She could have gone home then, back to the empty cottage in Waterfall. It was late; she’d done a full day’s work. But there is something of the terrier in all detectives. She wanted answers, just to hear the end of the story. Not this unsatisfactory question mark.
Obviously the library should be the next port of call. And it would still be open.
Leek library is halfway up Stockwell Street, the road that runs behind, and parallel to, Derby Street. It is housed in a Gothic Victorian building called the Nicholson Institute. Marked by its green copper dome and like many libraries more of a cultural centre than a mere book-house.
As Joanna mounted the stone stair case she was reminded of the strange story she had heard about the ‘ghost’ of Joshua Nicholson, its founder, said to walk here. Listening to her footsteps echoing as she climbed, she could almost believe it was true.
And that was not the only strange story connected with the library. In 1965 the mummified remains of what had been thought to be a child were discovered in a barrel in the loft of what had been the museum. The fact that the discovery had been made on April 1st had not alerted the authorities that it was, in fact, the remains of a carefully dissected orang-utan, until after the National Press had run the story.
Leek has more than its fair share of strange stories and odd legends. Maybe it is the moorland which surrounds it and seals in its people, isolating them from the rest of the world and not subject to its wider laws and rules.
During the ten minute walk from the station to the library Joanna had toyed with the idea that Beatrice Pennington’s secret lover was possibly someone at work. In which case would he be there too? Or on a sudden “holiday”?
As she reached the railings outside the library she passed a couple of uniformed lads struggling with a green bike and a pair of stout wire cutters. As she watched they freed the bike and, wearing gloves, she was glad to see, loaded it into the back of a police van.
She carried on in to the Nicholson Institute.
Two women were working in the office, a young, slim woman with poker-straight hair, no make-up and large, lugubrious dark eyes. The other was in her forties, a plump, motherly type, very like Beatrice herself. At a guess she would have been the one Beatrice would have confided in.
Joanna flashed her ID card for the second time today. “We’re making enquiries about Beatrice Pennington,” she began.
The two women looked at each other. She could sense their speculations. They looked enquiringly at her, waiting for her to speak first.
“Do you have any idea where she might be?”
“She hasn’t been at work yesterday or today.” It was the younger one who was trying to be helpful.
The older one nodded. “That’s right. It really isn’t like Beattie. She’s normally reliable. Doesn’t take time off at all. She didn’t phone in sick either.” The younger woman agreed vigorously. “We’ve had her husband on the phone. It seems she’s left home.”
They exchanged swift glances so Joanna knew they had come to the same conclusion as she.
“It’s really odd though,” the younger one said. “She must have meant to come to work. She’s come right to the door. Her bike’s locked to the railings. It’s still there.”
Not any more.
“What time does she normally arrive at work?”
“Well – we open at half-past nine. She generally gets here a few minutes earlier.”
“Did you see her on Wednesday morning?”
“No.” Again the younger one. “No – I didn’t. I was a bit late myself.”
“What time did you arrive?”
“Round about twenty-five to ten.”
The older librarian turned to her. “It was later than that, Lisa. More like a quarter to.”
Lisa didn’t argue. Joanna turned to the older librarian. “And you?”
“I got here early on Wednesday – at quarter past nine. Her bike wasn’t there then or I’d have seen it.”
So between the two sightings the precise time of Beatrice’s disappearance was narrowed down to between nine fifteen and nine thirty-five.
“Have either of you any idea where she could be?”
Both women shook their heads.
Joanna drew in a deep breath, thinking quickly. She needed names, a lead, some direction from these two women. Here and the Readers’ Group was the best possibility for finding Beatrice’s secret Romeo. Once she had confirmed his identity she was still confident that she could satisfy herself the wretched woman was safe and move on to more important things. But this could so easily turn into a difficult and protracted investigation if people stonewalled them. And she didn’t know how discreet Beattie and her lover had been. Her colleagues might know nothing. Delicacy, she thought and planned her approach with devious care.
She tried the same sentences which had been so unsuccessful with Jewel Pirtek: that anything they said would be in confidence, that this would turn into a full-scale police investigation were Beatrice Pennington not found, that anything, however seemingly insignificant, could be of relevance.
She drew a blank. The two women gaped at her and said nothing.
She tried a different tack. “Mrs Pennington had recently changed her lifestyle,” she commented.
“Oh yes. Into dieting and exercise,” the senior librarian said comfortably. “It quite altered her. She’d been so down before Christmas. Something must have happened and whatever it was it did her the power of good. It seemed to change her into someone else almost. She seemed brighter, more optimistic. Almost as though…”
The two women looked guiltily at each other.
So they did know something.
Joanna waited, knowing what was about to be said.
But they needed prompting. “As though she had a lover?”
“I’m sure she didn’t,” Lisa said. “She wouldn’t. I mean – she wasn’t like that.” Joanna glanced at her, amused. She was of the generation only ten years younger than herself who believed that anyone over the age of forty was over the hill and had ceased to have sex or sexual desires.
“Are you sure?” she asked gently.
