Lost Property: A shocking tale of wartime secrets and romance (A Janie Juke mystery Book 2)

by Isabella Muir

  The poetry calmed them, giving them time to think about love. A small word that neither of them would use, not yet. They both understood that the war may not allow the roots to spread and grow. Each day had to be lived as though it was their last.

  Chapter 4

  Hugh stops speaking and draws a long breath. The tea shack feels colder than before. Hugh has spoken of romance, but there is something about his story that chills me. I have remained silent throughout his story, focusing on the detail, ensuring I absorb every nuance. I wait, uncertain as to whether he intends to continue. He is gazing down at his unfinished drink. Then he shakes his head, as though he is responding to some internal argument. Finally, he looks across at me.

  'It must be difficult for you, reliving those times?' I say. 'It sounds as though your relationship with Dorothy was very special.'

  He nods.

  'And your RAF base was...?'

  'Longmere, fifty miles due west from here, along the coast.'

  He hesitates. Earlier he was in full flow, describing his meeting with Dorothy, their time at the dance and their fishing escapades, but now it's as if he has exhausted all the happy memories and what remains is a dark pit that he wants to avoid climbing into. Then, suddenly, he stands up. 'Can we call a halt for now? You must be needing to get home. I've taken up enough of your time,' he says.

  'I can see you're tired, but there's a lot more I need to know before I can pursue your case. Shall we fix another meeting?'

  'I'll call into the library,' he says.

  Before I can respond, he dons his Trilby and holds his hand out to shake mine. I've barely had time to put my notebook and pencil back in my duffel bag, when I hear the door to the shack bang closed. Hugh has departed.

  Overnight I park the library van in the Central Library car park. On my library mornings I walk the fifteen minutes or so from home and call into the staff office to pick up the van keys. Occasionally, when the warmth of my bed beckons, I leave home later and catch the bus. It saves me five minutes or so, if it's on time. I guess as Bean starts to hamper my progress over the coming winter months, the bus option will win on a few more occasions.

  When I arrive to pick up the library van on Friday morning, Hugh is standing there in the car park. This time he is wearing a navy blazer and dark grey trousers and as he turns to greet me I notice the same red cravat tucked inside his open-necked shirt.

  'Can we meet again? In Tensing Gardens?' he says. 'Today would suit me, do you have a lunch break?' His tone is polite, but official.

  'I tend to snack at my desk, well, at the counter. The next time I'm free is Tuesday.'

  'Time is of the essence. Each day that passes, the situation becomes more critical. You do understand the need for urgency?'

  He stands in front of me, ram-rod straight, not leaning more on one foot than another, as so many people do. I wonder if it's down to his military training.

  I remember Greg mentioning a darts match. He never wants me there, although I tag along now and then. 'I could make it this evening, if you're free?' I pause, trying to select a meeting place that is less lonely than the gardens on an autumn evening, but somewhere we can talk undisturbed. 'How about the café on the Pier? It closes at 8pm, but before that it should be quiet enough, most people will be home having supper.'

  He nods and takes out a notepad from his top jacket pocket, together with a fountain pen. 'Café on the Pier, 7pm,' he repeats, as he writes.

  Fridays are always busy, with people wanting to choose their reading material for the weekend. Given the weather forecast for this particular October weekend, the stream of borrowers leads me to believe they are all planning a quiet couple of days snuggled up in front of a fire.

  Having dropped the van back to the Central Library car park, I make my way home and change. There's just enough time for toast and Marmite, before I leave to walk down towards the seafront. With the wind blasting, even along the back streets, I wrap myself up in so many layers that Bean's growing bump is barely visible.

  The seafront runs from west to east, starting in Tamarisk Bay and ending at Tidehaven Old Town, with the Pier situated about half-way along the promenade. Sadly, there's no evidence remaining of the second pier, that dad and Aunt Jessica often talked about. They both spent happy summers in the penny arcades of the Victorian structure, which was apparently hailed as a masterpiece of design and construction, before it was badly damaged by severe gales during the Second World War. Then, just a few months later, it was totally destroyed by a major fire. But at least we still have Tidehaven Pier, with its dance hall and the Pier Café.

