by Pam Weaver
Amy’s Seaside Secret
Pam Weaver
Pan Books
I dedicate this book to my lovely son-in-law Steve Sullivan. I’m being nice to him because one day he may decide which old people’s home to put me in.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Always in My Heart
PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1
Chapter 1
Hilda Marsden stirred in her sleep and opened her eyes. What was that? Something had woken her up. She lay still, listening. The only sound was the distant drone of enemy aircraft coming in over the Channel. The room was completely dark; not a chink of light anywhere. The blackout curtain saw to that. A moment or two later she heard a shuffling sound and drew in her breath. Someone was outside. She switched on her bedside light, her heart already beginning to beat a little faster. There it was again, only this time it was more of a scraping sound. Could it be the tramp?
Nobody knew where the tramp came from, but he was a familiar sight in Worthing. People said the loss of all his pals during the Great War had had a profound effect on him. Harmless enough, he was reduced to carrying around the town a bundle that contained his only possessions.
The scraping sound came again. Hilda chewed her bottom lip anxiously. If it wasn’t the tramp, then somebody outside was planning to break in! What should she do? She was a woman alone – vulnerable. Pulling her bed-shawl over her shoulders, Hilda crept out of her warm bed and stood by the window.
Next she heard a small bump. Good heavens, they must be putting a ladder up against the window. She decided she would pull the curtain back and hope that the shock of seeing her face would send the burglar scurrying. Her heart was in her mouth as she snatched the curtain back and opened the window, but as she leaned out, a man’s angry voice cut through the darkness. ‘Put that light out!’
Hilda slammed the window and pulled the curtain. Trembling with the cold and fear, she stood on the mat for several minutes, waiting for the ARP warden to knock on the front door. He’d be furious. It was hardly surprising. For a couple of seconds she had put the whole of Worthing in mortal danger. They’d say she had enabled enemy aircraft to pinpoint the town more accurately. She’d probably be prosecuted and fined. Mr Gladwell had been fined ten bob for striking a match, to look for his false teeth. Much to her relief, the knock never came, so Hilda climbed back into bed with a mixture of relief and exhaustion.
Early next morning she discovered that during the night nearly a half a hundredweight of coal had been stolen from her shed.
Sergeant Goble leaned over the steering wheel of Worthing’s only serviceable police car and peered into the gloom. It was six-twenty in the morning on the last day of January 1944. The sea mist had almost obliterated everything, making it hard to keep to the road. There were no road signs, all having been removed at the beginning of the war in case of invasion, and he was unfamiliar with the area. Sitting beside him, policewoman Amy Hobbs was of little help when it came to giving directions. She had only lived in the town for a couple of months, having been seconded from the Met to assist his office, which had a chronic manpower shortage.
When she’d arrived at the end of 1943, he’d been furious. Seven of his officers had been called up and their replacements were two ex-police officers pulled out of retirement, and Amy, a woman. However, over the period of time she’d been with him, Amy had proved to be quite useful. His paperwork was up to date and she made a decent cup of tea. For her part, Amy loved her job, not because she liked office work or making tea, but because of days like this when a lack of available policemen made it possible for her to be part of the team. However, since DC Cooper and PC Perkins had come to the station, Amy wondered if this happy state of affairs was about to end. Both men were seasoned officers who had served in all the big stations, like Scotland Yard, West End Central and Paddington Green. They had apparently worked on some celebrated cases as well. Whenever they were in the canteen, the other officers gathered around to hear their stories of murder and mayhem, but Amy kept her distance.
She turned her head now and looked out of the window. ‘Are we lost?’
‘Don’t ask damn fool questions,’ the sergeant snapped. ‘Of course we’re not lost. I’m not sure where we are, that’s all.’
They weren’t travelling at speed, which was just as well because all of a sudden a man waving his arms leapt out of the mist in front of them. Sergeant Goble swore loudly and jammed on the brakes. Amy was propelled forward towards the dashboard and only just stopped herself from sliding into the footwell.
