by Jack Benton
Slim laughed. Whether Lia had rehearsed her attempt to put him at ease, he couldn’t tell, but it was appreciated.
‘Thanks,’ he said. Then, against his better judgement, he said, ‘You drink if you want to.’
Lia perhaps had no experience with recovering alcoholics. She nodded and poured herself a glass, holding it up for a toast. As Slim stared at the sloshing liquid, he knew it would take all his willpower not to spend the rest of the evening fixated on it.
‘Cheers,’ he said.
He let her ask about the case, aware that he was talking too much when he should be letting her talk, but finding the wine too much of a distraction to concentrate on anything she might have to say. There were certain aspects he wanted to keep private—such as the contents of Marjorie Clifford’s letter—but otherwise he found himself waxing lyrical about theoretical possibilities, some realistic, others far from it.
And his eyes were constantly checking the clock.
At ten-thirty he made his excuses to leave, citing an imaginary early appointment the next morning and an equally imaginary late night the night before. Lia looked surprised, but as he shuffled for the door she could only go along with his request.
He had hoped the fresh air would make things easier, but the smell was in his nose and wouldn’t let go.
Stupid Slim, he had picked a Sunday in a quiet part of town to suffer a dramatic relapse, but a mini mart near the town centre was still open. Slim barged in past a surprised worker who was stocking crisps by the door.
‘I need a drink,’ Slim mumbled.
‘Soft drinks over there,’ the man said.
‘I don’t mean soft drinks.’
‘Sorry, we don’t sell alcohol after half past ten.’
‘Look, I really need a drink. Just one of those small brandies. I’ll give you twenty.’
It was nearly three times the displayed price. The man looked at the note in Slim’s shaking hand and shrugged.
‘Well, if you’re that desperate I suppose I can ring it up in the morning,’ he said.
Slim took the bottle down to the railway line, where he found a bench in a small park which overlooked the tracks. Half the bottle was already gone, and Slim feared he would need more, but the weeks of sobriety had left his tolerance low.
As he stared across the tracks at the darkness beyond, he wondered if Jennifer Evans had once sat here, on a freezing cold night, before abruptly vanishing into the air. With a shrug he realised he didn’t really care.
He needed a drink.
19
He woke up in his own bed, unsure how he had got there. The door to the room was wide open, so he got up to close it, his stomach lurching at the same time. He only just made it to the sink in the corner before emptying what was left of his stomach’s contents. That most of it was stinging bile suggested he’d been sick somewhere before, so with better control of his body he ventured out into the hallway and looked downstairs.
He could see the guesthouse’s front door and it was shut. The carpet looked normal, with no signs of vomit, so it looked like he’d created whatever mess he had before getting back.
He returned to his room, and found a corner of his bag had blocked the door from closing. He pushed it aside, then closed and locked the door.
He sat down on the bed and ran a hand through his hair. His head was thumping, his stomach contracting, but by far the worst was the fear of what trail of destruction his drinking might have caused.
He reached for his phone—sitting beside his wallet and keys on a dressing table, another relief—and checked for calls and messages. No outgoing calls, no outgoing messages.
He let out a long sigh. He got up again and went to the mirror above the sink in the corner, absently aware he was still fully clothed, but his face showed only the signs of a hard night of drinking. No signs of fighting or falling. His hands, too, felt fine, no telltale welts on his knuckles or aches in his wrists. Even his jeans were unscuffed, as though he’d managed to walk all the way back from the scene of meltdown without so much as falling over.
He sat down on the bed.
I can’t keep living like this.
Once, hunting for the trail of destruction left by a sudden bender had been an almost daily event. He had woken up with bruises a dozen times, wondering who had hit him, who he had hit. Where he had lost his stuff. Who he had called up in the middle of the night, blathering at like an idiot, or worse, ranting, berating. Who had now blacklisted his number. Who would never again let him inside their home.
I can’t keep living like this.
He picked up his phone and called Lia.
‘Oh. Slim. Hi.’
‘I’m sorry about yesterday,’ he croaked.
‘Well, you did leave rather abruptly.’
‘Not just that. Everything. Can I meet you? Please. It’s important.’
‘Well … I don’t work until twelve, so we could meet somewhere for breakfast if you like.’
‘Thanks.’
His stomach still felt like a broken washing machine, but his headache had been tempered by a couple of ibuprofen. He arrived half an hour early and was on his third coffee when Lia arrived just before ten.
She came to the table but stayed standing until he asked her to sit. She had dressed down, but her hair was brushed and she wore a little makeup. The look on her face was one of distress. Until she spoke, Slim thought it was horror at his own appearance, one reason he didn’t own a mirror and avoided them where possible.
‘So,’ she said, unable to meet his eyes. ‘This is where you tell me you’re married, right? I mean, I know you said you were single, but men tend to delude themselves—’
Slim couldn’t help but laugh. Despite the seriousness in her eyes he doubted there was anything she could have said that he would have found more ridiculous.
‘No, I’m not married, and aside from a couple of flings that didn’t turn out well, I’ve been single most of the last twenty years.’
