Green and Pleasant Land

by Judith Cutler

  ‘A degree in French and Spanish? A good option: after all, one can pursue one’s interest in the stage at an amateur level, as I did myself. But then to throw that up and become an accountant? It’s not a career one imagines will set one on fire, is it? And to end up running a football club …’ She shook her head. ‘My darlings, I fear I have bored you to tears, and I am about to retreat to the last refuge of an old soak – my bed. Another full English breakfast tomorrow? Or might I interest you in some excellent smoked salmon, courtesy of Checketts, and some of my speciality scrambled eggs? Excellent. A worthy choice. Till eight tomorrow, then.’ With a waft of her hand she was gone, though her progress up the stairs was slow.

  They looked at each other. No, it was anathema to leave a table uncleared, even if it was someone else’s. And the dishwasher was just like the one they had at home.

  Despite their fears, the following morning Edwina showed no sign of so much as a headache, let alone a full-blown hangover. The promised smoked salmon and scrambled eggs appeared at exactly the time they’d asked.

  ‘We’re meeting a colleague for supper,’ Mark said as she poured coffee. ‘So maybe we’d best take a key.’

  ‘Maybe you’d best take a boat. At the very least pack your glad rags – a whole overnight bag, if you want my advice. No, I’m not joking. The forecast’s worse than yesterday’s: you may go into a restaurant and come out to find it’s an island. And don’t forget, if your engagement falls through, just telephone and I’ll be able to provide you with a morsel or so …’

  ‘First of all,’ Mark said to the little team, ‘congratulations on managing to get in at all through the floods. A lot of people would have given up. I’m glad you didn’t.’ His smile warmed the room. ‘Now, any updates?’

  ‘Bad news from the Professional Footballers’ Association. They don’t hold the records of retired players. Once they leave a club, all the records go to a GP, just as when you leave your doctor, all your records go to a new one. Sorry, gaffers: dead end there.’

  ‘Win some, lose some,’ Mark said. ‘On the plus side, before you came in a former senior officer from that list that Webster gave us phoned back to say he’d be happy to talk to me about the way the original investigation was run. But he won’t do it over the phone, and if I disclose the information he gives, I’m still not allowed to reveal even to you people who my source is. I’m also meeting a contact of Joe Swallow’s tomorrow; Fran and I are going up to The Hawthorns for a little live football and, we hope, a lot more help.’

  ‘Taking your boots, gaffer?’ Stu jeered.

  ‘I’m assured the Albion are going to win.’

  Cue for derisive laughter. ‘Against Chelsea?’

  ‘Well, they’ve got home advantage. Now, Fran’s got an appointment with a private detective in Birmingham at midday: who’d like to go with her? Robyn? Paula? Until I need to leave too, at about the same time, actually, I thought I’d help Stu log the contents of the box of goodies the Garbutts handed over yesterday. Sorry, Fran, I know you wanted to do it, but even you can’t be in two places at once. Birmingham for you, Robyn?’

  She returned his smile. ‘If the court sits today, I’m likely to be called. So this is really a flying visit, though I hope to be back: it just depends on how soon they make a decision.’

  Paula grinned. ‘Better be me, then. OK, Fran?’

  ‘OK. Shall we go, and leave the men to deal with our Pandora’s box?’ She stuck her tongue out at Mark.

  Robyn raised an admonitory hand. ‘Let’s hope it’s not Pandora’s box, then – nothing but bad came of that.’

  ‘But, as I recall, one thing lurked at the bottom,’ Mark said. ‘Hope.’

  THIRTEEN

  Crime obviously paid, for a private investigator, at least.

  Desmond Markwell lived in Harborne, a chic suburb of Birmingham. His solid Thirties detached house lay back from a busy commuter road, with enough space on the drive for two cars, plus the unmarked police vehicle Paula had picked from the pound. The house had been modernized, though it retained some period features such as a black and white tiled hall floor, which positively demanded that they wipe their shoes with extreme care.

  A saturnine man of about Fran’s age, he showed them straight into his office (once, clearly, the back of his garage), every inch of wall and floor space put to use, with state of the art miniaturized electronics and elegant built-in furniture. Two items caught Fran’s eye: a professional quality shredder and what looked like a baby-alarm loudspeaker. Plus two kitchen stools on which she and Paula were to perch, looking down on Markwell himself, who took his office chair. Fran ought to have felt they held the advantage, but she didn’t.

