by Millie Vigor
‘Ah, I’m sorry about that, but he has someone staying with him and he wants to spend as much time as he can with her.’
‘I imagine his guest must be a very special family member then for him to abandon work to be with her. Does he live over the shop?’
‘He has a flat upstairs but I don’t know who his visitor is.’
The door to the studio opened and a young couple with a small child walked in. Paul Turner’s receptionist turned her attention to them, then looked at Brett and said, ‘We’ll see you on Friday then, Mr McIvor.’
‘So you will,’ said Brett.
Thoughtfully he walked back to the main road. There was plenty to think about. Turner had someone with him, but it couldn’t be a member of his family or the receptionist would have known who it was. Could it possibly be Ginny? Perhaps Nancy was right in her suspicion of Paul, but it was too soon to start jumping to conclusions. He wanted to talk to Curtis again and, because Nancy’s husband’s mouth was shut tight as a clam, he would go to the police station and see if there was anyone there that he could have words with. But now, and because there was no reason for him to go back to Blackton just yet, he would go and have a look at the cathedral.
It was lunchtime when Brett emerged from that great building and he was hungry. A coffee and a sandwich would keep him going until Sally, the barmaid, put his meal in front of him this evening. There was no doubt that good, plain country cooking was not to be sneezed at and the meals presented at the Wheatsheaf by the landlord’s wife were not to be spoiled by indiscriminate eating beforehand.
Toying with his paper napkin, folding and refolding it, Brett thought about Ginny. Why had Nancy insisted on saying that Ginny had been ‘taken’?
‘Well,’ she had said, ‘how else could you describe it?’
She hadn’t left of her own accord. Ah, but had she? No. Brett shook his head as his thoughts turned again to Nancy’s account of the vegetables Ginny had left ready to cook. She had been taken by someone, either in the town or at some stage on her way home. Dragged into a car and abducted? Paul had a car and no doubt Ashley too. Had he been too quick to think they had nothing to do with it? Perhaps he had, for no one else fitted the frame. He was back to square one and would have to start all over again. Just as he was about to get up and leave the café, his phone rang.
‘Hi, Dad,’ he said when his father spoke to him. ‘I’ll try to make it for New Year … no, I won’t be home for Christmas … tell Mum I’m fine, nothing wrong, it’s just that I’m going to be hung up here for a bit longer … take care, bye.’
The coffee shop in the shopping centre was no more than a stone’s throw from the library, and as he was anticipating empty hours to fill, Brett decided to get a few books. He headed for the section that held crime novels. He particularly liked Frederick Forsyth and looked for something written by him.
‘Oh, hi,’ said a voice. ‘Have you changed your choice of reading matter? I don’t think you’ll find anything about churches on that shelf. Mm, wait a minute, though. I seem to remember something about a death in a bell tower.’
Brett had been stooping, his head on one side, to read what was on the spines of the books. Why didn’t they stack them one on top of the other so that he wouldn’t have to do that? It always gave him a crick in the neck. If he hadn’t already recognized the voice, he would have known by the smart shoes and the cut of the trousers that it was Curtis.
‘Hello, Curtis,’ he said.
‘What were you looking for?’
‘I’d like a good, gripping crime novel, something by Freddie Forsyth or Ian Rankin.’
‘Both Scots. Hm. Have you read anything by Stuart MacBride? He’s a Scot and he’s good. I’ve read all of his. You might enjoy them.’
‘I’ll have a look then.’
‘How are you getting on with the churches? Have you looked at many?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was in the cathedral today. It’s magnificent. But I’ve been rather busy so haven’t seen any others.’
‘That’s a shame. Anyway, I can’t stand here talking, got to get on. Don’t forget to choose one of MacBride’s books.’
Brett McIvor chewed his lip as he watched Curtis walk away. There was no sign of the homo today; in fact, he was very definitely macho. What was he playing at? No matter. Brett chose his books, finding a MacBride to put amongst them. Holding four in his hands, he went to the desk to check them out. Hazel was there.
‘Hello,’ she said. ‘You’re still here, then. I would have thought you might be going home now. What’s making you stay?’
