by Linda Coles
A beat passed before Alan spoke. He was glad he was so far away and didn’t have to deal with the man in person. He pitied Susan once again. “It’s Detective Alan Davies, sir. I have an update for you.”
“Yes? Right. What is it?” Alan could imagine Marcus rubbing sleep from his eyes and trying to focus himself.
“I have some good news for you, sir. It appears your wife Susan is definitely alive. We haven’t managed to fully locate her at present, though we do know she’s travelled to France. She is alive though, as I said. I thought you’d like to know.”
“Alive? That is good news. Thank you. But in France, you say? When will she be home? I’ll fly straight back.” Alan could hear movement. Maybe Marcus was getting out of bed. It was an image he didn’t want to contemplate for too long.
“Sir, we haven’t actually located her. Not her exact location that is, and since she’s an adult…”
“Yeah, you said already, she can do what she pleases.” Alan didn’t need to say much else. Although he was tempted to throw in that Mr Smith didn’t sound too thrilled about his wife being alive and on the move, it was best to keep his thoughts to himself.
“I wanted to inform you of the development. Maybe she’ll be in touch with you soon.” He doubted it. He was reaching for something else to add to the awkward conversation. Right now, Alan was rooting for Susan to carry on running. “I’ll let you get back to sleep, sir. Perhaps we will talk again tomorrow.”
“Right.”
Marcus hung up, leaving Alan staring at his silent phone. “What a complete arse.”
Chapter Fifty-One
Chrissy and Julie had written a list of the various backpacking motels and cheap hotels around the town. There was no point looking much further than them until they’d canvassed the immediate vicinity, because a woman on foot, with presumably limited funds, wasn’t going to get very far. That was their reasoning and, that’s what they themselves would have done. They’d split the list between them, but by mid-morning, gathered at the café where they’d agreed to meet, both looked and felt deflated. It was obvious neither had had any luck. Chrissy ordered coffee for herself and green tea for Julie. There was no point asking if her sister wanted a muffin, but Chrissy was happy to share her own so bought the bigger size of the ones that were on offer. Just in case. With all the walking they were doing Chrissy wasn’t too concerned about the calories.
Julie slumped down in the chair opposite, resting her chin in her hands, elbows on the table. “My feet are sore,” she whined, and Chrissy couldn’t help but grin. It was a good job they’d bought the cheap sandals in Ashford, otherwise she probably wouldn’t have any skin left on her feet.
“I figured you wouldn’t want a muffin, but you can share mine, or I can easily get you one?”
“I’d love a muffin, actually.”
Chrissy raised her eyebrows and said, “Did I hear you right? You want a muffin?”
“Stop being sarcastic. Yes, I would like a muffin, please.”
Chrissy watched as Julie rubbed her temples; she must’ve been feeling rough. Sliding her own muffin across the table, she headed back to buy a replacement for herself. “You’ll feel better when you’ve eaten that, sugar does that to you. It’s called comfort eating.”
“This is exhausting,” Julie said, breaking a small piece off the top with an elegant finger. Chrissy didn’t think she’d ever seen such beautiful fingernails on anybody else. Certainly not on her own hands. “The real life of a private investigator isn’t glamorous at all, it’s quite the opposite. It’s nothing like Magnum.”
Chrissy bit into her own muffin and watched Julie picking at her own. “Who’s Magnum?” she enquired.
“A sort of old cop show, but without the cops.” Julie raised an eyebrow in question. “I should’ve realised you wouldn’t have watched it; it was a long time ago. Eat your muffin and cheer up.”
The two women sat in silence for a while, coffee and sugar supplying sustenance for the next stage of the day. They’d still got more on the list to visit and Chrissy was hopeful that somebody in Calais had put Susan up for the night. It was just a matter of finding out where that place was. And Chrissy’s college client was adding to her concerns. Aware she may not be giving it the time she should, she made peace with herself by deciding that she’d find a couple of hours later to work on it. Family connection or not, the Susan Smith case was draining her mental resources.
