by Frank Smith
‘This is a digital camera, is it?’ Tregalles asked.
‘No. It’s a 35mm SLR. An Olympus. I don’t know how much it’s worth, exactly, but I know my sister paid quite a lot for it three or four years ago, and I’m almost as worried about what I’m going to tell her as I am about Mark.’
‘When did you realize the camera was missing?’
‘Thursday afternoon when I came home from class. I might not have realized it was missing right away if we hadn’t been talking about it that morning, but I noticed it was gone as soon as I opened the door of the closet. It normally hangs on a peg in there. Mark – at least I’m assuming it was Mark – had pulled the clothes over to one side to cover the peg, and that’s what drew my attention to it.’
‘So Mark was still here when you left that morning?’ Tregalles said. ‘What time would that be, Miss Baker?’
‘I prefer Emma, if you don’t mind, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘And I’d say it would have been about ten to eight. Classes begin at eight, but I remember I was a few minutes late that morning, mainly because of stopping to talk to Mark.’
‘Is anything else missing?’ asked Paget.
‘Not that I’m aware of.’
‘Did he say why he wanted the camera?’
‘To tell you the truth, he was wittering on while I was trying to get ready for class, and I wasn’t paying as much attention as I suppose I should have, but I do recall him saying something about making someone sit up and take notice. As I said, I was running late, and he was holding me up, so I more or less shut him out. Perhaps if I’d paid more attention to what he was saying we wouldn’t be having this conversation now . . .’
Emma fell silent for a moment frowning into the distance. ‘There was something . . .’ she began hesitantly, then snapped her fingers. ‘I’d forgotten it until now, but Mark asked me if I had any high-speed film, and if I knew where he could get infrared film.’
‘Which suggests night photography,’ said Paget thoughtfully. ‘Does that make any sense to you? Had he spoken of anything like that before?’
‘No.’
‘Assuming there is something to your idea that this chap, Doyle, put Mark on to a story, where can we find him?’
Emma shook her head. ‘I’ve tried that route already,’ she said. ‘I went round on Saturday to ask Mickey if he had any idea where Mark might have gone, but he wasn’t home. Lou Cutter, the man who owns the caravan park where Mickey lives, said he hadn’t seen Mickey recently. He assumed he was away on a job somewhere – or on one of his benders. Mickey’s a joiner by trade,’ she explained. ‘He works for himself. I’m told he does beautiful work, doing up the inside of old houses and that sort of thing, and people are always after him. Mr Cutter told me that Mickey would have a thriving little business if he could stay away from the drink, but every so often he’ll disappear for a week or two, then end up spending the night in custody on a drunk and disorderly charge.’
Tregalles flipped back a page in his notebook. ‘Let me see if I have this right,’ he said. ‘Are you saying that Doyle may be missing as well?’
‘No – at least I hadn’t thought about it in that way,’ Emma said slowly, ‘but now that I do think about it, Mickey hasn’t been in the Red Lion all week, and I remember Mark asking me a couple of times if Mickey had been in.’
‘Perhaps you could give me Mickey Doyle’s address,’ Tregalles said, and wrote it down as Paget pushed back his chair and stood up.
‘Is the door to Mark’s room locked?’ he asked Emma. ‘We’d like to have a look at it.’
She shook her head. ‘We’ve never had to lock our doors here,’ she told him. ‘I’ll take you up.’
Mark Newman’s room was at the back of the house. A small window overlooked an orchard surrounded by a wooden fence, beyond which the ground rose steeply to hillside pastures dotted with sheep. The grass between the fruit trees was long – it was still a bit early for cutting – but the trees had been pruned recently, as evidenced by the limbs and branches stacked in neat piles against the fence.
‘We look after it,’ Emma told Paget when he asked about it. ‘It’s part of the deal. Our landlady knocks five pounds a month off our rent if we keep it up.’
‘How very generous of her,’ Paget observed drily.
Emma shrugged. ‘Five quid is five quid when you live as close to the line as we do,’ she told him, ‘and we are agricultural students after all.’
