The pub in the main street was already open and Vera stood for a moment looking in through the window. Inside there was a fire and a game was being played. A strange game involving a quoit strung from a rope attached to the ceiling. The players swung the quoit towards a pair of horns fixed to the wall and attempted to loop it on to one of them. An islander pushed his way in from the street and through the briefly opened door Vera heard laughter, smelled beer and the smoke from the driftwood fire. She would have loved to go in but in the Holy Island of the 1970s she knew she wouldn’t be welcome. The pub wasn’t the place for a young woman to enter alone. Not a stranger. She wandered back to the Land Rover.
Hector arrived just in time for them to follow the tide back to the mainland. In fact he hadn’t been in the cottage for more than half an hour. Vera’s understanding of sex was rather sketchy. How long did it take to make love? Because she assumed that was what had happened there. Hector hadn’t had a regular girlfriend since Vera’s mother had died, but somehow he had persuaded the pretty young woman to have sex with him. The redhead hadn’t wanted to - that was clear from her attitude at the marker on Emmanuel Head. So he must have had some hold over her. On the journey back to the house in the hills, Hector still seemed elated and excitable. Vera said very little, but no response was expected from her. She wondered what had happened to the sad young woman. Had she stayed on the island or was she driving back to the mainland too?
Thirty-five years later, leaning against the marker stone and feeling the gusts of wind eddy around her, Vera thought that her decision to become a police officer had stemmed from that day. It was the last thing Hector would have wanted for her and that was enough. The next day she’d phoned her local police station and arranged an informal interview. She’d sat her exams and then she’d joined up.
She’d met Hector’s redhead, the only other woman in his life it seemed, a few years after she joined the force. There’d been a joint operation and the serious crime squad had come up from Newcastle. It was the early eighties, a time of big hair and big shoulder pads, a style that, like the Laura Ashley ruffles, had passed Vera by. The operation involved local council corruption, organized crime and an agency supplying high-class prostitutes. Vera had been seconded to the team, presumably because there were so few women in the squad. The meeting had been held in the station in Kimmerston, and there’d been a pinboard with photos of the main players. Most of her colleagues smoked and she’d viewed the images through a haze of cigarette smoke. That was when she’d seen the woman. Not on the board, staring out at her, but sitting at a table at the front of the room in conversation with the DCI in charge of the operation. The wild red hair had been cut and she wore grey trousers and a black jacket, a neat white blouse. She looked more like a businesswoman now than a student.
‘Who’s that?’ Vera nodded towards the woman and directed her question to Sammy Kerr, her sergeant.
‘Ah,’ he said. ‘The lovely Judy Laidlaw. Already a DI. Ambitious. She’s tipped to be the first female chief constable in the UK. And I wouldn’t bet against her.’ He paused. ‘I’ll introduce you later. She’s a great one for getting women into the CID and I know you’ll not be happy until it happens for you.’
Throughout the meeting Vera watched Laidlaw. The images she’d constructed around the woman and Hector shifted, as the patterns in a kaleidoscope change when the tube is turned. This was a strong woman, with a career of her own. Laidlaw would be the equal partner in a relationship. What could she have seen in Hector? Had Vera been wrong? Could they have cared for each other? Had he met her on other occasions? Or was something altogether different going on?
When the operation was over - completed successfully in that the girls and the thugs at the bottom of the heap were arrested and the politicians and the money men remained untouched - they all went to a pub in the city centre. Vera was treated as one of the lads by the men in the team. She drank pints and didn’t ask for favours. Judy Laidlaw was rather different. She flirted with them, stroking their egos, and they were queuing up to buy her vodka tonics.
Sammy Kerr was as good as his word and introduced the women. His voice was mellow with beer. ‘Meet our Vera,’ he said. ‘Sharp as a tack. You could use her on your team.’ And he melted away towards the bar. In the crowded pub the women could have been alone. They took a small table in a corner and the noise continued away from them.
‘Vera?’ Laidlaw’s eyes were unfocused - the vodka tonics were taking their toll - but her voice was gracious. Still she knew she had it in her power to deliver favours.
‘Aye. Vera Stanhope.’ Emphasizing the rural accent. She looked up at the inspector. ‘I think you know my dad.’
Laidlaw set down her drink. She looked around her to check that her colleagues were out of earshot, and again Vera recognized the despair she’d seen in the woman at Emmanuel Head. ‘What do you want?’
‘To know what was going on between you and my father.’
‘Nothing. Nothing was going on.’ A look of distaste. ‘Nothing like that.’
‘I saw you on Holy Island, one November afternoon.’
Laidlaw gave a tight little laugh. ‘He said he’d brought his daughter. Cover, he said, though who would be interested in us?’ Then, quite serious: ‘You do realize this could ruin me?’
‘I want to know.’
