Devil's Work

by Margaret Yorke

  ‘Oh well,’ Bea shrugged, and walked on, but she felt curious about Alan’s break with habit.

  An hour later, Daphne was wondering whether to start her own meal or wait for Alan. She was hungry and tired after the long drive, and the casserole warming through in the oven smelled good. Just as she had decided to go ahead, the telephone rang. It was Emily Peters.

  ‘Ah—got you—glad you’re back,’ said Emily. ‘I rang last night to give Alan the message, so you’d hear as soon as possible, but I couldn’t get hold of him. I tried several times. It’s about the medal on Tuesday,’ and she went on to talk about golf.

  How odd that Alan hadn’t answered, thought Daphne, replacing the receiver. The telephone must have been out of order, for Alan never went out at night.

  14

  Chief Superintendent Drummer, head of the Berbridge Division, directed the search for Tessa himself. The child had not been missed till late afternoon; darkness was failing and the early March nights were cold. It had begun to drizzle. A small child, out in bad weather, might die of exposure.

  But where do you start to look for a missing child?

  Having established, for certain, that Tessa really was lost and not either hiding or hidden at home, inquiries had to begin at the school, which by now was closed. But teachers were traced and questioned about possible friends, and the crossing-patrol warden was asked if she had seen Tessa leaving the school. She remembered her clearly, walking off on her own in her navy duffle coat, her woollen cap and her red gloves, with her satchel. She knew Tessa as a child who, until lately, had often gone home alone.

  ‘A nice, quiet little thing,’ said the lollipop lady. ‘Poor lamb.’ She confirmed that for the past little while the child’s mother and a man, with a shabby green car, had often met Tessa, and a good thing too, for she was too young to cross the main road alone and she often went back that way.

  Not today, however: the lollipop lady was sure of that; she had noticed her setting off towards the recreation ground. She hadn’t needed to cross the road.

  Police officers went to the homes of parents of Tessa’s classmates, to make sure she had not gone back with a friend and to ask if any of them had seen her after school or knew where she might be, but there was no news at all. A house-to-house inquiry began in the area, starting between the school and Oak Way, fanning out as nothing was learned. Police officers went to the recreation ground and hunted there; they looked in the groundsman’s shed, and they searched the boats moored alongside the river, shining torches in at the windows, as all the cabins were securely locked.

  If the child had fallen into the water, she wouldn’t stand a chance; the river was full now after the winter’s rain, black and fast-flowing, too rapid and too deep to drag. Her body, if that was her fate, would perhaps be washed up later downstream, or possibly a garment –her cap or a glove – might appear. There were no signs anywhere on the bank to indicate that she had been there, but the path was gravelled, and would show no footprints. There were rushes along a stretch of the river and the police officers looked among them, in case she lay there, but there was no trace of her.

  Chief Superintendent Drummer arranged for a loudspeaker appeal round the local streets, asking if anyone had seen Tessa, but nobody came forward. The woman who had been in the recreation ground with her baby and toddler had been so engrossed with them both that she had not noticed Tessa’s solitary, silent passage past. She did nothing when she heard the loudspeaker request; she had nothing to say.

  Tessa had vanished as completely as if she had been whisked off by a magic carpet.

  Had a stranger been waiting, parked in his car out of sight of the school, watching for a child who might be enticed away? Or had Tessa wandered through the gate leading to the recreation ground to the towpath and fallen into the river?

  Either fate was dreadful to think of, but she might survive the first if she were found soon. There had been no recent local reports of children being spoken to by anyone sounding suspicious. A known sexual offender in the area was questioned and could prove himself, this time, beyond suspicion.

  Tessa had not been seen at either the railway station or the main bus terminus. Conductors who had been on the local buses during the afternoon were asked if they had seen her, but no one had.

  Darkness had fallen. Tessa was lost.

  Children sometimes found their way into empty buildings. Everywhere possible would be searched.

