Stone Cold Red Hot by Cath Staincliffe Read Free Book Online

dresser resplendent with a collection of hens and chickens in all shapes and sizes. The rear wall was mainly French windows with sheer curtains. In the dining area there were shelving and storage units in wood and glass, holding books and objects of interest, many of these were blue or orange. A side table sported a large vase of lilies, I caught their perfume now that I’d got use to the smell of food, and a six foot Yucca stood sentinel in the corner.
    “You collect chickens?” I remarked.
    “I never meant to,” she swallowed, “one of those things, I had a couple and then all of a sudden rumour flies round that I adore hens and that’s all I get; birthdays, Christmas, the lot. ‘Ooh, there’s a tea caddy with hens on, ooh look, Lisa would love that chicken letter opener.’
    I laughed.
    “Hard to shake once you get that sort of reputation. You wouldn’t believe some of the ghastly specimens I’ve ended up with - these are the cream of the crop.” She rolled her eyes. She had very pale blue eyes, almost turquoise. She was small and neat, dark hair cut in an elfin shape to frame her face. When she smiled she had matching dimples in her cheeks. She wore deep blue chinos and a brushed cotton shirt in a blue and white check. I think she liked blue. Silver earrings and necklace, no rings. Divorced then?
    She stood and cleared her plate and offered me a drink. I asked for a coffee and also if I could use her toilet.
    “End of the hall, on your right.”
    Other people’s bathrooms. Fascinating. Lisa’s had the feel of a beach hut, without the sand on the floor. Blue, pink and white striped shower curtain, white painted floorboards, shells and marine artifacts dotted about. An old wooden trunk to sit on. I peered on the shelves but there were no male toiletries, no Gillette foam or Lynx deodorant. I guessed that Lisa lived alone.
    Over coffee I asked Lisa to tell me about the last time she saw Jennifer.
    “It was that summer, ‘76. I got these out after you rang.” She fetched a photograph album from the shelves. I moved my chair round so we could look at the pictures together. She flicked through the first few pages and I caught glimpses of family scenes, babies and toddlers on rugs, school photos.
    “Here,” she said, “this was my 16th birthday. The photo showed four young women, arms linked across shoulders, standing outside. They all had long hair and wore high boots, long coats and scarves, plenty of glittery make up. The glam rock look.
    “That’s Frances,” she pointed to the one with blonde hair, “Frances Delaney, she didn’t go to school with us but she lived near Jennifer, house at the back of theirs. Jenny,” looking sleek and dark haired, “me, I was a right pudding then.” Her hair was thick and curly and it was true she was a plump teenager. The fourth girl, Caroline, had glasses and long red hair.
    “Christmas that year,” she turned the page. More photos followed, all pretty similar, the girls posing for one celebration or another. Lisa and Jennifer pulling faces in one shot, the four of them posing with arms flung skywards in another. Clothes varying but hair always long, faces made up. There was a photo of them in waitress uniforms, the long tresses pulled back into ponytails and buns. “That’s at the Bounty, we worked there weekends, silver service, it was good money really. And we’d usually enough energy to go out and spend some of it afterwards.”
    “I met Mrs Clerkenwell, she remembers giving you lifts up there.”
    “Oh, yes,” I could hear note of recollection in her voice, “nearly quarter of a century,” she shook her head.
    “Were you and Jennifer close?”
    She looked at me, considering. “Inseparable,” she said at last, a tone to it though, a faint challenge? I couldn’t read it.
    “We were best friends. It was strange that summer. We were both off to university, so excited but there was this,” she fumbled for a word, “sense of something coming to an