Jack opened his file and pulled out the photograph that Sandra Raynor had given to the dating agency. He pushed it across the table and Debra picked it up with her well-manicured fingernails. She took her time, examining it closely.

  ‘No, I have never seen or met this woman,’ she said eventually.

  Jack asked her to look again.

  ‘How old would you say that woman is?’

  ‘I wouldn’t know.’

  ‘Have a guess. It’s rather important.’

  Smith sighed, pursing her lips.

  ‘Perhaps in her late thirties or early forties, I couldn’t really say.’

  ‘What if I was to tell you she was in her sixties?’

  For the first time Smith almost smiled, then shrugged her shoulders. Jack continued.

  ‘Extensive plastic surgery, possibly done in the US. She is almost five foot nine, quite athletic, or she was.’ He let the statement hang in the air for a moment.

  ‘Well, I have no idea who she is or was. I’m sorry I can’t help you.’

  Jack smiled. ‘I think perhaps you can. I want you to think back, not just a few years but maybe 20 years or more. Think of anyone in that age category who perhaps was plainer looking then, but the same height, someone exceptionally clever whom you can recall working here, who maybe left under strange circumstances?’

  ‘I’m sorry but you are asking me the impossible. The company moved into this new location fifteen years ago and there have been hundreds of employees during the time I’ve been here.’

  ‘What if I was to say that there might be a link with Brighton? Perhaps going even further back?’

  Jack waited as Smith held the photograph up and looked closely at it. She then leaned across the table and picked up a pencil. She started scribbling on the photograph, then looked up.

  ‘I’m sorry, is it alright if I do this?’

  Jack nodded. ‘Yes, it’s only a copy.’

  She made a few more pencil strokes, then chewed at the end of the pencil. She reached for a notebook, tearing a page out and placing it across the photograph. Jack pushed his chair back and walked around to sit beside her.

  ‘This is a bit of a long shot, but it could be her. I’ve not heard from her or seen her in decades – I’m going back to the late 70s, early 80s. Brighton rings a bell and I think her name could be Leonie or Lorna, but I really can’t be sure. She was tall and she was a very good tennis player. She was rather plain looking and had very bad teeth, but I’m afraid I can’t recall her surname.’

  ‘Would you be able to find her name in the company records?’

  She shook her head. ‘No, not that far back. When we moved here a lot of the historical files were shredded. If it is the girl I’m thinking of, then she was very clever. I think she had a First from Oxford before she became an accountant, so that would mean that when she joined the company she would have been in her early twenties. She was a workaholic and not very sociable, a bit of a loner with not many friends. Hang on, I’ve just remembered; it wasn’t Leonie, it was Lorna, and her surname was Elliot.’

  Jack was buzzing as Debra Smith went quiet.

  ‘Do you know if she has any family?’ Jack asked.

  ‘My goodness, it was all so long ago. She may have had a sister because I do remember that she often used to stay in Brighton, so perhaps it was with a sister. I really can’t be certain, but I just remember how clever she was; actually she was quite brilliant. She quickly started moving up the ladder and was then head-hunted by another firm. As far as I can recall nothing unpleasant occurred when she left us, but by that time she was in a position way above mine.’

  Jack was surprised when Smith suddenly pushed back her chair.

  ‘There is someone here who might know more than me, and you’re in luck because although he’s semi-retired he happens to be here today. Can you wait for one minute?’

  Jack nodded enthusiastically. After nearly fifteen minutes Debra Smith returned, opening the double doors wide to allow a wheelchair to enter. The occupier was an elderly gentleman who appeared to have some kind of throat problem as there was a microphone taped to his neck above his immaculate shirt and tie. A cashmere rug was folded over his knees and his shock of white hair and neat moustache made him look as if he had walked off a film set.

  Smith introduced them. ‘Mr Quentin Henderson, this is Detective Mathews.’

  She pushed his wheelchair towards the table as Jack eased back one of the leather chairs. She explained that Quentin Henderson was one of the original CEOs of the company, and had been there for as long as she had.