‘Sit up straight,’ he growled. ‘No need to make a spectacle of yourself.’
Amy bristled, but held her tongue.
The man banged on the driver’s window. ‘Over here! We’ve just fished her out and she’s on the bank.’
When the call had come into the police station in Worthing, the caller said three fishermen had spotted a woman’s body floating in the River Rife near the village of Ferring. Now that they’d found the place, Sergeant Goble and Amy made their way towards the area of river bank where the other two men waited. The victim was surprisingly old – Amy guessed in her seventies. She wore warm clothing, a hand-knitted twinset and a tweed skirt, but she had no coat. Considering the time of year and the fact that snow still lay on the ground, that seemed odd. Her hair was plastered around her face but, even with water-weed and mud on it, Amy could see that the old lady had looked after herself. Her short hair had been permed and her fingernails were well manicured. She wore lightweight shoes; not the sort you would wear when walking in this isolated spot.
The three men who had found her stood at a respectful distance as the sergeant examined the body. Even though they all wore waders, one of them was shivering. Sergeant Goble blew on his ungloved hands. ‘Some poor old duck who’d had enough of the war, I suppose,’ he said gloomily.
One of the fishermen stepped forward. ‘I found this as well,’ he said, handing Amy a rather soggy handbag.
Amy drained the water and looked inside, to find a lipstick, a handkerchief, a purse containing £2 12s. 6d. and a deck of cards.
Sergeant Goble had already finished his assessment. ‘Done herself in, ’ant she?’
‘Why would someone intent on suicide bother to bring her handbag?’ Amy wondered aloud. She glanced down at the body. The woman’s clothes had no pockets. ‘And where are her keys?’
‘Anywhere around here we can get a cup of tea?’ Sergeant Goble asked the men.
‘There’s the Blue Bird Cafe on the beach,’ one of them said. Sergeant Goble rubbed his hands, but then the man added, ‘but the Canadians have just requisitioned it as a canteen for the Canadian troops, so it’s not open to the public.’
The sergeant scowled.
Amy was still looking at the body. ‘There’s no sign of a struggle, but what was she doing out here, Sarge? There are no houses. She must have come here at night, but what for?’
‘Who can fathom the human mind?’ said Sergeant Goble sagely. ‘Especially the mind of some silly old duffer.’
‘Perhaps she was on her way to the Blue Bird,’ one of the fishermen suggested.
‘We’ve never heard of it, so she had to be a local to know it was there,’ said Amy, bending down to look at the woman’s jewellery. ‘And if that was the case, she would have known it had become a Canadian canteen.’ She lifted the woman’s left sleeve.
‘Stop pawing her about, ’Obbs,’ grumbled Goble.
; ‘There’s no evidence that she’s been the victim of an attack, sir,’ said Amy, straightening up. ‘There’s money in her purse and she still has her rings and that diamond brooch, but it looks to me as if her watch is missing.’
‘She jumped in the river,’ said Goble tetchily. ‘Case closed.’
But Amy wasn’t about to let it go. ‘Any idea who she is?’
Two of the fishermen shook their heads. The third looked thoughtful. ‘I’ve got a feeling I’ve seen her in the local pub.’
‘The local pub!’ Goble spluttered. ‘A respectable-looking woman like that?’
The man seemed embarrassed. ‘You’re probably right. It must have been someone who looked like her.’
They heard the sound of another motor, and Bob Redditch, the local funeral director, appeared out of the fog and pulled up beside the police car.
‘Morning,’ he called out cheerfully. ‘What have you got for me now?’
‘Unidentified female,’ said Sergeant Goble. ‘Get her cleaned up, Bob, and we’ll see if anyone reports her missing.’
‘Shouldn’t we ask the doctor to check her over, Sarge?’
Sergeant Goble rounded on Amy. ‘I brought you out here to observe, ’Obbs,’ he growled. ‘Not to tell me what to do. Now, get into the car and we’ll be going.’
