A Tangled Thread

by Anthea Fraser

  A stab of conscience reminded her that she’d promised Mike there would be no repetition of her unfaithfulness, which she knew had hurt him deeply. He was a good, reliable husband but there was no denying he was dull. Landing the ‘cold fish’ would be an exciting challenge, one that would spice up her rather lacklustre marriage and if it fulfilled her, surely Mike would reap the benefit?

  His voice reached her from the top of the stairs. ‘Ready for the bedtime story!’ he called, and abandoning her thoughts along with the washing-up, Maria dried her hands and went upstairs.

  FIVE

  Blaircomrie

  It was the most interminable week of Beth’s life and she lived each day in an agony of worry and indecision. Eric Barnes had been incredulous when he’d returned on Sunday evening to find Johnnie still absent.

  ‘I don’t know what to do, Mr Barnes,’ she’d said tremulously. ‘I did phone the hospitals but none of them had seen him. Do you think I should get on to the police?’

  He’d shaken his head decidedly. ‘No, Mrs Monroe, I don’t. He’s a grown man and it’s not as though he’s family. To be frank, I’ve often wondered if he was involved in something shady, and if so he wouldn’t thank you for bringing in the police, would he?’

  ‘Shady?’ Fresh fears assailed her.

  ‘Have you ever wondered what he gets up to every evening when he’s out of the house from half seven till bedtime and beyond?’

  Yes, she’d wondered, but she’d never dared ask him. ‘I … thought he was meeting friends,’ she’d said feebly, attempting to conceal the extent of her worry since as far as Mr Barnes knew, Johnnie was just another lodger.

  He grunted derisively, then, as something occurred to him, asked sharply, ‘He has paid you till the end of the month?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Well, if he’s still not turned up by then, you’d be within your rights to remove his things and advertise the free room. No reason why you should lose out because of his thoughtlessness.’

  ‘But that’s three weeks away!’ she’d exclaimed. ‘Surely we’ll have heard something by then?’

  ‘Then there’ll be nothing to worry about, will there?’

  ‘I suppose not,’ Beth said miserably, and by tacit agreement the matter wasn’t referred to again.

  Unable to concentrate on her work at the dental practice, she twice handed Bruce the wrong instrument, and compounded her error by spilling water over a patient when handing her the cup for a rinse.

  ‘Not like you, Beth,’ Bruce had said in mild reproof when they were alone, and she’d apologized profusely, pleading a migraine.

  Tuesday was her evening at the bridge club, and she wouldn’t have gone had it not been that she played in a regular four and they’d be expecting her. But she couldn’t remember the sequence of cards, and unforgivably trumped her partner’s ace. Again, a migraine was pleaded as an excuse. Her only consolation throughout all this was that apart from Moira no one knew of her liaison with Johnnie, so there were no knowing remarks to contend with.

  Then, at very long last, Thursday arrived, and she set off with a dry mouth and thumping heart to meet her.

  As usual, Moira was there ahead of her, looking tanned and happy, and as Beth seated herself she pushed a small packet across the table towards her.

  ‘A present from the seaside!’ she said gaily. Then, as Beth made no move to open it, her eyes narrowed. ‘Beth, what is it? Has something happened?’

  With an overwhelming flood of relief, Beth poured out the whole story.

  Moira stared at her aghast. ‘And he never gave any hint he was thinking of leaving?’

  ‘No, but he can’t have left, Moira, not really, or he’d have taken his things, wouldn’t he?’ Her eyes filled with tears. ‘You think he’s dumped me, don’t you?’

  ‘No, I don’t; as you say, he’d have taken his things.’

  ‘Then where is he?’ Beth wailed.

  ‘Can I take your order?’ said a disapproving voice, and they hastily made their choices.

  When the waitress had moved away, Moira said, ‘You said your lodger mentioned shady dealings.’

  Beth made a dismissive gesture. ‘He’s miffed that Johnnie’s no company for him, that’s all.’

  ‘But where does he go every evening? You must have asked him?’

  ‘Actually, I didn’t. If he’d wanted me to know he’d have told me, and … I suppose I didn’t want to rock the boat.’

