The Penguin Book of Modern British Short Stories

by The Penguin Book of Modern British Short Stories (retail) (epub)

  On the Monday, July 16th, he was front-page news in all the dailies. There were summaries of his career. The younger and only surviving son of a High Court judge, he had gone straight from a First in law at Oxford into the Army in 1939; had fought the North African campaign as an infantry officer and gained the MC; contracted kalaazar and been invalided home, finishing the war as a lieutenant-colonel at a desk at the War Office, concerned mainly with the Provost-Marshal department. There had followed after the war his success as a barrister specializing in company and taxation law, his giving up the Bar in 1959 for politics; then his directorships, his life in East Anglia, his position slightly right of centre in the Tory Party.

  There were the obvious kinds of speculation, the police having said that they could not yet rule out the possibility of a politically motivated kidnapping, despite the apparently unforced decision not to attend the scheduled board meeting. But the Fieldings’ solicitor, who had briefed the press, was adamant that there was categorically no question of unsavoury conduct in any manner or form; and the police confirmed that to the best of their knowledge the MP was a completely law-abiding citizen. Mr Fielding had not been under investigation or surveillance of any kind.

  On the assumption that he might have travelled abroad with a false name and documents, a check was made at Heathrow and the main ports to the Continent. But no passport official, no airline desk-girl or stewardess who could be contacted could recall his face. He spoke a little French and German, but not nearly well enough to pass as a native – and in any case, the passport he had left behind argued strongly that he was still in Britain. The abundant newspaper and television coverage, with all the photographs of him, provoked the usual number of reports from the public. All were followed up, and none led anywhere. There was a good deal of foreign coverage as well; and Fielding most certainly did not remain unfindable for lack of publicity. He was clearly, if he was still alive, hidden or in hiding. The latter suggested an accomplice; but no accomplice among those who had formerly known the MP suggested himself or herself. A certain amount of discreet surveillance was done on the more likely candidates, of whom one was Miss Parsons. Her telephone at home, and the one at the flat, were tapped. But all this proved a dead end. A cloud of embarrassment, governmental, detective and private, gathered over the disappearance. It was totally baffling, and connoisseurs of the inexplicable likened the whole business to that of the Marie Celeste.

  But no news story can survive an absence of fresh developments. On Fleet Street Fielding was tacitly declared ‘dead’ some ten days after the story first broke.

  Mrs Fielding was not, however, the sort of person who was loth or lacked the means to prod officialdom. She ensured that her husband’s case continued to get attention where it mattered; the police were not given the autonomy of Fleet Street. Unfortunately they had in their own view done all they could. The always very poor scent was growing cold; and nothing could be done until they had further information – and whether they got that was far more in the lap of the gods than a likely product of further inquiries. The web was out, as fine and far-flung as this particular spider could make it; but it was up to the fly to make a move now. Meanwhile, there was Mrs Fielding to be placated. She required progress reports.

  At a meeting at New Scotland Yard on July 30th, it was decided (with, one must presume, higher consent) to stand down the team till then engaged full-time on the case and to leave it effectively in the hands of one of its junior members, a Special Branch sergeant hitherto assigned the mainly desk job of collating information on the ‘political’ possibilities. Normally, and certainly when it came to meeting Mrs Fielding’s demands for information, the inquiry would remain a much higher responsibility. The sergeant was fully aware of the situation: he was to make noises like a large squad. He was not really expected to discover anything, only to suggest that avenues were still being busily explored. As he put it to a colleague, he was simply insurance, in case the Home Secretary turned nasty.

  He also knew it was a small test. One of the rare public-school entrants to the force, and quite obviously cut out for higher rank from the day he first put on a uniform, he had a kind of tight-rope to walk. Police families exist, like Army and Navy ones, and he was the third generation of his to arm the law. He was personable and quick-minded, which might, with his middle-class manner and accent, have done him harm; but he was also a diplomat. He knew very well the prejudices his type could only too easily arouse in the petty-bourgeois mentality so characteristic of the middle echelons of the police. He might think this or that inspector a dimwit, he might secretly groan at some ponderous going-by-the-book when less orthodox methods were clearly called for, or at the tortured, queasy jargon some of his superiors resorted to in order to sound ‘educated’. But he took very good care indeed not to show his feelings. If this sounds Machiavellian, it was; but it also made him a good detective. He was particularly useful for investigations in the higher social milieux. His profession did not stand out a mile in a Mayfair gaming-house or a luxury restaurant. He could pass very well as a rich, trendy young man about town, and if this ability could cause envy inside the force, it could also confound many stock notions of professional deformation outside it. His impeccable family background (with his father still a respected country head of police) also helped greatly; in a way he was a good advertisement for the career – undoubtedly a main reason he was picked for an assignment that must bring him into contact with various kinds of influential people. His name was Michael Jennings.

  He spent the day following the secret decision in going through the now bulky file on Fielding, and at the end of it he drew up for himself a kind of informal summary that he called State of Play. It listed the possibilities and their counter-arguments.

