The Man Who Vanished

by Roz Goldie

  * * *

  Wild Fern Alley could be accessed from the back of houses along three streets. Detached houses on Montague Avenue ran at right angles to those on College Road and Crusaders’ Lane. Veronica was surprised to discover that she already knew a number of local residents. Desmond Charles, her highly esteemed hairdresser, lived in Crusaders’ Lane, as did Bertie Norton. She was about to discover that Detective Inspector Jack Summers had now taken up temporary residence in College Road in a large family house adjacent to a block of apartments, in which her favourite audio engineer, Andrew Simpson, lived.

  She had been sitting by her window, looking into the Alley, admiring her handiwork – now draped on lampposts in the Alley – when she saw Jack Summers appear from a courtyard with a watering can, intent on reviving some wilted herbs.

  Without thinking, she opened the window and shouted out, “Hiya, Jack!”

  “The bold Veronica Pilchard!” He waved and smiled. “Are we now neighbours?”

  “Only temporarily, Jack.” She suddenly felt rather stupid. They’d had a fling, and she really should have let it go at that.

  “Me too. It’s a long story. I could tell you. Fancy a drink?” He was charming and seemed sincere – whatever ulterior motives he may have been harbouring. “Not sleuthing again, I hope?” His tone was roguish.

  “Me? No. I’m working. I’ve moved out of Glenbannock and staying her for a short time.”

  “Then I am safe to ask you out!” He teased.

  “Thanks a lot!” Veronica was pleased to be asked.

  “Have you eaten?”

  “No. I was going out anyway.”

  “Then why don’t we go together! I’ll pick you up in 20 minutes.”

  And so, Veronica and Jack Summers met up again. Due to the conditions of his house insurance Jack’s father had to have someone living in his home while he spent the summer in Italy. However, his usual house-sitter had mysteriously disappeared and so the dutiful son was now keeping the familial fort safe.

  * * *

  As they strolled happily towards the city centre, they looked like long-term friends or partners, at ease with each other. They reached the Italian restaurant within a few minutes and were seated by the window on arrival. As usual, Veronica was very focused on eating and took up the menu without further conversation.

  “I’m starving. What do you fancy on the menu?” She was making it clear that she prioritised eating over social niceties.

  “Sea food and then the pasta special!” Jack beamed. “This is a great place and I eat here a lot. You won’t be disappointed.”

  They ordered food as soon as the waiter arrived – which was promptly.

  “And to drink sir?” The waiter was jovially formal, clearly knowing Jack.

  “Cosa consiglia?” Jack asked for his suggestion.

  “Verdicchio would be perfect.”

  Jack nodded with a smile, and the waiter jotted down the choice and left immediately.

  “I didn’t know you spoke Italian. I am impressed Jack!” Veronica was somewhat taken aback, having thought of Jack as a slightly up-market plod.

  “I speak a bit. My father always took us to Italy for holidays and a few phrases don’t go amiss.”

  Ignoring this reminder of the fact that she was a poor judge of people, Veronica opened up another line of conversation. “Who is it that usually keeps house when your father is away?” Veronica had been instantly curious and was taking the first opportunity to ask without appearing overly inquisitive.

  “An Italian researcher who lives with students during the academic year. He gets a rent-free billet for the summer. Has done for the past six years. My father trusts him so it’s odd that he didn’t show up as planned. He was only supposed to be away for a couple of days and that was a week ago.” Jack was not immediately assuming something suspicious. “Anyway, it happens to suit me as I have sold my place – it’s far too big – and I’m house hunting or rather looking for anywhere smaller and cheaper to run.” He did not say that he had hoped for a rapprochement with his ex-wife for some years and finally admitted that he was now completely, if not permanently, single.

  “What’s the researcher’s name?”

  “Nicola Tebaldi. He’s from near Verona and is a post-doctoral fellow in the School of Law.” Jack looked at her guardedly. “I don’t have his age, weight, height, blood group or hair colour.” He teased.