Perhaps the drink made Laidlaw reckless, persuaded her that really Vera posed no threat. Or perhaps now she found the secret unbearable. In any event she started talking and the words spilled out. ‘I was Northumbria’s first Wildlife Liaison Officer. A new post and nobody wanted it. But I knew it would get me noticed and a woman in the force needs all the visibility she can get. You’ll understand that.’
Vera nodded.
‘Your father did his homework. Checked me out. I was the enemy, the new opposition. I’d head up any investigation into wildlife crime. He discovered that I had a baby and no husband, that I was ambitious. That I was in debt.’
Vera said nothing, but she knew what was coming next. She remembered the wallet packed with cash as Hector paid for the lunch in the Lindisfarne Hotel.
‘He offered me money,’ Laidlaw said. ‘More money than I’d seen before. I went to the island determined to stand firm. But he persuaded me.’
‘Oh yes,’ Vera said. ‘He can be very persuasive.’
‘So after that I turned a blind eye.’ The woman shrugged. ‘Birds’ eggs. That’s not real crime, is it?’
‘It’s against the law,’ Vera said, though hadn’t she turned a blind eye too? She’d moved out of the house in the hills as soon as she could, but she knew what Hector was up to.
‘What will you do?’ Laidlaw asked.
‘Nothing,’ Vera said. ‘None of my business.’
And a fortnight later she’d received an application form for a new post in CID.
Now she sat in the bar of the hotel on Holy Island, drinking whisky and re-reading the piece in The Journal that had brought her here. An article about recently retired Chief Constable Judith Laidlaw, who had ended her career in Thames Valley, but had begun her service in Northumbria. It seemed she’d already been awarded an OBE in the honours list for her probity and for the quality of her leadership.
Vera went back to the bar and raised a glass to her benefactor, to Hector’s other woman.
<
~ * ~
THE GOLDEN HOUR
Bernie Crosthwaite
Bernie Crosthwaite has had a varied career, including spells as a journalist, tour guide and teacher. She has written plays for radio and theatre and had a number of her short stories broadcast, as well as writing crime novels.
~ * ~
17 August, 20.05 hours
T
he domestic is a real downer. Wife attacks husband with a cricket bat. Apparently it’s been going on for years. It started with punching him, then pulling his hair out in handfuls, then stubbing cigarettes on his bare back. While he’s telling us all this the guy is
sitting on the floor, whimpering like a dog. That really gets to me.
‘What a loser,’ says PC Lowery on the way back to the station.
I don’t say anything, just take one hand off the wheel and release a strand of hair that’s got trapped in my plait. I glance out of the window. After a wet day it’s turned into a beautiful evening. The sun is streaking out from under the clouds like fingers. I feel sorry for the kids on their school holidays. It’s been a lousy summer.
The duty officer is talking on the phone as we come in. He puts a hand over the mouthpiece. ‘Helen - you can take this one. A misper. Caller’s name - Mrs Sally Hunter. Try and get some sense out of her.’
He hands me the phone. Brett Lowery pushes past me on the way to the canteen.
‘Hello. Mrs Hunter? My name’s Sergeant Brandling. What seems to be the—’
‘My little - girl - my little - girl . . .’ There’s a catch in the woman’s voice like hiccups.
‘Hold on, Mrs Hunter.’ I signal for a notepad and pen. ‘Tell me exactly what’s worrying you.’
‘She was playing outside - she’s - not there - I don’t know - I don’t know where . . .’ The words are being pulled out of her by force. ‘She’s . . . disappeared.’
I can barely hear the last word. It’s whispered like it’s an obscenity.
‘Is there anywhere she might have gone?’
‘She knows not to leave the garden.’
‘Did you check up and down the street?’
‘She’s as good as gold.’
‘Have you looked for her indoors, Mrs Hunter?’ It’s surprising how many don’t, how quickly panic sets in. They’re on to the police before they’ve even searched the house.
‘I called her. She always comes when I call.’ Her voice is getting higher, close to hysteria.
Obsessive mother, rebellious child? Maybe. But my gut twists. I have a feeling about this one.
‘OK, Mrs Hunter. I need a few details. What’s your address?’ All I get is a weird noise like a howl. ‘Try and keep calm, for your little girl’s sake.’
She takes a deep breath. ‘Thirty-seven, Gunnerston Road.’
‘And your daughter’s name?’
‘Natalie.’
‘How old is she?’
‘Eight and a half.’
‘Can you tell me what clothes she’s wearing?’
‘A pink and white sundress and pink sandals.’
‘And what does she look like?’
‘She’s quite small for her age. Light brown hair. Green eyes.’ Her voice falls away as if she’ll never see those green eyes again.
‘OK. I’ll get her description circulated straight away and I’ll be with you in about ten minutes. Please listen carefully, Mrs Hunter. As soon as you put the phone down I want you to have a good look round the house, and check the garden and any outbuildings or sheds. Will you do that, please?’
