‘Peaceful, isn’t it? Have you caught on yet, Miss Best? That is the expression, I believe.’
One of the young women looked around then, and began gesticulating towards Mrs Selby-Jones, who immediately responded in hand signals, so rapid that Alex could never have followed them, even if she had the faintest idea what they meant. The lady moved across to the girl’s computer, pointing out something that the girl immediately corrected.
‘Are all these people deaf?’ Alex said.
‘Right again, Miss Best. And they all do a splendid job in producing the See-All, Hear-All newsletter that we distribute to all the deaf clubs in the country who request it. I don’t do it for gain, only for love. Although, of course, my trusty staff here are well-remunerated for their skills. Does that answer some of your questions?’
‘Not really—’
Mrs Selby-Jones sighed. ‘Then let me explain. My husband was a very wealthy man, Miss Best. He was High Commissioner in an overseas government post until he lost his hearing due to a coup in that country blasted his eardrums, along with other injuries that I don’t care to discuss.
‘But it finished his career, and he had a painful time adjusting to a very different way of life. That was also when we discovered how the rest of the world views deafness. After he died I decided to do what little I could for the deaf community by starting this newsletter, and it’s proved successful in its own small way.’
Alex was chastened by her frankness. ‘But I notice that you don’t give your contributors any credits or by-lines in the newsletter. Isn’t that odd?’
‘We are the contributors, Miss Best, apart from those who send in voluntary news items such as holiday reports, which we keep as upbeat and informative as possible. We’re completely non-profit-making, and I do this in memory of my husband.’
‘But what about the crossword compiler? Don’t you pay her? She’s not one of these people here, is she?’ Alex said, a note of desperation in her voice. The woman stated the facts in such a matter-of-fact way, that it was obviously just as she said — a labour of love.
But none of these girls bore the remotest resemblance to the missing Caroline, so the faint hope that she might even be here, went right out of the window.
‘The compiler sends them in in batches, and has never sent an invoice or a request for payment, nor given her name and address. If it is a she, of course.’
‘Could I ask how and when she sends them?’ Alex said, starting to feel as if she was going down a long dark tunnel from which there was never going to be any light. She had been so sure she had almost cracked it, and now it was all falling apart again.
Mrs Selby-Jones signed to one of the girls again, and she brought out a large brown envelope and handed it over. Alex tried not to register how weird the operations room was, compared with a normal office. The keyboards were virtually silent, there was no radio playing, and all communication between the girls and Mrs Edwina Selby-Jones was by these silent, explicit hand signals.
It was almost creepy... but she was also filled with respect and admiration for the way they conducted their lives. To someone whose own life had always been filled with noise, it was sad — but she knew better than to say so, especially since the people here looked anything but sad.
Alex opened the proffered brown envelope and took out the batch of four crossword grids. She recognized them at once from those she had seen previously; and they were so obviously Caroline’s work. There were the expected duplicates of each one, the blank grid with the clues, and the completed grid with the answers.
‘And this is all that’s ever sent to you?’ she asked Mrs Selby-Jones.
‘That’s all.’
The postmark on the envelope was Bishop’s Stortford, which was the nearest major town to Wilsingham. It confirmed the origin of the crosswords, and their compiler. Presumably a small village like Wilsingham would have a local pick-up for sorting at a main post-office depot.
‘I’m sorry I can’t help you any further, Miss Best,’ Mrs Selby-Jones was saying now.
‘You’ve been a great help already,’ Alex assured her. ‘But could you tell me when the last batch of crosswords arrived, and when will you be expecting the next ones?’
‘They come in regularly. Our mystery compiler is very efficient, once a month we get the four that are required, and she never misses out on a fifth when it becomes necessary. Let me see now—’ She asked one of the girls for the information, and once again, Alex was subjected to the amazing display of dexterity. She guessed that Mrs Selby-Jones would have learned it with her husband at the time he became deaf, and she was filled with admiration, and not a little envy, for what she perceived must have been a devoted couple.
‘I just wanted to confirm it for you, Miss Best,’ she was told now. ‘We had the last batch three weeks ago, so the next ones should be arriving in about a week’s time, or less.’
‘Would it be a terrible inconvenience to you to call me and let me know when they arrive, just so I can be sure that everything is all right?’
‘Of course.’
There was nothing else to say, and Alex was almost glad to get out of there. Despite the opulent surroundings, she had felt oddly stifled by the silence of it all. She got back in her car and turned on the radio full blast, relishing the raucous sounds of a Mick Jagger oldie on Radio Two.
She had checked into a small hotel just outside the main part of the town. Bournemouth was at the tail end of the summer holiday rush, but it was still bustling with tourists. and Alex guessed that the season wouldn’t end for some while yet. As long as the weather held, the tourists would keep coming. And for now, she was going to join them.
She spent the evening making notes of everything she had learned that day, then having a lazy dinner in the hotel dining-room. There was still plenty of daylight and she took a short stroll along the sandy beach below the hotel. There were families everywhere, enjoying a late holiday, and occasionally a pair of lovers, their arms entwined, oblivious to everyone else.
