Wings over the Watcher

by Priscilla Masters

  “You’d find it boring, Jo.” He jerked his head towards the door. “Like them.”

  She didn’t answer.

  “But this wasn’t your fault, Jo. You couldn’t help it.”

  She leaned right back in her chair – so far she was brushing the wall behind her. “And you think he’s going to believe that?”

  “If Levin knows you at all he’ll know you would never lie. You’d always face up to the truth – however hard. If he doesn’t trust you, Jo, he doesn’t know you.”

  She felt vulnerably grateful to Mike for his implicit faith, wisely said nothing but twiddled her biro between her fingers and wished very hard that Matthew Levin shared the same trust. His face, initially vivid, quite without warning, began to fade. It blurred as did his voice. She knew then he could become less important to her if he didn’t come home. But would stay forever far away, tucked tidily in a small corner of her brain.

  She looked up at Mike and he stared back at her then moved in closer and touched her shoulder. “Come on, Jo. It’ll all…”

  “Don’t use any of your damned clichés on me, Korpanski,” she warned. “I don’t want it. It’s not going to come out in the wash. At some point Matt and I are going to have to talk face to face and sort this out. If he even wants to any more.” She stared into the distance, picturing Matthew’s cold stare the night before he had left for Washington DC. “And I can tell you. I’m dreading it. He’s going to say things to me which’ll stick with me all my life. No one on earth can hurt you like a lover,” she finished under her breath.

  And yet the unwanted pregnancy might not have been such a bad thing. It had merely forced them to face the issue instead of running away from it. In some ways she was glad it had happened.

  Korpanski’s eyes flickered. He straightened up, chewed his lip and said nothing.

  They worked solidly for an hour or so at their own desks before he squeaked his chair backwards. “Hey, Jo.” He rustled through the sheaf of papers. “Nothing much here. How about a pub lunch?”

  And because she knew this was an olive branch when it was she who had been unreasonable she grinned. “Nothing I’d like better.”

  Halfway up the High Street of Leek is an ancient pub called The Black Bull. It is all you can possibly want in an English pub. Atmospheric. Beams low enough to crack your head on, cheap, good food, nosey bar staff, cold beer and darts instead of one-armed-bandits and warm lager. Plus – the absolute bonus for a couple of inquisitive detectives – a nice little huddle of copper’s narks in the corner who shifted uncomfortably as they entered. They must have nothing for them. Perfect. Mike and Joanna found a table in the corner, ordered their food and drinks at the bar and settled down, both facing inwards towards the door. Police always like to see what’s going on around them.

  Apart from the narks they recognised a few more familiar faces. Some who were uncomfortable to see them and swivelled around, presenting their backs, making the child’s mistake – that if the detectives were not in their sights they, in turn, were invisible to the two detectives. Others came over and chatted more easily – and innocently. Joanna tucked into a Caesar salad, Korpanski to steak and kidney pie with plenty of chips. She pinched a couple and couldn’t resist a dig. “You know, Mike,” she said, “the moment you stop burning muscle at the gym you’ll put on weight like a retired rugby player.”

  He stuffed the food in anyway. “Ah, but you see I won’t give up going to the gym. Way o’life, Ma’am.”

  She enjoyed the teasing. It was essential to them now, this sparring.

  “And anyway.” He jabbed his fork at her Caesar salad. “That’s no food for a lady cyclist.”

  She suddenly threw back her head and laughed. “Oh, Mike,” she said, “the only time I can really forget about Matthew is when you’re around.”

  Korpanski’s eyes were very dark, different from Matthew’s which were a warm – or cold – depending on his mood – green. Korpanski’s eyes were so dark you could not always tell the iris from his pupil, particularly in this poorly lit corner of the pub. Joanna had always thought the eyes and his muscular build were probably a throwback to his Polish ancestry.

  It was the eyes which met hers but instead of responding to her capricious remark he bent back over his food and continued chewing stolidly.

  Work is a neutral subject.