  ‘I can’t think what brought you to me.’

  Fran waited for him to add something – anything – but in the face of his continued silence said, ‘As I told you, West Mercia Police have decided to reopen the Natalie Foreman case. A private investigator, even the most law-abiding and legitimate one in the world, would probably have come across information that the police didn’t or couldn’t access. You’re working for your client, after all, not the Crown. After twenty years, I’m hoping the two roles aren’t mutually exclusive.’

  There was a brief ring, probably the front door bell, then the cheery call of a woman’s voice. Markwell got up and, leaning round the door, shouted something back. He returned to his chair without explanation. ‘PIs are paid good money to keep confidential information confidential.’

  ‘At what point do they consider their contracts have expired? Is it a matter of time or – perhaps – a change of opinion about the person who hired them? Or perhaps a desire to do something pro bono publico?’ Fran prided herself on using the whole Latin phrase, not the usual abbreviated form.

  ‘I don’t see how giving you information about a woman who disappeared all those years ago can do the public any good at all.’

  Paula spoke for the first time. ‘Doesn’t that depend on what happened to the woman?’

  ‘Died under a couple of feet of snow, didn’t she?’

  ‘Nice to meet someone who believes that,’ Fran said, cynically discounting all those who’d spent so many hours searching for her.

  A glimmer of a smile softened Markwell’s face, taking ten years off it and making him suddenly attractive. Poor Fi Biddlestone. ‘You’ll understand I can’t simply hand over the whole file. But I might answer certain questions. You’ll join me in a cup of tea? I usually have one at this time of day.’

  ‘I wonder if I might use the loo first,’ Paula murmured.

  To their astonishment he looked at his watch. ‘Another ten minutes. I take it you’d rather wait for your tea?’ he added sardonically.

  Flushing scarlet, Paula nodded.

  ‘First question,’ Fran said quickly. ‘You were paid by Phil Foreman. Why did he employ you?’

  ‘Found me in Yellow Pages? Or because the police search was getting nowhere?’

  ‘A lot of people would have assumed she was indeed under that snow. But not her husband? Did he have any reason to think she wasn’t?’

  ‘Is that a question I should answer? Let me ask you one in turn: do you think that he had any reason to suspect she wasn’t?’

  ‘I’ve never met the guy, nor am I likely to. But I have picked up a sense of a mismatch, perhaps.’

  There was another yell from the hall. Again he responded. As he returned to his office he said, ‘The loo’s right by the front door. Helpfully marked Cloakroom.’

  Scarlet again, Paula scuttled off, Markwell following more slowly. He returned almost immediately with a tea tray – bone china cups and saucers – before leaving again. He waited for Paula to resume her perch before bringing in two tea pots. Fran opted for green, Paula for builder’s. Milk. Sugar. Biscuits. All very cosy.

  ‘Was Foreman looking for Hadrian rather than his wife?’ Fran narrowed her eyes. ‘Or for the money Natalie had invested for him?’

  ‘You know, Fran, you’re a woman after m
y own heart. If ever this retirement of yours gets boring, you know where you can find work … Anyway, for what it’s worth, I don’t think Phil ever suspected she’d spirited away a lot of his cash. But she had. A very great deal. He didn’t believe how much when I told him. And then he had to understand I didn’t know exactly where it was and doubted if I’d ever be able to get it back. But then, he’d only have spent it on silly cars, wouldn’t he? And drugs and booze. And of course, she might have done it for tax reasons, and to make sure there was something in trust for young Hadrian when he grew up. Julius wouldn’t need anything long term, of course – wouldn’t need anything full stop. Poor little bastard.’

  ‘And were you able to locate the pot of gold?’

  ‘It wasn’t at the end of a rainbow, I can assure you. At one point it fetched up in a bank in Panama, but then it moved again. Ecuador. Probably somewhere else equally inaccessible now.’

  ‘Does that presuppose that she’s the one who moved it?’

  ‘What do you think? I suppose a kinder deduction might be that she employed someone as her financial adviser, and that even though the goose had died, he still had his mitts on the golden egg. But I wouldn’t know. After five months Phil called me off, and it’s been a rule of mine never to work for nothing. Especially on behalf of an overpaid lump of testosterone on legs.’

