Parting of the Waves

by Leah Hope

  “It was just a silly argument” Bridget replied, clearly embarrassed. “I can’t even remember what it was about now.”

  “What what was about?” Gil asked a he returned with a tray of coffee and a plate of shortbread.

  “Oh nothing” Bridget replied, determined not to go over everything again. “Mark was just explaining that there is a photo of Sheila Cresswell boarding the ferry in Calais, it’s one of those automatic things, so we know for certain she was definitely on the ship.”

  “If she hadn’t been in that car, Malcolm Cresswell would have had his collar felt long before now” Mark added. He glanced at his watch again but just as he was about to say that he’d have to wrap things up and leave for the court, his phone beeped with a text message alert. “Excuse me, I’d better have a quick look at this, it could be urgent. “Typical” he said as he read the message. “Adjourned until tomorrow. If I had a fiver for every time that’s happened….”

  “So you’ve got to come all this way back again tomorrow? Couldn’t you stay overnight? You’d be very welcome to stay here of course” said Bridget.

  “Thanks Bridget but I really need to get back. Jenny’s going to a leaving do this evening and I’m on baby-sitting duties. It’s just as well actually that I don’t need to dash off as I haven’t got round to what I wanted to run past you yet. But before I get to that I want to show you the image of the woman in the car next to Malcolm Cresswell. Unfortunately, she turned her head away just as the photo was taken. Here, have a look both of you, you’ll see what I mean” Mark said as he opened his briefcase and, pulling out a photocopy of the image, handed it to Bridget. “Do you recognise her as the woman you spoke to?”

  Bridget studied the image carefully. “I see what you mean, you can only see about a quarter of her face and as her hair’s fallen forwards, it’s hard to see where her parting is. I do recognise the clothes though. I remember that she was wearing a navy zip-up hooded jacket, navy trousers and a light blue and white striped top. I particularly noticed the jacket as when she unzipped it, I thought how pretty the lining was. It was blue with a pattern of little white sailing boats with red sails. I almost asked her where she’d bought it but then I stopped myself in case she thought I was being a bit cheeky, as we’d only just met. I presume you’ve shown this to Malcolm Cresswell?”

  “Indeed we have. We brought him in for questioning shortly after you made your statement Bridget. He was absolutely adamant that the woman was his wife, Sheila. It got a bit er, heated after that as you can imagine. He wasn’t best pleased at us alluding to his “doing away” with her as he put it. The same goes for the children, Rachel and Jamie. They were both adamant that it’s their mother. Rachel vouched for the clothes too and, like you Bridget, she picked out the jacket as being particularly distinctive. What do you think Gil? You haven’t said anything about the photo.”

  “It’s no good asking me. Although I was sat next to her I was leaning away from her, trying to read my paper so I didn’t take a great deal of notice I’m afraid, particularly of what she was wearing.”

  “Ok, not to worry, but from what you’ve said about the clothes Bridget, you wouldn’t rule out it being her?” Mark asked as he put the photo away.

  “Oh no, Insp.., Mark, it could very well be her. So was there something else you wanted to ask us?” Bridget said, anxious to move things on in case Mark got into trouble if he got home late.

  “To be frank, my boss is all for closing the file on this one. His view is that there’s absolutely no evidence that a crime has been committed. In his opinion, the woman, whoever she was, either fell or she jumped. He’s quite right of course, besides it would make life easier for us that’s for sure. As I mentioned, we’ve got this mini crime-wave going on up at the Elms estate and our resources are stretched pretty tightly. Putting the Cresswell case to be bed would solve a lot of problems. And yet….”

  “You smell something fishy” Bridget interrupted.

