by Anne Morice
“How kind!”
“You see, I thought plain Michael Parsons might be too vague, specially if he’d applied in person and given a false address, so here it is in detail: Michael James Barry Parsons, and he was born in Auckland on 4th September, 1938.”
“Thank you very much. Though why I should thank you for dragging me into your tiresome imbroglios I simply cannot imagine,” Robin said, nevertheless making a note of the information. “And how did you come by all that, may I ask?”
“By telling the truth, naturally. Isn’t that always your advice?”
“Try not to be smug, darling. And I suppose I shall be completely buried under your coals of fire if it turns out that he hasn’t got a passport? I have to admit that it would alter the complexion of things. He surely couldn’t be so innocent as to imagine he could hide out for long in this tight little island? In my experience, the harder people try to tuck themselves away in some remote corner the more likely they are to run slap into their next-door neighbour.”
“Nevertheless, I have to tell you that this is what Brenda now believes he has done.”
“Why’s that?”
“There’s been a fresh development and you’d better get ready to shovel your own coals of fire because it backs up your theory and lets mine down with a hollow thud. It came to light this morning when Brenda went to the bank. She wanted to draw twenty pounds in cash, but instead of handing it over in the normal way, the cashier gave her what she describes as ‘a funny look’. It eventually transpired that the joint account had a balance of approximately thirty pence. All the rest had been drawn out by her husband a few days before he disappeared. Of course there wouldn’t have been any real trouble about letting her have the twenty pounds, but the account had never been overdrawn before and he thought she ought to know how she stood.”
“And how much should there have been in it?”
“Between two and three hundred pounds. Apparently, it normally stands at around that figure by the middle of the month. What happens is that Mike has all his salary paid into the account at the beginning of the month and part of it is regularly transferred to some kind of savings account. He pays all the quarterly bills and mortgage and so on and Brenda draws a regular weekly sum for the housekeeping and her own and the children’s clothes. All very orderly and efficient.”
“And when did he draw out this lump sum?”
“Last Thursday evening, on his way home from work. They have a late opening on Thursdays. He never breathed a word of it to Brenda though, and I must say it’s changed her attitude completely. She’s hopping mad, which is a good sign in a way, because she’s now ready to tell all to the police.”
“All the same, unless he’s fixed himself up with some job overseas, two or three hundred quid is not going to take him very far. He’ll have to get work somewhere and there aren’t all that many film studios to choose from in this country.”
“Don’t I know it?” I said sadly. “But there’s still the deposit account, you know. There’s nothing joint about that and Brenda doesn’t even know how much he has in it. Besides, it doesn’t have to be films. He must know quite a lot about electronics and that sort of thing and I know for a fact that he’s very clever with car engines.”
“Which reminds me: what about the car?”
“It’s an old grey estate car, she says.”
“I don’t mean that. I was thinking that if she does want the police to try and trace him the car will be their best lead. Will she be able to tell them the registration number?”
“Yes, she will.”
“Then she must be a woman in a million. I bet you can’t remember ours?”
“You’re so right, but I don’t happen to be the mother of Barry and Keith. Little boys always have that sort of thing at their finger tips. Not that I share your view that it will be much help. Flogging the car is probably the first thing he’ll do. And the second, I daresay, will be to move on to another garage and get a new one for cash. For all we know, he may have opened a secret bank account in another part of the country. There’s nothing illegal in that, is there?”
“No, and if that’s what he has done, I still think it will turn out to be in some foreign country. However, there’s nothing you nor I can do about it now.”
“Does that mean you’re not going to follow it up for me after all my hard clodhopping?”
“Not now you’ve told me she intends to report it herself. It’ll be in the hands of the local branch now and I shouldn’t dream of interfering. Good thing too, as it happens, because it may surprise you to learn that I have one or two affairs of my own which need urgent attention at present. All of which leads up to breaking the news that even though it is Saturday I have to work tomorrow, I’m afraid. Sorry about that, but I’ll get back as early as I can.”
“Though not in time for lunch?”
“Unlikely. Why?”
“Oh, nothing much. Simply that you appear to have forgotten that we’re supposed to lunch with the Nicholsons tomorow.”
“No, I hadn’t. I thought you’d make my excuses and go on your own. You know them well enough for that, surely?”
“Perhaps I do and perhaps I don’t. I’ll have to decide in the morning. Will you need the car?”
“No, why?”
“Just checking.”
“I can’t believe you would bother to get the car out just for that. They only live two streets away.”
“Yes, so they do.”
“In fact, I should think it would take you as long to walk to the garage as to walk to the Nicholsons.”
I didn’t bother to comment on this, nor did I think there was a need to. Robin was giving me the sort of look which indicated clearly that he had a shrewd idea of what was passing through my mind and then, after a resigned shake of his head, he reached out a hand and promptly got stuck into his beloved evening paper.
