The Man Who Vanished

by Roz Goldie

  Behind the façade of energetic enthusiasm, she was both indecisive and in low spirits. She liked the people she knew in Wild Fern Alley, but was depressed about Margaret’s behaviour. She braced herself for the day ahead and the possibility of their special friendship ending when she turned down the offer of the cottage.

  Both places she viewed were pleasant, but the better option was a ground floor flat that gave unto the Alley, and was owned by Mrs Wilson, who lived in the top two storeys. Mrs Wilson was delighted that she knew and trusted her new tenant. They agreed a short-term lease, as Veronica was determined to get her own place eventually. Handshakes over Veronica Pilchard strode into the City Centre and the BBC with renewed independence and purpose. Postponing any prospective house purchase was freeing her up her time and energies – now focused on Wild Fern Alley. She went back to Montague Road, feeling a stronger and happier woman.

  Marianne was happy to have the room free, as she had a full house now that the theatre season had started again in earnest and Nico’s grandparents were due to arrive in a few days.

  Veronica was grateful to her landlady. “I really must thank you, Marianne. You have been truly hospitable.” She did not add that she had been vulnerable and appreciated the friendly reception.

  “My pleasure. You have been the most fastidious guest.” She offered her hand and Veronica shook it, sincerely grateful for this friendship. “I know Nico’s grandparents want to meet you, so I expect we’ll meet again soon.”

  “Yes, you have my contact details – and I’m not going far! Give them my number and tell them I can visit at a time that suits them.” Veronica decided to try and improve her very basic Italian before meeting them.

  * * *

  Wild Fern Alley was again in the news, but only because of press speculation that it was the entry point for the person who had murdered Eliza Taunter. Police were not commenting on the scant evidence they had and made the usual statements about following all possible leads.

  At least two junior reporters were on permanent watch in the hope of getting a scoop. The fact that there had been no break in and that there had been no intruder in the Alley and back entrance to Seven Montague Road did not deter the young newshounds.

  Councillor Cobbles and Shappie McVeigh were deterred, however. They still retained keys to the gates, but had kept away from the Alley since the murder. They certainly were not going to be found leaving the gates open and were regretting having started the rodent problem. Their plan to have the public access to Wild Fern Alley restored would have to be put on hold.

  Brendan Cobbles could not tolerate this for long, which was why he’d deposited the dead rat at Marianne’s door.

  Thaddeus James was suspicious about why the landlords were so opposed to the collective improvement – as it was to their benefit as much as any of the residents – and he shared his concerns with Marianne and Johnny McBriar, the young barrister, now secretary of their group. “Although they keep changing the reasons for their opposition, the one consistent complaint is about access to the Alley. Why do they want public access when they know if they are expecting deliveries and they have keys?”

  * * *

  DCI Bill Adams was shaving with extra care and dressing in is best suit for the evening’s concert. Margaret Beightin had agreed to attend a Chopin recital in the Ulster Hall with him. He had not seen her in person since her Mediterranean cruise, and the prospect of her company was exciting. He fiddled with his cufflinks – an action that reminded him how much he had taken his wife, Brenda, for granted. She had always done up his cufflinks. She was reliable and had his dinner ready at almost any hour of the night when he returned home. She kept the house clean, did the laundry and lived her life around his irregular hours without complaint. At first, he had not missed her when she left him to go to the antipodes with ‘that feminist woman’. These days, he relied on a twice-weekly cleaner, convenience meals and local laundry. Brenda still sent him regular emails, and had offered a quick divorce if that was what he wanted. He procrastinated, feeling somehow shamed at how events had turned out.

  Struggling with the second cufflink, he decided to change his shirt. Buttons would have to do!

  He was displeased to hear reports that Veronica Pilchard was returning to his patch and therefore, would once more become a regular visitor with Margaret Beightin. He had been delighted when she left Glenbannock and so, ceased to be a threat to the dear lady’s safety. He knew, however, that Margaret would either laugh at him or be angry if he said as much. Reluctantly, he opted for avoidance, harbouring a silent resentment towards ‘that damned woman’.

  The thought of a cultured evening and the melodious strains of Chopin eased his mood. He went downstairs, clutching the concert tickets and smiling.

  * * *

  Transforming the scene of Eliza Taunter’s murder into an attractive property was quite impossible. Although the estate agent had sent in industrial cleaners, No. 7 Montague Road was far from what a prospective buyer would want to see. In the space of not much more than a week, rats had got in, so the rodent squad had to start the onslaught on the house.

  Soft furnishings had to be removed, leaving the place looking derelict rather than empty. The remaining contents were dusted and flooring cleaned. However, the appearance was still a gloomy one, lacking all traces of homeliness.

  Nico had asked to view the property once he realised that it was on the market for a reduced price. Calculating that he could take on this renovation project with some professional help, he could see its potential. He did not tell anyone that his aim was to have a place where his grandparents could settle with him to support them.

  Mario and Olivia Tebaldi had been adoring grandparents to him and now faced an uncertain future, as old-age pensions had been one of the many casualties of the Italian recession, and their land would not necessarily fetch as much as they had lead him to believe.

