by Jack Benton
Five minutes later, he arrived at a row of three tatty council houses. The Escort was parked outside the middle one, and as Slim reached the gate he saw Davy coming out of a garage, holding a wrench. Davy hadn’t seen Slim, so Slim watched as the scrawny man opened the car’s bonnet and began poking around inside.
After a couple of minutes, Davy swore, then slammed the bonnet back down. He tossed the wrench in the direction of the garage and made for the front door.
‘Hey, Davy.’
Davy turned. A cigarette poised in his fingers fell to the ground.
‘What the hell do you want?’
Slim leaned against the car and pulled out a coffee flask he had bought in Camelford. It was filled with water, but he hoped the casualness would disarm Davy, who looked tense enough to snap.
‘Nice place you’ve got here. Needs a new coat of paint, but you’ve got a decent view, especially if you took a chainsaw to that second tree over there. How was work?’
Davy took a couple of steps closer. ‘I said, what do you want?’
‘I was just passing.’
‘On your way to where? Only thing up that way is an abattoir.’
‘I was in the mood for steak. I like it fresh, still twitching if at all possible.’
‘You’re leaning on my car.’
‘I know. I’m getting grime on my coat.’
‘Mike said you were a nosy bastard. I was wondering when my turn would come. This it, is it?’
‘I only want to talk. It’s about Celia Birch.’
‘What about her?’
Break it open. Stamp it if you have to. Open it up to see what’s inside.
‘You’re what, fifty years old?’
‘What’s it to you?’
‘And you’re living in a council house.’
‘Better than living in a guesthouse.’
Touché. Slim hid a smile. ‘You’ve been a regular of the Crown most of your life, haven’t you?’
‘So? Nothing else to do round here. What’s that got to do with Celia?’
‘Was she a girlfriend of yours, back when she used to wash up in the Crown?’
‘What are you talking about? She was just a kid.’
‘A pretty one. Popular, so I’ve heard.’
‘Are you calling me a pervert?’
Slim took a step closer, deliberately putting himself in range if Davy fancied a swing. Temptation is the key to a confession, he remembered an old negotiator friend telling him. Draw them out. Deceive them. Let them think they can win.
‘Celia used to walk home alone, all the way up to Worth Farm. Wasn’t there a time when you might have seen her, found yourself tempted? Everyone knew her reputation. No one would have believed her over you.’
‘I’m not like that. You’re crazy.’
‘I have it on good authority that Celia was attacked one night on her way home. It was a Wednesday. Darts night. You played darts, didn’t you, Davy?’
‘I never did nothing to anyone!’
Slim leaned back against the car again. He took another sip of coffee.
‘Then who else could it have been?’
Davy gave a frantic shake of his head. ‘Don’t know.’
‘Come on, Davy, you can do better than that. Give me an idea. If you don’t I’ll have no choice but to think you’re lying.’ Slim took a step forward, puffing out his chest. ‘I’m ex-military. I’ve seen a lot of bad things. And one thing always upset me more than anything else: the abuse of minors. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you? She was underage, Davy. That makes you a—’
‘It wasn’t me!’
‘Give me a name. I don’t care how unlikely you think it might be. Just a name. I’ll find out the rest.’
Davy gave a violent shake of his head as though searching through his thoughts like a magic eight ball, looking for an answer. He frowned, then jutted his head forward, and finally let out a little cough. ‘I bet it was him,’ he said, looking up at Slim. ‘He always used to perv over her, said he could have her any time.’
‘Who?’
‘Johnny.’
‘Who’s Johnny?’
‘Me mate from Marjons. Didn’t work out for me up there. Just took a bit of free money, got drunk, laid a few times. After I came back, we needed a sub for the team. I remembered Johnny, called him up. He wouldn’t play home games, just in case she saw him. Didn’t even want to come in for the team pic, after we won. She was gone by then, though. Left Alan in the shit.’
‘Why wouldn’t he come in?’
‘In case she saw him, shopped him in.’
‘To who?’
‘His class.’
Slim felt a hot flush run down his back. ‘His class? What class? What were you studying up at Marjons?’
‘Teacher training. Like I say, I didn’t cut it. Johnny, though, he ended up doing geography, something like that. Don’t see him now. Nothing to talk about, what with him being a posh teacher and me working up the pasty factory.’
‘How did Johnny get home after darts matches?’
‘Drive, I guess. We’d get dropped off at the Crown. I’d stay for a pint but he’d get straight off back to Plymouth.’
‘Can you get to Plymouth by taking the Trelee road?’
‘Yeah, of course. If you keep bearing left it eventually comes out on the A30. Just go straight across.’
‘Do you remember Johnny’s second name?’
‘Oh, Johnny wasn’t his real name. We just called him that, posh twat. Marjons and all. Guy was full of himself. Thought he was Phil Taylor.’
Slim felt that tickling flush again.
‘What was Johnny’s real name?’
‘Nick. Nick Jones.’
42
‘So, do you know when filming will start?’ Nick asked, sipping the latte he had ordered from the bar. Slim had ordered a pint, and was struggling with the urge to smash it, glass and all, into Nick’s face.
