by Kathy Shuker
Claire felt a wrenching sigh escape her. She would be fifteen now. How pretty she would be. Of course Neil had been right, at least up to a point. At one time, Claire had been convinced that Gilly would simply walk in the door one day. Living in Kent, she had cursed herself that she had agreed to leave and effectively abandon her little girl, and she had blamed Neil for suggesting it as much as she had blamed herself for agreeing. But she’d comforted herself with the thought that there was still family in Bohenna if Gilly did return and eventually the hope had slowly died.
But now the slide had turned up in Bohenna. Gilly hadn’t been taken by a tourist; she had never left. Claire thought she should tell Neil. But no. He wouldn’t believe her either. They would simply have another row and he would be obstructive. She had to keep this to herself.
She fixed on the slide again. If this was Gilly’s, maybe her daughter was very close after all. Didn’t you read about girls being abducted and held captive a stone’s throw from their homes? Or maybe she was dead and the killer had thrown the slide away… But as always, she fought the thought, unable to grasp its exquisite pain, fending it off like she might fend off someone trying to sear her with a branding iron. In any case, it didn’t make sense. Why would it turn up at the fête? In truth, it didn’t make sense whichever way you looked at it though that didn’t change her certainty that the slide had belonged to Gilly. Tears began to run down her cheeks unnoticed.
What was important was to track the slide back to the person who had put it to be sold at the fête. The police didn’t take her seriously so she would do it herself. Gilly might be depending on her. She felt a twinge of fear, mindful that if Gilly was still alive and waiting to be rescued, Claire would have to be very careful. Nothing rash, she told herself. Nothing rash to risk Gilly. Softly, softly…
*
Adam hesitated at the door to V and C, opened it and walked in. Twice before he had been in the unit: once to see what Penny was selling and a second time to borrow her staple gun when his own had broken down. Penny had given him the impression that she thought painting pictures for a living was frivolous and could hardly be expected to keep a grown man fed. She hadn’t articulated the opinion but he could see it in the line of her mouth and her disdainful gaze. Glancing round at racks of goods which his parents would probably have considered junk, he thought her attitude a bit precious.
But this week Claire Pennyman appeared to be working alone so this was a good time to call. He closed the door behind him and wandered in and Claire emerged from the back room, drying her hands on a towel.
‘Hello,’ she said, looking surprised. ‘Can I help?’
‘I believe you had some old perfume bottles for sale. Have you still got them?’
‘Yes, they’re in the case over there. I’ll need to unlock it for you.’
Claire disappeared into the back room again and emerged with a key in her hand. Adam had already walked across to the glass cabinet and was standing staring in at its contents dolefully. He watched her put the key in the lock and wondered which of the things he’d heard about her since her return were true. There’s no smoke without fire, his grandmother used to say - all too often - but Adam had already come to the conclusion that, in Bohenna at least, sometimes there was an awful lot of smoke created by a very tiny fire. Now Claire was removing each perfume bottle in turn and placing it on a table top next to where a china dinner service had been laid out. There were four bottles. She put the last one down and straightened up, looking at him expectantly.
Adam stared at them dumbly, reached out a hand to the nearest and lifted the price tag which hung from its neck.
‘Ouch. I didn’t realise they’d be that expensive,’ he said. ‘Sorry. I’m not sure…’
His voice trailed away but he continued to stare at them, uncertain. Zoe had made such a fuss about how lovely these bottles were a few weeks ago. He’d thought it would be the perfect thing to get, something to make her realise that he did listen to what she said, that he did care about her.
‘It’s my girlfriend’s birthday soon,’ he explained. ‘She saw these here and loved them, so I thought I’d get one before they sold. But they’re a bit steep.’ He shrugged.
‘They aren’t all the same price.’ Claire picked a different one up and read out the price tag. ‘The one you looked at first is the most expensive. It’s Victorian and probably the oldest.’ She picked up the other two in turn and told him their prices.