Much as she wanted to answer back, Amy held her tongue. If she riled him too much, the sergeant could just as easily put her on the next train back to London and that would be the end of her police career. Meekly compliant, but furious, she headed for the car.
They drove back in silence. What was Sergeant Goble thinking? Amy had no idea, but in her own mind she was going over the evidence. Somehow she wasn’t convinced that this unknown woman had committed suicide. Of course there were plenty of other people who were doing just that. The war had dragged on a lot longer than everybody had first imagined. When it began in 1939, they said it would be over by Christmas; but here they were, at the beginning of 1944, still with no end in sight. December had brought the good news that, after an engagement lasting eight hours, the German battleship Scharnhorst had been sunk, but the daily grind and food shortages left the whole country feeling depressed. Eggs had virtually disappeared from the shops, there was no fruit and very little milk. With such a poor diet, it was little wonder there had been an outbreak of influenza in the town.
The woman they’d pulled from the water had been well fed and healthy-looking. She wore good-quality clothes and she had looked after herself. She had money in her purse, but no house keys. Could that mean she lived with somebody else – someone who would have let her in when she rang the doorbell? The biggest puzzle was why she was in the area at all. It was bleak and isolated and, from what Amy could gather, the only people who used that footpath were the fishermen and the odd dog walker. She sighed. Something wasn’t right, but Sergeant Goble had already made up his mind that the case didn’t warrant further investigation. If she was going to convince him to look a little closer, she’d have to find some real evidence of wrongdoing, and that wasn’t going to be easy. If someone had attacked the woman, all they’d taken was her watch. Amy could tell that the victim had had one, because there was a distinct change of skin tone on her wrist, so she must have worn it constantly. It could have come off when she went into the water, Amy supposed, but the rest of her jewellery had remained in situ.
Back at the station, Sergeant Goble decided he was utterly starving, so straight away they made their way downstairs to the canteen. While he ordered a cooked breakfast, Amy settled for a cup of tea. As the sergeant put margarine on his bread, DC Cooper sauntered over to their table.
‘You’re up early, Sarge,’ he remarked, his eyes on Amy all the time. He gave the sergeant a nudge and winked. ‘What do I have to do, to get an early-morning ride with one of these?’
Amy felt herself bristle. She understood the innuendo and it offended her, but she knew better than to rise to the bait. It only made matters ten times worse.
‘Old woman jumped into the river,’ said Sergeant Goble without looking up. ‘Open-and-shut case.’
‘Reminds me of the investigation into the drowned doctor when I was working in West End Central,’ said Cooper. ‘Turned out his son pushed him in the Thames, for his inheritance.’
Sergeant Goble grunted and, getting no response, Cooper put on his mackintosh. PC Waller was pinning a notice onto the board in the staff canteen. With her hands around the cup to warm them, Amy read it from where she was sitting:
Sign up for the tenth annual Shrove Tuesday Pancake Race. Police versus Firemen. 22nd February at 2.30 p.m., Homefield Park.
A couple of men had already signed up. Amy stood up and added her name to the list.
‘Women aren’t allowed,’ said PC Waller, coming back.
Amy was indignant. ‘Why not?’
‘They just aren’t, that’s all,’ said Waller, scratching her name out, then glaring stonily at her.
‘Quite right, too,’ said Cooper. ‘Women are only good for two things in life. Cooking in the kitchen and,’ he patted Amy’s bottom, ‘I’ll leave you to guess the other.’
Amy moved smartly away from him. ‘Do you mind!’ she said crossly.
‘No, I don’t mind,’ he said. ‘Do you?’ And, laughing, he walked off.
Amy stared after him. The men had always been a bit awkward with her, but since Perkins and Cooper had arrived, their attitude towards her had become increasingly lewd. When she turned back, even PC Waller had a smirk on his face.
‘For goodness’ sake,’ she cried, ‘grow up! It’s only a flipping pancake race.’ She was so annoyed she could have biffed him but, before he could answer, someone called from the doorway, ‘Amy, you’re wanted at the front desk.’
