by Alan Beechey
By lunchtime, she had visited every house on the street where Plumley United Diaconalist Church was located, but she had unearthed no new sightings of Tina, only complaints about milk bottles stolen from doorsteps and other petty thefts, which seemed typical of life in Plumley. Frustrated, tired, and soaking because of the cool drizzle that had descended all morning, Effie knew it was time to take a break when she found that she had rung the doorbell of a large Victorian house three times before she twigged that she was back at the manse, and its usual occupant was in police custody. She picked up her car from the church car park next door and drove back to the police station, annoyed with herself for not having taken a day off for more than a week, which also meant she had not taken off any of Oliver’s clothes for the same amount of time. She missed him, more than she could have imagined, and when she found him sitting in the station waiting room, the only thing that stopped her from spiriting him into an interview room for a brief but torrid reminder of her feelings was Geoffrey Angelwine’s regrettable presence.
“And it had bad breath,” Geoffrey said, concluding his list of twenty reasons why he would never be the proud owner of a pug.
“Serves you right,” Oliver retorted. “I asked you not to play amateur detective.”
“I got close. Patience said her work ended with the school holidays, and there were a lot of Christmas cards from children on display. So I took a chance. Just because you already knew that she was the head of a junior school, you didn’t have to get all smarmy.”
“Actually, I had no idea what she did for a living,” said Oliver.
“Then how did you guess?”
“From the same clues you had. I just thought about it a little longer. Most of the children who signed those cards printed their names. They had to be below senior-school age. And there were too many for just one class of kids. So I guessed Patience was someone who’d get Christmas greetings from more of the school—the dinner lady, the school nurse, or the headmistress. She’s too pleasant to show offense at the way you demoted her, but there was nothing deprecating about her reaction either, so I assumed we had to go up a rank or two.”
“Very clever,” Geoffrey mumbled. “But if you’re going to say it’s elementary, I’ll throw up.”
Oliver told Effie what he had learned from Billy Coppersmith about Tina’s odyssey on the preceding Thursday.
“It doesn’t look good for Paul,” she commented, helping herself to a crisp from Oliver’s lunchtime packet. She had already overheard the station sergeant mumbling about picnickers in the waiting area. “I thought you were supposed to be collecting information that exonerated him, not that dropped him further in the manure.”
“Maybe if I could talk to him again, confront him with the new information, I could get him to put up more of a defense?”
“No chance, I’m afraid. When I left this morning, Welkin and Company were hauling him off to court. I’m sure bail will be denied, in which case he’ll be transferred to a proper prison. He won’t be brought back here.”
“But he’s a clergyman. Won’t that count for something with the magistrates?”
“The charge is murder and Paul is still refusing to put up a defense. Nope, he’s toast. Unless you and Captain Hastings here come up with something.”
She gestured at Geoffrey, but he was no longer paying attention to their conversation. He was staring openmouthed at someone who had just walked into the building. Effie followed his line of vision, surprised to see Sam Quarterboy standing forlornly in the rectangle of dim daylight that filtered through the main door. Tish Belfry had walked in with him and was speaking to him quietly.
“Who’s that?” Geoffrey asked breathlessly.
“It’s Mr. Quarterboy,” Effie told him. “Tina’s father.”
“Not him,” said Geoffrey. “Her. She’s beautiful.”
“I thought you only had eyes for me,” she said scathingly. “That’s Detective Constable Tish Belfry. She’s assisting DI Welkin on the Tapster murder, so you’re practically related.”
Quarterboy recognized Effie and marched over, with Tish following. Effie braced herself, but five days without his daughter seemed to have taken the edge off the deacon’s thorny self-confidence.
“Mr. Quarterboy,” she began. “Can I help you?”
“Hello, Sergeant Strongitharm,” he answered gently. “I came over this morning to see if there was anything I could do for our minister. Constable Belfry was kind enough to drive me to the court and bring me back.”
