‘Where to?’
‘Phone the Evenin’ News. I’ll stand the both of you a round if they pays out again.’
The news broke on the front page of the Warhampton Evening News twenty-four hours later, under the heading VANISHED LECTURER’S FLAT RANSACKED. A garbled account of Bernard Lister’s academic career and non-appearance at the beginning of term followed, and the paragraph ended with an appeal to his relatives and anyone knowing his present whereabouts to contact the Warhampton Police. On the following morning, Saturday, 13 January, the story was put out by the national dailies with varying degrees of accuracy and sensationalism. Telephone calls, mainly from cranks and hoaxers, began to come in, but soon after ten, one from Corbury was felt to be sufficiently genuine to be switched through to Chief Superintendent Norrington.
‘Good morning, Mrs Stanton,’ he said, introducing himself. ‘I understand you’re a relative of Mr Bernard Lister?’
‘Yes, I am, Superintendent,’ a clear emphatic voice replied. ‘I’m Mrs Shirley Stanton, of 1 Edge Crescent, Corbury. My husband’s the Town Clerk here, and a local solicitor. Bernard Lister is my first cousin on his mother’s side. But I’m afraid I’m not going to be much help: I haven’t seen him for over twenty years.’
‘That’s unfortunate. Have you been out of touch with him all this time?’
‘Completely. Perhaps I’d better put you in the picture as briefly as I can.’
He listened attentively, appreciative of the caller’s ability to make a concise statement.
‘You say you have a brother, a Mr Mark Plowman, living in Corbury?’ he said, reviewing what she had told him.
‘Yes. He runs the family business: Plowman’s Pottery. Actually, I’m speaking from there. I came down to show him the paragraph in The Times, and as he’s engaged, it seemed sensible to ring you myself at once.’
‘Quite, Mrs Stanton. You say that as far as you know, your brother has not been in touch with Mr Lister either. Are there other relatives who might have been?’
‘None that I know of. We never knew any of Bernard’s relatives on his father’s side. Our own family has dwindled almost to nothing over the years. Apart from myself there is just my brother, his wife, and his daughter Belinda. Belinda is a student at the Warhampton College of Art, actually. Her name may ring a bell with you, silly girl.’
‘Yes, I recognise it. I take it that to the best of your knowledge she is not in contact with Mr Lister either?’
‘I think I can vouch for the fact that she’s never met him, although she once told me that she’d been to a public lecture he gave.’
‘Well, Mrs Stanton, we shall be sending someone down to take brief statements from your brother and yourself, just for the record. We’ll ring you to fix a convenient time, of course. Thank you for getting in touch so quickly.’
After replacing the receiver, Superintendent Norrington sat for a few moments reviewing his manpower resources, and thinking about Belinda Plowman. Odd how that girl kept cropping up. Only yesterday Worrall had reported interviewing her in connection with the break-in at Lister’s flat. He had satisfied himself that she could not have been involved, but had remarked that she had shown the whites of her eyes a bit. Probably another dose of the police was enough to account for it in a girl with her sort of background. After further consideration Superintendent Norrington decided that Worrall was the obvious chap to interview her about Lister, and why she hadn’t come forward as a relative. And if he did that, he might as well run down to Corbury, and tackle the rest of the family. That break-in could wait just for the moment.
Inspector Worrall was indignant at being diverted from his pursuit of David Tresillian and his friends, and in consequence was less than tactful in his approach to Belinda Plowman. She promptly burst into tears, protesting that she just couldn’t take any more hounding by the police. Surprised, for she had struck him as quite a cool customer, he managed to calm her down and extract a statement that she had never met Bernard Lister in her life, and hadn’t the remotest clue as to where he was. She hadn’t come forward to say she was a relative because it didn’t mean a thing, and would have involved her with the police again.