It was a scene that did nothing but depress her. Finally, there seemed nothing else to do but go back to her room, take a shower and lie on her bed watching television. At this rate, she would be square-eyed, she thought, remembering the words her father had admonished her with years ago.
Those eyes smarted now, and not only with the drive down here and the tension of the day and the meeting with la Selby-Jones. Nor was it the residual sand in her eyes from her stroll along the beach; it was remembering her dad, and the love they had never been able to express to one another.
It would be the same with the Prices, she thought, yet there must have been love between them once. Alex only realized how much her own father had loved her when it was too late. And if there was one thing in this world she wished she could pass on, it would be to express love when you could, because once the chance was gone. it was gone for ever.
‘And I’m turning into a pathetic lump of lard,’ she muttered aloud.
All the same, there was a poignancy between her own paternal background, and Caroline’s. It drew her to the other woman in a way that few other cases had done before. If ever she longed for a happy ending to a case, it was this one, Alex thought. And she obviously wasn’t going to find it here.
The urge to stay a little longer in Bournemouth, pushing the case out of her mind for a while, was fast diminishing. She needed to be back in London, because if there was anything at all to report. it would be reported there. Mrs Selby-Jones had promised her that.
***
She was back in the city soon after lunch the next day, having called in at her office and picked up the mail, and checked the answering machine. There were no messages on it, but when she reached her flat the machine there was flashing. She pressed the play button and was told by the mechanical voice that there was one message, timed at late last night.
‘Our man has done a bunk, Alex,’ she heard Nick Frobisher’s voice say. ‘He’s discharged himself from hospital an
d gone to ground somewhere. If you’ve any idea where that might be, give me a call.’
Alex played the message again to make sure she had heard it properly. It referred to Norman Price, of course, and knowing what she did about him, she wasn’t at all surprised that he’d dis-charged himself. She didn’t imagine the hospital staff would be too displeased to see the back of him either.
She guessed immediately where he would be. He would have gone to Wilsingham to Caroline’s cottage. He could hide away in perfect secrecy until he felt able to face the world again, without the police breathing down his neck urging him to press charges against his attackers. He wouldn’t want any of that, guessing that it would expose too much of his private life.
Nick Frobisher had no idea of the address of the cottage, or that it even existed. He had no idea that there even was a daughter, unless Norman had inadvertently blabbed about it. But Alex doubted that. Once he recovered his senses, he’d be far too cute to give anything away. His first priority in hiring her to find Caroline was that he hadn’t wanted any police involvement.
So, disregarding Gary, who had only been to Greenwell Cottage once, and hadn’t been interested enough to note the address — there was only Jeremy Laver who definitely knew of it. And unless Nick had worked on the connection between them there was no reason to suppose he would have contacted Jeremy to ask if he knew what Norman’s movements might be.
It still niggled Alex that Nick was interested at all. He wasn’t meant to be a part of this investigation, but somehow he had become involved, almost as a side-line. And if she didn’t get back to him, he’d sure as hell follow up his phone message with another one, or come around to see what she knew. He wouldn’t let it alone now.
But she had no intention of calling him. Before she could stop to think, she had switched on the answering machine again and was out of there, bundling her overnight bag back into her car and speeding out of town in the direction of the M25 and the maze of minor roads to Wilsingham.
***
When she reached the village she drove straight to Greenwell Cottage. Sure enough, there was the sleek, forest-green Mercedes parked in the secluded lane outside. She pulled up behind it and went up the path to the front door. She didn’t want to alarm him, so even though she had a key, she knocked on the door and called his name quietly.
‘Mr Price, it’s Alexandra Best here, and I’m quite alone. May I come in, please?’
There was no reply, so she repeated the words again. She thought she heard something, but it sounded more like the low growl of a dog than a human voice. Her heart began to pound, but she couldn’t leave things as they were, without knowing. She put her key in the lock and pushed open the door cautiously. Then she gasped.
Norman Price was lying on the sofa, his face grey and mottled, his eyes closed. For a ghastly moment Alex thought he was dead, until she saw his lips move feebly.
‘Thank God. Get me some pain-killers, quick.’
‘What on earth’s happened? Has someone attacked you?’
She ignored his lack of manners. In the circumstances it was understandable. And she had just managed not to add the word ‘again’. She wasn’t supposed to know he’d been mugged. As far as Price was concerned, she didn’t know DI Nick Frobisher.
‘Never mind that. I need some bloody aspirins. I slipped and fell and nearly knocked myself out, face and all.’
Tell that to the marines, Alex thought. But there was no point in arguing with him. He looked terrible, and even though his facial swellings had gone down now, he was still rainbow-hued. Anyone with any gumption at all would know those bruises hadn’t suddenly appeared.
‘Stay where you are and I’ll see what I can find in the bath-room cabinet,’ she said.
‘I wasn’t thinking of going anywhere,’ he snarled, savage with pain and exhaustion.
So far he hadn’t asked what Alex was doing there, but it wasn’t unreasonable that she would have come to check whether or not Caroline had returned. She found the pain-killers and gave him a couple with a glass of water, then put the kettle on for some tea. He wasn’t totally coherent, and she wondered just how long he had been there without food. His injuries had obviously become more pronounced since driving himself all this way like the lunatic that he was.
