That Still andWhispering Place

by Kathy Shuker

  The previous day he had been to Fowey, visiting the herbalist’s shop where Jane had worked before taking on the unit. The young woman who was now the assistant there - a pretty if somewhat vacuous girl - had been only too happy to talk to him in the absence of the shop owner. Admittedly, he had shamelessly flirted with her, but he had at least found out as much as he could have hoped for: the shop was open every day except Sunday and the girl was allowed one day off during the week, though it was an ad hoc arrangement and the day varied. He had to assume that it had been the same for Jane. She might have been working the day Gilly disappeared or she might not. Short of asking her, there was no way of knowing.

  Now walking up the path to Jane’s front door, he wondered what exactly he hoped to achieve here. Jane hadn’t been living in this house when she worked in Fowey. If she had taken Gilly, where had she been keeping the girl until now and how had she brought her here without being seen? He stopped and looked round. No, it could be done in a place as remote as this, especially at night. He didn’t think it likely but it was possible.

  He walked round to the back of the house. The central section of the garden had been developed in a circular design with narrow gravel paths separating wedges of cultivation. At a glance he guessed the plants were mostly herbs of some kind. To one side was an old timber shed with a window on one side and a rusty bolt on the door. He pulled it back and glanced inside. It was full of garden tools and bags of compost and he shut it up again and returned to the house, peering in through the rear windows. He saw nothing of any significance and wasn't sure he expected to.

  ‘Gilly?’ he called out diffidently, then a second time.

  There was no answering sound. A crow in a nearby tree cawed into the silence, making him look round sharply, nerves on edge. According to Claire though, the house had a cellar which might be more promising. When she’d visited the house as a kid, she had been down to its gloomy depths once or twice. Jane’s mother had mostly used it to store coal for the fire. So maybe there was a coal chute somewhere?

  He found it. At the side of the house, half hidden beneath dead leaves and grit, was an embossed metal cover. He picked up a long, flat stone to work into the notch and managed to lift it. The chute cover was attached by a chain to an inner wall but it allowed access to a narrow channel, maybe ten inches across, which dropped down into the bowels of the house. Again, Adam spoke Gilly’s name but there was no answering sound from the cellar, nothing that suggested any life force.

  He replaced the metal cover, glanced back up at the house and decided to leave. This was getting him nowhere. He had only come to put Claire’s mind at rest. The more he thought about it, the more he was convinced that Jane was just a sad character who channelled her loneliness and frustrations into her oddball work. She was harmless.

  *

  Claire remembered Meg Poldreen as being petite, softly spoken and a little fragile. She wondered if she would still recognise her; it had been a while. There was no one at the counter when she walked into the library in Lostwithiel, and she glanced round. There were a couple of people working their way along the shelves of books and someone else on a computer. Then a woman came towards the counter pushing an empty book trolley and Claire knew her straight away as Meg. She had a weary, anxious air and had filled out but she still had the same open, easy features and her hair, though shorter, was still dark and wavy. She smiled and came forward.

  ‘Hello,’ said Claire. ‘I wanted to join the library. How do I do it?’

  ‘It’s easy. Have you got some proof of identity with your address on? A driving licence maybe?’

  ‘Er no, not on me.’

  ‘Never mind. I’ll give you the form and you can do it again and drop it in.’

  ‘Thanks.’

  Meg went behind a counter, extracted a form and held it out.

  ‘You’re Meg, aren’t you,’ said Claire. ‘I thought I recognised you. We used to live opposite each other in Bohenna. I’m Claire. Claire Pennyman.’

  Meg’s eyes opened wider. ‘I thought you looked familiar but I couldn’t place how. Your hair used to be shorter, didn’t it? Straighter?’

  Claire laughed. ‘Yes. It’s naturally curly and I’ve given up fighting it now. How are you?’

  ‘Fine, thank you. Busy. We’ve got three little boys now. A real handful they are but gorgeous all the same. And you?’ Her face clouded over. ‘Oh, I’m sorry. I remember hearing about your little girl. Terrible thing.’