“How noble of her,” said Geoffrey, gazing at Tish. Effie did not take this as her cue to introduce her friends.
“I don’t suppose…?” Quarterboy prompted.
“There’s still no sign of Tina, I’m afraid.”
“Ah.” He bent his head sadly. The waiting room lights reflected off his shiny scalp.
“We know she’s in the area and she doesn’t seemed to be held against her will,” Effie assured him, deciding once again to delay the news of Quarterboy’s impending grandfatherhood. “It’s only a matter of time.”
“Yes, I understand. There have been three or four hang-up calls in the last couple of days. I’m sure she’s getting close to returning.” He flashed a brief, defiant smile, which failed to relieve the sadness in his eyes. “Joan and I are counting on having our Tina home for Christmas.”
It was a statement of hope, but it still couldn’t help sounding like an order. So Effie would now have to measure the girl’s absence in days to go, rather than days elapsed—a countdown to success or failure. She could use the neglected Advent calendar in Tina’s bedroom as a personal scorecard. Relieved that Sam did not want to continue the conversation, she walked over to speak to Tish. Geoffrey hovered a few paces behind.
“Mr. Quarterboy,” Oliver said softly, as the man stood in the doorway, staring glumly out at the rain. Quarterboy turned, looking puzzled.
“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” he asked.
“The Sunday before last. My name’s Oliver Swithin.”
“Of course. Forgive me for not remembering immediately. It seems a long while ago.”
“I know about Tina, and I’m very sorry you and your wife are having to go through this. I’m sure the police are doing all they can.”
“Short of actually finding her,” Quarterboy said and sniffed. He stared out through the open door. “Perhaps that’s unfair. I shouldn’t hold the police responsible for finding Tina when they didn’t lose her in the first place. We did.”
“How is your wife?” Oliver had contemplated including the Quarterboys on his itinerary, but decided that his amateur investigation would be too much of an intrusion. Sam’s appearance at the police station was an unexpected lagniappe.
“Joan is coping, thank you. We both take comfort in our faith in a loving God. But this is very hard on her. For now, she feels unable to face the community.”
“She didn’t go to church Sunday morning?”
“Even the comfort of God’s word and the fellowship of the Lord’s Supper could not entice her from home. I left her watching the morning service on the television. Fortunately, it was broadcast from a Baptist church. And under the circumstances, perhaps it’s just as well that Joan didn’t witness Sunday’s appalling event. The Lord often sends his bounteous blessings in disguise.”
He began to search in his coat pocket for his car keys.
“I’m sure Paul Piltdown appreciated your support this morning,” Oliver remarked hastily. “Can I assume you don’t think he’s responsible for Nigel Tapster’s death?”
“I have no idea who is responsible. Paul Piltdown is a man of his word and a man of the cloth. If he does not admit to this sin, I must assume he is innocent.”
“Do you have any idea how Tapster was killed?”
“None at all. It’s a complete mystery to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I
really must get back to my wife. There’s always the chance that Tina will have called, or even returned home.”
Oliver grabbed his umbrella and walked with him as he stepped out into the rain, covering the deacon’s bald head. It was worth wet feet to get in one more question. “I hope you hear news of your daughter very soon,” he said. “You seem a very happy family.”
“Tina was never any trouble. That’s what’s makes this so hard. We still have no idea why she ran away.”
You’ll find out soon enough, Oliver thought, feeling suddenly guilty because he had to conceal the answer that Sam and Joan wanted so much. “She gave you no indication that anything was troubling her? I believe you only saw her for a few minutes on Thursday evening.”
“Yes, she stayed in her room all evening—told us she wasn’t feeling well. I looked in on her, but she was doing her homework, and I didn’t want to disturb her for long. We didn’t talk about anything personal at all.”
They had reached Quarterboy’s Escort, parked on the street beside the police station.
“Do you mind if I ask what you did talk about?” Oliver ventured, as Quarterboy stepped out from the umbrella’s shelter and scurried around to the driver’s door. Quarterboy let a flash of impatience cross his face.
