The Insect Farm

by Stuart Prebble

  “I am sure there is nothing at all to be worried about, but I thought I had better let you know. Harriet seems to have taken herself off somewhere, and none of us knows where she is. I was just calling to see if by any chance she had been in contact with either of you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘taken herself off somewhere’?” she said. “Where is she?”

  “We don’t know, Mrs Chalfont.” If we knew that, I was thinking, we wouldn’t be calling you. I was surprised to find myself reacting already like a man trying to solve a genuine mystery. It would stand me in good stead for what I knew must be ahead of me. “She was due to come down from Newcastle on Thursday, and I met the train, but she wasn’t on it. I’ve called her flatmates and spoken to a couple of her friends from college, but no one knows where she is.”

  Silence on the other end of the phone. I imagined that Harriet’s mother’s instant reaction was that her daughter had left me. No doubt she was trying to work out what to say which wouldn’t make that instantly obvious.

  “How long has she been missing?”

  “As far as I know, it’s two days. I had expected her to come to London on the train on Thursday. What’s a bit more worrying is that one of her friends from the quartet was on the same train, and told me he thought she had left Newcastle on Tuesday. If that was true then she has been missing for five days.”

  “Which friend is that?”

  Of all the questions Mrs Chalfont could have been expected to ask, I had not expected this one.

  “Pardon?”

  “I said which friend from the quartet told you that?”

  “A bloke called Brendan Harcourt. Why, do you know him?”

  “I know of him,” she said. It was plain that this was the name she had been expecting. It was a turn of events I had not anticipated, and I realized that I had very little idea of how much or how little Harriet had been in touch with her parents. I always assumed that it was very little; she had only seen them twice in four years, to my knowledge, and I guessed that they were not constantly on the telephone. I also had no reason to know whether they had been in postal contact, or how frank or intimate Harriet might have been in any letters.

  “May I ask how?”

  “No, you may not,” she said, then appeared to remember her manners. “I mean to say that of course you may, but that isn’t my immediate priority. Have you informed the police?”

  I told her that I had gone directly to the police station after Harriet failed to show up on the train as expected, but that they had been unconcerned and asked me to come back the following day if there was still no sign of her. Which I did, but even now they didn’t seem to be taking the thing seriously, since there seemed to be no reason to think that any crime had been committed. “I think they think that maybe she has got fed up with me and gone off with someone else.”

  “And what do you think?” she asked.

  “I just don’t know,” I said. “To be honest, I’d be absolutely amazed if that were so. Certainly if she was fed up with me, or if I have done something wrong, I don’t have a clue what it could be. She gave me no hint of it.”

  The pause at the other end of the phone line was of someone with something to say, but weighing up whether or not to say it. When finally she spoke, it seemed as though she had decided not to.

  “Can you give me the names and details of the policemen you have dealt with so far?”

  I said that I had the information on a piece of paper and could get it in just a moment, but asked why she wanted them. “One of the few advantages of being in the service,” she said, “is that one can still have a bit of influence over public servants back at home. I’m going to ask Geoffrey to make some calls. Maybe get things moving a bit. I’m sure there is an entirely innocent explanation, but we shouldn’t be taking any chances.”

  “Sure,” I said, “give me a minute and I’ll get the name and phone number of the officer I’ve been dealing with.” I read out the details I had for Sergeant Norris at dictation speed and she was about to end the call.

  “Mrs Chalfont, one thing,” I said. “I thought you were about to tell me something about Brendan Harcourt, but you changed the subject. Is there anything I should know about him? Anything about him and Harriet?”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Only because I thought I heard something in your voice which implied it. And it’s an open secret that he has had a thing for her for many years.”

  Once again she seemed about to say something and then to change her mind.

  “No, there’s nothing untoward that I know of,” she said. “It’s just that I have heard Harriet talk about all the boys in the music group, and for some reason his name stuck in my mind.”

  I knew that she was lying, but I also knew that I wasn’t going to get any further information out of her in this conversation. When I put down the receiver, my mind filled up with a cascade of new thoughts. I wondered what Harriet had told her mother about Brendan and, whatever it was, might it be something which could help me to stay out of harm’s way?

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Roger’s day centre opened on Saturdays mornings and he liked to attend, which meant that Sunday was ordinarily our only opportunity in the week to sleep just a little bit later. On this particular Sunday morning, however, I was awoken by someone pushing the bell at the front door on the street. The sound mingled with the hum of traffic from the high street at the top of our road and a single church bell tolling in the distance.

  It was a long way down only to find a man offering free copies of The Watchtower, and so my habit was to ignore anyone calling unless I was expecting someone in particular. I waited for the fourth ring before putting on my dressing gown and scurrying the three floors down to open the door.

  “Mr Maguire?” Instantly I knew that the two men in plain clothes at the door were from the police, and indeed after a moment or two I realized that I knew them.