  Suicide. No body. No predisposition, no present reason.

  Murder. No body. No evidence of private enemies. Political ones would have claimed responsibility publicly.

  Abduction. No follow-through by abductors. No reason why Fielding in particular.

  Amnesia. They’re just lost, not hiding. Doctors say no prior evidence, not the type.

  Under threat to life. No evidence. Would have called in police at once, on past evidence.

  Threat of blackmail. No evidence of fraud or tax-dodging. No evidence of sexual misbehaviour.

  Fed up with present life. No evidence. No financial or family problems. Strong sense of social duties all through career. Legal mind, not a joker.

  Timing. Advantage taken of Parsons’s afternoon off (warning given ten days prior) suggests deliberate plan? But F. could have given himself longer by cancelling board meeting and one with agent – or giving Parsons whole day off. Therefore four hours was enough, assuming police brought in at earliest likely point, the 6.35 failure to turn up for his surgery. Therefore long planned? Able to put into action at short notice? The sergeant then wrote a second heading: Wild Ones.

  Love. Some girl or woman unknown. Would have to be more than sex. For some reason socially disastrous (married, class, colour)? Check other missing persons that period.

  Homosexuality. No evidence at all.

  Paranoia. Some imagined threat. No evidence in prior behaviour.

  Ghost from the past. Some scandal before his marriage, some enemy made during wartime or legal phases of career? No evidence, but check.

  Finances. Most likely way he would have set up secret account abroad?

  Fox-hunting kick. Some parallel, identification with fox. Leaving hounds lost? But why?

  Bust marriage. Some kind of revenge on wife. Check she hasn’t been having it off?

  Religious crisis. Mild C of E for the show of it. Zero probability.

  Something hush-hush abroad to do with his being an MP. But not a muck-raker or cloak-and-dagger type. Strong sense of protocol, would have consulted the FO, at least warned his wife. Forget it.

  Son. Doesn’t fit. See him again.

  Logistics. Total disappearance not one-man operation. Must have h
ide-out, someone to buy food, watch for him, etc.

  Must be some circumstantial clue somewhere. Something he said some time to someone. Parsons more likely than wife? Try his Westminster and City friends.

  After some time the sergeant scrawled a further two words, one of which was obscene, in capitals at the bottom of his analysis.

  He began the following week with Miss Parsons. The daughters, Francesca and Caroline, had returned respectively from a villa near Malaga and a yacht in Greece and the whole family was now down at Tetbury Hall. Miss Parsons was left to hold the fort in London. The sergeant took her once more through the Friday morning of the disappearance. Mr Fielding had dictated some fifteen routine letters, then done paperwork on his own while she typed them out. He had made a call to his stockbroker; and no others to her knowledge. He had spent most of the morning in the drawing-room of the flat; not gone out at all. She had left the flat for less than half an hour, to buy some sandwiches at a delicatessen near Sloane Square. She had returned just after one, made coffee and taken her employer in the sandwiches he had ordered. Such impromptu lunches were quite normal on a Friday. He seemed in no way changed from when she had gone out. They had talked of her weekend in Hastings. He had said he was looking forward to his own, for once with no weekend guests, at Tetbury Hall. She had been with him so long that their relationship was very informal. All the family called her simply ‘P’. She had often stayed at the Hall. She supposed she was ‘half-nanny’ as well as secretary.

  The sergeant found he had to tread very lightly indeed when it came to delving into Fielding’s past. ‘P’ proved to be fiercely protective of her boss’s good name, both in his legal and his political phases. The sergeant cynically and secretly thought that there were more ways of breaking the law, especially in the City, than simply the letter of it; and Fielding had been formidably well equipped to buccaneer on the lee side. Yet she was adamant about foreign accounts. Mr Fielding had no sympathy with tax-haven tricksters – his view of the Lonrho affair, the other Tory scandal of that year, had been identical to that of his prime minister’s. Such goings-on were ‘the unacceptable face of capitalism’ to him as well. But at least, insinuated the sergeant gently, if he had wanted to set up a secret account abroad, he had the know-how? But there he offended secretarial pride. She knew as much of Mr Fielding’s financial affairs and resources as he did himself. It was simply not possible.

  With the sexual possibilities, the sergeant ran into an even more granite-like wall. She had categorically denied all knowledge before, she had nothing further to add. Mr Fielding was the last man to indulge in a hole-in-the-corner liaison. He had far too much self-respect. Jennings changed his tack.

  ‘Did he say anything that Friday morning about the dinner the previous evening with his son?’

  ‘He mentioned it. He knows I’m very fond of the children.’

  ‘In happy terms?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But they don’t see eye to eye politically?’

  ‘My dear young man, they’re father and son. Oh they’ve had arguments. Mr Fielding used to joke about it. He knew it was simply a passing phase. He told me once he was rather the same at Peter’s age. I know for a fact that he very nearly voted Labour in 1945.’