You have no proof, he reminded himself. Even with the coincidence, it’s all just a hunch unless you get a confession. Out loud, he said, ‘By the end of the month. My producers are currently going over the logistics and costs. I just wanted to meet you in person again to let you know that your interview will be a pivotal part.’
Nick grinned. ‘That sounds grand.’
‘I just need to clarify some information.’
‘Sure, shoot away.’
‘You were Celia Birch’s homeroom teacher in Liskeard Secondary during her GCSE exam year in 1993?’
Nick nodded. Slim noticed him looking over Slim’s shoulder, as though something outside the window were more interesting.
‘Yeah, that’s right.’
‘I just wanted to be certain, so I did a little background check—just to make sure our facts are accurate, you understand—and according to records currently held by your school you would have been a student teacher on placement at that time.’
Nick’s eyes met Slim’s for the first time. ‘Ah, well, it’s a long time ago now. I might have got a couple of details mixed up. I was just supposed to be observing, you know, but the lazy bastard supposed to be mentoring me treated me like his little admin bunny, dumping all his work on me so I was practically doing his job for him.’
‘You see, I remember you had a few things to say about Celia. I wondered how a teacher might hear such playground talk, but if you were assisting the class’s main teacher, you might have been closer to the kids than most teachers usually get.’
Nick scratched his ear. His gaze returned to the window.
‘And you would have been what, twenty-two? I mean, there’s that obvious age gap, but far less than most teachers, am I right?’
‘Yeah, I guess. How much digging did you do?’ Nick gave a nervous laugh. ‘You get goss on my drinking habits too?’
Slim leaned forward. ‘As it happens … I told you, Nick, that I’m a researcher. I research. I heard another rumour about Celia. That she dropped out because she got assaulted. Raped. Yo
u never heard that?’
Nick shook his head. ‘No, didn’t hear that.’
Slim stood up and wandered over to a pool table. He brushed the surface with the back of his hand, then pulled out his wallet.
‘You play?’
Nick shook his head. ‘Not much.’
‘Don’t have a fifty coin anyway.’ Slim turned to a dartboard nearby. ‘Throw? I’m pretty useless but I can hit the board.’
Nick shrugged. ‘Not really. Might have played once or twice.’
Slim frowned. ‘Really? I heard somewhere you played for the Crown down in Penleven.’
Nick shrugged. ‘I might have helped them out a couple of times.’
‘Must have been awkward, what with Celia working down in the kitchens.’
Nick scratched his other ear. ‘I never saw her. Like I say, it was only once or twice.’
Slim sighed. ‘A shame. I hoped you might have been able to offer up some insights on the regulars down there. I’m pretty convinced one of them might have been responsible.’
Nick nodded. In the glare of the pool table’s light a sheen of sweat was visible on his brow.
‘I mean, there’s no chance they could prosecute someone now. It’s far too gone for that. Not unless Celia really did have a kid as a result, but there’s no evidence of that. Only those rumours you told me.’ As Nick stared off into space, Slim laughed. ‘She was probably asking for it, though. A slut like her. Wasn’t she, Nick?’
‘I’d better go,’ Nick said.
Slim grinned and slapped Nick on the shoulder, noticing how the other man flinched.
‘Call me, Nick, if you remember anything else?’
‘Sure.’
Slim watched Nick stumble out, a shadow of the cocky, aloof man who had walked in less than an hour before. Slim slammed a fist into his palm. He wanted to go after Nick, drag him into an alley somewhere, then punch and punch and punch until Nick had no face left to wear his smug grins, but it would serve no greater purpose.
He finished his beer then went outside to make a call to another old friend from the military.
‘Slim? That you? It’s been a while, buddy. You’re still on that old number then?’
‘I don’t move well with the times, Don. I’m like a ship stuck in ice. I know it’s been a while, but I need to ask a favour.’
Donald Lane had toured Iraq with Slim in the early nineties. Whereas Slim had derailed his own career, Don had left on his terms, later forming an intelligence consultancy that often worked directly with the government.
‘Shoot, Slim. I’ve got your back. Like in the old days, right?’
Slim held up the smartphone Nick had left behind. In his haste to leave, the teacher had failed to notice Slim slip it off their table and put it on a stool where it would be easy to deny any involvement had Nick seen. He turned it over in his hand.
‘I need to crack a phone code,’ he said. He told Don the brand, and the other laughed.
‘Easy. Yours?’
‘An acquaintance. Then I need you to dig some dirt. Enough to ruin a career.’
43
Slim stared up at Celia’s window while the rain pattered around him. The curtains were drawn, no lights on, no sign of either car he had known her to drive.
She hadn’t answered when he rang the bell, nor when he tried the phone. A couple of neighbours he had spoken to claimed not to have contact with her, that she was secretive, kept herself to herself. It wasn’t a surprise to Slim, who had never made any attempt to associate with his own neighbours in times past, and rarely they with him.
It did nothing to allay his fears, though, and his concern for Celia’s welfare was growing.
For the first time, he entertained the possibility that his digging might have stirred up too many bees, that someone dangerous was no longer dormant and was stalking the streets.
