by Gwen Moffat
She looked at the steep and friable slopes under Cape Deception and the strip of sand that disappeared into debris below the point. At high water the headland dropped straight into the sea. ‘We’ll turn back now before we’re cut off,’ she said.
But instead of retracing their steps she walked across the drift of tangled weed that marked high water and sat on a bleached log. He sat beside her, his profile a little owl-like, she thought, observing him benignly. Had anyone been watching them he would have been justified, observing those companionable backs, in concluding that there was a special relationship between these two.
‘Before you contacted the pathologist yesterday,’ Miss Pink said, ‘had you made any headway in tracing the Chevrolet after it left Sundown? How about the people on the roadworks for example: did they remember the couple?’
‘No. There were quite a few cars on the road, and the Highways people were packing up early because of the rain. Besides, an old brown Chevy isn’t noticeable.’
‘The roadmen packed up early?’
‘Yes, but they had to leave people to direct traffic and drive the pilot car because the notices say the road’s not closed till six, so a few stayed on.’
‘Did you have time to make inquiries north of the roadworks, between there and Portland?’
‘Inquiries are being made. It could be a while before anything turns up; it’s over a hundred miles to Portland – the quickest way – and we don’t know which way they went. We turned back at Moon Shell Beach; that’s about twenty miles north of the roadworks, and we’d found no one who remembered them stopping at pumps or to get something to eat. That doesn’t have to mean anything; they could have gone straight through without stopping, or picked up a passenger without anyone seeing. Or they could have been seen, even seen picking someone up, and no one’s come forward because they don’t know it’s important.’
She considered this and her face lit up. ‘So Mr Laddow is working from the other end! Of course, it’s obvious. I’m getting old.’ He wasn’t taken in by that; he nodded acquiescence and squinted along the strand towards the village not, she noted, as if he were bored, more as if he were expecting something to happen.
‘Have you traced the woman driver who ran away?’ she asked politely.
‘Not yet. I mean, she may have been traced but I’m in the dark at the moment.’ His tone changed, became harder: ‘It’s more straightforward this way: something to get your teeth into. Here we were just after background, but even the background – at least, the only kind that matters, is in Portland.’
She gave no sign of her surprise at this. ‘Sundown is the kind of place where nothing happens,’ she said. ‘That’s why it’s popular among older people.’
‘Amazing, isn’t it? An enclave of retirees – and mature careerists’ – indicating that he recognised she was not retired – ‘except for their younger relatives: Grace Ferguson, Jason at the bookstore, Oliver Ramet.’
‘Harper. It’s Oliver Harper.’
‘Of course it is. He’ll be a relative from her side of the family.’ He was still interested in the strip of sand between them and the village, and suddenly she knew the reason. As she considered this, pretending to be absorbed in the antics of some turnstones on the rocks, he said, ‘He’s not running this morning.’
‘No.’ Useless to simulate perplexity. ‘But he goes anywhere; they all do: Grace, Miriam, Lois. I’ve met them on the headland, in the forest— ’
‘Oliver Harper,’ he said heavily. ‘How did he get to Portland that day?’
She gaped at him. This she had not been expecting. ‘Did he leave Sundown on the Tuesday?’ she asked weakly.
‘He left on Monday, according to his hostess.’ No more coy assumption that Oliver was a relative; the gloves were off.
‘I remember.’ Her memory returned with her balance. ‘Miriam said he had a telephone call. Grace Ferguson left on Monday too.’ She smiled. ‘One suspects he got a lift with her; she’s a personable young lady, I’ve heard.’
‘Very likely.’ He went on as if it were an afterthought, ‘Miriam says not, but then he wouldn’t be likely to tell her, would he? I wonder what he has to say for himself. We haven’t spoken to him yet, apart from that first evening when he waited on us in the restaurant. Since then he always seems to be somewhere else when we turn up.’
So why wasn’t he concerned that she would go back to the village and warn Oliver that the police wanted to talk to him? Because, she thought wryly, Oliver knows that already, and the police are fully aware of it. But then, if Oliver was quietly enjoying his stay in Sundown, regardless of a police presence, he had to be as innocent as he looked, didn’t he?