  The café is circular in its design, with large windows all around that make the most of the sea views. Its position means it has taken the brunt of the weather over decades, resulting in gales blasting through the metal-framed windows. There are no cosy corners to retreat to, so when I arrive I'm concerned to see Hugh seated at a table close to a window, on the east side of the café. This evening a strong north-easterly is blowing and, for a girl who is even cold in August, I can see his seat selection is going to cause a problem.

  'Hello there,' I say, as I glance around for a preferable position. 'Do you mind if we move? It's draughty everywhere, but maybe over this side?' I point to a table next to a window that appears to be well taped up with draughtproof tape. I make a mental note to remind Greg not to buy the cheapest strip when he gets around to doing our windows at home.

  Over the next hour Hugh tells me more about Dorothy and I make notes. I interrupt at certain points, asking him to clarify. The detail is vital.

  'Dorothy grew up in Tamarisk Bay,' he explains, 'at least that's where she was living before the war. She was born in East Anglia, but then the family moved down south for health reasons. She had a brother, a few years younger than her. She always spoke fondly of him, his name was Kenneth as I recall. I think she felt bad about leaving him behind when she joined the land army, but in wartime we all had to make difficult decisions.'

  'And you think she might have returned here, to her hometown?'

  'I imagine so, yes.'

  'But you didn't keep in touch?'

  'War disrupts lives, divides families. You're young, it's hard for you to understand.'

  As I listen to Hugh, I sense a murkiness in between the lines of his story. I'm wading through muddy waters, with a sludge of unspoken truths slowing my progress.

  He glances at his watch. 'It's coming up to 8pm, they'll be closing soon.'

  The waitress comes over to our table and clears away the cups, which are still half full. A couple of other tables also need cleaning and then she brings out a broom and starts putting chairs on tables before sweeping.

  'Must be our cue to leave,' I say. 'Just one more question. What makes you think that Dorothy is in danger? And a photo, do you have any photos of her?'

  'That's two things,' he says.

  I smile. He puts his hand inside his blazer and takes out a small black and white photo. The woman in the photo is about my age, maybe a year or two younger. Her hair is plaited and wound around her head. She's wearing corduroy trousers and a thick jumper, with a scarf wrapped around her neck.

  'Of course, this was twenty-five years ago. And the answer to your other question, well, I'll explain more if you decide to take on the case.'

  'Hugh, I'll work through all you have told me and I'll have a think. I don't know if I can help, to be honest with you. But if I can, I will. Where can I find you, if and when I have any information?'

  He writes his address down on a slip of paper from his pocketbook.

  'I'm in temporary lodgings, for the moment. Mrs Summer is the landlady. She'll take a message if I'm not there when you call.'

  'Won't she wonder who I am?'

  'You can say you're my niece, if you like, if it will make things easier. Mrs Juke, there's one other thing. We haven't spoken about money.'

  I raise an eyebrow. At no stage in our conversation had I thought that my skills at detecting had
any financial value. But now I stop to think about it, it makes sense. He is employing me to do a job. I have no idea what the going rate might be. Enough to buy a five-star pram for Bean, rather than a bargain basement one? Enough to treat Greg to a new set of darts, or a season ticket to Brighton Football Club? Maybe enough to repay the loan dad gave us for our car?

  'There'll be out-of-pocket expenses too, bus fares, taxi fares,' Hugh says.

  'Yes, of course. Can I work out some figures and come back to you?'

  He nods, we stand and shake hands.

  'What happens if I can't find her?' I say.

  'I'll still pay you, for your time. But I have faith in you. I'm certain you won't let me down.'

