The Man Who Vanished

by Roz Goldie

  Thankful to be secure, behind the heavy front door of Marianne Kelly’s house, she went to her room. Opening her phone, she sent a quick email thanking Margaret for the generous offer and asking when she could view the cottage. To her surprise, Margaret replied immediately.

  “You can take a look any time. Let me know when suits and I can take you from my home. If I am busy, I’ll leave the keys and directions for you in the usual place.” They had an agreed secret hiding place for just such exigencies.

  “Margaret, thanks. I am not in studio tomorrow. Would late morning suit?” Veronica pressed the send button. She undressed, ready for a shower and stood under the hot water, feeling the day’s work wash away. Dried and in fresh clothes, she felt more settled than she had been for her time in Montague Road – and unsure about returning to Glenbannock, where Harry Pilchard was settling back home.

  Her phone pinged, signalling of a new message. It was from Margaret. The two were to meet at 2:30 the next afternoon.

  Downstairs, Veronica made her way to the sunroom. As she lit a cigarette, she looked around the garden and noticed that there was a light in Eliza Taunter’s house. It was the same light from the same window as she had noticed early that morning. So, Eliza had been there all the time. That was odd – in fact, more than odd. What was she doing missing the disciplinary meeting if she was no more than a couple of hundred yards from the main building of the university?

  Unable to contain her curiosity, Veronica Pilchard got determined to ask the professor that question – whatever pretext she required. She put on a coat and walked to the house next door. Finding no response to her banging on the door – just in case the doorbell was not functioning – she called out to Eliza, but to no avail.

  Chapter Four

  Jack Summers found himself more in tune with Veronica Pilchard’s detection methods than he knew to be proper and professional. She was often luckier than far-seeing, but she got results. With the help of Lady Margaret Beightin, she also often managed to get to perpetrators before the police. Jack was also increasingly irritated by the command and control culture of policing – which had promised so many changes with the peace agreement reforms, but these had not been delivered. He willingly acknowledged that there were real and present threats to the police in Northern Ireland and from numerous sources other than those Republicans, who begrudged the social and political changes in the 21st century. He’d remained in the service in the hope that a community policing approach would have replaced the quasi-military methods of their work. Yet every summer, the heated atmosphere of keeping the peace between the still-warring factions at sectarian interfaces and along the routes of contested marches emerged in violent upheaval – and many of his colleagues were injured in the pursuit of their daily work.

  That year, the marching season had been as bitterly disputed in Belfast as ever. Although many outlying towns and villages were now capable of celebrating the 12th of July with 11th night bonfires, and bands and marches on the Twelfth without violence, a hard core of the residents in the capital tenaciously stuck to the old ways. Like many others from rural stations, he had been drafted in to watch, if not regulate, the brutal confrontations between those passionate about marching and those aggressively objecting to what they considered a desecration of their local community and places of worship.

  Jack was now considering his future, and possibly a future outside the police. His father had left him rather well off, as the only remaining son and heir. He had the house in College Road, the estate George Summers had left, as well as his share of the former matrimonial home.

  It was with these thoughts in mind that he answered his phone.

  “Jack, it’s Veronica here. I am worried about Eliza Taunter. I think here’s something wrong.”

  Jack found himself listening to her with interest rather than the usual impatience. Veronica Pilchard was a poor judge of character, but she had a nose for trouble, and danger.

  After hearing that Eliza had apparently been at home but not turned up for Sandy’s disciplinary, that there was a light on in her house but that she was not responding, he was of a mind to take Veronica’s version at face value – risky as that was for him, a policeman. “You do seem to have a point. Come over here, and we can discuss the options.”

  Surprised that Jack Summers was taking her seriously, instead of dismissing her fears, she grunted an affirmative. She left by the front path of Eliza’s house, taking a right turn into College Road and walked the short distance to the Victorian terrace.

  Jack stood at the open front door and welcomed her into the living room. She took a seat on the couch in the now familiar bay window.

  “A glass of wine?”

  “Thanks.” Veronica said no more, trying to figure out why Jack was not his customary self – suspicious and dismissing her ‘theories’ as nothing more than interference and speculation.

  “You’re wondering why I believe you may be right?” His voice was neutral, but his soft smile showed he did not doubt her.

  “Yes. You don’t normally accept my suspicions as true.”

  “Now I know enough about Eliza Taunter to understand that she would not have missed that meeting if she were on the doorstep of the university,” he paused, handing her a glass of red wine. “And since she was the person making allegations about Sandy, she was obliged to attend.” He took a seat facing her.

  “That is quite true. What makes me suspicious is that I saw a man leaving her house early this morning. Her bedroom light was on then, and it’s still on!” Veronica watched him for signs of the habitual contempt in which the police held her. There were none.

  “And you made a lot of noise, but got no response.” Jack was talking to himself, thinking. His brow knit in contemplation.

  “I know it sounds absurd, but I have had this sense of foreboding since this morning. Could be hormones, but I think it’s something more substantial.” She was reluctant to ask him to break into Eliza’s house and sat, silent, hoping he would decide that such a path of action was justifiable.

