‘Yes. It was demolished fifteen years ago, so this would have been before then.’
‘Oh no, I don’t think so. Though, to be honest, I couldn’t really tell you. From when she was seventeen, she moved around so much.’
‘When she left Leicester, did she give you an address?’
‘No.’
‘Do you know if Beryl ever knew someone called Anthony Duffy?’
‘I don’t recall that name.’
The doorbell pinged and Mrs Kenworth looked into the shop. She excused herself and went to serve the customer.
Anna sifted through the photographs. It didn’t yet make sense to her that such a lovely girl could become a prostitute.
‘Sorry about that,’ Mrs Kenworth said on her return. ‘Regular. She’s taken a couple of outfits to see which her daughter likes. She’s getting married.’
Mrs Kenworth reached for the coffee pot. The tray, with cups and biscuits, was already prepared.
‘You said she left home at seventeen. Why? Did you and your daughter have a falling out?’
‘She got in with a really bad bunch of girls. She was just sixteen. She had been getting good results at school. She was also really talented, said she wanted to be an actress.’
Mrs Kenworth continued talking as she poured the coffee. She had done everything possible to persuade her daughter to stay on in school, but she had refused; she had started work at a local health spa and began to train as a masseuse. ‘At first I got her a flat with two of her friends, not far from where we lived, so I could keep an eye on her. I paid the rent.’ Next thing, Beryl had left, without telling her mother her whereabouts. It turned out she had gone to Southport to be with someone she had met at the spa.
‘She turned up one Sunday, driving a new MG. She said she was living with this man, but she wouldn’t even tell me his name.’
Suddenly, Mrs Kenworth broke down.
‘I don’t honestly know why she wouldn’t let me into her life,’ she wept. ‘She insisted she just wanted to live her own way and without any interference from me. But I wasn’t interfering, I was concerned; she was only seventeen.’
‘What about Beryl’s father?’
Mrs Kenworth dried her eyes. She said that George Villiers, her first husband, had divorced her when Beryl was ten years old. The little girl had worshipped him. At first, Beryl had gone on weekend visits to see him, but after a few years he and his new girlfriend went to live in Canada and they had never heard from him again.
‘I met Alec six or seven years ago. He’s a wonderful, kind man. I don’t know what I would have done without him.’ Tears came splashing down her face again. She blew her nose, apologizing all the time for crying. ‘Sometimes I would get a phone call, always saying the same thing: life was wonderful, she was happy. She used to come home periodically, always in another flashy car, a different one. One time I said to her, why couldn’t I meet this man she was living with?’
Mrs Kenworth took a deep breath. Beryl had told her that she had left the man from Southport and was now with someone else, someone even better and much wealthier.
‘Did you find out the name of the new boyfriend?’
‘No. As ever, she was very secretive, but she was wearing expensive clothes and a big diamond ring; diamond earrings as well. She always wanted the best things, ever since she was a child. I was too weak with her. I’d give her whatever she wanted, just to keep the peace. She had a wild streak in her, a terrible temper.’
Anna checked her watch. She didn’t seem to be getting anywhere; certainly she was not getting the connection she hoped for.
‘It was drugs,’ Mrs Kenworth offered quietly. She poured more coffee and went on speaking in the same quiet voice.
Two or more years later, Beryl had turned up on the doorstep late one night. Her mother hadn’t heard from her, or seen her, in all that time. She was alarmed to see that Beryl had got very thin. ‘I put her to bed. She looked terrible, kept on saying, “I’m sorry, Mum. I’m so sorry.” She was covered in bruises. She wouldn’t talk about it. All she’d say was that she had got herself into a bit of trouble. There were a lot of telephone calls, late at night. Then, once she was better, she started not coming home until morning.’
Mrs Kenworth swallowed. She just sat there for a moment, her eyes full of pain.
‘We had another terrible row. She was gone the following morning. Under her bed, I found hypodermic needles, drug things. It broke my heart. She was destroying herself.’
‘Did you know where she had gone? Did she leave an address, or contact number?’
‘No, she never did.’ An expression crossed the mother’s face, as if remembering something.
‘Manchester. That’s where she went, that time. Manchester. I found a phone number on a bit of torn paper. I called it. The woman that answered sounded drunk, or maybe she was drugged. I called a few times and the same woman always answered. Told me Beryl wasn’t there. She told me to stop calling.’ She pursed her lips. ‘I thought she was lying.’
‘Why?’
‘Call it mother’s intuition. I contacted the phone company. I thought they might give me the address. I was really worried about Beryl using drugs. They wouldn’t help. I went to the police, told them about Beryl, what I was worried about. I gave them the number.’
Anna spoke up. ‘I don’t suppose you still have the number?’
‘No. She came back. She was hysterical, shouting at me. She kicked at the front door. Said I was causing her a lot of trouble, that her friend had been visited by the police and it was all my fault. I said that I was worried about her, that I knew about the drugs.’
Tears started streaming down Mrs Kenworth’s face as she told Anna that Beryl had become like a stranger. She was abusive and violent. She warned her mother that she was not to call her friend, Kathleen, again. That if she did call, she would be getting her daughter into a lot of trouble.
‘From Kathleen?’
‘Yes. I said that she wasn’t much of a friend since she’d lied about not seeing her. Then she sort of collapsed crying and did the old “sorry” routine. I put her to bed and that’s when I saw her breasts. She’d had implants. She’d always had beautiful breasts. She was perfect. She could have done anything, been anything.’
Mrs Kenworth closed her eyes. ‘I know I was naive, but until then I’d never really considered that my daughter might be selling herself; that she might be a prostitute. If anyone had told me, I wouldn’t have believed it.’
The shop bell rang. While Mrs Kenworth went to serve the customer, Anna took down some notes. Could the Kathleen be their victim, Kathleen Keegan? If so, they would have three out of the six that knew each other. If the Leicester Police had kept records that far back, it would be another link in the chain.
Mrs Kenworth entered with a blue two-piece suit on a hanger. She put it on to a rail at the back of the office. ‘I can lock up now.’
‘That’s nice,’ Anna said, coming closer to inspect. ‘Really nice. I like the colour.’
‘I was just about to mark it down for sale. It was in the window; there’s a slight sun mark on the shoulder. What size are you?’
‘Twelve, I think.’
‘Would you like to try it on?’
Anna smiled hesitatingly.
‘Yes, thank you. Do you have any shirts that might go with it?’
It was a quarter past five when Mrs Kenworth drove Anna to her home. Upon their arrival, Anna placed a call to the local police. It was a far-reaching hope that they might still have a record of Mrs Kenworth’s visit but if so, they might possibly have the Manchester address.
Mrs Kenworth’s flat was in a well-kept council estate. The flat was immaculate, though stiflingly warm. Mrs Kenworth opened the door to her daughter’s old room. ‘I’ve kept this the way it was when she first ran away. All her pictures are in here.’ She touched a photograph of an incredibly pretty, dark-eyed young girl on a pony; then one photograph after the other, showing a pretty little girl growing into a stunning-looking teenager. ‘I still come in here to sit, sometimes, just to talk to her.’
The room was a shrine, permeated by a sickly perfume. There was a frilly pink nylon bedspread, with matching pink pillows and cushions. A collection of dolls had been lined up, all dressed in pink. The white and gold wardrobe still contained the dead girl’s clothes, yet she had not lived in the flat for most of her adult life.