  “Correct. Call it coppers’ intuition but there’s something not quite right with that man but I can’t put my finger on it. Oh he said all the right things, cried at the right moment, but something told me it was all an act. What I could do with knowing is what the Cresswells were really like, behind closed doors. We asked Rachel and Jamie of course if they were aware of any problems between their parents but not unsurprisingly that drew a blank. Rachel virtually left home at eighteen when she went to uni and, apart from holidays, never actually returned to live there for any length of time. Jamie left home about six months ago to flat-share with a couple of his mates in town and I very much doubt if he’s given a moments’ thought to the state of his parents’ marriage.”

  “I think I know where this might be leading” Bridget said with a knowing look on her face. “You want someone to snoop.”

  “Well I wouldn’t put it quite like that, but yes, I suppose that is what I mean.”

  “And you think I’m the person to do it.”

  “I can’t think of anyone better.”

  Gil let out a snort. “Well there we are Bridge, you’re officially a nosey-parker!”

  “Stop it Gil, that’s not what Mark meant at all” Bridget exclaimed, who had by now turned a strange shade of puce.

  “No of course I didn’t” Mark said, whose face was now rivalling Bridget’s. “All I meant was that you have a very inquiring mind Bridget. If anyone can get the lowdown on the Cresswells, you can.”

  “So what do you want me to do exactly Mark, do you have anything specific in mind?”

  “As I said, I would dearly love to know a bit more about what the Cresswells were really like. So I think a chat with their neighbours would be a good place to start. Are you alright with travelling to Dover Bridget? I know you don’t drive so how would you make your way there? We would of course reimburse you for any bus or train fare.”

  Bridget looked pleading at Gil. “What do you think Gil, would you be ok to take me? We could make a day of it if you like.”

  “Yes of course I’ll take you. I don’t know Dover very well, we’ve only ever driven straight through to the ferry port, like most people I imagine, so this will be a good chance to get to know the place a bit better.”

  “That’s really very kind of you both” Mark replied. “I don’t want to pressure you but, reading between the lines, I think we’ve only got a few days to come up with some evidence before the Superintendent will declare the case closed. When do you think you would be free to go Gil? I know you’ve got garage business to attend to.”

  “Luckily we’ve got everything pretty well covered at the moment so, any time you like Bridge.”

  “Well there’s no time like the present, so how about tomorrow?” Bridget replied eagerly.

  “Suits me.”

  “Well, that’s settled then. I can’t tell you how grateful I am to you both. I wish we could put you on the payroll but we’ll have to keep this between ourselves for now, as I’m sure you both understand.”

  “Of course. But if I do come up with something Mark, how are you going to explain that to your boss?” Bridget asked.

  “You just get me the evidence Bridget and leave that to me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Gil and Bridget were up at the crack of dawn the next day for the drive to Dover. It was just under an hour and a half to the Cresswell’s home in Hazel Avenue, according to Gil’s sat-nav and he was keen to make an early start to avoid the worst of the morning’s rush hour traffic.

  They had talked late into the night after Mark had left trying to decide what would be the best time to catch the neighbours at home. Gil suggested early evening, when most people would have returned home from work by then. Bridget pointed out that whilst that would be the most logical time to call, it was however precisely the time to avoid, especially if they were families with hungry children to feed. Who wants to risk burning the fish fingers to talk to a complete stranger, she had argued. Gil reluctantly agreed so they discounted breakfast time for
the same reason. They settled on mid-morning on the basis that most people who were at home at that time of the day either didn’t work or worked at home.

  Having made better time than he thought, Gil hit the outskirts of Dover just after nine, a little ahead of schedule. Spotting a “greasy spoon” he convinced Bridget it would be the perfect spot to while away half an hour or so until they made their way to Hazel Avenue. Bridget wasn’t convinced and accused Gil of deliberately setting off sooner than planned in order to allow time for a bacon and fried egg sandwich. She had to agree though that the coffee was excellent and was impressed by a sign which boasted that the eggs were both local and free-range.

  “So, have you got your cover story all worked out?” Gil asked as he polished off his third espresso.