  “I didn’t ask!” Veronica snapped.

  The waiter arrived with a bottle of white wine, showing it to Jack for approval. He nodded his assent and the wine was duly opened and poured.

  The two raised their glasses and made an unspoken toast before drinking.

  Changing tack, Jack began his own investigation. “Why are you staying with Marianne?”

  “Harry gave me a choice – stay with him in his stinking temper or move. He’s buying out my share of the house.”

  Jack guffawed. “I shouldn’t laugh but I can’t get the picture of Harry out of my head – standing in his own hallway with me threatening to shoot him!”

  “I don’t think he can get that picture out of his head either!” Her voice rang with less than light-hearted humour. “He was determined to stay in Glenbannock and to get rid of me – I have been thinking about that, but I have no idea why he had to be so vindictive. Harry isn’t really like that.”

  “And you think you know what your partner is really like?” Jack cleared his throat, but said nothing more. Veronica was a lucky sleuth and great fun, but she was such a lousy judge of character.

  She drew a swift breath through her teeth, hissing as she did so, “I shall ignore that Jack.”

  The food arrived, and Veronica immediately set to eating.

  Conversation stopped as they munched their way through a large plate of seafood in a light vinaigrette.

  “You were right Jack. I was not disappointed!” Veronica’s mood had lightened considerably with that delicious first course, but she still could not resist showing off her own minimal Italian. “Molto bene!”

  “So, you are no less competitive then?” Jack teased.

  She put her hands up in a gesture of pacification if not submission. “Sorry, could not pass up the chance.”

  He laughed and poured another glass of wine for them both.

  “Actually, I have been thinking about following up on Nicola. You see he is very fond of my father and he is usually punctual to a fault. I have been working on a difficult case and I just let it go. Mind you I do think there must be a good reason for his going AWOL.”

  As the pasta had been set in front of them, they let the subject lie and set about finishing the rest of their meal.

  * * *

  Despite the fact that the Northern Ireland peace process had been rumbling on for the many years since the Belfast Agreement, there were always contentious matters that drove the Unionist and Nationalist politicians and people into separate and bitterly opposed camps. Pro-union Orange Order marches were in every part of the land, and were held by the thousand, passing off without rancour. However, there were always a few of those, who were acrimoniously opposed by Nationalist residents and their representatives. There were also Nationalist and Republican proposals for a museum of the conflict, which angered Unionists as much as the welter of newly enacted equality and human rights legislation that underpinned the peace agreement. In recent years, one of the most virulent disputes arose around the flying of the Union Flag. The Union Jack, as it is called locally, has a long history of controversy in Northern Ireland as far back as the late 1940s and again in 1953 with the Queen’s coronation, when Nationalist Councils refused to display British flags and emblems. This led the Stormont Government to enact law banning the symbolic expression of any form of Irish Nationalism. Even the 1987 repeal left things ambiguous, as it did not settle debates on the symbols of sovereignty, the Union Flag and the Irish Tricolour. The peace agreement did no better for the simple reason that no compromise could be found despite the Byzan
tine machinations of civil servants and negotiators. Summer 2000 saw a partial solution when it was agreed to end the habit of flying the union jack every day of the year on government buildings. A new set of agreed days – designated days like the Queen’s birthday – would be set aside for flying the British Flag.

  To anyone outside Northern Ireland, the debate about Irish and or British flags appeared to be childish and a petulant, and vindictive performance of staged political opposition. Still, inside Northern Ireland, the debate raged on, as the political landscape changed and Nationalist and Republicans took their democratic place in government and local councils. The chamber in Belfast Council changed political colours from Unionist Orange to Nationalist Green. Where Unionists had once held total control, Nationalists and Republican were close to taking the reins of power.

  Veronica had watched this with interest and also frustration as the years went by. She had a rough idea of what had led to the dispute, but she had not felt the slightest need to examine the issue in forensic detail – until Eliza Taunter got under her skin, reviving in her an avid, if not spiteful, competitiveness.