Lunch was a ham sandwich in the bar, sharing a table with Fleur. They were waited on by a plump girl in shorts and wearing her hair in a French braid. Miss Pink remarked that she hadn’t met everyone in Sundown yet and Fleur, without self-consciousness, said she’d met everyone who mattered.
‘I haven’t met Grace,’ Miss Pink pointed out. ‘Andy and Gayleen I saw but didn’t speak to.’ She had given Fleur the gist of the morning’s conversation with Hammett but had omitted mention of Oliver Harper until Fleur, who had listened intently, asked, ‘What did he want from you?’
‘Well, it’s ridiculous, kind of police gossip, you know? He tried out a theory on me; that’s what he was doing: pointing out that Oliver was on the road when Andy and Gayleen left.’
Fleur stared, then comprehension dawned. ‘Ah, the hitchhiker. That won’t do. Oliver left the day before, and probably with Grace. She would have picked him up once he was out of sight of Miriam. And Willard, of course.’
‘Willard would tell Miriam that Oliver had left with Grace?’
‘Naturally.’ Fleur sipped her apple juice and looked at Miss Pink without expression. ‘I’m going to have a brownie. How about you?’
‘No more, thank you. I have to walk this afternoon and burn off these calories. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘Sorry, another time. I’m expecting delivery of Gideon’s new book.’
‘Yes? When is publication date?’
‘As soon as the book arrives; we don’t bother with dates. I have to take advantage of the few visitors left on the coast.’
‘Does he do book-signings, that kind of thing?’
‘Probably, locally, in LA. Not up here; he’s much too rich and grand.’
‘What’s he like?’
‘In appearance he’s not particularly remarkable: middle height, clean-shaven, glasses, wears good but not striking clothes. Otherwise he’s steady, kind, reliable, and not at all like his work which, you must admit, is sexy, fantastic and violent. He says that’s his dark side showing.’
‘Is he an engineer?’
‘I – don’t know. I mean, about his past life, what he studied; it could have been engineering. Why do you ask?’
‘Because of the draughtsmanship.’
‘Yes, of course. It’s a talent, he says. Discrete, just something he can do. And the plots: well, comic strips don’t need plots, only action. That’s what he says.’
‘Actually he sounds rather nice.’
‘Why the surprise?’
Miss Pink spread her hands, searching for words, but all she could think of was ‘puerile’ and ‘juvenile’. Desperately she said, ‘Even the name, Gideon d’Eath, is designed for sensation.’
‘It’s a good old English – well, French name.’ Fleur’s cheeks were flushed. ‘Didn’t you ever hear it before?’
‘D’aeth, I’ve heard of. I’m not sure where the lower case comes, but definitely with the vowels transposed. I’d make a guess that your man spells it the other way deliberately. It will sell a lot of books.’
‘Which is what it’s all about. Why do you write gothics?’
Miss Pink nodded soberly. ‘Quite. I have my house, my cats and a pleasant garden, all run by a housekeeper and a gardener, and costing a fortune. The gothics make the fortune. They are, of course, my Gide
on d’Eath.’
That afternoon, looking for somewhere to go that she hadn’t been, she climbed the trail to Cape Deception, emerging on the summit to a vista that was breathtaking, not only in its extent but by virtue of the peculiar quality of the light. The humidity could have had something to do with this, concentrating the sunshine prismatically so that the heat was intense but like a mild steam heat, not the roasting aridity of the deserts. Distances were hazy: south down the cliff-plunging coast, north across the pale dunes, west past crumbs of stacks in peacock water to where the fog bank slept on the shining sea. And yet the damp haze increased the sense of space rather than limiting it and, to the observer on Cape Deception, the world behind its drapes of gauze was infinite.
She was glad she was alone; it was restful to sit quietly, not to have to examine statements and reactions, to observe, without appearing to do so, the movements of hands and facial muscles. And why should she be doing that anyway? This was an investigation but not her investigation; she was hag-ridden by the writer’s consuming curiosity that never, for one moment in company, will lie dormant. Only on Cape Deception could she relax, relieved that Fleur was miles away at this moment, unpacking books. What an odd picture she had drawn of Gideon d’Eath: unremarkable in his appearance and dress, yet perceptive and clever, and all at variance with the phrase ‘rich and grand’ that rolled so easily off Fleur’s tongue. Otherwise she hadn’t missed the fact that the shadowy figure outlined by Fleur bore a resemblance to Chester Hoyle. Miss Pink regarded the stacks without seeing them, speculation, if not curiosity, working overtime.
