Smith

EIGHTEEN

  HAUNTED

  Whitton Knocked on the door of number seven Hull Road. Almost immediately the door was opened by a short woman with red hair.

  “Can I help you?” she said nervously.

  “DC Whitton, police,” Whitton said, “I need to ask you a few questions. Can I come in?”

  “Is this about Lauren?” the woman said.

  “Yes it is, please can I come in; it looks like rain.”

  “Of course, come through to the living room.”

  Whitton took out her notebook.

  “Could I have your name please?” she asked

  “Jane Brown,” the woman replied, “I was the one who found Lauren in her room, I still can’t stop thinking about it.”

  “How many of you live here?”

  “Now that Laurens gone, it’s just the three of us, me Susan and Pauline.”

  “Where are Susan and Pauline now?”

  “Pauline is in her room and Susan flew to Tenerife yesterday morning.”

  “Tenerife?”

  “She said she needed to get away after what happened. She booked online.”

  “Could you ask Pauline to come down please,” Whitton said, “I need to talk to both of you.”

  While Jane was away, Whitton took a look around the room. On one wall was a large collage of photographs; most of the pictures were of student parties where, it seemed, huge amounts of alcohol were involved. Jane returned with another woman. She was quite plump and she looked very pale.

  “My name is DC Whitton,” Whitton introduced herself.

  “I’m Pauline Grimes,” the woman said, “we’re still in shock about Lauren.”

  “I know it’s hard,” Whitton began, “but I need to ask you a few things about that night. Where were you on Christmas Eve?”

  “Me and Jane went out,” Pauline said, “we went to that blues club just off the Foss Road, The Deep Blues Club.”

  “I’ve heard of it,” Whitton said, “what time did you get home?”

  “About two in the morning. We were planning an early night but they had this guy playing the guitar, he was amazing. Jane fancied the pants off him.”

  “I did not,” Jane said.

  She was blushing.

  “I just liked the way he played, that’s all, it was like he was haunted or something. Anyway, he’s a Policeman.”

  “And Susan,” Whitton said, “where was she?”

  “Where she is most of the time,” Jane sneered, “with that low life boyfriend of hers.”

  “So Lauren was here by herself?” Whitton asked.

  “She wasn’t well,” Pauline said, “she said she wasn’t anyway; she still managed to drink two bottles of wine by herself.”

  “It was Susan’s wine too,” Jane added.

  “Do you still have the empty bottles?” Whitton asked.

  “They’re in the bin I think.”

  Jane looked confused.

  “The rubbish hasn’t been collected yet,” she said, “because of the holidays.”

  “Show me,” Whitton ordered.

  The two women watched as Whitton donned a pair of strange yellow rubber gloves and rummaged in the dustbin.

  “Are these the ones?” Whitton asked.

  She held up two bottles. On the labels it read Chateau neuf du Pape.

  “That’s them,” Jane said.

  “Expensive wine for a student,” Whitton remarked, “in my day we used to drink wine from a box. Do you have a plastic bag?”

  Pauline fetched one from the kitchen cupboard and held it open so Whitton could place the bottles inside.

  “When is Susan due back from Tenerife?” Whitton asked.

  “Two weeks,” Jane replied, “we didn’t even know she was going until that scum bag of hers came to fetch her.”

  “So they went together,” Whitton said, “Susan and her boyfriend?”

  “Yes,” Pauline said, “I don’t know where they got the money from. Susan was moaning that she wouldn’t be able to afford the rent for January.”

  “Maybe her boyfriend paid?” Whitton suggested.

  “That layabout. That’s why Susan is always broke, he doesn’t even work, just sits in the pub all day bumming drinks.”

  “Do you have a photo of her?” Whitton asked.

  “On the photo board,” Jane said, “there’s a couple of her on there.”

  She turned round and pointed out a pretty, dark haired girl standing at a bar with a drink in her hand.

  “And that’s the scumbag next to her,” she added.

  “Do you mind if I borrow this for a while?” Whitton asked.

  “Keep it,” Jane replied, “I’m sick of looking at his ugly mug anyway.”

  “What’s the boyfriend’s name?”

  “Mick something or other.”

  “Hogg,” Pauline said, “pretty appropriate if you ask me. Mick Hogg.”

  “And Susan, what’s her surname?”

  “Jenkins,” Jane replied.

  She paused for a second.

  “And she has blonde hair now.”