  She laid aside her knitting needles and took to the internet in search of some detail – finding to her amazement and dismay, that there were a vast number of sites dedicated to the subject. She determined to mine these for accurate reports on these events. Before embarking on a very long night of research, she looked up the profile and publications that Eliza Taunter had uploaded to the stratosphere of social media.

  “Jesus! This calls for a stiff drink.” Veronica was so horrified by the language and obscurity of the material that she saved a couple of files and closed down the computer. She decided against the strong drink and went out in the evening glow, walking towards the river and parklands. Her head was swimming with the incomprehensible terminology, unintelligible references and the huge number of footnotes.

  She walked briskly, running her hands through her hair at the back of her neck, as if the action would disentangle her brain cells. She breathed deeply, taking in the soft air, and shrugged her shoulders several times. Reaching the embankment, Veronica remembered walking there, hand-in-hand with Harry in the early days of their romance. Now the trees and shrubs had grown considerably and filled most of the green space between the pavement and the water. The Lagan itself had been dredged a number of times since then so that it was no longer the stinking morass at low tide. Here, the sky was wide, open and generous. She was already missing the rural skies of Glenbannock. The gestation of her divorce had been over two years, and she pondered on whether she was actually missing Harry, deciding that the very question answered itself.

  “Veronica!” a voice called out from behind her.

  She swung round to see Desmond, waving and smiling. “Desmond. How nice to see you. Are you taking your constitutional?”

  “Yes, I always take a walk at this time unless I have something better on offer,” he laughed. “And is this your normal haunt?”

  “No, I’m not much of a walker. I just needed to clear my head – I’ve been trying to read some stuff that Eliza Taunter wrote. It’s done my head in, I can tell you!”

  “Ah, the professor of fuck-all-ogy!” Desmond spat the words out in obvious disgust. “Veronica you really should know better.”

  “What do you mean? Have you some gossip? Oh, please do share!” She grinned broadly, relieved that there was a possibility that the odious Eliza was actually a fraud and not a high-brow scholar.

  “Well,” Desmond drawled, lengthening the word for theatrical purposes. “She puts herself about as if she is a world-famous academic but she’s a real bitch and I’ve heard she stole a lot of her material!”

  “You know somebody she has really pissed off! Tell all Desmond, pleeeease!” Veronica felt a spiteful pleasure and righteous indignation as well as a genuine curiosity, and would milk every detail from her hairdresser.

  “My new junior, Sandy. He’s one of her students and was doing well until she failed him on his assignments. She told him he should stick to trichology – that’s hairdressing – and he told her she was the queen of trick-ology. The cow reported him and now he’s up on a disciplinary!”

  “That’s a bit steep. Is the lad any good as a student?”

  “He’s a straight A student – though he’s not straight, of course,” Desmond tittered. “He was doing fine until he took her module. The problem with Sandy is that he’s clever and very independent, so he disagreed with her in tutorial and she exploded!”

  “In this day and age, with the amount students pay, I’d think he could appeal that. Anyway, what about this idea that she steals other people’s work? Is there any evidence of that?” Veronica had an unwholesome interest.

  “There were rumours at the McClintock Institute – where she was before – but nothing solid. That was until Sandy met a guy from McClintock.”

  “You’re not just being protective of your protégé, Desmond?”

  “Oh, no my dear. Sandy’s friend had the bad luck to have her as a supervisor and she ripped off a lot of his fieldwork – but she didn’t really understand the finer points and seriously misinterpreted it.” Desmond was standing bolt upright, shoulders straight and gesturing with his hands, semaphore-like, in the manner of an old-fashioned opera singer. “At least that’s what Nicola told Sandy.”

  “Nicola? Would that be Nicola Tebaldi by any chance?”

  “How could you possibly know that?” Desmond was flabbergasted.

