by Frank Smith
‘That’s very kind of you,’ she said, picking up her handbag and moving to join them.
‘Joyce Chandler, Ivy Sloane,’ the woman said, introducing herself and her friend. She was a tall, angular woman with deep-set eyes and a friendly smile. Grey hair, fiftyish, Molly guessed, and reasonably well off if her clothes were anything to go by. Her friend, Ivy, was a smaller woman, probably about the same age, but she looked younger with her dyed blonde hair and plumper face. ‘And you are . . .?’ Joyce Chandler enquired pleasantly.
‘Molly Forsythe.’ Molly placed her handbag on the floor between her feet. It wasn’t because she didn’t trust the people she was with, but rather force of habit.
‘Visiting, are you?’ enquired Ivy innocently.
Before Molly could reply, Joyce Chandler chuckled and put a hand on Molly’s arm. ‘No need to answer that,’ she said. ‘You can’t keep secrets here. We all know who you are.’ Her glance included everyone in the room. ‘At least, we know that you’re a policewoman, and we know that something is going on at Wisteria Cottage, and we’re all simply dying to know what’s happened there.’
Everyone at the next table had stopped talking.
Molly smiled ruefully. Even now she was still amazed at how fast news could spread through a village such as this. She’d only been in the place a couple of hours, but it seemed the word was out from one end of the village to the other. But then, it only took one telephone call to get things started.
Her thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of her tea and scone.
‘We are curious,’ Joyce Chandler prompted gently, as Molly concentrated on cutting the scone in half and applying a liberal amount of butter.
‘Perhaps we can “help you with your enquiries”?’ said someone at the next table, lowering her voice to emphasize the words of the phrase so often used by the police, and everybody laughed.
Why not? thought Molly as she sipped the ice-cold tea. The situation was unusual, but it might be an opportunity to gain some local knowledge.
‘Perhaps you can,’ she said as she set the tall glass mug aside. ‘Do any of you know the people in Wisteria Cottage?’
Four
Mary Turnbull was eighty-seven, and she managed to work that into the conversation within seconds of inviting Tregalles inside. ‘And call me Mary,’ she told him when he’d asked if she was Mrs Turnbull. ‘Everybody does.’ She was a big woman, and she moved with difficulty, leaning heavily on a stick for support. ‘It’s the osteoparalysis,’ she told him, mispronouncing the name of the complaint. She wheezed when she talked. ‘It’s the cat,’ she explained, ‘I’m allergic, but what can you do, eh?’
Get rid of the bloody cat was one solution that came to mind, but Tregalles refrained from voicing the thought.
‘Well, don’t just stand there; come in and close the door,’ she said impatiently. ‘This old caravan is draughty enough without leaving the door wide open. It’s the rheumatics, you see. I have to stay out of draughts. You’ll be wanting a cup of tea, I expect, being a policeman. They all do, don’t they – on television I mean. Do you know any of them on the tele?’
‘Not personally, no,’ he said as closed the door behind him and surveyed the cramped interior of the caravan. With Mary Turnbull filling the narrow aisle between stove, sink and cupboards, and with almost every available surface piled high with books, papers, rumpled bedclothes and several bin bags filled with God knows what, he didn’t see how it was possible for him to ‘come in’.
The woman heaved one of the bin bags toward the back of the caravan, which partially cleared the way, then edged sideways to settle into a seat facing a narrow table still bearing the remains of her breakfast. A ginger cat appeared as if from nowhere and jumped up on the seat beside her. Mary stroked it as it put its front paws up on the table. ‘Looking for your treat, are you?’ she said in a little girl voice. She put her finger in her mouth then popped it into the open sugar bowl and offered it to the cat. ‘There’s a good puss,’ she murmured as the cat licked her finger clean, then settled down beside her.
‘She’s a good puss,’ she wheezed as she stroked the cat. ‘This is Willow,’ she told Tregalles. She began to chuckle, but had to stop to catch her breath. ‘Pussy Willow,’ she panted. ‘It’s Mickey’s little joke. Willow’s his cat, but I think she prefers it here.’
Tregalles wasn’t surprised; the cat knew when it was on to a good thing.
