Broadland

by David Blake

  Caught off guard, finding he’d taken offence at the remark, and with his ego dented slightly, Tanner said, ‘Not your sort of thing, I take it?’

  ‘Sorry,’ Jenny replied, feeling both stupid and guilty. The last thing she’d meant to do was to insult the man’s car! But she was nervous, and had a dangerous habit of saying the wrong thing whenever she was. Making derogatory remarks was hardly the most sensible thing to do, especially when the man in question was a senior ranking officer who she was attempting to win over. ‘I didn’t mean anything by that. It’s just that it’s, well, unusual, I suppose; and the go-faster stripe down the side does have something very Eighties about it.’

  Realising she’d probably done it again, she attempted to fill in the second hole she’d just dug for herself, adding, ‘But it’s very nice though!’

  Tanner took a moment to look along the thin red and grey stripe that ran horizontally down both sides of the car. He’d never much cared for them. Neither did he like the so-called “flying buttresses”, a design element unique to the XJS which consisted of two concave shapes of steel that flowed down from the low roof, either side of the rear window, only to disappear into the rear lighting blocks. He’d not thought about it before, but the girl was right; despite having been originally designed in the early 1970s, the car did have a distinct Eighties feel to it, and not in a good way. However, his ego wouldn’t allow himself to agree with her, so instead he said, ‘I must admit, it does look better when it’s been cleaned.’

  ‘You mean…less Eighties?’ said Jenny, half frowning, half smiling.

  Unable to be anything but amused by her comment, returning the smile, Tanner said, ‘About a decade or so, yes!’

  He opened the door to climb inside, and Jenny joined him.

  As he eased the car out of the parking space, he said, ‘You’ll have to direct me.’

  ‘No problem,’ replied Jenny, as she secured her own seatbelt.

  By that time she’d reached the conclusion that she’d better stop trying to flirt with the man who was now, however temporarily, her immediate superior. Flirting had never been one of her core strengths. Whenever she tried, she always end up saying things that in her mind sounded funny, but when heard out loud were often just offensive.

  As the new DI looked over his shoulder to reverse out, she took the opportunity to steal a close-up look at his face. Despite the fact that he must be a good fifteen years older than her, probably nearer twenty, and that he could hardly be considered successful, given that he was still only a Detective Inspector, and one who’d moved up from London to the Norfolk Broads, instead of the other way round – something she’d been hoping to do herself, in the not too distant future – combined with the fact that he drove a car straight out of some sort of sad Eighties TV mini-series, she couldn’t help but find him attractive. He wasn’t even all that good looking; he’d have had his work cut out if he’d been a fashion model. At least he was thin, she thought. Well, thin-ish. He’d managed to keep hold of most of his hair, although there were clear signs that it had started to recede, and it was going noticeably grey. But there was something about him which she found herself drawn to. His deep-set brown eyes made him seem both intelligent and vulnerable, and the corners of his mouth turned naturally upwards whenever he talked to her, giving her the impression that he liked her. He also seemed to share her rather odd sense of humour.

  As he turned back to face the front, she glanced over at his profile. His nose is too big, she decided, but she was being picky. For a middle aged man he was good-looking enough. No wedding ring, she noted, as he turned the steering wheel; but then she saw the hint of white where there perhaps had been one.

  OK, I really don’t need a middle aged divorcee who’s probably got three teenage children knocking about the place, she thought, and put her interest in him down to the fact that he was from London, where she wanted to live at some point; that and the fact that she was currently between boyfriends.

  Reaching the end of the carpark, Tanner asked, ‘Which way?’ and turned to catch her staring at his left hand. It was either that or she was looking at the speedo, which seemed unlikely, as they’d just come to a halt.

  Feeling as if she’d been caught in the act of mentally assessing whether or not he was boyfriend material, which in fairness was exactly what she’d been doing, she snapped back into work mode and said, ‘Oh, right, and then right again at the roundabout.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  INDICATING TO TURN right as directed, he asked, ‘Whereabouts are we going?’

