by Tana Collins
Once more they lapsed into silence. She sat there, her stomach full of knots. This was so much harder than she had imagined.
‘Look, Andie,’ he said as she pulled into a gravelly drive, ‘we’ll find time to sit down and have a proper chat. OK? We need to find Holdaway first, though.’
She nodded.
They parked up. Stepping from the car they walked up to the front door. A deafening roar made her jump, the low flying aircraft reminding her of the RAF base over at Edenside. Carruthers knocked. They waited. He knocked again. Still silence. They walked round the side of the house and Fletcher spotted a kitchen window that was ajar. ‘Looks like we won’t need to force entry after all. I’m pretty sure I can get in through that space.’
Before Carruthers was able to say anything Fletcher called out, ‘Come on. Give me a bunk up. And don’t say anything about my being pregnant. If I don’t think I’ll be able to manage it, I’ll say.’
As she squeezed her way through the window, Fletcher had to ignore the look of concern etched into Carruthers’ brow. It could be he was worried about her; it could be the weight of the case. Once on her feet, she turned, offered a smile she wasn’t quite feeling. ‘Won’t be able to do that in a few months,’ she said ruefully. ‘When we find him we’ll have to talk to Holdaway about his security. I’ll meet you at the front door.’
Fletcher walked through the hall to the front door and picked up the post lying on the mat. She opened the door. Carruthers wasn’t there yet, having to come the long way round.
‘Anything interesting in there?’ he asked as he stepped up to the door.
‘Precious little, just a couple of bills and junk mail.’
Carruthers stepped in and took the post from her, placed it on a small hallway table.
‘C’mon, let’s start the search,’ said Carruthers having a good look around the hall. ‘Anything to give us an idea of where he might have gone.’ The hall smelt of pine wax and was spacious with various rooms off to the side and an enormous varnished spiral staircase at the end of it.
They searched each room in turn, starting with those downstairs first. They found nothing in the sitting room, or utility room. They got to the downstairs bathroom, which was next on the left before the kitchen. A moment or two later, Fletcher heard a rattle and turned to see Carruthers before the open stainless steel cupboard. He was holding a bottle of prescription sleeping pills. Frowning he held the bottle for Fletcher to see. She saw that they were made out to an N Holdaway.
‘He has trouble sleeping,’ was all he said.
They walked into the next room, which was the kitchen. The remains of Holdaway’s last meal of toast and cereal were still sitting on the breakfast table. The milk had been left out. Carruthers picked it up and smelt it. ‘Sour.’
A couple of bluebottles buzzed around. Fletcher opened the fridge door. ‘A lot of perishables in here and a lot of ready meals,’ she called out. ‘Wife must do the cooking. Don’t think he’d planned to be away.’
Carruthers turned away from Fletcher. She followed his gaze to the floor noting the number of empty wine bottles in the recycling box.
‘He’s either forgotten to put the recycling out for a while or he’s a big drinker,’ he said.
‘Or he’s had a few friends round,’ said Fletcher.
‘Or he’s had a few friends round,’ he repeated. ‘Wonder what sort of man the professor is. Outgoing, or more of a loner?’
They walked to the foot of the stairs and entered a large dining room to the left of the stairwell. After having a good root around and finding nothing Carruthers opened the door to a small study, which was dominated by an enormous writing desk in the middle of the room. Fletcher looked around her.
‘Crikey, I’ve never seen so many books,’ said Fletcher, gazing at the wall-to-wall bookcases.
‘Well, he is an academic. See if you can find a diary on his desk. And play those messages.’
For a moment Fletcher was floored, then she spotted a flashing answer machine on the desk; couldn’t fault Carruthers’ powers of observation. She played the messages as Carruthers scanned the bookshelves. There were two calls from Holdaway’s wife, asking him to give her a ring in Spain. The first was from the previous day. In the second message, left earlier that morning, she sounded irritated. Probably thought her messages were being ignored. Also a message from a library to inform him the book he wanted was in. Fletcher made a note of the number on her pad. Carruthers held his hand out for it. In response to Fletcher’s curious stare he responded, ‘I’ve got to phone the library anyway.’