  ‘Thank you so much for your time, Mr Henderson,’ Jack began. ‘I’m investigating a woman who called herself Sandra Raynor, but may have been employed by this company under the name Lorna Elliot.’

  Henderson remained expressionless as Smith pushed the photograph across the table.

  ‘It was many years ago,’ she said, ‘but with extensive plastic surgery, this could be the girl I remembered.’

  Jack wished she would stop talking so Henderson could focus on the photograph. Suddenly he heard a distorted guttural voice.

  ‘Nothing-like-her.’ Each word had a gasp between it.

  ‘Do you remember a girl called Lorna Elliot?’ Jack asked.

  ‘One-that-got-away,’ the distorted voice gasped.

  It was clearly a huge effort for him to talk, so Jack waited patiently for him to explain what he meant.

  ‘She-was-head-hunted-by-a-com-petitor,’ Quentin gasped. He adjusted the contraption around his neck. ‘But-did-not-remain-went-on-to-another-company-then-with-Anton-Lord.’ He was now really struggling to breathe.

  ‘Do you know who that is, Ms Smith?’ Jack asked.

  ‘I’m sorry, I don’t. Quentin, who is Anton Lord?’

  ‘Partner . . .’ he stuttered.

  ‘Ah, I see, so this Anton Lord was her partner; you mean business or personal?’

  ‘Both-they-opened-their-own-company-sale-of-leases. Lot-of-money. Russia.’

  Jack had been making notes in one of the company logo notebooks. He was concerned that Quentin was quickly becoming exhausted.

  Smith shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I don’t know anyone called Anton Lord, detective.’

  With a trembling hand Quentin tried to pull a handkerchief from his pocket to wipe the spittle from his lips. Smith quickly assisted, gently wiping his mouth.

  ‘No-good-crook!’ He spat out the words and waved his handkerchief to indicate that he wanted to leave.

  As much as Jack would have liked to try and glean more information, he recognised that the old man was completely drained by the effort of talking. But at least he now had two names to work with. Smith turned the wheelchair round as Jack opened the double doors to help them leave. He was taken aback when the hoarse distorted voice box suddenly cackled: ‘Never-trust-an-ugly-woman!’

  As the boardroom doors closed, Jack gathered up his papers. He had just closed his briefcase when Ms Smith returned.

  ‘Quentin is an amazing man with an incredibly retentive memory. I hope you found it useful talking to him.’

  ‘I did, Ms Smith, and I’ll forward the information onto the Essex team right away. Thank you so much for your time. And please pass my thanks on to Mr Henderson, especially as he’s clearly not in good health.’

  ‘He’s ninety-three but still likes to come in once in a while. He’s actually the reason I’m still here and not retired.’

  Jack nodded. ‘Just one more thing, Ms Smith, what do you think he meant by that last comment – “never trust an ugly woman”?’

  She considered for a moment. ‘I would imagine that’s connected to his first comment about “the one that got away”. He would have been grooming her for a senior role in the company, but she left to join a competitor. As I said, she was a rather unattractive woman, with buck teeth. That she could have transformed herself into the very glamorous woman in the photograph is amazing, but these days who knows what the surgeons can do. I hope we have been helpful to you, detective.’

  Jack shook her hand and thanked her again as Smith ushered him into the corridor. She waited with him for the elevator doors to open and Jack descended to the ground floor.

  He got back home at 1 p.m., running up the stairs two at a time to get into his home office. He opened his old laptop and began transcribing the conversations with Ms Smith and her old boss, Quentin Henderson. He then accessed the Holmes database and put in the names Anton Lord and Lorna Elliot. Although it was illegal for him to have this database at home, he knew that many officers did the same. As with so many things, Jack mused, you just had to be careful not to get caught.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Jack was concentrating so hard that he didn’t hear Penny returning home with Hannah, and he started when there was a knock on his door. Penny popped her head in and asked if he would like a toasted cheese sandwich as she was making one for herself. She told him that Hannah was having an afternoon nap, then said with a smile, ‘I bought a toaster. I burnt my toast this morning as it was always getting stuck . . . this new one does four slices at the same time!’