  ‘It’s not far,’ Jenny said. ‘They live in one of the new-build houses on the other side of the railway line.’

  ‘And he’s going to be home, is he, given that it’s ten o’clock on a Monday morning?’

  ‘He’s an IT manager. He says he works from home most of the time.’

  ‘What about his wife? What does she do?’

  ‘She’s the manager of The Bittern. It’s a pub, just down by the river.’

  ‘I’m assuming she hasn’t turned up there?’

  ‘He said that he had called to check, but she wasn’t expected in today.’

  ‘How about yesterday?’

  ‘Not then either. She has Sundays and Mondays off. The last time any of the staff saw her was when she left work on Saturday night.’

  ‘Do we know what time that was?’

  ‘Not yet, no. I’m going by what he said on the phone. I’ve yet to confirm this with anyone from the pub.’

  Jenny felt herself beginning to relax in the XJS’s comfortable cream leather seats. It was much easier to talk to the new DI from London about work related matters than what she did or did not think about his rather odd choice of car. One thing it did offer was an ultra-smooth ride, certainly more so than hers. It also seemed to attract attention. She’d already seen one old guy turning around to look at it as they drifted past. She couldn’t remember anyone having ever turned to look at her car.

  As the road weaved around, up ahead she saw the Wroxham Railway Bridge, which led trains into the nearby station. Sitting forwards, she said, ‘Once you’re under the bridge, it’s the first turning on your left. River View Lane.’

  Tanner pulled onto an untarmacked track, bounded on both sides by recently ploughed fields; the one on the left led towards a small wooded area with the railway line just beyond that, whilst the other drifted away into the horizon, where it disappeared into a grey, featureless sky.

  As they drove down the track, they disturbed a flock of crows which lifted off the freshly overturned earth and flew towards a dark outline of still leafless trees that lay up ahead.

  ‘Keep going to the end,’ directed Jenny. ‘His house should be on the corner.’

  Before long, Tanner saw that behind the row of trees was a line of pristine white town houses, set back from a wide dark river. Beyond that were more trees, which were like all the others; bare-branched but displaying the first signs of early spring.

  ‘It’s certainly remote!’ remarked Tanner, as he looked around for somewhere to park.

  ‘It’s one of many new-build estates that the council has been approving recently,’ said Jenny. ‘Nobody around here likes them much, but there doesn’t seem to be a lot we can do about it.’

  Tanner elected to park on the grass verge. He unclipped his seatbelt and stepped out, and took a moment to take in his surroundings. He could see the appeal of wanting to live there. The site had a clear, unobstructed view of what looked like a quiet stretch of river. Apart from the houses, there wasn’t a single other building: no shops, garages, nothing. Perhaps it was a little too quiet for his liking. The only noise was the sound of the river, and the occasional caw from the crows, echoing down from the overlooking trees.

  Tanner and Jenny headed over towards the first of the houses, all of which were identical in appearance: two storeys, whitewashed walls, gleaming black front doors, and grey slate roofs.

  In the drive were two cars, both parked
facing inwards. One was a gleaming new silver Porsche 911 and the other an older red Audi TT.

  After briefly glancing in through the cars’ windows as they passed on their way to the front door, Tanner said, ‘They seem to be doing all right for themselves.’

  ‘No children, though,’ observed Jenny.

  ‘Probably not,’ agreed Tanner, pleased that she’d noticed that neither of the cars had been fitted with child seats, and the insides of both appeared to be too clean to have been used as regular family run-abouts.

  He pressed the doorbell.

  Taking a half step backwards, they stood in silence, listening to the chime ring out inside the house.

  It wasn’t long before they heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the door was opened by a well-groomed man in his late twenties wearing tanned chinos and a jumper. He was thin, but not tall, had a light tan, short sandy brown hair and wore a pair of thin rimmed glasses.