“We did wonder,” the older woman said reluctantly “You’re right. There was something different about her since just before Christmas. She was sort of – lit up – from the inside.”
It was as good a description of a woman who had a surreptitious lover as any Joanna had heard. To her this seemed to rubber stamp the theory. But the librarian had something more to say. “I even wondered if the doctor had put her on something for her depression.”
It fitted. Joanna recalled the mobile phone printout and the numerous calls to the doctors’ surgery.
She tucked the fact away and moved to a different tack.
“You run a Readers’ Group from the library?”
“Yes.”
Remember the game Hot and Cold? Warmer, Warmer. Joanna felt it now. But mentioning the Readers’ Group had sent her back into the cold area. Clearly, neither of the two librarians believed the answer was here.
Still – she pursued it.
“How many members do you have?”
Lisa answered for both of them. “Oh, it varied. Somewhere between sixteen to twenty.” The plump woman was perfectly comfortable chatting about the Readers’ Group.
“Could you provide me with a list?”
“Yes – certainly.” It gave them both something to do. They bustled towards a filing cabinet in the corner, helpfully searching together but they found no list.
“We’ll have to do a thorough search later for the list. Very much Beattie’s little baby the Readers’ Group was.”
“Who else works here?”
Both the librarians were startled into a response. Warm, warm now. Getting hot.
“There are eight staff. We’re both full time. Adrian Grove is our chief librarian. He used to be a teacher in another life.” There was a distinct flicker through the eyes, an almost disapproving tightening of the mouth.
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“I might want to meet him.”
“You can’t. He’s on holiday.”
“Where?”
“In Italy. Tuscany. On a walking holiday.”
“And when did he go?”
“Saturday or Sunday. He’s away for two weeks. He’ll be back on the fifth of July.”
Joanna squirrelled the fact away. She recalled Jewel’s comment about Beattie’s desire to go abroad. To Italy.
But her passport was in the drawer at home.
Besides – Beatrice Pennington had not disappeared until the Wednesday. Three or four days after Mr Grove’s holiday had begun. Was it possible he had not gone to Italy but was still here, in the country, and had not set out over the weekend but waited for his lover until midweek to divert suspicion?
Innocently she asked, “Did Mr Grove and Beatrice get on well?”
A swift exchange of glances before the older woman nodded. “Oh yes,” she said. “Indeed they did.”
Sometimes the explanations are so-o-o simple. “And is Mr Grove married?” she asked in the same, idly innocent tone.
“He’s divorced. Has been for ages. I never have met his ex-wife.”
“Nor me,” Lisa inserted.
“Has he gone on holiday alone?”
“I believe so.” Eyes round. “You don’t think…?”
But Joanna wasn’t falling for that one. She was not some junior police constable to start making public assumptions to feed the gossips.
Even so it was hard not to smile. “We’ll wait and see, shall we? Do you know which company he’s travelled with?”
“No,” the older librarian said. “But I do know he booked it with Wardle’s Travel on the High Street.”
But in her heart she believed she had teased the entire plot out of them. Beattie was with Adrian Grove, her colleague. Here in the Victorian library love had blossomed. Sometimes explanations are so obvious. Lift the stone and the entire plot comes wriggling out.
One phone call to the holiday company and Arthur Pennington’s wife would be found.
Chapter Six
But life is not always so simple.
Metamorphosis.
Each week had wrought a subtle change in Beatrice as though she stepped from a chrysalis to a beautiful butterfly. On the second week she had joined the Femina Club, the week beginning June the 6th, she had definitely looked a size slimmer. She had dyed her hair to an attractive auburn which hid all the grey and took five years off her age. And she was wearing orange lipstick – an unfortunate statement which didn’t really suit her – but she’d learn. She’d made a clumsy attempt at eye make-up, clumping her eyelashes with brown mascara and sparkling gold eyeshadow. It reminded Joanna painfully of her own early forages into the sophisticated world of make-up – when she had been thirteen or so – and had slapped on bits and pieces without studying the final effect in the mirror. Women begin their quest for beauty in a clumsy, inept way. But most learn by trial and error. They are not born with the talent of the palette. Some never acquire it.
Unfortunately it reminded her too of Eloise Levin and a certain lunch in a pub at Warslow. And evoked the same emotion of exasperation, pity and affection that Eloise always inspired in her. But without the dislike that had marked the early years of their relationship.
The biggest change in Beatrice Pennington was in her face. She looked radiant – confident, happy with the biggest, hugest grin almost slicing her face in half. Her eyes sparkled and even her skin seemed tauter – younger.
She looked a different person.
Such is the inner light of love.
Friday, June 25th
It had been too late to catch the travel agent on the previous evening so nine o’clock found her and Mike parked outside, waiting for the doors to open.
She was in for a disappointment.
The girl was helpful. Yes, Mr Groves had booked his holiday through them. A fortnight’s walking through Tuscany, departing from Gatwick Airport on Saturday afternoon. A quick phone call confirmed that he had been on the flight – travelling alone. She gave Joanna a brilliant smile. “Does that help you, Inspector?”