  “Just a coincidence.” Veronica was thinking about the missing tenant and the possibility that Desmond’s protégé might have some information. “Tell me Desmond, is Sandy working at your place tomorrow?”

  “Yes, he should be in after lunch. Are you onto another of your mysteries Veronica?” He was cautiously apprehensive, recalling the scar on her head that he had skilfully disguised with a special haircut.

  “No, it’s just that a friend of mine was expecting Nicola to house-sit for his father for the rest of the month, but he hasn’t shown up for a week.” She would have to tell Jack Summers but first, she would talk to Sandy. “I’ll call in tomorrow afternoon – might even take up some of your time if you’re not too busy!” She tried to sound less agitated than her instinct dictated.

  “I’ll shift another client if needs be – I always have time for you. As long as you don’t repeat the do-it-yourself hair dye!” Desmond laughed as he recollected the hijab-clad Veronica appearing for emergency treatment, tearfully admitting to her disastrous attempts at colouring her hair.

  “Thank you.” Veronica was still unable to see the funny side of that escapade. “Well, I must get back to my computer – and thanks it will be less daunting to look at the trick-ologist’s work now.”

  They parted ways and Veronica retraced her steps back from the broad reaches of the embankment through the narrow streets of the Holy Land up Damascus Street towards the larger houses and Marianne’s establishment. Night was falling and the first arrivals of the new semester’s intake of students were beginning a round of noisy drunken parties. She walked purposefully past the open-air celebrations, noisy music and Irish tricolours fluttering out windows, thinking of this was a blatant disregard for people who lived locally – and no better than the sea of union flags on Bogtown Road.

  As she closed the large front doors behind her, Veronica felt safer. The atmosphere changed as it grew dark and the territory was taken over by young people who marked their ground with noise, symbols and an underlying belligerence.

  “Ah, you have seen some of our new residents,” Marianne said. “They are not as bad as they seem. And there are not so many now. Though that’s because there is a better market with young professionals who can’t afford to buy!” Her tone did not hide her contempt for the landlords.

  Veronica accepted the invitation to coffee in the kitchen, knowing she had a long night ahead of research and could use the caffeine buzz.

  * * *

  It was cold in the basement
. Nicola had a light jacket and there was only one dirty blanket on the mattress. He was not certain how he had got there but felt sure he knew where he was – in Eliza Taunter’s basement with no more than the light from a small filthy window that looked onto a red brick wall. His phone and watch were gone. His only way of judging time was by the amount of light outside. He reckoned it was 9:00 or so as darkness was falling.

  The faint noises outside could have come from any number of activities but he guessed that it was the sound of students celebrating before the onset of the new academic year in their now-traditional way.

  Nicola was more confused than frightened. He understood that he had been abducted but did not know why he was now imprisoned.

  There was neither sound nor heat from the house above. Reluctantly, he pulled the blanket over himself and waited patiently.

  * * *

  Before returning to her computer, Veronica made a note of her conversation with Desmond in her usual untidy scrawl, adding arrows to the names Jack and Eliza Taunter. She put her notebook to one side and returned to the internet and reports of the flag’s dispute.

  She quickly got a picture of the political developments leading up to the current quarrel. After the Belfast Agreement, the Belfast Council Chamber no longer witnessed the fistfights of the 1970s and 1980s. The balance of power went from a Unionist Domination to Nationalist and Republican holding sway, and the colour went from orange to green, with a realisation that working relationships had to be built and sustained – but not always in the public eye, where once, the city had been ruled by those loyal to the Crown, times had changed.

  In 2005, the Council was embroiled in a heated debate over funding the St Patrick’s Day Carnival because the event was seen by Unionists – and some Nationalists – as a tricolour day, and a show of republican domination of public space in the city centre. At that time, the Council flew the Union Jack every day of the year. For the next seven years, Republicans had challenged the status quo and pushed for flying the Irish tricolour on the City Hall. Voting in late 2012 and the public consultation that followed led to a change. The flag would be flown on the 18 days only.