  “Yes, I think so, although I don’t particularly enjoy lying to people.” Bridget recalled that this would be the second time that she’d called on strangers pretending to be someone she was not. At least on this occasion she would be using her real name, which made her feel slightly easier about what she was about to do.

  “Come on then, let’s get this show on the road” Gil replied, picking up his car keys.

  Ten minutes and one wrong turn later, Gil swung the Mercedes into Hazel Avenue. Seeing numbers two and four on his left he estimated that number forty-six, the Cresswells’ home, would be another hundred yards or so further on. “Do you want to get out here or do want me to drive you to the door?”

  “I’ll get out here I think. I’m going to tell people I’ve parked my car around the corner. I don’t want them to be distracted by looking over my shoulder and wondering who you are.”

  “Ok, you’re the boss. I’ll just wait here for you. On second thoughts, I saw a little newsagents just before we turned off the main road so I’ll nip back for a paper. Take your time, no rush.”

  “Wish me luck. Oh and don’t forget to send the text.”

  It had been agreed with Mark Addison that if Bridget had not returned to the car after fifteen minutes, it would be assumed she had found one of the Cresswells’ neighbours to talk to. It had also been agreed that in that event, Gil was to text “the fox is in the henhouse” to Mark’s personal mobile phone. Gil felt a little foolish when he drafted the text ready to send but he had to admit that he found the cloak and dagger stuff quite exciting all the same.

  Bridget made her way along Hazel Avenue and wondered how long the road of pre-war red bricked houses was. It bent around to her left and went slightly downhill so she couldn’t see the far end. Finding herself outside number forty-six, which was the right-hand house of a pair of semis, Bridget suddenly wondered if Malcolm Cresswell would be at home. Then she remembered that Mark Addison told her that he was staying with friends until he could find the courage to return to a home without his wife. Poor man, Bridget thought.

  Bridget glanced briefly across to her left at the Cresswells’ house as she climbed the steps up to their neighbours at number forty-four. Their curtains were closed. Bridget had a feeling that no-one would be in at the house in front of her either. She was right. When neither the door- bell nor vigorous knocking produced a response from within the property, Bridget tried the side-door to her left, which presumably led to the back garden. Locked.

  As she descended the steps back to the road, Bridget looked at the houses opposite and wondered if any of the occupants had spotted her. If any of them were at home that is. In case someone was watching, she decided to call at the Cresswells rather than head straight for number forty-eight. She had no idea why she did that, other than to miss out number forty-six altogether might look a little odd.

  The Cresswells house was identical to its neighbour but the neat little front garden, freshly painted front door and window frames were in direct contrast to the rather sad and depressing demeanor number forty-four had presented. Knowing there was no-one at home, Bridget pretended to ring the bell. After waiting for a few seconds, she turned and headed for number forty-eight. Please let someone be at home, she said to herself.

  Her prayers were answered when Bridget could hear music emanating from within the house in front of her. After a sharp rap with the knocker (there was no bell) the door swung open and Bridget came face to face with her first resident of Hazel Avenue.

  “Oh hello” Bridget stammered, “sorry to bother you but I wondered if you could give me a few minutes of your time.”

  The woman who stood in front of her was average height, round and in her late forties Bridget estimated, and had the smiliest eyes she had ever seen. “If you’re selling something, then sorry I’m not interested, but if you’re not, then fire away my love” she said in a soft accent Bridget couldn’t quite place.

  “Ok, well this may sound a little strange” Bridget began hesitatingly, “but I’m hoping to buy a property in the area and what I’m after is some local knowledge of what it’s really like to live here. You know the sort of thing…”

  “That the estate agents would never tell you?” said the other woman, finishing Bridget’s sentence for her.

  “That’s it, exactly.”

  “Well come right on in darlin’. I’ve just put the kettle on. Tea ok for you?”

