by Isla Dewar
‘Did he leave anything behind?’ Charlie wanted to know.
‘Some clothes. But his bits and bobs, driving licence that sort of thing, are all gone.’
‘Passport?’
Bernice shrugged. ‘Don’t know if he had one. If he did, it’s gone.’
‘I’m wondering,’ said Charlie, ‘if this isn’t a matter for the police.’
‘Oh, no,’ said Bernice. ‘You find my Brendan; tell me what he’s been up to. Besides, I don’t know if the police could do anything. We’re not actually married. I just took his name.’
Charlie said, ‘Ah. But a missing person is a missing person. The police would look for him no matter what.’
Bernice shook her head. ‘No police. Not yet, anyway. There’s a bit of money missing.’
‘How much?’
‘Six thousand pounds.’
Charlie whistled. ‘Six thousand.’ He looked at Martha. ‘You could buy a bungalow for that.’
‘You could,’ said Bernice. ‘If you wanted one.’
‘Had you argued?’
Bernice shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Was he in any sort of trouble? Did he seem worried or distracted?’
Bernice shook her head again. ‘He was normal. If he was in trouble, he never mentioned it to me.’
Charlie asked how she’d met Brendan.
‘At a friend’s house. Jean Peters. Anyway, her husband had mates round to watch football on television. Brendan was one of them. Jean and I went to see a film, don’t like football. When we got back, he was still there. We got chatting and,’ she shrugged, ‘that was us. We dated a bit. Drinks. Meals. Eventually he just came to the house and we’d sit in, just like an old married couple. It was comfortable.’
‘Then?’
‘He suggested we move in together. I was so pleased. Couldn’t believe my luck. He is the handsomest man I ever clapped eyes on.’
‘So, he moved into your house?’
‘No, I sold my house and bought a bigger one. He moved in then. That’s when I changed my name to his.’ She turned to Martha. ‘It’s easier. I was Bernice Maguire before that.’
‘Maguire?’ said Charlie. ‘Was that your married name?’
‘Yes. My husband died twelve years ago. He left me a bit of money.’
Martha quietly considered Bernice Stokes. An expensively dressed, slightly nervous woman, she thought. But the nerves could just be from the situation she was in, for there was an assuredness to her. She was a woman who knew her mind, got her own way. No doubt about it, Bernice Stokes had been beautiful in her day. She was a grown-up. If such a thing existed.
Still, Martha thought, Bernice Stokes couldn’t be as assured as she appeared. She had, after all, fallen for a man who seemed to have given her a false name, and who’d taken some money. She’d been duped.
Charlie asked Bernice his usual questions. Did Brendan have any haunts – pubs he visited, a hairdresser, perhaps? Did he have friends Bernice had met? Had she ever met any sisters or brothers?
‘He said his sister lived in Australia. Don’t think he mentioned her name. Don’t know where he got his hair cut. The only friends I ever met were that night at Jean’s house.’ She stared ahead, thinking. ‘He did mention a pub in Leith. The Bull something. Dunno. I’m not being very helpful.’
‘The Bull and Barnacle,’ asked Charlie.
‘Yes,’ said Bernice. She turned to Martha again. ‘I feel so stupid. He never said exactly where he was going. He’d say he was headed north this week, or south. He was so cheery I never doubted him. I’d just tell him to drive safely.’
Charlie asked what Brendan sold.
‘Jewellery. Not that I ever saw any rings or anything. He said he dropped his stock off at head office before coming home.’
‘Do you have a photo?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She fished in her handbag and handed a pile of photographs to Charlie.
‘He was cheery as ever when I last saw him. Waving and tooting the car horn as he drove off. He always phoned when he was away, except for this last time. But he never said where he was. He was so chatty you couldn’t get a word in. Now he’s gone. Just gone. And I don’t know who he was.’
Martha offered her a cup of tea. But Bernice refused. ‘I must be going.’ She sighed. ‘I suppose you must think I’m a fool. A handsome man comes after me and I fall hook, line and sinker. I suppose you come across stuff like this every day.’
Charlie shook his head. ‘No. But don’t jump to conclusions. You don’t know the truth.’
