Dead Weight

by Frank Smith

  How many times had Missing Persons heard similar excuses? Paget wondered. But at least Mrs Lorrimer had been able to give them more information than most. ‘Does Justine have a car?’ he asked.

  ‘No, she walks everywhere.’

  ‘What about relatives or friends other than the nurse?’

  ‘Her closest relative is her grandfather, but he’s in Manila, of course. Justine told me that she was raised by her grandparents after her parents were killed when she was eight years old, but her grandmother died some years ago, so there’s just her grandfather now. Justine calls him regularly every two weeks. I did wonder about calling him to see if she had said anything to him about going somewhere on Sunday, but I didn’t want to alarm him. As for friends, I don’t know of any others, and the Navarro girl didn’t seem to know of any when I asked her.’

  ‘No boyfriends, then?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, and I think I would know if there were.’

  ‘You say she calls her grandfather every two weeks. Always on the same day?’

  ‘That’s right. Sunday mornings, usually around midday. There’s a time difference of something like seven or eight hours, I believe, so it would be Sunday evening in Manila.’

  ‘Using her mobile phone?’

  ‘No. Justine has her own mobile phone, but we provide the phone in her room, and she uses that for her overseas calls to her grandfather, which sometimes last for half an hour or more; it’s cheaper on the landline, so she pays for each call when the bill comes in.’

  ‘Was last Sunday the day Justine would have normally called her grandfather?’

  Julia thought for a moment. ‘Yes, it was,’ she said. ‘I suppose she could have called him on her mobile from wherever she was, but that would be expensive, and I don’t know why she would do that. His name and number are in there, by the way.’ She pointed to the folder.

  Paget made a note in the margin and closed the folder. ‘I know this may sound repetitious,’ he said as he got to his feet, ‘but just to be absolutely clear, Mrs Lorrimer, were you the only person to see Miss Delgado leave the house?’

  She hesitated for a couple of seconds, then shook her head. ‘As I said, I was in the kitchen when Justine popped her head in to say she was off, so I didn’t actually see her leave the house, but Sebastian said he saw her from his bedroom window when he was getting dressed on Sunday.’

  ‘And Sebastian is …?’

  ‘My older son,’ Julia Lorrimer said as she got to her feet. ‘He’s twenty-four.’ A wry smile touched her lips in response to the expression on Paget’s face. ‘Yes, I know,’ she said,’ it does sound odd, doesn’t it? Nearly twenty years difference in the ages of my two sons.’

  There was no reasonable response to that, so Paget simply said, ‘Leave it with me, Mrs Lorrimer,’ as he ushered her out. ‘I will have someone come to the house as soon as possible. They will need to look at Miss Delgado’s room and talk to anyone she may have spoken to recently.’

  Julia nodded perfunctorily, pausing for a moment to adjust the silk scarf that had been disturbed when she’d shouldered her handbag. ‘Thank you so very much, Chief Inspector,’ she said. ‘If there is any other way I can help …?’

  ‘We will let you know,’ said Paget. He watched her as she walked down the corridor to the front door. Attractive woman. Very elegant; beautifully turned out and made-up for such an early call at a police station. Nice perfume, too. Most perfumes made his nose twitch, but this one was very pleasant, very subtle. He liked it. Probably Grace would, too, but he doubted if he could afford to buy it for her. But then Stephen Lorrimer was a wealthy man. Inherited most of his money from his father and grandfather, or so Paget had heard.

  He opened the folder again. There, near the bottom of the page, was Justine’s mobile telephone number. He took out his own phone and thumbed in the number. Julia Lorrimer had said she’d tried to reach the girl by phone, but it wouldn’t hurt to try again. Sometimes finding a person reported as missing was as simple as making a phone call.

  Ringing, then: The person you are calling is unavailable. Please leave a message … He closed the phone. He hadn’t really expected an answer, but it was worth a try.

  THREE

  ‘Nice view across the river,’ DS John Tregalles observed as they drove down Lorrimer Drive, a steep, winding private road that led them to an irregularly shaped piece of hardstanding that served as a car park for visitors to the house on the hill above it.