She copied the number a second time and tore out the page for him. He folded the sheet and tucked it into his jacket pocket.
‘He’s well read,’ Carruthers said as Fletcher continued to hunt for a diary. ‘There’s everything from Plato to Pushkin. Disappointingly, no sign of the books the professor wrote.’
‘They must all be in his office at the university,’ Fletcher ventured as she slid open another drawer of the writing desk and rummaged through.
‘Bingo,’ she said.
‘What have you got?’
She held up a passport. ‘Well, at least we know he’s not planning on going too far afield.’
‘No sign of a diary?’ asked Carruthers.
‘Nope.’
‘But what have we really found out about the professor?’ said Carruthers. ‘His wife clearly doesn’t know where he is. He likes his wine, hasn’t put the recycling out for a while, has an impressive library in his study, doesn’t sleep well and doesn’t have his passport with him. None of this was any help in telling us where Holdaway might have gone.’
With nothing of value to add, Fletcher didn’t respond.
‘I don’t think we’re going to find anything else downstairs,’ said Carruthers. ‘Let’s go upstairs.’
They climbed the spiral staircase. There was a bathroom at the top of the stairs. ‘Grief, he’s got a copper bath. Haven’t seen one of those for years,’ said Fletcher. After searching the bathroom and finding nothing of interest Carruthers put his nose round the doors of the three other rooms. ‘A master bedroom and two guest bedrooms. Looks like Holdaway’s been sleeping in one of the guest bedrooms.’ He pointed to the dishevelled and unmade bed and a half-drunk cup of cold coffee on the bedside table. He lay down on his front on the floor and looked under the bed. ‘Nothing except a pair of slippers.’
Fletcher shrugged. ‘Perhaps the mattress is better in here? One thing’s for sure though. When he left the house he expected to come back.’
‘Except that he hasn’t,’ said Carruthers, walking into the main bedroom. He opened the hanging wardrobe and started going through Holdaway’s clothes, feeling in the shirt and trouser pockets. Fletcher assumed it was for any scraps of paper, something that might give them a clue as to the professor’s whereabouts. Carruthers withdrew his hand from the empty front pocket of a pair of dress trousers. ‘Nothing. So where the hell is he?’ The question was left hanging in the air. ‘OK. I don’t think we’re going to find anything else here. Next job on the list. Have you got an address for Sadler?’
***
‘How do we play this?’ asked Fletcher. They were standing on Sadler’s doorstep. ‘How much do we tell him?’
‘As little as possible,’ said Carruthers. ‘However, I want us to leave no stone unturned. We need to find out everything we can about Nicholas Holdaway, and I mean everything.’
‘Professor Sadler, sorry for disturbing you,’ Carruthers said, as the door was opened. ‘We don’t want to intrude, but we have a few more questions.’ The large man was wearing mustard-coloured cords and a white dress shirt.
‘Look, come in. I was just going to have an early lunch.’ Sadler gestured for them to follow him through the hall into a spacious bright front room with a large bay window. He gestured for them to take a seat at a large pine table; it was set for one though there were six chairs.
‘I’m sorry, I rather tend to forget ab
out food, but my housekeeper spoils me, she also nags me if I don’t eat what she puts before me. Truth is, without Mrs Carter, I’d stick my nose in a book and completely forget about food. I can’t cook a jot and since my wife died, Mrs Carter has become a lifesaver. I’d have faded away without her.’ He gave an embarrassed laugh.
Carruthers looked at Professor Sadler, and tried not to stare at the man’s protruding belly. In his mid-sixties, Sadler was very well covered, denoting a man of some means who did indeed get looked after rather well and was clearly used to the finer things in life. Carruthers reckoned that, if by some change of fortune he ever lost the cooking skills of Mrs Carter, he might take some considerable time to fade away to nothing.
Sadler smiled at them. ‘Can I offer you a sandwich? She always makes too many.’
‘No, no. Thank you. We won’t be staying long,’ said Carruthers. Just at that moment Fletcher’s tummy rumbled. The officers studiously avoided looking at each other.
‘Are you sure? You would be most welcome.’