‘Those aren’t so bad.’ He flicked her a look. ‘Hey, I’m not being mean here but, you know…’
‘You don’t need to explain to me,’ said Claire with feeling. ‘We all have to watch our pennies.’
He was surprised and it must have shown in his face.
‘I’m not part of the empire,’ she said crisply, waving a hand vaguely towards the vineyard.
‘No, sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest anything.’ He grinned. ‘I’m not doing very well here, am I?’ He looked back down at the bottles. ‘Honestly, I know nothing about them. Do you like them? If you had to choose one, which would you go for?’
She glanced questioningly into his face then looked down, studying the bottles, and pointed to the second most expensive one. It had a pyramidal base of palest blue cut glass and a silver ball top delicately designed with a bee feeding on a wild rose.
‘I like this one,’ she said. ‘It’s art deco, I think.’ She produced a weak smile and a half shrug. ‘And I like bees.’
Adam picked it up and looked it over. It was pretty.
‘Of course, your girlfriend might have very different taste,’ Claire added.
And just at the moment, thought Adam, she’ll probably hate whatever I get on principle.
Claire turned away, fiddling with the position of a couple of plates in the service, giving him some space.
‘I’ll take this,’ he said heavily.
Claire smiled again, put the other bottles back in the case and locked the door, then took the art deco bottle to the counter.
‘What’s good about this one,’ she said, wrapping it up in a couple of sheets of tissue paper, ‘is that, being art deco, it looks modern as well as being vintage.’
‘I see you’ve got the patter down already,’ said Adam.
‘What do you mean by that?’
‘Nothing. It’s just that you’ve only been here a couple of weeks. You must have been swotting up on the stock or something. Jane was telling me you worked in a garden centre before you came here.’
‘Are you suggesting I don’t know what I’m doing?’ she replied indignantly. ‘Of course I’ve made an effort to know the stock.’ She finished wrapping the tissue paper round the bottle and ferociously ripped a piece of adhesive tape off the dispenser to fasten it. ‘Do you want a bag?’ she said curtly. ‘I don’t want to give you one because you don’t need it and all these bags are ruining the planet.’
‘I don’t want a bag.’
She glanced at him warily. ‘Jane say anything else about me?’
‘No.’ He offered his credit card and watched her put it in the machine, wondering why she was so touchy all of a sudden. She had been friendly enough when she had visited his studio. Now she was all bristles and sourness. ‘Jane only told me about the garden centre because she said you used to be an illustrator.’
‘You can put your number in now.’
He tapped at the machine.
‘Jane was concerned you’d stopped painting.’ Adam waited for the machine to finish and took his card. ‘She said you used to love it. I gather you know each other well.’
‘We did. It seems you know her pretty well too. I didn’t realise she confided in you.’
‘Confided? Hardly.’ He picked up the tissue-wrapped bundle from the counter but didn’t move and fixed Claire with his gaze. ‘Jane strikes me as being lonely. She comes into my studio and likes to talk. To be honest I don’t always listen to what she’s saying ‘cause I’m involved in my work - I trust you won’t tell her th
at - but if it makes her feel better…’ He shrugged. ‘Maybe if her old friends still bothered with her, she wouldn’t need to talk to a relative stranger.’ He gestured with the package, said, ‘Thanks,’ and walked out.
He noticed her frowning, pinching her lips thoughtfully as he closed the door.
*
Claire got the phone number of Megan Davies from the noticeboard in the church porch but when she called her, Megan stated briskly that she knew nothing about the contents of the box she had given to Penny. She was a busy woman with a lot on her mind, she said, and she simply got people from the various stalls to put whatever was unsold into boxes at the end of the fête then passed them on as appropriate. The bric-a-brac stall was run by Patsy Miller and Megan grudgingly gave Claire the woman’s phone number. But Patsy, though pleasant and helpful, didn’t live in Bohenna. She lived in a hamlet some three miles away and didn’t know much either. Most of the donations were left anonymously. The people who owned the pub in the village kindly left the doors of their old garages open and people put their offerings into various plastic boxes, labelled according to stall: bric-a-brac, bottle, raffle prizes and so on. Patsy only knew the people who had turned up on the afternoon when the table was already set up.
