I was in the middle of bagging up the left-over jumble when Christopher walked in. ‘Like a hand, Mother?’ he asked. He wore a black baseball cap, black tee-shirt and blue jeans. He smiled shyly at me. ‘Is there any news of Vanessa?’
‘A phone-call,’ I said. ‘She's getting over the shock now and raring to come home.’
‘That's good,’ he said, smiling. ‘I've been praying for her.’
With Christopher's help, what was left on our tables was soon cleared into black plastic bags and put in the black van outside. At one point I heard Verna and Christopher whispering together but since I heard the word ‘shirts' I think it was merely a discussion of the spoils of jumble.
I was almost ready to go when Verna said, ‘You will stay for supper, won't you? It's Indian, all prepared, it won't take long to put together. Christopher cooks very well.’
‘I'd love to,’ I said, never having been known to refuse a meal.
The Rottweiler puppy came bounding towards us as the front door was opened. Round and fat and happy. Thankfully it didn't bark, just gyrated in ecstatic shaking movements.
‘She's called Janey,’ said Christopher proudly as he bent down to pat her.
‘Do take her out for a walk, Christopher,’ said Verna. ‘Kate and I would love a sherry, wouldn't we?’
I nodded. As I followed Verna from the hall I noticed how threadbare the carpets were. And although the staircase rose majestically with a well-polished banister, the stair carpet was bald in patches.
‘Do make yourself comfortable,’ said Verna, showing me into a sitting-room that was remarkable for its air of defeat. An old TV, black and white, I guessed, faced towards three high-backed chairs with varying floral covers faded and torn in places. One wall was covered by shelves of books, all serious tomes judging by the covers. The curtains at the bay window were of a nondescript beige pattern with matching pelmet that was beginning to come away from the wall. Only the brown and beige carpet in the middle of the sanded and sealed floorboards seemed new or newish.
‘I'll get the sherry,’ said Verna. ‘It's in the kitchen.’ She returned moments later with a tray and two glasses.
‘Christopher doesn't drink,’ she explained as she placed the tray next to a flowerless African violet on the coffee table.
I noticed she drank her sherry quickly and for a while she chatted about her work with the disabled. We were on to our second sherry when she talked of other things.
‘Poor Christopher has had a bad time lately. What with his skin condition and having a crush on that district nurse. She was sympathetic, you see, gave him time, listened to him. That's why we've allowed him to have the puppy. My husband doesn't like dogs but even he has a soft spot for Janey.’
‘What about when Christopher goes back to college, who will look after the dog?’
Verna sighed. ‘I really don't think he will go back. He's talking about accountancy or hotel management. Even my husband doesn't seem to be too disappointed. He thinks the Church of England is on its last legs. Mind you, he's been very depressed lately. I think Christopher has worried him.’
‘In what way?’
‘Oh, his lack of friends; well, our lack of friends really. The only people I seem to meet are elderly ladies. Younger women seem to think that because I'm the vicar's wife I'm hardly a person at all. I have to be so proper. I'd love to wear red mini-skirts and six-inch heels but it isn't done, is it?’
‘I do understand,’ I said. ‘I lived with a police inspector for a while. Friends suddenly become careful about what they say. There are so many things they just don't mention any more: car tax, MOTs, TV licence, income tax, speeding, drinking, even finding a pound coin in the street. Somehow they become cagey and defensive. After a while I found I could only be at ease with other police girlfriends and wives.’
Verna smiled. ‘At least you didn't have to pretend to be religious.’ Christopher returned then and soon we could hear sounds of cooking and the smell of curry began to drift towards us.
The meal was so good I could see that a vicar's life was not for Christopher. He also seemed shy but normal, with a dry sense of humour. Mr Collicot senior was, it seems, at a church meeting and was out on some mission most evenings. The dessert was spotted dick with custard but I could only manage half and excused myself from the table while Christopher was making coffee.
