One Of Our Jeans Is Missing

by Paul Charles

  So, consider all of this and then consider how it is all – all of it – wasted when someone is killed in an accident. Or murdered.

  It’s all such a waste.

  I mean, Jean’s parents probably wouldn’t have brought her up any differently had they known in advance what was to happen to her. They’d never have let her off eating her tomatoes, or overlooked the length of her skirt. Well, they just wouldn’t do that, even if they knew what Jean’s future held, would they?

  Having said all of that, Jean Simpson’s mum was still convinced that her daughter was very much alive. Her theory was that her Jean and John Harrison had called off the wedding. She didn’t care what John Harrison had told me – her daughter had called off the wedding, split up with John, was embarrassed at her failure and was now lying low for a time.

  ‘If I could only find the wee pet,’ she continued while fighting back the tears, ‘and tell her that she shouldn’t be embarrassed. She hasn’t failed, David. She’d only have failed if she’d gone ahead and married the twit.’

  ‘When Jean was growing up, Mrs Simpson, did you have any places you regularly went for holidays?’ I thought I’d try falling in with the missing person theory for a moment.

  ‘No, not really, son. We went to Blackpool a few times but sure that was always a disaster, sure it rained all the time. No, when her father was alive we’d always just head off and follow our noses.’

  ‘In your travels, was there any place that Jean seemed to particularly like, you know, somewhere she’d a strong affinity with?’

  ‘Hand on heart, no. She’d only recently said how much she loved being around here again. She said when she’d all the time in her life to spare she’d ignored Matlock entirely, but now that there were greater demands on her time she’d fallen in love with the hills of her hometown. Funny that. Aye, there’s nowt queerer than folk.’

  Mrs Simpson went on to show me some of her prized possessions; her photographs of Jean growing up.

  Photographs, yes: why hadn’t any of us thought of it before? Why not get a photograph of Jean circulated around the newspapers? That way, if she really was still out there, someone would be bound to recognise her? I mean, I suppose it would be part of the police procedure if and when they started to take the case seriously. But how many months did we have to wait until that happened?

  I left the following morning after a good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast with a large envelope containing a photograph of Jean Simpson. I’d get it copied on Monday and get it out to all the papers with a wee note stating Jean’s circumstances.

  My next port of call was Jean Kerr’s house. I’d rung her the previous evening from the Simpsons’ phone. Surprisingly, she was happy that I was in town, looking forward to seeing me, even. In fact, she was so upbeat that upon setting the phone down on Jean Kerr I remember thinking that maybe she sounded just a wee bit too happy that Jean Simpson was no longer in our midst.

  Chapter Thirty-Five.

  So I’d dinner and breakfast with the Simpson’s and lunch with the Kerr’s.

  Jean Kerr had even dolled herself up a bit for me. I knew this to be the case, because even by the time I’d got round there at midday, she’d already got her ‘face’ on. Quite amazing for someone on sick leave. Her hair was puffed up like the woman from Charlie’s Angels – you know the one I mean, she was with Ryan O’Neal for quite a time? Yeah, that’s her – the blonde one, Farrah Fawcett Majors. Given the choice though… no, no, we mustn’t get into that.

  Anyway, we’d a pleasant enough lunch and then Jean suggested that we go out for a walk and a chat.

  ‘I’m looking for Jean,’ I began simply. I know it must have been obvious, but I just felt it was important to state it, you know?

  ‘I know,’ she replied, ‘our Jean’s mum rang me to tell me.’

  We walked on in silence for a time. Jean Simpson had been right to pine after the rolling hills of Matlock – they really were that stunning. I mean, half a mile from Jean Kerr’s house and we were already in the wilds.

  ‘Do you think she’s up here?’ Jean said, as she cast her eyes over the landscape.

  ‘No.’ I don’t know why I said that. I don’t even know why I thought it.

  ‘So where do you think she is?’

  ‘I don’t know. I really haven’t a clue,’ I confessed.

  ‘You think something has happened to our Jean?’