‘The house is mine, you know. He said he’d take care of the bills, but he didn’t often do that.’ She turned to Martha. ‘Of course, I didn’t always look like this. I used to be a looker. Used to take better care of myself. I suppose I’ve let time, vodka and chocolate eclairs get to me.’ She got up, draped her handbag over her arm. ‘How long does this sort of thing take?’
‘Days, sometimes,’ said Charlie. ‘Then again it could be weeks. I have had cases where it took months.’
‘I’m not keen on paying for months.’
‘We only charge for work done. Time and expenses.’
‘I want you to find him quickly. I’ve quite a lot I want to say to him.’ She held out her hand to shake Charlie’s. ‘I’m looking forward to hearing from you.’
Charlie walked her to the door. ‘I’ll need your friend Jean’s address.’
‘She used to be my next-door neighbour before I moved. I wrote the address down for you.’
Bernice walked up the passage to the street. Charlie followed. Martha heard him ask, ‘What sort of car did Brendan drive?’
‘A green one. Don’t know what kind. I’m not interested in cars.’
‘So you wouldn’t know its number.’
‘No.’
Martha stopped taking notes and listened. They’d be in the street now. Charlie would be tapping the nameplate. Bernice would be wondering what that was about. Now, Charlie would be shouting out last-minute questions as Bernice tried to walk away.
He returned, sat at his desk drumming his fingers. ‘What do you think?’
Martha shrugged. ‘I think she seems like a nice woman. A bit nervy. But underneath that, quite sure of herself. Still, if I was putting myself up for adoption, I’m not sure I’d want her to take me home with her.’
Charlie did his double point, using a finger on each hand. ‘That’s right. That’s what I thought. If you were looking for someone who offered shelter from the storm for a few nights every week, she’d be quite far down the list. Not a nurturing type.’
‘No. Do you think Brendan was after her money?’
‘Could be. She’s not happy with her appearance. Thought she’d let herself go. But she looked good to me. Perhaps he undermined her confidence. Perhaps her fear of ageing was what he exploited.’
‘Exploited?’
He scratched his chest. ‘Yes. Don’t you feel it? Can’t you smell it? Doesn’t the business of someone using someone creep under your skin?’
‘A little, but not as much as it creeps under yours. I’m not scratching.’
‘Once you’ve worked here for a while, you will be. It gets into your blood.’ He spread his arms. ‘You have to wonder what gets into people.’
‘Then you start scratching. Then again,’ said Martha, ‘Bernice did take up with Brendan because she thought he was handsome. And she did seem happy that he was away a lot. Also, she didn’t know what sort of car he drove or where he was going. Maybe she was doing a little bit of exploiting herself.’ She scratched her shoulder.
Charlie nodded. ‘Good point. Anyway, we’ll start at the pub.’
‘We?’
‘Yes. You don’t want to spend all your time at a desk, do you?’
‘I’m quite happy getting on with things here.’
‘Please come with me. It’s rough I don’t want to go in there alone.’ He pressed his palms together, pleading.
‘So, how are we going to get there? By bus
? Or are you going to give me a ride on the back of your bike?’
‘I’ll bring the car.’
‘You have a car?’
‘Oh, yes. Do you drive? Only I hate it. It’s fine when it’s late and there’s not much traffic about. But if the roads are busy and other cars are coming at me, I sort of panic.’
‘So you don’t like going into rough pubs alone and you hate driving. What sort of detective are you?’
‘Pretty dire. Though I don’t think of myself as a detective. I’m a follower of trails. A listener to dreams. A man of instincts.’
‘The itchiness you experience when you wonder what gets into people and you start scratching. Is that your instinct?’
‘Exactly. The itchiness serves me well. We’ll go tomorrow.’
‘Why tomorrow? Why not today?’
‘I like a bit of procrastination. Gives me time to ponder.’
‘And work up your courage,’ said Martha.