‘Well, sit yourself down, then,’ she said. ‘There’s plenty of room for a little ’un. But be a love and put the kettle on before you do. I could do with another cup of tea myself.’
Directed by ‘Call me Mary’, Tregalles filled the kettle, set it on the propane burner, then slid into the seat facing her across the table. He made a show of looking at his watch and frowning. ‘I’m afraid I’m a bit pressed for time,’ he said regretfully – he wasn’t, but after seeing the condition of the mugs beside the sink, there was no way he was going to be drinking tea, especially not with sugar in it – ‘so I’ll get right to it, if you don’t mind, Mary. As I said, I’m looking for Mr Doyle, and I’m told you might be able to tell me where I can find him.’
‘Is he in trouble again?’ It seemed to be an automatic question when Doyle’s name was mentioned. ‘He’s not a bad boy, you know,’ Mary continued. ‘He made those shelves for me.’ She pointed to a set of three small shelves above the sink. ‘Never charged me. He knows I’m on the supplement, and I keep an eye on things when he’s away. And then there’s puss.’ She stroked the cat, who was purring softly.
Tregalles shook his head. ‘He’s not in any trouble as far as I know,’ he assured her. ‘But I do need to talk to him. I’m trying to find a friend of his, and I’m hoping he can help me.’
‘Ah, well, that’s all right, then, but I don’t think you’ll be seeing him for a while. He’s gone to Ireland, at least that’s what his friends said when they came to pick him up.’
‘When was this?’
Mary thought. ‘Last Friday,’ she said. ‘Yes, that’s right, it was Friday. Early in the morning, it was. They were so anxious to get going, they forgot all about puss. I had to go over and see to her after they’d gone.’
‘You say a friend came to pick up Mr Doyle; have you seen this friend before?’
Mary shook her head. ‘Two of them, there were, in a car,’ she said. ‘I heard them drive in. It must have been before seven; it was still dark, and I hadn’t been up long. Can’t sleep in like I used to.’ Mary lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. ‘It’s the bladder,’ she confided. ‘And once you’re up you might just as well stay up, mightn’t you? Anyway, I heard this car, then a banging on Mickey’s door. It went quiet for a bit, but then I heard Mickey shouting something, so I went out to see what was going on.’
‘And what was going on, Mary?’
The kettle let out a piercing whistle. ‘Be a love and make the tea,’ she said, ignoring Tregalles’s question. ‘Puss is having her nap, and I don’t want to disturb her.’
Dutifully, Tregalles slid out of the seat and made the tea, but when Mary told him to bring the pot and two mugs to the table, he only brought one. ‘I’m afraid I can’t,’ he told her sorrowfully as he sat down again. ‘Mouth’s still sore from having a tooth out, and I’m not supposed to drink anything hot.’
‘Shame,’ she said. ‘I remember what it was like when I had my tonsils out. I was just a girl, of course. Back then they took your tonsils out for any old reason, but you never hear of it now, do you? Talk about a sore mouth – I remember what it was like trying to—’
‘I’m sorry, Mary,’ Tregalles broke in, looking at his watch again, ‘but I really am pressed for time. You were going to tell me about these men. You said you went out to see what all the noise was about . . .?’
‘That’s right. Like I told you, I’d only just got up, so it took me a few minutes to get my coat and slippers on, so they were leaving by the time I got outside. I heard Mickey arguing about something, and I cal
led out to him to ask where he was going, but the man behind him sort of pushed Mickey into the back before he had a chance to answer, and it was him who told me that Mickey was off to Ireland to visit somebody. I didn’t quite catch it, because he was in ever such a hurry. Said Mickey’s alarm never went off, and he wasn’t ready when they came to pick him up to take him to the station, so it was a good thing they’d come a bit early, or he’d have missed his train. Then he got in the back with Mickey, and they drove off.’
She paused for breath, wheezing heavily now. ‘Just like Mickey, that was,’ she continued. ‘In such a hurry to be off he forgot all about puss, here, and he left his door open. I suppose he knew I’d look after her and lock up, but he might’ve told me. Mind you, it must have come up sudden like, because he never mentioned going away at all last time I talked to him, let alone to Ireland. It all happened so fast I didn’t even have time to find out when he’d be back.’