It was close to two o’clock when they had their first spark of luck. Chrissy was in the reception area of a backpackers’ place, the last on her list, and the woman behind the desk glanced at the photograph and said yes, she remembered her, she had been in. Chrissy asked her to repeat herself because she’d spent the morning hearing no after no after no. Had she heard the woman correctly? Susan had in fact been in and stayed there? Finally, another breakthrough. Things were looking up.
“Yes, she stayed just one night and then set off early the following morning. Had breakfast and was gone.”
“Was she travelling alone?”
“Yes. There was something about her that stuck in my mind. I see so many people through here every day, but I noticed her.” The woman seemed to be thinking as she spoke, her words getting fainter in memory as if Susan were dead. “But she seemed so quiet, and had a nasty bruise above her eye. I felt a bit sorry for her.” The woman drifted off again, remembering.
“What time did she leave the next day?” Chrissy asked.
“Not long after breakfast. So 7 am, maybe? I saw her head up to the main road, no doubt to catch a lift like many of the others that stay here do. Obviously, she is long gone by now.”
“Did she give you a name when she checked in? Because I’m guessing she didn’t use her real name.” The woman looked suspicious at the question and Chrissy wondered if she’d pushed it too far. Time for a sob story. “It’s her husband that she’s running from, that’s all. It’s nothing more sinister. But I’m worried about her so any information you can give me, please, I’d appreciate it.” That would explain the bruise. The woman looked thoughtful again, maybe thinking back to the past, maybe her own friend in trouble, or herself. Finally, she took a deep sigh before taking a look at that bookings for that day. Chrissy could only see the top of her salt-and-pepper head as she searched. Chrissy waited until the woman had found what she was looking for without saying another word, not wanting to fill the empty space with idle chit-chat.
“Here it is. She checked in at about six o’clock and gave the name ‘Tabby Child’.”
Chrissy filed the information inside her head. It didn’t mean anything to her – yet. “Thank you so much, you’ve been extremely helpful,” she said, beaming. It was excellent news, and now they had a name. It would make things easier going forward.
Chrissy left and, once outside on the pavement, called Julie to save her wasting any more time. They agreed to meet back at the café. Once they were both together, Chrissy recited the story that Susan Smith had been in but was travelling under a different name.
“Tabby Child?” asked Julie. “Why on earth Tabby Child? What a weird name. I wonder why she chose that –what’s the relevance?”
“I have no idea,” said Chrissy. “But we’re getting closer to finding out.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chrissy and Julie were buoyed by the news. Susan Smith had stayed locally and had changed her name to Tabby Child, though neither woman understood why that particular name or if it mattered even. Maybe it was a reference to a favourite toy she’d had when she was younger, or maybe it had been a bunny rabbit. Tabby sounded like a cat either way.
It wasn’t far to where the receptionist at the backpackers thought Susan would have caught a lift from, where most hitchhikers seemed to start out from once they’d left the accommodation. Many headed on for the bright lights of Paris after leaving Calais and Chrissy hoped that Susan hadn’t done the same. It had been hard enough trying to find a missing woman up to this point, never mind in the m
idst of the hustle and bustle of a capital city. And with only a name to go on. And when someone didn’t want to be found… As they set off together it was Julie that said, “You know, Chrissy, we haven’t told Marcus yet that she is alive, never mind that she has changed her name. We should tell him.”
“I know, you’re right,” Chrissy said, “but something is telling me not to say anything, not yet. I don’t quite know why, but Susan is running away from something and maybe Marcus is that something.”
“I know what you’re saying, and I’ve felt the same thing. Who knows what goes on behind closed doors? And while she is my friend, she is not likely to tell me everything. For instance, I didn’t realise that things were as bad at home as they must have been, because she didn’t mention this,” Julie waved her arms to encompass her surroundings in an exaggerated action, “at all to me.”
“I guess some things are best left unsaid. But you know that room down the bottom of her garden? Well, that’s the kind of place that I see her living in more than the mausoleum of her home. And I think she spent most of her time down there, save for sleeping. She had pretty much everything set up, like a studio flat-cum-reading room-cum-office. So, what was going on behind her closed doors, do you think?”