  ‘Thanks. It’s nearly seven years ago already.’

  ‘Yes. I remember the shock. We were away on holiday in Spain when it happened and I was stunned when we got back and heard the news. To think that such a thing would happen in Bohenna.’

  ‘I know. Anyway, thanks for the form. Nice to see you again.’

  Leaving the library, Claire felt deflated again. It had been much easier to find out what she wanted than she had expected but, still, it was another dead end and Richard Poldreen had seemed such a promising lead. She hoped Adam was faring better.

  *

  He wasn’t. Adam had established that the bakers George Foster used to deliver for no longer traded and he didn’t know where else to find out if the man had been in the village on the afternoon of Gilly’s disappearance. He could ask him, of course. ‘Excuse me, George. You didn’t happen to abduct a little girl that afternoon, did you?’ Maybe not.

  Then he thought of Trish. At that time, she had been working in the shop where they stocked pasties and cakes. Someone must have delivered them and it might have been George - how many local bakers were there in a place this size? In any case Trish was observant and paid attention so she might have heard or seen something else that fateful day which might be of use.

  Keen to avoid further gossip, this time he went directly to her house, calling at the shop the following Thursday after work, buying her a small box of chocolates as an offering. Standing on her doorstep a few minutes later, he could see the flicker of the television in her front room and could hear the strident repeated jingle of a quiz show. But there was no answer to the doorbell and he was on the point of ringing a second time when he heard the latch turn and the door opened.

  She looked at him balefully. ‘Adam. What are you doing here?’

  ‘I’ve brought you these,’ he said gauchely, thrusting the box of chocolates at her. ‘I wondered if I could have a word with you?’

  ‘About what?’

  ‘There was something I was hoping to ask you. Something sensitive.’

  ‘Sensitive?’ She glanced up and down the lane. ‘Then I suppose you’d better come in.’

  The front door gave straight into the living room. She hobbled stiffly to the window and closed the curtains.

  ‘Have a seat,’ she said.

  ‘Thanks.’

  She didn’t offer him a drink. Rather, she had a tense, business-like manner and eased herself down into an armchair.

  ‘You’ve been seeing Claire Hitchen,’ she said accusingly.

  ‘We had a meal in the pub one night, yes.’

  ‘I did warn you about that.’

  ‘Yes. But I’m not sure why. She’s single now. Anyway, we’re only friends.’

  She grunted, still looking at him reproachfully.

  ‘You have to live in a village a long time to understand how it ticks,’ she said. ‘People think cities are more complex because there are more people. It’s not true. Villages are insular and passions run deep - everyone is so involved with everyone else. They have to be to survive because everyone needs everyone else - there’s no slack.’

  ‘And your point is?’

  ‘If you tread on someone’s toe here, someone else will cry out in pain over there. They probably won’t even know why. People aren’t as logical as they like to think they are.’ She sniffed. ‘Anyway, what do you want to know?’

  ‘It was about Gilly Pennyman again, the day she disappeared.’

  ‘I don’t know why you’re getting involved in that
.’

  ‘Because I’m intrigued, that’s all. I’ve been reading about it. But the newspaper reports jump around so. There’s no substitute for someone like you who’s observant.’

  ‘Oh please, Adam. Don’t give me the smooth talk. Spit it out.’

  ‘I gather the police checked everyone who was close to the family in any way, anyone who was around nearby. Do you remember anything strange that anyone did, something out of the way, a change of routine maybe?’

  ‘No, I don’t think so.’

  She looked at him with a flat, blank expression, shutting him out. For the first time he wondered if he could trust her to tell him the truth.

  ‘Do you know George Foster?’ hazarded Adam.

  ‘George?’ She snorted. ‘Of course I know George.’

  ‘He was a delivery driver back then, wasn’t he? Did he deliver to the village shop?’

  ‘Yes. Why?’

