Finding Lucy

by Ernesto Lee

  “Unfortunately, they don’t serve what I want here, so for now I’ll settle for a gin and tonic.”

  Then with that same look in her eye that she gave me earlier today, she adds, “Maybe one of the lads can sort that out for me later.”

  Well, this is convenient, my cougar friend, Ms. Abigail Whitchurch, Chairwoman of the Women’s Institute, is a friend of Lucy and Joanna Partington-Brown. I think that perhaps I need to have a chat with her soon.

  The barman turns to get the drinks for the girls, and I am snapped out of my obvious staring by the same young man calling over to Lucy again.

  “Hey, Lucy, this one is for you. Come and join us.”

  The mechanical arm in the jukebox lifts a new record into position and ‘Sweet Talking Guy’ by the Chiffons starts to play. The music selection has the desired effect and Lucy turns around to face her admirer.

  “Is that the best you can do, Paul? You will have to work harder than that if you want to get me back. My father has threatened to send his gamekeeper after you with his shotgun if he sees you with me. Doesn’t that worry you?”

  Wow, this just gets better and better. I am now looking at Paul Oliver and his gang, although they look more like a 1970s boy band then a gang, as you would define it today. All four of them are smartly dressed in made-to-measure suits and have the look of MODS about them.

  Paul flashes Lucy a smile and she picks up her drink. All three of the girls join the guys next to the jukebox and I’m pulled back to reality once again by the sound of a hand-bell ringing incredibly close to my ear.

  “Last orders please, ladies and gentlemen. Order your last drinks if you want any or start supping up. Doors close at 3 pm.”

  This is another major difference between now and 1972 – no all-day drinking. In 1972, pubs open at midday for three hours and then close again until 7pm.

  I order myself another pint of bitter and then I take a seat nearer to the jukebox in the hope that I may pick up something useful.

  At 3 pm exactly, the pub landlord moves from behind the bar and moves towards the front door. He is just about to pull the bolt across when the door opens and a uniformed police sergeant steps in and stamps his feet on the doormat.

  “Afternoon, Donald, get me a pint in and a large scotch. It’s bloody brass monkeys out there.”

  He is clearly well known, and Donald smiles and locks the door, “Right you are, Henry, grab yourself a seat by the fire.”

  I am surprised that nobody seems in any hurry to leave or seems bothered by the arrival of the local bobby. Quite the opposite in fact. After pouring the drinks for the sergeant, Donald resumes his position behind the bar and continues to serve drinks for the rest of the customers.

  I am so lost in taking in the scene of a uniformed police sergeant drinking his pint by the fire after the permitted licensing hours that I don’t notice that I have been joined at my table by Abigail Whitchurch.

  “Penny for your thoughts, handsome.”

  Whilst she is not in the same league as Lucy and Joanna, Abigail is still a very good-looking young woman and I am momentarily taken aback.

  “Um, sorry, what did you say?” I finally reply.

  “I knew it as soon as I saw you – you’re a London boy. You are way to flash to be from around here. What’s up, don’t they have lock-ins in London?”

  I must be looking confused again because she explains what she means.

  “A lock-in, after hours drinking, it’s no big deal. Relax and get us another drink. My name’s Abigail by the way and mine’s a double G&T.”

  I ignore her comment about the drinks and point towards the sergeant. “And is that normal?” I ask her.

  My question makes her laugh and she points towards the landlord.

  “The guy behind the bar is Donald Cuttler and the policeman sitting by the fire is his brother Henry Cuttler. Welcome to the countryside. What’s your name, handsome? Why haven’t we met before?”

  For a young woman in the seventies, I imagine that this obvious flirting would be considered incredibly forward. But with the experience of Maria and Ben still fresh in my mind, I have absolutely no intention of letting anything develop of a romantic or sexual nature. For now, though, it suits me to sit and chat with her. I hold out my hand and give her my best smile.

  “It’s Sean. Nice to meet you, Abigail.”

