Mrs Renton knew of the missing child and expressed concern; the visitor yesterday had seemed distressed, the au pair girl had said.
The policewoman went away. Perhaps the mother hadn’t missed her train at all, but had met her own child, somehow attacked her, and then reported her missing. If she was having a breakdown, it could have happened; such things did. She went back to report.
‘Louise has a child,’ James Hampton said to his wife. ‘Poor little thing – what can have happened?’
Betty Hampton thought it weird that Louise hadn’t mentioned the child, nor the fact of her husband’s death, which they’d learned from the policewoman. She must be a very strange girl, she decided, and hoped James would not want to make contact with her as a result of this business; it wouldn’t do his blood pressure any good at all.
They’d been going to pack china today, ready for Monday when the van came for their move. She couldn’t bear it if now, after all this time, something upset their plans.
‘I expect she’ll turn up,’ she said.
First thing on Saturday morning, Terence Henshaw had gone to offer his help in the search for Tessa. While he was out, Sandra and Jenny from the top floor came downstairs to ask Jean if there was any news.
‘It’s so dreadful,’ said Sandra. ‘If only there was some way to help Louise.’
‘We could feed them,’ said Jean. ‘She’s got people with her – some friend of her mother’s and her boyfriend.’
‘I didn’t know she had a boyfriend,’ said Jenny. ‘Is he nice?’
‘Seems all right. Old enough to be her father, though,’ said Jean.
‘What were you thinking of?’ asked Sandra. She and Jenny both had dates that night and it seemed a pity to cancel them, though they must, of course, if necessary.
‘Tomorrow lunch, I thought,’ said Jean. ‘Most people like a roast on Sunday, don’t they? I shouldn’t think any of them feel much like cooking.’
‘Good idea,’ said Jenny. ‘We’ll help, won’t we, Sandra?’
It was agreed, and they discussed plans over coffee.
‘I’ve hardly spoken to Louise,’ Jenny said. ‘She’s awfully quiet – never seems to want to stop for a natter.’
‘Tessa’s a sensible little girl, though, isn’t she?’ said Sandra. ‘I’ve often seen her going off to school on her own, when I’ve been dashing to work, late as usual.’
‘Yes, she is,’ said Jean. ‘But what does a kid that age know, after all? Tell her some sort of tale and she’d believe it.’ She stirred her coffee. ‘We’ve asked Louise round in the evening several times, but she’d never come because of leaving Tessa.’
‘The old girl in the basement would sit in, wouldn’t she?’ Sandra said. ‘She goes baby-sitting, I know.’
‘I don’t suppose Louise can afford sitters,’ Jean said.
‘She doesn’t go out to work any more, does she?’ asked Jenny.
‘She does typing at home,’ Jean said. ‘It’s better, I expect, with Tessa. She can work at night, and while Tessa’s at school.’
But all three knew it wouldn’t be as well paid as a job in an office, unless Louise did an immense amount of work. No overheads, though, beyond her machine, they agreed, and no need to worry about clothes for the office; but lonely.
They enjoyed their talk; it was strange, they thought, that it took trouble to bring them together. The girls and the Henshaws had never done more than exchange a few words if they met in the hall.
Sandra and Jenny went shopping together that afternoon to buy things for the puddings they were going to make. Sandra bought a skirt, too; and Jenny a pair of shoes. Before they went out, Jenny whipped up an instant cake and took it down for Louise. The man opened the door and accepted it, thanking her gravely.
He did look nice, though his hair was ever so grey.
Ruth had telephoned Freda Hampton on Saturday morning, using the Henshaws’ telephone. Freda was short with her, telling her she should return – that she couldn’t stay with Louise indefinitely.
No, she couldn’t, Ruth knew, and Alan was with her. She saw that he really cared about Louise, and about Tessa, too. If there was no news by Sunday evening, and if Alan could stay with Louise, she would come home then, Ruth told Freda.
For by then, hope of finding Tessa alive must be small; and no more might be known for weeks, if ever.
Freda sought about in her mind for a message to send to her daughter.
