Devil's Work

by Margaret Yorke

  It was the first time in her life that she had ever been sure of someone’s love. Yet she knew very little about him – a fragment or two; that was all. As he hadn’t been able to tell his wife about his lost job, Louise decided his marriage was not all that marvellous. It seemed to lack trust. But she trusted him.

  Why had the police wanted to see him?

  Into her mind began to seep the dreadful idea that they had found Tessa in circumstances so terrible that they would not tell her, and were going to get Alan to do it – even identify her. Louise remembered what had had to be done when Roddy died.

  She wouldn’t believe it. Tessa wasn’t dead. Somehow or other, she’d lost herself; perhaps some old person had met her wandering about and had taken her to their house, and would bring her home in the morning – some old person who hadn’t heard the broadcast on local radio which had gone out that evening, or the police loudspeaker.

  Louise sat alone in her first floor flat while Tessa was, indeed, the charge of an old person and slept below in the basement of 51 Oak Way, snoring a little.

  In the ground floor flat the Henshaws, too, were in bed. They clung together, comforting each other with love because the world was a frightening place in which terrible things could happen even on your own doorstep and into which, even so, they planned one day to bring children of their own.

  When the doorbell rang, long after midnight, Louise thought it must be Alan. She rushed to open the door, and when she found Ruth on the step, fell into her arms, weeping.

  Ruth hadn’t been to Berbridge before. She hadn’t known where Oak Way was. But she’d seen the police about; their cars seemed to be everywhere and there were officers on foot all over the place. A constable in a car had guided her all the way, as soon as she’d asked for directions. So she knew there was no fresh news; Tessa was missing still.

  Mrs Cox woke early the next morning, as usual, and went to the bathroom. Then she made tea, but because Tessa was in the bedroom, she took the tray into the living-room and set it down by her chair. While the tea brewed she went back to look at the child.

  Tessa moaned in her sleep, stirring a little. Mrs Cox put an arm round her, raised her head and held to her lips the glass of orange juice, heavily laced with drugs, which she’d prepared the previous night.

  ‘A nice little drink, Tessa,’ she crooned. ‘Come along.’

  Tessa’s mouth was dry and she sipped automatically, slowly swallowing all the liquid. Some sediment remained in the base of the glass. Mrs Cox laid her back in the bed, tucking her in, then returned to her tea, closing the living-room door. She lit the gas fire and pulled her chair up to it as she drank her tea. Soon, comfortably warm, she dozed off.

  Tessa, however, was roused by the act of drinking the cold orange juice, sickly sweet with sugar which Mrs Cox had added. The irritant chloral hydrate, interacting with the antihistamine in the baby sedative, began to stir up her stomach. She stirred restlessly, and wispy thoughts fluttered about in her head. There was something bad about Mummy but she couldn’t quite remember. Waves of sleep pulled at Tessa, dragging her back towards unconsciousness, but her physical discomforts pressed too; she felt a bit sick and she needed to spend a penny.

  Tessa struggled to sit up. She saw that she was in a room that was lit by a dim, blue bulb, and knew she was in Mrs Cox’s flat. She’d been in the bedroom before, when Mrs Cox had shown her photographs of more of her children. Why was she wearing her skirt and socks in bed, Tessa wondered, and then she remembered that Mummy was in hospital and she’d come to stay with Mrs Cox. It seemed odd that they hadn’t packed her toothbrush and pyjamas, though.

  She did feel so sick, and her mouth felt all funny. She hadn’t cleaned her teeth before going to bed, and that was naughty. Had she even washed? She couldn’t remember.

  She heard Mrs Cox moving about, then the sound of the living-room door closing. Tessa lay still, trying to ignore the sick feeling, and the other one, which wouldn’t go away. She felt frightened, but Mummy would want her to be good and sensible and give no trouble to kind Mrs Cox.

  Perhaps the nasty feelings would go if she lay quietly and pretended inside her head that something nice was happening. What would be nice? To go back to Cornwall to go down to Portrinnock and out in Dick’s boat, perhaps, catching mackerel? She tried to imagine it, dozing a little as she walked, in imagination, along the cliff path.

