by Roz Goldie
He thought of his grandparents. Old habits die hard and Nicola, who had been raised as a chapel going Catholic, resorted to song. He cleared his tight throat and began to sing the Panis Angelicus.
* * *
Having finished with her messages, Veronica went into Marianne’s garden for some of the still-fresh morning air, as yet almost unpolluted by petrol fumes. She was sitting quietly, enjoying the peaceful start to her day when she thought she heard a voice, faintly singing and then weeping. It seemed to be coming from the house or garden next door.
“Hello? Are you in trouble?” She called out towards the adjacent garden.
Getting no reply, she called out again, as she made her way to the connecting fence.
“Hello?”
She heard a tapping noise, as if on a window, but all the curtains were pulled in Eliza Taunter’s house. The tapping continued, and she moved her gaze down to the ground and realised there was someone gesturing wildly from behind a dirty basement window.
“Oh, dear God!” Veronica was shocked and horrified. Without stopping to think of the consequences she stepped on the garden chair and leapt over the fence. She landed awkwardly, cursing and hoping she had not twisted her ankle as badly as it felt.
Shaken, she got to her feet and went over to the well of the garden and the basement window. “Hello. Are you in trouble?”
“Dio Mio! Thank you!” The man spoke in a croaky voice with an Italian accent.
“Are you Nicola Tebaldi?”
“Yes. Can you help me get out please?”
“Yes, I will get someone. I’ll ring immediately.” At that she flipped open the phone and called Detective Inspector Summers.
At 7:00 in the morning, Jack Summers was just about to get into the shower when his phone rang. Reluctantly, he decided to answer the call.
“Hello Jack. I’ve found Nicola Tebaldi!” Veronica was breathless with excitement and apprehension. “Can you help? He’s locked into Eliza Taunter’s basement!”
“What?” He sounded irritated, as if he did not believe her. “What do you mean? Have you found him?”
“I was in the garden and thought I heard someone singing and weeping. When I went to look, I saw him – the place is empty. Eliza is away at some conference, but Nicola is in the basement. Can you get in there and let him out?”
Jack was cautious, as it was not normal procedure to break into a person’s house, but then it was not normal to have someone imprisoned in the basement. “It was sure to happen, with you about, Veronica Pilchard!” He sounded both amused and determined to help the prisoner effect escape.
Jack arrived, unshaven and hastily dressed, within a few minutes, bearing his set of strictly unofficial keys – for use only in circumstances as dire as this. He had to take the same route as Veronica. His approach was steady and sure-footed, and he leapt over the fence with manly athleticism – in stark contrast to Veronica’s clumsy arrival.
“Show me!” His voice was authoritative, and she complied without a thought.
“Here!” Veronica was relieved to have an accomplice. “Can you open the back door?”
“Yes, I think so – but you look the other way! This is not official practice, as you well know!”
Jack Summers was not about to wait for a signed search warrant and deftly played the lock. “I’ll take it from here Veronica.”
“Fine, just get him out!” She was so relieved to have backup that she was not going to argue.
A weeping and immensely grateful Nicola Tebaldi emerged in the morning light, blinking as he stumbled from the house.
“Let’s get him into Marianne’s.” Jack felt relieved that Nicola was able to walk and was not apparently hurt. Addressing the young man, he said, “You can explain once we get you settled and some hydration – you look as if you need it!”
“Thank you.” Nicola followed meekly and in sort of stupor.
Having finished a small drink of water, a large coffee and croissant, Nicola enjoyed the luxury of using a proper toilet. As he returned to the sunroom, the urge for a cigarette overwhelmed him.
“After all you have done to help me, I am ashamed to ask, but could I have a cigarette, please?”
“Yes, of course!” Veronica thrust the packet and a lighter across the table. “I am sure you could use a smoke after all this time.”
As he exhaled he began his story.
* * *
Nicola Tebaldi had been in Wild Fern Alley watering the large raised bed of herbs that George Summers added to the communal display, just as the light was fading. He noticed a man coming out of the back entrance to No. 7 Montague Road – home of the odious Professor Taunter – and struggling with a large bundle.
“Can I help you, sir?” Nicola retained the courtesy that had been drummed into him as a young boy staying with his grandparents in a farm near Verona.
Richards did not recognise Nicola and grunted a reply, “Uh, no I have it.”
“Ah, sir, you are the husband of Professor Taunter. We met at the McClintock Institute.”
This recognition had transformed Richards’ demeanour. He stood up and, smiling, put his hand out. “Yes, of course. Forgive me. I am somewhat preoccupied.”
Nicola approached and shook his hand. “Are you coming to live in Belfast?” His question was genuine.
“Ah, no. I am just on a flying visit. Eliza is in the Middle East for a month, so I popped in to collect a couple of things.”
Richards looked at his watch. “Have you time for a drink? I apologise for being off-hand earlier.”
“Thank you.” Nicola had never been in the professor’s home and was curious.
The last thing he remembered was sitting in an armchair sipping a glass of rather good red wine.