  ‘In case he was spending them with his wife?’ Moira’s tone was playful but Beth’s eyes widened.

  ‘He could have been! Oh, Moira, what a fool I’ve been!’

  ‘Don’t be daft,’ Moira said briskly. ‘If his wife was near enough to visit in the evenings, he’d have been living with her and not you, wouldn’t he? You’re sure he wasn’t carrying anything when he left?’

  ‘Positive. When he left the front room he went straight out of the house. He didn’t even take a coat.’

  ‘Then, unlike your Mr Barnes, I think you should go to the police.’

  ‘You think something’s happened to him?’

  ‘Well, something must have, mustn’t it, and as his landlady you’re entitled to make enquiries.’

  Beth felt suddenly sick. ‘Will you come with me?’

  ‘Of course I will. We’ll go this evening after work. Then at least they can advise you whether there’s any need to worry. Ten to one they’ll say people are always disappearing and in most cases turn up again. And now that that’s settled, you can open your present!’

  They met as arranged outside the police station at six o’clock. It was a sultry evening but Beth’s hands were ice cold. Moira took her arm and marched her firmly inside and across the foyer to the desk. The man behind it looked up from his papers.

  ‘Evening, ladies. What can I do for you?’

  Moira nudged her and Beth cleared her throat. ‘I thought I should let you know that I run a B and B and one of my lodgers went out last Thursday evening and hasn’t returned. All his things are still in his room.’

  ‘I see. And I’m guessing he never said he was leaving?’

  She shook her head, her mouth dry.

  ‘Owe you any rent, does he?’

  ‘No, he … he’s paid till the end of the month.’

  ‘Very well, madam, let’s start at the beginning. You are …?’

  Beth automatically answered his questions, including Johnnie’s name and a brief description.

  ‘And Mr Stewart’s home address?’

  Beth stared at him blankly. ‘I don’t think he’s got one. I mean, I think it’s with me.’ She thought a moment. ‘When I asked if he’d be going home for the weekends, he said, “Where would I go?”’

  The man looked back at her for a long moment, tapping his pencil against his teeth. Then he said, ‘Excuse me a minute.’ And, lifting a phone, he moved away slightly, spoke into it in a lowered voice, then turned back to them.

  ‘If you’d like to take a seat, ladies, DS Grant will come down and have a word with you.’

  Exchanging a puzzled glance they seated themselves, looking apprehensively about them.

  ‘At least he didn’t seem to think we were wasting his time,’ Moira said encouragingly.

  ‘Is that a good or a bad thing?’

  They didn’t have long to wonder. A door further down the hall opened and two men came through it, one carrying a file under his arm. The desk sergeant nodded in their direction and they both came over.

  ‘Good evening, ladies. I’m DS Grant and this is DC Coombes.’ The man with the file nodded. ‘I believe you want to report a missing person?’

  ‘Yes, I suppose we do.’

  ‘Then let’s go to an interview room.’

  He tapped on a door to their left, opened it and glanced inside, then waved them in ahead of him. The room was small and bare, containing only four chairs and a table bearing a recording device. They seated themselves on the chairs indicated, DC Coombes laid the file on the tabl
e and the two policemen sat down opposite them.

  Grant leant back in his chair. ‘So which of you ladies is reporting the disappearance?’ Beth raised a hand. ‘Then let’s start with your name and address.’

  She complied, supplying Johnnie’s name when requested.

  ‘Can you give me a description of Mr Stewart? Age, height, and so on?’

  ‘In his fifties, I’d say. Not particularly tall – certainly under six feet. Dark hair going grey.’

  As the questions progressed she became increasingly embarrassed by how little she actually knew about Johnnie, having to admit she’d no idea of his next of kin or last known address, nor even where he worked. ‘I believe he’s divorced,’ she added inadequately.

  DS Grant surveyed her thoughtfully and she wondered for a panic-stricken moment if he’d guessed about their affair. But all he said was, ‘How long has he been with you, Mrs Monroe?’