“It was a religious matter, actually,” he shouted across the roof. Raindrops bounced off his head. “She wanted me to clarify the church’s attitude to abortion. I recall that you and I talked about it the previous Sunday. Perhaps she overheard that and wanted more information.” He unlocked the door, but paused, frowning across the car roof at Oliver. “Just a minute, didn’t Mr. Piltdown say you were a reporter the other evening?”
“Oh no,” said Oliver quickly, hoping the weather made him look vulnerable and pathetic. Nature had given him a head-start. “I’m just writing an article about your denomination, but I’m not a journalist.”
Quarterboy didn’t seem convinced. “Look, I don’t know why you’re asking all these personal questions, but my daughter’s disappearance is a private matter. I’d better not see anything about it in any newspaper. Good day, Sir.”
He climbed into the car and drove away. Oliver hurried back to the shelter of the police station. Effie was still in the waiting room, fielding questions from Geoffrey.
“No, I don’t know if she has a boyfriend. Why don’t you ask her yourself?” she was saying.
“You’ll have to introduce me,” Geoffrey insisted. “I couldn’t just strike up a conversation. I’d get all tongue-tied.”
“Find some reason for her to arrest you,” Oliver interrupted. “Indecent exposure is a great icebreaker.” He turned his back on Geoffrey and pulled Effie to the side. “I just got another piece of the jigsaw puzzle. When Sam looked in on Tina the evening of her disappearance, she asked him a question about abortion. He probably declaimed the official Diaconalist line on the topic, which is that it’s murder, no doubt with a hint of his moral contempt for the kind of woman who needs one—just what a pregnant teenager on the verge of confessing wants to hear from her father. I’m not surprised she changed her mind and ran away instead.”
“If she’s as ignorant of the facts of life as you’ve been suggesting,” Effie asked, “why should she even think about an abortion?”
“Could the school doctor have suggested it?”
“She told me specifically that she didn’t discuss any options. She wanted Tina to talk to her parents first.”
Oliver prodded the floor sharply with his umbrella. “Damn it! I bet it was Tapster!”
Effie patted his face softly. “We don’t know for sure, Ollie. There were only two witnesses to that conversation. One is dead and one is missing. And finding her is my job. Finding Tapster’s murderer is yours. Who’s next on your list?”
***
“Well hell-oo, Mr. Swithin. Hell-oo, Mr…er…Angelwine.”
“I’m thinking of having my name changed to Urrangelwine,” Geoffrey muttered, as the two men followed Dougie Dock through a door marked “Private.” Oliver had arranged to meet Dock at his office that afternoon, but when they arrived at the Plumley Tourist Advisory Centre where he worked, the public area was deserted, which Oliver imagined was not unusual. They had to ring a bell for attention four times before a man who, for the sake of efficiency, had managed to have a scowl etched on his face at birth, lurched from the back of the premises and told them the office had just closed until the New Year. Oliver then required another four attempts to explain his reason for calling, mainly because the man was temporarily tipsy and permanently possessed both of a speech impediment and a foreign accent, which for some reason affected his comprehension as well as his powers of expression. Eventually recognizing the name “Dock” as one of his co-workers, he disappeared, and a moment later, Dougie Dock appeared in the doorway wearing a yellow paper hat.
“It’s a little pre-Christmas celebration for my people in the office,” he explained, leading them into a large work area where half a dozen of Dock’s colleagues sat sullenly on chairs, nursing plastic cups full of pink liquid. A half-empty punch-bowl stood on a filing cabinet, and plates of potato crisps had been dumped on each desk.
“Now then, now then,” he announced loudly, “there’s no need to stop having fun just because I’ve left the room. I’d like to introduce two old and dear friends of mine—Oliver Swithin, who’s a very famous writer, and Geoffrey Angelwine. He likes wine but he’s no angel.”
He laughed heartily at the joke and nudged Geoffrey several times. The office workers all chose to drink simultaneously. The scowling man surreptitiously topped up his cup from a hipflask.