Laddow did not return that day but he was in contact with his partner. This was achieved neatly and without overt rudeness. People left messages at the motel but even if Hammett were in his room the result was the same: after a brief and innocuous exchange he would go down to the bar and use the call-box.
Next day Miss Pink went looking for owls over in Coon Gulch. She was unsuccessful and she had the feeling that there was not enough old-growth timber there to furnish the cover favoured by spotted owls. She returned to Sundown disgruntled and thinking that tomorrow she would strike out, not leave for good but go north past the roadworks, have a look at a new stretch of coast, perhaps find the entrancingly named Moon Shell Beach.
She let herself into her house, dropped her pack, went to open the doors on the deck – and stood motionless, her hand raised to the catch.
Someone was creeping through her fuchsia hedge: stooped and furtive, a black object held in one hand and reflecting the light. Backing carefully, Miss Pink caught sight of a second figure, but this one was upright, facing her, hands lifted, elbows pointed, the face hidden by binoculars. Sadie and Leo: stalking birds in Quail Run’s garden. She exhaled with a gasp and went to the kitchen to fill the kettle.
‘ —were waiting for you’ – Leo was saying, already talking as she led the way into the living-room – ‘and we saw a black-headed grosbeak. No good you going out; it’s gone now. You’re making tea? Great. We just said, before we saw the grosbeak, we were dying of thirst and you’d be sure to be drinking tea at four o’clock, but you weren’t here. Where were you?’
‘Coon Gulch. I was looking for owls.’
‘There aren’t any in Coon. We could have told you that. We were there the day of the birthday party – Lois’s. We’re going – somewhere on Thursday though, not tomorrow because we have to go to town for groceries.’
Leo exchanged glances with Sadie who said gently, ‘We may know where there’s a pair of owls. We would be happy for you to join us.’
They sat down in the living-room. ‘Are you sure?’ Miss Pink was diffident. ‘Is that what you came to see me about? I’d be delighted; not to put too fine a point on it, I feel honoured.’
Sadie dimpled. Leo said, sounding surprised, ‘It wasn’t that, actually. We came to tell you about the latest developments. They found the driver.’
‘And the man she got the Chevy from,’ Sadie said.
‘And who sold it to him. It’s all tied in with drugs and prostitution. You were right – someone was right; it was stolen. Andy doesn’t come into it at all.’
‘He doesn’t?’ came Sadie’s old-lady voice.
Miss Pink said, ‘Would you mind going back to the beginning and giving a little more detail? The driver: is that the woman who ran away after the accident?’
‘That’s it.’ Leo nodded, her mouth full of shortbread.
‘She left her fingerprints all over the car,’ Sadie contributed. ‘And like Leo said, she’s a prostitute – Bobby – I forget her name.’
‘Robin Neal,’ Leo said. ‘It’s not important.’
‘And she ran away because she’s on probation for dealing in crack, and hadn’t reported, or something.’
‘After coming out of prison,’ Leo put in, anxious to get the technical part correct.
‘Yes.’ Miss Pink was patient. ‘And she ran away because she guessed, or knew she was driving a stolen car. Where did she get it?’
‘It’s all supposed to be aboveboard,’ Sadie said, ‘but no doubt if there’s a nasty smell in the car someone told you to get washed, you don’t wait for the police to come along, ask questions: “What’s that smell in the back of your car, ma’am?” Even though it wasn’t the girl’s car, it belonged to her – ’ Sadie looked at Leo.
‘To her pimp.’ Leo was angry; if nothing else she was a feminist. ‘He’d told her to take it to a garage to be washed. Laddow said that would include a respray and new plates because it would be obvious to this guy that the car was stolen. He got it too cheap. Laddow found the pimp, you see, and he said he bought the Chevy from a guy in the street, a drug addict.’