  Bridget followed the woman along the hallway and into an airy kitchen-diner which appeared to run the width of the house. The kitchen end was fitted with white units and white wall tiles gleamed brightly. Bridget thought it was too clinical looking for her taste but she had to admit that the use of vivid lime-green as an accent colour, gave the place a very fresh, clean look. She particularly liked the bowl of bright green apples and it was all she could do not to pick one up and start munching.

  “Sit yourself down girl, we don’t stand on ceremony in this house. I’m Josie by the way.”

  “Thank you, and I’m Bridget.”

  “So you have a drop o’ the Oirish in you then Bridget” Josie replied, suddenly changing her accent into a very authentic Irish brogue.

  “Not at all, well not as far as I know anyway. I think my parents just liked the name.”

  “Well that’s good enough reason. Now then Bridget, would you like some of my home-made cookies with your tea?”

  Still full after the toasted teacake she’d forced herself to eat while watching Gil wolf down his bacon and egg sandwich, Bridget reluctantly declined. Hoping the cookies weren’t made from Josie’s dearly departed great-grannie’s favourite recipe, she hastily tried to change the subject. “So how long have you lived here Josie?”

  “Now let me see, it was just after Uncle Joe’s funeral, so that would make it coming up to ten, no eleven years. I used to live in London but hated the place, so when I saw this job advertised, I applied and got it. Never regretted it for a second.”

  “What is it that you do?”

  “I’m a care assistant at Rose Lodge Care Home. Wonderful place. You hear some dreadful things about some of these homes, but if I had to end my days at Rose Lodge, I’d die a happy woman. Hopefully that won’t be for a few years yet though!” Josie added with a throaty chuckle which made her whole body shake. “So Bridget, what is it you want to know exactly?”

  “Well, as you said, the things that the estate agents don’t tell you. For instance, does the place turn into a rat-run in rush hour or does the play-park become a drug-dealer’s paradise after dark?”

  “Well Bridget my dear, I can assure you neither of those things happen in this neck of the woods. It’s all very respectable, very quiet, some might say boring, but hey, what’s wrong with boring!”

  “Hm, that all sounds promising so far”, Bridget replied, but mindful that she needed to bring the conversation around to the Cresswells, she asked what the neighbours were like.

  “Next door to me thataway” Josie replied, jerking her head to her right “is old Mr Coombes, he’s almost ninety, and I can assure you he doesn’t turn into a raver at midnight, or if he does he’s very quiet about it! On the other side, at number forty-six, are the Cresswells, or I should say just Malcolm C
resswell now. His poor wife died the Friday before last. You may have heard about it in the news Bridget, she went missing from the ferry on their way back from France. Dreadful it was, that poor man, he’s absolutely heartbroken. And those poor kids too, well they're gown up actually, but to lose your mum like that…”

  “I heard about that of course, to think they lived next door to you! So you knew them quite well then did you?” Bridget asked trying to make her question sound casual.

  “Well enough. We weren’t bosom pals or anything but they were good neighbours. The sort you could call on any time, night or day if you needed to and they wouldn’t let you down.”

  “Before I called here, I knocked at number forty-six but there was no answer and the curtains were closed. Has, er Malcolm I think you said, gone away?”

  “Yes he’s staying with some friends. He can’t face being on his own in the house at the moment. I don’t blame him what with signs of Sheila everywhere. Not just that, the media were hounding him after it happened so I think he’s done the right thing to get away for a bit.”

  “Yes but he’s got to come back home one day though, hasn’t he. That’s when it will hit him. It must be very hard when you’ve had a good marriage to find yourself suddenly alone.” Bridget hoped her remark would prompt Josie to contradict her if the Cresswells’ marriage had been less than happy. Then again, why would she open up to a complete stranger? Thankfully Josie didn’t disappoint.

  “Oh you should have seen them together. Like a couple of love-struck teenagers, they were, you’d never think they’d been married for almost thirty years. I don't know how Malcolm is going to get through this, I really don’t.”