Actually – no.
With a deep sigh she realised they were no nearer solving the thorny, irritating little problem.
It was to be a day of telephone calls.
Beatrice’s daughter, Fiona, was difficult to get hold of. Joanna had two tries and received either an engaged tone or the answering machine. On the third attempt, however, she was connected and made a brief introduction. Fiona was initially frosty and brisk then frankly incredulous. “What do you mean my mother’s disappeared?” Joanna could hear the sharp derision in the daughter’s voice.
She answered patiently and steadily. “She set off for work on Wednesday morning but never arrived.”
“Well, where’s her car?” Fiona was still impatient.
“Her car is at home, in the garage. She’d been using her bike recently.”
“Her bike! My mother?” This time the derision was frankly cruel.
Again Joanna felt that wash of sympathy for the missing woman. While there was more than a tinge of contempt in the daughter’s response she failed to detect any hint of affection or worry.
“That’s right. She’d been on a bit of a keep fit drive.”
“OK,” Fiona said impatiently. “So where is her bike?”
She could have been grilling a six-year-old.
“Currently impounded by us. We removed it from the railings outside the library.”
“So you’re saying that she got to work safely and then vanished?”
“That’s right.”
“Well surely someone saw her lock the damned thing up?”
“We haven’t found anybody who admits to that yet.”
“Ri-i-ght.” Joanna gained the impression of a telephone tucked under her ear, scribbles on a pad and scant attention. “So for two whole days no one’s seen my mother?”
“That’s right.”
“Not even Dad.”
“No,” Joanna answered patiently.
“Well what about her mobile?”
“It’s switched off or the battery’s flat. We’ve called and called but had no response.”
“Does my brother know where she is?”
“Not according to your father. I shall be ringing him after you.”
“I suppose you’ve tried her work – and her friends?”
“Yes.”
“And my aunt and grandparents?”
“Your father’s spoken to them all. We shall be following through with a visit.”
“This is all I need.”
It was the response of a truly selfish, busy person. To perceive the effect of disaster on you alone without regard for anyone else. Joanna did not trust herself to make a comment.
Fiona Pennington gave an irritated sigh. “She must have had some sort of a break down or something.”
“It’s possible.” It was at least an opening, a suggestion. “Do you know of anything that’s been troubling your mother recently?”
“No.” Said crossly. “– Well I wouldn’t, would I?”
“When did you last speak to your mother?”
“Goodness knows. I don’t. Months ago, probably. I can’t remember but whenever it was she seemed the same as always.”
Beatrice’s daughter must have realised she was not responding terribly well to the crisis and even, maybe, wondered how her behaviour was striking the detective. She turned hotly defensive.
“We weren’t terribly close, you know. We had nothing in common. I mean – her and Dad. Well – they led such boring lives. Provincial. You know what I’m saying?”
Oh yes. I know exactly what you’re saying. Joanna felt hugely glad that she knew about the Ann Summers underwear and suppressed a smug smile. Your mother’s life was not as boring as you think, clever daughter.
She heard noises in Fiona’s background, followed by a reedy voice making shrill complaint. “Look
– I’m sorry,” Beatrice’s daughter said. “I can’t help you. I’m really busy at the moment. I have a meeting. I’ll ring Dad. See if I need to come home. Though how the hell I’d wangle that with a new advertising campaign about to be launched I don’t know. Oh, well,” she said brightly. “Not your problem, Eh? I guess your remit is to find my mother.”
For the first time Joanna almost warmed to Beatrice’s daughter. For all her brisk ways she obviously did work under pressure. Where do you squeeze a missing mother into a frenetic work schedule?
“That’s so,” she said very calmly. “We just want to find her and make sure she’s safe. That’s all. And if she does make contact you will let me know, won’t you?”
“Oh yes. Sure. Of course. I will. What did you say your name is?”
Joanna supplied it.
“And number?”
Joanna reeled off her direct dial, heard the scratching of a pen over paper and then there was a pause.
She waited.
“You’re not. I mean – you aren’t. There isn’t any suggestion. You don’t think anything’s happened to her, do you?”
So – for all her sophistication Fiona had once been a vulnerable little girl who had wanted her mummy. Provincial or not. Maybe then she had not made such a harsh judgement on her mother.
But that had been before she had grown up.
Joanna was honest. “No-o, there aren’t any worrying features but we’re really anxious to find her.”
“Ye-e-s. I see. I understand. OK then. Byee.”
Joanna waited for a minute before dialling the number given for Beatrice’s son.
She connected this time with a sleepy-sounding Scot who promised to fetch Graham, “Right away.”
A few seconds later she was speaking to Graham Pennington. He sounded gruff, with, surprisingly, considering his Staffordshire origins, a faint Scottish accent. And he sounded as disinterested, initially, as his sister had been. In fact he echoed the very same words. Angrily. “What do you mean, my mother seems to have disappeared?”
Wings over the Watcher Page 7