  Perched as it was on the hillside overlooking the river, Simla House looked completely out of place. Built in the 1890s of local stone and wood by an ancestor of Stephen Lorrimer, Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Desmond Lorrimer of the King’s Light Infantry (Shropshire Regiment), who had spent half a lifetime in India, the house had the stamp of India on it. In fact, it was a replica of the building in which the lieutenant colonel had spent the last five years of his time in Simla, after which the house was named. The name, now weathered and dulled by time, could still be seen on the stone gateposts on either side of the entrance to Lorrimer Drive off Edge Hill Road.

  Wooden steps led from the parking area up a terraced slope to an ornamental iron gate set in a tall and extremely dense cedar hedge. The house itself was built in the shape of a spread-eagled V, with steps leading up to the front door at the centre of the V. With its flat, sloping roof, and verandas that stretched the full length of the wings on either side of the entrance, DS Molly Forsythe thought it looked more like a 1950s motel than a house, and the outside wooden stairs leading to the first floor at the end of each wing only served to strengthen the image.

  Tregalles’s description was even less flattering. ‘Looks like a couple of cricket clubhouses stuck together,’ he said. ‘You almost expect to see people lined up in deckchairs, drinking tea, while they wait for play to start again.’

  Tregalles led the way up the steps to the gate and pushed it open. Molly followed him through, and they climbed the remaining steps together to face two identical front doors. A brass plate on the door on the left simply said Private, while the door on the right bore a similar brass plate that said Constituency Office – Please Enter.

  Julia Lorrimer must have been watching for them, because it was she who opened the door when Tregalles rang the bell next to the door marked Private. ‘Two detective sergeants!’ she exclaimed as she ushered them inside and they introduced themselves. ‘I felt sure that Chief Inspector Paget was taking the disappearance of Justine seriously, but this is more than I had hoped for. However,’ she continued briskly, ‘I know you want to get on, so perhaps I should explain that these are our living quarters, and the constituency office is on the other side of this wall, and access is through that door.’ She waved a hand in the general direction of a door further down the hall. ‘Now,’ she continued as she started up the stairs, ‘I’ll take you up to Justine’s room and let you get on with whatever it is you have to do.’

  Julia Lorrimer paused at the top of the stairs. ‘Our bedrooms – that is, Stephen’s and mine, and Sebastian’s – are in the north wing,’ she said, pointing to the right, ‘while Justine and Michael have the south wing to themselves.’ She turned to the left and set off down a dimly lit corridor with doors on either side. The only source of light came from long, narrow windows set in deep alcoves between the bedrooms.

  ‘As you can see, there are five bedrooms here in the south wing,’ said Julia in the manner of a tour guide, ‘two on either side and one at the end, which we had converted into a classroom for Michael. There used to be seven, but two bedrooms were lost when Stephen’s father got rid of the old plumbing and had the bedrooms enlarged to include toilets and showers. We have exactly the same thing in the north wing. I know,’ she continued with mock weariness, as if sensing Tregalles’s thoughts, ‘it’s a ridiculous house. Lord knows what Stephen’s great, great, great … whatever he was, grandfather was thinking about when he built this place back in the eighteen hundreds. Perhaps it made sense back then, but, as I’ve
told Stephen many times, the place is more like a barracks than a house, and we could build at least two decent houses on the property if we tore it down. But I might as well talk to the wall.’

  Julia stopped beside one of the doors and turned to face them. ‘This is Justine’s room,’ she said, lowering her voice as if afraid of disturbing someone inside. ‘Michael’s bedroom is across the hall, but he’s with Sylvia in the classroom at the moment. We call it the classroom, but it serves as a playroom as well. It’s where Michael and Justine spend most of their time during the day. Sylvia Lamb is one of our constituency office workers, and she’s helping us out by seeing to Michael while Justine is … away.’

  Julia opened the door with a key and stepped inside. ‘As you can see, it’s quite a good size,’ she said as if she were letting the room. ‘Stephen insisted on having it painted last year. I think we could have chosen something a little more colourful than ivory, but Stephen said we had to make the most of the light, since we’re facing east. I wanted to take the old picture rail down while we had the chance, but Stephen thinks it gives the room character, so it was left, and I see Justine has made use of it.’ She indicated a number of colourful prints hanging from the picture rail. Instead of picture wire, Justine had used thin white cord, and Molly thought it looked quite attractive.