  In the end, though, the sick feeling grew stronger, and she retched. How dreadful if she were to be sick here, in the bed that had belonged to Mrs Cox’s dear friend Mavis.

  Tessa got out of bed, moving cautiously, and tiptoed to the door. She eased it open. The lobby light was on as she flitted across to the bathroom and closed the door silently behind her. She had often been there before, to wash her hands before drinking the milk and eating the biscuits or banana Mrs Cox had given her so many times.

  In the bathroom, Tessa was neatly sick into the lavatory bowl, making no mess, and not enough noise to wake Mrs Cox who now slumbered in the armchair in the other room. After that, she relieved her bladder, then washed her hands and face at the basin. The thought of her unbrushed teeth still worried Tessa and she looked about for a brush, but the medicine chest on the wall was too high for tier to reach and even if there were a brush inside, it would be Mrs Cox’s and you shouldn’t use anyone else’s.

  She washed her mouth out with cold water, and dried her hands carefully on Mrs Cox’s towel, folding it neatly afterwards.

  The plumbing, in the basement flat, was all at the rear, away from the room where Mrs Cox slept, unaware of her guest’s careful activities.

  Tessa crept back to bed. Her legs felt all woolly and odd, and her head very heavy, and she knew it must still be night-time. Though part of her was wretched with misery, part of her, too, was determined to give no trouble. Tessa knew, already, that when things were bad, crying and making a fuss wasn’t any help and only made people cross.

  If she was good, in the morning they’d go to see Mummy. Meanwhile, she was dreadfully sleepy.

  Tessa had vomited up most of the second cocktail of sedatives, but the first one had not yet worn off, and she was asleep again almost at once.

  ‘You said you were at the office today, Mr Parker,’ said Chief Superintendent Drummer, sitting opposite Alan at a small table in an interview room in Berbridge Central Police Station.

  ‘Yes,’ Alan agreed.

  ‘Biggs and Cooper, at Stowburgh?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said again, but his heart sank. Somehow the police must have discovered that he had lied. They might even suspect him of being involved with Tessa’s disappearance. God, he’d been stupid! ‘It wasn’t true,’ he went on. ‘I wasn’t in Stowburgh today. I’ve lost my job, but my wife doesn’t know and she was in the room when the constable asked me where I’d been.’

  ‘I see,’ said Drummer. He stared across the table at Alan, eyes hard in his rugged face. He had a small scar on his cheek, Alan noticed irrelevantly.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ said Alan. ‘I suppose I should have rung you, or something, to tell you—to explain. Not that it can affect what’s happened to Tessa.’

  Probably not, as it happened, thought Drummer, but he did not intend to let Alan lightly off the hook.

  ‘Where were you this afternoon?’ he asked.

  Alan told him about his interview.

  ‘So you didn’t meet Tessa from school?’ Drummer said.

  ‘I wish to God I had,’ said Alan. ‘Then none of this would be happening. But there wasn’t time.’

  Drummer wanted to know the name of the firm and, as he gave it, Alan thought that any chance he might have had of getting the job would disappear if the police came round asking questions about him.

  Drummer noted it down. It would have to be checked, although instinct told Drummer that Alan was telling the truth now. Poor bugger, he’d got himself into a right old tangle simply through not telling his wife he’d lost his job. However, Drummer wasn’t ready to let him go y
et. The child’s mother had revealed what he had been doing; now Alan Parker could supply details of her visit to London.

  ‘Where did Mrs Waring go today?’ Drummer asked.

  ‘To London – you know that,’ Alan said impatiently. ‘It’s how Tessa came to get lost. What are you doing to find her? You’re wasting time.’

  ‘We’re not, Mr Parker. We’re proceeding with our search,’ Drummer said. ‘But there’s not a lot we can do now, until morning.’

  ‘Well, let me go, then,’ Alan said. ‘Her mother’s alone. You can easily find me again if you want me – I’ll be at her flat.’

  He really cared for the girl, Drummer thought.

  ‘Tell me what Mrs Waring was doing in London,’ he said. ‘Why did she go?’

  ‘To look for her father,’ said Alan. ‘She thought he was dead and she’s just learned that he isn’t.’

  ‘Did she find him?’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said.

  ‘Tell me about it,’ Drummer invited.