‘Well, perhaps just the one then,’ said Carruthers gesturing for Fletcher to take a sandwich. Carruthers figured they could do the interview just as well in the man’s house as at the station; and he didn’t want a pregnant DS keeling over on him. Christ. Pregnant. He knew he hadn’t handled her announcement well. The truth was that he felt awkward and embarrassed. Perhaps a little disappointed, too, if he was being honest. He’d hoped she would have confided in him sooner than fourteen weeks.
He noticed Fletcher had been staring longingly at a dainty white sandwich. Its crusts had been cut off and it was bursting at the seams with a deliciously fresh looking egg mayonnaise. She selected the sandwich next to it that looked to be cheese and tomato. Carruthers picked up the egg mayonnaise. No wonder she had been looking exhausted and strained. He could only imagine what emotions were going through her mind. He wondered how Mark had taken the news about the forthcoming baby.
‘Sit down, sit down,’ said Sadler. ‘Have you found Nicholas yet?’
‘No. We’ve just come from his house in Strathburn. Doesn’t appear to be anyone at home. Any idea where he would have gone?’
‘After a scare like that? Hard to say. If it had been my car it would have utterly terrified me, I don’t mind saying. Perhaps he’s gone into hiding.’
‘Why would you say that, sir?’ asked Fletcher.
‘Well, stands to reason. If somebody had deliberately blown up my car, I wouldn’t stick around long enough for them to finish the job and kill me. Would you? By the way, is there any news yet from the fire brigade? Do we know the cause of the explosion? Was it a bomb?’
Carruthers and Fletcher exchanged looks. News had a way of getting out. ‘We’re still investigating the exact cause of the explosion,’ said Carruthers carefully. ‘You said he’d been receiving hate mail,’ he continued. ‘Are you aware of the contents of his letters?
‘No,’ said Sadler helping himself to a plate. ‘He never revealed what was in the letters. I just knew he’d received a few from time to time, but I have no idea what the specific threats were, if indeed they were specific.’
‘Did he ever say he knew who these letters were from?’ said Carruthers.
‘They were anonymous.’ He glanced over at Fletcher. ‘But I told your colleague here that yesterday.’
‘Yes,’ said Carruthers, ‘sorry if it appears we’re going over old ground. I’m just trying to build up a picture of the professor and his movements. We have to work out, if he’s gone into hiding, where exactly he would be.’
Sadler reached over and placed a napkin on his lap. Helped himself to a sandwich. ‘I can’t answer that, I’m afraid. I really don’t know what he thought when he heard that explosion. I can only assume he also thought it was a bomb. We all made that assumption, I’m afraid. Too many bomb stories on the news these days. He must have known it was his car destroyed; why else would he take off the way he did?’
Why indeed? thought Carruthers.
Sadler pulled a face. ‘We aren’t that close. Aside from departmental functions, which are few and far between, we don’t tend to socialise outside work. But I would’ve thought with Castletown being the size it is, there can’t be too many places for him to hide out.’ The sound of a house phone ringing interrupted the interview. Sadler excused himself and left the room.
‘He’s right, Jim,’ said Fletcher. ‘Unless he’s left Castletown. Of course, he’s got no means of transport, so if he wanted to go further afield he would have to get public transport.’
‘Or a taxi.’
‘That information has already been checked. None of the taxi companies have picked up a man answering his description.’ Fletcher whipped out her little black notebook and scribbled in it.
Sadler re-entered the room and took his seat. ‘Bloody cold call,’ he said.
Carruthers turned to him. ‘You wouldn’t know who Holdaway’s friends are, would you?’
‘No, sorry. Like I said, we’re not close.’ He stood up. ‘I don’t feel as if I have been much help.’ He looked crestfallen. ‘I don’t know his friends. He never showed me the letters. I don’t even know how many of them there were, or when the last one was received. He seemed very reticent to discuss them. I’m assuming he didn’t report the letters to you?
‘No, he didn’t,’ said Fletcher.
‘I wonder why ever not?’
‘Perhaps he thought we wouldn’t take him seriously?’ said Carruthers.