Nicola Tebaldi had known the man who had tricked him into drinking whatever concoction it was that had instantly drugged him, but he did not know the man’s name. The police checked this immediately and got the information. They had no evidence as to whether Richards was still in Belfast, as his known address was in Manchester – and in days of peace in Northern Ireland, air travellers no longer had to fill in details of the purpose of their visit and their destination for the security forces.
Leo Richards was at that moment waiting for his flight from Manchester to the south of France, unaware that his victim had been rescued.
* * *
Making out his official report, DI Summers was careful to be as vague as possible, but acknowledged that Veronica Pilchard was a stranger neither to him nor to the police. The coincidence that Nicola Tebaldi had been house-sitting for his own father, and that he’d disappeared without trace for a week, made the break-in defensible – but only on the understanding that there was a credible possibility that the victim might be injured, even seriously in danger.
Detective Chief Inspector Bill Adams was his superior, at Jack’s station in Donaghdubh, and was not a fan of Veronica Pilchard. However, since the incident had happened in South Belfast, Summers’ report was not likely to come across his desk. Jack desperately hoped he could safely assume that Veronica had not yet stepped on the toes of police investigators in Belfast and that he could plausibly describe her as a known and trusted source of information to him and the police service in the past. That was why, when she’d contacted him on this occasion, he had acted immediately in response. He was ambivalent about his method of gaining entry to Professor Taunter’s home, implying that this action was more a matter of accident and luck than the use of illegal skeleton keys.
Given that, he had to explain his absence from his first shift he rang the desk sergeant and gave an elusive account of events at Montague Road, claiming that he had to show up at the local station and give them a full report on what he knew about the kidnap and the young male victim.
Jack Summers knew enough about the good professor to realise she would almost certainly make a formal complaint and that this would generate some upheaval and a lot of paperwork. He also knew that she would b
e grilled by local detectives about having a captive incarcerated in her basement. On balance, he reckoned, she would have the sense to take the easier option of dropping her complaint and hope that Nicola’s statement exonerated her in this abduction. As kidnapping is one of the most serious criminal offences, and could have resulted in Tebaldi’s death, her pretentious remonstrations would only make matters worse. Jack’s brief acquaintanceship with Eliza had not been pleasant.
* * *
Flying to Toulouse was, Richards imagined, the end of his time in Manchester. He would return to Belfast, in disguise and with another passport, to conclude his business, hand over the paintings and settle the sizeable financial agreement. Content in the knowledge that he would spend the rest of his days in a pretty villa on the French coast, he savoured these last few moments in Old Blighty.
As his flight was called, Leo stood up, glancing around, suddenly alarmed to see his picture on the television. Horrified to read the subtitle ‘wanted for kidnap’, he walked hurriedly towards the boarding area. His stomach was knotted in fear, and he was sweating because he was yet to dye his hair and Botox his wrinkled face. Someone might well recognise him!
He would keep his sunglasses on until he had entered the jet and taken his allotted seat. There was no point in turning back, as his plans had been carefully laid. As long as he could get out of Toulouse Airport, he was safe.
“Mummy, I saw that man on the TV!” A small girl tugged at her mother’s coat.
“Jenny, stop it. We have to get on the plane now!” The woman looked around but had missed Richards, who had dodged into the men’s toilet to avoid the possibility of any confrontation.
He dawdled behind most of the other passengers, hoping that he could merge imperceptibly among them and prayed that he was not sitting near that brat.
For the entire journey, he feigned sleep. On arrival, he was one of the last passengers to disembark and walked slowly, away from the luggage reclaim. Fortunately, he had shipped what little he was taking to France and had only carried hand luggage on the trip.
The child was, mercifully, nowhere to be seen. Leo Richards left the airport, hailed a taxi and began his life as Peter Saunders, retired school teacher and British ex-pat.
* * *
Veronica Pilchard had initiated the dramatic release of the young Italian Nicola Tebaldi but in the process, she had twisted her ankle badly. By the time she had made her full statement to the local police and left the station, her ankle had swollen up and was growing more painful by the minute. Reluctantly, she went to the nearest Accident and Emergency Department, hoping that in the middle of the morning she would not have to wait too long.
X-rayed, bandaged and advised to rest the injury, she took a taxi back to Montague Road – feeling the need of strong coffee and a cigarette. On the short journey, which she would otherwise have cheerfully walked, she rang the studio producer to say that she’d be available by phone but was going home to put an ice pack on her ankle.
Relieved to have escaped more serious damage, she got out of the taxi, paid the driver and hobbled up the path to Marianne’s door.
The landlady was already acquainted with the details of the early-morning rescue and greeted her with a smile and an invitation into the kitchen.
“Come in and tell me all. You can smoke, and I’ll get the coffee on – strong just as you like it!”
“Thanks Marianne. I feel a bit wobbly.”
“Not surprisingly! Did you break anything?”
“No just a bad sprain. It should be fine if I keep my foot up for a day or so.”
By the end of the day, the all the residents knew about the dramatic rescue and Veronica Pilchard was co-opted onto the group – which she found very flattering.