  “I am Detective Sergeant Wallace from Wandsworth CID, and this is Detective Constable Pascoe.” These were the same two officers who had come to the house asking questions after the fire. I had no time to consider whether there was any significance in the coincidence. “We understand that you reported that your wife is missing,” Sergeant Wallace continued. “May I ask whether you have heard anything from her?”

  “No, I haven’t,” I said. “Do you have any news? Has she had an accident or something?”

  “Why should you think that?”

  “Because on Friday when I spoke to the police in King’s Cross they told me that no one would be taking much of an interest in my wife’s disappearance for a long time, if at all. Now I have a couple of detectives at my door, and so I assume that something has happened.”

  The two men exchanged glances.

  Both looked straight out of central casting; as though they had studied at Pinewood rather than Hendon. One wore a gabardine raincoat, pulled together tightly at the waist with a tie-up belt. The other wore a shorter car coat, and both had trilby hats. I remembered the underlying hostility of our previous encounter and reminded myself that I would need to try to stay on the right side of these two, if at all possible.

  “May we come in?” Sergeant Wallace asked.

  I apologized and opened the door wider to let them come inside, then led the way up the stairs. When we reached the top landing before the door to our flat, I turned and spoke in a whisper.

  “Just one thing before we go in. You will remember from the last time we met that I have an older brother with a mental handicap.” I hated describing Roger in such bald terms, but felt that I should spell out the situation quickly and with no ambiguity. “Roger isn’t really aware that there is a problem about Harriet. He knows that we have been expecting her and that she hasn’t turned up, but he doesn’t know how worried I am. If he did, he would be likely to get very anxious and upset. So I’ve been trying to keep it from him.” I explained that he was asleep at the moment, but that if he should wake while the
y were still in the flat it would be good if they could avoid saying anything likely to cause him concern.

  To be fair, both of them seemed to take this on board at face value, and said that they understood and would do their best. Perhaps it was a function of the differing circumstances, but on this meeting I had an early impression that these were decent men. Inside the flat, the two detectives removed their coats and placed them over the backs of dining chairs, while I put on the kettle. All of us spoke at subdued volume.

  “So I guess you had to buy everything from scratch after the fire, Mr Maguire?” asked Pascoe. I confirmed that I had bought quite a lot of things from a charity shop, but quickly added that I was keen to know what had happened to merit this visit.

  “I think that maybe I can guess what might have happened to put Harriet’s disappearance higher up the in-tray,” I said. “I assume that it’s something to do with her father’s status in the diplomatic service?”

  “Let’s just say that your wife’s family has friends in high places,” said Wallace. I nodded and gave them a half-smile.

  “Well, I’m sorry if this is a nuisance to you blokes. If what Sergeant Norris at King’s Cross told me is correct, then I’m sure you must feel you’ve got lots of more important things to be doing on a Sunday morning. But I think you’ll understand why this feels like very good news to me. My wife has never gone missing before, and so while I’m sure it feels very routine to the police, it feels very far from that to me.”

  The two detectives assured me that their private thoughts were irrelevant, and that they would be taking this inquiry very seriously.

  “We’re just humble servants,” said Pascoe, with what I felt was a slight trace of bitterness. “It is for others to point us, and we just go off in the direction we are pointed.”

  They sat alongside each other on the sofa. As we went once again through the banal detail of Harriet’s life and our unusual domestic arrangements, I took in the faces of the two men. There was something about both which echoed what I had seen in the face of Sergeant Norris at the police station. Something a bit careworn, a bit harassed, a bit overworked and a bit underpaid. Faces of men who had seen too much of the darker side of human life, and carried some of the baggage in the crags and creases.

  As we talked, I began to feel myself involuntarily affected by what seemed the surreal aspect of having these two men sitting here, just inches away from the location of the scene which, if they could only have been aware of it, would provide a complete and instant answer to the enquiries they were making.

  Detective Sergeant Wallace was sitting with his feet on the spot where I had woken from unconsciousness five nights earlier with my hands covered in congealed blood. Detective Constable Pascoe’s shoes were resting exactly on the area of the floor where, five nights ago, Harriet’s body lay lifeless and inert. Lying on the chair in the corner was the cat, Olly, also a silent witness to what unfolded right here just a few days earlier. I had a brief mental image of the cat walking across and pawing the ground where Harriet had lain, but of course it did not.

  I went in detail through the narrative of expecting Harriet to arrive on the train on Thursday, of meeting Brendan instead, and of only then hearing the suggestion that she had left Newcastle two days earlier. And all the time I was wondering how something as huge and traumatic as a murder could have happened in this same physical space such a short time ago and it not be instantly obvious to everyone present that this was so. The walls and furniture were silent witnesses which would never speak. Strange thoughts, confusing and bewildering.

  We continued to talk, and I had to struggle to avoid glancing downwards onto the floor, as if to make further and final checks that there was no visible trace of what had happened. In my mind’s eye I could see a drop of congealed blood caked into the weave of the carpet, but of course it was not really there. I needed to remain focused on what I was saying to the policemen, but at the same time my thoughts were invaded by the vividness of these recent images.