Upstairs I found the bathroom easily enough and then, feeling as nervous as a novice burglar, I gave a quick glance behind each door. Christopher's bedroom held no obvious dark secrets. No Hitler posters, no gun books, no martial arts equipment. There was a pair of weights but I didn't think that constituted a murderous nature. I was just closing the door when Janey came happily sniffing round my ankles. Then she started to bark and I made a hasty retreat downstairs with her close on my heels.
‘You will come again, won't you, Kate? I have enjoyed having you,’ said Verna.
Christopher walked with me along the drive to the front gate. ‘Please,’ he said earnestly, ‘if you have any news about Vanessa let me know and if you see her give her this.’ He handed me a thick envelope. As I hesitated he said, ‘Please. I know I'm ugly and younger than she is but I'd look after her. It's not so ridiculous, is it? I can't help it. I think she is the most wonderful person in the world. You will give her the letter, won't you?’
‘I'll try my very best,’ I said. ‘But I don't know when the police will allow me to see her. Maybe not until he's caught.’
‘Have the police got any clues?’ he asked. ‘Have you?’
‘They are working very hard,’ I said. ‘But a mere investigator like me doesn't get any police help.’
He nodded. ‘I understand.’
As I opened the heavy metal front gate I asked, ‘That black van of your mother's, do you ever drive it?’
‘Yes, sometimes.’
‘Have you ever parked in Percival Road watching Vanessa's house?’
He stared at me for a moment in a mixture of embarrassment and fear. ‘Just the once,’ he said. ‘That's the truth. I just wanted to make sure she was all right. Maybe just catch a glimpse of her.’
‘God's honour?’
‘God's honour,’ he repeated, and I believed him.
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning I'd just staggered from a far too hot bath feeling a bit light-headed when Hubert phoned.
‘You're back,’ he said.
‘I was only helping at the fête. I had supper with the vicar's wife.’
‘Coming in today?’
‘Should be in later on this morning.’
‘Good. I've got some news.’
‘So have I.’
Even as I spoke Hubert had put down the phone. What happened to pleasantries? I wondered.
When I did arrive at Humberstones the receptionist met me on the stairs. ‘He's not in, dear. He's been called out again. Twice in the night and just a few minutes ago. He's getting a bit worried about space.’
‘Thanks for letting me know,’ I said as I continued up the stairs. ‘Come and have a coffee with us,’ Daphne Gittens called after me. ‘We don't see much of you.’
It seemed churlish to refuse so I followed her down to the back room behind the main office.
At a trestle table, arranging flowers in a vase, sat a thin spotty girl with half her head shaved.
‘This is Yvonne,’ explained Daphne. ‘She's come to give us a hand with the laying out. Very ambitious is Yvonne – wants to own her own business in a few years.’
Yvonne smiled crookedly and said, ‘Hi.’
‘What sort of business?’ I asked.
She looked at me pityingly and I realised it had been a stupid question.
‘Funeral directing, of course, and embalming.’
‘Of course.’ I muttered awkwardly.
‘Have you heard the news?’ she asked.
‘No. What news?’
‘Lots of excitement here last night. Police everywhere. Sirens, the lot. It was bett
er than the tele—’
‘Don't romanticise, Yvonne,’ interrupted Daphne. ‘It's very serious. There's a girl's life in danger and he seems to have got away.’
‘What's happened?’ I asked, trying to stay calm. ‘What's been going on?’
‘Ooh! You've gone all pale,’ said Yvonne in obvious delight.
‘Sit down, Kate. I'll get you a cup of coffee,’ said Daphne.
‘No, please don't worry,’ I said. ‘Just tell me.’
Daphne gave a warning look to Yvonne to be quiet and the girl's lips pursed in an effort to keep them stilled.
‘Last night, dear,’ she began as she sat down, ‘last night that poor girl was taken from a house in Percival Road. Kidnapped she was. And the police were supposed to be guarding her. Mind you, he was clever. He set up a diversion. A fire in the house opposite. While all that was going on, he got in and took her.’
‘But I thought she was at a secret hideout with a woman police constable,’ I said, the shock giving way to anger. ‘How the hell could they let this happen?’