‘Tell Louise—er—’ she said, and paused. The word ‘love’ was one she never used, and she could not frame any sort of affectionate message.
Ruth waited. She would not help.
‘Tell her,’ Freda said again, and then, with a burst, ‘tell her not to stop hoping.’
Ruth passed on the exact message. It was good advice.
She felt very tired, and went to bed early on Saturday night, in Tessa’s bed. Someone must try to be rested, for dreadful news might have to be faced. Later, Alan coaxed Louise into bed, and lay there beside her, holding her gently, not talking, till at last, because he was there, she dozed. He lay awake for a long time himself.
Down below in the basement flat Mrs Cox, exhausted, all her muscles aching, lay at peace in her bed, thinking of how she had carried out her mission and smiling in the darkness. Once or twice, she laughed aloud. Soon she too was asleep.
In Cherry Cottage, Lower Holtbury, Daphne had her bath. Afterwards she came downstairs, in her dressing gown, and turned on the television. There was nothing about the missing child on the late news. She made herself a cup of tea and wandered about, drinking it. What could Alan be doing, all this time? Was he still with that woman? She looked up Waring in the telephone directory, but there was no number for anyone of that name in Berbridge. Anyway, even if there had been, how could she ring up a woman whose child was missing at such a time? Why hadn’t Alan rung her again?
At last she gave up and went to bed, but she could not sleep. Her mind raced round, puzzling about Alan. They’d always trusted one another; they had no secrets from each other. Or so she had thought.
Well, whatever happened, he’d have to go to the office on Monday. She’d break with practice and ring him up there, if he hadn’t come home by then.
18
Mrs Duncan, on Sunday morning, was most surprised to discover the dirty state her baby son’s pram was in. The wheels were all caked with mud and the bodywork was wet. The baby still had his morning nap in the pram, which in bad weather was placed in the garage by the open door so that he breathed in the fresh, if damp, air his mother thought would be good for him.
Their car had been very wet when they put it away the previous night. Mr Duncan said perhaps it was condensation. But condensation didn’t explain the mud, pointed out his wife, and when she went to make up the pram with the mattress and bedding which were always taken into the house at night, she saw splinters of wood on the plastic lining. She puzzled about it, on and off, throughout Sunday morning. Surely the baby-sitter, the night before, hadn’t taken the baby out somewhere?
Of course not, her husband said when she put forward this worrying theory. She must have pushed the pram through muddy puddles herself, and forgotten.
But the day before they’d gone out in the car. The pram hadn’t been pushed out since Friday, and then it was only down to the shops and not to the recreation ground, where Mrs Duncan sometimes went when the weather was fine, on her way to the towpath. She liked to look at the river.
Dick and Bea Pearce, in Lower Holtbury, had people in for drinks on Sunday morning.
‘Does anyone know what Alan’s been up to?’ Bea wanted to know, handing cheese straws. Daphne had rung that morning and made an excuse for their absence; Alan was getting a cold, she said, but her voice sounded odd; not like herself at all. Wouldn’t she come on her own, Bea had suggested, and Daphne had refused, which was out of character. The Parkers were two who didn’t live in each other’s pockets.
The garage doors at Cherry Cottage were s
hut when Bea went past with the dog, but she hadn’t forgotten the newspapers stuck in the letter-box while Daphne was away, and the milk on the step.
She mentioned these things to her Sunday guests.
‘He can’t have left home,’ someone said. ‘Not Alan.’
‘Nor be having an affair,’ someone else went on. ‘Could he?’
A silence fell. Uneasy glances were exchanged, and the women moved closer to their husbands, for if Alan, that model, could stray, no one was safe.
In their separate bed-sitters, Sandra and Jenny rose early on Sunday morning to make their respective apple pie and lemon cheesecake. Intent and busy, they worked away, their doors open on the attic landing to keep them in touch with each other and with Sandra’s radio on.
Terence Henshaw was laying the table in the ground floor flat while Jean stuffed the pork. He’d already peeled the potatoes – quantities, as many as would fit in the roasting tin, for who knew what number would actually be in the house when lunch time came? A police car had driven up earlier, but brought no news; it was just a routine call to see how Louise had weathered the night. A journalist had rung the Henshaws’ bell, and Terence had enjoyed telling him to get lost.