  “What are you going to do about your missing woman?”

  “Not a lot,” she said idly. “There isn’t much cause for concern here. I suppose we should make a few enquiries, try and find out just who her Romeo is. Just as long as we know she’s safe we don’t need to intervene at all. It isn’t police business.”

  Korpanski merely grunted. The case didn’t really interest him either. He’d just been making conversation.

  Once or twice during the meal he did look up and almost spoke but he had finished his first course before he broached the subject that always lay between them.

  “So how is Levin getting on?”

  “I don’t know.” She felt she needed to qualify the remark. “He emailed me to say he’d arrived safely and that the Pathology Department was really welcoming and very well set up. He was glad he’d gone and he felt he’d learn a lot.”

  “And?”

  Joanna took a long swig of her J2O and made a face. “That is it. Sum total of contact between the subject and yours truly. I knew he would leave me alone. It’s his way. He never wants to influence people, you see. He’s a great believer in free choice. And he wanted me to make up my own mind about… Well – you know.”

  “But in the end it wasn’t your decision, Joanna. Doesn’t he even know that?”

  She shook her head, swizzled the ice cubes around in the tall glass. “Nope. The trouble is I know what I’d ultimately have done. So does he. So in a way it makes no difference. It’s hardly the issue.”

  Korpanski didn’t even need to ask.

  “But you’re right, Mike. It wasn’t my decision in the end. It was taken away from me. Some might say by a wiser being.” Her smile was asymmetrical, atypical, twisted and heavily cynical.

  “And you’re really saying he doesn’t know?” Korpanski was incredulous.

  “Yes. I’m really saying he doesn’t.”

  “He doesn’t know he isn’t going to be a father?”

  “Don’t make such a big deal of it. I told you, Mike.” Her tone was forbidding any more questions. “I thought I’d write.”

  “But you can’t find the words.” There was something positively scathing in his tone now.

  She shook her head, waited for him to say something else, disliking this evidence of bonding between the two men – even if it was conducted at a distance of thousands of miles.

  “You don’t think a man has the right to know these things?”

  “Of course – but…”

  “I’d fucking kill you.”

  And Mike Korpanski, at last, having blurted out his truthful opinion, fell silent. And so did she, having shot him one long glare.

  He finished his food, drained his beer and slapped the jug back down on the table. “Coffee?”

  She shook her head. “No. Let’s get back. I have a feeling Pennington might return. I sort of set him a number of tasks to carry out.”

  They walked back up the High Street, through throngs of shoppers – even though it was a Thursday and traditionally the quietest shopping day. The old habit of half-day closing had practically disappeared from the Moorlands market town and most of the shops now stayed open through the afternoon.

  The police station was at the top of the High Street, beyond the war memorial and the bus station. It was an ugly building, modern brick, squashed in behind an old mill. The old police station had been a Gothic, Victorian piece of architecture, designed to give the police status and instil fear into the criminal fraternity. But it had been impractical and, like many other Ye Olde Police Stations, had been sold off.

  They were scarcely in through the door when Joanna knew h
er prediction had been correct.

  In the small, square waiting area, Arthur Pennington was sitting solemnly on a bench, knees pressed together, back ramrod straight. He was obviously waiting for her. This tiresome little man. As soon as she entered he jumped to his feet and caught at her sleeve. “Detective Inspector. Joanna. Miss Piercy. Please.”

  And just as suddenly and unexpectedly she felt a wave of pity for him. It simply wasn’t his fault that he had developed these habits designed to irritate. He wasn’t to know that of all things she hated it was having her sleeve pulled or her arm pinched, purely to gain attention. Neither did he know that somehow his dumpling of a wife had battled to transform herself into something else. But not for him.

  She jerked her elbow so his hand fell away. “Let’s go into my office,” she said. “It’s more private.”

  She felt Korpanski’s eyes following her through the door and knew they would joke about this later. But with a certain frostiness. She just wished he wouldn’t venture his opinions on her private life.