  ‘He gave no indication of any bitterness, quarrel, that Thursday evening?’

  ‘Not in the least. He said Peter looked well. What a charming girl his new friend was.’ She added, ‘I think he was a tiny bit disappointed they weren’t going down to the Hall for the weekend. But he expected his children to lead their own lives.’

  ‘So he wasn’t disappointed by the way Peter had turned out?’

  ‘Good heavens no. He’s done quite brilliantly. Academically.’

  ‘But hardly following in his father’s footsteps?’

  ‘Everyone seems to think Mr Fielding was some kind of Victorian tyrant. He’s a most broad-minded man.’

  The sergeant smiled. ‘Who’s everyone, Miss Parsons?’

  ‘Your superior, anyway. He asked me all these same questions.’

  The sergeant tried soft soap: no one knew Mr Fielding better, she really was their best lead.

  ‘One’s racked one’s brains. Naturally. But I can still hardly believe what’s happened. And as for trying to find a reason…’

  ‘An inspired guess?’ He smiled again.

  She looked down at the hands clasped over her lap. ‘Well. He did drive himself very hard.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘Perhaps something in him… I really shouldn’t be saying this. It’s the purest speculation.’

  ‘It may help.’

  ‘Well, if something broke. He ran away. I’m sure he’d have realized what he had done in a very few days. But then, he did set himself such very high standards, perhaps he would have read all the newspaper reports. I think…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I’m only guessing, but I suppose he might have been… deeply shocked at his own behaviour. And I’m not quite sure what…’

  ‘Are you saying he might have killed himself?’

  Evidently she was, though she shook her head. ‘I don’t know, I simply don’t know. I feel so certain it was something done without warning. Preparation. Mr Fielding was a great believer in order. In proper channels. It was so very uncharacteristic of him. The method, I mean the way he did it. If he did do it.’

  ‘Except it worked? If he did mean it to?’

  ‘He couldn’t have done it of his own free will. In his normal mind. It’s unthinkable.’

  Just for a moment the sergeant sensed a blandness, an impermeability in Miss Parsons, which was perhaps merely a realization that she would have done anything for Fielding – including the telling, at this juncture, of endless lies. There must have been something sexual in her regard for him, yet there was, quite besides her age, in her physical presence, in the rather dumpy body, the pursed mouth, the spectacles, the discreetly professional clothes of the lifelong spinster secretary, such a total absence of attractiveness (however far back one imagined her, and even if there had once been something between her and her employer, it would surely by now have bred malice rather than this fidelity) that made such suspicions die almost as soon as they came to mind. However, perhaps they did faintly colour the sergeant’s next question.

  ‘How did he usually spend free evenings here? When Mrs Fielding was down in the country?’

  ‘The usual things. His club. He was rather keen on the theatre. He dined out a lot with friends. He enjoyed an occasional game of bridge.’

  ‘He didn’t gamble at all?’

  ‘An occasional flutter. The Derby and the Grand National. Nothing more.’

  ‘Not gaming clubs?’

  ‘I’m quite sure not.’

  The sergeant went on with the questioning, always probing towards some weak point, something shameful, however remote, and arrived nowhere. He went away only with that vague hint of an overworked man and the implausible notion that after a moment of weakness he had promptly committed hara-kiri. Jennings had a suspicion that Miss Parsons had told him what she wanted to have happened rather than what she secretly believed. The thought of a discreetly dead employer was more acceptable than the horror of one bewitched by a chit of a girl or tarred by some other shameful scandal.

  While he was at the flat, he also saw the daily woman. She added nothing. She had never found evidence of some unknown person having slept there; no scraps of underclothes, no glasses smudged with lipstick, no unexplained pair of coffee-cups on the kitchen table. Mr Fielding was a gentleman, she said. Whether that meant gentlemen always remove the evidence or never give occasion for it in the first place, the sergeant was not quite sure.

  He still favoured, perhaps because so many of the photographs suggested an intensity (strange how few of them showed Fielding with a smile) that gave also a hint of repressed sensuality, some kind of sexual–romantic solution. A slim, clean-shaven man of above average height, who evidently dressed with care e
ven in his informal moments, Fielding could hardly have repelled women. For just a few minutes, one day, the sergeant thought he had struck oil in this barren desert. He had been checking the list of other persons reported missing over that first weekend. A detail concerning one case, a West Indian secretary who lived with her parents in Notting Hill, rang a sharp bell. Fielding had been on the board of the insurance company at whose London headquarters the girl had been working. The nineteen-year-old sounded reasonably well educated, her father was a social worker. Jennings saw the kind of coup every detective dreams of – Fielding, who had not been a Powellite, intercepted on his way to a board meeting, invited to some community centre do by the girl on behalf of her father, falling for black cheek in both senses… castles in Spain. A single call revealed that the girl had been traced – or rather had herself stopped all search a few days after disappearing. She fancied herself as a singer, and had run away with a guitarist from a West Indian club in Bristol. It was strictly black to black.