“He’s agreed that I can use the staffroom for a while. If there’s anything at all that any of you would like to talk to me about, well, that’s your chance. It might be something that John said or something different about him. Or it may be that you saw him talking to someone different, someone you didn’t recognise.”
He paused. It wasn’t easy to make any reference to John’s absent father. He couldn’t. Inspector Greene, in an unusual turn of phrase, for him, who didn’t go in for figures of speech, as a rule, said that Joshua Braithwaite was the elephant in the room.
Would any of these lads know of his existence, remember him, even? The lack of response didn’t surprise Brown. No-one spoke up though there was no such thing as silence with boys shuffling and coughing and chairs scraping on the hard wooden floor.
“I also wanted to tell all of you to be vigilant, to be careful.
We don’t think John was snatched but we can’t be sure, so Mr Grieves and I have discussed it, and after school games are cancelled now and you should travel in pairs, or get your parents to drop and collect you from the bus stop.”
There was a few seconds silence, then a buzz of talk and someone mentioned a match.
“Shut up about the match, Braithwaite is missing, you idiot.”
“All of you, be quiet!” Mr Grieves walked across from his chair in the corner behind the blackboard, where he’d looked uncomfortable all the time; someone else was usurping his role at the head of the class. Brown had forgotten the way teachers’
voices changed when they stood in front of a roomful of pupils.
The staff room was comfortably untidy with a smell of pipe smoke and coffee essence.
Mr Grieves had made them both a cup of tea in a brown teapot and offered him a digestive biscuit. Brown shook his head. It was difficult to see where this might lead but Inspector Greene had a theory that boys lived in their own world and that one of the lad’s mates would have much more an idea of what he might have been hiding than either his mother or sister.
Brown wasn’t so sure. It was hard to think of detail but he remembered when his father had died; the misery of it. He couldn’t recall any big talks with Peter Coates or Mike Johnson,
the two lads he’d been closest to. He remembered Mike giving him the Hotspur, forcing it into his hand.
“My dad goes on at me for wasting time reading it as if there’s nowt to do outside on the farm, so you may as well have it.”
That had been kind but as regards him confiding in either of them or getting upset in front of them. No chance.
“Come in.” There had been a rap on the door which Brown had barely registered, back as he was, in his old primary school.
The boy who came into the staff room was tall, too tall for his skinny frame which had yet to fill out. He looked around the room before his eyes settled on his teacher’s face.
“Freddie Earnshaw isn’t in class, sir.”
“What?”
The teacher’s voice had risen and Brown had a chilly sensation down his spine.
“What do you mean, he isn’t in school? Isn’t he on the register?
Didn’t Mr Evans notice if he wasn’t there when the register was called?”
Brown saw the boy recoil and swallow hard. Whatever else he couldn’t remember about his own schooldays, he remembered that feeling well, being put on the spot, being made to feel in the wrong when you hadn’t done anything.
“I’m glad you came and told us,” he said. “That’s a big help.”
“That’s all right.”
“Look, sit down for a minute and tell us when you noticed about Freddie? I’m sorry. I should have asked your name.”
“This is Stephen Potts. Go on, then, Potts, sit down,” Mr Grieves indicated a hard, cheap wooden chair, on which someone had placed a cushion with a crochet cover. Someone’s attempt to add a touch of homeliness. Or someone’s wife’s attempt.
“He did come in on the bus. But he skipped out shortly after the register. He looked…I don’t know, upset. But, the thing is people kept on at him, saying that he must know summat. He and John Braithwaite got off the bus at the same place, Pinner’s Cross but they were friends too.”
“Do you think he knew something about John’s disappearance?”
The boy didn’t instantly answer Brown’s question. He was a likeable lad, intelligent, wanting to help. Maybe it was better
that Greene had sent him to the school, because he had a bit more patience with people. He focused back on the lad,
“I don’t know, erm,” he shot a look at the teacher, “Officer but if anyone knew it would be him. John and Freddie hang around together more than almost anyone else at the school.
There was something very wrong here. Brown had taken a young PC
with him, on his visit to Freddie Earnshaw’s home. It was what appeared to be a farm cottage, one of a pair, near -maybe a mile away from the Braithwaite’s. To make the place even more desolate the neighbouring cottage looked empty. The Braithwaite’s looked like someone’s home though, a proper home.
“What a dump, “the young officer said in a low voice, as they went up the weed filled path, from the gate that looked as though it was more or less wedged permanently open. It had a faded wooden sign, Honeysuckle Cottage, which seemed like a poor joke, when you saw the state of the place.
“It is but keep that thought to yourself.” Brown sounded pompous even to his own ears but he wanted this to go right. Inspector Greene’s jaw had tightened and his lips narrowed when he heard that a second boy appeared to have gone missing.
“Maybe it’s a good sign, sir,”
“I know—the same thought had crossed my mind, Brown. It makes it more likely that John disappeared of his own accord. Can’t take that for granted, though, lad. That could be a dangerous assumption. The one sure thing is that we have to find this second boy, fast.”
Hence, he and young Walters were sent to Freddie Earnhaw’s house.
