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There are murmurs of agreement from the team.
‘I did a search for next of kin,’ says Zuri. ‘The victim’s dad still lives in White Cross, although in a different part of town from before. Unfortunately, her mum passed away from Covid in 2020.’
‘Thanks, Zuri,’ says Jennie as a wave of sadness washes over her that Hannah’s mother died before knowing what happened to her daughter. Hannah had been estranged from her mum since she left, but in the last few weeks before she’d disappeared they’d secretly been in contact. There was talk of meeting up away from White Cross and Hannah hoped it wouldn’t be too long before that happened. Given how Hannah described her dad – an angry man who had zero respect for women – Jennie makes a decision. ‘Zuri, can you get the actions assigned? Martin, come with me; we’re going to notify Paul Jennings that we’ve found his daughter.’
She feels bad when she sees the disappointed look on Zuri’s face. By rights, she should be riding shotgun on this, but having a man in the room feels like the wisest play, even though she hates that it’s necessary. Martin, on the other hand, isn’t disguising his delight, grinning like the cat that got the cream as he gets up.
Jennie glances from Martin to Zuri.
What the hell’s going on between them?
Chapter 6
‘Sorry the car’s such a state,’ says Martin as he manoeuvres his Rav4 out of the station car park and onto the main road.
‘It looks fine to me,’ replies Jennie. And it does – there’s no untidiness that she can see.
Martin shakes his head. ‘The kids are at that really messy age, you know? Me and Kath wouldn’t be without them, of course, but they’re a hell of a lot of work.’
‘I can only imagine.’ Jennie has never wanted kids. She’s never wanted a partner either. Trusting someone enough to let them into your life, to give them the opportunity to hurt you? No, that’s not her thing at all.
Martin indicates left at the roundabout, taking the road out of town towards the Lakemead development. ‘So I found out a bit more about the victim’s dad. He remarried a few years ago and works for Waterside Garden Centre, the big one over near the new shopping village, with his wife, Shelly.’
‘And moved to a different part of town?’ says Jennie.
‘Yeah, he’s moved around a bit over the years. He left the house he’d shared with Hannah about six months after she went missing, then it looks like he lived in a few different flats in the town centre over the next twenty plus years, before moving into the house in Lakemead last year.’
Lakemead is a smart new housing development designed around a couple of large man-made lakes. There’s a yoga studio and an artisan bakery along with a gastro pub, a beauty salon and a variety of different water sports options. House prices on the development are a good ten per cent higher than in White Cross town. ‘Did he have anything on record? Arrests, charges?’
‘He’s stayed clean for a long time,’ says Martin, indicating right and turning into Lakemead. ‘There’s just a couple of drunk and disorderlies on there from back in the day, but nothing after Christmas 1994.’
‘Okay, good work,’ says Jennie, looking out of the window as they go over the bridge that crosses the smaller of the two lakes and get their first glimpse of the development beyond. The houses are painted in pastel colours: baby pink, powder blue, mint green. To Jennie they look more like American stucco properties than the sort of homes you usually see in the Chilterns, but maybe that’s the appeal.
Beside her, Martin lets out a long whistle. ‘From the Chairmaker’s Estate to here? Paul Jennings definitely looks like he’s living his best life.’
Not for much longer, thinks Jennie. She turns to Martin, her tone serious. ‘Show a bit more compassion; we’re about to tell him his daughter’s dead.’
Martin looks contrite. ‘Yeah, course. Sorry, boss.’
They leave the car parked on the street and walk up the driveway. The house is painted baby pink and looks like a three or maybe four bed, with a garage on the side and a porch with matching olive trees standing either side of the door. Jennie reaches the door first. She can’t see a bell, so she raps three times using the chrome knocker.
Paul Jennings opens the door. Wearing a beige cardigan over a tattersall checked shirt and chinos, he’s leaner and greyer than his picture in the old case file. He looks from Jennie to Martin and the colour seems to drain from his face. ‘You’ve found her, haven’t you?’
‘Mr Jennings, I’m Detective Inspector Jennie Whitmore, and this is Detective Sergeant Martin Wright. Can we talk inside?’
Opening the door wider, Paul Jennings steps back to let them enter. His face is ashen, his eyes are watery, and his energy is subdued. He’s nothing like the aggressive, angry man Jennie remembers Hannah talking about.
As he leads them along a tastefully furnished hallway, she wonders if Paul Jennings recognises her. There’d been no flicker of recognition in his gaze, and he looks too upset to be capable of masking his reactions entirely. But then, she’d only ever seen him once before and that was from a distance; Hannah was never keen to hang out at her house if her dad was around.
Paul leads them into a bright living room. He gestures to a homely looking lady in jeans and a navy jumper who is sitting on one of the armchairs. ‘This is my wife, Shelly. Please, take a seat.’
He sits down on the armchair beside Shelly’s, leaving Jennie and Martin no choice but to sit on the small sofa opposite the armchairs. It’s only a two-seater so they’re forced to sit far closer together than they would usually. It’s awkward but she perches on the edge of the seat, her focus on Mr Jennings. ‘Would you like to get yourself some water or a cup of tea—’
‘I don’t need tea,’ he says, curtly. His expression is a mixture of hope and fear; after many years of delivering this kind of news, it’s a look Jennie knows all too well. Paul clasps his knees with his hands, his knuckles quickly turning white. ‘Look, we watch the news. The body found at the old school – it’s Hannah, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I’m afraid so,’ says Jennie. ‘I’m very sorry for your loss.’
‘Oh Jesus.’ Jennings slumps forward, his head in his hands. ‘I can’t … I knew …’
