by Vera Morris
‘Did he take anything with him?’
‘He has a knapsack, he took that, art paper, pencils, some money, a pullover, spare socks, food he’d taken from the kitchen, and a pocket knife that belonged to Adam. Quiet a fierce thing. He was wearing his favourite jacket, a cagoule I bought him for a Christmas. Adam didn’t like it as it had a hood.’
This kid was no fool. ‘That’s a list of a boy who knows what he’s doing.’
She unselfconsciously wiped away her tears with a handkerchief. ‘I though it showed he’d carefully planned his escape; it showed maturity.’
‘There was no thought he’d been abducted?’
‘No, certainly not. The police were sure he’d come home when his food and money ran out and he was cold and hungry. They only began to take his disappearance seriously when this didn’t happen and there were no sightings of him.’
Anything could have happened to him: taken by a complete stranger; he was a beautiful lad and there were more than enough perverts who, if they saw him looking lonely or lost, wouldn’t turn up the chance to abuse him. And afterwards? Bodies lie undiscovered for years and sometimes are never found. Could he have made his way to Ipswich and then to London? Twenty odd miles from Aldeburgh to Ipswich and then another seventy-five to London. He wouldn’t be able to walk that far. Could he have hitched a lift? Made a life for himself on the streets of London and still be alive? Frank didn’t think this was likely. Or could he have become despondent, felt life was too difficult, and taken his own life? Then his body would have been discovered, unless he’d jumped into a deep river or lake, somehow weighing his body with stones. Two years. Something should have turned up by now. Could he have been abducted and then sold on? Possibly abroad?
He turned to Carol. ‘Would you show me David’s room? I’d like some time alone, if you don’t mind.’
She stared at him, frowning, then nodded.
He followed her up the wide staircase to the minstrels’ gallery. Her legs were slim, the high heels emphasising her slender ankles. There was more than one reason he shouldn’t take the case.
Chapter 2
Laurel ran down the staircase of Dorothy’s house, now her home; the smell of coffee met her. Time for a break, thank goodness. Something to distract her from depressing thoughts. She hoped they wouldn’t agree to taking on the case of the missing boy. Why hadn’t she spoken out? Why hadn’t she expressed her fears? Was she afraid of looking weak? After the discovery of the murders of young girls by Philip Nicholson at Blackfriars School last September, she didn’t want the agony of finding another dead child. On the other hand, if they found him alive, and returned him to his parents, that would be wonderful. She squared her shoulders. Get real, theirs was a new business, they couldn’t afford to be picky.
She pushed open the kitchen door. Dorothy, frowning, was plonking cups and saucers on the table. She wasn’t the only one in a bad mood.
‘Smells good.’
Dorothy snorted, took a percolator from the stove and poured coffee, some into cups and some on the pine table. ‘Bloody hell.’
‘Something wrong, Dorothy?’
Dorothy sat down on a chair, her back ram-rod straight. She pushed back her grey hair from her forehead ‘Sorry, Laurel, this postal strike has driven me mad.’
‘It’s over now. You won’t need to drive to Ipswich with the post.’
‘What we’d have done without the private mail service I don’t know. Well! Seven weeks, and still they’ll only take first-class mail – I’d shoot the lot of them.’
Laurel sipped her coffee. ‘Then we’d never get our postal service back.’
Dorothy’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’ve been a grump, sorry. It was the last thing we needed just as we were starting up the agency.’
‘Despite the strike, we’ve done well. We’re breaking even.’
Dorothy smiled. ‘I’ve enjoyed working with everyone, being part of the team and listening to you, Frank and Stuart talk about the cases we’ve had. Much more exciting than being a school secretary. I know Frank is satisfied, but are you? You’ve seemed a bit down lately. Is it the missing boy case?’
‘It is, but I’ve given myself a stiff talking to. Just a bit close to everything that happened at Blackfriars School.’
Dorothy stood up and smoothed her blue jumper down over a navy tweed skirt. ‘I thought as much. It’s still raw, but we can’t afford to give in to morbid thoughts, although every time I go to Emily’s grave I shed tears. Philip Nicholson got what he deserved. Thank goodness he went to trial; I couldn’t have stomached it if he’d had a cushy time in some mental hospital.’