The woman looked unwell. Her hair was greasy and uncombed, her skin shiny and lacking in colour. Her eyes looked from one to the other of them and then past them, down the path, as though she was looking for someone else.
“Is it Mrs Earnshaw?”
She nodded, her eyes still looking away from them.
“Would it be possible to come in for a minute?”
“Why, what is it? Is there something wrong?” She was saying the right thing but it was as though she was only partly paying attention, nor was she as alarmed as you’d expect someone to be if they found two policemen on their doorstep.
“Not as far as we know but, we want to…” Brown hesitated. It was getting very hot and talking to this woman was not proving easy.
“Look, it would be better if we could step inside, just for a few minutes.”
“The place is in a state.”
She was too thin. The grey skirt that hung below her knees, was loose and she wore a long-sleeved jumper as though there wasn’t enough flesh on her bones to keep her warm. She had a look about her of someone who had given up caring, yet you got the feeling that she could be nice-looking, in a different life, though.
“Come in, then,” She turned and walked back into the cottage.
They exchanged a look and followed her.
It was dark after the sunshine outside and it smelt stale. Brown wished he hadn’t been so insistent about coming inside, it would have been better to talk outside in the fresh air.
“Sit down,” she indicated a couple of chairs, neither of which was empty,
“Just put the clothes on the table.
Both of them removed a jumble of clothes from the chairs and sat down
“Your son is a good friend of John Braithwaite,” Brown said. He wanted to get out of this house as soon as possible. Its chaos and the grubby smell were a bit much to take on a hot day. It was as clear as the nose on your face that this woman wasn’t coping with life. He might talk to Inspector Greene about that but they had to concentrat
e on finding John. Freddie, now too apparently.
“They’re friends, yes. John comes round here, messes about with them Airfix model things.” The woman yawned. Brown fought his irritation. He had a completely bad-tempered urge to shock the woman.
“Your son, Freddie did arrive at school this morning but he sneaked away again shortly after.”
She looked at him, blinked twice and something behind her expression made him ashamed of himself.
“Our Freddie run off? No, he wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“He’s good friends with John, though, and you know John didn’t come home from school yesterday.” Their enquiry the previous night had been very brief. At that stage, they had all believed there would be a simple explanation for John’s disappearance.
They hadn’t believed it was a true disappearance, not truly.
“Have you any idea where he might have gone, where either of them might have gone, or why?”
She put a hand up to her hair, pushed it behind her ears, in a quick angry gesture. There was some negative feeling coming from her and he couldn’t make out what it was. Maybe she was depressed. Lots of people suffered with it, something he wouldn’t have ever dreamt if he hadn’t become a policeman. Or maybe, it was poverty, simple worry about never having enough. Was there a man in this family? Maybe, better not ask, for now.
“I don’t. I just know that my Freddie wouldn’t take off like that. He has no reason to and he wouldn’t leave me…leave me on my own like this. I hardly see his brother since he’s taken up with that girl.”
A piercing scream broke into the almost somnolent grubby air of the small room and Brown jumped with a most unpleasant sensation, as though he had been shocked by electricity.
The woman sighed but didn’t make a move to get up and Brown felt a lurch in the base of his stomach. What was going on in this house?
“Is that your baby, Mrs Earnshaw?”
“That’s her. She’s been asleep almost an hour so I suppose I should count myself lucky. It’s the longest she’s been quiet in the past months.”
Brown’s neck was hot now, his regulation shirt too tight and scratchy though the room they were in wasn’t warm.
“Should you go to her, maybe?” It felt cheeky, wrong of him to tell her what to do but he’d never felt so out of his depth and there was something in the rising screams of a baby stirring up a matching rise in his own nervous tension. It was unbearable, that’s what it was and if this bloody woman didn’t stir herself soon, he’d go himself.
She looked at him and in her eyes, just for a few seconds, there was an absence that was almost eerie. It was chilling. Then she got up slowly and went out of the room. He should go, go back to the station, busy himself with the absolute load of paperwork that the disappearance of two boys would cause. The school, all the boys, the teachers would have to be interviewed. It was, maybe a good sign. The boys had run away together or at least there was a conspiracy going on between them and Freddie knew something about John’s disappearance making it much less likely that the boy had been taken against his will.
He sat still though in the oppressive room. He wasn’t going anywhere until he saw the baby.
She came back into the room, Mrs Earnshaw, holding a still crying baby, holding her as though she didn’t want to. Brown had seen woman holding babies before, he wasn’t all that green but he’d
never seen anything quite like this. There was a strong smell of ammonia, almost enough to make him choke. The baby was well-fed though, chubby legs around her mother’s body, a hand gripping the grey jumper.
He got up to go. Dissatisfied, uneasy about the situation in this cottage. There were questions he wanted to ask, maybe should have asked but he couldn’t put this family at the top of his list.
There were others at the station, in the village who would know about the family. Like, where was the father because Brown was sure there was no other adult in the house?
“Find Freddie, won’t you,” She had trailed to the door with him, the baby, quietened now, staring up at him with big, dark blue eyes.