The carpet was old and worn almost through in places, but the floral wallpaper looked fresh and clean, as did the sheets and coverlet on the narrow, made-up bed with an extra blanket folded neatly at the foot. There was an old-fashioned night table beside the bed, with a thick wedge of cardboard under one of its spindled legs to keep it level, and next to it was a chest of drawers. It was old and almost black with age, in stark contrast to a plain, light-coloured wardrobe on the opposite wall.
‘The old one fell apart while Tania was here,’ Emma explained when she saw Paget eyeing it, ‘so our landlady got that one from Ikea. It came in a package and we put it together ourselves. It doesn’t exactly go with the room, but it does the job.’
Mark Newman didn’t have many clothes, nor did he appear to have much in the way of other possessions, which was just as well, thought Paget, considering the limited storage space. An armchair with a light above it sat in the corner by the window. The chair looked comfortable and well-used, and a pile of paperbacks, most of them science fiction, judging by their titles, lay in a jumbled heap beside it.
A makeshift table, consisting of a narrow sheet of plywood on two wooden trestles had been set up beneath the window, and beside it was a folding metal chair. A small portable radio sat at one end of the table, and next to it was a printer.
Beside the printer was a shallow cardboard box, which, according to the label, had once contained A4 paper. It was empty now, as was the printer tray when Tregalles pulled it out to check. At the other end of the table was another, smaller cardboard box containing a jumble of pencils and pens bearing company names, a wooden ruler, paper clips, elastic bands, a stapler and a pad of sticky notes. On the floor beneath the table was a single-drawer metal filing cabinet that looked as if it might have come from army surplus.
Emma was frowning as she stood looking down at the desk. ‘Someone’s been in here,’ she said. ‘This isn’t how it was when I came in on Friday morning. There were papers here.’ She pressed the eject button on a Dictaphone that was lying there. The deck was empty. ‘And his tapes have gone. He had a whole pile of them. They were there beside the radio.’
‘And you’re quite sure they were here on Friday?’ Paget said.
‘Positive. I don’t make a practice of going into someone else’s room when they’re not there,’ she explained. ‘None of us do. But when Mark didn’t come down for breakfast, I thought he’d overslept, so I knocked several times, and when he didn’t answer, I thought I’d better wake him because I knew he was supposed to be working that day. So I came in, and when I found his bed hadn’t been slept in, I looked around for a note. There wasn’t one on his door, which is where he would normally leave one if there had been some unexpected change of plan. I wasn’t in here long, but I know there were papers and tapes here on the table.’
‘Is it possible that Mark came back while you and the others were out of the house on Friday?’
‘It’s possible,’ she said with doubt in her voice, ‘but, again, he would have left a note, especially knowing what we had planned for his birthday at the pub.’
‘What about the others who live here?’ Tregalles asked. ‘Would they have any reason to come in here or remove anything?’
‘No.’ Emma shook her head emphatically. ‘But even if they did, why would they take the papers? They were mostly old bills and stuff like that. Oh, yes, and there was one of those stenographers’ notebooks with the spiral-wire top.’
‘There’s a printer but no computer,’ Tregalles observed. ‘Does he have one?’
‘He has a laptop,’ Emma told him. ‘It was here on Friday.’ She groaned softly as she glanced around the room as if hoping it would appear. ‘There is something very definitely wrong, here,’ she said grimly. ‘I was worried about Mark before, but now I’m really worried. I don’t like the look of this at all.’
Before Paget could reply, Tregalles, who was now squatting down beside the table, said, ‘Did you happen to notice if there was anything in the waste-paper bin on Friday? Because there’s nothing in it now. Not a scrap.’
‘Sorry, I don’t remember,’ Emma said distractedly. ‘As I said, I was only in here for a couple of minutes. Mark may have emptied it before he left.’
‘Emptied it where?’ Paget asked.
‘In the recycling bag, if it was just paper. If he did, it should still be there. It isn’t due to be picked up until next week.’
‘And where is it kept?’
‘In the front hall behind where we hang our coats. You can come down and take a look if you like.’