  We leave the café together and walk along the seafront. A uniformed policeman is pacing up and down close to the Pier entrance. It's not unusual to see a bobby on his beat, but once I leave Hugh to take my homeward route, I notice the policeman turn to follow Hugh. I hold back from taking the next right, which would lead me home. Instead I slow my pace and walk behind the policeman for a while. Of course, it is possible that the policeman's route coincides with Hugh's and that any mystery is entirely in my imagination. It's been a strange week, come to that, it's been a strange year and right now I have a feeling it's going to be a whole lot stranger before the year is out.

  Rehearsing excuses for being even later home than I had anticipated, I realise that Hugh has stopped beside one the seafront shelters. The policeman also appears to hesitate and then he turns and starts walking towards me. As he draws alongside me, I say, 'Good evening, officer. Could you tell me the time?' Hardly original and made even more obvious when I stuff my hands in my pockets so that he doesn't spot my wristwatch.

  'A little after eight, miss,' he replies before walking on.

  Greg returns home happy, having played one of his best matches since he joined the darts team.

  'Pleased I persuaded you to join, after all?' I say, as we clear up after supper.

  'One of your better ideas,' he says and wraps his arms around my middle. 'Bean, your father is not only good-looking, but talented into the bargain.'

  'And modest?'

  'Of course. And now, wife, I intend to go and spread out over the settee, and replay those brilliant shots in my mind. Did I tell you I got a bullseye? My first?'

  'Er, yes, several times, I think. You go off and spread. I'll be in in time for Z Cars and at that point I will budge you over to make room, so enjoy it while it lasts.'

  I hear him switch on the TV and I take the opportunity to read through the notes I made earlier. I've always been fascinated with the idea of land girls. Women who often knew nothing about the land, ending up as experts in planting and ploughing. The camaraderie must have been wonderful and yet it was the brutality of war that made it necessary. Good things coming from bad.

  My dad fought in the war, but his time as a soldier was brief. He was barely nineteen when he joined up and a year later the war ended. He has never spoken about that time. I don't know how close he came to death, either killing or watching his friends being killed.

  On my next visit to see him I raise the topic, uncertain of the response I may get. There has been a steady flow of patients and, as the last one leaves, there's time for dad to relax while I put the kettle on. Since Bean is preventing me from drinking tea, I've discovered hot water with lemon is a perfect alternative. The kettle boils and dad and Charlie come through from the treatment room.

  Dad takes his usual seat at the kitchen table, with his back to the door and Charlie at his feet. I sit opposite him, in my usual place, beside the cooker. This isn't about habit or routine. Every item on the work surface has its own special place. The tea caddy is always to the left of the sugar jar, the biscuit barrel nestles on the bottom shelf of the cupboard nearest to the sink. In the sitting room the constant position of each piece of furniture has resulted in little indentations in the carpet. Every item in the house forms part of a roadmap for dad to make sure he never loses his way.

  'Busy day, wasn't it?' I say, as we sip our drinks.

  'Good one, though. Very satisfying. Mrs Barnard doesn't need another appointment and Mr Haywood tells me he has been finding it much easier to do the stairs now that his knee has settled.'

  'A marvel, that's what you are.'

  'Well, thank you, princess. Although, you may be a touch biased.'

  'Do you ever wonder what your life would be like if you had stayed in the police force? If you hadn't had your accident?'

  'I don't find what ifs that helpful. It is as it is and that's fine for me. Besides, I'm getting a taste of detective work vicariously.'

  'Ah, yes, well.'

  'Have you taken on the new case? The chap from the library?'

  'Can't get much past you, can I?'

  My dad's intuition is what would have made him a brilliant detective. I hope I've inherited a little of it.

  'Before you say anything about Bean, or Greg for that matter, don't worry,' I say. 'I'm not going to be racing about all over the place. If I take it on, and I haven't given him a definite answer yet, then I plan to enlist help.'

  'Staff?' he says, smiling.

  'Poirot uses his sidekick Hastings to dig around for clues. It's surprising what you can find out just by talking to people. In fact, I thought I'd start with you.'

  'You're not going to ask me to breach patient confidentiality, are you?'

