A Dish Served Cold

by Diney Costeloe

  Roger drove home severely shaken and by the time he got there he was in dire need of a drink. It was an evening when Karen was coming over to catch up on his secretarial work. Her bike was outside and she was in the kitchen drinking tea and reading the paper. She looked up in alarm at his explosive entrance. “Dad? Whatever is the matter?”

  “The police have found my car. It’s got blood-stained clothing in it. I think they think that I’ve murdered Pam!”

  “Murdered Pam? But that’s crazy!”

  “I know that. You know that. But they think because there are these blood-stained clothes in the car, that I’ve killed her.” He reached for the whisky bottle and slurped a generous measure into a tumbler and downed it in one gulp. He poured another and having downed that as well flopped onto a chair and stared bleakly across at his daughter. “The car seats were blood-stained as well. They found the car, dumped in a quarry somewhere and they’ve taken it in to do forensic tests.”

  “Did you tell them she’d been back?” asked Karen.

  “No, of course I didn’t,” Roger snapped.

  “But for Christ’s sake, dad,” expostulated Karen, “why not? It would prove that you didn’t kill her when she first disappeared.”

  “It doesn’t prove anything if nobody saw her and nobody did. It doesn’t prove that I didn’t kill her that night,” said Roger grimly, “the night she came back. If they knew she’d been here that night they’d think I’d done it then and taken her body in the car to dump somewhere, before dumping the car and reporting it stolen. There’s blood in the car, Karen.”

  “But why on earth would you have reported the car missing if you had used it to take her body somewhere.”

  “So that if and when it was found, it would have been reported stolen and the blood-stains would be down to the thieves. Obviously these blood-stains must be so bad that they can’t be removed, so the car had to be dumped. They’ll think I just trying to cover myself for when the car was found.”

  “But we know she’s alive,” cried Karen. “Why didn’t you just tell them it was Pam who took the car?”

  “They wouldn’t have believed me. Not now.”

  “They might. Dad, you’ve got to tell them.”

  “Karen,” Roger spoke slowly as if to an idiot, “they think she’s dead.”

  “But she isn’t,” cried Karen again. “We know she’s alive.”

  “We know she was alive,” agreed Roger, “but something could have happened to her since she left here. She could have been attacked, someone else may have killed her and dumped the car. Just not me.”

  “Perhaps it isn’t her blood at all,” suggested Karen after a moment. “Was she bleeding when she left.”

  “I don’t know” groaned her father. “I was out cold, remember?”

  “And whose clothes? Hers?”

  “I don’t know,” repeated Roger. “They said there was a shirt and a fleece. They could be hers. I think she might have been wearing a fleece when I saw her, but I can’t really remember. Oh hell, Karen, what am I going to do?” Roger tipped more whisky into his glass.

  “Well that won’t help,” Karen said briskly, moving the bottle out of reach. “You need a clear head to think this through. Now, where were you on the Friday night before you came home…at your usual poker game?”

  “No, I went out to dinner.”

  “Good, then whoever you were with can give you an alibi.”

  Roger had a momentary vision of Charleigh strolling into the Hatfield Road nick and vouching for him and he gave a mirthless laugh. “No chance of that,” he said. “I was with someone, but she’d never go near a police station in a million years.”

  “But the restaurant? They’d know you were there. Somebody would remember you. Did you make a reservation?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “Well, there you are then.”

  “But later, when I came home, there is no one to confirm what happened then.”

  “Where was the car found, Dad?”

  “Somewhere in Belshire.”

  “So you couldn’t have driven all the way there and been home in time to report the car missing in the morning, could you?” Karen pointed out.

  “No, probably not….” began Roger, but Karen interrupted him,

  warming to her idea. “No, Dad, listen. By the time you’d driven to wherever it is, there would have been no trains back. And how are you supposed to have got from this quarry, to a station. The quarry must be fairly remote, or someone would have found the car sooner.”

