right one, ‘. . . that our killer “had a deep-seated hatred of women”, which is a fairly woolly and wide-ranging claim but at least had me thinking. I’m not actually certain it’s the case here – but Tim Stoddard had a definite hatred of one woman: his wife Mandy, even if he loved her too. Neither of them have any history of abuse, no criminal record and nothing that could’ve naturally drawn us to them.’

That was a relief in itself – it was always a problem explaining to the media why you’d missed an obvious clue in the first place.

‘Myself, DC Rowlands, DC Davey and PC Jamieson visited the taxi office when we were investigating Hamish Pendlebury and overheard Stoddard arguing with his wife. She ended up hitting him.’

‘Did you do anything at the time?’

‘Well, er, no – I mean—’

‘Carry on . . .’

And so it continued: Jessica talked Cole through how they’d got to this point and he nit-picked at every detail where they could’ve done better.

Proving the case against Stoddard was not likely to be difficult. They had the motive that he felt emasculated by his wife and so had taken it out on other women; the physical evidence to show that he himself had been frequently beaten; they found the spare number plates he’d commissioned for his taxis, including a copy of Hamish’s which he’d then used on another black cab; and the knife which had been wedged into a gap in the wall hidden behind the desk in his office.

Search teams were continuing to go through everything he owned but the only thing they lacked was either a full confession, or any evidence of the body parts he had cut from the women. Sooner or later, forensics would likely match something from his body to one of the victims. Given the size of his fingers and the way the women had been beaten, there was every chance they might find a partial fingerprint, or at least be able to match the shape of his digits to the wounds.

Under interview, the only thing he would talk about was Mandy. At first, his story about how they’d met had made Jessica feel slightly sorry for him. They had both had certain expectations from their relationship and neither had ended up happy. By the time he’d recycled it for the fifth time, Jessica was feeling less on his side, thinking that she had no desire to hear from either him or his slapper of a wife – in more than one sense – again.

DCI Cole was taking intermittent notes but still hadn’t looked directly at Jessica, nor said well done. After a case was solved, everyone said well done – even those who hated you. Even Fat Pat from behind a cream bun. It was the done thing, like a reflex, or when a mate told you they were pregnant and you said ‘congratulations’, instead of ‘oops, see you in sixteen years’.

Jessica waited for Cole to say something, even if it was to bring up Holden Wyatt again – not that she’d had much to do with that case in the past week. Without peering up from his papers, he dropped a different bombshell instead: ‘The press conference is downstairs at eleven.’

‘I don’t want to be in it.’

‘Tough – the assistant chief’s coming over and if I’ve got to put up with Rosie, then so do you.’

‘Who?’

‘Rosie – the chief PR woman: you know her.’

‘I know, I meant which assistant chief constable?’

Cole peered towards her, still not at her. ‘Graham Pomeroy.’

‘Oh, darling, you look fabulous!’

Jessica rolled her eyes and balled her fists tightly. This was not what she needed on any day, let alone when she was going to be in front of television cameras trying not to swear. She was sitting in an office off to the side of Longsight Police Station’s media room, away from the clatter as news crews bumbled their way inside, dripping wet, and began plugging in their cables into what definitely wasn’t an electrical fire waiting to happen.

Rosie was the head of PR for the whole of Greater Manchester Police and, luckily for Jessica, they had very little contact with each other. It was probably a good thing for Rosie too, seeing as Jessica started to understand how the mind of a murderer worked on every occasion she spent any amount of time with the woman.

Rosie flicked a strand of Jessica’s loose hair forward as Jessica tutted and nudged it back again. Rosie was somewhere in her fifties but seemed to be the last person to realise, dressing at least half her age and wearing enough make-up to single-handedly put Debenhams in profit. ‘Jessica, darling, it’s so wonderful to be working with you again. You look so fabulous with your hair up or down, I just wonder if perhaps you could have it a little more down? The lights out there are going to be really bright and if it’s down, it’ll frame your face a little better.’

For God’s sake.

‘I’m not sure people will be worrying about what I look like quite so much as the fact we’ll be telling them that we’ve caught someone who killed two women and they can go out to play bingo again.’

Rosie roared with laughter that even sounded genuine. ‘Oh, “bingo”, you’re so funny. That’s so fabulous. You’re wasted here. Honestly, I’ve still got a few of my old showbiz contacts if you want a nudge.’

‘You’re all right.’

‘Well, if you’re sure. You’ve got one of those faces for it.’

‘Faces for what?’

‘Television, darling! What else? Look at the skin on you – and the hair. I know people who’d kill for hair like that. Well, not kill – perhaps maim.’

Rosie launched into guffaws of laughter, finishing with a huge coughing spurt that sounded as if a lung might come up. Meanwhile, Jessica tucked her hair back behind her ears and frowned at her own reflection in the mirror. This was humiliating. The only reason she hadn’t sneaked away was that she was already in Cole’s bad books for an unknown reason – that and because she wanted a glimpse of Porky Pomeroy in the flesh. Well, not exactly a glimpse, but she wanted to know if he’d recognise her.

When Rosie recovered, she stepped closer again and began holding various hair ties next to Jessica’s ear, tutting and saying things like, ‘No, that’ll never do’ and ‘Hmm, maybe’.

Jessica glanced at her phone – five to eleven.

Rosie began humming to herself. When she caught Jessica’s inadvertent scowl in the mirror, she broke into a sickly sweet smile. ‘Oh, sorry, darling – you can’t break old habits. When I was a performer, I’d be singing all the time. Some said I was destined for a career in the West End but one thing led to another . . .’

She clearly wanted the question to be asked but Jessica didn’t trust herself to say anything. Rosie continued anyway: ‘Young love intervened, of course. I suppose they say all things are meant to happen for a reason. I wouldn’t have got my part on television if I’d gone to the West End.’

Jessica had met Rosie on four occasions – and every time she’d heard the story of how Rosie had ‘starred’ in a television soap. One of the constables had spent an afternoon phoning around to get the real truth – that she’d once been an extra for a dozen episodes and then killed off, but no one had the heart to break the myth.

‘I still keep an eye on the trade papers, of course,’ Rosie continued, oblivious to the fact that Jessica wasn’t interested. ‘Only last week I saw they were advertising for a new musical in Manchester. I’m a little too old now – but I could make a few calls if you wanted to audition?’