‘You say one man got in the back with Mickey. Did you see the other one? The driver?’
‘Not really. The lights were in my eyes. I saw the door open on the driver’s side, but I couldn’t really see who got in.’
‘Has anything like this happened before?’
‘No, never.’ Mary curled a hand around the cat and pulled her closer. ‘I think someone must be ill or died for Mickey to rush off like that. Maybe his mother, although he never talked about his family – come to that he’s never talked about Ireland as long as I’ve known him.’
‘So you didn’t actually get a good look at his friends at all?’
Mary shook her head. ‘It was all such a rush, and it was dark and with the lights shining like they were, it was hard to see anything properly.’
‘What about the car? Can you tell me anything about it? Make, colour, number plate? Two doors, four doors, old, new – anything at all?’
‘It had four doors, but that’s all I can tell you.’ Mary turned suspicious eyes on Tregalles. ‘What’s this all about, anyway?’ she demanded. ‘Why are you asking all these questions? I thought you said you just wanted to talk to Mickey about a friend of his.’
‘I do,’ Tregalles said soberly, ‘because a friend, or at least an acquaintance of his, left home without telling anyone, and I was hoping that Mickey Doyle could help me find him. But now, from what you’ve told me, I’m wondering if Mickey hasn’t done the same.’
‘I don’t think Mickey Doyle has gone to Ireland,’ Tregalles said. ‘In fact I suspect he may not have gone anywhere willingly. Mrs Turnbull said she went over to Doyle’s caravan straightaway, and found the door open, the bed unmade, drawers pulled out, and clothes on the floor. And when I took a look myself, it was just like Newman’s place; there wasn’t a scrap of paper to be found.
‘Mary said she tidied up a bit – and it was only a bit – but she says she didn’t take anything out of there, apart from the cat, of course. She said there was no note, and she’s heard nothing from Doyle since that morning.
‘She couldn’t describe the men or the car because the headlights were pointed in her direction, so all she could see were outlines and shadowy figures, and no one else I spoke to in the caravan court remembers seeing or hearing anything unusual that Friday morning. Or if they did they’re not saying. Some of them were out when I called, but I’ll try to get to the rest tomorrow.
‘Mary said one of the men told her they’d come to take Mickey to the train, but I checked the local timetable and there’s nothing going either way around that time in the morning. Oh, yes, just one more thing: Doyle’s van was parked behind the trailer. It was unlocked and all his tools were inside.’
They were in Paget’s office: Tregalles, Molly Forsythe and Geoff Kirkpatrick from SOCO.
‘I’ve sealed the caravan and the van,’ the sergeant continued, ‘and Geoff will be going through both tomorrow. We’ve cleared it with Charlie Dobbs. I couldn’t find a picture of Doyle, but I have a fairly good description, and I think we should get it out along with Newman’s.’
‘Agreed,’ said Paget. ‘And since it appears to be developing into something more than a Missing Persons case, I think it’s time to bring DS Ormside in on this, so have him circulate Doyle’s description. And just in case there is some truth to the story that Doyle has gone to Ireland, I would think these so-called friends of his would be more likely to drive him to Shrewsbury, where there are at least half a dozen trains a day to Holyhead and the ferry. So let’s find out if Doyle does have friends or relatives over there. Anything else?’
‘That’s it, boss,’ the sergeant told him as he gathered his papers together and stood up. ‘I’ll go down and talk to Ormside now.’
‘Right.’ Paget turned to Molly as Tregalles left the room. ‘And what did you find out?’ he began, but was interrupted by a low buzzing sound coming from her handbag. She raised an enquiring eyebrow in Paget’s direction, and he nodded. Molly took out the phone and answered it. She began to move toward the door to take the call outside the office, then stopped.
‘Right away,’ she said, and closed the phone. ‘It’s a message from a Mrs Chandler, a woman I met in the village, today,’ she told Paget. ‘She would like me to ring her as soon as possible. Do you mind, sir? It could be important.’
‘Go ahead,’ he told her, turning his attention to Kirkpatrick. ‘And what did you find?’ he asked as Molly left the office.