‘I thought she might have come back,’ he muttered vaguely now, leaning back on the cushions. ‘I hoped it might all have been a dream and she wasn’t missing — or worse.’
Startled, Alex realized he was talking about Caroline. It was the first time she had heard anything like anxiety in his voice. It might even have been real anxiety, however fleeting, of the kind that a father might feel for a daughter, instead of the mercenary jerk she thought he was. Maybe he was human after all. But she wasn’t totally convinced about that yet.
‘I’m on the track, Mr Price,’ she said carefully. ‘I know time is getting short now—’
Immediately, she saw a different light in his eyes, and her sympathy for him vanished as quickly as his apparent anxiety for Caroline.
‘You’ve found her?’
‘I didn’t say that. I said I’m on the track. These things take time, especially when someone may not want to be found. But there’s no reason to suppose that she won’t simply turn up in time to claim her inheritance, is there? She may just be, well, teasing you.’
He snorted. ‘Caroline doesn’t tease. We don’t have that sort of relationship,’ he said with a scowl, but again Alex wondered if she caught a glimpse of a vulnerability in him he wouldn’t even admit, even to himself.
The hard-headed businessman couldn’t be seen to care about a daughter who was too prickly-skinned to want sympathy, or love. That produced faults on both sides. It was also a childish, tit-for-tat situation.
You don’t love me, so I won’t love you. Yah boo sucks.
Alex guessed that much of the difficult relationship between them could well have stemmed from childhood. It took two to make a relationship, and if neither side was willing to make allowances, there was nothing left but stalemate.
‘Well, if you’ve got nothing else to report, you’d best get out of here and leave me be,’ he said now, wincing as he tried to haul himself up into a more comfortable position.
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she said, coming to a decision. ‘I’m starving, and I’m sure you are too. There’s probably some food in the pantry and freezer. I’m not moving from here until I’ve made us a proper meal, and if I think it’s advisable, I’m staying the night.’
‘You fancy yourself as a nurse now, do you?’
‘Why not? Now, are you going to accept my help, or not? And don’t worry, I’ll be putting all these extra services on my bill,’ she added, knowing this was the kind of currency he would understand.
The poor sap really did look as if he needed looking after right now, though. He shouldn’t have discharged himself from hospital before he was properly fit. And he certainly shouldn’t have driven all this way on top of it. After a minute, he gave a distorted grimace.
‘You’ve got a bossy kind of bedside manner, Miss Best, but since I don’t have the energy to refuse, I suppose I’d better accept.’ After a pause, he added, ‘You do think she’s all right, don’t you?’
She reassured him non-committally. She didn’t know any more than he did what had happened to Caroline, or if she was alive or dead. But it was the nearest he’d come yet to showing any sign of being worried sick about his daughter.
And finding a spark of humanity in Father Price was far more important to Alex than any thanks for staying here, even though she was well aware that she mustn’t confuse the issue.
Her own background wasn’t in the least like Caroline’s... but there was still too much of a parallel between two sets of fathers and daughters that made her feel a special kind of commitment to this particular pair.
Chapter 10
Jeremy Laver was rehearsing a particularly difficult violin passage for the tenth time that morning. As always when th
ings weren’t going well, the artistic temperament so gloatingly described by music critics as a character flaw, was burgeoning forth. In recollection of one of their favourite smug phrases, he knew he was venting his spleen, whatever the devil that was, both on himself and on his fellow musicians.
To his credit, he never spared himself when things were going wrong. This was one of those times when he despaired of any-thing in his life ever going right. And there were plenty of those. He knew he was one of life’s pessimists ...
‘Mr Laver? Can I have a word. please?’
His head jerked up from his instrument as he heard a voice he didn’t recognize. He saw the heavily built man approaching through the centre aisle of the theatre, and anger flashed in his eyes, knowing he’d have words with the bloody doorman for letting in a stranger during rehearsal times. Some things were sacrosanct, and this was one of them.
‘No you may not. I don’t give interviews without a prior appointment,’ he said arrogantly.
DI Frobisher kept right on walking towards the stage, with no intention of being put out by the reaction of this little snot. Temperamental poofter, he thought privately. But what the guy did in his spare time was no concern of his. It wasn’t why he was here.
He waved his ID card under Laver’s eyes and didn’t miss the quick movement of the other man’s Adam’s apple as he swallowed involuntarily. It affected many people that way.
‘In private, please sir,’ Nick went on.
Jeremy turned to the waiting musicians, his voice curt.
‘We’ll continue rehearsals after lunch. Maybe we’ll all be in a better humour by then, and more able to do justice to the piece.’ He turned back to Nick. ‘You’d better come to my dressing-room.’
Nick followed him. He wasn’t offered a seat, nor did he want one. This wasn’t exactly a social call, even though he admitted it wasn’t an official one either. He was going on instinct, and in his own time.
Thicker Than Water (Alexandra Best Investigations Book 1) Page 17