  I order a fresh round of drinks and whilst we chat, I do my best to make it not look too obvious that I am listening in to the girls and guys chatting at the jukebox. For a while this is easy enough, but as the drinks flow, Abigail makes it increasingly obvious that she fancies me, and I am forced to concentrate most of my attention and effort in fighting off her wandering hands.

  By 3:30 pm and with nothing useful picked up from the conversations, I once more push Abigail’s hand away from my crotch, and I stand up to leave. Abigail follows suit, but in her haste and obviously the worse for wear she knocks the edge of the table and sends her drink crashing to the floor.

  “Where are you going, lover boy? It’s still early,” she says, slurring her words.

  The breaking glass and her comment draw dirty looks and murmurs of disapproval from the pensioners by the fire and the police sergeant looks me up and down with suspicion, but he doesn’t get up or say anything. I am surprised, though, to see Lucy staring at me and smiling.

  Yet again I find myself blushing and Lucy smiles and blows me a kiss before turning back to her companions. Either Abigail was right about my outfit, or maybe it is something to do with the upper classes and the fresh country air. Whatever it is, these girls are going to be a handful and I need to be careful if I am not going to mess things up.

  As I reach the front door, Donald has already unbolted it. He holds it open for me to leave, but before I can step through, I am pushed to one side by a well-dressed middle-aged man coming in. For a second, he scans the room clearly looking for someone, then he makes his way towards the jukebox and pulls Lucy and Joanna to one side.

  They are talking quietly, but it is clear that he is agitated about something. Joanna shakes her head and walks away, but Lucy reaches into her handbag and hands him two ten-pound notes, which he snatches and thrusts into his jacket pocket. I notice that he is wearing leather driving gloves, so I assume that he must have arrived by car.

  Without another word, he leaves as quickly as he came. My intention had been to pay a visit to the carnival next, but intrigued by what has just happened, I step outside to follow whom I assume to be Sir David Partington-Brown.

  Parked outside on the pavement there is a green convertible MG sports car and as I turn I am just in time to see the back of Sir David disappearing down an alley at the side of the pub. Before I even get to the top of the alley, I can hear raised voices and it is easy enough to imagine what is going down.

  “Twenty quid! Are you bloody serious? That doesn’t even cover my time and trouble getting out to this bloody shithole.”

  The voice is aggressive and distinctly cockney. I carefully put my head around the edge of the pub wall to try to see what is going on. Sir David has his back to the wall and there are two well-built thugs penning him in. The one doing the talking is around forty years old, smartly dressed in a suit and polished brogues, and from where I am standing, I can see a thick ugly-looking scar on the back of his close-cropped head.

  His companion looks slightly younger, possibly in his mid-thirties, but he is much bigger and is carrying a leather cosh in his right hand. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that they are loan sharks, but if any further confirmation was needed, Scarface gives it.

  “You don’t seem to understand just how serious this is, your lordship. You’re into the boss for nearly twenty-grand and his patience is wearing thin. Just tell me if you can’t pay and perhaps we can work something else out.”

  I’m no mathematician, but even I can work out that twenty thousand pounds in 1972 was a huge sum of money. It’s no wonder he is shaking like a leaf. He has a huge countr
y estate and is a member of parliament. To go to a loan shark, he must have serious money problems.

  I move slightly further forward to try to hear better and when Sir David doesn’t immediately answer him, Scarface nods to his companion and the cosh slams into the side of Sir David’s head.

  My first inclination is to call out or rush forward to help him, but I hold back in the hope of finding out more of what is happening.

  Both thugs lift him to his feet and push him back against the wall. There is a small cut on the side of his head, but otherwise he seems okay and after a few seconds the lead thug asks him again.

  “Well, do you have the money or not? The boss is running out of patience and if you can’t pay, then we need to work something out.”

  “I don’t have it right now, just give me a few more weeks, a month at the most. I can get the money, I just …”

  Sir David’s words are cut off by a burly hand around his throat and Scarface pushes him down onto his knees and screams in his face.

