The Family Remains(44)

We approach the front door of the house up a pathway littered with rubbish and overgrown with grass and moss. A dog barks and a man comes to the door. He is dressed in black and grey exercise clothing. The dog is large but seems calm, for which I am relieved.

‘Good afternoon, my name is Detective Inspector Samuel Owusu; this is Detective Sergeant Donal Muir. We’re from the special crime unit at Charing Cross, investigating a historical murder, and we have reason to believe that this property might have played some part in events leading to the death of the victim. Are you the owner, Mr—?’

‘Mr Wolfensberger. Oliver. And yes, this is my house.’

He has an accent. It sounds slightly African to me. I assume him to be South African as he is white.

‘Do you want to come in?’ he says.

I see immediately that Oliver Wolfensberger knows nothing about anything but is keen to find out more. A person who lets you so easily into their home has either nothing to hide, or everything to hide. I suspect strongly that in Oliver Wolfensberger’s case it is the former.

Inside, the house looks very different to the house in the music video for Birdie’s pop group. There are no dead animal heads attached to the walls. No shiny golden chandeliers, no patterned carpet running up the central staircase, and no red velvet thrones. It is stripped bare, the air thick with dust and mites that spangle in the sunshine. Silk wallpaper hangs in shreds from the walls; broken floorboards creak underfoot.

‘It’s been virtually derelict for over twenty years. We just got the keys a couple of weeks ago and are about to start a huge renovation. I’m meeting the architect here any minute, in fact. But yes, this is what it has looked like for the past twenty-five years. Kind of sad, isn’t it?’

Oliver Wolfensberger leads us into the kitchen, the only room with furniture: a battered table and two long benches. We sit and he smiles at us.

‘So,’ he says, his hand upon the crown of his dog’s head. ‘I’m agog. What is it you need to know exactly?’

‘We are investigating the possible murder of a young woman called Bridget Dunlop-Evers, around twenty-five years ago. Her remains were brought up on the beach further along the Thames a week ago, but she had been dead for much longer. Her family don’t know anything about her disappearance; they were estranged at the time she went missing. But they did know that she had been invited to stay with a new friend who had a very big house. Miss Dunlop-Evers was a pop musician, and it seems her band had recorded a music video here, in this house, a couple of years before she went missing. See.’

I turn my phone towards Mr Wolfensberger and press play on the video I have lined up on YouTube.

He bristles with excitement. ‘Oh my goodness. Yes. That is my house. Yes! Oh my word!’

‘Do you remember this song?’

‘No. No, I can’t say that I do. But my wife might. Kate. She works in the music industry. She’s very knowledgeable. I can’t wait to show her. She’ll be so excited!’ He points at my phone. ‘Which one is it?’

I pause it as Birdie comes back into shot. ‘This is Bridget. Playing the violin.’

‘Wow. That’s amazing! But now …?’

‘Yes. Sadly now we know she is dead. And we are looking into the possibility that this might be the house she told her family she was moving into. And we wondered if you had any insight into the history of this house. For example, from whom did you buy it?’

‘It was a young woman. A very young woman. Only twenty-five. Her parents had left it to her in a trust when she was a baby and they – Oh my goodness, yes. They died. Here. In the house. And she was found upstairs all alone. A tiny baby.’

I see Oliver Wolfensberger shiver slightly.

‘The saddest story,’ he went on. ‘She was adopted and only found out about this house on her twenty-fifth birthday. It was on the market for quite some time because it was in such a bad way. And possibly because of its associations. You understand?’

I nod because I am very much beginning to understand. ‘What do you know of the death of her parents?’

‘Not much. I think they committed suicide. A pact? Awful. Just awful. And I know some people might feel like that was some kind of a curse on a house. But I don’t believe in any of that. I have a very positive mindset, you see. I have come here to overwrite that bad history. Overwrite it all. But I do still think about it. The sadness of it. That sweet baby girl, left all alone. Someone wrote an article about it, you know? A long investigative piece. I didn’t read it because I didn’t want it to stain my consciousness, but I believe it was in the Guardian, a few years ago. We weren’t living in the UK at that time so I don’t know anything more than that, but I’m sure you could find it.’

‘Guardian’, I write in my notebook.

‘Thank you,’ I say. ‘And the name of the young woman that sold you this house? Would you be able to tell me that?’

‘Yes. Of course. Her name was Libby Jones.’

‘Libby Jones’, I write in my notebook.

‘Do you have any contact details for her?’

‘Sadly, no, I don’t. She didn’t live in London, though, I don’t think. Maybe just outside somewhere?’

‘Outside London’, I write in my notebook.

‘Would you mind if I had a look?’ I ask. ‘At the house? Just for my own’ – I tap the side of my head – ‘my own sense of place?’