by Keith Dixon
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
ON MONDAY, DEREK Evans went missing. Laura called me at eleven o’clock with the news, her voice a little breathless. She told me he’d failed to turn up to work and didn’t phone in. He didn’t answer his mobile phone or e-mails.
‘He never does this,’ she said. ‘You’ve met him. Winner of the boring fart award. He was due for a nine-thirty meeting with the management team and didn’t turn up. And we can’t raise him or his wife at home.’
‘Have you reported it to the police?’
‘They’re on the way. Given what’s happened around here lately, they’re moderately interested.’
I thought for a moment. At this point there was no knowing whether this was a red herring or was directly related to everything else that had been going on with Brands.
‘Where did he live?’ I asked eventually.
Laura gave me an address that she said was between Alderley Edge and Macclesfield—she described a large house set back from the road with solar panels on the roof. I told her I’d go look.
I arrived at the house and parked opposite the entrance to Evans’ drive, which snaked upwards from the road and curved behind a row of leylandii. There were no cars on the drive and no sign yet of the police. Two wooden plant pots stood either side of the front door, their soil neatly turned but containing no shrubs or flowers this late in the year. I rang the bell and knocked loudly on the door. No reply. There was a large wooden gate painted black that stood to one side and presumably led to the back garden, but this was locked too.
The house was one of a row of four built together some time in the 1920s but not attached to each other. They had gables and bow windows and ivy climbing up under their eaves, but were also equipped with satellite dishes and alarm systems in the best suburban style. Through fences at either side of the front garden I could see the front porches of the neighbours—and as I did so I saw an elderly woman looking back at me quite sternly while gripping an umbrella in one hand. She looked like she could turn it into a weapon with the merest flick of her wrist.
‘What do you want?’ she said. ‘They’re not in. You’re not selling dusters, are you? We’re sick and tired of you people coming round selling cleaning materials. Now go on home.’
I put on my warmest smile and walked towards her with a hand raised.
‘Hi,’ I said. ‘I’m Dave—Uncle Derek said he’d be in this morning but I can’t get an answer.’
She continued to look suspicious, but was a little less certain of herself. ‘Who did you say you were?’
‘Dave—Dave Underwood. I haven’t seen Uncle Derek in ages. I rang him last week and he said he’d be in this morning because he was working from home. I’ve come over from Norwich. I farm out there. Have you seen them round this morning?’
She lowered the umbrella and came a little closer to the fence. She was tall and sharp-eyed and was nobody’s fool.
‘I was walking Biggles, my dog, this morning,’ she said. ‘Emily was packing the car.’
‘Crikey,’ I said. ‘That must have been a sudden decision. We were supposed to go out for lunch. What time was this?’
‘I told you, I was walking Biggles. About seven o’clock.’
‘Did Aunt Emily say where they were going? Perhaps I should try and meet them.’
‘She didn’t say and I didn’t ask. We don’t pry into other people’s business around here.’
‘No, quite right,’ I said, looking around. ‘Oh well, if you see them when they come back, tell them Dave called in.’
I made to go, then had an idea and turned back. ‘Oh—I think they have a place in ... where was it? Down South somewhere? Could they have gone away for the weekend?’
She looked puzzled. ‘Well their Brian has a place down in Narberth, but I don’t know that there’s anywhere else.’
‘Of course—Brian. Well never mind. I daresay they’ll be in touch. Thanks.’
I gave her a wave and then left. As I was getting into my car two police Volvos pulled up in front of the house and four uniforms climbed out. I hoped the neighbour gave them the same grief she gave me.
Narberth was in the bottom Western tip of Wales, about 250 miles of motorway and country roads from where I was, and the last place I wanted to be. I drove back to my house, threw some things into a bag, and got back into the car.