When she reached the reception area, the desk sergeant told her that he had just received a missing person’s report. A Mrs Vera Bottomley was missing from the old people’s home where she lived. Amy reported back to Sergeant Goble and, as soon as he heard that the home was in Ferring, he groaned. ‘You see to that one, ’Obbs,’ he said, waving his fork at her dismissively. ‘I can’t use up any more of our precious petrol ration. Get over there on your bike, and don’t go making summat out of nothing. Remember: it was suicide while the balance of her mind was disturbed.’
Sunny Meadows retirement home was about a mile from where the body had been found. Amy thought it expedient not to mention that Vera might be dead until she had established if the body and Vera Bottomley were one and the same.
‘She was supposed to come back last night,’ said matron anxiously. Amy warmed to her straight away. She seemed genuinely concerned – a friendly and caring person. ‘I’ve been ringing her granddaughter, but there’s no reply.’
‘Where had she gone?’ asked Amy.
‘To see the local am-dram,’ said matron. ‘They perform in Ferring village hall. Of course everything was stopped in 1939, but they’ve just started up again. The cast is very small, but they put on some cracking plays.’
‘And Mrs Bottomley’s granddaughter took her there?’
‘That’s right.’
‘What sort of person is she?’ asked Amy.
‘She’s a nice girl,’ said matron. ‘She’s only just started visiting her grandmother. I believe she’s been abroad.’
‘Actually I meant Mrs Bottomley,’ said Amy. ‘What’s she like?’
‘A game old bird,’ said matron with a smile. ‘She’s been with us for two years. She was quite active when she came, but she can’t do anything for herself now.’
‘May I see her room?’ asked Amy.
Mrs Bottomley’s room was on the ground floor, a reasonable size, neat and tidy. Amy admired the pretty floral bedspread. There was some knitting on the cosy-looking armchair next to the French windows and some flowers in a vase on the dressing table. Mrs Bottomley’s brush-and-comb set sat neatly next to a family photograph in a silver frame.
‘That’s Mrs Bottomley,’ said matron, pointing her out
. ‘She can’t walk far.’
Amy picked up the photograph and, instantly recognizing the older woman in the centre of the picture, said, ‘Matron, I’m afraid I have some very bad news.’
Having obtained the granddaughter’s address from the retirement home, Amy used her initiative. Sergeant Goble had stipulated that she should report straight back to him after she’d been to Sunny Meadows, but if she rode all the way back to Worthing, he was sure to send her straight back to Ferring to talk to Miss Bottomley anyway. Amy was confident that he wouldn’t want to do it himself. Hadn’t he told her, on numerous occasions, that he ‘couldn’t abide weeping women’? Amy enjoyed riding her bike, but to go straight away would save time and another trip.
Lettuce Bottomley was in her mid-twenties, an attractive woman with dark hair and brown eyes. She was slim, with long artistic fingers, and she seemed genuinely shocked to find Amy standing at the door. She showed Amy into her sitting room, an uncluttered room with two large easy chairs in brown leather on either side of the plain tiled fireplace, with its beautiful Art Deco curves. There was no mantelpiece, but above the fireplace hung an attractive fan-shaped mirror. She motioned Amy to sit down and almost fainted when Amy told her about her relative.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Lettuce. ‘What was she doing in the river? Are you sure it’s her?’
As a precaution, Amy had brought the sodden handbag with her in her bicycle basket and, as soon as she saw it, Lettuce’s eyes filled with tears. ‘We shall require you to formally identify the body,’ Amy went on, ‘but we are confident it is your grandmother.’
‘I can’t believe it,’ Lettuce choked.
Amy reached into her top pocket for her notebook. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Yesterday,’ said Lettuce. ‘I collected her from the home and we spent the afternoon and evening together.’ She looked around the room. One of the four chairs at her table by the window had been pushed back against the wall. ‘She sat right there in her wheelchair,’ Lettuce went on. ‘She loved to play cards. She was quite a gambler, but we only did it with matchsticks. She always won.’