‘It seems she wanted to come home and the police thought a constable keeping an eye on the house from outside would be enough.’
‘Didn't anyone see anything? Surely she can't have just disappeared?’
‘No dear. She's gone. Not a trace at the moment, but of course the police are out in force combing the area.’
‘And the man?’
‘No one saw him, at least I don't think so. Invisible, that's what he was – the invisible man.’
‘Exciting, in'it?’ giggled Yvonne, unable to keep quiet any longer. ‘Not for my client,’ I said. ‘Not for her.’
‘You've heard,’ said Hubert when he saw me later staring out of my office window.
‘I've heard,’ I said glumly, not looking up. Somehow I felt if I stared long enough at the High Street it would yield up clues like the litter and dust caught by the wind that sailed forwards and then stopped, settled and then moved forwards again …
‘What are you going to do?’
‘I don't know, Hubert. I wish I did. What the hell are the police up to? I know she wanted to go home but surely they could have persuaded her.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Hubert slowly, ‘they were trying to lure him there. Vanessa must have agreed to it, after all. I don't suppose they dragged her home kicking and screaming.’
I looked Hubert straight in the eye, ‘Sometimes, Hubert, you make me sick. You can be so rational and calm and – right. It can be very irritating, you know.’
Hubert shrugged and smiled in unconcealed delight. ‘You won't find her sitting on your backside,’ was his only reply.
I was quite surprised at his tone and I must have shown it because Hubert smiled again, but this time sheepishly, sat down, and said, ‘Come on, Kate, it's not like you to get downhearted. You've usually got a scheme or two lurking up your sleeve, and anyway you've only got two choices, haven't you?’
‘Which are?’
He tutted at that, and raised an eyebrow like a junior school headmaster whose star reader had just got a word wrong. ‘Go and look for her,’ he said, ‘or leave it to the police.’
‘I don't want to admit defeat. I want to be the one to find her. But she could be anywhere. He could have killed her by now.’ ‘Unlikely,’ muttered Hubert. ‘His mission was to get her. Now he's got her he might relax and not be so vigilant.’
‘The invisible man,’ I mumbled, thinking aloud. ‘Just like Yvonne said.’
Hubert obviously didn't hear because he said nothing but my defeatism began to lift. Vanessa probably knew him before. Maybe I'd met him at some time. It was only that I hadn't recognised him because either he was so ordinary or because I was just too blind to see.
‘Hubert,’ I said triumphantly as I stood up and picked up my coat, ‘the brain's back in gear. The backside is ready for take-off. I'm going to rescue my client.’
He scowled. ‘You're changeable,’ he said. ‘Now don't get overconfident and start taking risks. If you left it to the police it wouldn't do you any harm—’
‘Oh yes it would,’ I interrupted. ‘My professional pride would be damaged.’
‘Be more than that if you get blasted with a shotgun,’ he said dourly. ‘And anyway what profession are you talking about?’
‘Every day I'm gaining experience, Hubert. Learning a bit more about human nature, a bit more about detecting skills. One day perhaps the police will seek help from me.’
‘And I might inherit a shoe factory,’ said Hubert.
Just as I was leaving he patted me on the shoulder. ‘Talking of shoes. Don't forget that when actors want really to get to know a character they get the walk right first. Must mean something.’
‘It must mean something,’ I mumbled quietly to myself. And then I knew. ‘Hubert, you are a genius!’ I enthused, giving him a peck on the cheek and rushing out before he had time to ask me what I was up to.
I drove to Percival Road, stopped a few doors down from number thirty-six and sat in the car wondering why I had been so optimistic, especially when I saw the fire damage to the house opposite. I even smelt, or thought I did, the acrid smell of burnt furniture.
A uniformed police constable now stood guard outside Vanessa's house and inside I could see signs of activity, the movement of curtains, quick glimpses of masculine heads. It seemed strange to me that May Brigstock's death had caused hardly a ripple in the annals of crime. Paul Oakby's demise more so, but that had been real drama with TV cameras, extensive house-to-house enquiries and then – the lull. Now Vanessa had been kidnapped police activity seemed at an all-time high. Was this because there was still hope of saving her or because the police were embarrassed that they still hadn't caught the man responsible?