‘I really can’t answer that. Maybe he didn’t take them seriously himself.’
‘Do you know how long he’d been at the university?’ said Fletcher.
‘Longer than me, my dear, and I joined in 96. I think he started quite a while before that, though I don’t know the year. Sorry.’
‘So you wouldn’t know what he did before he joined the academic staff.’
Sadler considered the question for a moment. ‘Do you know, I haven’t got a clue. Isn’t that strange? You don’t think of anyone having a life before they join the faculty but I suppose he must have done. I would assume he would have been at another university.’
‘How did he get on with his students?’ asked Carruthers.
‘I think it’s fair to say he tolerated them. It’s true he was more interested in pursuing his own academic research than teaching, but he realised it was the teaching that paid the bills.’
A large cafetière arrived carried by the broad-shouldered housekeeper, Mrs Carter.
‘Ah, Mrs Carter. Wonderful,’ the academic beamed. ‘What would I do without you?’
‘Away with you,’ she replied shyly setting the tray down on the table. As she left Carruthers could see that she looked rather pleased with the compliment.
‘Thinks of everything.’ He gestured to the three cups and saucers that had accompanied the cafetière, sugar pot and milk jug. ‘Shall I be Mummy?’ he asked.
‘Yes, please,’ said Carruthers. ‘You said Holdaway was more interested in pursuing his own academic research. He’d written a book, hadn’t he, on the failings of Welsh nationalism? Do you think that in itself would be enough to make him a target of Welsh extremists?’
‘To be honest, I have no idea. I don’t know much about Welsh extremism. That was Holdaway’s bag. I’m much more mainstream, I’m afraid.’
‘What do you teach?’ asked Fletcher.
‘The history of British politics and the Scottish political system. Going back to his book, I dare say it would have caused a lot of anger amongst certain sections of the Welsh. Notwithstanding the recent purchase of his holiday home in Wales. I understand a sizeable minority of the Welsh have previously been against that sort of thing, haven’t they? A bit like the Cornish. Do you know that for all the tourism Rick Stein has brought into Padstow, there are still those who resent him? You’d think they’d be grateful, wouldn’t you, to have some decent eateries down there, but there’s still a fair amount of resentment towards him because he’s not Cornish…’
‘Wait a minute,’ said Carruthers, ‘did you say Holdaway has gone ahead and has actually bought a second home for himself? In Wales?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Apparently his family used to holiday in Wales when he was a child. He always loved the Welsh countryside. His mother died recently I understand. I’m no psychologist but perhaps buying this holiday home is a way of feeling close to her and to his childhood.’
There was a pause whilst Carruthers exchanged glances with Fletcher.
‘Do you know where his holiday home is in Wales?’ asked Fletcher.
‘I’m afraid not, no. All I know is that it’s close to the English border.’
‘You mentioned he enjoyed academic research more than teaching,’ said Carruthers.
Sadler nodded. ‘That’s right. Like I said, he tolerated his students, but he hardly had an “open door” policy. He didn’t encourage students to drop by his office for a chat, for example.’
‘So you wouldn’t say he was particularly approachable?’
Sadler laughed. ‘I don’t think lecturers or students found him particularly approachable. Oh, I don’t mean he had a problem with other lecturers. He seemed to get on well enough with them most of the time. I just mean he didn’t come across as a people person. His students didn’t find him particularly approachable. I’ve also heard lecturers complain that he wasn’t especially interested in hearing about their work. Of course, let him talk about his own work and you couldn’t shut him up. I probably shouldn’t say this but I think he also has a bit of a drink problem.’
‘A drink problem?’ said Carruthers, thinking of the empty bottles of wine in the recycling box. ‘You mean he’s an alcoholic?’
‘No, I don’t think he’s an alcoholic but he’s notorious for getting a bit worse for wear at the few drinks functions he does attend. There have been a couple of times he’s had to be taken home. That kind of thing. Perhaps he just doesn’t tolerate alcohol very well.’
‘Have you ever seen him drink at work?’
‘No, no, I haven’t. But I think he hits the bottle pretty heavily at home.’
‘Why do you say that?’