‘I was hoping that Ginny Harvey might be found. I went to school with her, you know, but we’d rather lost touch. Mm, Christmas … I might just up and go, but on the other hand I might just wait till Hogmanay.’
Brett watched as Hazel stamped each book with a return date.
‘Why not?’ said Hazel. ‘I’m sure your family are longing to see you.’
‘I’m sure they are, but I really would like to hear news of Ginny so I’m afraid they’ll have to wait a little bit longer.’ He gathered up his books then, about to turn away, hesitated. ‘Could I ask you something? You don’t have to answer if you’d rather not.’
‘Oh dear, that sounds ominous. What can it be?’
‘It’s Curtis. I can’t figure him out. Is he gay, do you know?’
Hazel laughed. ‘Gay! Whatever gave you that idea?’
‘I just wondered and I’m surprised you haven’t noticed. You see, he presents a different personality to me every time I meet him. I had put it down to him being a bit of an oddball, but then he really came on to me the last time I was in here and I’m quite sure he wasn’t doing it just for effect. It was so natural. Of course, he could have been just acting, but it looked genuine to me and I’ve met quite a lot of them in my time. But today, he’s the real macho man. What’s going on?’
Hazel stared down at the desk. She seemed reluctant to reply.
‘We all suffer from moods from time to time, and I had noticed that Curtis was sometimes changeable. He’d be very withdrawn and then without batting an eye, he’d turn into the happy extrovert. To be honest, he’s such a good worker I’ve ignored it. I have seen him lose his temper … and that wasn’t a pretty sight.’
She turned her head aside and ran her hand round the back of her neck.
‘The girls have said that he has moods, but I’m mostly in the office so I don’t see it. Though when he had to work late the other night, he went the whole hog and blew his top at some poor woman. And then he swore afterwards that he hadn’t. That was nothing but a barefaced lie because I was there and heard him. It was a very odd thing for him to say. I can’t allow that sort of behaviour so I’ve warned him that it can’t happen again. Thanks for mentioning it. I’ll have to keep an eye on him. I hope you weren’t too put out about it.’
‘No,’ said Brett. ‘I thought it was odd and wondered if he was a bit of a psycho, that’s all.’ He picked up his books. ‘Curtis recommended MacBride, have you read any of his?’
‘I don’t get a lot of time to read, but I’m told he’s good. Enjoy.’
As he walked away, Brett made a mental note to visit the library again and when he did, try to have a heart to heart with Curtis. It would be interesting to see what would come of it.
TWENTY
To fill in time, Brett offered to walk the Wheatsheaf’s landlord’s dog. No one seemed to have any time for it and, fed on crisps and beer by some of the regulars; it was getting fat and lazy. The dog had taken to Brett and on most days the two of them could be seen patrolling the village.
As he strode along, Brett’s thoughts turned to his parents. I really ought to be home with them, they’ll be wondering what’s keeping me. I’m beginning to wonder myself. But I can’t go yet. I would never forgive myself if Ginny was found the day after I left. But then we were not that close, there was no relationship, no commitment. So it’s strange that she seems to have left such a big hole
in my life.
The phone in his pocket rang; he took it out and looked at it. Nancy was asking him where he was and if he could come along to her house. I have had an idea, she wrote. Brett sent a text back to say that he was walking the dog and as long as it would be welcome too, he’d be there. He had hoped she would mind her own business, but was it possible for any woman to do that?
Nancy greeted him warmly, patted the dog then led the pair of them through to her kitchen. She made coffee, then sat down and leaned towards Brett.
‘I’m so glad you’re here,’ she said. ‘It’s been too long since Ginny disappeared. She should have been found by now.’
‘I know,’ said Brett. ‘But what’s this idea you’ve had?’
‘Well … whoever whisked Ginny away must have been local because she was either taken in the town or on the way home from the bus. I know she used the bus because I heard her trying to start the car. When I looked out to see what she was doing, she told me the battery was flat. I don’t think she would have been taken from the shopping centre because there would have been too many people about.’
‘Not if someone offered her a lift,’ said Brett.