‘So what’s this sudden emergency meeting about then? I mean, that’s how it feels. I guess you’re too old to break up with me by phone like younger men might.’
‘I didn’t even realise we were going out.’
‘Well, I mean, not yet, but I like you, you know.’
‘And I like you too. I wasn’t expecting to meet someone I liked while investigating forty-year-old trains.’
‘Then what’s the problem?’
Slim brought it down like a hammer blow. ‘I’m an alcoholic.’ At Lia’s look of surprise, he added, ‘Recovering. Well, I was.’
Lia sighed. ‘The wine.’
‘I thought I could handle it. In the bottle I might have, but seeing it in the glass, the smell … the way it sloshed as you drank it … even the sound it made as you swallowed … I tried, I really did.’
‘I’m sorry.’
‘No. I should have said. I just … I thought I could handle it. I’m afraid I went into panic mode. You must have thought I was off my head as it was.’
Lia shrugged. ‘Well, you did seem a little off after we sat down for dinner.’
Slim reached across the table and put a hand over Lia’s. It felt strange to touch a woman and not have her flinch away. He looked up into her eyes and saw the concern there.
‘I’m a pretty messed up person,’ he said. ‘To be honest, there have been times when I’m not sure how I get through the days. But I’m also not a project case. I like you. I think you’re a fascinating person, not to mention beautiful. I’ll warn you now that you’d be better off walking away from me. It’s unlikely I can make you happy for long, no matter how hard I try.’ He forced a smile. ‘But if you don’t, I won’t mind.’
Lia held his gaze for a few seconds, then gently removed his hand and stood up.
‘I need to think about this,’ she said.
‘That’s fine. That’s probably the best thing.’
Lia gave him a half smile and retreated back through the tables to the door. She w
ent out and gave him a brief wave through the window before hurrying away across the street.
Slim watched her go. When she was out of sight, he sighed, ordered another coffee and pulled Marjorie Clifford’s letter out of his bag.
20
Dear Mr. Hardy,
Thank you for your letter. My apologies in keeping you waiting for so long for a response, but I have arthritis in my hands and find it hard to hold a pen for a long period of time.
Then there’s the subject matter. I’m afraid that your correspondence invoked memories I’ve not had in years. Don’t misunderstand me; they weren’t all bad. Jennifer was my best friend on the staff during my junior years at M.R.I. and I have fond memories of her. However, her sudden disappearance stunned me like it did many others, and in many ways it changed the whole course of my life. I’m not sure how much research you’ve done on my background, but I left nursing the following year and moved down to Cornwall. It wasn’t the job so much as Manchester and the spectre of Jennifer. I couldn’t handle crowds any longer because I found myself forever looking for her among them, so I moved to the remotest place I could find. I got work in a café, but even that was hard, and it was years before I could hear the bell over the door without looking up in expectation of somehow seeing her face.
There have been days when I wished they’d found her, whatever horror story it might have revealed. Better that than to forever wonder.
But I’m afraid I digress. You asked specifically if there was anything I might know about her final movements, about what might have happened to her.
The last time I saw her was in the staff locker room at around eight p.m. Some days we shared the same shift, but that week she was on days while I was doing nights, so her shift had just finished while mine was about to begin. I saw her pack up her bag as usual and store her uniform in her locker. Her next shift was due to start at ten the following morning.
There was nothing untoward about her behaviour. Her state of mind, however, was a different matter. We worked together at that time in the Coronary Care Unit, but I know she had been sneaking off duty regularly over the last few weeks to visit a patient on the oncology ward, who I believe had terminal cancer of some kind. His name was Jim Randall. I remember her saying something about wishing she could turn the clock back. No, a little different: “I wish I could have my time over again.” That was it, I’m sure. I know it was a long time ago, but I remember it clearly because it was such a negative thing for Jennifer to say. She was always so positive, so forward-thinking. She was a very God-fearing person, never forgetting her prayers, and she believed in positive thinking, that you could almost will something to turn out right. Working on the CCU, that was important, when many of the patients had come there specifically to find comfort in their last days. Recoveries were few and far between, but Jennifer believed in everyone, that with a little willpower and faith they might achieve some miracle of remission. With Jennifer, life was never about yesterday, it was always about tomorrow. That was the kind of person she was, so I remember dwelling on those words during my shift that night.
Of course early that next morning I found out about Jennifer’s disappearance. I couldn’t help but think about what she had said. And I wondered if it had had anything to do with Jim Randall. Jim Randall was a patient on the oncology ward up the corridor from our own. Jennifer had told me about visiting him, helping him to find God in his suffering. I went to see him, to ask if she had said anything untoward before going home that evening, but was told he had died during the afternoon on the previous day.