  She thought back. ‘It must be about eight weeks now.’

  ‘And his references were satisfactory?’

  She flushed. ‘I didn’t ask for one. I never have, with my guests.’

  He shook his head disapprovingly. ‘One of the first rules of running a guest house. Suppose the applicant was a criminal on the run? You should always run checks and credit searches before allowing anyone to live in your home. Only common sense.’

  ‘I’ve never had any trouble,’ she said defensively. Before, she added silently.

  Grant upended his pencil and righted it again, an action he repeated several times. Then he said slowly, ‘You say you last saw Mr Stewart on the evening of Thursday the fifth?’

  ‘That’s right.’

  ‘Exactly a week ago?’

  She nodded. ‘I kept thinking he’d come back,’ she said feebly.

  ‘How did he seem when you last saw him?’

  ‘Well, he’d just had his dinner. He was … the same as usual.’

  ‘He hadn’t seemed any different over the last week or so? As though something was on his mind, perhaps?’

  ‘No, he—’ Beth broke off, coldness spreading over her. ‘Actually, he did seem a bit on edge,’ she said, aware of Moira turning to her in surprise. ‘A couple of times he didn’t hear when I spoke to him, and he was very anxious not to miss the six o’clock news – I did notice that. He got quite angry once when Mr Barnes, my other lodger, switched channels before it had finished, and insisted he change back again.’

  ‘And this was unusual?’

  ‘Well, yes. He’s usually very easy-going.’

  ‘They get on well, do they, your two lodgers?’

  She moved uncomfortably. ‘Well, they’re not exactly friends; they really only meet at mealtimes.’

  ‘They don’t spend the evenings together, both being away from home?’

  ‘No; Mr Stewart goes out straight after his meal.’

  Grant looked up in surprise. ‘Every evening?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And he never mentions where he’s going?’

  Beth flushed. ‘I’ve never asked him.’

  Grant looked at her frowningly. ‘What about weekends?’

  Dangerous ground. She said carefully, ‘Mr Barnes goes home to his family in Kent.’

  ‘And Mr Stewart?’

  Her hands twisted in her lap. ‘He stays here. He works most Saturdays.’

  ‘Where is that?’

  Again, Beth had to confess she didn’t know. It felt as though she was taking an exam and failing miserably and Grant’s face expressed his exasperation. ‘He never speaks of his home or family?’

  Miserably she shook her head.

  He resumed upending and righting his pencil, an action that grated on her fraught nerves. Then he said, ‘You say he seemed on edge recently; apart from being anxious to hear the news, did he do or say anything else unusual?’

  ‘Not that … oh!’ She put a hand to her mouth.

  Grant leant forward. ‘Yes?’

  ‘He did ask me to sign something.’

  ‘What was that?’

  She flushed. ‘I don’t know; it wasn’t a formal document or anything,’ she added in mitigation.

  ‘So what was it?’

  ‘Just a single sheet of paper with a ready-typed sentence at the bottom which said “I, Elizabeth Monroe of … and my address … swear this is the signature of the above-named as witnessed by me” – something like that.’

  Grant said carefully, ‘And what name had he signed?’

  Beth moistened her lips. ‘He said he’d fill it in later.’

  Grant swore under his breath. ‘And you didn’t ask what it was about?’

  ‘I did, but he said it was something to do with work, so I didn’t pursue it.’

  There was a long silence, during which Beth castigated herself for her stupidity. Why had she been so trusting? She knew the answer, of course – because she loved him – but she must look a complete idiot to the police, and no doubt she was.

  Finally Grant cleared his throat. ‘I don’t want to alarm you, Mrs Monroe,’ he said slowly, ‘but I’d like you to take a look at this photograph.’ He leant forward, removed a print from the file on the table and handed it across.

  Moira gripped her arm and they both stared down at the print of a man lying with closed eyes, a sheet up to his neck – a man aged in his fifties, with dark, greying hair.

  Beth’s sharply indrawn breath was answer enough for Moira. She raised anguished eyes. ‘What’s happened to him?’ she whispered.

  ‘Can you identify that man, ma’am?’