He headed for the town library where he photocopied a list of all public and private medical establishments in the Cornwall and Devon central area. Celia had said she worked as a nurse, but perhaps she hadn’t meant in the conventional sense. There were a dozen possibilities—care homes, dentistry, even school nursing. Slim found a café near the bus station and started calling through the list, asking if a Celia Birch or Merrifield was on the roster.
By the time the last bus back to Penleven was pulling in, he was only down as far as G, and had so far drawn a blank. He was tired, his ear aching from the hard press of his phone, and his battery was almost gone.
He was heading for the bus when he felt a buzz in his pocket.
The number wasn’t one he recognised from the last couple of hours of conversations. Slim stepped out of the queue to answer.
‘Herr Hardy?’ came an unfamiliar voice. ‘This is Ralph Schwimmer. We spoke the other day?’
Slim was so excited he could barely respond.
‘I called to tell you I found a couple of boxes of my father’s old letters. There was some correspondence with Herr Birch. I can fax copies to you if that would please you.’
Slim wanted to fist-pump the air. ‘I’d be most grateful, thank you. I’ll call you back with a fax number tomorrow. Can you tell me briefly if there was anything related to Mr. Birch’s disappearance?’
‘Nothing like that,’ Ralph said. ‘But there was correspondence relating to a visit in spring of 1996. Herr Birch was quite insistence that he would be arriving in early March, intending to stay a few months with my father. From his letters I gathered that they planned to share techniques and perhaps collaborate on a few projects.’
Slim’s hands were shaking. By the bus door, the driver was calling for any last passengers.
‘So he was planning to go to the Black Forest?’
‘Yes. However, I talked to my mother, who is in a care home. Her memory isn’t good now, but she told me she never recalled Herr Birch ever visiting.’
‘Thank you so much. I’ll be in touch with that fax number.’
As Slim hung up and ran past the driver’s irate glare onto the bus, his mind reeled.
He had Amos Birch’s intended destination. Perhaps struggling with his family life or just needing a break, he had planned to visit a friend.
So what had happened to stop him ever getting there?
44
The faxed letters were waiting at the post office the next morning. Slim bought a celebratory can of beer and retired to the village green’s bench to read through them.
Although outwardly a quiet man, Amos had a lot to say in the written form. A lot of it was largely over Slim’s head: technical information relating to the construction of clocks, carving methods, mechanical terminology. Occasionally Amos would insert little snippets of his personality: ‘…I’ve found it harder to concentrate of late…’, ‘…I sometimes wonder if there is a futility in hunting perfection of the mind when one’s life is calamitous…’, ‘…my workshop has always been my solace, where I can shut out the traumas of the outside world…’.
It wasn’t until later letters planning the visit that Amos really began to reveal himself.
‘I am yet to inform those closest to me of my intention to leave for a while. It is likely to cause some distress, both within my household and without, but my life has become a spring so tightly wound that I fear leaving it untended any longer. You understand, my dear friend, that we all need to escape sometime, but those that truly care will withhold their judgement and wait until one’s return, however long that may be.’
Slim nodded. He took out a pen and underlined a few key expressions.
My household and without.
Escape.
However long.
Later letters went into further detail, and Slim found the first solid mention of family.
‘My daughter concerns me greatest, for her state of mind continues to worsen. Her mother is little help, badgering the girl relentlessly. I have done what I can to ease her trauma, but Charlotte’s presence helps less and less, it seems. It was only ever my intention
to ever bring my daughter peace, but I fear the trauma of her mother’s actions and the supposed lesson-learning she has repeatedly espoused to excuse her cruelty. However, despite my distaste, she is also a woman not of her right mind, and for that, some excuses can be made. Her illness has destroyed her, but I feel it is my fault. Perhaps if I had never brought her here….’
Slim shook his head. Amos came across as an extremely articulate man caught in a web of misfortune.
The last letter, though, was the most revealing of all.
‘I have made my plans. We will travel overland, as I have never been fond of flying and you miss so much, don’t you think? I have booked us tickets on the ferry from Plymouth to Santander, from where I fancy we might travel by train. I fear the repercussions my absence might have, but I have already arranged additional help around the farm and the house. My wife will understand, and if not, maybe that will be telling. It will be good for Celia too, to get away from Worth Farm for a while, to see a bit of Europe. That might make a difference. I can but hope. I will first ensure both Charlotte and my current unfinished project are safe from any wrathful repercussions, then I hope I and my daughter will be with you, my good friend, in the day or two following the fourth.’
‘Huh.’ Slim shook his head. It was there, in black and white: Amos had planned to take an extended overseas trip. He hadn’t walked away from his family, and had even planned to take Celia with him.
So little still made sense, but another piece of the jigsaw had fallen into place. Amos had never intended to disappear, so something must have befallen him.
Who were the suspects? Was Michael lying again? Could Nick have worse in him than rape?
Slim shook his head. He had already ruled out Michael. Nick was a monster for sure, but Slim couldn’t see the school teacher as a murderer. Intuition was a strange thing. Slim had been often wrong, but Nick was the kind of guy who preyed on young women, not men in their prime. He was a pathetic coward, but no killer.