  ‘Mr Simon Richardson?’ enquired Tanner, as he retrieved his formal police identification from out of his inside jacket pocket.

  ‘I am, yes,’ replied the man, with a clipped accent that had an irritated edge to it, as if the call at the door was keeping him from something more important inside.

  ‘I’m Detective Inspector Tanner, Norfolk Police. This is my colleague…’

  Realising he couldn’t remember Jenny’s surname, nor her rank, Tanner stopped and glanced at her.

  She must have been expecting as much, as she held up her own ID. ‘Detective Constable Evans. We spoke on the phone, Mr Richardson.’

  ‘Of course, yes,’ said the man, changing his demeanour from one of mild irritation, to someone showing concern for his missing wife. ‘I don’t suppose there’s been any news?’

  ‘Not yet, no,’ replied Jenny, and looked meaningfully at Tanner.

  Assuming that was a signal for him to take over, Tanner asked, ‘May we come in?’

  ‘Please do,’ said the man, and turned to lead them down a narrow hallway towards the back of the house. There the room opened up into an average-sized open-plan, ultra-modern kitchen, with bi-fold patio doors, angular cream-coloured units, a white tiled floor and a view out into a small, recently fenced garden.

  ‘Can I get you anything to drink?’

  ‘We’re fine, thank you,’ declined Tanner, with brisk formality, as he glanced around the kitchen.

  On the dark grey work surface, beside the sink, was a single white bowl with a spoon resting inside it. To his left, on a kitchen island, was a wine-stained glass sat beside an untidy pile of letters and magazines.

  Apart from the fact that there seemed to be only one of everything, there didn’t seem to be anything out of place.

  Tanner kicked off the proceedings. ‘We understand that you think your wife may be missing.’

  ‘That was why I phoned the police, yes,’ replied Richardson, with just a hint of sarcasm.

  Seeing that Jenny had taken her notebook out, and was already poised with a pen, Tanner continued, ‘When did you see her last?’

  ‘Friday morning, when she left for work.’

  ‘But you didn’t report her as being missing until today?’

  ‘Well, no, but I’ve been away for the weekend, playing golf. I left on Friday evening, before she came back from work.’

  ‘What time was that?’

  ‘Around eight o’clock.’

  ‘And she hadn’t come back from work by then?’

  ‘No, but she works at the Bittern. She’s the manager there, which means she inevitably ends up staying late.’

  ‘So you left for your golfing weekend on Friday evening, and you haven’t heard from her since?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, no.’

  ‘No calls, texts, emails, messages?’

  ‘Nothing,’ confirmed Richardson.

  ‘So you’re saying that you didn’t have any contact with your wife for three whole days, and yet you only thought to call the police this morning?’

  ‘Well, yes, but that wasn’t unusual.’

  ‘Forgive me, but it does sound a little unusual.’

  ‘To you, maybe, but we’ve never been one of those couples who spend every waking hour together. We’ve always enjoyed a degree of independence, even after we married. We don’t even share the same circle of friends; so if one of us goes away, we don’t necessarily stay in touch.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Tanner, but he still thought it sounded odd, especially for a couple who couldn’t have been married for all that long. Making a mental note to come back to it, he asked, ‘Did she drive to work?’

  ‘She preferred to walk. It’s only about half a mile away. Even closer if you take the short cut down by the river.’

  ‘And which way did she normally go?’

  ‘It would depend on the weather and the time of year. In the winter she was supposed to take the long way round. There are no street lights along the towpath, you see, and she never felt very safe going that way. However, saying that, more often than not she’d end up walking back by the river anyway.’

  ‘And you say she worked on Saturday?’

  ‘According to the pub she did, yes.’

  ‘I don’t suppose they know which way she came back?’

  ‘I’m afraid I didn’t think to ask, but knowing her, it was probably along the river.’

  ‘Is it likely she could have stayed afterwards for a drink?’

  ‘She didn’t normally, no, but again, I didn’t ask. Why?’