  ‘Her mother thinks she’s called off the wedding with John and gone into hiding until the embarrassment passes,’ I replied, avoiding the question.

  ‘But you don’t think so,’ Jean said, pushing for an answer. She could be forceful when she wanted to be. Perhaps she should maybe have been out and about looking for her friend rather than me. But then she was also on my list of suspects. So maybe she was pushing me to see how much I really knew. She might even have been cute enough to be trying to figure out whether or not I suspected her.

  ‘I don’t think so’ I replied, staring at her face for a clue.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I think if that was the case, at the very least she would ring her mum and you, you know, tell you that she was safe and she’d be back in touch when she had it all sorted out in her head.’

  ‘She might ring her mum, David,’ she began, her voice dropped to nearly a whisper for the second part, ‘but she’d never ring me now in a million years.’

  ‘For her not to have been in touch with anyone for over three weeks… well, it does worry me…’ I continued, before realising what she’d just said. ‘Why would she never ring you in a million years?’

  ‘Oh, we’d a wee bit of a fight,’ Jean Kerr continued, playing her cards very close to her chest. She rooted around in her pockets for a few seconds before producing a packet of Players and a cheap lighter, which didn’t immediately strike me as strange.

  ‘Oh? What was the fight about?’

  ‘John Harrison,’ she replied, over-dragging on her ciggie.

  Things were looking up. Here we were only a few minutes into the conversation and we were already talking motives.

  ‘Yes?’ I said, wanting her to expand.

  She obviously didn’t want to because she just replied, ‘Yes.’

  ‘So what was the fight about?’ I pushed.

  ‘Look, I’d been telling her for ages that John was not the one for her.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I felt that to be so’ she replied, matter of fact.

  ‘No, I meant why did you feel that John was not the one for Jean?’

  ‘Oh for heaven’s sake…’ she started and faltered. ‘Well, let’s just say I had my reasons.’

  ‘Jean, this might be important – I really need to know everything that went on between you two. You see, it seems to me that she did listen to you and dump him, well, at least according to her mum.’

  ‘I just used to think that there was something weird about him. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. To be very honest with you, Pet, I could never work out why he would leave a girl like Mary Skeffington for Jean Simpson. That’s just being perfectly honest with you, David, that’s no disrespect to our Jean.’

  She had a point. I’d considered the same issue and the only thing I could come up with now that I knew Mary as well as I knew her, was that Jean was perhaps more malleable. Mary would listen to you, take into consideration what you had to say, yes, but she would make up her own mind as to the direction she’d take. I think that she regretted the only occasion in her life when she went against her instincts, which was when John had persuaded her that they should become lovers. Her instinct had been to keep the relationship on a friendship level. She’d proven to herself that her initial instinct had been spot on.

  ‘So when you had this discussion with Jean, was it all very heated?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, you could say that.’

  ‘So what did you say to her that convinced her to leave John?’

  ‘I told her that I’d slept with John Harrison.�
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  ‘You what?’

  She looked beyond me, out into the hills. The wind was blowing her mane all about her face and she used the excuse to hide herself from me. Nonetheless, she held her head up defiantly.

  ‘I slept with John,’ she repeated, this time staring long and hard at the cigarette.

  ‘I can’t believe it,’ I said, still in shock, ‘you’ve just told me you thought he was a bit weird and then you go off and sleep with the future husband of your best friend?’

  ‘Don’t get all pious on me, David Buchanan, I know what you and Jean were up to when you were meant to be off “seeing your groups”.’

  I’d a feeling she was bluffing. I wanted her to be bluffing. So I played her bluff.

  ‘She was a mate, Jean! I’d never as much as kiss her. I swear to you, I’ve never kissed Jean Simpson.’

  She looked at me and smiled a knowing smile. ‘Now that’s funny, David. Because that’s exactly what she said; she said you’d never even kissed.’

  ‘Well, that’s only because it’s true,’ I protested. ‘But let’s get back to you and John Harrison.’