‘Not much,’ the man said, ‘but it was hard to know exactly what to look for.’ Kirkpatrick was a small, soft-spoken man, who had been on Charlie’s team for a decade or more, and he was known to be painstakingly thorough. ‘At the cottage, I found what I presume to be Newman’s prints everywhere in the room, and I found Emma Baker’s prints pretty much where she said I’d find them, including on the do-it-yourself Ikea wardrobe, which she said she’d helped put together. I also found prints belonging to Foxworthy all over the worktable in front of the window, and one or two from Sylvia Tyler. I got there early in order to get everyone’s prints for comparison,’ he explained. ‘Foxworthy was the only one who objected, saying he didn’t see why he should give them, because he’d never been inside Newman’s room. But he finally let me take them.’
‘That’s what he told us yesterday,’ Paget said. ‘And so did Sylvia. Have you had a chance to speak to them, or were they still away at the college when you left?’
‘Fortunately, they both came home for lunch,’ said Kirkpatrick, ‘so I spoke to them then. Foxworthy’s a touchy sod, isn’t he? Swore up and down that he’d never been in Newman’s room until Emma Baker reminded him that he’d helped Newman carry the plywood up the stairs when Newman was setting up the table. He said he was never more than two or three steps inside the room and left as soon as he set the plywood top down. And that made sense, because the only other prints I found of his were a couple on the door jamb.’
‘And what did young Sylvia have to say for herself?’
Kirkpatrick chuckled. ‘I’m afraid I embarrassed her,’ he said. ‘It took a bit of coaxing, but she finally admitted that she had a bit of a crush on Newman, and she’d slipped into his room a couple of times, as she put it, “to look round and sort of pretend that he was there with her”.’
‘Did you believe her?’
Kirkpatrick shrugged. ‘It sounded just soppy enough to be true,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a fifteen-year-old at home who’s a bit like that since she discovered boys. And my impression of Miss Tyler is that she’s not all that mature.’
Paget nodded. That had been his impression as well.
‘There were a variety of prints I couldn’t identify on some of the older furniture and on the door and window sill, but my guess is they belong to previous tenants. There were none where I would have expected them to be if whoever removed the papers and the laptop hadn’t worn gloves. Something like driving gloves, I suspect, because I found one very small piece of thread caught on the rough edge of the plywood table, and I think when we take a closer look at it, we’ll find it’s the sort used fo
r stitching gloves like that.’
Paget grimaced. ‘It’s not much to go on, though, is it?’ he said.
‘There was one other thing,’ Kirkpatrick said. ‘I found similar threads on the back door beside the lock. The only other prints on the door belonged to Sylvia Tyler, and when I checked her gloves, they were nowhere near the same.’
Molly appeared in the doorway. ‘I called Mrs Chandler back,’ she told Paget, ‘and it turns out that she is the doctor’s wife in Lyddingham. Apparently she comes in to Whitcott to meet her friend for coffee, which is why I found her there this morning. Anyway, when she told her husband that I had been asking if anyone had seen any activity around Wisteria Cottage last week, he said he remembered driving past there Friday morning and seeing two men get out of a car and go through the gate. I asked Mrs Chandler if he recognized them or could describe them, but she says they had their backs to him, and he only glanced at them as he drove by.’
‘What time was that?’ asked Paget.
‘He thinks it would be about half past nine.’
‘And classes start at eight, so everyone is out of the house on weekdays by that time,’ said Paget. ‘It fits. Does he remember anything about the car?’
‘He says not, sir, but I’ve made arrangements to meet him tomorrow to see if I can jog his memory. I plan on taking the car book with me to see if that will help.’
‘Good! Anything else?’
‘I’m afraid not, sir. No one I spoke to today had anything bad to say about the students in Wisteria Cottage, or the students at the college in general. There are a lot of them boarding in the area, and the villagers like that because they do well out of them. And with the Red Lion being the only pub in the village, just about everyone knows Emma Baker. Some of them said they knew Mark Newman because he’d done some work for them, but no one seemed to know anything about him.’
Paget nodded. ‘What time are you seeing this doctor, tomorrow?’
‘Two o’clock. He’s busy in the morning.’