  ‘We couldn’t do much with the old fireplace,’ Julia continued, ‘so we had to make the best of it and have the gas fire on the hearth. It looks a little odd, but it gives off a nice heat. As for the furniture, the bookcase belongs to Justine, but the rest of it is ours.’

  ‘There are no kitchen facilities up here?’ Molly ventured.

  ‘There’s a kitchen in the classroom,’ Julia said, perhaps more sharply than she’d intended. ‘Justine prefers to have her meals with Michael when they’re working, but they eat with us downstairs when it’s convenient. And, as you can see, Justine has her own electric kettle so she can make herself a cup of tea before bed if she feels like it.’

  Julia Lorrimer pressed the palms of her hands together as if she were about to pray, and looked at each of them in turn. ‘If there is anything you need, I’ll be in the office downstairs,’ she said, ‘although I do have to go out later. There’s an in-house call button on the telephone in here; the office number is two-three.’

  ‘We would like to talk to anyone who has been in contact with Justine recently, when we’re finished here,’ Tregalles said. ‘Perhaps we could start with Mr Lorrimer?’

  ‘Of course,’ Julia said briskly. ‘He has someone with him at the moment, but I expect he will be free in half an hour or so. It’s a bit of a rabbit warren down there, so I think it would be best if you tell Sylvia when you’re ready. She can text Stephen to see if it’s convenient, then take you down. Just knock on the classroom door when you’re finished here, and Sylvia will come out. I don’t want Michael upset more than he is already, so I’ll just pop along and let her know you’re here.’ Julia raised an eyebrow in a silent invitation for questions.

  ‘There is just one thing,’ Tregalles said. ‘I don’t know if DCI Paget told you, but in a missing person case such as this, we like to make absolutely sure that the person missing is not still in the house, possibly ill or incapacitated in some way, so we will need to look in every room. It shouldn’t take long.’

  ‘Really? No, Chief Inspector Paget did not mention that this morning,’ Julia said, ‘and, to be honest, considering the information I gave him, I think it’s a waste of time. However, if that is what needs to be done, then, of course, you must do it. Now, if there is nothing else …?’

  Tregalles shook his head. ‘Just the key,’ he said, holding out his hand. ‘We’ll lock up and let you have the key back before we leave. Otherwise, I believe that will be all for now.’ He glanced at Molly, who shook her head. She had the feeling that she would have to raise her hand if she had a question.

  ‘Right, then, I’ll leave you to it.’ Julia Lorrimer turned to leave, then paused. ‘I don’t want you talking to Michael,’ she said firmly. ‘He’s upset because he and Justine are very close, and he doesn’t understand why she isn’t here. It would be useless anyway,’ she continued. ‘As Chief Inspector Paget may have told you, Michael is not only blind, but he is also unable to speak. Any two-way conversation with him has to be done electronically. Now, I really must go.’

  Julia Lorrimer had mentioned renovations, but Molly was still surprised to see how bright and modern everything was in the nanny’s room. The old fireplace, with its heavy marble mantel, was a reminder of the age of Simla House, but the rest of the room wouldn’t have been out of place in any modern apartment building. And everything was scrupulously clean. Light-coloured walls. Thick, dark rug on the floor, faded and worn in spots, but the deep pile would feel good under the toes when getting out of bed on a cold morning. Contemporary furniture and a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall beside the fireplace. The large window, fairly new by the look of it, brought a lot of light into the room, and the view across the river valley was far nicer than the view she had from any of her windows, Molly thought enviously. Certainly, the boy’s nanny had no reason to leave because of poor accommodation.

  The pictures hanging from the picture rail were all of colourful scenes cut from travel magazines and framed. The mattes were made of cartridge paper, probably by Justine herself, then mounted in cheap plastic frames. Neatly done, thought Molly. Perhaps she could do something similar in her flat … until she remembered she didn’t have a picture rail.