  “Maybe,” Roger sighed, “but unless I can prove that I still had the car on Friday evening they could say it had all happened the day before. Then I’d have had time.”

  “Well, can you? Did anyone see you in it? Did you give a lift to anyone? Was it parked outside the house?”

  “Karen, for God’s sake, how do I know who saw it or where? It was dark when I got home on Friday evening, it’s unlikely anyone noticed the car in the drive.”

  “Well, the best thing we can do is to try and find her,” said Karen. “We’ll have to work out where she might have gone. Now what clues have we got?”

  “She could be anywhere,” Roger said, retrieving the whisky bottle and refilling his glass.

  “No, Dad, think. Exactly where was the car found. What did the police say?”

  “Some beauty spot in Belshire, a look out I think they said. I can’t remember.”

  Karen reached for her handbag and pulling out her i-pad, flipped it open. Quickly she googled Belshire, and clicking on Natural History and Countryside, she discovered several possible sites. There was a description of each, detailing parking, picnic and toilet facilities, and a picture showing exactly why each place had made it on to the list of beauty spots. There was also a map of each place, showing footpaths, bridle-paths and mountain bike trails. On the fourth she looked at there was an old quarry at the bottom of a hill and a lookout at the top. It was called Spar Hill Lookout. Karen smiled with grim satisfaction.

  This must be the place, she thought. Dad said a quarry and a lookout. Quickly she flicked through the other places listed but none of them had both quarry and lookout.

  Roger ignoring her, was sitting at the kitchen table, working his way down the bottle of scotch.

  “Here we are, Dad,” Karen said turning the screen towards him, “look, Spar Hill Lookout. Was that the name the police told you?”

  Roger glanced at the screen and shrugged. “Something like that.”

  “Well, I think it must be,” Karen said. “It mentions a quarry and a car park and it seems to be in the right area.” She got to her feet. “I’m just going upstairs to print this off,” she said. “I’ll have to use your computer.”

  Roger grunted and poured himself more whisky. To him it all seemed pointless, what good was knowing exactly where the car had been found going to do them?.

  With a look of exasperation, Karen left him to his whisky and went up to the office. As she switched on the computer and put in the Porter-Jackson password she suddenly remembered the replacement debit card, hidden at the back of Pam’s bureau, and an idea sprang, ready-formed, into her head. The new debit card was there. If she, Karen, took it and went shopping with it, perhaps draw money from a hole in the wall, it would look as if Pam was using it.

  Surely, she thought, that’ll convince the police that Pam’s alive. I’ll begin tomorrow, but I won’t tell Dad. Then if the police ask him about it, he won’t have to act.

  When she had printed out the information she had found about Spar Hill Lookout, she called up a map of the whole county and pinpointed Spar Hill itself.

  It’s not far from the county town of Belcaster, she thought. And if Pam’s living there, she’ll be difficult to find.

  She printed out the map, closed down the computer and went downstairs to find her father. He was asleep in the kitchen, his head pillowed on his arms at the kitchen table. The whisky bottle was empty beside him. Karen looked at him in disgust an
d left him to it.

  She now had two plans to work on. One was to try and discover if Pam had any friends in the Belcaster area, and the other was to find the debit card and put it to good use as soon as she could. She went to Pam’s little bureau and opened the lid. The debit card was soon safely in her pocket and she turned her attention to the rest of the desk, looking for Pam’s address book. She found an old one, with a battered leather cover and dog-eared pages, filled with many crossings out and altered addresses. Taking it to a chair she sat down and began to work her way through, looking for anyone who lived anywhere near Belcaster. Some of the numbers listed in the book were so old they had the names of exchanges beside them instead of numerical codes. There were pages of ‘A’s, not many ‘B’s, quite a few ‘C’s. Karen didn’t recognise any of the names. It was half way through the ‘D’s that she came across Sylvia Durston. St Jude’s Cottage Stone Winton Nr Belcaster.