“I knew she was unhappy and lonely, but I thought they just lived separate lives. Fallen out of love somewhere. But if it had been as simple as that, why would he track her? That just seems extreme, particularly if you’re not that bothered about the woman that you live with any more. I suspect while he is away in Hong Kong, he’s doing his own thing, if you understand my meaning. And why stay together now anyway, either of them?”
“Well, we should tell him at the very least, I suppose. It’s not our place not to and we don’t have to give too much detail, only that she is alive and well and is headed to France. CCTV confirms it. We don’t need to say any more just yet,” Chrissy finished. Then, “I’ll call him towards the end of the day.”
“I agree.” Julie looked relieved it wouldn’t be her breaking the news.
They weren’t far from the service station up ahead where a small gathering of people milled about. It appeared to be a popular place catch a lift. Since they now had Susan’s assumed name and a photograph, and they had basic details of her minor injuries, somebody might remember seeing her.
“I guess we should split up again,” Julie suggested. “It worked last time and we can cover more ground. I’ll start at the left and you start at the right, and we’ll see what we find.”
Chrissy smiled to herself. She suspected Julie was enjoying herself being out in the fresh air. She had not mentioned Richard once since they’d been away and Chrissy wondered about that too. He was a bit of a bore, but she assumed her sister loved him dearly. Otherwise why were they together? Some people stayed together because there was nothing for them to separate for.
But then she could say the same about Susan and Marcus.
Chrissy watched Julie saunter off in the sunshine and hoped that she’d put some sunscreen on, because with her English-rose skin exposed to the French sun, she would likely burn. Chrissy approached the first vehicle, a transit van, and went around to the driver side, pulling out the photo of Susan Smith.
“Hi,” she said, surprising the driver a little. “I’m looking for my friend. I wonder if you might have seen her. She passed through here a couple of days ago, looking for a lift.”
The man gave the photograph a quick glance and said, “I’ve just arrived, love, so no, I haven’t seen anybody yet,” and wound his window back up.
Chrissy moved on to the next vehicle, a family car with children in the back and luggage visible through the rear window. She doubted they’d have seen Susan either; they too looked like they’d just arrived. She tried anyway.
“Just arrived, I’m afraid,” said the woman at the wheel. “Sorry.”
There seemed little point asking car drivers. It was the regular travellers up and down from France to the UK that she needed to speak to, and that meant lorry drivers and maybe transit-van drivers. She scratched their agreed plan and wandered over to where a handful of lorries were parked. It looked like Julie had had the same idea so Chrissy started at the opposite end of the row and crossed her fingers. Looking up at the first cab, she found it was empty, but she spotted a man wandering towards her and figured he was probably its driver. He was a typical trucker stereotype: work boots, baggy jeans, T-shirt, beer belly. As he got closer, she called out to him and he raised his eyes away from the newspaper he’d been scanning while he walked. She explained who she was looking for and why, and asked him to look at the picture, but immediately she knew it was a waste of time.
“Not seen her, I’m afraid. I’m up and down this road a fair bit, but this is the first time this week for me.” Chrissy’s heart dropped again. There must be an easier way.
“Is there any way of making this easier?” she asked him. “Only I can’t stand here for the next two weeks asking lorry drivers if they’ve seen my friend. Is there some way of contacting your trucking buddies, I don’t know, like maybe an app? Perhaps you have such a thing for truckers, your own social app?”
“Well, I can get on the radio and ask about, that would be the quickest thing. There may be an app, but I don’t know about it.” At least he was trying to help her out and Chrissy was grateful.
“As in CB radio?” Chrissy asked, not trying to hide the incredulousness from her words. “Do you still use that? I remember my grandad having a CB radio.”
“Cheeky. But yes, we certainly do. Truckers, cabbies and a few others still use CB because it’s free and no need for a licence any more. It’s quieter these days, but there’s still a fair few of us lot on it.”
“Would you mind asking then, please, because it’s really important that we find her.”