But Paget was watching the sergeant as Tregalles took out a pair of latex gloves and pulled them on before tugging gently on the handle of the filing cabinet. ‘Do you happen to know if Mark kept this drawer locked?’ he asked Emma.
She frowned in concentration. ‘I believe he did,’ she said slowly. ‘Not that there was very much in it when I saw it open. He keeps records of his jobs in there, copies of invoices, receipts for petrol, meals and things like that relating to his work. I helped him sort through some of it last month when he was doing his income tax. He probably has the key with him.’
‘Don’t need it,’ Tregalles told her as the drawer slid open. He looked up at Paget. ‘It’s been jimmied,’ he said. ‘See the scratch marks?’
Paget took a closer look. ‘And it’s empty,’ he said.
‘Clean as a whistle,’ Tregalles agreed.
Emma drew in her breath. ‘Perhaps Mark did come back . . .’ she began, then shook her head. ‘But he wouldn’t need to break into his own filing drawer, would he? He would have his own keys. Which could mean that someone else has been in the house while we were out.’ A shiver ran through her. ‘And I don’t like to even think about that,’ she ended.
‘Have you seen any other signs that might suggest a break-in?’ Paget asked. ‘Any indication that the front or back doors have been forced?’
Emma shook her head. ‘No, and we do make sure the doors are locked when we go out.’
‘Have you been in this room since last Friday morning?’
‘Not inside, no. I stuck my head in on Saturday to make sure Mark hadn’t returned during the night, before reporting him missing to the police. But I didn’t come in.’
‘I’ll check the doors before we leave,’ Tregalles said. He rose to his feet and circled the room, pulling out drawers and looking inside. ‘Doesn’t look as if there are any papers here,’ he announced. ‘In fact, there’s not a scrap of paper anywhere.’
‘I think we’d better seal the room and get it searched properly,’ Paget said. ‘And I think we should have a chat with the others who live here to see if they can shed any light on this.’ He turned to Emma. ‘Do you know what time they will be home?’
She looked at her watch. ‘They finish at four, so they should be here soon,’ she told him. She was about to leave the room when a thought struck her. ‘There’s something else missing as well,’ she said. ‘I suppose Mark could have taken it with him, but I don’t know why he would. It’s what he calls his journal. It’s quite a thick book, and he uses it to jot down ideas for stories; articles for magazines and things like that. I know he has submitted some in the past, in fact he received a cheque for an article last month. It wasn’t a large amount, but he was chuffed enough about it to stand us all a round of drinks.’
While they waited for the other two students to arrive, Tregalles checked the contents of the recycling bin bag, but found nothing that appeared to have come from Mark Newman’s room. Meanwhile, at Paget’s request, Emma found a picture of Newman, taken, as she told them ruefully, with the camera that was now missing.
‘That’s Mark, the tall one in the middle,’ she said. ‘That’s Tom on the right, and the other one of course is Sylvia. And that’s Mark’s van.’ The picture had been taken outside Wisteria Cottage. There was a skiff of snow on the ground, and Emma told them she had taken it less than a month before.
Paget studied the picture. Mark Newman was tall and gangly. He wore a woollen hat, an open, paint-spattered khaki anorak, dark-blue shirt, faded jeans and heavy boots. He stood woodenly between the other two, his body language suggesting that he was impatient to be away. The back door of his van was open, and the ladder propped against it only served to strengthen the impression that he had been interrupted while either loading or unloading the van, and wasn’t too pleased about it.
Tom Foxworthy was a smaller, dark-haired man, lean-faced, with deep-set eyes narrowed against the slanting sunlight. His brow was furrowed, and he stared into the camera with a fixed intensity as if having his picture taken was a serious business. He was wearing a dark-blue zipped-up anorak with the hood thrown back, brown corduroy trousers and heavy brogues. His hands were thrust deep into his pockets, and he looked cold.
The girl on the other side of Newman was wearing grubby overalls and knee-high wellingtons. She was a big girl, a bit on the plump side, but nicely proportioned just the same. There was colour in her cheeks, and she wore a headscarf that couldn’t quite contain a mass of fair, unruly hair. She was grinning, eyes sparkling with what looked like mischief as she looked up at Newman.