  Later that night, Mrs Cox picked Tessa out of her coffin-like place of concealment. She carried her into the bedroom, turned down Mavis’s bed, and laid the child between the cool, spotless sheets, taking off her zipped boots before tucking her feet in. She should not wake for many hours, if ever again, but if she did, she would soon be sent back to sleep. She looked so pretty and peaceful, preserved in her innocence, Mrs Cox thought as she gazed down at her.

  Before going to bed herself, Mrs Cox dissolved more of Mavis’s pills in a glass of orange juice, and added some chloral hydrate and baby sedative. She put the glass ready on her bedside table in case it should be needed later.

  The excitement had tired her. Mrs Cox was soon asleep in her basement bedroom, with her blue bulb burning.

  A woman police constable came to see Louise during the evening. She asked her again about Tessa. Where might she go? What was she interested in?

  She learned, in more detail, how often Tessa had done shopping errands on her way home and how sensible she had always been. Would she talk to strangers?

  ‘She talked to Alan,’ Louise confessed. ‘She made friends with him before I did. That was how we met,’ and she told the officer how it had happened.

  ‘So where was he this afternoon? If he usually came to fetch her from school with you, why not today?’ asked WPC Frost.

  ‘He had a job interview,’ said Louise. She explained why he had so much time to spare.

  Before she left to go back to Berbridge Central Police Station, taking with her Tessa’s pyjamas from under her pillow in case it was decided to use dogs in the search, WPC Frost went to the ground floor flat, where the Henshaws had now returned from work, and told them what had happened. Jean Henshaw went up at once to see Louise, and asked her to spend the night with them, but Louise wouldn’t move in case Tessa returned.

  Jean stayed with her, trying to reassure her that Tessa wouldn’t go off with some sinister man in a car, but that if such a man approached her, she might be scared and run away. That was probably what had happened; she’d got lost, and, as it was raining now, would shelter somewhere till morning.

  But both women knew that if any law-abiding citizen found a little girl wandering about, one old enough to give her name and address, they would either take her home themselves or get the police as soon as they could.

  ‘I just know something awful’s happened,’ said Louise. ‘There’s no other explanation.’

  Jean thought so too, but it wouldn’t help Louise if she agreed aloud. She tried to think of safe adventures Tessa might have. She was warmly dressed, in her duffle coat and her boots, and could withstand a certain degree of cold. If she got very tired, she might curl up somewhere and sleep. She’d be found in the morning.

  While Jean was there, Alan arrived. He had made record time from Lower Holtbury, the car clattering as he sped along the main road. He’d slowed down through the town; getting stopped for speeding now would help no one, though he certainly hoped the police weren’t wasting time on motorists when there was a child lost somewhere in the cold, dark and rainy night.

  Jean returned to her husband.

  ‘He seems nice, this Alan,’ she told him. ‘A good bit older than Louise, though. I’m glad she’s got someone.’ She felt guilty, now, at not trying harder to be friendly towards Louise, but the girl had always seemed so withdrawn. Today, though, Louise had told Jean about her visit to London, and confessed to her attacks of what seemed to be agoraphobia.

  ‘If only I’d stayed at home today,’ Louise had said, ‘T
essa wouldn’t be lost.’

  ‘If only—’ Jean repeated. ‘What sad words they are.’

  If only she and Terence had taken more trouble, Louise might not have sunk so low.

  ‘We must help her now, whatever happens,’ she declared.

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Terence, silently hoping that this Alan, whoever he was, would do what was required.

  Back at Berbridge Central Police Station, WPC Frost reported her conversation with Louise and what had been said about Alan Parker and his movements. It wasn’t long before a disparity was noticed between Louise’s version of how he had spent his day, and the account he had given himself. Alan had said he was at Biggs and Cooper as usual; Louise had said he was out of work and had been for an interview during the afternoon.

  Chief Superintendent Drummer ordered Alan Parker to be brought in at once to explain this discrepancy.

  There had been time for Louise to tell Alan a little about her day, but she seemed to have pushed most of what had happened in London out of her mind, except for regretting that she’d gone at all.