  Paula had been looking around in vain for somewhere to put her teaspoon. Now she hopped off the stool, put it on the tray and perched again. As if in response to some private chain of thought, she asked suddenly, ‘How did you get on with the police working on the original case? Did they regard what you were doing as interference or did you exchange information?’

  Fran managed not to blink. What had happened to tact? Thank goodness Paula knew nothing of Fi’s secret.

  ‘Yes and no is the easiest way of putting it. Actually we could have rubbed along – should have done, really. But you know how uptight some of your colleagues could be, years back.’

  ‘And how discreet you’re being even now. We’ve had a nice chat, Desmond, but you’ve told me nothing I didn’t know or couldn’t have worked out.’ Money apart, of course. She stood, the stool rocking irritatingly behind her, and ushered Paula out before her.

  He laid a hand on her arm to detain her. ‘There is one thing that would help me remember a bit more, Fran. An exchange of information. There’s only one person who’d have thought of me in connection with this. Fi Biddlestone. That’s who she was once. I assume she’s changed her name. Give me her phone number and I’m sure you’ll improve my powers of recall.’

  ‘What a strange request for a private detective to make,’ Fran said as she swept out. Before he could close the door, however, she turned back theatrically, disconcerting him as she’d hoped. ‘It’s a crime, as I’m sure you’re aware, to withhold information from the police. As you know, I’m no longer an officer, but my colleague here is and there are a lot more where she comes from. So one more question: what did you conceal from the police at the time? When you’re ready to answer that, you may want your tame lawyer with you.’

  He laughed. ‘You must have been formidable in your day. But I’ve already told you: the business about the money. I tried to tell them, actually. But the knucklehead in charge, one of them, just didn’t want to know. He had it down as Holy Writ that the wench was dead. And I’m quoting Marlowe, not Dexter,’ he added cheekily.

  ‘So who was this knucklehead?’

  ‘For that,’ he said, ‘I’d certainly need Fi Biddlestone’s phone number.’ And he shut the door on them.

  Paula asked, as she let them into the car, ‘Fi is that woman you met the other night, right? So is she an old flame?’

  ‘He seems to think so,’ Fran said lightly. She fastened her seat belt.

  ‘You’re not going to do a deal with him, are you?’

  ‘I’m not in a position to do deals, am I? PIs can do their own dirty work as far as I’m concerned. But if you feel you should overrule me, have a word with Fi herself – her details are on the contacts list. I shan’t be offended.’

  Paula reversed carefully on to the road, heading back in the direction of the M5. She was silent for several miles, but then burst out, ‘That strange business of not letting me go to the loo. Weird or what? Some fetish?’

  Fran laughed. ‘Come on, there might be a simpler explanation. He called out to someone. Kept you crossing your legs. Called out again.’

  ‘Didn’t want us to meet someone? A woman, obviously. From her voice.’

  ‘What sort of woman?’

  ‘How would I know?’ In the face of Fran’s continued silence, she continued, ‘Well, she sounded sort of chummy. Strong Birmingham accent. You’d expect that.’

  ‘Why? He didn’t have any trace of one.’

  ‘True. Cleaning lady?’

  ‘She was only there about fifteen minutes – twenty maximum. Did you notice anything interesting about where he met us?’

  ‘It was away from the main rooms of the house? Well, it was his office, wasn’t it? All very hi-tech too.’

  ‘Anything out of place?’

  ‘Apart from those stupid stools – fine for a breakfast bar or a high island unit. But way too high for any surface in there. Hell, Fran, this is like those games we used to play when I was a Guide. Sorry: I’ve got to concentrate now – all this spray.’

  So Fran offered her theory: that the oddity was the baby-alarm, unless Markwell was an unusually diligent grandparent. The caller was familiar with the household. She did something he didn’t want them to know about. She left. Then Paula was free to use the loo – clearly labelled, remember. ‘Do you think that Markwell might have an invalid of some sort in his house who might need to summon him if he’s working? Or perhaps he just listens for changes in her breathing, as parents do for sick children? Could the woman caller be one of this person’s carers? And that loo – labelled so that new carers know where it is – is out of bounds until certain intimate functions have been performed? Trouble is,’ Fran added, laughing ruefully at herself, ‘we shall probably never know, unless it has a bearing on the case and comes out when we have our next chat.’ She stared at a long line of brightening tail-lights ahead. ‘Oh, dear, I don’t like the look of this lot.’