He smiled at the baby, and patted her hand because that’s the sort of thing people did with babies. Her chuckle startled him and made his smile widen. It wasn’t a new baby, maybe ten or twelve months old, and whatever misery was in the house hadn’t yet stamped the joy out of her.
“I’d be lost without him, you see. He’s a good lad.”
Chapter Five
“I won’t keep you long, Reverend. I know you’ll be more than ready for a wee rest. Long night at the hospital. It was good of you to go with Reverend Bird.”
“Someone had to go and it was best that Brother Malcolm stay here and break the news to the others.”
“So, I’ll start by asking you what it is you get out of this retreat?”
Henry blinked. His eyes were gritty and if he didn’t get his head down soon he’d go the opposite way, be unable to sleep at all. It had happened to him like that before, in France, especially. You forgot what it felt like—the effects of extreme tiredness. The inspector was going about his fishing in quite a direct way.
Surely he knew what a retreat was.
“There’s two strands to being a vicar, or I suppose you’d be more familiar with a minister, being Scottish?” He looked at the other man who nodded, frowned, maybe surprised at Henry’s willingness to get into a theological discussion at this time of the day and with no sleep. But, it was better to give the policeman what he wanted and have the damn interview over.
“You can get very caught up in people’s problems and in the priestly functions, funerals, weddings, baptisms, the meetings and talking to school children and so on. You can run the danger of losing sight of the reasons you became a priest in the first
place, the spiritual aspect. So, you’ll find that many clergymen do go on retreat to take the chance, away from the parish to work on the spiritual side of being a priest. Sorry for the clumsiness of the way I’ve put it but as you say, it’s been a long night.”
“I won’t keep you then, Reverend beyond asking you how you’d sum up the other people here in St Chad’s.” What a question. How could you answer something like that, honestly? Without showing your own weaknesses and irrational dislikes of other people. It was asking you to be a sneak. No point in getting angry. No, he really couldn’t sum up the energy needed to get angry.
Out of nowhere, Henry felt slightly drunk—removed from reality.
It wasn’t unpleasant. There was something else as well, a recklessness. Out of character for him. Throw discretion to the wind—wasn’t that how the saying went? He’d probably regret it.
“There was an atmosphere in the house. Antagonism between Stephen Bird and Fallon. Bird’s nerves are bad, it aggravated Fallon. He wasn’t tolerant. Words were exchanged.”
“When did this happen?” Henry started—the policeman’s voice sounded as if it was coming through a long tube.
“A day ago. No, two days ago. Fallon lost his patience with him and told him to buck up. It was a bit harsh.”
“Now, Fallon is missing. Hmm. Anything else ye can tell us, Reverend?”
“A sheep as a lamb. Sorry, thinking aloud, there. I was thinking I may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb. I noticed something going on between Fiona Elliott, the housekeeper, the woman I was speaking to, just now, and David Fallon, or thought I did. It might not be anything …anything…it might be nothing at all. I got the impression that they didn’t only meet a few days ago, for the first time.”
If he didn’t get his head down soon, the Lord knew what type of tittle-tattle and conjecture he’d come up with. Something held him back from talking about the canon. Add a paranoid elderly clergyman to the mix and the inspector would think he’d found himself in a madhouse.
He got up from the hard wooden seat.
“You’ll have to save any more questions, for now, Inspector Jardine, I have to get a few hours’ sleep.
John
&
nbsp; His memories of his father were so strange. It wasn’t memories, so much as feelings—a craving for something to happen that would make things good, like they should be, like he thought maybe they
had been—once. He wasn’t even sure that was a real memory.
Sometimes it got mixed up in his mind and it became about fathers he’d read about and what he saw in other people’s families. It was complicated. His father had treated his mother badly and that made John’s chest fill with a burning, explosive feeling, which, when it subsided, left him spent and sad. But, the truth of it was, if his father ever needed him, If John ever got the chance to save his father, for instance, he would go in the blink of an eye.
Yorkshire
“Bill, I’m speaking to you.” His mother’s voice was sharp. It was rare that she became annoyed with him. She was an easy-going woman.
“Sorry, Mam. Work.” She sat down, put the dish of potatoes on the table—with a bang.
“Mam, it’s difficult. Sorry, I drifted off for a minute. I see things sometimes, can’t talk about them, can’t forget them.
Maybe, I’m making a mistake by keeping my mouth shut…it’s like you can’t win.”
“Is this job getting too much, for you, Bill?” If only she hadn’t said that. That was about the worse thing—the last thing, he needed to hear at the moment. He had enough of his own doubts.
He didn’t mean for the chair to fall back and hit the floor. That was way more than he meant.
He had tried to stick up for himself and all he’d done was act like a child and prove his mother’s words right. The job really must be too much for him if he was throwing a tantrum like a child.
“Sorry,” He picked the chair up, sat it gently right-way-up and hesitated before sitting down.
He drew in his breath. “The job isn’t too much. I had a difficult day yesterday and having a young lad missing is bad. Every hour that passes it looks worse.”
[Edith Horton 05] - Murder in Retreat Page 6