  There were touches of colour everywhere. A multi-coloured woollen shawl was draped artistically above the headboard of the bed, and a number of small, brightly coloured ornaments had been carefully arranged on the dresser. A large blue earthenware vase full of flowers stood by the window where they would catch the morning sun. A whimsical touch, perhaps, since the flowers were artificial.

  A piece of unfinished knitting lay on the bed, and a well-thumbed pattern book lay open beside it. The picture in the book was of a cardigan knitted in grey, but the colour Justine had chosen was light yellow. Even half finished, it felt heavy, and Molly wondered if, coming from a warmer climate, Justine was feeling the cold. But while it wasn’t exactly proof, the very fact that the knitting was there, unfinished, suggested that Justine Delgado had intended to return when she left the house on Sunday morning. Molly set the knitting aside and pulled the bedspread down. It was surprisingly heavy – an heirloom bedspread, if she wasn’t mistaken. Very nice, she supposed, if you liked that sort of thing, but off-white and with fringes? No, thanks. Too old-fashioned for her taste, and far too heavy. Molly preferred her duvet.

  The blanket and the sheets were clean, but the bed had been hastily made. Molly smiled. She could relate to that; it was much like the way she left her own bed when she was running late. She pulled the bedspread up and was about to turn away when she remembered the unfinished knitting and put it back on the bed.

  ‘Not a lot of clothes in the wardrobe,’ Tregalles observed. ‘What was it Mrs Lorrimer said Justine was wearing when she left?’

  ‘A blue-grey three-quarter-length coat with detachable hood,’ quoted Molly from the briefing notes. ‘Navy skirt, black tights and black shoes. Oh, yes, and a black handbag and a fold-up umbrella. Why? Have you found something?’

  ‘Just a plastic mac, and I can’t remember if it rained or not on Sunday.’

  ‘It did, but not till the evening,’ Molly reminded him. ‘And then it poured.’ She paused to look at the books in a varnished wooden bookcase that Justine had probably assembled herself. There were books on child care, child psychology and speech therapy, and a very large manual containing step-by-step programmes to be followed by those teaching life skills to the visually impaired. There were also magazines, almost all of which dealt with the same or similar subjects. Heavy stuff, indeed, thought Molly, but, probing further, she found some lighter reading on the bottom shelf. Historical romances – four of them – all from the local library and due back in nin
e days. It seemed that Justine was prepared to spend money on books pertaining to her work, but not on fiction.

  There was a small radio on the top shelf. Molly turned it on. It was tuned to a local station. She turned it off again and turned her attention to the night table beside the bed, and picked up a photograph in a silver frame. It was of a grey-haired man sitting on a bench in what looked like a park. He was smiling into the camera; the sun was shining, and there were deep lines in his face. Probably Justine’s grandfather, thought Molly. He’d been mentioned at the briefing this morning.

  She set the picture down and opened the night-table drawer. There was something bulky inside, loosely wrapped in a white cloth. Curious, Molly unfolded the cloth to reveal a crucifix. About eight inches long, it was made of heavy, dark wood, and the figure of Christ was cast in what looked like solid silver. Beautifully made, the crucifix looked old. But what was it doing in the drawer? The metal fitting on the back was designed to hang on a wall. Molly looked closely at the wall above the bed, moving the shawl aside to reveal a small hole some eighteen inches above the headboard; it seemed like a natural place to hang the crucifix. She examined the back of the crucifix, looking for a reason for it to be taken down, but the metal hanger appeared to be sturdy enough. Molly rewrapped the crucifix and placed it back in the drawer, then turned her attention to the dresser and its contents.

  The two top drawers appeared to be what passed for Justine’s filing system – if the jumble of bills, bank and credit card statements and miscellaneous papers could be called a system. Molly looked at the dates, none more than a year old, which would be roughly when she had come to work at Simla House. The name on a recent bill from a dentist caught Molly’s eye: Mathieson, who just happened to be Molly’s own dentist. She looked at the amount and whistled softly. This girl had had some serious dental work done in the last six months.

  At the bottom of the pile, she found a copy of the contract between the Lorrimers and an agency in Birmingham, setting out the responsibilities of employer and employee. She skimmed through it, but there were far too many pages and too much small print. She set it aside and picked up a bank book.