Dorothy’s twin sister, Emily, had been strangled by Nicholson, one in a series of horrific murders by the former headmaster of Blackfriars School.
‘Laurel, I’m going to ask you a favour.’
‘Go ahead; I’ll help if I can.’
Dorothy leant across the table. ‘Do you know Nancy Wintle? She lives in Aldeburgh, lived there all her life.’
‘No, I don’t think so, but I’ve heard you mention her. She’s a widow, isn’t she?’
‘She is; married James Wintle, nice man and a good doctor. I’m very fond of Nancy, she’s older than me, must be seventy, but there’s no side to her, not like some of the Aldeburgh folk.’
‘What’s the problem? Can’t you help her? Hasn’t she any children?’
‘Yes, a son, he’s a doctor in Carlisle; she doesn’t see him very often. She’s confided in me to some extent, but she wants to talk to you or Frank. She didn’t want Stuart, being as he’s local. She’d prefer a woman.’
‘And I’m the nearest thing.’
Dorothy laughed, her usual good humour restored. ‘You may be built like a blonde Amazon, but there’s no doubt you’re a woman.’
‘What did she tell you?’
‘Not very much. It’s to do with her brother, she’s worried about him.’
She frowned. ‘This doesn’t sound our kind of case; we can’t interfere in family relationships.’
Dorothy sighed. ‘I know, but Nancy seems … it’s out of character … she’s frightened. I’m not sure what she’s frightened of, but it’s not like her. I’d take it as a special favour to me if you’d talk to her.’
Laurel reached across the table and took Dorothy’s hand. ‘Of course I will. I could see her this afternoon, I’ve nothing on.’
‘Thank you, Laurel. I’ll phone her now.’ She bustled out of the room.
It’s better to have something to do and it was a sunny day. She could do some shopping in Aldeburgh; perhaps the fisherman might have an early lobster.
‘That’s fine, she’ll expect you at two-thirty.’
‘What can you tell me about her brother? Is he younger or older than Nancy? Hold on, I’ll get a notebook.’ This could be a waste of time professionally, but every new case must be taken seriously, and she’d do anything for Dorothy.
She settled at the kitchen table, biro poised as Dorothy lit a cigarette and took a deep breath of Players Navy Cut.
‘He’s her younger brother, by about four or five years; Samuel Harrop, a retired Harley Street surgeon. He left Aldeburgh when he went to university in London and never returned, except to visit Nancy and her husband; they all got on well together. When he retired he and his wife, Clara, came back to Aldeburgh to live. As well as being close to Nancy, it was the music which attracted him: Sam loves classical music and he’s especially fond of Benjamin Britten; can’t stand his music myself, not a bit tuneful. Nancy was overjoyed, she’s always been so proud of Sam, and being an older sister she’s always treated him like a little boy, much to his wife’s displeasure. Can’t say I care for Clara. She’s made quite a name for herself since they moved here. Big noise in the church, the WI, and any other society she thinks is good enough for her.’
Laurel looked up from her notebook and stared at Dorothy. ‘Dorothy Piff, you aren’t normally bitchy.’
Dorothy sniggered and took another puff o
f her cigarette. ‘Don’t care. I’ve seen the way she treats Nancy.’
‘I won’t be going into this case with an unbiased mind if you keep on like this.’
Dorothy shrugged. ‘Don’t you trust my judgement?’
‘More than mine. Although both of us were fooled by Nicholson.’
‘As was everyone else, apart from Frank.’
‘Don’t keep reminding him.’
She put her coffee cup on the draining board. ‘Do you want anything from Aldeburgh?’
Dorothy raised the forefinger of her right hand. ‘Could you take the post in? Would you believe it? The post office will be closed for several days for decimalisation training! Good Lord, it’s been nearly a month since the changeover – they should have grasped it by now. I need to do two more invoices, won’t take me long.’ She retreated to the dining room which served as a communal office and boardroom.
Laurel looked out of the kitchen window. Two blue tits were examining a nest box, some dwarf daffodils, heads folded, were showing streaks of yellow, and scudding clouds cast racing shadows over the lawn. A good day for a little light detective work.