Fearing a fresh outburst of tears, he did not prolong the interview. The next day he drove down to Corbury, in rather better temper. It was sunny and almost spring-like, and he decided that there were worse ways of spending a Sunday on duty. He interviewed Mark Plowman and Shirley Stanton in their respective homes, Shirley apologising for the pre-move condition of hers. He did not greatly take to either of them. Under Mark’s bluffness he thought he detected a tendency to truculence, while Shirley was obviously a rather hard, competent type. Both were friendly and cooperative, however, and their statements were in complete agreement, and also bore out the facts supplied by Superintendent Thomas of the Corbury Constabulary.
‘Young Lister was never much of a fit in the Plowman set-up,’ the latter said. ‘It was class, for one thing. His Dad had been shower to old Mrs P’s mother and father, you see. Then he had a lot more brains than his cousins, and his aunt and uncle didn’t take kindly to that. Mind you, all three kids went to the Grammar School, and were treated the same on the face of it, but for all that Bernard always looked the odd man out, somehow. My, there was the hell of a dust-up when he came into money and cut loose! I can still call it to mind.’
‘I get you,’ Worrall said. ‘Mr Mark Plowman didn’t exactly strike me as the Brain of Britain.’
‘He certainly hasn’t got his old man’s business sense,’ Superintendent Thomas agreed. ‘It was plain enough the Pottery wasn’t doing well, a year or two back. Stuck in a rut. Then Mrs Stanton came into a pot of money from her godfather — some families have all the luck, don’t they? — and gave the place a shot in the arm. Up-to-date kilns, and whatever. It seems to be making out now, from what people say.’
This piece of information struck Worrall as being the only potentially useful outcome of his trip to Corbury, but as a lead it quickly petered out. Bernard Lister’s solicitor was persuaded to disclose the fact that his client had left no personal or family bequests in his will.
The search for the missing man was intensified and extended. As no recognisable photograph of him appeared to exist, a detailed description was drawn up and circulated. A search of his flat brought his passport to light, suggesting that he had not, at any rate, left the country. Contacts discovered from letters and the stubs of old cheque books were followed up without result. Intensive questioning of his colleagues produced a list of libraries and other places which he was known to visit in connection with his work, but none of these had any record of his presence since the previous November. Under pressure his bank manager revealed that he had cashed a cheque made out to himself on 11 December, but none since. There had been no unusual developments in his personal affairs, such as the sale of investments.
In the meantime Inspector Worrall’s investigations into the break-in failed to provide any helpful information. After leaving the flat belonging to his aunt, David Tresillian and the students who had been living there with him appeared to have been taken in temporarily by their friends, moving casually from one address to another until they left Warhampton shortly before Christmas. They had all been located and questioned, but maintained a flat denial of having broken into Bernard Lister’s flat. Inspector Worrall was convinced that David Tresillian, at least, was lying, but in view of the impossibility of establishing his movements during the period in question after so long an interval, it was decided to suspend the enquiry.
In short, the file relating to Bernard Lister’s disappearance achieved a formidable bulk, but he himself had apparently vanished into thin air. As the weeks succeeded each other the enquiry inevitably lost momentum. In accordance with official policy where missing persons are concerned, his file was not closed. It would remain open until the mystery of what had become of him was solved, or his possible lifespan had come to an end. By the middle of March, however, it could fairly be sa
id to have been shelved for the time being.
Chapter 6
On 3 June, happily a Sunday, Horace Rudd was to celebrate his half century, and a family reunion was planned. His son Jim and daughter-in-law Eileen arrived on the Saturday with their two children and were staying in the house. Horace and Winnie Rudd were both natives of Corbury, and a reckless number of local relatives had been invited to join in the birthday festivities. Winnie, who had been cooking ahead for most of the past week, would have been glad of a nice lie-in on the Sunday morning, but her grandchildren’s youth and high spirits ruled this out. From an early hour Clive, aged eight, and Linda, six, were pounding up and down the stairs, reporting to Horace on the parcels by his plate and being generally obstreperous. Horace himself was the last down for breakfast, to be greeted by a prearranged yell of ‘Fifty, not out!’ from the younger generation.
Winnie had stipulated in advance that no presents should be opened until breakfast was over.
‘Never get the meal finished else,’ she had insisted. ‘Don’t forget it’s hot dinner for fourteen to get going.’