‘But who would that be?’
‘I don’t know. Who does she know who drives a car?’
‘Well, apart from Paul or Ashley, that could be anybody, couldn’t it? I don’t know all her friends. Hmm, I wish you hadn’t said that.’
‘Sorry,’ said Brett. ‘But we have to face facts.’
‘All right then, but using the bus to go to town meant that she would have to come home on it. It’s only a five to ten minute walk from the bus stop to here. A car could have picked her up somewhere along the lane, one of those kerb crawlers.’
‘Kerb crawlers are looking for prostitutes and I don’t think any of them would be working round here, do you?’
Nancy laughed. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The local girls give it out for free.’
‘There’s your answer then,’ said Brett.
For a moment or two while she sipped her coffee, Nancy said nothing, then eventually, ‘I’d never make a detective, would I?’
‘Why not? You’re doing what detectives do, which is looking at all the options and discarding those that don’t fit.’
Nancy smiled. ‘Thanks, I feel better now. Have you been to see Paul yet?’
‘I have. I was there yesterday. I didn’t see him but I’ve made an appointment to have a photo taken. It will give me a chance to talk to him before I rule him out.’
‘If you rule him out, that brings us up against a brick wall, doesn’t it?’
‘Nancy,’ said Brett, sitting back in his chair. ‘I’m telling you again that I am not a private eye. Yes, I’m interested in finding Ginny, but it’s not my place to search for her, that’s a job for the police.’
‘And what are they doing? Nothing, if what my Bill tells me is right. I think it’s up to us to help, after all we – or at least I – know more about her than they do. What are you doing for Christmas?’
‘Not much more than eating and reading, I expect. They’ve told me at the pub I can stay as long as I don’t expect special treatment over the holiday.’
‘You could come round to our place on Christmas Eve. If Bill isn’t working, he’d like the company. Now, I’ve got to get on. I’ve got to go into Salisbury later. Keep in touch.’
‘You’re incorrigible, Nancy,’ said Brett and a chuckle escaped him. ‘I’ll take you up on your offer to spend time with you at Christmas. Thank you.’
Friday dawned clear and bright. When Brett came down from his room, ready for his trip to the photographer, the Wheatsheaf dog, its body contorted with excitement at the prospect of a walk, slunk away in disgust when it realized there would be no walk that morning.
‘It’s an old fool,’ said Sally. ‘You’re spoiling it.’
‘You can take it for a walk when I’m not here,’ said Brett.
‘Chance would be a fine thing,’ said the girl.
Sally was a fine young woman, thought Brett, as he walked to the bus stop. She was outgoing and friendly but not afraid to speak her mind when the occasion demanded it. She was not stupid, either, and he wondered if the job she was doing was really beneath what she was capable of. He liked her.
In Salisbury and on his way to Paul Turner’s studio, Brett pulled his woolly hat down over his ears. England was a cold country, particularly to someone who had been used to the hot arid days of Africa. His long, loose stride carried him effortlessly along and he arrived at his destination twenty minutes before his appointment.
The receptionist smiled at him.
‘You’re early,’ she said. ‘Would you like a cup of coffee? Mr Turner has a family with children with him at the moment so I’m afraid you will have to wait.’
‘Thank you; coffee would be nice. Milk, but no sugar, please.’
Brett shunned the tender gilt chairs and plumped for a capacious leather armchair in which to sit and wait until Paul was free. A magazine on Formula 1 racing and the drivers occupied him until a couple with two noisy children came through the reception area and out into the cold. Paul had followed them and stood watching as they got into their car to drive away.
He turned to Brett. ‘Well, well, it takes all sorts, doesn’t it? I take it you’re Mr McIvor,’ and when Brett nodded, he added, ‘Would you follow me?’
Brett stood up and the receptionist said, ‘You can leave your topcoat here, Mr McIvor.’ She pointed to a row of pegs and Brett hung his coat on one.
‘Now tell me,’ said Paul when he and Brett were in the studio, ‘what sort of pose had you in mind – full length, seated or head and shoulders only?’