If she had been aware of his death, it would have explained Jennifer’s mood somewhat, although not her words, as I knew nothing of the nature of their relationship. It wasn’t uncommon for us nurses to take particular note of a patient even if they were on another ward, especially if we had had some contact with them on their admittance. However, I always felt that her disappearance might be connected to Jim’s death. I don’t like to speculate, but I did tell the police of my suspicions. Unfortunately I believe nothing came of it. And there, I’m afraid, Mr. Hardy, is the end of what I have to say. I pray that something of this might prove useful. I’m not in the best of health these days, and I hope sadly that you will have no more need of me. Although, saying that, if you ever do find out what became of Jennifer, I’d very much like to know.
Yours faithfully,
Marjorie Clifford
21
‘Nothing,’ Charles Bosworth said, leaning across the table. ‘We checked him out. He was a homeless drifter with no background, admitted after collapsing on a Manchester street. He had advanced lung cancer and died a couple of weeks after admittance. We couldn’t find any background information for him, but to be honest, we didn’t look that hard. The man was dead; he could hardly be a suspect.’
Slim lifted a hand, but Bosworth cut him off.
‘Before you say anything, yes, we did consider that they might have had some kind of a relationship, and that his death may have had an effect on her. It was as big a lead as we had. I actually kept the information from her family, but all known local suicide spots—plus a few farther afield—were checked in the days after her disappearance. We found nothing. We had to let it go.’
‘Did you interview the nurses on the oncology ward?’
Bosworth threw up his hands. ‘We interviewed the staff on duty that day, but the full roster … no. We just didn’t have the resources in those days, and Jennifer’s disappearance was low priority. Without a body there was no murder inquiry and our investigations threw up few suspicious leads. I worked on the case in my own time for a while, but in the end it got filed.’
‘It’s a lead,’ Slim said. ‘What if she had known him?’
‘No one we spoke to had any knowledge of a nurse from another ward coming to visit him. We assumed Marjorie Clifford’s claim was a little exaggerated. And in any case, Jim Randall was dead. He could hardly have come back to life and snatched her, could he? Besides, she made that call to her daughter. What might have made her suddenly change her mind?’
Slim shrugged. ‘I have no idea.’ He looked up. ‘I have another lead. Jedders. I believe it was the name of a dog which lived near Holdergate Station.’
‘Jedders? What kind of a name for a dog is that?’
‘I thought maybe it was Jed but people called it Jedders as a nickname.’
Bosworth whistled as he shook his head. ‘And the significance of this dog is what?’
‘It could have caused the teeth marks on the bag, not a wild animal like you thought. If I can ascertain who owned the dog or what time it might have been roaming about outside, it could give a better indication of what time Jennifer lost her bag, not to mention that she could have been in close proximity of the dog’s owner.’
Bosworth nodded. ‘Slim, you’re certainly bringing a level of energy to this that I can no longer muster. I still think there’s nothing to it, but out of interest, where did you hear the name?’
‘A man called Barnard Litchfield. Unfortunately, he’s eighty-eight and suffering from dementia.’
‘So it could have been just nonsense.’
‘Yes. For all I know, it was the plot of the television show he’d watched the night before I spoke to him, but I won’t dismiss it immediately.’
Bosworth stared at him. ‘For what it’s worth, I’m cheering for you. Don’t give up.’
Slim didn’t want to tell Bosworth that at this exact moment, it was only the case keeping him out of the nearest pub. Instead, he just nodded. I’ll follow it until I run out of leads, I suppose.’
He left Bosworth’s house and went to another meeting with Elena. He had arranged to meet her in a park near Holdergate Station, so picked up coffee for them both at a local café along the way.
When he arrived, Elena looked up, her eyebrows immediately rising in expectation, shifting on the bench as though she meant to leap to her feet. He hated the way she always looked so hopeful, but at least today he ha
d some leads to discuss.
‘I wondered if I might ask you a little about your grandparents on your mother’s side,’ he said. ‘It might be nothing, but it might be significant. This might be hard, but I wondered if they had any skeletons in the closet.’
At Elena’s look of distress, Slim gave her a reassuring pat on the arm. ‘Just to be clear, I’m not accusing them of anything. It’s just that I’m trying to connect people who might have been involved.’
Elena shrugged. ‘They were as strait-laced as a couple could be. Married nearly sixty years, devoted in that nonchalant way where old couples consider each other part of the furniture. Three kids, my mother was the middle one, between two boys. Both my uncles were married and had simple lives. The older one died a few years ago. The younger one is still alive but in a care home on the south coast. Both were living in London at the time of my mother’s disappearance. They both came back to help with the search.’
‘Can you find me pictures? The older the better.’
‘Sure. I have boxes of them. What’s this about, Mr. Hardy?’
‘I’m not sure. Just a line of enquiry, one of many.’
‘I’m glad you’re finding some. The police drew a blank.’
‘Mine are tentative at best. Can I ask you if you’ve ever heard the word “Jedders”?’
Elena shrugged. ‘Doesn’t ring any bells. What does it mean?’
‘That’s what I’m trying to find out.’
‘I can’t say that I have. It’s that odd that I might remember it.’
‘Well, if something comes to mind, don’t hesitate to contact me.’
Elena nodded. ‘I thank you, Mr. Hardy.’
‘What for?’
‘For trying.’