Laurel parked near Aldeburgh’s Moot Hall, opposite the fishermen’s huts. She was glad she’d put on a warm coat, it was dry and sunny, but there was a nippy breeze. High waves were rushing in, falling on the beach, sending pebbles dancing, and seagulls, either perched on the nearest hut, or wheeling overhead, were raucously crying for food. She looked at her watch: just gone two, plenty of time to check on the day’s catch, though by this time most of the good stuff would have been sold.
She climbed the concrete steps to the wooden hut; the display on trays outside looked meagre: two rockfish, some undersized Dover Soles and a few mackerel. The gelatinous smell of dead fish was stronger inside. ‘Afternoon, Mr Fryer. Is that all you’ve got?’
‘What had you in mind?’ Mr Fryer was a lean, middle-aged man, skipper of his own boat and the first choice for fish by the residents of Aldeburgh.
‘What have you got hidden in your fridge?’
He grinned. ‘Can’t fool a detective, can I?’
After some friendly banter, she bought several medium-sized Dover soles,
He handed her the change. ‘Better check it, Miss Bowman. I’m still struggling with them 5ps and 10ps. Give me the old sixpences and shillings any day.’
Laurel asked him about Nancy.
‘Nancy’s all right, despite her funny hair-do. Well liked is Nancy.’
‘What about her brother, Sam Harrop and his wife. Do they ever come in here?’
Mr Fryer nodded as he ripped off the skin from a Dover sole and stepped outside to chuck it to the screeching seagulls. ‘He’s a quiet chap, doesn’t say much when they come to buy fish, but she’s a snob, treats me like dirt, and barters over lobsters as though she’s dealing with a bloody Egyptian carpet seller. Acts as though she’s doing me a favour buying the bloody lobsters, she pokes at ’em and says they don’t look fresh to her.’
She put the fish in the boot of her car. So Dorothy wasn’t the only one who didn’t like Clara Harrop. As she walked past The Jubilee Hall the music of a string quartet poured into the street. Soon be time for the music festival, then the town would be throbbing.
Nancy’s cottage was one of the terraced houses on the right side of the High Street as you went towards the main car park. It was part of a group of five houses placed between a restaurant and a greengrocer’s shop. All the cottages doors were brightly painted, pots of bulbs and herbs on the pavement, and window boxes containing pansies, crocuses and daffodils. Laurel’s nose twitched; the aroma of fresh bread and savoury Cornish pasties drifted towards her from the nearby Smith’s Bakery. She hadn’t felt hungry at lunch time and only had a couple of biscuits and a coffee, now she was ravenous. A pasty would go down well after the interview.
Nancy’s cottage had a blue, lapboard door with a brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin and a matching brass name plate: Sea Salt. Blue hyacinths, fully in bloom, filled the window box and the pots round the door. All neat, tidy and ship-shape. No wonder she and Dorothy got on. She knocked.
Nancy had difficulty in prising the door open. ‘Give it a shove, would you? Let me move back a bit.’
Laurel put her shoulder against the door and leaned on it. She nearly fell into the front room.
‘Well done, Miss Bowman. Dorothy said you were strong. Wish I was.’
Nancy Wintle was like a flamboyant sparrow, dressed in brightly coloured tartan trews and a white polo-necked sweater, her hair a mass of short pink curls showing glimpses of a matching pink scalp. ‘Thank you for seeing me. Do come in.’
The front room was small, crammed with antique furniture: two Georgian armchairs close to a two-bar electric fire, a sideboard with silver-framed photos, and a table with four chairs, all mahogany and of good quality. In contrast a large, white television sat glowering in a corner.
She saw her interest. ‘It’s a colour television,’ Nancy boasted, ‘Got it for the World Cup in Mexico last year.’
She suppressed a smile as an image of Nancy sitting in front of it, gyrating a rattle, sprang to mind. She picked her way through the crowded room.
Nancy pointed to one of the armchairs. ‘Please take a seat.’
The electric fire was belting out heat from both bars. ‘Would you mind if I took my coat off?’
‘Ah, an outdoor girl. Of course, remiss of me. I do feel the cold, I’m afraid. Not too much flesh on me nowadays.’ She took Laurel’s coat and danced nimbly between the furniture and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. ‘Would you like some tea?’
Laurel sat down and angled her legs away from the fire’s dry heat. ‘No, thanks. Shall we get down to business? Dorothy says you’re worried about your brother. I’m not sure we’ll be able to help, but everything you say will be in confidence although, if we do take this further, then all members of Anglian Detective Agency will share the information. Are you sure you want to tell me about your worries?’