‘But she isn’t—’
‘The most likely thing is that Natalie’s hiding. Let’s hope you find her before we get there. That’ll be the best outcome for everyone.’
As soon as the call ends I give the duty officer my notes and he starts logging them into the system. ‘And can you check the database for known paedophiles in the Gunnerston Road area?’
I’m up the stairs two at a time. Brett’s in the canteen, just about to stuff a bacon sandwich down his neck.
‘Forget that. You’re coming with me.’
I give Brett the few details I have as we clatter down the stairs. The duty officer looks up from his computer and shakes his head.
No leads then. Nothing to point us in the right direction. We’ll have to start from square one.
As we run towards our patrol car I check the time. Quarter past eight. If we can find Natalie Hunter within the hour the odds are she’ll still be alive. As time passes the odds worsen. A day without a sighting and it’s fifty-fifty. After that we could be looking at a murder investigation. The next sixty minutes are crucial.
The golden hour starts now.
~ * ~
I’ve been waiting for an evening like this for a long time.
I had planned to take the Norton to the coast today. I got all my equipment ready last night. But when I woke up this morning it was wet and the rain was forecast to last for hours. It was almost certain there would be a sea fret, a ‘haar ‘ as they call it in Scotland, and the thought of riding all that way in the rain to find nothing but thick white fog was unappealing and I abandoned the trip.
It’s been a frustrating day, spent staring out of the window and reading my monthly photography magazine. I read the many articles on digital techniques with deep misgivings. I’m not against the new technology. I recently invested in a very expensive digital camera and I’ve played around with images, but it feels like a form of cheating. Capturing my subject in all its perfection has always been the challenge for me.
With dinner eaten, the dishes washed up and put away and nothing on television but wall-to-wall rubbish I’m lost for something to do. Since I retired, if I can’t get out with my camera, time hangs heavy.
When I take the bin bag out I see that the sky is no longer a uniform grey pall. The clouds are beginning to break up and rays of sunshine, like the spokes of a fan, shoot out and touch the ground with gold. The correct name for them is crepuscular rays. Some people call them the fingers of God.
My camera bag is already packed. The motorbike has a sidecar, which Lynette never liked, but she isn’t here any more and that means there’s more room for bulkier equipment like the tripod. I’m ready to go within minutes. And all the time, the sky is changing, the clouds dissolving and reforming in unpredictable patterns.
I feel my excitement rise. Along with dawn, around sunset is one of the best times of day to take pictures.
We call it the golden hour.
~ * ~
20.19 hours
Gunnerston Road is a steep street with houses built against the slope. The garden of number 37 is terraced to cope with the gradient - concrete beds filled with bushy heathers. There’s a steep winding flight of steps up to the front door. We’re both breathing hard by the time we get there.
The door is opened by a small plump woman around forty.
‘Mrs Hunter? Sergeant Helen Brandling. And this is PC Lowery.’
She doesn’t look us in the eye. She seems mesmerized by our uniforms. Then her gaze darts behind us, up and down the street.
‘Can we come in?’
She steps back. A grandfather clock takes up a lot of space in the narrow hallway and we have to shuffle past it to close the door.
‘Any sign of Natalie?’
‘No. I’ve searched the house. I can’t find her anywhere.’
‘I want you to call her friends. She may have gone off to play with someone without telling you.’
‘She’d never do that.’
‘It’s worth a try.’ I look at Brett and nod. He starts to climb the stairs.
‘Where’s he going? I told you - I’ve looked all over!’
‘No harm in double-checking.’
I’ve known kids hide in the tiniest spaces - the drawer under the bed, behind the bath, the gap between the wardrobe and wall. Sometimes they’re not hiding at all - they’ve been hidden. What’s left of them.
‘Is your husband at home?’
Her eyes flicker nervously, looking everywhere but me. ‘No.’
‘Working late?’
‘He left us. About six months ago.’
‘I’m sorry.’ I wait no more than a heartbeat before I ask, ‘Have you got a recent photo of him?’
She leads me into a small cramped living room and points to the mantelpiece. ‘I keep it for Natalie’s sake.’
A pudgy face, florid complexion, receding hair, rimless glasses.
‘Is he fond of Natalie? Does he miss her?’
‘Of course.’ She looks at me directly for the first time. ‘You think Gareth might have . . .?’
‘What’s his current address?’
She finds it for me. I write it down and ask her what car he drives and the registration. Then I point to the phone in the hall. ‘Try everyone you can think of - friends, relatives, neighbours, anyone Natalie might have gone off with. But don’t ring your husband, OK?’
I hurry down the hall to the kitchen, a gloomy sunless room with units made of dark wood. I open the back door. It’s warmer outside than in the cheerless kitchen. I phone HQ and give them Gareth Hunter’s description, address and details of his car, a silver Honda Civic.
Guilty Consciences - [A CWA Anthology] Page 3