  “You don’t bloody have a few more weeks, you toffee-nosed bastard. I want my bleedin’ money now, or we make a deal for that car and house of yours.”

  I can see that he is struggling to breathe, and it is all I can do to hold myself back until the thug releases his grip on his throat and lifts him up again. Scarface takes a moment to compose himself and then he leans menacingly towards Sir David.

  “I’m a reasonable man, so let me tell you what I am going to do for you. I’m going to go back to the boss and I’m going to tell him that I have given you another month. If you don’t have the full twenty-grand by then, you are going to sign over that house and that flashy car to us. How does that sound, Sir David?”

  In his position, he is likely to agree to anything just to get away, but he nods anyway, and the thugs release their grip on him.

  Scarface smiles and then he suddenly grabs Sir David by the lapels of his jacket and pulls him forward.

  “That’s good, but just in case you’re thinking of trying to do the dirty on us, don’t! If you try and fuck us over, then me and Frankie boy are gonna be paying you a visit and after we have finished with you, we are gonna be taking those two princesses of yours for a little walk in the woods.”

  At the mention of his daughters, Sir David pulls back and tries to take a swing at Scarface. Years of street brawling allows Scarface to easily dodge the punch and he lands his own fist in Sir David’s stomach, who drops to his knees again.

  “Give him something to remember us by,” Scarface growls. When he nods to Frankie boy, I know that I can’t stay quiet any longer.

  As Frankie raises the cosh above his head, I step forward and shout out, “Oy, what’s going on?”

  Surprised by my interruption, Frankie lowers his weapon and both thugs turn to face me. Scarface has another huge scar running down the left-hand side of his face and he is as intimidating as any one I have ever met in my police career.

  “Nothing for you to see here, son. If I was you, I would turn around and walk away while you still can.”

  His voice is calm, but the intent in his words is obvious. In this time and in this scenario, Sir David must have taken a beating, but my conscience won’t let me walk away, even though I know that it cannot have been too serious.

  I am about to answer when a voice behind me interrupts.

  “I think that’s good advice, son. Walk away and keep your nose out of what doesn’t concern you. Be a good lad and move along.”

  The voice is vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it and now I am conscious that Scarface and Frankie are moving closer towards me. Weighing up my options, I decide to brazen it out and I reply as I turn to face the newcomer, “Sorry, but I can’t do that. Three against one is just not fai ...”

  My words are cut off before I can finish, and something hard strikes me a vicious blow on the bridge of my nose. I can feel the bones in my nose and my cheek shatter, and my mouth, nose, and eyes fill up with blood. A second blow lands on my shoulder and I fall face forward onto the cobbled alley.

  The last thing I remember is a kick in the head from a heavy boot and the same mystery voice telling me that I should have walked away.

  Present Day – Wednesday, 18th April, 2018

  The alarm on my phone wakes me at just after 7 am and my first reaction is to reach for my nose to check for damage. I’m not sure what I was expecting to find, and it is a completely irrational reaction given my experience of dream travel, but nonetheless I am relieved to find that everything is as it should be. I’m never fully sure what to expect when I travel, but last night was completely unexpected and now potentially gives us a new line of enquiry to work on.

  Sir David was clearly in massive debt and the threat to his girls just one week before Lucy’s disappearance surely can’t just be a coincidence. I shower and dress and then scan through the case file to see if there is any mention of the loan sharks, the threat, or any indicator of Sir David’s financial difficulties.

  I find nothing and this in itself is worrying. Why would he not have mentioned this to the investigating detectives? Another question nagging at me is: how did he get himself out of debt? He is still living in the same house on the same estate as he was in 1972.

  Loan sharks don’t make idle threats. It is bad for their reputation. Either Sir David found the money to pay them off, or something else happened to clear the debt. My gut feeling is that if we can find the answer to this question, we will also find out what happened to Lucy. I close the case file and head downstairs to meet Catherine for breakfast.

