'You need to be mindful of your diet,' she says. 'Regular meals, but small portions. Little and often is probably the best way forward. And avoid anything spicy, or fizzy drinks.'
'Seems like Bean is a fussy little thing.'
'Bean?'
'Yes, that's what we call it. Makes it easier than saying 'he' or 'she' all the time.'
She looks at me quizzically.
'It started out looking like a kidney bean, or at least that's what the pictures in the textbook reminded me of.'
'Bean, it is then,' she says and smiles. 'Pregnancy can do all sorts of things to your body, some people have a lot of trouble with sickness and so on and others sail through. And there's no saying your next pregnancy will be the same as this one.'
'Don't worry, there's no next pregnancy on the cards.'
'You never know what's around the corner.'
'When you've mapped out your route, that's exactly what you do know. One Bean is fine with me, thanks.'
As I leave the cubicle, I spot Nikki waiting to go in next.
'Shall I wait for you? We could grab a drink afterwards?' I say, as she passes me.
She hesitates and nods. 'Okay, yes, I won't be long.'
After five minutes or so she emerges, frowning.
'Is everything alright? You seem worried,' I say.
'Fine, everything is fine.' Her words and her voice don't match up.
We leave the clinic and walk down to one of our regular pit-stops. As we walk, I chatter about the guidance the midwife has given me, but Nikki says very little, just nodding occasionally in response.
Once inside the café I order two lemonades, temporarily ignoring the midwife's advice about fizzy drinks and we take a seat at a table furthest away from the door. There's a real autumn chill in the air today and I'm grateful for the warmth of the café.
'Are you okay, you seem a bit quiet?' I say.
She looks at me, but doesn't respond.
'You did get my thank you card, didn't you? It was a lovely evening. You're an excellent cook. Greg is still on about your Yorkshires. And the company was great too, in fact, we got on so well with your neighbours, Howard and Joanne, we're planning another get-together with them. They've got a boat, you know, a little fishing boat. I took dad and Charlie out in it and, well, that's another story. Bit of a disastrous day, to be honest.'
As I'm rambling she is looking down at her lemonade, running a finger around the rim of the glass. I pause to take a breath and then she speaks.
'Frank wants to see you,' she says.
'Right. Sorry, how do you mean, he wants to see me?'
'At the police station. He wants to see you in his official capacity as Detective Sergeant. He asked me to ask you next time I saw you.'
'Oh, right.' I'm not sure how to respond and a hundred questions are running around my head. 'I'm surprised he's asked you to speak to me. I thought he was an advocate of not mixing work and home life?'
She gives me a blank look, as though my comment has made her wonder about her husband's motives.
'Is that why you're upset with me? Because of something Frank has said?' I ask her.
'You make it very difficult for us to be friends, Janie.'
'Do I? How do I make it difficult?'
'Frank has to be my priority. He's my husband and whatever you think of him, I love him.'
'Nikki, I have no idea what this is all about. I'm sorry if you feel I've done something wrong, but I thought we agreed to focus on our friendship and not let anything our husbands do or say interfere with that.'
She shakes her head and doesn't reply.
'So, are we still friends?' I ask her.
'Will you go and see Frank?'
'Yes, of course I will. I'll go straight there this evening.'
'Well, that's good. I'm sorry, Janie, but for now I think we need to call a halt to our friendship. Maybe when things settle down again, then...'
'You're speaking in riddles. I don't know what you are hoping will 'settle down' but fine, yes. Whatever you like. If you'd rather not be friends, I'm sad about that, but I respect your decision.'
I pay for the drinks and leave the café before she sees me cry. I can't remember the last time I cried. This is hardly a monumentally difficult experience, so I hold my hand on my midriff and whisper to Bean that he or she needs to take the blame for my over-emotional response. The last time a girl chose to stop speaking to me was when I was thirteen. I can't even remember why we'd fallen out. The injustice I felt then resurfaces now, made worse because I don't even know what I'm meant to have done. Hopefully a visit to Tidehaven Police Station will provide some answers.