CHAPTER FOUR
Guy Nicholson answered the telephone and informed me that Belinda was in the bath, which could not have been more satisfactory. Men are so blessedly incurious about these matters and he sounded almost relieved when I explained that Robin had to work and that I had received an unexpected rehearsal call; whereas Belinda would probably have gone on digging and probing until I was forced to invent all sorts of unnecessary lies and excuses.
Having struck lucky with my first blow I took good care to be out of the house before she could get the bath towel round her and as a result arrived at Number 32 Hill Grove well ahead of the appointed time.
Both the house and its surroundings were distinctly grander than imagination had led me to expect. I had visualised a closely packed arrangement of modest, red-brick houses, possibly in the neo-Georgian style, and indeed I passed a good many such before coming into reasonably open country, a mile or so up from the river. Hill Grove was literally a hill, rising up from a flat landscape of meadows and woods and the houses were of a more than ordinarily adventurous pattern, with a strong Scandinavian flavour. They were built of timber and were dotted around on different points of the hillside. A straggly lane connected the estate to a minor road at the foot, itself following a gentler descent to the main London road, which ran at right angles to it through the new shopping centre and from there to river level. Each house was detached and gained an added distinction from the fact that, due no doubt to the exigencies of the site, the distances between them varied considerably and they did not all face in the same direction.
Number 32, although the highest numerically, was at the opposite end in the geographical sense and thus the first to be reached from the lane. This fact also contributed to my early arrival, for I had anticipated all manner of difficulties and delays in locating the house, not one of which materialised, and the sight of two neatly dressed boys riding their shining immaculate bicycles round a shaven, immaculate lawn convinced me that I had reached my destination even before I came close enough to read the number on the gate.
Barry and Keith dismounted when
they saw my car pull up and stood watching me as I fumbled with the latch of the wrought iron gate. Then, as it swung open, they both dropped their bicycles on the grass and the younger boy bolted round to the back of the house, while the other walked slowly towards me.
He was a round-faced, placid-looking child, with light brown hair cut straight across his forehead in a wide fringe, and small, regular features very like his father’s. He did not appear at all shy and the wary, almost reluctant approach obviously did not spring from timidity, for when he was close enough he addressed me in confident, faintly reprimanding tones:
“Are you Miss Crichton?”
“Yes. And you’re Barry? Or is it Keith?”
“Barry. Keith is my brother. You can bring your car in the drive, if you like. Actually, you ought not to leave it out there because some of the others come down rather fast and they might bash into it.”
He evidently shared his parents’ low opinion of the neighbours and, having no proof that it was unjustified, I obediently returned to the car. While I was manipulating it through the gate Keith came running out of the house and went into muttered conference with his brother. They were about as unlike as a pea and a bean in the same pod, for Keith was a wizened and knobbly, gnome-like child, very small for his age and wearing steel-rimmed glasses which so far had done nothing much to counteract a violent squint. Barry was the spokesman:
“He says Mum’s upstairs. She’s sorry she wasn’t ready for you, but she’ll be down in five minutes and would you mind waiting in the living room?”
“Not at all, if you’ll show me the way.”
They both escorted me as far as the living room, which was large and antiseptic, with no visible speck of dust anywhere and with a picture window overlooking the garden and the meadow beyond it. The curtains were made of natural hessian and the predominating colour of the furnishings was muted beige.
There wasn’t an ashtray in sight, so I didn’t dare light a cigarette and the only books were contained in a small and lonely shelf and consisted mainly of technical works about film making. The other titles were equally unalluring as they all referred to wild birds or sailing.
Luckily the reading matter on the coffee table was more my style, for along with a neat pile of women’s magazines it included a copy of the South Berkshire Herald and Gazette and I spent an enjoyable ten minutes catching up with all the recent weddings and bazaars, plus the rather mysterious case of the man who had been fined two pounds by the magistrates’ court for insulting behaviour in the public swimming baths, although the form it had taken was tantalisingly withheld.
Still no sign of Brenda, so I turned to the back page, which was entirely devoted to the For Sale, Hire & Wanted and Miscellaneous columns. These usually provide plenty of fun and there was an added fascination this time because several of the small ads for boats had been marked with a cross. I read each of these with special care, in the vague hope of coming across some clue to Mike’s state of mind immediately before his disappearance. The exercise was not entirely unrewarding for it showed at least that he had approached the task in a spirit of great confidence and optimism. There was even a two-berth, sea-going cabin cruiser, with cooker, open to offers, which had a tick against it. Another small diversion was provided by the fact that one advertisement included in this department and beginning: Boats, Trains, Planes . . . actually turned out to refer to something called the Four Corners Travel Bureau, which would presumably mean a rap over the knuckles for some feckless member of the staff.
At this point in the literary feast the door opened and Brenda entered the room.
She appeared more composed than at our last meeting, with the defenceless look less in evidence, but this was no great improvement because the truculence had become correspondingly more pronounced and her greeting was curt:
“Sorry to have kept you, but I understood you to say you wouldn’t be here till eleven, and there’s a lot for one person to do in a house this size, especially with the boys at home all day.”