  Early on Saturday morning, Alan was allowed to leave the police station. He was driven back to Oak Way, where his car still sat in the road outside.

  He had telephoned Daphne.

  It was Chief Superintendent Drummer’s idea.

  ‘You’re entitled to make one telephone call,’ he said, and grinned. ‘Those are your rights as a citizen being questioned. If you were a sixteen-year-old vandal you’d know that.’ He paused. ‘Most folk ring their solicitor – you don’t need yours, not at this stage.’

  ‘I wouldn’t hurt Tessa, any more than I’d hurt her mother,’ Alan said.

  ‘I believe you,’ Drummer said. ‘But I advise you to ring your wife, Mr Parker. She’s probably going spare, wondering what’s up.’

  She wouldn’t be; she’d be fast asleep, Alan thought. But he telephoned, all the same.

  ‘There’s a child missing, Daphne,’ he told her. ‘A friend’s daughter.’

  ‘What? Which friend?’

  Daphne had answered after the first ring, though she sounded sleepy and cross, as she might, if she’d just woken up.

  ‘Er—the girl you saw with my car that day in Berbridge,’ Alan said. That part, at least, was true.

  ‘Your new secretary?’

  ‘Her daughter disappeared on the way back from school yesterday,’ Alan said.

  ‘Oh – of course you must help her,’ Daphne said at once. ‘Why didn’t you tell me this last night?’

  ‘I didn’t want to waste time,’ Alan said. ‘I must go now, Daphne. I don’t know when I’ll be back.’

  He’d said that before, when he rushed from the house, Daphne thought.

  ‘What about her husband?’ she said, but he had rung off.

  She frowned, replacing the receiver. Why hadn’t he told her more about this girl, Stephanie’s successor? She pulled the bedclothes round her shoulders; the heating had turned itself off and there was no large, warm body beside her. She wondered how old the missing child was. What a shock for the mother. Yet why was it Alan who had to help? It was puzzling, to say the least.

  A most unfamiliar sensation filled Daphne for the briefest of uneasy moments; then she banished the small, jealous pang. Not Alan: oh, no, she needn’t worry. He had a soft heart, and he had a responsibility towards the girl, as she worked for him. Perhaps he was helping the police comb the streets, she thought.

  She soon fell asleep once more.

  Alan rang the bell at the flat. She wouldn’t be asleep, he was sure; how could she be, alone and with Tessa still lost?

  A strange woman opened the door. She was tall and thin, with very dark hair, and wore glasses. She put her finger to her lips and beckoned him in.

  He thought at first that she must be a plain-clothes policewoman, sent to keep Louise company, but surely there weren’t enough officers to spare for such welfare work when the child was still missing?

  ‘You’re Alan?’ the woman asked, and when he nodded, went on, ‘I’m Ruth Graham, Louise’s mother’s partner. I came as soon as we heard what had happened. Come along in. Louise has told me about you.’

  Ruth had been glad to hear of Alan’s place in Louise’s life, though as he was married she feared that further grief and distress lay ahead for her, but at the moment there was no time for that sort of speculation. She led the way into the sitting-room, where one lamp burned. She had been lying on the sofa; a rug was thrown back against the cushions. Alan was just thinking how odd it was that Ruth had come, not Louise’s mother, when she continued.

  ‘Louise is dozing,’ she said. ‘I persuaded her to lie down, though she wouldn’t undress. I told her I couldn’t try to get any sleep unless she did, so she took a pill.’

  ‘Oh, good,’ Alan said. ‘She must be exhausted after such a day. How did you hear about it? On the radio?’

  ‘No.’ Ruth explained about the policeman’s call. ‘Of course Tessa couldn’t possibly be on her way to Portrinnock,’ she said. ‘Though an older child might try such a trip, perhaps. I suppose the police must have some sort of routine they have to follow.’

  ‘Yes,’ agreed Alan, and added, with feeling, ‘They have to explore every possibility, including grilling someone like me.’

  ‘Is that what’s been happening? Louise couldn’t think why they took you away,’ said Ruth.

  There was no need to tell her about the deception he had practised upon the police. The chief superintendent had turned out to be a very decent bloke.

  ‘I think they call it eliminating someone,’ said Alan.