* * *
Margaret Beightin returned to Glenbannock to find her gardener had mowed the lawns, dead-headed her prized roses and gathered the ripened fruit – some of which was carefully packaged under the shade of her front door. He’d left a note explaining that the soft fruits wouldn’t keep but that he’d be sure to bring her some of his hen’s eggs in exchange.
Molly Biggins had been in, done the cleaning and brought fresh milk and bread. She also left a note thanking Margaret for the postcards and promising to be back two days later. Molly was new to her employ but had sound references and had lived up to them in the few weeks before Margaret had embarked on her cruise.
This domestic tranquillity and a controlled sense of order was a welcome change from the noise and turbulence of her journey from the Adriatic coast. After two days of attempting to traverse Europe by train, she had booked a flight for Belfast and home. She would not have admitted to anyone that she was well past the stage where travelling alone was a pleasure – and particularly with the addition of newly arrived migrants from North Africa in an already crowded Western Europe. She had never felt completely at ease with the numerous continental beggars that circled railway stations, and certainly not as they became increasingly aggressive during the 1990s. She was apprehensive nowadays, as a lone woman with a slight but detectable limp and felt she was potentially a soft target for mugging. The world she had grown up in and travelled without a care had changed into a rather threatening place. Glenbannock was a haven of peace – a place where she knew everyone. It was good to be home.
Eager to catch up with Veronica, she had emailed from the airport and was now reading the reply as she drank tea and looked out of the conservatory across the garden.
News that Veronica had sprained her ankle was not in itself disturbing, but Margaret knew the injury was unlikely to be unrelated to some undercover exploit.
“Where are you, and can I visit?” Margaret pressed the end button and considered the strong possibility that Veronica Pilchard was sleuthing once again.
* * *
The police in Belfast had extended the long arm of the law as far as Manchester, in the hope of apprehending Leo Richards. By the time the Manchester constabulary had obtained a search warrant and forcibly entered Richards’ apartment, he had long gone. The place was furnished but nothing remained belonging to the man. His clothes, personal effects and documents were missing, although the rented flat was still in his name.
Even the rubbish bins had been emptied. In the basement, the police searched the communal bins for possible leads but not a scrap of evidence was found. His bank account was closed. Leo Richards seemed to have disappeared into thin air.
At that point, the decision was made to put this on national news.
When he had not been spotted within 25 hours, the story lost its edge and the investigation was put on ice.
* * *
The dramatic rescue of the kidnapped Nicola Tebaldi did not hit the news bulletins that day and Veronica made no attempt to publicise the event or her role in it. She did tell Barry Doyle what had happened but cautioned him to leave matters for the moment.
“Barry this is not a simple abduction. There is no apparent reason for kidnapping this young Italian. I mean he isn’t rich and doesn’t have wealthy family who could pay a ransom.”
“And you think it is part of some bigger crime?”
“Yes. Why would this Richards man imprison Nico? In fact, why would he be in Eliza Taunter’s house at all? They are divorced and she is out of the country.” She grimaced in pain, as she tried to shift her bandaged ankle. “Now, I promise I will get you any exclusive interviews as and when there is some more information.” She did not say that she intended to get that information herself.
“Fair enough. We have plenty for the show after today’s hullaballoo!” Barry was still pink with delight after the morning’s live debate and potentially libellous input of community activists and local politicians. “I hope this Taunter woman arrives back soon. This is starting to be a story with legs – and legs that will run for a fair distance!” Barry was in strident form but not with any self-importance or smugness. He simply enjoyed the rollercoaster of live broadcasting on the most controversial topics
he could find.
“I think she will be returning quickly, if only to inspect her possessions.” Veronica cynically guessed that the draw of academic distinction and scholarly fame would be overshadowed by the lure of local celebrity on the subject of flags and the need to secure the contents of her home. Material matters and personal publicity enticed Eliza considerably more than the airless rooms of Middle Eastern conference venues.
“Can I assume that your temporary disability will prevent you from conducting a personal investigation, then?” Barry was only half-joking.
“That’s a fair assumption,” she lied, having already planned to get as much information from Jack Summers as possible and follow this up with beginning the process of gaining access to the scene of the crime – which could wait for a day or two.
* * *
Margaret Beightin arrived at No. 5 Montague Road with a bouquet of flowers and a basket of fruit that evening. She was anxious to see for herself how her friend, Veronica, was keeping. Dressed in an elegant pair of tailored grey linen slacks and a light blue silk jacket, she walked purposefully to the large entrance to Marianne’s house.
“Ah, you must be Lady Margaret Beightin!” Marianne smiled and put out her hand to greet the visitor.
“Margaret will do. Can’t bear formalities!” Margaret took the extended hand and was gratified that the response was a firm and warm grip. She judged people on their handshake and degree of courtesy. “And you must be Marianne Kelly – of whom Veronica speaks highly! I am pleased to meet you.” She spoke with warmth but less than sincerity – as Marianne’s friendship with Veronica threatened to overshadow her own.
“Do come in. Veronica is in the sunroom.” Marianne gestured forwards to indicate the new guest might walk ahead and straight towards the glass-walled room. “I will leave you two to chat.” And with that the landlady seemed to evaporate.