by Alan Hunter
‘Perhaps you can tell us where to find her.’
‘Perhaps – if it’s any of your business.’
But his self-confidence was leaking away as he stood supporting their interested scrutiny. The hot flush on his face remained and his indignant stare was beginning to falter. In an effort to maintain the pose he dug his hands deep in his jacket pockets.
‘Are you a friend of hers?’
‘Yes – I am.’
‘We are police officers who want to talk to her.’
‘Show me your warrant, then!’
Gently showed it. The young man stared at the card fiercely.
‘Well?’
‘I still don’t understand why you’re poking round here like burglars.’
‘That’s our privilege. Where can we find her?’
The young man bit his lip. ‘I don’t know!’
His eyes were sullen now, looking past Gently, and his hands dragged at the jacket. His mouth was firmly compressed as though any slackening might admit a tremble. ‘What’s your name?’
‘I – I’m Dick Middleton.’
‘I take it you live in the village?’
‘Of course – at The Purlins. My father is the town architect at Eastwich.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ Aspall muttered. ‘Claude Middleton. I know him.’
‘And do you work in Eastwich?’
‘Well, I’m studying surveying. I happen to be working at home this week.’
Gently nodded. ‘But today you’re not studying.’
‘It’s up to me when I do it!’
‘Instead, you took a walk to Miss Stoven’s cottage.’
‘I took a walk, that’s all.’
‘But why did you come here?’
‘Why shouldn’t I come here? It’s as good a place for birdwatching as any. And for all I knew, Ka was back – she never goes away for long.’
‘Didn’t she tell you when she’d be back?’
‘No. She didn’t tell anyone.’
‘She just . . . went?’
His lips shut tight, and he stared hard at the bedraggled roses.
‘Anyway, you seem to know her well,’ Gently said. ‘And you’ve been at home all the week. I daresay you were out here earlier. When was the last time you saw her?’
‘I . . . Tuesday.’
‘You saw her then.’
‘Yes, I said so! Tuesday afternoon.’
‘Where?’
‘It was here in the garden. I – I’d been birdwatching in the wood.’
‘With your camera of course.’
‘Not with my camera! It was too dull on Tuesday.’
‘But there was plenty of sun on Saturday.’
The hands dug hard into the pockets.
‘So,’ Gently said. ‘You were here on Tuesday, and you saw Miss Stoven in her garden. Apparently she was about to go off on a trip. Wouldn’t she have mentioned that to you?’
‘Well, she didn’t.’
‘Yet you know her quite well?’
‘I . . . I . . . she’s a friend of the family! She knows my sisters, my people. I’m not her particular friend.’
‘Still, you show concern about her.’
‘All right – I like Ka!’
‘So wouldn’t she tell you about her plans?’
His arms were stiff as piston-rods. ‘Look – you don’t know Ka – she’s an odd sort of person. You can’t tell what she’s going to do.’
‘She is unpredictable.’
‘Yes – more than that! She seems to live on a different plane. Perhaps because she’s a poet, I don’t know. But that’s why she fascinates people.’
‘Which people?’
‘Oh, everyone. They think she’s someone rather special. My family does, anyway – and Lionel, and Phil.’
Gently glanced at Aspall, who shrugged. ‘Perhaps we should get some names down,’ Gently said. ‘This unusual young lady may have confided to someone else.’
‘But I tell you, nobody knows where she is.’
‘I’m afraid we have to make our own inquiries.’
‘But what’s it all about!’ the young man burst out.
‘We can talk about that in the car.’
But in the car Gently changed his mind and ordered Aspall to drive to the village. Dick Middleton was loud in his objections, but Gently brushed them aside.
‘Isn’t your family at home?’
‘My mother, but—!’
‘We shall be talking to her anyway. Where are your sisters?’
‘Rory’s at work and Di’s at school in Wolmering.’
Then he shut up, sitting sprawled in his corner, his eyes averted and resentful.