  ‘You could do with a drink,’ Ruth stated. She’d picked up a bottle of brandy and one of whisky from the hotel bar before leaving; Louise was unlikely to have anything stronger than sherry, if that, in her flat, and it might be needed, she’d thought.

  Alan gratefully accepted a strong whisky. He had had nothing to eat for hours, and, while he finished the sandwiches Freda had made for Ruth, they talked. He told her what he knew about Louise’s experiences in London that day and her childhood trauma.

  ‘Oh no!’ Ruth exclaimed. ‘How dreadful!’

  ‘You didn’t know that had happened?’ asked Alan.

  ‘No. I hadn’t met Freda then,’ Ruth said. ‘Poor Louise. What a shock for a child!’

  ‘Yes,’ Alan said grimly. ‘She’s paid for it dearly, hasn’t she? Do you know about the attacks she’s been having? It seems rather like agoraphobia.’

  ‘No – she didn’t mention that,’ said Ruth. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘It seems they began after she went to see her mother last autumn,’ Alan said, and explained.

  ‘Louise said you’d been very kind to her and given her back some confidence,’ Ruth said slowly. ‘She never had much.’

  ‘According to what I’ve read, agoraphobia can be caused by shock – often two shocks, a forgotten one, possibly, and then a second one which reactivates the first,’ Alan said. ‘In this case, her husband’s death could have been the trigger.’

  ‘Louise was lucky to meet you,’ Ruth said abruptly.

  ‘I haven’t done much,’ Alan said. ‘Just tried to encourage her. Everyone needs encouragement.’

  They were still talking when Louise woke and came into the room.

  Ruth took her place, then, in the bedroom, and left them together by the gas fire.

  There was no news by morning.

  The police were busy in Berbridge. Once again they searched the recreation ground and looked at the boats moored along the bank, opening their canopies to see if by any chance Tessa could have climbed aboard one, but none bore any sign of disturbance. The search moved on; shoppers were questioned; the loudspeaker car went past again; deserted buildings, warehouses and yards were examined.

  People volunteered to help in the hunt; young fathers called at the police station; even youths not keen on contact with the police came forward.

  But where could they usefully look for Tessa? She had, it seemed, vanished almost immediately after leaving school.

  That m
orning, the young woman who had been amusing her toddler on the swings in the recreation ground was discovered during door-to-door questioning. She had been there from about 3.15 for perhaps half an hour, she said, but was preoccupied with her own children and had not seen Tessa.

  Would she have noticed if Tessa had turned across the recreation ground in the direction of the river?

  The mother thought that was much more likely, for to do so Tessa would have passed directly in front of the swings on the way to the gate that led to the towpath. She thought she recognised Tessa from the photograph she was shown, for she was often in the recreation ground during the afternoon and had sometimes seen a solitary little girl walking past.

  It began to look more and more as if someone in a car had whisked her away. She could be miles from Berbridge by now: in a ditch somewhere; buried in a copse. Every police force in the country knew, by telex, about her. Chief Superintendent Drummer had begun to fear that no more would be heard of her until a small body was found, quite, by chance, some day, but his men went doggedly on with routine; by dusk on Saturday the area around the school had been toothcombed, and the whole town was aware that a child had been lost from within its bounds.

  The search, of necessity, had widened its radius and moved away from the district where Tessa had lived.

  It was quiet in the area around 51 Oak Way and its neighbouring residential streets, and that afternoon, because it was raining, there was no football played in the recreation ground.

  Mrs Cox spent all day in the flat, sitting quietly in her chair. Now and then she looked at her prisoner, who still lay in bed, asleep, fair hair in its two small bunches lying on Mavis’s pillow.

  Mrs Cox had soup and cheese for lunch, and afterwards looked at her newspaper cuttings. Tessa was really very like Grace.

  Mrs Cox had agreed to baby-sit that evening for the Bradleys in Shippham Avenue. It was only just round the corner, yet Mr Bradley always fetched her and took her home. Such good little children, the two little Bradleys were, guaranteed to sleep soundly all night. One was a girl, and fair; what would she be like when she started school, and how would life be for her then, wondered Mrs Cox. Would her mother be out meeting men, with Mr Bradley, unaware, in his office all day?