  She led the way along the corridor, two steps ahead of Pennington whom she could hear breathing behind her heavily. She didn’t speak as they climbed the stairs and entered the small office she shared with Korpanski, grey-walled, maroon-floored, small and square, filing cabinets in the corner, a computer link on each desk. Characterless, business-like, efficient. She liked everything about her office except one aspect. Its window overlooked a brick wall. She had been offered vertical blinds to cover the view but she felt, somehow, that it was a stern reminder to her, that police cases frequently reflected just that – a brick wall. It is only when you study the structure that you realise there is no uniformity in old bricks. There are stains and marks, hollows where frost has penetrated and destroyed some of the baked clay, ridges where the mortar has worn more quickly because of wind and weathering. Irregularities of the grouting, thick, thin, pale, dark. Even sometimes clues of previous structures, that abutted the wall, nail-holes, screw-holes, marks where hinges or ropes have worn grooves. She had once felt that the wall lacked inspiration. These days she did not.

  She sat down behind her desk, motioning the nervous, upset man to the low armchair in front of it. She was well known for ignoring all the PC rules about being approachable, not hiding behind a desk, being open and so on ad nauseum. She was a policewoman. A Detective Inspector. Not a social worker. She liked the desk between her and her interviewees. She was here because she was in a position of authority and that was how she liked it. People who knew her respected it. As, eventually, did people who did not initially know her.

  She studied Arthur Pennington’s face and read puzzlement in there. Nothing but puzzlement. No grief or guilt, no anger or jealousy. Only complete confusion. He simply didn’t understand where his wife was. Once again she felt the unexpected wash of pity.

  “You were kind enough to give me some suggestions this morning,” he began. “I haven’t been to work today, you know. I just couldn’t. I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate. I mean where is she?”

  “I’m sure she’s all right.”

  He turned on her. “How can you know that for certain?”

  “I don’t know it for certain,” Joanna replied coldly, “but I know the statistics indicate that most women of this age who ‘go missing’ have,” (gone off with a lover, whispered her voice) “not come to any harm. They are perfectly safe. The best thing you can do is to be patient and wait.”

  He opened his mouth, fish-like, to speak, shut it again without saying anything. But his eyes bulged with the effort.

  “Mr Pennington, I feel I should remind you. Your wife is a grown woman. Old enough to make her own decisions. If she hasn’t got in touch with you it might well be because she doesn’t want you to know where she is. Give her some space.”

  He blinked. Looked still more upset, his face collapsing in on itself so he suddenly looked like a very old, wizened man. He was patently telling the truth when he claimed that he hadn’t slept last night.

  “I don’t know where to start,” he said, almost tearful now.

  Another emotion washed over Joanna – just as unexpected as the others. Anger against Beatrice, this heartless woman who had abandoned this vulnerable man once she had grown some self-confidence.

  Be business-like, she thought. You were confided in in confidence. You cannot tell what you know but you can help this man in other ways. Give him something to do.

  “What about her car?” Joanna prompted.

  “It’s in the garage. I checked. She didn’t like driving. Preferred to walk or use her bike. We’re only a little way out of the town centre. It’s funny really.” He was beginning to relax. “It wasn’t so much the driving that bothered her. She said she could never find anywhere to park.”

  Joanna smirked. Neither could she.

  “So she used her bike to go to work. It’s still there, outside the library, locked to the railings. So she arrived safely. But she never went inside. I’ve asked her colleagues. No one saw her that morning. So she must have got all the way to work, locked her bike and then walked off somewhere. It’s extraordinary. Why would she do that?” His face was a perfect mash of astonishment and grief.

  Joanna was silent.

  “And I’ve checked our bank account too. Like you advised. There’s no money missing. Not a penny. She hasn’t withdrawn any from the cashpoint since last week – just before the weekend. And that was only for a bit of shopping up the High Street. Bits and pieces, you know. She wouldn’t have had much on her. Twenty, thirty pounds. No more.”