‘Which is always a bit of a nuisance really,’ she remarked, ‘though it’s kind of them to give, of course. But it means a rush to price everything before the fête starts.’
‘But can you remember who those people were and what they gave?’ Claire asked.
‘Oh, my dear - I don’t know. Let me see. Well yes, I remember Philippa Johnson – you know, the new vicar’s wife - gave us a baby doll with two spare sets of clothes. Lovely condition. That sold very quickly. There was a young woman who gave a few things, but I can’t remember what exactly and I didn’t know her. And there was Beattie Foster, of course…she’d left some donations at the garages but had forgotten to include…what was it she brought on the day? A teapot I think. There were a couple of others but I can’t remember who they were. Sorry. Why do you want to know?’
‘There were some interesting pieces in with the jewellery and we’re always looking for stock at V and C. I wondered if they might have any other things to sell.’ The spurious excuse seemed to placate and the call was ended.
So that was no help; there was no way sweet old Beattie could be a suspect. Claire would have to go and ask at The Swan. Already she felt that she was clutching at straws.
*
The new landlord at the pub had been there barely a year. Terry Donovan who ran the place when Claire and Neil were younger had gone but even before their hasty departure from Bohenna, they had rarely visited The Swan. Neil had been the marketing manager for the vineyard and had travelled a lot. The pressures of both work and a young family had curtailed their social life to a minimum.
Now the licensing plaque over the pub door read Dave Spenser. Claire arrived there at five to six on the Wednesday evening, hoping he might open early so they could talk before the regulars arrived, but it was six o’clock exactly when she saw the lights being switched on and heard the clunk of the key turning in the big old lock. She waited a couple of minutes then went inside.
It was said that there had been a public house on the site of The Swan for more than four hundred years. The present building was a mere two hundred and twenty years old. It had low, beamed ceilings, a sloping wooden floor and a fireplace in every room. Claire walked into the lounge bar. Not much had changed though the dark old tables and chairs had been replaced by paler, more modern ones and the bench seat in one corner had been reupholstered. A shovel full of coal smouldered disinterestedly in the open fire; the logs stacked up to the side seemed optimistic. The bar at the centre of the public rooms was formed in a square. A partition with shelving and optics divided it and meant that you could only see into the opposing room from certain places along the bar, looking at an angle.
Claire stood at the bar now but there was no sign of the landlord. Away to her right, she could hear voices in the kitchen and she cleared her throat loudly. Dave quickly appeared.
‘Sorry to keep you waiting. What can I get you?’
She ordered a small glass of white wine and watched him pour it. She could feel his curiosity and saw the way his eyes slid sideways to glance at her. Already she was convinced that he knew who she was.
‘I don’t think I’ve seen you in here before, have I?’ He put the glass down in front of her.
‘No. There was a different landlord when I used to live here.’
She gave him a five pound note and he put it through the till.
‘You used to live here?’ He handed her the change.
‘Yes. I left a few years ago. But I’m back now and working up at V and C in the Craft Yard.’
‘That’s right,’ he said, and nodded. ‘You were married to Neil Pennyman. Claire, isn’t it?’ He smiled; it looked genuine enough.
‘Yes.’ She glanced along the bar. ‘Quiet tonight.’
‘Early yet. But November’s always quiet. Much business up at the Yard?’
‘Not a lot. I’ve been told it’ll get busier in the run up to Christmas.’
‘That’s what we’re all hoping anyway.’ He grinned and looked about to move away.
She leaned forward. ‘I understand you let people put things in your garages for the fête in the summer?’
‘Yes, we did.’ He frowned. ‘Why?’
‘We’ve had a box of leftover items given to us and I wondered if you happened to see anyone bringing things to leave there? Did anyone keep an eye on it?’
