Page 33 of The Love Letter
She studied the letter yet again. Who was ‘Sam’ and ‘the White Knight’? And who the hell had Rose been, for that matter?
She made herself a coffee and mulled over the few facts she had at her disposal. Was there anyone else who might know Rose’s surname? Muriel? Maybe she had seen letters addressed to Rose. Surely Rose would have had to sign some sort of tenancy agreement when she took the flat in Marylebone? Joanna dug out her notebook and flicked through it, searching for Muriel’s telephone number. If she could garner Rose’s surname it would make her trip to the local police station that much easier.
She picked up the telephone and dialled her number.
Sadly, Muriel was unable to help her with Rose’s surname. She said she’d never seen Rose receive a single item of post, not even for utilities. The electricity ran on a coin meter and Rose had not had a telephone. She then asked about the address on the letters Rose had given her to post. ‘A couple of them were airmail letters. To somewhere in France, I think,’ Muriel said.That at least fitted, thought Joanna as she remembered the instructions on the pill bottle.
Muriel did pass on the telephone number of their landlord. Joanna duly called the number and left a message on George Cyrapopolis’s answering machine. But for now, it meant she would have to bluff her way through at the police station. She picked up her rucksack and left the flat.
Joanna opened the swing door that led to the front desk of the Marylebone police station. The waiting area was deserted and reeked of stale coffee, the fluorescent lights highlighting the chipped paint and scuffed linoleum floor. There was no one at the desk, so she pressed the bell.
‘Yes, miss?’ A middle-aged constable strolled out of the office behind the desk.
‘Hi, I was hoping someone here would be able to help me discover what’s happened to my great-aunt.’
‘Right. Has she disappeared?’
‘Er, not exactly, no. She’s dead, actually.’
‘I see.’
‘She was found a couple of weeks ago in her flat in Marylebone. She’d fallen down the stairs. The neighbour called the police and—’
‘You think the call might have been taken by one of our officers?’
‘Yes. I’m recently back from Australia. I’d got her address from my dad and thought I’d go and visit her. But when I arrived, it was too late.’ Joanna allowed her voice to break. ‘If only I’d have called round sooner, then . . .’
‘I know, miss. It happens a lot,’ nodded the constable kindly. ‘I presume you want to know where she was taken, that kind of thing?’
‘Yes. Only there’s a problem. I’ve no idea what her surname might be. It’s likely that she had remarried.’
‘Well, let’s try and find her under the name you knew her by. Which was?’
‘Taylor.’ Joanna plucked a name out of thin air.
‘And the date she was found dead?’
‘The tenth of January.’
‘And the address at which she was found?’
‘Nineteen Marylebone High Street.’
‘Okay.’ The constable tapped into a computer on the desk. ‘Taylor, Taylor . . .’ He scanned the screen, then shook his head. ‘Nope, nothing doing. Nobody of that name died that day, not that our station dealt with anyway.’
‘Could you try Rose?’
‘Okay . . . We have a Rachel, and a Ruth, but no Rose.’
‘Those ladies both died on that day too?’
‘They did. And there’s another four local deaths listed here. Terrible time of year for the elderly. Christmas is just past, the weather’s cold . . . Anyway, I’ll check the address. If we were called to an incident that day, it’ll be listed here.’
Joanna waited patiently as the constable studied his screen.
‘Mmmm.’ He scratched his chin. ‘Nothing there either. You sure you got the right date?’
‘Positive.’