As a reception it could be said to lack warmth and for two pins I would have driven straight back to London and left her to sort out her own troubles. Only past gratitude to Mike and the lingering belief that he might be lying injured or ill somewhere induced me to stick it out. If he were in some kind of trouble and unable to contact his family, then the least I could do was to try and ease the burden on them. It also occurred to me in passing that in Brenda’s situation, I too might be somewhat deficient in affability, and so I said:
“Yes, I apologise for disrupting your morning, but I came early because it had struck me that you might need some cash for the weekend shopping. So I’ve brought enough to tide you over for the next few days.”
“Oh no, thanks. It’s very good of you, but I couldn’t possibly accept it. We hardly know each other and I’m not asking for charity.”
“Now, listen to me, Brenda,” I began and then doggedly ploughed through my full repertoire of persuasive argument, countering all her objections and practically going on my knees to get her accept my measly twenty pounds, which at the end of ten minutes solid work she grudgingly consented to do.
“So now I’ll leave you in peace,” I said when she had tucked the money away in her bag, but it seemed that the completion of this sordid transaction had cleared the air for her because, much to my surprise, she said in a friendlier tone:
“No, please don’t go. Not unless you’re in a tearing hurry. If you can spare a moment, I’d like your opinion on this letter I’ve just found.”
“Don’t tell me! You mean he left a note, after all?”
“No, nothing like that. This isn’t from Mike. It was something I came across in one of his suit pockets. You know, Tessa, when I found he’d drawn out all that money and left us with nothing to live on it was like an awful smack in the face. It completely knocked me out; but then I began to think that he must have had it in his mind to go for a long time and, if only I were to try hard enough, I’d remember something or find something which might give me a clue as to where he’d gone. It didn’t seem possible that he could keep me in the dark like that, leading what you might call a double life for weeks, or maybe months on end, without making a mistake somewhere. So that was what made me search through all his pockets.”
“And you found a letter?”
“Not a whole one. Here, see what you think! It was in the inside pocket of his dark suit, which he only wears about once in a blue moon, so goodness knows how long it’s been there.”
She opened her bag again and extracted what looked like a torn off half sheet of deep blue writing paper. I took it eagerly, but was disappointed to find that the words on it conveyed nothing whatever. They appeared to be merely half a dozen trade names, with measurements and prices set against each of them.
“Not that side,” Brenda said impatiently, “turn it over.”
I did so, turning it sideways as well, for just below the wider and torn off edge there was a single line of writing in large italic script, with a signature beneath, which ran as follows:
‘. . . yours for the rest of my life,
Chloe’
“What do you make of that?” Brenda asked.
“I don’t know,” I said, reading the words again and finding no more comfort in them. “Part of a letter, obviously. Pity you didn’t find the rest of it.”
“He must have destroyed it. Probably didn’t realise this was on the back when he jotted down those notes. But, listen! You moved much more in his world than I did when you get right down to it, and what I’ve been plucking up courage to ask you is this: do you know anyone called Chloe?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I do.”
“Ah! So she works at the film studios, does she?”
“Yes, in the art department. Supposed to be very talented. Of course it doesn’t have to be the same one, but Chloe is not such a common name and there’s also the fact that Mike must know her too. I never heard they were particularly friendly thou
gh.”
“What’s her other name?”
“I’m trying to remember. It begins with M. Mason or something like that. No, hang on! Masters. Chloe Masters.”
“What’s she like? Young? Attractive?”
“It’s hard to tell, isn’t it, but I shouldn’t think all that young. She’s been around for some time. Twenty-eight or nine, at a guess. I daresay some people find her attractive, but definitely not the sort of girl you’d expect anyone to leave home for, if that’s any comfort to you.”
Not all of this was strictly accurate, for to those who admired the voluptuous type, Chloe Masters was quite a dish, and I think there must have been a fair number of them too, for while not appearing conceited she was notable for her poise and self-confidence, I remembered her as a bosomy kind of girl, with slender legs which gave her a slightly top heavy look, dark curly hair, sloe eyes and a short upper lip. Nevertheless, my assurances were not wholly insincere, being based principally on the unlikelihood of someone of Chloe’s character running away with such a dim little man as Mike Parsons, so it amounted to the same thing. Naturally, I was also aware that the tiny snag in this thinking lay in the faint chance that Chloe, having moved around a bit, was now ready to settle for one who possessed those qualities of undemanding kindness and generosity, which were so conspicuous in Mike, but I did not feel the necessity to pass these reservations on to Brenda.
“Is she married?” Brenda asked and I guessed from the edginess of her tone that she was putting the question for the second time.
“I couldn’t be sure, but I believe not. I hardly know her, but I’ve never heard anyone mention a husband. Also I’ve got what they call a photographic memory and I don’t visualise her wearing a wedding ring. In fact,” I went on on a note of triumph as studious concentration brought results, “I have a flickering idea that someone told me she was engaged to be married, but it fizzled out for some reason. There was an invalid mother to support, or a dotty sister, or something of that kind. So on the whole, she doesn’t sound at all the sort of person who’d elope with someone else’s husband.”