‘We should ask Mrs Cox,’ he said to Jean. ‘There’s plenty of food, after all. I bet she hasn’t had a decent roast for years. Probably just pecks at a small chop on her own.
Jean thought Mrs Cox looked quite well nourished, but she agreed with the sentiment.
‘Yes, ask her, do,’ she said.
Terence went downstairs at ten o’clock. He rang the bell at the basement flat and stood on the step, whistling. There was quite a delay, and he rang again. Then he heard a rather cross voice.
‘Yes? Who’s there?’ Mrs Cox called sharply.
She had woken late, and her head was aching. All her muscles were sore and her back was stiff; she could not stand straight.
‘Mrs Cox, it’s Terence Henshaw, from upstairs. Can I have a word?’ Terence called cheerily, moving from one foot to the other as he waited. It was cold and misty; the rain had stopped and every tree and shrub in the garden dripped with moisture.
There was the sound of bolts being drawn and the door opened. Mrs Cox peered round it. Her hair was disordered and her always pale face had a yellowish tinge. She looked really ill, Terence thought, in surprise.
‘I just wanted to ask you to lunch,’ he said. ‘We’re cooking some pork for everyone in the house – you know because of the trouble upstairs – poor little Tessa.’
Mrs Cox had opened the door a little wider but Terence saw that she was barely taking in what he said. She wore a man’s thick, woollen cardigan but she was shivering, and was almost unkempt when always, before, she’d appeared so neat.
‘Will you come to lunch?’ he repeated. ‘In our flat upstairs?’ and he beamed at her, adding, to tempt, ‘Roast pork.’
‘I’m not very well,’ Mrs Cox said. She took her hand from the door and drew the cardigan more closely across her chest. ‘Thank you, no,’ she managed to add.
Terence’s gaze, as she moved, left her face for an instant and went past her. It was gloomy inside the room. He felt curious. It must be depressing down here, all on her own, he thought. His eye caught a patch of something red on the floor and he focused on it, frowning.
‘Won’t you really?’ he pressed. ‘Please do.’ He stared at the small red object, puzzled.
‘No,’ Mrs Cox was saying, moving to close the door.
‘I’ll bring your lunch down, then,’ Terence spoke slowly to her now. ‘I’ll lay you a tray. I’ll see you then.’
Before she had closed the door he had bounded up the basement steps and was haring round to the entrance to his own flat.
It was a little red glove which lay on the floor of Mrs Cox’s living-room, under an upright chair. Terence raced past Jean, almost knocking her over in his hurry to get to the telephone. She heard him telling the police what he had seen.
Everyone knew that Tessa had worn her red gloves the day she had disappeared.
Chief Superintendent Drummer was in his office when Terence Henshaw’s call came through, so he heard the news at once.
He went round to Oak Way himself, with a backup car containing a uniformed sergeant and a woman police constable.
First, Drummer and the sergeant went to the Henshaws’ ground floor flat; for a quick repeat of Terence’s story, while the woman police constable stayed at the gate in case Mrs Cox sought to leave, though she could not see the police car, nor the two men, from her basement.
All three officers then went to Mrs Cox’s door, and they took Terence with them.
‘She’ll open to you,’ Drummer said. ‘She may not want to let us come in.’
‘Mrs Cox, Mrs Cox,’ Terence called, after ringing the bell, which pealed sharply behind the black door. ‘It’s Terence Henshaw here, about your lunch.’
It was suddenly silent. The three police officers all stood against the wall so that if Mrs Cox looked out of the window she could not see them. Then they heard a shuffling sound.
‘What’s that?’ came a cross-sounding voice from inside. ‘It’s not time yet.’
‘It’s about the pudding,’ Terence said. ‘Do you like apple pie? Please open the door, Mrs Cox.’
If she didn’t, they’d soon break it in, he and the two coppers, both burly men, Terence thought. God, was that poor little kid in there, all the time?