  ‘It was nothing, really. He came round to the flat one night, our Jean wasn’t there. He’d had a few drinks already. He said he knew she wasn’t out with you. I said she probably was, he said no, he knew for a fact that she wasn’t. I’ll be honest, David, I told him I thought you two were getting close. He opened the bottle of wine he’d brought round and a few glasses later we were at it like animals in front of the electric fire.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I was thinking about it afterwards, and I think she could have walked in on us, and in a way I think we both were hoping that might happen. In John’s case, so that he could get his own back on her for running off with you all the time. She was seeing you a lot more than she was seeing John, David, did you know that?’

  ‘I thought it was because he was busy saving to get married,’ I started and then returned to her earlier threat. ‘Why did you hope Jean would walk in on the pair of you?’

  ‘What? Oh, well I just wanted her to see that he wasn’t all he was making himself out to be. This “great husband-to-be” of hers wasn’t exactly the great Almighty.’

  ‘The cigarettes?’ I said nodding at her Player, ‘did John turn you on to those?’

  ‘I used to smoke,’ she began, taking a long drag as if she was trying to demonstrate the fact, ‘then John reminded me they’re good for losing weight.’

  ‘So youse shared a ciggie after the sex?’

  She just grimaced slightly but seemed happy I’d twigged.

  ‘Did you continue the affair?’ I asked.

  ‘Affair!’ she said, laughing as if she was quite chuffed that I’d called it that. ‘For heaven’s sake, David! It wasn’t an affair! We just… it only happened the once. He wanted to continue. I was tempted because I have to admit he may look like a mountain man, but his lunchbox is well packed.’

  His lunchbox is well packed! Please! Only someone like Jean Kerr would use a phrase like that. You remember what I was saying about all that education? Well, Jean’s a perfect example of how it was wasted. It’s the confidence she has, though, to get away with it. I don’t know another person in this world, particularly a woman, who would ever dream of saying that without cringing and here was Jean Kerr, proudly beaming on as if it was the most natural thing in the world!

  ‘I suppose I was upset about work, about being ill, about you, about everything and I just wanted a wee bit of comfort. I needed some comfort, David, we all do.’

  ‘Yes, but you risk weakening the power of love by seeking it in all the wrong places.’

  ‘Oh yeah, thus speaks the romantic. It’s all right for you: you’ve slept with two out of the three of us for sure and I’d still bet good money you were riding our Jea–’

  I made to protest.

  ‘Don’t even bother to try, David. It’s not important,’ she said, shaking her head. ‘I just find it weird the way the three of us, our Jean, Mary and me, we are all in some way connected. Even though we don’t particularly want to be. Even the five of us, you know the Fab Five, you and John included. God, think of who’s been with whom and when and who did what.’

  If only she knew the half of it. On second thoughts, hopefully she, nor anyone else, ever would.

  ‘When you and Jean had this conversation about John, how was she about it?’

  ‘She was quite casual, really; dismissive wouldn’t be too strong a word. She said she expected it of both of us. But she said it gave her an easy out, and she’d been looking for an out.’

  ‘Did she say why?’

  ‘I honestly thought she’d set her sights on you, David. She’d go all gooey when she spoke about you,’ she said, now staring at me as if she was waiting for me to give her a hint at whether she was on the right track.

  ‘Look Jean, she knew I was totally into Mary. I told her.’

  ‘You told her that you had a girlfriend, but we had to find out for ourselves that it was Mary Skeffington,’ she butted in, correcting me.

  ‘Either way, she knew I was only interested in being her friend. We were good friends.’

  ‘Such a good friend you dropped her entirely when you started going out with Mary.’

  ‘Jean, there was a history there, you must realise–’

  ‘I do,’ she said, interrupting me again. ‘I just don’t want you pretending that everything was nice and sweet in your wee corner of the world where you and Mary were getting cosy.’

  ‘Did Jean tell you that she was going to pack up with John after you’d slept with him?’ I asked. I didn’t want to let her off the hook either.