  ‘That’s terrific,’ Jack said. He paused. ‘Listen, Mum, you left the back door wide open, so I locked it when I came down. You need to be a bit more careful.’

  Penny put a hand to her mouth. ‘Oh, my goodness me, yes . . . I opened it to let the smoke out when the alarm went off. I’m so sorry, Jack, please don’t tell Maggie, she’s very nervous about things at the moment . . . it’s down to stress, I think. Anyway, toasted sandwich coming up with a fresh mug of coffee.’

  Penny shut the door, then opened it again straightaway.

  ‘What?’ Jack snapped.

  He hadn’t meant to sound so cross but using the Holmes database at home was making him tense.

  ‘Sorry,’ Penny said quietly. ‘Just asking whether you’re working today?’

  ‘No, Mum, I’m going in for night duty later. We’re all switching to half weekdays, half nights as we have so much work on.’

  Penny closed the door and Jack turned back to the screen. He had managed to pull up the details for Lorna Elliot, including a twenty-year-old black and white photograph. Debra Smith had been very uncomplimentary about her looks, and he could now see why. She had slightly buck teeth, a sharply pointed nose and thick eyebrows that accentuated her wide-set eyes, but Jack was certain this was the woman who had called herself Sandra Raynor. There was also a newspaper article dated March 1991 about the mystery disappearance of a wealthy businessman, Anton Lord. His partner in life and business, Ms Lorna Elliot, claimed that he had gone to spend the weekend at their country cottage in Kent. When he had not answered any of her calls she had driven to see if he had perhaps fallen, and found the cottage unlocked. Their Spaniel had been locked in the garage and it appeared that Mr Lord had been in the middle of having breakfast as there was food left uneaten on the table. It also seemed that he had still been wearing his dressing gown and slippers.

  Jack sat back in his chair, looking at the photograph of Anton Lord. He was handsome, with dark eyes and thick hair. He had a chiselled face with a wide smiling mouth and was considerably younger than Lorna. He was described as a ‘millionaire businessman’ and they were planning to get married.

  Jack continued reading one press cutting after another, all covering the same story. The police were still searching for him and there were fears for his safety, which seemed to be related to his various business deals with Russia. There were suggestions that he was owed a considerable amount of money and had recently put pressure on a billionaire businessman in Moscow for payment, threatening to reveal details of their business dealings. It was hinted that illegal transfers of large amounts of money were involved.

  This was all extremely interesting, but the reality was that although he was now convinced Sandra Raynor was Lorna Elliot, he still had no proof. He needed to get in touch with Ridley. As usual there was no reply on his mobile, so he left two messages asking him to call back urgently. For a moment he considered contacting the Essex team, but then decided against it until he had confirmation that he was on the right track.

  After some more digging around, Jack managed to trace Lorna Elliot’s family. She was born in Brighton in 1967, which made her current age fifty-five. She had one older sister, Norma, who was deceased. Both parents were also deceased but there was an aunt still living, Barbara Elliot, aged 88, living in Hove. Jack looked up her address and phone number and was just contemplating calling her when Penny knocked on the door with his toasted sandwich and coffee.

  ‘Sorry it took so long,’ she said. ‘Hannah woke up, so I had to see to her. I think I’m going to make fried chicken with rice for dinner. Maggie will be due home early today. And I think we need a new coffee machine as something seems to be wrong with it; I had to make you instant.’

  Penny put the tray down on his desk, and the next minute Hannah tottered in with a sippy cup in her hand. She swung it around and juice sprayed out from the spout. Penny quickly picked her up and Hannah started howling that she wanted to be with daddy. Jack stood up and took her in his arms.

  ‘Daddy’s working but if you wait for a little bit then I can come and play with you. Daddy has important work which he has to finish before he can play.’

  Hannah wasn’t happy and started kicking and wriggling in his arms. In the end the only thing that quietened her down was half of his toasted cheese sandwich. Penny then took her firmly by the hand and led her out of the room to leave Jack in peace.