When I last visited the police station I was bringing DS Bright news about Zara. This time, though, I've been summoned. I present myself at the front desk and ask to see Detective Sergeant Bright.
'And you are?' the desk officer asks.
'Mrs Janie Juke. He's expecting me. At least, he's asked to see me.'
'Righto, miss. If you'd like to take a seat for a moment, I'll see if he's free.'
After a few moments the desk officer reappears, followed by Frank Bright. He nods a greeting and gestures to me to follow him.
Tidehaven Police Station must have just one interview room, because the room he shows me into is the same room I have sat in on several occasions, during my search for Zara. The room is bare, except for a wooden table and two uncomfortable wooden chairs. The single window casts a dull light and, at a guess, is permanently closed, resulting in an almost suffocating stuffiness. From my previous dealings with Frank, I know he's a smoker, but fortunately this time he has no ashtray in his hand. Someone has recently been smoking in the room, though, as the cloying smell lingers.
'Thank you for coming, Mrs Juke. Do take a seat.' His voice is measured, almost formal.
It's strange to think that the last time we spoke, we were standing looking at a photo of his dead wife. Any softness in his personality I detected then, is not in evidence today.
'How can I help you?' I say.
'I've had a complaint.'
'A complaint?'
'Yes, a complaint about you.'
I hold his gaze, trying to ascertain how the conversation might go from here.
'Can you tell me anything about this complaint? Like who made it?'
'I'm not at liberty to disclose the name of the person making the complaint. But I'm told you've been making a nuisance of yourself, asking questions, following people.'
'Following people? You don't need to tell me who. I can tell you. It's Kenneth Elm, isn't it?'
He stares at me, narrowing his eyes a little, but doesn't respond.
'Can I be open with you, Detective Sergeant?'
'I would appreciate it if you were.'
'Mr Elm has an extremely threatening manner.'
'Has he threatened you?'
'Not in a direct way, no. But he has threatened an acquaintance of mine. In fact, as a result of his interference and bullying, my acquaintance is now very poorly, in hospital.'
'I see. And can you tell me the name of this 'acquaintance'?'
'The thing is,' I continue, ignoring his question, 'my acquaintance was worried he was being followed. So, he asked me to investigate and that's when I came across Mr Elm.'
'You were following the follower?'
'Yes, that's about the size of it.'
'What concerns me, Mrs Juke, is your use of the word 'investigate'. I thought we'd agreed not so long ago that 'investigation' is the job of the police force, not librarians.'
This is a pivotal moment. Do I share what I know with the police, despite Hugh's insistence that the police are not to be involved? DS Bright can throw more resources at the problem than I can drum up, even with Libby's help. However, any police involvement could scare Dorothy even further into hiding. On the other hand, if she is in danger, maybe police protection is exactly what she needs.
'I'm sorry Mr Elm felt he had to approach you,' I say. 'And I'm surprised you invol
ved your wife. As a result, Nikki now feels she can't be friends with me. Or perhaps that was your intention?'
'I'm sure you will agree with me that you have a different way of looking at the world, Mrs Juke. Nikki is a gentle soul, I don't want her upset.'
'You mean you don't want her to make her own choices?'
'As I told you the other evening, I am old-fashioned and my wife and I understand each other. But I haven't asked you here to talk about my wife. You still haven't told me the name of your acquaintance. Please remember, if you have information that may be relevant to a police enquiry, you need to share that information. It's an offence not to disclose...'
'Yes, I know,' I interrupt him, holding my hand out to shake his. 'If that's all Detective Sergeant, I'll be off. I will bear in mind what you've told me though, and if there's anything I feel I need to share with you, then, of course...'
This time, it is his turn to interrupt. 'Mrs Juke, this is not about needing to share, we're not talking about a mother's meeting here. If you are aware of any crime that has been committed, it is for us to investigate, not you. Do you understand?'
'I do, really I do. And I'm grateful to know that I can call on you, should I need to. It's very reassuring.'
'We're not the back-up reserves, you know,' he says, frustration evident in his tone.
'No, of course not,' I say smiling.