The Purlins was the house on the corner, where the lane ducked down to the beach. Like its neighbours it stood close to the road, and was fronted only by a paved area and tubbed shrubs. But unlike the others it had been enlarged. At the rear was a considerable modern addition, with two levels of flat roof, of which the lower was adapted as a sun deck. Both the old and the new were crisp and fresh-painted; across a gravelled yard stood neat outbuildings. From the sun deck one would have a view over a tennis lawn to the beach and coastline, curving away towards Wolmering.
A creeper-covered porch faced the street, and Aspall parked the car by it. Dick Middleton jumped out and made to enter, but Gently pushed him back and rang the bell. The door was opened by a short, Pekinese-faced woman who stared at the policemen in surprise.
‘Why – Dick! Who have you brought here?’ Her voice had a slight accent.
‘We’re police officers, ma’am,’ Gently said quickly. ‘We’re making some inquiries in the village.’
‘Yes, they’re inquiring about the Dryad, mother!’ Dick Middleton broke in. ‘I found them poking around her cottage. Then they grabbed me and brought me back here – perhaps they’ll tell you what’s going on.’
‘The Dryad . . .!’
‘Yes – the Dryad! And this man comes from Scotland Yard.’
Mrs Middleton gazed helplessly at Gently.
‘If we could please come in, ma’am?’ Gently said.
She made a little resigned gesture and stood aside for them to enter. Then she ushered them down a hall into a large-windowed lounge that faced the sea. It was a graceful room, decorously furnished. A few pleasant oil paintings hung on the walls; a tall bookcase contained modern fiction and books of travel and biography. Dick Middleton divested himself of camera and glasses and threw himself down on a chair in the window. His mother waved the policemen to chairs, then sat on a settee facing them.
‘Now. What is all this about the Dryad?’
‘We wish to contact her,’ Gently said shortly.
‘It’s more than that if you ask me,’ Dick Middleton interrupted. ‘They’ve got some stupid idea about her.’
‘Dick, be quiet!’ his mother said sharply. ‘I imagine this gentleman knows what he’s doing. All the same, I am very much surprised that the police are interested in Ka.’
‘Your son tells me you are well acquainted with her,’ Gently said.
‘Yes, we are. Which is why I’m surprised. She is a little unusual perhaps, but a charming girl. What has she done?’
Gently shrugged. ‘She’s disappeared.’
‘Oh? And can that be such a crime?’
‘We wish to interview everyone in Grimchurch, and that naturally includes Miss Stoven.’
Mrs Middleton surveyed him with eyes that were faintly protuberant. ‘This is all very strange,’ she said. ‘I think that Dick may be right and that you have got ideas about Katherine.’ She glanced at her son. ‘Where has she gone?’
‘I simply don’t know, mother!’ Dick Middleton exclaimed. ‘I can’t tell you any more than I can them. She must have cleared off after I saw her on Tuesday.’
‘Dick, you would know if anyone does.’
‘Well, I don’t.’ The young man flushed to his ears. ‘And anyway, why should I know more than the others? She’s as much with th
em as she is with me.’
His mother stared at him but said nothing.
‘When did you last see her, ma’am?’ Gently asked.
‘I? Oh, one evening last week. It was Thursday – firework night. We had a barbecue in the summer house.’
‘She said nothing to you?’
‘Not about leaving. Afterwards we came in to watch television. Then Dick saw her off – she has a little car – Japanese, I think.’
‘Has she ever mentioned her relatives to you?’
‘Yes. She has a mother living in London. Her father died about a year ago. I believe it upset poor Ka a lot.’
‘Have you the mother’s address?’
Mrs Middleton shook her head. ‘But I’m sure it’s an address in Wimbledon. Ka comes from there. Her mother has remarried, and Ka would have said if she’d left the district.’
‘What name?’
‘I don’t think Ka mentioned it.’
‘Nor to me either,’ Dick Middleton said. ‘Everyone pretends I’m so thick with Ka, but she doesn’t let on much to me.’
His mother’s bright eyes rested on him again. ‘But you still haven’t told us what it’s about,’ she said to Gently. ‘If you’re interviewing everyone in Grimchurch, it can’t be because Ka isn’t at home.’