10
Pleasurable Fumbling
Sophie wasn’t having the best of days. She’d been woken by bad dreams and had lain awake worrying. At first she’d worried about Martha. She should have a proper job, one with prospects of promotion and decent pay. And, it was time she had a man in her life. In fact Sophie thought it was time Martha had a life. It didn’t do for a woman to sit in night after night watching television with her mother. Sophie knew she would never have done such a thing. But then, back when Sophie was Martha’s age nobody had a television set.
That bit of worrying done with, fretted over, Sophie moved on to worrying about Evie. The girl was seven going on fifty. Too mature by far. She’d overheard Martha and Sophie talking about the menopause, absent fathers, death and goodness only knew what else. She was being denied her innocence. ‘Why, I knew nothing of these things at her age,’ Sophie said out loud. ‘I certainly didn’t know about sex. I never even knew we all had genitals.’
After that, Sophie worried about worrying. It could cause headaches, ulcers and heart problems. She clasped her forehead and took her pulse, checking it wasn’t racing. Feeling assured she wasn’t about to die, she arranged herself into her usual sleeping position and tried to drop off. Instead she worried about her newly commissioned cakes. One was for an astronomer’s sixtieth birthday and was to be iced with an accurate depiction of the night sky. The other was for a retiring professor. This cake was to be in the shape of an open book with a Burns poem iced on top. Knowing nothing about astronomy and having forgotten every poem she’d ever learned, she’d have to go to the library tomorrow for the relevant books.
At half-past seven the alarm roused her from a perfect sleep. ‘Bugger,’ she said. She lay a while wishing she wasn’t awake. Hearing Evie stumble from bed and run to the bathroom – she always liked to get there before anyone else – Sophie heaved back her blankets and shoved on her beloved dark green dressing gown. It was ancient but a constant source of comfort. She padded to the kitchen, put on the kettle and set the table for breakfast.
By the time Evie appeared in the kitchen, Sophie had boiled a couple of eggs, made a pile of toast and brewed a pot of coffee. Evie sat down to eat.
‘What’s a genital?’
‘I beg your pardon,’ said Sophie.
‘You shouted it in the middle of the night. I heard you. Something about not knowing people had genitals.’
‘I did nothing of the sort.’
‘Yes, you did. You woke me up.’
Martha came to the kitchen door. Paused, listened in.
‘Well,’ said Sophie. She took a deep breath. This was not the sort of thing she wanted to talk about first thing in the morning. This was a serious evening discussion topic. ‘It’s a two-handled jug. In the olden days people used it to carry water. They put it on their heads.’
Martha sat down, took a slice of toast, poured coffee and silently stared at her mother. Sophie turned to face the cooker and stood with her back to her.
When Evie had finished eating, she went to her bedroom to pack her school bag and put on her shoes. Alone with Sophie, Martha hissed, ‘Why did you say that? It’s nonsense.’
‘I do not want to talk about such things in the morning. My brain isn’t functioning. I wouldn’t know what to say.’
‘You told Evie a lie. I vowed I’d never lie to her. I want to be honest with her at all times. I want her to grow up trusting us and developing into the person she is meant to be and not some screwed-up neurotic who doesn’t know who she is and what she wants to be because she was lied to as a child.’
‘Well, I lied,’ said Sophie. ‘It was just something that popped into my head. And that’s a bit over the top as a bit of criticism especially at this time in the morning.’
‘What if she’s asked to write an essay about olden days at school and she says they used to carry water in genitals?’
‘Well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. I’d better get ready to walk Evie to school or she’ll be late.’
Surveying her limited wardrobe, Sophie opted for a pair of lime green bell-bottom trousers Martha had bought at a sale, deeply regretted and rejected, a pink blouse that was old but too beloved to throw out and a voluminous red cardigan that hid her gathering layers and rolls of fat. She claimed she wasn’t naturally this size. The shape everyone saw was her body’s response to the many nibbles of marzipan, icing and melted chocolate she indulged in while baking. ‘My body doesn’t like me,’ she claimed. ‘It doesn’t like the way I earn my living. So, this is what it does to me. In some ways you could say that being a baker is a much more dangerous occupation than being a stuntman.’
Martha gave her a swift head-to-toe sweep of a look and told her she was looking a bit gaudy today.