  ‘Did he deliver that day? I mean, was he around the day Gilly disappeared?’

  ‘It’s a long time ago, Adam. But yes, I think so. He used to come in the morning with fresh bread and a few cakes.’

  ‘Maybe he didn’t work in the afternoons then.’

  ‘Maybe not. I don’t know. I can tell you this though: George’s weakness is the horses. He can’t resist a bet. And he doesn’t like it being pointed out to him. Can’t even tease him about it; he gets very touchy, probably because he loses a lot more than he wins. Beattie worries about it but she doesn’t dare say anything.’ She frowned. ‘Mind you…’ She stopped short.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I did see him once…’ She looked across the room as if staring into a great distance. ‘…standing by the children’s playground, watching…’ She nodded slowly. ‘Yes, he was watching Gilly on the slide.’ Her focus returned and she looked across at Adam sharply. ‘But that doesn’t mean anything. They were neighbours. It’s not a crime to watch children play, especially when you know them.’

  ‘Of course not.’

  ‘What do you hope to gain from all these questions?’

  ‘I’m not sure, Trish. But it’s a mystery isn’t it? And there must be an answer out there somewhere.’

  She studied his face. ‘Does Claire know you’re doing this?’

  ‘No.’ It was more or less the truth. She didn’t know he was speaking to Trish.

  ‘Well, you’re not doing her any favours. There’s nothing to be gained but more heartache by going over it all again.’

  She struggled to her feet prompting Adam to stand too.

  ‘When I saw you last time,’ he said, ‘you didn’t get round to telling me what Neil Pennyman was like.’

  ‘Perhaps because I don’t know him that well.’ She hesitated, regarding him warily. ‘He was a confident child, I remember. Didn’t like things to get in his way. Always got what he wanted, it seemed.’

  ‘Like he got Claire Hitchen?’

  ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘There was something else, Trish. Did you see Jane Sawdy in the village that afternoon? She was working in Fowey around then.’

  ‘I don’t remember,’ she said firmly, then frowned. ‘I did see her at the fête last year, mind, with Neil Pennyman, talking very intense-like, very cosy. I’d forgotten about that.’ She gave a dismissive shake of the head. ‘Not something you should mention to Claire maybe. She’s got enough on her plate, I reckon.’

  She hobbled to the door and put her arthritic hand to the catch but didn’t turn it.

  ‘You think it was someone in the village,’ she said, staring fixedly at the door.

  ‘Yes. Don’t you?’

  She turned to look at him. ‘The thought had crossed my mind.’

  ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell anyone I was asking,’ said Adam.

  ‘I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  She opened the door and glanced nervously up and down the road before turning back.

  ‘I don’t know anything, Adam,’ she said earnestly. ‘And it’s playing with fire to go nosing round like this. You risk upsetting people and upset people do bad things sometimes.’

  He left but her agitation was infectious and he glanced up the street cautiously, unsure who he thought might be watching him. There were a couple of children playing outside a house further along and a woman walking her dog on the other side of the road but no-one was watching the house. He shrugged it off and began the walk home, thinking through the little he had learned. Was Jane talking to Neil significant? Not necessarily: they had known each other since childhood. Still, it suggested an ongoing attraction and that bothered him, mostly because of Claire. He was beginning to think that however things fell, she was going to get hurt.

  He rang her that evening, heard her news about the Poldreens and gave her a brief summary of what he’d found out - carefully omitting the news about Jane and Neil. He suggested meeting up again to talk it through but Claire put him off because Laura was coming to stay for Easter.

  Adam put the phone down and got himself a can of beer. This investigation was starting to feel uncomfortable. He was alternately fascinated by it and repelled, finding out he didn’t want to know. There were too many interwoven lives in this village. It was like trying to unravel a section of tapestry; he was scared that if he pulled on one thread too hard, the whole thing might come undone.

  Chapter 14

  Claire’s gaze fixed on the tattoo on the side of Travis’s neck. It was only small, discreet even, barely showing under his long, wavy hair but even so, illogical and old-fashioned as it might be, she distrusted a man who had tattoos – especially on his neck.

