Page 34 of The Love Letter

The constable shook his head. ‘It might have been that another station took the call. You could try Paddington Green or, better still, the public morgue. Even if it wasn’t us who dealt with the incident, your aunt’s body would have certainly been taken there. I’ll write down the address and you should pay them a visit.’

‘Thanks for all your help.’

‘No problem. Hope you find her. Rich was she?’ he grinned.

‘I have absolutely no idea,’ she said curtly. ‘Bye.’

Joanna walked out of the swing door, hailed a passing taxi and directed the driver to the morgue.

The Westminster Public Mortuary was an unassuming brick building next to the coroner’s court on a quiet, tree-lined street. Joanna entered, not quite sure what to expect, and shuddered at Alec’s favourite description of it as the ‘local meat factory’.

‘Can I help you?’ A young woman on the front desk smiled at her cheerily.

What a god-awful depressing job, Joanna thought as she explained her story again.

‘So the constable thought my great-aunt would probably have been brought here.’

‘Sounds likely. Let me have a look for you.’

The young woman took similar details to the constable. She looked up the name, the date and the address. ‘No, I don’t have a single Rose on that day, I’m afraid.’

‘Maybe she was using another name?’ Joanna said, beginning to run out of options.

‘I’ve put in the address you’ve given me and that’s not showing anything up either. Maybe she was brought here a day later, though it’s doubtful.’

‘Could you check anyway?’

The woman did so. ‘No, still nothing.’

Joanna sighed. ‘Then, if she didn’t come here, where would her body have gone?’

The woman shrugged. ‘You could try some of the local funeral homes. If there was family you were unaware of, they might have had her taken away privately. But usually, if there’s been a death and a body is unclaimed, they’ll end up here.’

‘Okay. Thanks very much.’

‘No problem. I hope you find your auntie.’

‘Thanks.’

Joanna caught a bus back to Crouch End and went to her flat to pick up her post. Her fingers trembled when she put the key in the lock, and as she closed the front door behind her, she thought how sad it was that what had once been her refuge and her sanctuary now made her feel the polar opposite.

Leaving swiftly and walking up the hill towards Simon’s flat, Joanna wondered whether the best thing might be simply to move somewhere else. Especially with Matthew gone, she doubted she could ever be comfortable there again.

When she arrived, she saw there was a message on the machine from George Cyrapopolis, Rose’s landlord. Joanna picked up the telephone and dialled his number.

‘Hello?’ She heard a crash of crockery in the background. ‘Hello, Mr Cyrapopolis? It’s Joanna Haslam here. I’m your deceased tenant’s great-niece.’

‘Ah, yes, ’ello.’ George Cyrapopolis had a deep, booming voice with a Greek accent. ‘What is eet you are wanting to know?’

‘I was wondering whether Rose signed a tenancy agreement with you when she first moved into the flat she rented from you.’

‘I . . .’ There was a pause. ‘You’re not the Eenland Revenue, are you?’

‘No, I promise, Mr Cyrapopolis.’

‘Hmmm. Well, you come ’ere to my restaurant and show yourself to me. Then we can talk, okay?’

‘Okay, what is your address?’