The Man Who Vanished
Page 1
The Man Who Vanished
A Veronica Pilchard Mystery
Roz Goldie
Austin Macauley Publishers
The Man Who Vanished
About the Author
Dedication
Copyright Information
Acknowledgements
Introduction
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
About the Author
Roz Goldie is a former BBC senior producer and station manager who has worked as an academic, charity director and art gallery owner. Born and raised in Northern Ireland, she is married, lives in a small village and writes full time.
Dedication
To Smartypants
Copyright Information
Copyright © Roz Goldie (2019)
The right of Roz Goldie to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528903462 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528903479 (Kindle E-Book)
ISBN 9781528957465 (ePub E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
To my husband, who has encouraged and supported me at every stage of my fiction writing.
Introduction
A middle-aged woman lay in bed in the bright light of the Intensive Care Unit, in a medically induced coma. Nurses were working with a patient in the adjoining bed as a tall man with a thick brown mop of hair and a purposeful stride approached and silently took a seat beside her bed. When one of the staff recognised him and smiled, he nodded. After three days, all the nursing staff knew DI Jack Summers.
“No real change I’m afraid, Jack,” the taller nurse said. “You can see from the chart.”
The plain-clothes policeman grunted a muted ‘thank you’ and lifted the chart clipped to the end of the metal bedframe. He studied the information, or at least as much of it as he could understand, and replacing the clipboard to its usual resting place, he turned to the woman lying as if in a deep sleep.
“Veronica Pilchard, you have really ripped the ass out of it this time.” His voice was lowered and his furrowed brown showed great anxiety.
The woman stirred, groaning slightly. He looked into her face as she opened her eyes, blinking in bright, clinical space.
“Veronica! Are you going to wake up?” Jack choked on the words with obvious emotion.
A nurse quickly appeared at his side, pushing him out of her path, firmly but politely whispering, “Excuse me.” She pressed a button on the headboard of the bed, summonsing a doctor.
Jack shot to his feet, stepped back and stood to attention.
An elderly man in a white coat came into the ward. “Curtains please, Nurse.” He turned to Jack, “You will have to wait outside. We have some work to do.”
And so, Veronica Pilchard came back from the edge of brain death and was speaking to Jack Summers within a couple of hours.
The events leading up to that seemingly miraculous recovery were known to DI Summers and the police at Donaghdubh Station. Jack Summers was one of the few who had genuine concern and sympathy for Veronica Pilchard. Most of the officers thought she had brought this misfortune upon herself and should never have been undertaking what was police business, and investigating serious crime with her amateur sleuthing.
Veronica’s first coherent words were, “I am very hungry. Can I have something to eat?”
The nurse laughed. “That one’s a fighter!” Turning to Veronica, she grinned, “We will get you as much as you are allowed to eat – promise.”
* * **
Out of intensive care, Veronica had a bed by the window on the fifth floor of the hospital. Beside her bed lay a small pile of cards – as yet unopened. These had been sent by the people now central to Veronica’s life. None arrived from her former social circle, which was predictable enough. Veronica had closed down all contact with the tennis club and the couples she had once befriended as a married woman. These days, her closest friend was Lady Margaret Beightin and her regular acquaintances were the people with whom she worked – as an independent producer, at the BBC Radio Station – and the gay community at the Golden Palace.
Still suffering from acute headache and multiple bruising, but happy to have been given a second meal, she opened the cards carefully. The first thick cream vellum envelope contained a card with a reproduction of a Pre-Raphaelite Painting – the Lady of Shallot – and read, “Dearest VP, if you are reading this, then you have pulled through, thank God. Best Margaret.”
The largest card was from the set at the Golden Palace. It was a massive explosion of pink and silver flowers with tiny satin ribbon bows, and read, “Veronica sweetie, we all love you!” Under this, there were small personal messages from at least a dozen gay men, including her hairdresser, Desmond Charles.
Barry Doyle had sent a card sporting a French Impressionist picture of a woman stooped over gathering in the harvest. His message was, “Veronica, I need my production woman working in the field – so get well soon.” She laughed, knowing Barry would be as sentimental as anyone from the Golden Palace but would reserve any show of that for when they met in person – and far from the hospital. Barry had always hated hospitals, and even more so since his partner had died slowly in such a place, some time ago.
The whole team from the Barry Doyle Show had sent individual cards – giving the false impression that Veronica Pilchard had a very wide range of friends and social contacts.
There was no card from Harry, her now probably about-to-be ex-husband, but he had perhaps not yet heard of her accident, nor was there anything from her only living relative, her sister in England, which is why Jack had nominated himself as de facto next of kin.