  “So you want me to break in through the back door – again?” he laughed.

  “Is there any other way to find out what’s going on?”

  “There are a number of other options, but I’m feeling reckless tonight.”

  Veronica could hardly believe it! Jack Summers was going to break and enter on the basis of her hunch, without a trace of evidence.

  “Leave the wine. We can finish it later.” Jack stood up, grabbing a jacket and reaching into a drawer in the heavy wooden desk. “Just what we need!” he grinned, as he pocketed the bunch of skeleton keys.

  They made their way along Wild Fern Alley, walking at a steady pace. As curtains were closed and there was no one out of doors, they arrived at Eliza’s backyard without being seen. Jack scaled the wall easily, unlocked and opened the door in the red brick wall to admit Veronica and closed it again. He remembered the key he had used in the liberation of Nicola Tebaldi and quickly gained entrance to the back of the house.

  Once inside, they stood in the darkness. Jack called out, “Anyone there? It’s Jack Summers.”

  His voice echoed up through an empty hallway. The place was in total silence.

  “Should we look upstairs in the bedroom?”

  “No, we will start here on the ground floor.” He pulled on latex gloves and handed a pair to Veronica. “We aren’t here. Right?”

  “Fine by me.” She was astonished that he was snooping with her – flaunting every rule in the police code of conduct – but did not say so.

  The door to the kitchen-diner did not give way as Jack pushed it. It was open, but something was stopping it. Jack used greater force and the door opened to reveal a scene of horrific violence. Lying in a pool of her own blood, Eliza Taunter was dead. A large kitchen knife was sticking out of her chest – probably having gone right through her heart. Shards of broken dishes crunched beneath his feet. The room was hot because the oven was on and the door open.


  “Don’t come in!” he ordered in a gruff voice. “She’s dead. I’ll ring the police now. You stay well out of here – it’s a crime scene.”

  The smell of blood wafting out from the kitchen caught the back of Veronica’s throat. A wave of nausea hit her, and she vomited into the umbrella stand in the hall. Feeling weak and dizzy, she sat down at the bottom of the stairs.

  News of a dead body, certainly a murder victim, reported by a serving policeman was sufficient to generate an immediate response from the local station. Within minutes, sirens wailed through the nearby streets and a police car pulled up in Montague Road, followed soon after by a somewhat disgruntled pathologist. Dr Raymond Dwyer had been dragged away from a formal dinner, at which he was the guest speaker – his topic being the grisly tale of how Dr Harold Shipman had managed to get away with so many murders.

  * * *

  Leo Richards had completed his business in Belfast. Assuming the persona of Peter Saunders, he had flown in a private plane from Newtownards airfield that morning and was now preparing to board a flight to Toulouse with his forged passport and identity papers. He was a wealthy man and would not be returning to Ireland or Manchester again. Certainly, he was not reappearing as Leo Richards, the man whose fingerprints were all over the scene of crime in Eliza Taunter’s home.

  Richards had escaped police detection when they looked for him for the kidnap of Nicola Tebaldi. He was confident that he would evade them again, although the murder of Eliza would concentrate minds considerably more. He rested easy on the short flight and arrived in the evening, taking a taxi to his new home. The long day, following a sleepless night in Eliza’s bed above where her body lay, and the excess of adrenalin left him exhausted despite his happiness and newly established wealth.

  When he finally arrived at his villa, he was met by the sight of French police. Alarmed, he nevertheless met them with apparent equanimity, and was relieved to learn that his coastal refuge had been burgled.

  “Oh, I don’t think they will have got much. Most of my stuff is still in storage.”

  The police went through all the usual procedures, warning that they could not guarantee catching the culprit. Peter Saunders assured them that he had full insurance and that he was not afraid to stay in a house with broken locks for the one night.

  The older of the two policemen looked askance at this Englishman, knowing how territorial and materialistic ex-pats were. He wondered that this one was not remonstrating and making the usual racist comments about the gendarmerie. Turning aside to his partner, he whispered, “Probably trying to be the macho man!” He had taken an instant dislike to this Peter Saunders and viewed him with suspicion – all the more so as he seemed less than enthusiastic about giving them his fingerprints. He made a note of that fact in his report on their visit to the crime scene.

  * * *

  Margaret Beightin was a very welcome visitor at Cressida Colliers’ home. She found Margaret such good company and always parted from her friend, sensing herself somehow more positive and self-confident. This morning, they were planning a pre-Christmas river cruise holiday.

  “I am so pleased you want to travel with me, Margaret. Belinda never says as much, but she makes me feel she is doing her duty by going on these tours.”

  Pushing down the desire to inform Cressida that daughter, Belinda, was a spoiled brat who took after her father, lacking the basic courtesies, to which she and Cressida adhered without a thought. She cleared her throat, “Cressida, my dear, I hardly think it’s a duty to accompany your mother on what are luxury holidays. In any case, you may be assured that I am delighted to have a companion – I’ve got to the stage where I am rather nervous of travelling alone.”

  “Margaret Beightin, I find that hard to believe!” Cressida laughed.