  Paula braked and came to a halt. So, thank goodness, did the cars behind them. ‘We could always do a deal over that Fi woman – of course, I’d warn her first.’

  ‘If this were a live case, I’d do it like that.’ Fran snapped her fingers. ‘Possibly,’ she added more honestly. ‘But no, not without her permission. And not for just one name we can surely get from other sources – maybe just a bit more brainwork on our part. Now, would it distract you if I made a couple of calls? I want to see if we’ve got any news of Anna Fratello.’

  They hadn’t. Her contact, Tony Woolmer, sounded sincerely apologetic, as if it was his fault. Three days ago Anna Fratello had flown home to Florence. Or perhaps that was news in itself. It had come as a complete surprise to her current employer – apparently she was more than a nanny now, a cross between language tutor and housekeeper. Well, that figured, twenty years on. On Tuesday she’d just announced she was going – that there was urgent family business. It was totally out of character, apparently: she was something of a workaholic, and often had to be persuaded to take her annual leave. But she’d promised to be back within a week, two at most.

  ‘Work apart, is there any reason for an Italian woman of forty or thereabouts to work in the UK? Don’t most nannies head for home after a few years?’

  ‘The employment situation’s not great in Italy, Fran. And I gather there was a relationship with an English guy that might have influenced her. No one on the scene now, however, and believe me, that’s weird. They showed me photos taken last year – she’s still an absolute stunner. Anyway, her boss promised to get back to me when she returned. As a matter of fact, they said they’d ask Anna to contact me, but I just thought … a bit of a hunch …’

 
‘Tony, there is nothing I like more in a cop than a bit of a hunch …’ They parted the best of friends, Fran absolutely confident he’d call her if and when Anna returned. ‘OK, Paula, do we blues and twos our way out of this, or do we inch our way off at the next junction …?’

  ‘Bethan Carter?’ Iris repeated, blushing as she always seemed to do when Mark spoke to her. ‘The journalist who came to see Fran?’

  ‘Who greeted you like a long-lost cousin and knew all about your new knee,’ Mark agreed with a twinkle. ‘Come on, Iris, dish the dirt. Fran’d ask, only she and Paula are still trying to get back from Brum. The M5’s blocked near the Worcester (South) junction and there’s a solid tailback, so they’re coming cross country. And there are a lot of road closures to contend with. So do me a favour and give me the gossip first – she’ll be even more pissed off.’

  ‘She’d be more pissed off still – though I don’t approve of that language, Mark, let me tell you – if she finds you went out for lunch with Bethan.’

  Mark gaped. ‘Where did you get that idea from?’

  ‘Little bird told me.’

  ‘You can wring the said bird’s neck then, Iris. I don’t do lunches with women like Bethan. Because if you do, they come up with even more fantastical rumours.’

  Perhaps he’d passed some test. But he was too old a dog to jump through that sort of hoop. ‘Come on, Iris, your old man was a cop. You know how important information of any sort is. We’re used to sorting wheat from chaff.’

  She looked over his shoulder. ‘And I’m on duty. Maybe I’ll be joining Ted in the Bull tonight. Fran and I can have a nice girlie natter while you work on Ted.’

  He shook his head. ‘Sorry. No can do. We’ve already accepted an invitation I absolutely can’t get out of. So if there’s dirt to dish, let it be now, to please an old man.’

  She blushed. ‘There’s things you can say to a woman that just sound bitchy if you say them to a man … OK, she’s a man’s woman, not a woman’s woman. She may be ever so kind about my operation, but you guess she’s storing it up, to use when it suits her. And the reason I’m glad you didn’t take her out to lunch is that I really like Fran – and you, to be blunt – and I don’t want her telling one and all. Which she would do. And she’d hint and wink and look coy. The thing is, Mark, most of the time that’s all she does. Makes up stories with herself as the star. But sometimes it’s fact, not fiction. And there are men here who’d have done better to be too busy to go out to lunch. Right at the top.’ She looked around. Was she about to name names? ‘You know this merger business. I reckon there are some who’ve been more than happy to move to a different site or even take redundancy just to get out of her clutches. Let’s just say we know she got some national scoops because of someone she’d … had lunch with.’ They exchanged a smile: they both enjoyed the euphemism.