I leave the police station more determined than ever to discover what it is that Kenneth Elm is so keen for me not to find out.
Chapter 16
Whenever the weather is damp, the library van chooses not to start. I've told my boss at the Central Library about it an endless number of times and am just encouraged to 'coax' it into action. Some mornings it's all I can do to coax myself into action, particularly now we are into November, so the added problems with my place of work is one thing I can do without. As a result of the coaxing, by the time I arrive at my regular Wednesday parking place in Rockwell Crescent, Mrs Latimer is there waiting for me. She is returning her husband's book.
'He's a fast reader,' I say, as we walk into the van together. 'Let me take my coat off. How is Bobby? Any better? Is he back at school?'
She sighs and remains hovering at the counter.
'You've had quite a walk, why not sit for a while, it's nice to have someone to chat to.'
She nods and looks relieved, unwinding the scarf from around her neck. I pull the spare chair out from behind the counter, unfold it and offer it to her.
'Bobby is much better, thanks,' she says. 'But now it's my mother-in-law, Freda. Edgar, he's my husband, he's that worried about her. She's going downhill fast. He reads to her, you see, that's why he's got through the book so quickly.'
'I'm sorry to hear she's poorly.'
'He's a rock, you know, my Edgar. He does a full day's work, has his tea, then he's straight round to Freda. He makes her supper, settles her down for the night. You wouldn't think it to look at him. Great big lump. But he's as soft as marshmallow inside.'
I silently reprimand myself. Once again, I've made assumptions. Once again, they are wrong.
'Good news about Bobby, though, you must be relieved,' I say.
She nods and her face is transformed with a cheerful smile. 'Do you know, he even joined in the cross-country run the other day. He's got the hang of his inhalers now. As long as he uses one before he sets off, well, he's that happy, being able to join in. '
'Will you be choosing another book for your husband? His mum must be so grateful to have his help and support. Lucky they like the same books,' I say and laugh. 'I've read to my dad for years, but we've always taken it in turns to choose the book. He loves sea-faring adventures, but I'm more into crime.'
She looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
'Crime stories,' I say and we both chuckle, then I point to the noticeboard. 'What did you think of the nostalgia article in the Observer? Have you had time to read it yet? I was born after the war, but learning about people's experiences here in Tamarisk Bay, well, it makes you think. It's so easy to take life for granted, isn't it?'
As she stands, I move her chair out of the way, so we can stand side by side in front of the noticeboard. We scan over the article for a few moments, without speaking, then she points to the other press cutting.
'What's this?' she says.
I wait for a while before responding, to give her a moment to inspect the photocopy of the faded sheet.
'It's from the Tidehaven Observer just after the war. 1946,' I say.
She moves closer to the noticeboard and peers at the photo.
'Do you know... well, how strange. To think we were talking about her a few moments ago and then, there she is,' she says, pointing at one of the women in the photo. 'That's Freda, that one there.' Her face brightens, it's as though her mother-in-law has suddenly been restored to good health, to youth and vitality. 'Doesn't she look smart? She was always one for making the most of her looks, you know. And she'd never be seen out without a hat. She has some beautiful hat pins, keeps them all in a velvet lined jewellery box. They might be worth a bob or two, but she'd never sell them. Course, she'll never use them now.'
The smile has fallen from her face, leaving a forlorn expression, her mouth turned down at the edges, accentuating her sallow complexion.
'That's quite a coincidence,' I say. 'Tell you what, I have an idea that might cheer Freda up. I mean, if you agree, if you think she'd be up to it?'
Mrs Latimer appears to be lost in her thoughts for a while and doesn't respond. Then, she shakes herself a little and turns to me. 'What's your idea?'
'Well, it looks as though this was a photo of a happy time for Freda. I could call in, show her the article and chat to her about those days. Maybe bring back happy memories? Of course, she may not like a visit from a stranger, especially if she's not feeling her best,' I say, 'but I'd love to meet her, she sounds like a lovely lady.'