‘You mean in case anything was stolen? That’s not very likely. No, sorry. I spend most of the day in here.’ He shook his head, pulling a face. ‘I might have seen a couple of people but I didn’t really notice. I assumed they were taking stuff in. Maybe they were taking bags in and filling them up to nick.’ He laughed.
Claire smiled politely. She angled a glance towards the public bar but it still looked empty.
‘Can you remember who you saw?’ she persisted, trying to sound casual.
‘Who? I told you, I didn’t really register.’ He pursed up his lips. ‘Though, come to think of it, I did see Mandy Turner when I was sorting out the bins one day. She’s Nick Lawer’s girlfriend. You probably know Nick? He’s lived here forever, so he says. Runs his own taxi business.’
Claire nodded. The name rang a vague bell.
‘No-one else?’
He shrugged, shaking his head.
Claire noticed a pile of business cards on the end of the bar nearest her and she picked one up and read it, brow furrowed.
JANE SAWDY
Natural healer and psychic.
She turned it over.
Stressed? Struggling to cope? Niggling ailments? I can help rebalance your life.
Private, affordable consultations. Find your inner peace.
Dave nodded at the card. ‘That’s that woman who works up at the yard. It’s quite a claim, isn’t it? I gather she does séances sometimes. Sessions, she calls them. Claims to commune with people’s nearest and dearest…’ He put on a spooky, wobbly voice, eyes big. ‘…on the other side.’ He looked at her with frank curiosity. ‘Know her, do you?’
‘Yes, a little.’ She felt a pang of guilt. Adam’s words had stayed with her. Maybe if her old friends still bothered with her… But Claire found Jane’s behaviour disturbing. She quickly replaced the card.
Dave was grinning. ‘P’rhaps she’ll look into her crystal ball for you and see who gave what to the fête. Tell me again why you’re so interested?’
Claire repeated the excuse she had given to Patsy Miller about looking for more jewellery stock.
‘Oh. Right.’ Dave turned and walked towards the kitchen.
The public bar door banged and Claire heard the voices of two men. They came to stand at the counter and one of them was at the right angle to look directly across at her.
‘Annie,’ Dave shouted. ‘Did you see any of the
people who put stuff in the garages? Someone who donated jewellery maybe?’
Claire couldn’t hear the reply. She found herself trying not to look at the man at the bar who was staring at her with frank and intrusive interest.
Dave came back. ‘Annie didn’t see anyone. I could ask around, if you like.’
‘No, don’t worry, thanks. It’s not important. I just thought I’d ask since I was here anyway.’
Dave served the men in the Public Bar and Claire took her glass across to a table and sat down, out of sight. She couldn’t just go; she had to make her questions look like an afterthought. She swallowed a couple of mouthfuls of wine, trying to look at ease, and stayed another ten minutes before making for the door and slipping out into the cloak of darkness.
Claire did remember Nick Lawer now. He was a womaniser and there had been a rumour going round, years ago, that he beat his wife up - before she left him, that was. Sensible woman, everyone had said, though no-one knew for certain what had gone on. That was the thing in Bohenna: everyone knew and yet no-one knew. And Nick was the man in the bar who had been looking at her, undressing her with his eyes. She was certain he knew who she was too and, if he didn’t before, he soon would because Dave Spenser would be sure tell him.
The question was: did his taste extend to little girls too? Nick Lawer was definitely worth investigating.
Chapter 5
By the first week of December, the wine had stopped fermenting. By the end of the second, Julia had started racking each tank off its sediment into another freshly cleaned one. If they left it too long on the dead yeast cells and grape residue, the flavour of the wine would be compromised.
Like most of their jobs, racking was the sort of work which didn’t respect weekends off: it was done when it had to be done. On the Saturday, Julia, Tim, Chris and another lad called Mike were working in pairs, moving the pumps from tank to tank, dragging suction tubes and attaching them, taking care not to disturb the debris at the bottom of the wine. Phil was working outside, carrying the pressed sediment away, driving up and down the rows of vines in his tractor to deposit it around the base of the plants as a fertiliser.