  Travis was Laura’s boyfriend apparently. This was recent news. Laura had rung just four days before she was due to arrive for the Easter holidays to say she had been invited to stay at the holiday cottage which her boyfriend’s parents owned in Brittany. Would Claire mind? His parents would be there too - and his sister and her boyfriend. It was a large cottage in the country but within an easy drive of the sea.

  I live within an easy drive of the sea too, Claire felt like pointing out, though of course she didn’t live in a large house nor was it in a foreign and therefore inevitably more exotic location.

  ‘We’d come to you first,’ Laura had said, sugaring the pill. ‘We thought perhaps we could spend three nights with you and then get the ferry from Plymouth.’

  ‘I’ve only got two bedrooms,’ Claire had said, pointedly. What Laura did when she was away from home was something Claire was prepared to ignore - up to a point - but she couldn’t imagine her eighteen-year-old daughter sharing the tiny double bedroom next to her own with a boy she had never previously heard of.

  ‘Travis says he’s happy to sleep on the sofa.’

  ‘And his parents are happy with this arrangement - the holiday, I mean?’

  It turned out that they were. It also turned out that the ferry tickets had already been bought and that Neil had paid for Laura’s.

  ‘We had to get them early because of the Easter crush,’ Laura said apologetically.

  ‘And your father got them?’

  ‘No, he just paid for them.’

  ‘So he knew about this trip a while ago?’

  ‘No-o,’ said Laura carefully. ‘When I said early, I just meant in advance. Dad rang me when we were still discussing what we might do and I mentioned it. That’s why he offered to buy the ticket.’

  Claire’s approval, it seemed, was a rubber-stamping exercise. But she could hear the defensiveness in the girl’s voice and didn’t want Laura feeling like a blunt weapon in a battle between her warring parents. Disappointed at having so little time with her daughter and with having to share her with this unknown man, still Claire gave in gracefully, aware that she had little choice. And now here they were.

  In fairness, Travis was a good-looking boy with tidy - and clean - dark hair and lively eyes. He smiled readily, said all the right things and insisted he didn’t want to put Claire out. Over the course of the two days the youngsters spen
t in her house, he washed dishes, cleared up his bedding after himself and brought in wood for the stove. Claire noticed that he treated Laura well and he was charming to them both. By the time they left her on Palm Sunday morning, he had won her over, leaving her to wonder, a little uneasily, if he always got his own way so readily. But Laura looked happy with him so Claire couldn’t fault him. Watching them cuddling up together on the sofa or snatching a kiss when they thought she wasn’t looking, brought back memories of herself and Neil when they had been young and in love, memories which had lost none of their warmth despite the events of recent years.

  Putting bedding and linens to wash after they’d gone, those early years with Neil ran through her mind again. She hugged the images close even though each one seemed to bring its own particular pain. How come we never understand that we’re having the best times of our lives when they’re happening, she thought despondently. It’s only afterwards, when we wish we could go back, that we realise. Maybe I let Eve and the whole vineyard thing bother me too much. It wasn’t really that important, after all.

  ‘But Neil should have told me about Travis,’ she said aloud, angrily, pushing the machine door in with a snap and wilfully bursting the rose-tinted bubble of her memories. She turned the dial roughly. ‘Always doing things behind my back,’ she muttered, and turned away, picking up her phone and ringing Neil’s number.

  There was no reply and it cut through to the answering service.

  ‘Next time, have the courtesy to let me know that you’re helping to ruin all my plans,’ she barked into the phone. ‘Would it cost you to think about me for once? And did you actually meet Travis before you paid for your daughter’s ticket to spend her holiday with the man? Did you really consider her safety or just want to be her darling father?’ She ran out of steam and stood, shaking her head. Hadn’t she been here before? Was there any point? New start, she reminded herself, trying to calm down. Travis is OK…probably. Save it. She closed the call and walked away.