  Keith Sells was the leading partner in Sells and Company and dealt with the property himself, since Gary Taunter had made it clear that any cleaning costs, taxes or fees could be taken from the sale price. He had left instructions that the buyer could take the contents or Sells and Company could have them disposed of. Keith found this a peculiar request and guessed correctly that the family was not a close, knit one. In fact, he thought the father seemed shifty and came across as guilty. He did not share his opinion with the foreign young man who was about to view the property.

  Opening the door, Sells was relieved that the foul smell of murder had been eradicated. “You may wish to take a look around yourself, Doctor Tebaldi, or I can show you each room.”

  Nico had learned from regular childhood visits to the local market with his grandfather that maintaining silence and a poker face was an essential tactic in successful negotiation and if he was to put a bid in for this house, it would take every penny that he had saved over the years. He sniffed, “I would appreciate you taking me around – that way, you can point out the best features.” His facial expression did not show enthusiasm or great interest.

  “Indeed, that might be advisable. This home has enormous potential, although one does need to have some imagination at the moment.”

  As all carpets had been removed, their footsteps echoed through the house. Nico could tell at a glance that the stairs and floorboards were hard wood and probably the original fittings as were the doors – albeit under layers of paint.

  Sells made a point of listing every probable element of the original fittings, gesturing to cornices and cast iron fireplaces, and commenting that the three flights of stairs, including bannisters, were assuredly hardwood under the paint that masked their decorous glory. “And of course, Doctor Tebaldi, the wooden sash windows will make an enviable exterior when refurbished.”

  Nico nodded, as Sells went through his spiel, saying nothing but watching to see if this professional was feeling slightly pressured. He was.

  Sells had carefully guided their tour of the house so that the kitchen a
nd basement were the last rooms to be seen – painfully aware that these had each been the scene of now notorious crimes.

  Judging the moment perfectly, Nico cleared his throat and said, “So, this is the macabre scene of crime then?”

  “Yes, dreadful business altogether.” He was visibly uncomfortable. “You do understand that the vendor has left instructions that the contents can be left for the buyer, or we can dispose of them. The choice is yours, Doctor Tebaldi.”

  “Aside of the kitchen – which needs completely replaced – I might consider keeping some pieces. Of course, there is the rewiring and plumbing work to do – and that’s before the total redecoration.” Nico rubbed his chin, calculating that he could do much of the donkey-work himself, but looking rather concerned.

  The basement, which he recalled in intimate detail, had been scrubbed clean and was startlingly bright under harsh fluorescent light. He noticed a trap door in the bleach-scoured wooden floor, but averted his gaze, determined to leave a full examination until a second viewing, in the company of his grandfather.

  Aware that he might be overdoing the strong, silent type, Nico offered a crumb of hope to the estate agent, “This is really a lot larger than I’d have thought. A useful space.”

  Grateful for a positive comment at last, Sells relaxed a little. “Indeed it is. And as you see, there is a sizeable back garden.”

  Their viewing complete, they left by the front door. Nico had given the impression he desired – that of a person interested, but with serious reservations. Now, it was time to hook the bait.

  “My grandparents are coming to visit in the near future. I would like to arrange another viewing with them, if that is possible.”

  “Oh, yes, Doctor Tebaldi!” Sells was delighted. Nico was so far the only person who had shown any interest.

  “Then, I will contact you – if you are available on the 6th or 7th of this month.”

  “I will pencil in those dates and make myself available.” Sells was now keen to find a buyer for the place and as quickly as possible – that house was disturbing, and unnerved him.

  Nico had sensed the man’s uneasiness from the moment they had stepped inside No. 7 Montague Road. He found it thought-provoking since he was impervious to whatever Sells found disconcerting.

  * * *

  Cressida Colliers had made a note of the names of the two men, who had assisted her husband in buying the paintings. However, she had not thought it relevant to mention these to Margaret Beightin – since she knew enough about art to make sound judgements about what she saw. Cressida was much more interested in booking their cruise.

  Sir John Colliers was impatient to hear news of the, as yet unnamed, buyer of the le Brocquy and, having had no communications with Frederick Stewart, decided to pay the gallery an unannounced visit.

  “Ah, Stewart, just the man!” he pronounced as he entered.

  “Sir John, how good to see you. To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

  “My desire to know the mystery client, who has been viewing the paintings,” Colliers spoke with a sharp tone.

  “Oh, Sir John, she is not a mystery. Not a mystery at all!” Stewart sensed the hint of threat that Colliers so clearly intended to convey. Something in his obstinate nature wanted to prolong the anonymity of Lady Margaret Beightin, but he understood Colliers and knew he had to impart this information. “It is Lady Margaret Beightin.”

  “Really? I had no idea she had that sort of money.”

  “I don’t know about her financial standing, but she was deeply impressed by the le Brocquy!” Stewart spoke with relish at the memory of an enthralled Lady Beightin.

  Since Colliers did not know about Margaret’s financial standing either, he changed the subject. “So, is she going to buy it?”