The bolts slid back and the door opened a crack. Mrs Cox’s pale face looked out.
‘What’s that you say?’ she asked.
The next few seconds were a blur of movement. The door was pushed back, almost knocking Mrs Cox off her feet, and the policewoman slipped in to hold her arm. Terence stood by the door and pointed silently to where the glove still lay. It had dropped from Tessa’s pocket when she took off her coat on Friday and hung it over a chair. Mrs Cox had done no cleaning since then, and had not seen it on the floor. When she put the child into her coat the night before, she had fastened only one toggle, and she had not noticed the slight bulge of the other glove in the pocket.
‘Where is she? Where is Tessa, Mrs Cox?’ Drummer asked.
Mrs Cox shook her head.
‘I don’t know,’ she said. ‘It’s got nothing to do with me. I never saw her.’
Drummer and the sergeant went quickly through the flat. Tessa’s satchel hung on a peg in the kitchen, where Mrs Cox had put it on Friday.
‘What about this?’ Drummer said, holding it up. It swung from his hand. ‘Tessa took this to school on Friday.’
Mrs Cox began to mutter and sniffle.
‘What’s that?’ Drummer snapped. ‘Speak up, Mrs Cox. ‘Tell us where Tessa is.’
‘She ran off,’ Mrs Cox said. ‘She came in – on Friday. Then she ran off, when I was making the tea. Just ran away.’ She rummaged in her cardigan pocket and took out a handkerchief, a large one, snowy white, and began snuffling into it.
‘Why didn’t you tell us this on Friday, Mrs Cox?’ Drummer inquired. His tone was stern.
‘I was frightened,’ Mrs Cox said. ‘I was afraid her mother would be angry with me. She’s a strange woman, that,’ she added, more strongly. Then she looked at Drummer defiantly, the handkerchief still in her hand. ‘Tessa ran off because her mother wasn’t there. She went looking for her, I expect.’
While this conversation went on, the sergeant had been going more thoroughly round the flat. He had lifted the lid of the chest in the room where they stood.
‘Better come here a minute, sir,’ he said in a very quiet voice.
Drummer went over and looked into the chest. The soft blanket inside was crushed as if a small body had lain upon it. There were indentations, like heel marks, in the fabric. The sergeant leaned in and pointed. A long, fair hair clung to the wool.
Drummer had expected to see the child’s body inside the chest. This, at least, was a sort of reprieve.
‘My God,’ he said softly. ‘Get the SOCO boys her
e at once.’ He turned to Mrs Cox. ‘Where is Tessa now, Mrs Cox?’ he demanded. ‘Are you going to tell me now, or would you prefer to come to the police station?’ What had happened here? Had it been some strange game of hide-and-seek that somehow went wrong?
Mrs Cox stared at him, silently, her body stiff. The policewoman still held her arm.
‘Well?’ Drummer’s expression was grim. This was a most unlikely child molester but Tessa had certainly been here, and lain in that chest. The Scenes-of-Crime Officer and his team would have to take the place apart, lift up the floor if necessary, if Mrs Cox would not make a full statement.
She looked back at him, sullen now, in a manner all too familiar to Drummer. This was no kind, retired pensioner; this was a villain.
‘Very well,’ he said shortly. ‘The station it is. You’ll tell me there. I’ve a feeling it won’t be your first time inside a nick.’
He fetched her coat himself from the bedroom cupboard, treading gingerly in order not to disturb any evidence which there might be. He had no hope, now, of finding Tessa alive but as he glanced round the bedroom at the photographs on display, no bells rang in his mind. He’d been a young copper, still in the traffic division, when little Grace died all those years ago, murdered by her nanny.
19
Ruth had gone round to the Henshaws to discuss what to do about lunch, as Louise wouldn’t agree to leave the flat in case there was news about Tessa. On the way past the basement flat to the front door entrance, she’d noticed activity down below.
‘Why don’t we bring your lunch up to you?’ Jean Henshaw suggested. ‘Your three helpings, I mean. It’s what we intended to do for Mrs Cox, after all. Take it to her, I mean.’
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