  “Bingo!” she said aloud. “She has to be there...or at least to have been there. It must be where she went after she left the car.” Karen looked at the number. She picked up the receiver and was about to dial the number when she put it down again.

  I must decide exactly what I am going to say, she thought, so that I don’t say the wrong thing and put them off. Should I say who I am? No, probably not. If Pam is there she won’t want to talk to me.

  For several moments she considered her approach and finally decided to keep it straightforward. She would ring and ask for Pam by name. If she were asked for her own name she would say she was Pam’s friend, Marilyn. Karen couldn’t remember the surname, but she didn’t think that would matter, and once she had Pam on the phone and was sure it was Pam, she would ring off. Then they could give the address to the police and the whole matter would be closed.

  Karen looked at her watch. It was half-past eight, a very respectable time for anyone to ring a friend. She drew a deep breath and dialled the number.

  The phone rang several times before it was answered. A woman’s voice said the number. Not Pam’s voice, though.

  “Oh, good evening,” she said in her politest tone. “Is Pam Smith there please?”

  “Who?” asked the voice.

  “Pam Smith. I believe she’s been staying with you.”

  “No, I’m sorry, there’s no one here by that name. You must have a wrong number.”

  “It was the number I was given, “ Karen replied determinedly. “I’m a friend of hers. Who am I speaking to please?”

  “My name’s Sylvia Durston, if that’s any of your business, and I know no one by the name of Pam Smith, I’m sorry. Goodnight.”

  The line went dead, and Karen was left listening to silence.

  Damn, she thought, that had seemed so promising.

  She returned to the address book, but there was no one else listed who lived, as far as she could tell, within a hundred miles of Belcaster. She sat in the chair chewing her thumb nail. Sylvia Durston was the only one who might have seen Pam, and yet when she answered Karen’s questions there had been absolutely no hesitation. Karen opened the book at the ‘A’s again, wondering if she had missed anyone. The first entry was so scored through that she could make nothing of it, and then her eye was caught by a name written on the inside cover of the book. Pamela Ford. It was written in schoolgirl writing, and Karen realised then how long ago this book had been started.

  Perhaps I should have asked for Pamela Ford, she thought dejectedly. Perhaps that was who she knew Pam as, not Pam Smith.

  I could ring again, Karen thought, but decided against it. If they had no luck anywhere else, she could always ride up to this Stone Winton place and have a look for herself. In the meantime, on Saturday, she would take herself up to London do some shopping. Pam could easily be in London and Karen herself was less likely to be remembered in the crowds of Oxford Street while she made her purchases. She could hear the faint rumble of Roger’s snores from the kitchen and murmured, “You sleep it off, Dad, and don’t worry. I’ll sort it for you.”

  Chapter 18

  Roger woke late the next morning with a thumping headache and the foul taste of stale alcohol in his mouth. He had finally dragged himself up to bed in the small hours and it was late when he surfaced again. He was in no hurry to go to work and he didn’t reach the shop until half way through the morning.

  As he opened the door at last, a tall man in a green Barbour jacket stepped in behind him. He had a thin face and rather protruding pale grey eyes and as he came in, so close behind Roger, Roger instinctively backed away. Without a word the man swung the open sign back to closed and slipped the catch on the door.

  “What the hell…?” began Roger, but the man interrupted

  “Mr Smith?” The man spoke through thin lips, and there was no hint of a smile in his enquiry. For no reason Roger knew a shiver of fear as he looked at him, but he answered bravely enough.

  “Yes. Who the hell are you?”

  “I come from some friends, mutual friends, with a message,” the man said softly.

  “Oh, who’s that then?” Roger tried to sound confident, but he felt suddenly sick.

  The man’s pale eyes bored into him without expression. “They’re very disappointed that you’ve drawn the attention of the police,” he said.

  “The police?” echoed Roger.

  “They were seen here yesterday,” responded the man, “in your shop.”