  For once, I am there before her. I order myself a full English and a cup of tea. Cath appears just as my breakfast is arriving and gives me a mock look of disapproval.

  “You need to watch yourself with those fry-ups, boss. You’re looking a bit chubby lately.”

  I instantly suck in my stomach, realizing too late that Cath is winding me up again.

  “That’s twice in two days, Sean. Bloody hell, mate, did you lose your sense of humor when they gave you that promotion? Don’t worry, the Sean McMillan fan club is still alive and kicking.”

  Then with a small smirk on her face, she adds, “Seriously, though, maybe you’d better just have a slice of toast. Having more chins than the Chinese telephone directory is not a big turn-on for most women.”

  Once again, Cath has got the better of me and I see there is no point even trying a sarcastic come back. Instead, I spear a sausage on the end of my fork and hold it out to Cath.

  “And good morning to you to, Detective Constable Swain. Sausage?”

  “Tempting, Sean. But I think I will stick to my coffee, thank you.”

  “Great,” I reply. “Now, if you don’t mind, I have this great big plate of calories to finish.”

  Ten minutes later, we head out to the car and I check the directions to Sir David’s estate. This morning I am driving, and I hand Catherine the case file.

  “It seems to be no more than a ten-minute drive, Cath, but have a quick read through the interview notes for Sir David, Joanna, and her husband Eddie Wells. There may be something useful that we can pick up on.”

  Cath opens the file and asks, “Was there something in particular you were thinking of, Sean?”

  “Check for any references to Paul Oliver. He’s the boy that went missing a couple of weeks after Lucy. That has to be worth digging into. And see if there is anything on the priest that might give any more clues as to his relationship with Lucy.”

  Cath nods and starts to sift through the interview notes. I start the engine and after taking a couple of wrong turns, ten minutes after leaving the hotel, I pass through a pair of ornate stone columns that mark the entrance to Colevale Manor.

  The graveled driveway looks like it has seen better days, but after about forty yards we arrive at a central landscaped roundabout in-front of a grandiose Manor House. I wouldn’t have been at all surprised to have been met by a line-up of immaculately dressed maids, gardeners, and butlers
assembled on the stairs. But the front of the house is deserted and the front door is closed.

  I park the car just off to the side of the roundabout and shut off the engine.

  “Anything interesting in the notes, Cath?”

  “Not really, it’s all pretty much what we discussed last night. Joanna and Eddie both confirm that the last time they saw Lucy was at the carnival. Sir David says that he saw her at breakfast that morning. The priest and Paul Oliver only get brief mentions and it is all in the same context as the case summary from our predecessor. Paul was an ex-boyfriend but still on friendly terms with Lucy and the priest was possibly trying to convert her. Sorry, Sean, that’s about it.”

  I wasn’t really expecting Cath to find anything new. I have already been over the notes in detail myself, but it never hurts for a fresh pair of eyes to take a look. From my trip last night, I do know that Paul was still on very good terms with Lucy and might not have been as ‘ex’ an ex-boyfriend as people thought.

  They seemed very close when I left the pub last night and it is certainly a line of enquiry worth following.

  “That’s okay, Cath. It was worth a try. Come on, let’s go and see what the family have to say for themselves.”

  Before we reach the top of the stairs, the door opens and a well-dressed woman with graying blonde hair steps out to greet us. For a woman approaching seventy, Joanna Partington-Brown still cuts a striking figure and her bearing and manner pay homage to her aristocratic heritage as she reaches to shake my hand.

  “Good morning, you must be Detective McMillan. I am Joanna Partington-Brown. It’s my pleasure to welcome you here to Colevale.”

  “Thank you,” I reply. “It’s actually Detective Sergeant McMillan, and this is my partner, Detective Constable Swain. I hope that it’s convenient for us to come in and ask some questions about your sister and the circumstances around her disappearance?”