  “May I ask you why you went to the police so quickly on Thursday?”

  “What?” I was losing my fight to keep my attention on the conversation. “I’m sorry. I don’t understand what you mean?”

  “Well” – it was Pascoe speaking – “usually if people go to meet someone from the train and they aren’t on it, they just wait for the next one or the one after that. They don’t usually go straight to the police unless they know that something is wrong.”

  I hadn’t had much time to think through the answers to every possible question, but this, at least, was one I had anticipated.

  “I probably would have just assumed that she had missed her train and would come in on the next one, had it not been for the fact that at the station I bumped into her friend Brendan Harcourt, who seemed certain that she had left Newcastle two days earlier on Tuesday.” As I was talking I had an odd sensation of being able to hear myself speak, almost as though I was listening to someone else. My brain and mouth were communicating, but the thing that was me seemed to be standing outside of either of them. I was conversing on autopilot, and meanwhile the actual me was finding it more impossible than ever to prevent my eyes from flickering downwards to the floor at their feet. In the involuntary machinations of my mind I could see the ghostly shape of Harriet lying prone and prostrate on the floor, and all the time I expected her to tug at the legs of their trousers, calling their attention to her. “Down here. Look down here.”

  “Are you all right, Mr Maguire?” said Wallace.

  I squeezed closed my eyes, trying to rid myself of the ghastly spectre which affronted my imagination. I pressed my thumb and forefinger into my eyelids, gently shaking my head. Pascoe went to the sink to get a glass of water and returned to put it down on the table beside me.

  “I’m sorry,” I said eventually, and sipped from the glass. “It’s just that it’s been a very stressful few days. My wife is missing, I have no idea where she is, and nor does anyone else. It’s not at all like her. Ask anyone who knows her. People seem to be implying that she has just taken herself off for a few days and not told anyone where she is. Or maybe that she has gone off with another man or something. But she just isn’t that kind of girl. She just isn’t. I think something must have happened to her.”

  Neither man had spoken, and when I looked up I could see that both were looking over my shoulder towards the bedroom door behind me. I knew what had caught their attention and wondered how much he had heard. In the second or two before I turned, I struggled to transform the expression on my face.

  “Hello, Roger, I didn’t hear you come in. How long have you been there?”

  Roger was standing in the doorway, still wearing his pyjamas. Nothing in his expression gave any clue as to what was going on in his head. The few seconds that passed before he spoke were just enough to send my already rising tension to fever pitch. In those moments I imagined that his first words would be that he knew the whereabouts of Harriet; a full explanation to be given in the light of my apparent lapse of memory. I felt as though the ground would open up beneath me as I saw his lips begin to move.

  “Have any parcels arrived for me?”

  Whatever I may have expected to be going through the enigma that was Roger’s mind at that moment, this was not it. I closed my eyes and shook my head, recalibrating my response. In recent weeks there seemed to have been a constant stream of packages and boxes addressed to Roger, and indeed two or three had arrived the day before. I confirmed that they had, and Roger headed towards the hallway to collect them. Moments later he reappeared, holding one of the boxes and examining the label which indicated that it had arrived by Air Mail. He seemed pleased. “What’s for breakfast?”

  I breathed, and then I smiled. “I thought we might have a nice fried stoat with a pickled-onion glaze and a snail purée?”

  Roger grinned back at me. “No thanks, Jonathan,” he said, “I think I’ll just have toast and Marmite today.” His face cracked into a still
broader untroubled smile, and then he turned around and went into the bathroom. Moments later I could hear the sound of taps running.

  I explained our little breakfast joke to Wallace and Pascoe; they smiled and gave me business cards, and then asked me to contact them if and when Harriet reappeared. I gave them contact numbers for Martin and Jed and Brendan. They said that they did not need to be told how to contact Harriet’s parents.

  “Do you think that something bad has happened to her?” I asked as I showed them to the door. “Tell me the truth.”

  “I don’t think so,” said Wallace, “not for a minute. As I believe the sergeant at King’s Cross said to you, sir, there is usually an innocent explanation for these things. Most likely she’ll turn up in a few days and everyone will be embarrassed but relieved and we can get back to solving crime.”

  “Yes, like I say, I am sorry if this is a waste of your time.” By now I had collected myself and was refocusing. “But I think you’ll understand why I am glad that you are taking it seriously. I know you’ve probably got lots of cases, but I’ve only got one wife. And I love her.” The final few words caught in my throat in an upsurge of emotion. I was aware of the two officers looking at me with what seemed to be genuine sympathy in their faces.

  “I’m sure you do, Mr Maguire,” said Pascoe. “And I am sure she will be back with you very soon.” The two men walked onto the landing and were about to start down the stairs when Wallace turned back and spoke at a low volume. “By the way,” he said, “I was just wondering, more from curiosity than anything else, but did anything further ever come to light about the cause of the fire at your home? I think we left the file open, but I don’t recall seeing anything new.”