I must have sat a little too long because the policeman began to watch me intently. I knew that soon he'd come over and ask me what I was doing. So I pre-empted him, walked over to look him in the eye and said confidently, ‘DS Roade wanted to have a word with me, Officer. Would you tell him I'm here – Kate Kinsella.’
‘I'm not a messenger boy,’ he said curtly. ‘I'll let you in, but you'll have to be frisked first.’
I gave him a quick careful look. He was good-looking, young, quite presentable. ‘I'm all yours,’ I said, lifting my arms. ‘You can take your time.’
The frisking he gave me must have been the quickest ever. My weak little joke had obviously scared him.
‘Right. You can go in now.’
‘Thank you so much, Officer. Do I get the same on the way out?’
His answering look said, not if I can help it, and he turned back to continue his street vigil.
Vanessa's house had obviously become some sort of operations HQ. I was surprised to see that Scene of Crime officers were still busy with rubber gloves on and large rolls of Sellotape at the ready. DS Roade and Inspector Hook stood around trying to look busy but instead managed to look a little lost.
‘I'm sorry to interrupt but I wondered if there was any news yet?’
‘Does it look like it?’ answered Hook angrily, but with no surprise at seeing me. ‘Would we be hanging around here if there was?’ I ignored his bad temper to ask how exactly HE got in.
‘There was no sign of a forced entry. We think he may have had a key. It seems he took her out by the back door and along the alleyway behind the garden shed.’
‘What about suspects?’ I asked.
‘What about suspects?’
‘Well, I imagine you have several.’
‘You imagine that, do you?’
‘Yes, I thought maybe—’
‘You did, did you?’ he interrupted.
I felt myself become uncomfortable. I wasn't flavour of the month, that was certain and I wasn't quite sure how to tackle his aggressiveness. I glanced at Roade, trying to look helpless and mystified at the same time, but just as he opened his mouth one of the Scene of Crime officers came out of a cranny to say, ‘We've finished now. We'll be off.’
I felt relieved his irritability wasn't just confined to me. He was sharing it around.
‘Roade. Take Miss Kinsella for a walk somewhere. Get yourself something to eat and then continue with house-to-house enquiries. And for Christ's sake come up with something.’
‘Come on,’ muttered Roade, taking my arm. ‘Let's go while we've got the chance.’
Roade continued holding my arm as we walked along Percival Road.
‘Where to?’ I asked.
‘Any bloody where that'll serve me a fry-up. I'm starving.’
The Happy Sausage Café off the High Street provided just what Roade needed: two eggs, bacon, one obscenely large sausage, fried tomatoes, fried bread and strong dark tea. I ordered toast and tea and watched, with a tinge of jealousy, as Roade ate hungrily.
As an eating place the Happy Sausage offered clean Formica tables, unlimited tomato and brown sauce, and it was empty save for a tramp, two members of staff and a man in a leather jacket who looked as if he'd just parked his lorry.
‘This is good. Really good,’ said Roade as he bit into the crunchy fried bread and a little of the grease ran down his chin to be wiped away with the back of his hand.
‘Have you got any leads?’ I asked as he finished his last mouthful.
‘I wish we had. Hook's been doing all the worrying, while O'Conner sits at the station doing sod all and giving Hook a hard time. And that means I get all the flak.’
‘Tissot isn't a suspect?’
‘At home again with the wife and kids. No reason to snatch her, was there? She was all his anyway.’
‘And the ex-husband?’
‘Out of the country selling computers.’
‘And Sean?’
‘In hospital having his appendix out. You can't get a more castiron alibi than that, can you?’
I sighed. ‘What about the door-to-door enquiries?’
‘No joy there either.’
‘So what happens next? We can't just let her die. She's got to be somewhere.’
‘We?’ asked Roade.
‘The police of course. He has killed twice. I'm just hoping he hasn't … well, hurt her—’
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