  “They only came about my car,” Roger protested. “It was stolen and they came to tell me it had been found…that’s all.”

  The man continued as if Roger hadn’t spoken. “Very disappointed indeed. It would be most unfortunate if there was any question of the police becoming interested in your business.” He spoke in a cultured voice, but for some reason that heightened the menace of his words.

  “They won’t, they aren’t,” Roger assured him hurriedly. “It was only about my car, really.”

  “This is just a friendly warning,” the man went on. It was as if he were programmed to deliver the warning whatever comments or excuses Roger might make. “If the police started to look into your business affairs, some action would have to be taken.”

  “Action?” repeated Roger, his mouth dry and his guts churning.

  “Unpleasant though it would be, if your little operation here were to jeopardise our arrangements, your services would have to be…dispensed with. Permanently.” His pale eyes held Roger’s for a moment and then he added, “So, just a friendly warning, eh?” It was anything but friendly, but before Roger could reply the man unlocked the door and stepped out into the sunshine.

  Shaking, Roger locked the door behind him and then staggered back into his office. He felt weak at the knees and slumped into his chair. The man in the Barbour, despite his respectable dress and cultured tones, was a professional frightener.

  Roger shuddered, thinking that he certainly knew his job. But who did the man work for? Roger had assumed that Gord was just a burglar who needed a reliable fence, but his dealings with Gord must be part of something bigger. Gord, himself, must work for someone else. Someone had seen the police come to the shop yesterday and this visit from the frightener was the result. He had not seen Charleigh or Gord for some time, and he now hoped fervently that they would never visit his shop again. Even the thought of Charleigh wasn’t enough to dispel the fear that was threatening to smother him. After the visit from the man in the Barbour, Roger found himself constantly looking over his shoulder, even in the safety of his own office.

  It was only three days later that Roger received another visit from the police. This time they came to his home. He had just got in and had decided to update some of his more private paperwork, when the doorbell rang. Hurriedly closing the safe again, Roger came downstairs from the office and opened the front door thinking it was probably Karen who had forgotten her key.

  A stab of fear went through him when he saw Inspector Crozier standing in the porch, and with him, DS Grant. The last people he wanted to coming to the house were th
e police.

  Good God, Roger thought panic-stricken, suppose they are watching the house!

  His eyes flicked nervously over his visitors’ shoulders and scanned the street. He was relieved to see that it seemed to be empty and that the officers were plain clothes and had come in an unmarked car.

  “Good evening, Mr Smith,” Crozier said. “I wonder if we might come in for a word with you?” As before he extended his warrant card and then said, “Your remember my sergeant, DS Grant?” Grant was holding out his brief as well. Roger didn’t even glance at them, but with eyes still scanning the street, said brusquely, “What do you want now?”

  Crozier had seen the look of naked fear cross Roger’s face when he had opened the door and was surprised at such a reaction. He stored it away for future reference.

  “Well, sir,” he said. “It might be better to explain inside. May we come in?”

  Roger stood aside to let them in and having given another glance up and down the road, he shut the front door. He led the way to the kitchen. Taking one look through the door he backed out again and said, “We’d be better in here.” He took the two men into a living room. It smelt stale and stuffy, as if the windows had not been opened for weeks, and Crozier noticed cobwebs festooning the corners. Dust lay thick upon the coffee table and it was quite clear that no one had cleaned the room for months. Pam Smith had left at the end of February, it was now the late May and Crozier doubted that anyone had even shaken a duster at the place since she’d gone.

  The three men stood in the middle of the room and when Roger did not invite the policemen to be seated, Crozier said, “Shall we all sit down, sir? Then we can talk properly.”

  Roger waved his hand vaguely in the direction of chairs and a sofa and took a seat himself on a chair by the window. When they were all three seated he said abruptly, “So, what do you want?

  “We’ve found a watch in your car, sir. We were hoping you might be able to identify it for us.”