  'Nothing like that. But what I'd like to ask you may make you feel uncomfortable.'

  He looks quizzical and I wonder what possibilities he's playing around with in his mind.

  'Will you tell me about your time in the army, about the war?'

  'Oh, I didn't see that coming.'

  'No pun intended?' My dad and I don't shy away from the reality of his blindness, but that doesn't stop us from laughing about it now and then. 'Seriously though, are you able to give me a sense of how things were back then? I can imagine a lot of it, but I want to discard assumptions and focus on facts.'

  'I'm impressed, you've been listening to my advice, after all.'

  'Of course.'

  'It was a time of contradictions,' he pauses, as if he is trying to shuffle his memories into a semblance of order. 'Many terrible moments, interspersed with bright ones. I made new friends and lost others. There was a shift in priorities, suddenly all the things we thought were important before the war, became insignificant.'

  'Kind of like when you lost your sight?'

  'In some respects, yes. Our focus was on staying alive and keeping those around us safe from harm.'

  'Did you know who to trust?'

  'Interesting question. In the main, yes. We soon learned the importance of respect, and how critical it was to follow orders. When your commanding officer tells you to do something, you can't afford to question his reasons, you need to act.'

  'But what if he's wrong? There must have been errors of judgement?'

  'Yes, I'm sure there were. But I was lucky, my platoon was responsible for moving goods.'

  'You didn't have to fight?'

  'Every day was a fight. Making sure our convoys reached their destination without incident. One day I watched the truck in front of mine being blown to smithereens. Nothing left of the truck, the goods, or the soldiers.'

  'You must have been terrified. You were so young. Five years younger than I am now. Didn't you want to run away?'

  'That's what I mean about contradictions. There was such a sense of togetherness. You knew that your actions weren't only helping your fellow soldiers, but all the people back home, a whole nation. Running away would mean letting everyone down.'

  'Do you think it changed you? The terrible things you saw, living with fear every day.'

  'What doesn't kill you makes you stronger. That's what they say, isn't it?'

  'Thanks dad.'

  'What for?'

  'For explaining, for talking about it. I appreciate it's hard, stirring up memories you'd rather forget.'

>   'Will it help with your new investigation?'

  'Yes, I think it will.'

  'Are you going to tell me about it?'

  'I will, but not yet. I need to get it straight in my mind first. Like I said before, I've been asked to track down a woman, but I'm still not sure why.'

  'Why the person is missing?'

  'No, I mean, why me?'

  'Well, perhaps what you did for Zara has gained you a reputation?'

  'I could take that one of two ways,' I say, smiling. 'Anyway, time for me to get home and sort out supper.'

  'Don't let this search come between you. You and Greg. Your new baby and your husband need to be your priorities.'

  'It's okay, dad, I have it in hand.'

  The truth is, I don't.

  Chapter 5

  They don't know it yet, but Phyllis and Libby Frobisher are about to be enlisted into the Janie Juke mystery-solving team.

  Phyllis was my English teacher at grammar school and is best described as the grandmother I wished for, but never had. Phyllis's cottage is a perfect complement to her character; neat, thoughtfully decorated and not showy. Lavender Cottage nestles in the heart of Tidehaven Old Town. To reach the cottage you need to wind your way down an alley, which is too narrow for a car to pass through. As a result, I have a sense of being back in Tudor times when the cottage was built and when the favoured mode of transport was a horse and cart and good old-fashioned, Shanks's pony.

  In line with its name, either side of the front door stand two large stone pots, planted with English lavender. It's late in the season now, but even in its autumnal state, as the flower stems are brushed by the wind they give off a delicate sweet scent.

  Pushing open the wooden gate, I step onto the footpath and spy a ball of ginger fluff, partly hidden by a hydrangea bush that sits under the bay window. For a moment it's as though it is part of the bush itself, the heavy flowers tinged bronze with autumn. But then the tail appears and with a flash the cat crosses the path and disappears into the hedge.