  He focused on collating all of the new information for Ridley to look at. He had not been that successful with Anton Lord and was about to do some further checks when his mobile phone rang. It was Ridley who, as usual, said that he was unable to talk. He asked if they could meet in their usual place at the same time. Jack started explaining that he was going to be on nights and would leave a message if he was unable to see him, but Ridley ended the call before he could finish.

  Jack was now really pissed off. ‘Ungrateful sod. He’s got no bloody idea what I’ve got on my plate,’ he muttered to himself.

  He took a mouthful of the cheese toastie and was gulping down half a mug of the now-cold instant coffee when there was yet another knock on the door.

  ‘I said I’d be there in a little while!’ he snapped.

  Maggie opened the door, carrying a full laundry basket.

  ‘Well, excuse me for living! I’ve only just got home. I’m gathering all the dirty laundry to do a wash. Why aren’t you at the station?’

  ‘I told you I was going to be on a mixture of nights and day shifts with all the work on with the Middleton case. And you won’t believe what I’ve dug up this afternoon; it’s mind-blowing. I think I’ve found out who that woman Sandra Raynor really is . . .’

  Maggie dumped the laundry basket down and stood with her hands on her hips.

  ‘If you’re going to be working all night, why are you working on that Ridley business as well? You need to get your priorities straight, Jack; you’ll get into the station and after a couple of hours you’ll be knackered. Remember how you felt last night?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘I feel great. I’m really buzzing, and the leg-work I’ve been doing is paying off. I know who Sandra Raynor is. Her real name is Lorna Elliot.’

  Maggie sighed. ‘You know what, Jack: I don’t really care if her name’s Jemima Puddle-Duck. We need to talk about some important stuff that you keep pushing to one side.’

  Maggie closed the door so that they couldn’t be overheard.

  ‘Penny has bought a new toaster which is very kind of her, but the old one was perfectly adequate. And to be honest, if we had needed a new one then I would like to have chosen it. I’m really not that keen on a toaster with bright yellow sides! And now the coffee percolator is burnt out, although it was in perfect working order this morning. The iron has been left on twice; she’s boiled the kettle black, and I am not going to get a new electric one because she’ll probably blow that up. I really think you need to sit down with her and have a talk, Jack.’

  ‘Listen, Mags, I’ll do whatever you want me to do, but I have to move my butt now or I’ll be late for work. I agree that I need to have a chat with Mum, and I promise you that I will as soon as I have a minute. We’ll sit down and have a proper heart to heart.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘When will that be, Jack?’

  ‘Christ, as soon as I get a break, alright?’

  ‘You had a break today. You had a lie-in. Why didn’t you have that chat with her today?’

  ‘Because I had things to do. Like I said, I’ve traced this woman’s identity and I had to go into the city to meet a contact who helped. It gave me a big energy boost, making some real progress.’

  ‘Well, bully for you,’ she said dismissively. ‘When do you think I might get to have an energy boost, whatever the hell that is? Doesn’t it ever occur to you that I also have a lot of work pressures? I’m worn to a frazzle, but I never get so much as a pat on the back from you. The whole family has to focus on Jack Warr, and it’s about time you started to think about somebody else for a change – starting with me!’

  ‘Come on, Mags, don’t be like this, please,’ Jack said in a placating tone. ‘I’m very sorry for whatever I’ve done or haven’t done.’

  ‘That’s just it, Jack. You don’t do anything that is important for us as a family. It’s all work, work, work, and then you moan about how you can’t deal with the pressure.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  Maggie threw her hands up in the air.

  ‘Fine! Look, now is not the time to have an argument. I’m too tired, and you have to go, so let’s just leave it at that for now. When you do “have a minute” we need to have a serious talk about things.’

  Maggie picked up the laundry basket and opened the door, slamming it behind her.

  Jack sat in his chair, rocking from side to side. He and Maggie rarely argued – he had certainly never seen her as angry as this – and he was unsure how to handle it. He cursed himself for being such a selfish prat.