Now that she was conscious, well fed and her pain was fairly well under control, Veronica had space to reflect on the so-called accident.
After the space of only two years, Derek Deakin had been released on licence and set about taking revenge on the amateur sleuth, who had created his downfall. Police had gathered evidence that convicted him of crimes he had committed but, by a twist of fate, another foul deed of which he was in fact innocent. This had rankled with him. His hatred for Veronica Pilchard festered over his time in prison – so he happily drove her car over the edge of a steep embankment.
She could remember little other than seeing his demonic face, contorted in a seething grin as her vehicle lurched out of control and nosedived into oblivion.
His car had been caught on security camera, and he was arrested soon after – showing signs of a psychotic breakdown.
Veronica left hospital after another three days, with nothing more to show for the attempted murder than a headache and a scar hidden by the hair brushed slightly over her cheek. She arrived home on a sweltering July afternoon – by taxi, since her car was a write-off – and sat in the shade of the large apple tree in her back garden for some
hours before rising look for food.
Although she would make a full recovery, physically, it took some time before she regained her customary pugnacious confidence. In the intervening weeks, she divided her time between her production work for the Barry Dole show and her friend, Margaret Beightin.
* * *
Chapter One
Veronica Pilchard had not seen much of her estranged husband since the April morning he’d arrived home unexpectedly, and was met in his own hallway by an armed detective accosting him in the mistaken belief that he was an intruder with violent and criminal intent. The fact that Detective Inspector Jack Summers had emerged from upstairs, barely clothed and seemingly having an affair with his wife made Harry Pilchard angry, confused, humiliated and yet, still somehow apprehensive. She had laughed at him and then asked to cook breakfast for them all!
Stunned by a reversal of marital infidelities, Harry Pilchard was indignant – harbouring a lasting and dismal sense of betrayal. He had made a full Ulster fry for the policeman and his wife while he had sat, sulking, drinking only black coffee.
When DI Summers had left, he turned to Veronica, “How could you?”
“I could have asked you that question on New Year’s Eve, but it seemed a rather fatuous question, Harry.” Her voice was cold, as she thought of how he was the one, who had been serially unfaithful. “Anyway, dearest, I don’t think this will turn out to be a grand romance.”
Her amateur sleuthing had got results but had come with serious personal threat – which was why DI Summers had been armed when he confronted the apparent intruder.
* * *
That all seemed a long time ago as another autumn set in. Veronica Pilchard was now completely absorbed in her work with Barry Doyle, for her independent production company making the midday slot into a ratings booster for local BBC radio.
Although she’d been reluctant at first to even consider the possibility of working with him, Barry Doyle had changed since the times when he had poured scorn on her documentaries. Over the years in Dublin in Radio Turf, he’d matured and after the death of his partner, he returned to Belfast quite a different person. In a remarkable turnaround, he had come to admire Veronica’s approach to programme-making. The two were still working on a short-term contract – with high audience targets, exacting conditions and a strictly probationary agreement.
Noel Fitzpatrick had kept his staff job as head of department, turning down the offer to join Veronica’s Authenticity Productions. His family commitments made that option too risky a move. He was, however, an old ally of Veronica’s and likely to benefit considerably if the Barry Doyle Show continued to be as successful as expected.
Studio production was a daily treadmill that Veronica could avoid as a rule – unless there was a live discussion with serious legal implications. In that case, she would be there in person and occasionally with legal support. Today, she had the opportunity to lie in bed as long as she wanted, as her work was done for the next few days, and Barry Doyle was more than happy with the features on which they had collaborated.
Today, however, was the deadline for a decision about whether she and Harry were to sell the marital home in the village of Glenbannock where they’d lived for some years before separating. Harry had taken a number of contracts, the latest being to organise a national youth sporting tournament in England. Since that work was now coming to an end, he was demanding a decision on two crucial issues – their marital status and whether or not their home was to be sold.
Veronica had prevaricated and kept herself sufficiently preoccupied so she could avoid thinking about either of these decisions and the implications it would have for the foreseeable future – in terms of both her home and her marriage, if it could still be called that.
Unable to sustain this state of complete denial, the need to come to some conclusion weighed heavily on her shoulders. It was with this indecision, and growing irritation, that she got out of bed at half past six.
* * *
Veronica’s friend and fellow sleuth, Margaret Beightin, was not around to give her the advice and direction that was usually on hand – alongside the encouragement she sorely needed that morning. Lady Beightin was on a three-week cruise and was not due back for another fortnight. It did not occur to her to contact Jack Summers. The distance from Margaret bothered her more than she would readily admit, since Veronica Pilchard was too proud to concede any sort of dependency.