‘I’m comfortable,’ said Sophie. ‘As you know, I’m happy with me. It’s the casing I hate, the thing me is packaged in – my body. I don’t care what I put on it.’
Just after nine, Sophie left Evie at school and headed for the library. She walked quickly. She thought that if she moved at speed, she might outpace her thoughts. She could leave them behind. It didn’t work. Her doubts, fears and embarrassment kept up with her. She cursed herself. Why hadn’t she answered Evie’s question truthfully? ‘They are our bits,’ she could have said. ‘Down there,’ pointing to the relevant area, ‘but we don’t talk about them.’ That’s what she should have said. Damn. Now she was upset. Damn again. Soon, she’d be visited by visions of the falling man. It always happened when she was unnerved.
The man was Martin, her husband. He’d been working for a building contractor at the time and had died after falling from a roof. Had Martin known that he was going to tumble to the ground when he slipped? What had he said? Had he sworn? What did he think on his way down? Had he time to think?
She’d seen people falling from buildings in films. It had always been spectacular. The faller would have his arms spread wide, hair flying behind him. His wild screaming would diminish in volume as he went down. She knew it wasn’t like that. The fall would have lasted seconds. Martin would have looked like a large tumbling bundle. There would have been a thud as he landed. That was all. He’d died instantly. Nothing spectacular about it. Still, when the vision of a tumbling bundle that was her husband, the man she loved, came to her she wanted to be in the picture. She wanted to rush forward and catch him.
The vision had been with her for months and months after it happened. Now it came when she was nervous or upset. Walking towards the library she shut her eyes and shook her head, willing it to go away.
In the library she quickly found a book of Burns poems. Finding a celestial view that could be copied in icing took a while. As she thumbed through books looking for a simple image she became aware of a man staring at her. She slipped round to the other side of the bookshelf, removed three books and stared into the gap. He appeared, or at least his eyes and nose did, staring back.
‘Are you looking at me?’ asked Sophie. She was whispering. A loud harsh whisper.
; ‘Yes.’
‘Why?’
‘I thought I recognised you.’
‘Well, you didn’t. Can’t a woman visit the library without being harassed by men?’
‘I wasn’t harassing you. I was wondering if you are Sophie.’
‘What’s it to you if I am? Mind your own bloody business.’ She regretted this. She hadn’t spoken to anyone in such a manner since she was a teenager. God, she’d been rude then.
‘My goodness, you are Sophie. You haven’t changed a bit.’ He disappeared. Then reappeared peering through the gap. ‘Wait there.’
He came to her, beaming, holding out his hands to grasp hers. ‘Sophie Snow. This is wonderful.’
He was tall, greying at the temples, wore a grey jacket with leather patches on the elbows and a pink shirt, open at the neck. Stylishly scruffy, she thought. He did seem awfully familiar. But she couldn’t place him.
He leaned towards her. ‘Duncan. Duncan Henderson.’
She almost swooned. ‘Duncan, oh my goodness, Duncan. How are you?’
This man had been the love of her young life. She’d written his name all over her schoolbooks. Duncan and Sophie. Sophie loves Duncan. Sophie Henderson. That last was the signature she’d practised a lot in the days when she practised signatures. Sophie Henderson was who she wanted to be.
The romance had started when she was thirteen and ended five years later when Duncan had left to go to university. He’d won a place at Oxford studying history. They’d vowed to write to one another every day. They’d exchanged parting gifts, tokens of their love. She’d given him cufflinks. He’d given her a charm bracelet. It was still tucked at the bottom of her jewellery box.
In time their long passionate letters became shorter and more sporadic. Caught up in his new life he’d tell Sophie about people she didn’t know, pubs she’d never visit and books she imagined she wouldn’t understand. She told him about her life in the place he’d left behind – her work at the local library, what her colleagues were up to, films she’d seen, shoes she was planning to buy when she got paid. She thought she sounded dull, trivial even. Their exchanges trailed off. They lost touch. Years later she heard that he’d graduated, married an American and moved to Boston. It hadn’t bothered her, though. She’d met Martin and was in love once more.