  ‘Nonsense, Louise,’ Alan said, though he shared her feelings. If only he hadn’t had that interview himself: he’d have gone with her to London, and it wouldn’t have been such an ordeal. They wouldn’t have missed the train. But you couldn’t go on wishing time back.

  He tried to console Louise and make sense of what she was saying about her father and the other house she had called at, the one in Farland Road.

  ‘You mean you came back from school one day and found it quite empty? No furniture? Nothing?’ He was aghast.

  ‘That’s right,’ said Louise. ‘I suppose my mother thought explanations were pointless. She’d made up her mind what to do.’

  ‘But not meeting you at school—’ Alan said. ‘To let you come back alone and find that—’

  ‘I always came back from school alone,’ said Louise. ‘I remember that now. But it wasn’t far; there were no roads to cross. And I was older, by then, than Tessa is now. Besides, things weren’t so bad when I was a child. So many terrible things didn’t happen to children then.’

  Alan wasn’t sure about that. He thought they were simply more widely known about now.

  It was useless for him to go out searching for Tessa. The police had scoured the district already and every officer on patrol was aware that a child was missing. They were still hunting where they could, though it was dark. There were factory premises and other deserted places where possibly, stretching expectations, a child might somehow have strayed. Such cases had been known.

  Alan was trying to think of these and similar comforting theories to offer Louise when a police officer came to the door and asked him to go with him, please, to the police station. Alan had easily been found, when the officer sent to collect him from Lower Holtbury had learned that he had gone out.

  ‘Something to do with an accident,’ Daphne had said, bewildered, at the door. ‘You came before – at least, another policeman did. An older one,’ she added, looking at the smooth young face beneath its flat cap. ‘I wish I knew what it was all about, but he left without saying where he was going.’

  The policeman didn’t enlighten her. Alan’s car was soon spotted outside 51 Oak Way, where HQ had suggested it should be sought on hearing the officer’s report.

  ‘It’s impossible. How could she be here?’ said Freda Hampton, when a police constable from Portrinnock called at the hotel to see if her granddaughter was there.

  Indeed, there had not been enough time since she disappeared for Tessa to reach Cornwall, even if she had been transported directly from door to door.

  ‘We have to make sure,’ he said.

  ‘How could she be lost?’ Freda demanded. She was very busy; dinner would soon be served. What a moment for such a visit. ‘She’s playing some trick on her mother,’ she said. ‘Hiding somewhere.’

  ‘I hope you’re right, Mrs Hampton,’ said the young officer. ‘Well, you’ll let us know if she does turn up, won’t you?’

  ‘Of course, of course. But she’s six years old. She couldn’t make such a journey alone, and without any money.’

  ‘Children do strange things,’ said the officer. ‘Hide in lorries and so forth.’

  ‘She’s not a troublesome child, at all,’ Freda said. ‘Quite obedient, and quiet. I’m very surprised.’

  When he had gone, she went on stirring the sauce, but had to beat it quite hard as some lumps had formed. Ruth came in while, frowning with concentration, she worked at it.

  ‘What a terrible thing, Freda,’ she said. ‘Poor Louise. You’ll go to her, of course.’

  ‘Why ever should I do that?’ Freda said instantly. ‘It won’t help Louise to find Tessa. It’s her fault the child’s missing. She must have been negligent.’

  ‘Even after all these years you can still amaze me, Freda,’ said Ruth. ‘Don’t you realise that Tessa – your granddaughter – may have been abducted by some pervert? She may never be found alive. What do you think Louise is going through at this moment?’

  ‘It’s no good being weak and sentimental, Ruth,’ said Freda, pouring sauce over the braised steak for table four. ‘Louise must manage.’

  ‘Someone must go,’ said Ruth.

  ‘Well, you can’t, if that’s what you’re thinking,’ said Freda. ‘You can’t leave the bar. She’ll have friends – neighbours.’

  But Ruth was remembering how Louise had fled from her friends after Roddy’s death.