  She nodded. ‘He’s my lodger, Johnnie Stewart.’

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Quite,’ she said, the word almost strangling her. ‘He’s … dead, isn’t he?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes.’

  ‘How did he die?’

  ‘I’m not—’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ she broke in roughly.

  A pause, then, ‘He was found in the early hours of last Friday but had apparently died some hours earlier. There was no wallet or any form of identification, and despite extensive searches we’ve so far drawn a blank.’

  Only one word had registered. ‘Found?’

  ‘In the street; he’d been stabbed.’

  A jolt went through her, dispelling her fleeting hope of a heart attack. Something shady, Mr Barnes had said. But innocent people got stabbed – you were always hearing about it. Just not people you knew.

  So he’d not left her intentionally after all. She felt numb, disorientated. Soon, she knew, the truth of this, however bizarre, would hit her and the pain would begin. She could only be thankful it was suspended.

  DS Grant was saying gently, ‘You have identified the deceased as the man you knew as Johnnie Stewart?’

  Beth nodded. ‘Yes.’

  ‘Would you be prepared to go to the mortuary for a formal identification?’

  She heard Moira gasp, clamping down on her own instinctive refusal as she realized this was the last thing she could do for Johnnie. She owed him that.

  ‘Very well,’ she said.

  Viewing the body was a surreal experience, a procedure familiar from TV crime dramas, and Beth was able to detach herself as though she too was an actress playing a part. Nonetheless, as she turned away she began to shake uncontrollably, and when they were settled again in the interview room someone brought her a glass of water.

  ‘Thank you for that, Mrs Monroe,’ Grant said as she sipped at it. ‘I appreciate it can’t have been easy for you, but at least we now have an identity to work on.’

  ‘What happens next?’ she ventured.

  ‘I’ll have to report to my boss, but I’m sure he’ll want a forensic team to go over Mr Stewart’s room and bag up any potential evidence.’ He looked at her sharply. ‘Have you been in yourself this last week, ma’am, perhaps hoping for a clue as to where he might be?’

  She shook her head. ‘I looked in twice, once that first morning, expecting to have to wake him, and again i
n the evening, hoping he’d returned. But I didn’t go into the room – it didn’t seem right, somehow – and since then I’ve not even opened the door. It’s exactly as he left it.’

  DS Grant nodded in satisfaction. ‘How many people are living in the house?’

  ‘Only myself and Mr Barnes.’

  ‘Might he have gone in for any reason?’

  ‘I’m quite sure he wouldn’t.’

  He began playing with his pencil again, his eyes following its rhythmic movements. ‘Did you come in your own transport?’ he asked suddenly.

  Beth blinked at the change of subject. ‘No, we took the bus because of parking.’

  ‘Then we’ll run you home. Presumably Mr Barnes will have returned from work?’

  She glanced at her watch, suddenly aware of the time. ‘Yes, and he’ll be wondering what’s happened to his dinner.’

  ‘We’ll need to take his statement.’ He turned to Coombes. ‘Bring the car round, will you, Jamie?’

  Moira went with her in the police car, and while Eric Barnes was closeted with the police Beth cooked the chops she’d bought for supper. She’d have to call at the station herself the next day to read through and sign her statement. It was odd, she reflected; during the past week she’d instinctively avoided entering Johnnie’s room, but now that it was forbidden she had an almost irresistible urge to do so, to look at, perhaps finger, his possessions, the last of him that was left to her, before it was all removed by the police.

  When eventually Mr Barnes joined them in the kitchen he was considerably shaken, both by the news of Johnnie’s murder and by the police questioning, seeming to regret his previous suspicions.

  ‘I shouldn’t have dissuaded you from reporting it earlier,’ he said more than once. And each time Beth replied wearily, ‘It wouldn’t have made any difference.’

  They ate their belated dinner round the table, Moira taking advantage of the extra chop that, ignoring all logic, Beth had bought in case Johnnie had returned. It was a subdued meal. At one point Beth remarked that she’d phone in sick the next day so she could be there when the police arrived, but Moira shook her head.