  Maybe her lover has enough for both of them. Or maybe she’s been salting away some of the housekeeping money each week in preparation for the great day when she would cast off her shackles.

  Arthur Pennington consulted a tick-list in a tiny notebook he had kept stowed away in his jacket pocket. “Her passport’s in our holiday drawer and I can’t see that there’s clothes or a suitcase missing. She’s just vanished, Miss Piercy.”

  “Have you spoken to…?”

  “I’ve rung every single friend in our personal phone book and drawn a complete blank.”

  So Romeo wasn’t in this personal phone book. This secret lover was not a mutual friend.

  “And your children?”

  “There’s no getting hold of our son, Graham. He’s out on the rigs somewhere. There’s no answer at his flat and his mobile’s switched off – or at least there’s no signal. And Fiona says she hasn’t heard from her mother for months. I’m at my wits’ end, I can tell you. I don’t know where to turn. Where to start looking. It isn’t possible for a human being to disappear. She must be somewhere. But where? Living another life? I’d say it is impossible. I can’t believe it of Beatrice. And there’s something else.”

  He leaned to one side, picked something up from the floor.

  She hadn’t noticed him carrying a pink carrier bag. She did now when he picked it up. Ann Summers. In fancy, scrawly writing. She read the name on the side, looked at the man sitting opposite her and wondered what on earth was coming next.

  He put the bag between them on the desk. “Look inside it,” he invited.

  It was the usual stuff, a black basque, black, lace-sided knickers with pretty red bows, holdup stockings. A black chiffon negligee which would have reached somewhere halfway up Beatrice’s plump thighs.

  Pennington still looked puzzled. “I’ve never seen her wearing anything like this.”

  He hadn’t made any conclusions about this merchandise. Certainly not the obvious one.

  To give her time to think Joanna fingered the flimsy garments and pictured Beatrice, stout, short, red-faced, puffing her way up a hill, hair greying, roots overdue for retouching, cellulite all the way up her legs, stomach overhanging her cycling shorts. Joanna smiled to herself. Love had many guises. For a brief moment she savoured the image of Beatrice Pennington squeezing into these for her secret lover. And the secret lover adoring her in return.

  Then she looke
d back at Arthur and felt how unfair it was. He was puzzled, distraught. Heartbroken. The soul had gone out of the man.

  Something in her died. She knew Matthew’s face would not look like this if she had disappeared for one night. And now he never would. She could picture him all too clearly as he had looked on the night before he had left. Chin firm, gaze clear, a certain hardness around the mouth.

  “The tickets are still on these scraps of material,” Pennington continued. “She never has worn them. They’re new. All new. And considering what material’s in them bloody expensive too.”

  A little anger was seeping in fed by his native meanness. He was beginning to suspect something. Joanna was learning something now about Arthur Pennington that only his wife had known. A certain petulance that he would not want her to recognise. His wife disappearing might break his heart but it was the wasting money which was the greater sin. The one he would probably never be able to forgive. Mentally she shook her head. We all have an ugly side to us.

  She ran her finger along the sharp edge of the new lace on the knicker-leg. And felt a new emotion. For the first time since she had heard of Beatrice’s disappearance she was very slightly concerned.

  These were obviously clothes she had bought to take with her, to wear with her secret lover in nights of passion. So why had she left them behind?

  In the excitement and tension of the final walk-out had it been an oversight?

  It was possible. But these had been very deliberate and expensive purchases and Beatrice Pennington had struck her as a very careful woman – apart from this one, huge impulse – her plan to vanish. Joanna was surprised that she had forgotten this vital ingredient for her Karma Sutra.

  Her eyes sharpened as she studied them. Had this really been an oversight?

  Or had Beatrice been a different sort of woman? Malicious? Had this possibly been a deliberate gesture? Some little clue for her husband to find and work out where his wife had gone? A poke in the eye for the man she was to abandon without a backwards glance or one single word of explanation or apology?