'That's a kind thought. She doesn't get to see many people now, just me and Edgar and Bobby. A couple of neighbours pop in to keep an eye on her, and she has the odd friend still alive, but it's not the same as when she was young. She was involved in everything, helping out at the school, running WI meetings, there wasn't a day went by when she wasn't busy. Edgar often had to make his own tea after school. Mind you, I'm not complaining, at least it means he knows how to cook. Not like some men.'
'You're right there,' I say, recalling the day, not so long ago, when I arrived home to find Greg toasting a frozen fish finger under the grill. 'How about you chat to your husband and let me know? Any evening is fine with me, or a weekend, if that's better. Maybe she'll be less tired if I call in the daytime?'
Two days later I am walking up the front path of 22 Wilmington Avenue, with the chess article tucked safely into my notebook. There's not much I could prepare by way of questions, as I have no idea what Freda will remember about that day, if indeed she'll remember anything. It's a bitterly cold day and yet I have sweaty palms. Just as well I didn't bother wearing gloves.
Mrs Latimer answers the door and beckons me in. We walk down the hall into the kitchen. There is an air of quiet about the house and I am loath to disturb it. Once we're in the kitchen I notice Bobby sitting at the kitchen table, with his head bent over a book.
'Hello there, Bobby, how are you?'
'Very well, thank you, Mrs Juke,' he says, immediately returning his gaze to his book.
'His dad needs some time to himself. Bobby understands, he's a good boy,' his mum says, ruffling her son's hair. 'There's a football match up at the Pilot Field today, so Edgar will wander up there. I've never understood it myself, standing around in the freezing cold, or the pouring rain, watching men kick a ball around.'
'I'm with you, it's nonsensical. But I guess we're all different,' I say and smile.
'Would you like a cup of tea?' She fills the kettle and puts it on the gas.
'I'm fine, really, just a glass of water, if that's okay? How is Freda today?'
'She'
s dozing at the moment, but she enjoys a hot drink around now, so when we take it through I'll wake her and then you can have a chat.'
'It's a shame to wake her, if she's resting?'
'No, it's best she doesn't sleep too long in the day, otherwise she has bad nights. You sure you won't have a cuppa? I don't know where I'd be without tea, it's my salvation. Everything looks better after a cup of tea, that's what my mum used to say to us when we were growing up.'
I smile and imagine a conversation I may have with Bean one day on the benefits of tea.
Once the kettle boils she fills the teapot, takes two of the delicate china cups and saucers from the kitchen dresser, together with matching milk jug and sugar bowl and lays it all out on a tray.
'This tea set has been in the Latimer family for generations, so Edgar told me. I'm terrified in case I drop a saucer or chip a cup when I do the washing up. But Freda loves to see it being used, it gives her pleasure. Happy memories, I suppose.'
I follow Mrs Latimer out of the kitchen. She explains that since Freda's health has declined Edgar decided to convert the sitting room into a bedroom for her. The door is pushed open and we walk into a room that is in darkness, with the curtains drawn. Setting the tea tray down on the sideboard, which is now doubling up as a dressing table, she moves over to the window and pulls back the heavy, damask curtains. Milky autumn sunlight floods the room.
Freda looks so peaceful. She is completely still, turned to one side, with the blankets and bedspread tucked right up to her chin. Wisps of silver grey hair are stuck to the side of her face. A heavy scent of violets fills the air.
Mrs Latimer moves over to the bed and lays a hand gently on Freda's shoulder. 'Wake up now, Freda, there's a visitor to see you.'
For a few moments there is no response or movement, then I notice the bedcovers move, as she stretches her legs out and wriggles a little.
'I'm going to pour you a nice cup of tea, then we'll get you sat up,' Mrs Latimer says.
'I can sit myself up, you know, Ethel. I'm not a complete invalid,' Freda says, her voice still heavy with sleep.
After a bit more wriggling and repositioning of pillows she is sitting upright, sipping her tea. Mrs Latimer pulls a chair over to the bedside and gestures for me to sit down.
Lost Property: A shocking tale of wartime secrets and romance (A Janie Juke mystery Book 2) Page 11