Gently nodded to Aspall, who handed him a copy of the artist’s impression of the man in the photograph. Gently held it up so that Mrs Middleton could see it but her son could not.
‘We are trying to trace this man,’ he said, speaking rapidly. ‘He was last seen at Grimchurch on Saturday. He was seen in the vicinity of Miss Stoven’s cottage, at a time we can now estimate with accuracy. Do you recognize him?’
Mrs Middleton stared at the sketch with wide eyes. Her son jumped up as though he’d been stung and came to stare with her.
His face had gone pale.
‘No,’ Mrs Middleton said. ‘I don’t recognize him. Who is he? What’s he done?’
Her son slid into a chair near her: Gently pushed the sketch towards him.
‘But you recognize him – don’t you?’
‘No. I’ve never met him!’
‘But you’ve seen him.’
‘I tell you I haven’t! And I don’t believe he was seen near the Dryad’s cottage.’
Gently paused. ‘And why not?’
‘Because . . . what would a stranger be doing out there? It stands to reason. It would make more sense if he’d been seen at the reserve . . .!’ Now he was flushing.
‘Yet he was seen there.’
‘Then it can’t be anything to do with Ka.’
‘Why do you say that?’
‘Because she wasn’t there – she was down at the hide with Phil.’
‘When?’
The young man gulped. ‘I don’t know – most of the day!’
‘Phil is the bird warden,’ Mrs Middleton explained smoothly. ‘He’s great friends with Ka. She’s a keen birdwatcher. No doubt Phil can tell you what Ka was doing on Saturday.’
‘Were you at home that day, Mrs Middleton?’
‘I! I was at home in the morning. In the afternoon Claude – that’s my husband – and I drove into Wolmering to shop. Why do you ask?’
‘We shall be asking everyone. Now I’d like to ask your son.’ Gently turned his stare on the latter. ‘A full statement of your movements on Saturday, if you please.’
Dick Middleton stared back frowningly, but couldn’t maintain the exchange for long. His colour was coming and going and his pink hands were restless.
‘After breakfast I wrote up notes . . . then I went round to Lionel’s.’
‘Who is Lionel?’
‘Lionel Easton. He lives at Sandlings, on the way to the reserve.’
‘The Eastons are friends of ours,’ Mrs Middleton enlarged. ‘Cosmo Easton and Cora. He’s a director of Easton Flour Mills in Eastwich. Lionel is Dick’s age. They’re great friends.’
‘And this house – Sandlings – just where is it?’
‘It’s down Heath Lane,’ Dick Middleton said.
‘In fact, you would pass Miss Stoven’s cottage on the way there?’
‘You pass her lane end . . . but I didn’t call in.’
‘Carry on.’
Dick Middleton shuffled his feet. ‘Well . . . I spent the morning with Lionel. He . . . he’s keen on taxidermy. He was skinning a waxwing he’d picked up somewhere.’
‘You mean he goes shooting?’
‘No – of course not! No one round here uses a gun. But sometimes you find dead birds and animals – and people bring them to him. They know he’s interested.’
‘Does your friend also study in Eastwich?’
‘He’s studying accountancy and company law,’ Mrs Middleton said. ‘At his father’s business. But you’ll quite likely find him at home if you want him.’
‘Thank you,’ Gently said. ‘I probably shall. And is he also a keen photographer?’
‘Oh yes. Him and Dick. Lionel has his own darkroom.’ Dick Middleton’s face was hot. ‘We’re not the only people mad on cameras. That’s why a lot of them come here, just to photograph the birds.’
‘There are other darkrooms in the village?’
‘Well . . . yes, I daresay there are! Anyway, you see plenty of cameras. Really expensive ones, too.’
‘Like your own.’
‘That’s just a . . . good one. Some people spend over a thou.’
He snatched it up and fiddled with it, his face bent low. His mother watched him curiously, her slanted brows frowning.
‘So you spent the morning with your friend.’
‘Yes. Then I drove home for lunch.’
‘You have a car?’