“I’ll give it a go, hang on.”
She watched his bulk climb up into the cab and pull himself into his driver’s seat with the door still open. He picked up the radio handset and said that he was looking for a blonde lady who had been picked up from this location. He asked if anyone had seen her in the last couple of days, if anyone had given her a lift.
Chrissy shouted up to him while they waited for a response, “She’s got a bruise around her eye, maybe had a nosebleed, and travelling most likely on her own. The bruise, it could be important. Does anyone remember picking up a blonde lady with a bruised face?” Chrissy asked eagerly, then listened while the trucker relayed the message. They waited, listening to empty airwaves. It seemed nobody was going to respond. Chrissy felt even more deflated. She let her shoulders hang loose and was ready to walk away.
“Let me give you my mobile,” she said, “just in case someone does come back to you later when we’ve gone. That way you can give me a call.” She pulled out a slip of paper with her number on it, which would do in the absence of her card. She handed it up to him and was just about to say goodbye when the radio crackled.
A friendly-sounding male had picked up someone fitting that description, a young woman, a couple of days ago, and had dropped her just outside Paris, at another service station where she was going to get another lift. Sorry he couldn’t be any more help, that was as far as he took her.
Excited now, Chrissy shouted up urgently, “Did she give a name? Can you ask, did she give her name at all?” The driver pressed the button to speak and again relayed the message over the airwaves. Both waited patiently for the man to respond. “Yes, Tabby,” they heard him say. He remembered so because his daughter’s cat was called Tabby.
Chapter Fifty-Three
The following morning, bright and early, Alan was ready and waiting at the hangar, flask of decent coffee in his hand. He was greeted by the same grey-haired, older gentleman that had showed him in last time. Chuckling lightly, the man pointed to Alan’s flask and said, “Come prepared for a longer stay, have you?” Alan’s own brew would be a good deal better than the instant, chemical-created stuff the older man had generously provide
d.
“Something like that,” Alan chided.
“Then I’ll leave you to it,” he added, opening the padlock for the detective, before shuffling off back to his post.
Once again, Alan was faced with the mountain of belongings, many bags intact and others badly damaged, items of clothing spilling out haphazardly. He wondered if they’d ever find their way back to their rightful owners, and if those owners even cared. The walking wounded would claim on their insurance and receive money for their replacement; the dead, not so bothered. He placed his flask down on an upturned box and, looking back at the haphazard pile, wondered if he should have perhaps brought sandwiches too. It was going to take some time. He got straight to work sorting through the handbags, looking for Tabitha Child’s. He wasn’t expecting to find it, not if Susan was already using the woman’s passport, and since he’d already gone through most of them when he’d been looking for Susan’s handbag, it didn’t take him long to figure out it was as he expected: missing.
But both their overnight cases? That was a different story.
It was almost two hours later when he came across Tabitha’s case. He was a little surprised that a woman travelling Business Premier hadn’t carried a designer case, but here it was, a generic trolley bag that looked much like any other. Not surprisingly, the combination entry was locked and he didn’t have the code. He pulled out his multipurpose tool and, finding the small knife, slit the cloth edge of the zip all the way around. Prising both sides of the bag open, he laid the case and its contents flat to take a closer look. There were two changes of clothes, a black cocktail-style dress, a pair of black stilettos, toiletries and a small mesh bag fastened with a drawstring. He slipped the toggle on the thin cord open and peered inside. It looked hairy.
“Huh?” he said to himself as he put his hand in and pulled out a wig. Holding it up with one hand, he straightened it slightly to look at the style more closely. A short, dark bob with a fringe at the front that reminded him of one of the dolls his sister had had when she’d been much younger. The doll had been called Lulu and was supposedly French, though that had all been part of the child’s mind, not the manufacturer’s intention. Alan smiled at the memory of the doll at the dinner table and wondered why a woman would be carrying a wig for a short trip away. There was little else in the case and so he put it to one side while he carried on searching for Susan Smith’s bag. When he came across the case, he was surprised to find it was identical to Tabitha Child’s.