  “She wants an authentication from the National Gallery, and I am arranging for that in the next couple of days.”

  “And, I take it you will inform me of any progress – on that or the others.” Colliers was giving an abrupt order rather than making a request.

  “Oh, yes, indeed, Sir John. As soon as there is any movement, you will be the first to know.” He smiled obsequiously, adding, “And she may also take the Luke.”

  Colliers turned on his heel and left without further comment. Something made him uneasy about Margaret Beightin’s interest in these two paintings.

  As he returned home, he considered whether Cressida might have made mention of ‘the product’ to her friend Margaret. It rankled with him that she might also look for authentication on the Luke picture, as he had acquired it for a price that reflected its uncertain origin. It irked him more to think that his dim-witted wife was unknowingly interfering with his business. Colliers was keen that Lady Beightin held him in high regard in his quest for the prize of National Governor of BBC Northern Ireland. He certainly did not want her having any suspicions.

  Sir John Colliers was a man’s man. He found the female sex dull by comparison, and usually more interested in small talk than serious discussion. He preferred the sonorous tones of the male voice to the high-pitched chatter of women. Of course, there were exceptions, such as Margaret Beightin. Thinking over her potential wealth, he wondered that he had not known about that before. Most people, who are well heeled, do not hide the fact, but Lady Beightin gave every appearance of possessing a high social rank rather than an elevated financial status. He made a mental note to ask Cressida about that at dinner.

  * * *

  Jack Summers was now struggling with his workload. There was nothing to demand his attention beyond the odd, petty crime in Donaghdubh. He was finding the command and control culture of policing more irritating by the day. Part of this was his inability to deal with his grief, but he also had an underlying sense that his time in this job had passed its shelf life.

  His mind was on detection, but not on the investigations on his desk. He was preoccupied by the apparently motiveless abduction of Nicola Tebaldi and the murder of Eliza Taunter. Both offences had been committed in the same house. Leo Richards had never been located, and whoever murdered Eliza Taunter was as yet unidentified. He was sure there was a connection, but could not figure out what linked the two crimes.

  He knew he was being surly at the station and sharp with his colleagues. In his miserable state of mind, he could not shake off the urge to resign. He had seen DCI Adams’ expression of frustration and annoyance at his behaviour – knowing he was being given a wide berth because of his bereavement.

  Today, he was just going through the motions, taking statements about a minor burglary, cross-examining two likely suspects from Donaghdubh – Billy Duff and Gerry White. He was so slapdash that he overlooked a cache of stolen items dumped at the back of a cupboard in Duff’s house. It was Detective Sergeant Gary McClure who stirred him from his stupor.

  “Jack, look what we have here!” Gary McClure had worked with Jack for years and knew this carelessness was totally out of character.

  “Sorry – I was miles away. What is it?”

  “Two phones and a handful of credit cards, plus some ornaments and jewellery.” DS McClure held a black bin liner in his gloved hand.

  “Banged to rights I would say.” Jack Summers felt ashamed of his dereliction of duty. “Gary, this is your collar. I’m not at myself at all.”

  Knowing that to be exactly the case but unwilling to say so, Gary McClure responded, “The main thing is that we have this cleared up, Jack.”

  That evening, Jack wrote out his letter of resignation.

  * * *

  Mario and Olivia Tebaldi arrived in Belfast, driven by Nico from the airport to Montague Road and Marianne Kelly’s house. The early evening was bright, clear and sunny, and the elderly couple strained to see as much of the city as possible from the backseat windows.

  Once greeted by their landlady and having deposited their luggage in their room, they came downstairs to Nico.

  “Shall we go out for a meal? Alberto’s is a good Italian restauran
t.” Nico looked at his weary grandparents. “Or perhaps, I could bring something if you prefer to eat here?”

  Mario looked exhausted but laughed, “Alberto’s must be good by the look of your face. What do you think, Olivia?”

  “It is a lovely evening. Is it far?” Olivia looked at her best shoes, wondering if she could bear to walk further in them. Nico noticed this with a sideways glance.

  “It’s not far, but perhaps you should maybe change into more comfortable shoes. It will take us ten minutes to walk there.”

  “If you wait for me, I will get my walking shoes,” Olivia smiled.

  Outside, Nico watched them closely, pleased his grandparents seemed to enjoy the walk.

  “Fresh air! The aeroplane was very stuffy, so this is just perfect,” Mario chuckled.

  “Alberto will be pleased to meet you – I told him I would bring you. And you will be understood in Italian.”

  “Senora Kelly speaks quite good Italian, Nico. Thank you for finding us someone we can talk to. Our English is not so good.” Olivia seemed relieved.

  “Nonna! Did you think I would leave you with foreigners who have no Italian?” Nico teased her. “I will make sure that I am with you, or Marianne or someone, with a bit of Italian for every minute of your stay.”

  The three Italians were greeted with applause, cheers and a standing ovation by the staff at Alberto’s. Alberto himself stood at the best table, bowing to the visiting grandparents.