“Oh, I’d never heard that one before,” grumbled Geoffrey.
“It always comes down to me to organize these social events,” Dock confided in a whisper, handing each man a paper hat. “If it wasn’t for my leadership, I think they’d all just pack up and go home early. That’s hardly a festive start to the holiday, is it? Now, we’re all going to play Consequences.”
He spun away and started to hand out pieces of paper.
“Mr. Dock is exaggerating a little when he numbers us among his ‘old and dear friends,’” said Oliver quietly to a sour-faced, middle-aged woman.
“Pull the other one,” the woman muttered.
“In fact, we’ve only met briefly,” he continued.
“Not surprised, dearie,” she said airily and nudged another woman sitting beside her. The second woman grunted and turned her eyes briefly in the direction of the ceiling.
“I’d be surprised if he’s even met half the famous people he claims as his bosom buddies,” the first woman continued.
“So your boss is a little creative with the truth at times?
The women looked at each other again and exchanged expressions of mock outrage. “If you mean little Dougie, he certainly is,” said the first woman. “Especially if he told you he’s the boss.” They both sniggered.
“Come along now, everyone has to join in,” called Dock, trotting across and pressing sheets of paper on the women. “Marge, Cissie—our office beauty queens. And Oliver and Gerald, too.”
“Geoffrey,” Geoffrey complained to Dock’s back.
“If you don’t mind, Mr. Dock, I’d prefer to sit this one out,” said Oliver.
“Now, Oliver, what did I tell you? I’m ‘Dougie’ to everyone. If you call me Dock…”
“People might think I am one,” crooned his co-workers, in chorus. Unaware of the sarcasm, Dock beamed at Oliver and Geoffrey.
“I think he’s one all right,” said Cissie, under cover of the general laughter.
“Oh, do you suspect…?” Oliver ventured.
“As a nine-bob note,” said Marge.
“As a safety-pin,” Cissie confirmed. “Honestly, to hear him go on about the boys they let him take out on hikes and camping trips. I wouldn’t let my grandson near him.”
Much as he felt Dock deserved some punishment simply for existing, Oliver had never seriously considered him a potential suspect in Tapster’s death. All of the other deacons had their reasons for distrusting Tapster, and even Piltdown may have bridled at the challenge to his authority or appointed himself Tina Quarterboy’s defender. But was this a potential motive for Dougie Dock, or just spiteful office gossip? A man who was a little too affectionate toward the boys in his care? And what if those boys had grown too old for the Victory Vanguard and passed into the relative safety—given their sex—of Nigel Tapster’s circle? Did Tapster’s new acolytes confide secrets of their days in the woods with the clownish Dock? Maybe that was Billy Coppersmith’s secret, shared with Tapster only a few days before his death. And had Tapster used this knowledge to blackmail Dock into voting for him at the church meeting?
“All right now, pay attention to me, everyone,” hooted Dock, jumping onto a chair in the middle of the room. He had collected all the papers. “I’ll read our stories.”
He unfolded one of the sheets of paper. “This one begins ‘Dougie Dock.’ Oh, it’s about me, how flattering,” he declaimed daintily. “‘Met Finsbury the Ferret, In a Monastery Garden.’ He said…” He paused, trying to make out the handwriting. Then he scowled and screwed the paper into a ball.
“I do wish you’d remember there are ladies present, Clovis,” he scolded, glaring at the man who had first met Oliver. “I recognize your writing. And you spelled ‘salami’ wrong.”
He opened the next sheet. “Okay, it’s ‘Dougie Dock,’ again. I am popular. And this time…” His voice trailed away once more. “Look, I don’t think the day before Christmas Day is a time to be saucy, even though I know it’s meant in fun.”
“Let me read it,” called Marge jovially, getting up from her chair. The others made some encouraging noises. She grabbed the sheets from Dock and passed them out to the other office workers. They began to read them in a giggling huddle.