‘I think perhaps head and shoulders, and maybe one seated. What do you think?’
‘It’s entirely up to you. Would this sitting be for a particular reason?’
‘Yes,’ said Brett. ‘I want a photograph to give to my mother. I work abroad and I’m away for months at a time, so she doesn’t see me very often.’
‘OK. Would you come and sit here?’
When Brett was seated, Paul busied himself with the backdrop, lights and equipment.
‘So I guess you’re home on leave now,’ he said. ‘Chin up and turn a little this way. That’s right.’
‘Yes, I am,’ said Brett. It was not himself he wanted to talk about and when Paul was preoccupied with camera and lights he said, ‘I see you take a lot of photographs of children and babies. Are they your favourites?’
‘Huh, some of them are little horrors, but Mummy and Daddy must have a portrait of the little darling.’
Brett laughed. ‘I’m surprised to hear you say that. I would have thought you were a family man yourself. Don’t you have any of your own?’
Paul raised a hand and slapped his chest. ‘Me?’ He grinned. ‘No way.’
‘So you’re footloose and fancy free then.’
‘Um, well, not exactly. I do have a partner but her work means that she has to be away quite often and you know what they say …’ He looked at Brett and gave a conspiratorial wink. ‘… While the cat’s away?’
‘I know what you mean,’ said Brett. ‘So, have you had any good extra marital dates? I’m a stranger here but I’m free so could you point me in the right direction? I fancy redheads.’
‘Ah,’ said Paul. He sat down and began to stroke his chin. His eyes had a faraway look when he turned to Brett and said, ‘There was one. She was a beaut. I wanted to photograph her but she refused. She had flawless skin, gorgeous eyes and beautiful auburn hair with gold lights.’
He was talking about Ginny, had to be. This was a bonus. Brett had been wondering how to steer the conversation in that direction.
‘So what happened, did she get away? Or was she already married?’
‘I don’t know what’s happened to her, nobody does. She just disappeared.’
‘Would that be the one I read about in the paper?’ asked Brett. ‘What was her name? I’ve forgotten.’
‘Ginny Harvey,’ said Paul. ‘She’s been missing for weeks now. It’s about time the police got off their backsides and found her.’
‘It sounds as though she made quite an impression on you,’ said Brett.
‘She did. She was a lovely person. Someone had been stalking her. She was very shaken up about it when I saw her last. I would hate to think she’d been murdered, but I suppose it could be a possibility.’
Paul Turner sat and stared at the floor for a moment or two, then he looked up and said, ‘Well, it’s no good thinking over what might have been, I’d better get on. I’ve another sitting after you.’
When the session was finished, Paul told Brett that he could come and pick up his photographs in a couple of weeks.
‘Tell my receptionist what frames you want.’
Paul’s receptionist was more than willing to help in suggesting what frames would be best for Brett’s photographs.
‘You want them to look their best, don’t you?’
‘I do,’ said Brett. And when she had shown him an extensive range of samples and pointed out reasons for and against his choices, he was impressed. ‘You’re very knowledgeable,’ he said. ‘Have you worked here long?’
‘About five years.’
‘And how do you get on with Mrs Turner, Paul’s wife? Or is she just his partner? Is she good to you?’
‘She’d like to be Mrs, but she isn’t. She is nice, though.’
‘Oh, they aren’t married, then? I suppose they live in the flat upstairs. Many small business owners do.’
‘That’s right. They’ve got a lovely flat, you ought to see it. But then there aren’t any kids to ruin it.’
‘Is that what kids do? I must make sure never to have any.’
The receptionist laughed.
‘It would be a crying shame if a handsome man like you didn’t produce a clutch,’ she said. ‘See you soon. Bye.’
As he left Paul’s studio, Brett knew that though he would go back to pick up his photographs, he would have no need to go there again. Unless Paul was a very accomplished liar, he could safely rule him out of any involvement in Ginny’s disappearance. The man seemed to be genuinely fond of her. There had to be someone else and it had to be someone Ginny knew. It was well-known that murders were usually committed by someone close to the victim. He just hoped that it was not murder that had caused her to disappear.