The children, who knew what was inside the elongated package labelled ‘All the best, Dad, from your loving son Jim’, became more and more excited as the meal progressed.
‘I bet Grandpa’ll think it’s the most super best present he’s ever had,’ Clive proclaimed. His sister began to bounce up and down in her chair and growl and squeak.
‘That’ll DO!’ their father shouted. ‘Pipe down, else you won’t see him open his presents. It’ll be out the back with the pair of you.’
More astutely, their mother pointed out that if they didn’t hurry up over their food, Grandpa’d be kept waiting to see what he’d got. Recognising the truth of this statement, they fell to, and soon announced that they were full.
Horace, realising that any other present would obviously fall flat after his son’s, tactfully announced that he’d keep the funny-looking parcel till last. Socks, a pullover, slippers, tobacco and various other gifts were unwrapped in an atmosphere of mounting expectancy. At last, in a breathless hush, he picked up the long thin parcel, weighed it in his hand, shook his head with a mystified expression, and began to remove the outer layer of brown paper. An inner layer of corrugated cardboard came away, and he held a curious object in his hand. It consisted of a thin metal shaft about four feet long, with a battery at one end controlled by a switch. At the other end the shaft expanded horizontally into a not-quite-closed circle, of about six inches in diameter. Horace sat staring at this object, oblivious of a loud hiccup from Linda, followed by a nervous giggle synchronising with her mother’s rebuke. He suddenly looked up at Jim, awed rapture in his face.
‘Blimey, it’s one o’ those metal detectors,’ he said.
‘Got it in one, Dad!’ Jim Rudd slapped the table triumphantly. ‘I picked it up second-hand, but it works a fair treat, don’t it, kids? What price are Roman coins now? See you in the Courier again soon, won’t we? Come on, let’s have a bash right away.’
Various metal objects were put under mats, and the current switched on. The detector functioned perfectly, cutting out its steady hum as the circle was moved over small amounts of metal, and uttering high-pitched yelps as a large iron shovel was approached. The two men and the children were absorbed. Winnie Rudd and her daughter-in-law exchanged humorous pitying glances and began to clear away the breakfast things.
Later, Horace agreed to let Jim run him up to the dig, to have a go on the site. On the way he expatiated on the iniquity of ignorant people who used metal detectors to hunt for buried treasure on archaeological sites.
‘So I can’t start digging all over the place,’ he explained. ‘Might muck things up. We’ll try our luck in the part the Archaeological’s written off now.’
On arriving at the church they had difficulty in parking. The available space was packed with cars, and from inside St Gundryth’s there came a muffled psalm chant.
‘The Church Council’ll be glad to get the rest of the site levelled and asphalted,’ Horace went on, as they made their way across the broken ground beyond the Roman villa. ‘Work’s starting this coming week. It should make room for twenty to thirty more cars, I reckon. Only a Trust the Motorist collection box for the parking fee, same as outside the church, but they say it brings in more than you’d expect.’
‘How do you digging blokes know for sure there’s no more Roman stuff under this part, Dad?’ Jim asked.
‘See all these trenches?’ Horace asked, with a wave of his hand, flattered at his personal inclusion as an authority. ‘They go down deep as the foundations back there, see? We didn’t strike nothing, beyond a few bits of broken pottery. So Mr Hosford -— he’s in charge — said we’d call it a day.’
‘Left the place in a bit of a mess, haven’t you?’ Jim commented, looking about it.
‘Archaeological’s paying to have the infilling done proper. Mr Hosford said it was better to push on with the villa.’
‘What about a go just here?’
The metal detector immediately located a large rusty nail in the rubble. They moved on, and unearthed a metal staple, and a small unidentifiable piece of iron. Finally, a triumphant Horace Rudd straightened himself up with a horseshoe in his hand.
‘Here, we’d better be getting back,’ he said, looking across to the clock in the church tower. ‘There’s company to dinner, and Mother won’t be best pleased if they start turning up and us still out.’
Jim, now thoroughly bitten with treasure-hunting fever, was reluctant to give up.