  ‘I’m going,’ she said. Through her mind ran what must happen if Tessa were to be found dead: the identification of the body; an inquest; things Louise had had to face before. ‘Louise isn’t at all tough,’ she went on. ‘And no one should have to cope on their own with this sort of thing.’

  ‘She was always weak,’ said Freda. ‘Like her father.’

  And what about him, Ruth almost asked. What about the lie you lived about that? But this was no time to rake up the past.

  ‘I’ll ring up Marjorie and see if she’ll come and hold the fort while I’m gone,’ Ruth said. Marjorie worked as a receptionist during the season. ‘If she’s at home, I’m sure she will when she hears what’s happened.’

  ‘But you mustn’t tell her. We must keep it quiet,’ said Freda.

  ‘Good God, why? It will be in all the newspapers tomorrow,’ cried Ruth.

  ‘One should keep one’s troubles to oneself,’ Freda said. ‘No one will know it’s connected with us, if it is in the paper.’

  ‘I don’t understand you, Freda,’ said Ruth, not for the first time in their acquaintance, though it wasn’t quite true. ‘But I’m wasting no more time now. I’m going to telephone Marjorie.’

  In less than an hour, Ruth was in the brake on her way to Berbridge. Freda, when dinner was over, went up to the flat as usual. Ruth hadn’t even stopped for a meal; Freda had cut some beef sandwiches for her and put up a flask of coffee, since she seemed set on what seemed to Freda a ridiculous journey. How tiresome of Louise not to be on the telephone; a telephone call would have done, as it had after Roddy’s accident. Ruth had wanted to go to her then, but Roddy’s mother had flown over from her home in Majorca and there was no need for anyone else, Freda had said. She’d gone to the funeral and that was enough.

  Louise was as feckless as her father.

  Freda had put on the television, but for once she was not held by the screen. After a while she got up and went to the desk. She opened the bottom drawer and felt about under the pile of old magazines.

  Her wedding photograph had gone.

  She searched through the magazines and the rest of the drawers, but it had disappeared.

  Freda felt shocked. She hadn’t looked in the drawer for years, but she’d known that it was there, her one reminder that once she had been pretty, desirable and desired.

  Jim had been so persistent; he’d been handsome, too, tall and fair-haired in his air force blue. Girls were eager to marry then, in the war; they took chances in case there would be none
later and she’d been envied. It had been easy at first, for he’d been away most of the time, but when the war ended he was always there, and seemed unable to adjust to civilian life. Later, there had been Louise too, and they’d both wanted from Freda something she could not give. In the end, Jim had gone looking for love at the office. That’s what he’d called it, though to Freda it had an uglier name. He hadn’t done well at work, taking a long time to find a job after he was demobilised and then being passed over for promotion.

  It was strange, Louise asking about him last time she was down, after so long. Had she taken the photograph? She’d no business to poke and pry. She’d wanted to know where they had lived, but Freda had put all that behind her, though it was the house in Putney that had set her on the path to prosperity. Without the money from that she couldn’t have bought her share of this hotel. But not another penny had she had from Jim over all the years. She doubted if he had made many.

  Freda felt uneasy, knowing that Ruth was not in the house. She so seldom left the hotel – only for her annual trip to visit her aged mother in Scotland each winter. Freda hoped she would drive carefully; it was raining hard here, though what it was like further east she did not know.

  Ruth had promised to telephone, whatever the news, in the morning.

  It was time for bed. Freda closed the desk, switched off the television, turned out the lights and went out of the room. Later, in bed, she closed her eyes and folded her arms across her chest, waiting for sleep, which was usually prompt.

  That night, in her narrow bed, Freda lay wakeful, while scenes from the past jostled and jumbled about in her mind.

  15

  Why on earth did the police want to talk to Alan? And why take him off? Why not talk to him here, if they must, Louise wondered. They couldn’t imagine he’d had something to do with Tessa’s disappearance. Those men who molested children – even to form the words in her mind made Louise shudder with dread – were perverted: monsters. A man as kind, gentle and tender as Alan had proved to be couldn’t be one of them. And he loved Tessa; Louise knew he did; he loved them both.