  ‘No reason,’ replied Tanner. If she’d been drunk when she left, and had taken the route along by the river, she could have easily fallen in. He’d known it to happen often enough along the Thames.

  Not wishing to raise the possibility yet, Tanner went on, ‘I assume those are your cars parked on the drive outside?’

  ‘That’s correct. Hers is the Porsche. A present from Daddy.’

  There was a definite hint of resentment there, which Tanner also noted.

  Putting it to one side again, he asked, ‘Have you been able to get hold of her friends?’

  ‘I haven’t, no; but I don’t know their phone numbers. I’ve only called the pub.’

  ‘Did they say when they’d last seen her?’

  ‘They said she left around half past ten on Saturday night.’

  ‘What about her family? Do any of them live nearby?’

  ‘Her parents do, yes. Down the road in Horning.’

  ‘Couldn’t she be staying with them?’

  ‘I wouldn’t have thought so.’

  ‘You haven’t asked them?’ questioned Tanner, with unhidden incredulity.

  ‘Well, no, but I’m sure she wouldn’t be there. Her car’s still outside, and they live too far away for her to walk.’

  ‘Don’t you think you should have called them anyway, just to make sure?’

  ‘I suppose, but to be honest, I didn’t want to worry them.’

  ‘So you thought you’d call the police instead?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘Leaving us to contact them?’

  ‘Well…I…’

  ‘And how do you think they’ll react when they get a call from the police, instead of you, asking if they know the whereabouts of their daughter, who’s just been reported missing by her husband?’

  Shifting his weight from one foot to another, Richardson said, ‘I hadn’t thought of it like that. I suppose I’d better give them a call.’

  ‘I suppose you had, yes!’ stated Tanner, with a condescending glare. ‘What about other family. Brothers, sisters?’

  ‘She doesn’t, no.’

  After pausing for a moment, Tanner went on, ‘Going back to her friends. You said you don’t have their phone numbers, but do you think you’d be able to get in touch with them in some other way?’

  ‘Er…’ Richardson replied, gazing up at the ceiling. ‘I might be able to via Facebook, some of them at least.’

  ‘So, basically, what you’re saying is that all you’ve done since a
rriving back from your golfing weekend is to phone up the pub where she works. And when you found out that she wasn’t there, even though she wasn’t supposed to be, given that she doesn’t work Mondays, your next call was to the police?’

  With a sheepish shrug, he said, ‘I couldn’t think of anywhere else she could be.’

  ‘You mean, apart from at a friend’s house, or with her parents?’

  ‘You think I’m worrying too much, don’t you?’

  ‘No, Mr Richardson, I’d have to say that I don’t think you’re worrying too much. In fact, I’d go as far as to say that you don’t seem to be worrying at all! You don’t appear to be trying very hard to find her, either!’

  ‘As I said, I tried everywhere I could think of!’

  ‘As in the pub?’

  With no response forthcoming, after another moment’s pause, Tanner followed that up by asking, ‘I take it you do at least have a recent photo of her we could have?’

  ‘I do, yes.’ Richardson turned to examine a row of family photographs lined up along the kitchen windowsill.

  Deciding on one, he picked it up, and as he handed it over to Tanner, asked, ‘So you think she could be with her parents?’

  Taking it from him, Tanner said, ‘We won’t know until you ask, will we? But I suggest that’s the first call you make. If she’s not there, you’ll have to have another think about who else she might be staying with.’

  Tanner took a moment to stare down at the picture, which featured the two of them at some sort of party. The man’s wife was certainly attractive enough. High cheekbones, full lips, blonde hair, steel blue eyes that had a determined look about them. Now that he knew what she looked like, he wouldn’t be surprised if she’d simply run off with someone else; after all, she couldn’t have been short of admirers. With that possibility at the forefront of his mind, he handed the framed photograph over to Jenny, and asked, ‘How long have you been married, Mr Richardson?’