  “I was never as daring as people thought – not at school or later. I have always presented a brave front. Besides, when you get to a certain age, or have a bit of a limp like me, strangers can see you as a soft target.”

  The housekeeper arrived with a tray of coffee and cake. “Thank you, Scarlet. Please put it on the table.” Cressida smiled at the forbidding woman, receiving no more than a grunt by way of acknowledgement.

  When Scarlet had left, closing the door with a slam, Margaret turned to Cressida. “She’s not the most friendly, is she? I take it that John hired her.” Her tone was direct to the point of bluntness.

  “Yes, he makes all those arrangements,” Cressida smiled weakly.

  “Tell me, did he get the le Brocquy I heard him mention?” Margaret had her own agenda, quite apart from making holiday arrangements.

  “Yes. He was very excited about it, though it’s not for him – I mean, he’s acquired it for a friend.” Cressida had not shown it, but she did notice Margaret’s conversational sleight of hand.

  “How interesting! John is obviously a good person to have around. And did he manage to acquire any other great works?” Margaret asked in a deliberately friendly tone.

  “Yes, and you would understand how important they are. Not my choice – as you know I prefer watercolours – but fine pieces.” she smiled deferentially at her guest. “He got a John Luke painting and three by Conor.”

  “What a find!” Margaret was certain this confirmed the link between Sir John Colliers and the Stewart Gallery. “That will put him in a really good mood – and happy for us to go on holiday, I should imagine,” she winked conspiratorially at Cressida.

  “Oh, yes!” she grinned.

  The two women spent the next hour drinking coffee and deciding on the dates and details of the escorted trips they would choose from the vast number on offer during the river cruise. Each wanted to compromise for the sake of the other, and both were agreed that lengthy walking tours were not an option.

  “I’d prefer to miss the long treks – no matter how important the cultural significance is.” Margaret said, seeing Cressida’s tiny frown at the six-hour walking tour of Prague. “Wouldn’t we have more fun at the Christmas Market?”

  “Definitely,” Cressida smiled gratefully.

  “I mean, we are going on holiday, not an educational excursion!” Margaret laughed. “Do you remember our first school trip to Paris?”

  Reminiscing about their teenage experiences, they were both transported back to a different age, where girls were chaperoned and the world was a safer place.

  As the clock struck 12, Scarlet interrupted to announce that Cressida was required for a planning meeting about a forthcoming banquet.

  “Well, Cressida. I have really enjoyed our chat and all those ideas for our holiday,” Margaret said truthfully. She was extremely fond of her browbeaten friend. “Do let me know when you have time for another chinwag. You always make me feel fearless,” she said without exaggeration. Now, she was sure she was right about the art business – whether or not it was fraud, there was something underhand about Sir John Colliers’ dealings.

  Margaret Beightin left the Colliers’ house with the intention of changing the circumstances for the longsuffering Cressida. She had ample time to construct her plans before her appointment with Veronica that afternoon.

  * * *

  More than a week had passed since the landlords first took a public stance in opposition to Wild Fern Alley. Thaddeus had found out that Councillor Cobbles had misrepresented the facts by claiming to have complaints about the restoration of the Alley confirmed officially.

  Marianne contacted the local council, asking that the communal bins be relocated, as there were rumours of a rodent problem. It seemed that she was persuasive, as the job was done by the end of the day. Although she was nominally the chairperson of the group and meetings were in her home, she was eager to step back and let someone else take over.

  Adam and Steve, the older and more settled of the gay couples, agreed to take on publicity and the website.

  “Of course, I can’t be seen near any news people. My brother is head of news!” Adam asserted. “That would be a real confl
ict of interest! Steve can do that, and I’ll do the web page.”

  “I still think Marianne is the best person to do interviews, but I am okay with organising this stuff.” Steve was not hiding the fact that he was rather intimidated by the antagonism with the property magnates and overawed by television cameras.

  “I am so angry with Brendan Cobbles and Shappie McVeigh that I will just come across as a maniac – and the way the last piece was edited, I sounded like a fishwife.”

  Adam could not resist a little scorn. “Marianne, my dear, you did say what went out on air!”

  “Now boys, settle down.” Thaddeus James was acting as peacemaker. “I think our story is small beer after last night’s events.”

  “True. At the same time, I think we should press the point about keeping the gates locked. It really could be a big security issue,” Adam regretted the gibe. “Marianne, I apologise.”

  “Apology accepted, Adam. This is no time for us to fall out. Look how far we have come.”

  They were a select bunch that morning. The middle-aged married South African couple, two retired academics and the judge had sent apologies, as had the GP Jane Spencer and her sister, Imelda. Colleen, the senior conservationist, sat beside veteran feminist, Annabella Clark, and her actor husband, Jimbo. One of the four young barristers was taking notes and agreed to act as secretary from now on. Simon and Cal, the newly arrived gay couple, were eager to join in, and volunteered for just about anything that needed done. The elderly Mrs Wilson offered to do what she could to help, but explained that she knew nothing about the internet or computers.

  After some discussion, they agreed that there must be some underlying motive for the landlords’ belligerence – though no one could come up with a credible explanations.