Nancy hopped to the chair opposite Laurel, hitched up her trews and sat down; she leant forward, her brown eyes gleaming like well-polished pebbles. ‘Yes, now I’ve met you I’m quite sure I want to tell you and ask you to investigate. Dorothy said you were a trustworthy woman and I like your business-like attitude. I know you won’t think I’m a batty old woman.’
She wasn’t so sure.
‘Dorothy’s told you about my sister-in-law, Clara?’
She nodded, but didn’t say anything, wanting to hear what Nancy would say.
Nancy took a deep breath as though preparing for a dive into deep water. ‘This is difficult to say … I think Clara is going to murder my brother.’
Chapter 3
Frank lifted his gaze from Carol Pemberton’s ankles to flashes of nyloned thighs; the slit in her pencil skirt opening and closing as she climbed the stairs. He didn’t like the effect she was having on him. Did she realise how attractive she was? In his experience, most desirable women were well aware of their charms.
At the top of the stairs she turned left and hesitated before a door. ‘I always hope when I open this, David will be sitting by the window, paper on an easel, utterly engrossed in drawing some scene from memory. Then he’ll turn round and smile at me.’ She opened it. ‘Every time I hope, and every time the room is empty, waiting for him to come back.’ She opened the door.
The woman was torturing herself, but how beautifully and eloquently she expressed her grief. Too beautifully? Too elegantly?
She stood in the doorway, moving her head from left to right, as though searching for him. But the large room was empty. She waved him in. ‘Do you want me to show you where he keeps his things?’ she asked hopefully.
He smiled at her and shook his head. ‘I’ll treat everything with respect and leave it neat and tidy. I may be some time. Is that all right?’
Frown lines appeared between her eyebrows. ‘What do you hope to find?’
‘I don’t know
. I may find nothing new, but it’ll give me a chance to absorb something of David’s personality. It’s surprising how, when you see and touch someone’s clothes and possessions, you seem to absorb something from them, and that person becomes clearer to you.’
Her eyes widened. ‘Are you psychic? I wanted to consult a medium but Adam wouldn’t let me.’
Thank God for that. ‘No, not at all. Sorry if I gave that impression.’ Did she look disappointed?
‘I’ll leave you. Shall I send up some tea or coffee?’
Would she never leave? Did he want her to? If it was another bedroom, in another place, he’d want her to stay. ‘No, thank you.’ He shut the door behind her, sighed with a mixture of guilt and relief, and leant against the door. He needed to find out about her relationship with her son, and that went for the boy’s father as well. He must ask other people about the family dynamics. What about talking to Ann Fenner, the housekeeper? What relationship, if any, did she have with David? Did coping with the boy’s difficulties lead to friction between David and his mother? The boy and his father? Between the parents? Could David’s behaviour, his tantrums, have driven one, or both, over the edge? Perhaps David hadn’t run away from home – perhaps he never left the house. That was one area that hadn’t been explored by either the police or the detective agency. Did David really hate the school? There were several areas opening up for exploration.
He turned and looked at the room. Any teenager would be in heaven to have this room for their own, although some might find it too large, lacking cosiness; it might make some children feel insecure.
The decoration was sophisticated for a child. The white woodwork and subtly shaded wallpaper reflected an adult taste – his mother’s? He’d expect a thirteen-year-old boy’s room to be a reflection of his personality, full of his interests: football posters, pop groups’ photographs, models of cars or sailing boats.
He remembered his own teenage bedroom. The contents and state used to drive his mother mad. His interest in biology meant any interesting artefacts he found on walks were displayed on shelves: rabbit skulls, bird’s feathers, even owl’s pellets, along with bits of moss, leaves and wild flowers in jam jars. His prize possession, a Dansette record player, stood on top of a chest of drawers, with records of Johnny Ray and Fats Domino beside it. On the back of the door he’d stuck photos of women he’d fancied, cut out of his mother’s film magazines: Audrey Hepburn, Catherine Deneuve, Gina Lollobrigida. He’d preferred the wilder sexual allure of foreign film stars to blander Hollywood beauties, although he’d fancied Maureen O’Hara, but he’d gone off red-headed women after Nicholson’s obsession with them.