‘I think that’s the only decent one I have of Mark,’ Emma told him. ‘He hated having his picture taken, but I managed to get him to stop long enough for that one. I was trying to finish the roll before getting it developed.’
‘Do you mind if I borrow it?’ Paget asked. It was a good picture of both Newman and his van, and Paget was beginning to get the feeling that he might need it. ‘If I could have the negative as well, I’ll have prints made up and get the originals back to you in a couple of days.’
‘Please take it,’ she said. ‘In fact you can take the envelope. The negative’s inside. I’ll get it for you before you leave. But to be honest, I hope you don’t need it, because that could mean I’m right, and something has happened to Mark. And I don’t want to be right in this case, Chief Inspector. But thank you for taking me seriously.’
Tom Foxworthy was the first to arrive. He entered by the front door, hung up his coat, and came into the kitchen rubbing his hands. ‘God, but that wind is cold,’ he said as he came through the door, then stopped when he saw there were visitors.
Emma made the introductions. Foxworthy looked surprised. ‘Police?’ he said, frowning. ‘Do you really think all this is necessary, Emma? I mean Mark’s only been gone a few days. I told you, he’s either got a job that’s taking up all his time, or he’s shacked up with some girl, and probably the battery in his phone is dead.’
‘Someone has been in his room since he left,’ said Emma quietly. ‘Some of his things have gone.’
Foxworthy’s frown deepened. ‘Gone?’ he repeated. ‘What sort of things?’
‘It appears that Mr Newman’s laptop and some paper have been taken from his room,’ Paget told him. ‘And before we start looking elsewhere, I would like to be sure that no one here had any reason to remove them.’
Foxworthy bristled. ‘I don’t think I like what you’re suggesting,’ he snapped. ‘If you think that I . . .’
‘I don’t think anything at the moment, Mr Foxworthy,’ Paget said heavily, ‘and it’s a simple enough question: did you have any reason for removing papers from Mr Newman’s room, or do you know anything that might help us?’
‘I most certainly did not remove any papers! And I resent—’
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake get off your high horse, Tom,’ Emma cut in sharply. ‘The fact is the drawer of his filing cabinet has been pried open, his laptop’s gone, and a
ll of his invoices and other papers are missing and so is Mark, so the sooner the chief inspector knows where not to look, the sooner he can start looking elsewhere.’
Foxworthy shrugged a grudging concession, but he wasn’t going to let it go entirely. ‘Maybe there was a good reason for his disappearance,’ he said darkly. ‘Maybe he cleared out the drawer himself.’ His voice rose to counter the objection he could see coming. ‘He could have forgotten or lost the key, couldn’t he? After all, what do we really know about him? Nothing, except what he told us, and that wasn’t much.’
‘What, exactly, are you suggesting?’ Paget asked softly. ‘Is there something you wish to tell us about Mr Newman?’
Foxworthy shrugged again and shook his head. ‘No, but I’m just saying, that’s all. We don’t, do we?’
‘Any more than I know about you or you know about me before we came here,’ said Emma coldly. ‘Now, why don’t you go up and get washed. I’ll be getting dinner on soon – it’s my turn tonight.’ She turned to Paget as Foxworthy left the room. ‘I have to be at the pub by six,’ she explained, ‘so if it’s all right with you, I’ll get started on the spuds.’
A door banged at the rear of the house, and a shrill voice, shouted, ‘I’m home. God, it’s been a shitty day! Hope you’ve got the kettle on, Emma.’
‘Sylvia has arrived,’ Emma said with a grin. ‘She’ll be in as soon as she peels off her working clothes.’ She plugged the electric kettle in again.
Sylvia Tyler literally burst through the door. ‘Pigs!’ she said ‘I don’t think I ever want to see another bloody pig aga . . . Oooh, sorry, Emma,’ she said apologetically, ‘I didn’t know you had company.’ She turned to leave.