  ‘I guessed she was going to, but she never actually said as much. I haven’t spoken to her since. I thought all this might have been because she was pissed off with me. That would account for her vanishing act but, like you, I thought even if she was pissed off with me she’d still contact her mum to let her know everything was okay.’

  ‘Yeah, you’re right,’ I muttered.

  ‘But then I thought if she’d vanished because of any harm that had come to her, perhaps John would be back in the frame as the main suspect. If only because she wanted to dump him.’

  We’d stopped walking and were looking out over the hills. Perhaps because we didn’t have eye contact, she said, ‘I’ve also considered the possibility that you could have harmed her, because of Mary.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Well for that one to work I’d have needed you and Jean to be having an affair, but you’ve nipped that one in the bud. Haven’t you?’ she smirked awkwardly, leading me to believe that she still wasn’t convinced otherwise.

  Thank goodness I’d played her bluff. But before I’d a chance to get too smug about it she continued: ‘Then, of course, I considered Mary. Mary had two reasons: 1) She’d lost John to Jean; and 2) She might have felt that you two were getting too close. Does Mary know you’re up here by the way?’

  ‘Yes she does. But I should also point out that I haven’t seen Jean Simpson since Mary and I got it together, so that dumps Mary off your list. She’s had nothing to be jealous of. But talking about lists, since you’ve been so honest with me, I should also tell you that you were on my list, and after what you’ve just told me about you and John perhaps your name will move up said list a bit.’

  ‘Perhaps, perhaps not, David; don’t forget, I’ve been up here in Matlock most of the time.’

  ‘Yeah that’s true,’ I said, as much to myself as Jean Kerr.

  We stopped talking for a time, just walking in silence, either enjoying the spectacular views or going over our thoughts.

  ‘So, you really haven’t heard from either John or Jean since you confessed to her about sleeping with John?’ I asked, sensing that the conversation, and walk, was coming to a natural end.

  ‘That’s correct, David. All of this aside, I do care for her and I want to make sure she’s okay – I’ll do anything else I can to help,’
she said, making a dog’s dinner out of trying to stub out the remains of her cigarette with her boot.

  Finally I asked her the same question I’d asked Mrs Simpson Senior: Was there anywhere Jean liked to go, any place at all she was fond of? Jean Kerr concurred with Mrs Simpson about Jean Simpson’s newfound love for Matlock.

  Next on my list was to check in with the local police station, without either Jean Kerr or Mrs Simpson knowing. I wanted to know if there’d been any unidentified bodies turned up recently matching the description of Jean Simpson. Thankfully, the response was to the negative.

  So, armed with my few new bits and pieces of information, and Jean Simpson’s photograph, I caught the mid-afternoon train back to Wimbledon. About ten minutes into the journey I opened the envelope to find paper-clipped to the top of the photograph a wee note from Jean Simpson’s mum. She just wished me well, asked me to keep in touch, thanked me for my efforts and enclosed fifty pounds towards my expenses. I thought it was a terrible lot of money – I wouldn’t need anywhere near that amount to cover my expenses. Well, I hoped I wouldn’t need it, anyway. I resolved I would return as much of the stipend as possible to her. However, I have to tell you that for a few moments, a few precious moments, I did feel very good about the whole affair. It was now on a professional level. I was officially investigating a missing person and I was being paid expenses-plus to do so.

  Yes, it made me feel good. It was a contentment I’d never experienced before. I should have enjoyed it more while it lasted, because that feeling of purpose wasn’t going to last much longer.

  Chapter Thirty-Six.

  When I got back to London, I went immediately to Mary’s flat. She was due back from her mother’s about 7.00 p.m. so I figured I’d at least two hours to collect my thoughts. I’d like to say that I’d some kind of handle on the Jean Simpson case. Would you just listen to me? Here I am acting the big shot detective already. Did you hear what I’d just said there? I said, ‘I’d like to think I’d some kind of handle on the Jean Simpson case.’