‘Mr Laddow brought a little pressure to bear,’ Sadie put in sweetly. ‘Would that be what they call third degree? No’ – as Miss Pink shifted uneasily – ‘not Mr Laddow. However, the pimp agreed that there had been an odd smell in the car and he noticed the trunk had been forced. He thought probably the previous owner had carried a dead animal in there, like a dog? Deer, maybe?’
‘Have they traced the drug addict?’
‘Not yet,’ Sadie said. ‘That will be why Mr Hammett left. He’s gone to Portland to help Mr Laddow break the pimp.’
‘Really, Locke, your choice of words!’
Chapter 9
‘So you see,’ Lois said, ‘we were right all along; it was stolen. Probably from the airport?’ This last was addressed to Chester.
After dinner people had drifted down to the Tattler for brandy and reassurance. Miss Pink arrived to find Lois and Chester, Fleur and Oliver in the bar, Lois obviously relieved that the theft of the Chevrolet seemed to remove the site of Gayleen’s murder to a location well away from Sundown.
Chester said, ‘We’ll know more tomorrow. But maybe not; there’s no reason why Laddow should keep us informed. It’s a city crime.’
‘It started here,’ Fleur pointed out.
‘I doubt that,’ Oliver said, adding thoughtfully, ‘I doubt it very much.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Lois, ‘it goes back into her past. And yet to look at her you’d never have thought that she was a – involved in that kind of thing.’
‘What kind of thing?’ Fleur was aggressive.
‘Why’ – Lois looked uncomfortable – ‘prostitution, crack. Are you suggesting that she wasn’t, Fleur? That it was a coincidence: a mugging perhaps?’ She looked at Chester. ‘We didn’t consider that; it would have to be a coincidence: a girl on crack is shot and then found – no, carried – in another addict’s car. A car which had been driven by another addict,’ she amended carefully.
‘Oh no!’ Chester exclaimed. ‘There had to be a connection between Gayleen and the addict. That’s obvious.’ People nodded agreement.
‘How long has Andy been miss— away now?’ Oliver asked, almost casually.
‘He left on Tuesday,’ Lois said. ‘So he’s been away a week.’
‘He could be out of the country,’ Oliver pointed out. �
�It’s only one stop to Mexico; maybe he went to LA: someone asked him to go down, work on a script in Acapulco, wherever. He could be gone months.’
‘The police are looking for him,’ Miss Pink said.
They registered varying degrees of surprise but Lois was more than surprised, she was angry. ‘Why?’ she asked. ‘And why wasn’t I told? They’re looking for him?’ She turned on Chester, mutely questioning.
‘I thought you’d know.’ Miss Pink was apologetic. ‘Hammett told me yesterday.’
‘But the car was stolen,’ Lois said firmly as if explaining it to a child.
Miss Pink gave the ghost of a nod. Oliver said, ‘Lois, dear, they’re not necessarily looking for him as a killer.’
There was a charged silence. As on other and similar occasions they waited for Lois to speak; after all, he was her husband. She said weakly, ‘What else did Hammett tell you?’
Miss Pink struggled with recall. ‘Mostly he was telling me how they came to connect the body on the waste ground with the Chevy: it was traces of make-up … and then there was the fact that she’d been put in the trunk not long after she was shot, carried in it … The murderer was stupid— ’
‘Why?’ Lois asked.
‘Reckless, pathological. A psychopath?’ Miss Pink pondered her own question. ‘I don’t think so; there’s too much planning … On the other hand, if the killer was a drug addict and an opportunist, no planning need be involved, just luck; that is, assuming there is a drug addict, and Gayleen wasn’t killed by her pimp. I wonder.’ She was staring at Lois, who responded as if she’d been addressed rather than the company at large.
‘She didn’t look like a prostitute.’
‘You think not?’ Oliver asked.
‘Not really,’ Fleur put in. ‘She was too healthy – despite the crack, and that could have been boasting: a need to shock the bourgeoisie. She was emotionally immature – very much so.’
Miss Pink looked at her, hesitated, and continued, ‘Then Hammett said they were working backwards from Portland, trying to trace the woman who ran off after the Chevrolet was bumped.’