Downstairs, sitting with strong black coffee and her first cigarette of the day, she considered her options. There was not much hope that she and Harry would get back together again. In all probability, the house would have to be sold. She could rent an apartment in Belfast before house-hunting. That would be convenient for her work.
The thought of getting the house into shape for viewing was depressing – she loathed housework and would have to pack away a lot of her everyday working materials. Suddenly, the easy life of the temporary singleton she’d been enjoying for held no attraction. The prospect of living in permanent solitude was rather daunting for a woman who was turning 50. Her new acquaintances were on the gay scene, introduced to her by Barry Doyle, and always pleasant but not really close friends. She had become isolated from her usual social circle, and quite deliberately so – after the colossal humiliation and embarrassment that came with the public revelation that Harry had been having affairs with a considerable number of women over the years. Since that New Year’s Eve debacle, she had not set foot in the tennis club or contacted their mutual friends.
Biting back tears, Veronica acknowledged for just a moment that she was frightened. Then, she gulped down the last of coffee, stood to attention and headed straight for her workroom.
She started into sorting out the things she needed on a daily basis – remarkably little – once she had piled up her laptop, recorder and contacts book. Much of the remainder was information, which was either out of date or available from other sources. So, she began to declutter her entire office, finishing the job in three hours. It would take some time to shred any potentially confidential reports, but she felt a rush of energy and confidence when she stood back to inspect the heap of extraneous items that had encumbered her for the past few years. She was elated by a sense of freedom. She simply didn’t need most of that stuff!
Quite irrationally, she equated this sense of release with her relationship with Harry. If the house had to be sold then the matter was settled. Veronica decided that before the day was out she would dump the unwanted things from her office and shred anything else, about which she had reservations.
Before that, she would have another coffee, a smoke and look online for city-centre apartments. However, finding apartments in Belfast in September meant competing with a large population of students as the academic year began in colleges and universities.
* * *
Harry Pilchard had succeeded in making the Youth Sports Tournament a great success and had managed to achieve a high media profile. He was now in demand across the whole sector – meaning that he could pick his work and name his price. This did a great deal to enhance his self-esteem. Now that he was about to return to Glenbannock, he realised that Veronica had not occupied his thoughts a great deal, once the sting of indignity at being cuckolded had worn off. In truth, he missed the domesticity and the stability of village life, cooking and the continuity of being in his own home more than he missed his wife. Living in hotels and rented accommodation meant that he had very little equipment for proper cooking. He had only made a big issue of selling the house to annoy Veronica but he firmly intended to stay there – even if he had to buy her out.
Today was the decision deadline he’d imposed on her while still very angry with her infidelity. Now, as he sat at breakfast, he looked over the calculations he had made some months before. He’d made astute investments in the past and now that the market was more buoyant, he could make a tidy profit. That would more than cover half the price of their house – his home. Harry Pilchard
had every intention of staying in Glenbannock.
He had made up his mind to take a few weeks off, settle back home and then return to event management on short contracts. He was a happy and confident man – whether or not he would remain a married one.
* * *
Wild Fern Alley was well known in the University area, having been the first local scheme where residents had managed to get the Council to gate off the Alleyway and then set about planting wild herbs and flowers, making seats and painting back walls, doors and fences. It had gone from being a site for underage prostitution and nightly drug dealing to a place of peace and tranquillity for residents. A key person among that select community was a strong-minded woman who was a theatrical landlady and former actress by the name of Marianne Kelly. A lady of a certain age, Marianne, sported a thick head of luscious auburn hair that swirled around her fine-boned face and straight shoulders. She had the poise of someone who had trained in dancing and spoke with a musical tone of voice.
Bertie Norton knew her and suggested that Veronica might like to begin her newly enforced nomadic life by staying there for a short while.
“She is a star, my dear!” Bertie trilled in obvious admiration. “I can’t tell you how many people I know have stayed with her!” He smiled knowingly. “And here’s her card.”
Veronica was attempting to keep up the appearance of equanimity, fighting back a menacing sense of an unknown future as she sat in the epicentre of the gay social scene, the Golden Palace with Bertie and Barry Doyle. Harry had come home in defiant mood and told her in no uncertain manner that he was not selling the house and the choice was hers.
“Stay with me or leave – that’s your decision. If you are leaving, I will buy out your share of the house.” His voice was cold, aloof and approaching the punitive.