‘Let’s have one more go, Dad. This trench here, with all this loose stuff chucked in.’
Apart from themselves the site was deserted. They were now out of range of the church service. The June sun beat down on them from a cloudless sky, and the only sound was the purr of the metal detector as Horace guided it over the partly infilled trench. He started as it abruptly emitted a loud high-pitched note.
‘Something under here all right,’ Jim exclaimed. ‘Gimme the trowel.’
Bending down he worked energetically, throwing out scoops of rubble. About eighteen inches down he struck a hard object. Almost immediately they both noticed the unpleasant smell. For Horace it instantly resuscitated wartime experiences long and mercifully forgotten. Before he could speak, Jim had succeeded in levering up a sheet of corrugated iron. With a strangled gasp he let it fall back again.
They stood and stared at each other in speechless horror. Horace, who had encountered similar sights before, was the first to recover his powers of speech.
‘God Almighty! ’ he said hoarsely. ‘It’s a police job, this. There’s a call box at the top o’ the High Street. You best stay here, Jim.’
‘So as soon as the Alchester CID got the chap identified by a dentist as the missing lecturer from Warhampton, the two Forces saw they’d be getting under each other’s feet, and their C.C.s agreed to pass the buck to us,’ concluded Detective Superintendent Tom Pollard of New Scotland Yard. ‘And here we go.’
Although the big black Hillman was touching ninety on the M4, Detective Inspector Toye at the wheel had been missing nothing of his Chief’s resume of the case. Regretfully he began to reduce speed and get out of the fast lane.
‘Then the last person known to have seen Lister was this garage hand?’ he asked, as the speedometer needle settled at seventy.
‘This is it. A young chap who swears that he saw Lister bring in his car in the early afternoon of 14 December, and put it into the lock-up he rents from them. He’d already arranged for the car to be serviced the next day, or as soon as they could get it done while he was away.’
Toye reflected further.
‘What do you make of the state of Lister’s flat, sir?’ he enquired. ‘I don’t mean the break-in, but milk left in the fridge, and all the usual toilet articles in the bathroom, and whatever.’
‘It looks to me as though Lister went off — voluntarily or otherwise — later on 14 December. He may of course ha
ve only meant to be away for a night or two in the first instance, and just taken a toothbrush and a comb. That would tie up with the bed’s being left made up, and the soiled pyjamas. For lack of anything more definite at the moment I’m prepared to work on the assumption that zero-hour was the 14th.’
‘Seems to me,’ Toye said, ‘that the Warhampton chaps threw their hand in too soon over that break-in. If it could be proved to have been on the night of 14 December, Lister must have gone by then, and never came back.’
‘Yes,’ Pollard agreed. ‘I can’t see anything for it but reopening the break-in enquiry. I agree with Warhampton that those students stick out a mile. And to my mind there’s an end-of-term touch about the business: a sort of rag gone rotten. The university term ended on the morning of 14 December.’
They had left London early, and by noon were closeted with Superintendent Thomas of the Corbury Constabulary.
‘We wanted a natter with you, Super, before the other chaps turn up,’ Pollard told him. ‘You’re our man on Lister’s home ground, and you can fill us in as nobody else can.’
Superintendent Thomas, not a little overwhelmed by recent events in Corbury, warmed to this approach.
‘Nice of you to put it that way, Mr Pollard,’ he said. ‘Though mind you, it’s my opinion that Lister’s being who he was hadn’t anything to do with his being murdered. There’ve been some nasty cases of mugging in these parts lately. Thugs coming over from the big towns, of course. Mostly over to Alchester, it’s true, but we had one here in Corbury which we’ve never been able to clear up. An elderly gent beaten up and robbed. In hospital for a fortnight, he was. Now Lister was cleaned right out — watch, wallet, loose cash, keys, everything. I reckon some young thugs hit him a bit too hard, then got scared and had the bright idea of dumping the body in a handy ready-made grave up at the excavations. Plenty of folk know about them. And there’s nothing to show the murder happened here in Corbury. The body could’ve been brought in a car.’
Buried in the Past Page 9