‘I’ve got a Mini. There isn’t a bus service into town.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well . . . after lunch, I went back again to Lionel’s.’
‘Still without calling at the cottage.’
‘Yes! I’m not always chasing after Ka. And then . . . well, I spent the afternoon with him . . . talking and that sort of thing. And when I got back mother was home, and we all spent the evening here.’
‘You seem to have spent most of the day at Sandlings.’
‘Yes, I did! Is that so strange?’
‘And all the afternoon talking.’
‘Don’t you ever talk to your friends?’
Gently hunched. ‘It seems a wasted opportunity for such a couple of keen photographers. Saturday was the only sunny day last week. Did neither of you pick up a camera?’
‘As it happens we didn’t!’ He snapped the camera-case shut and dropped the instrument back with the glasses. His hands were quivering; his fresh young mouth was held in a tight line. His mother spoke.
‘Superintendent, why exactly are you interested in cameras?’
Gently got up and walked to the windows and their spreading view of sea and coast. On a far-off horn the white houses of Wolmering were chalked lightly in the weak sun, above them the white stump of the lighthouse and the grey stump of the church. The sea, greyly yellow, made an indistinct horizon, and only a single longshore fishing boat was bobbing its way towards the harbour. Gently gazed for several moments. Then he turned back into the room.
‘We are interested in cameras because we are interested in a photograph. It depicts the man whose face you have seen and was taken on Saturday near Miss Stoven’s cottage. We wish to find that man and to identify the person who took the photograph.’
‘And . . . you think that Dick took it?’
‘Will you ask him if he did?’
Mrs Middleton’s protuberant eyes searched his. She hesitated uncertainly before turning to her son.
‘Dick – did you?’
He blurted it out: ‘No!’
‘Then ask him if he knows who did.’
Mrs Middleton asked him. He jerked his head with a snatch of violence.
‘No!’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘BUT HE DID though,’ Aspall grunted dis
gustedly, as they got back into the car. ‘Sir, he was lying his head off. He’s our chummie for the photograph.’
Gently stuffed his pipe with Erinmore. ‘And the body?’
‘That’ll be his pal up the road. If the lady doesn’t recognize the picture, it’s a bad picture, or she doesn’t want to.
Gently lit up and puffed a few times. ‘Somehow, I’ve a notion it won’t be so simple.’
‘But what were they doing all the afternoon, if they weren’t faking the photograph?’
‘They were up to something, no doubt.’
‘They were out in the wood, sir, setting it up. They knew the girl was down at the reserve, and there’d be no one else to see them, out there.’
‘Did young Middleton strike you as a joker?’ Gently asked.
‘Maybe not, sir. But you can’t tell. And it could be his pal who’s the ringleader, who thought it smart to send us the picture.’
‘To me he seemed such an earnest young man.’
‘He needn’t have known what his pal was up to.’
‘Not a practical joker . . . and a hopeless liar. But a lad who might tell lies to cover for a friend.’
‘Sir . . .?’
Gently nostrilled smoke. ‘Dick Middleton loves Katherine Stoven.’
‘You think she’s in it too?’
‘She seems involved in some way. And it doesn’t have to be a practical joke.’
Aspall frowned through the wreaths of Erinmore: he involuntarily dropped his window. ‘I’m afraid I don’t see it like that, sir. There’s too much pointing the other way.’
‘You mean their sending us the photograph.’
‘Yes sir. And them taking it in the first place.’
Gently nodded. ‘That’s a curious feature . . . though once it was taken, anyone could have sent it.’
‘Like someone pinching it off them, sir.’
‘Or like someone experiencing a twinge of guilt. Not enough to nudge them into a confession, but enough to urge them into a gesture.’
Aspall looked doubtful. ‘I still don’t see it, sir. Young Middleton doesn’t strike me as a villain, either. And I reckon we can prove it straight off if his pal turns out to be the one in the photograph.’
Gently’s grin was slow. ‘You’re betting on that?’
‘Yes sir, I am.’
‘Then let’s get moving. Because young Middleton will be on the phone this very minute.’