by Rebecca Tope
‘And there isn’t a dog,’ Den noted. ‘So Miss Strabinski could have been there for some time and you wouldn’t have known. What time did Justine and the little girl leave?’
Renton shrugged. ‘Mid-morning,’ he offered. ‘I have no idea of the precise time.’
‘You work from here, I take it?’
‘I’m in and out. I have to go to check quality on the ground and attend sales and so forth. But I’m here a fair amount of the time, yes. I was here last Thursday.’
Den made a few lines of notes. ‘One more thing,’ he remembered. ‘Could I possibly have a recent photo of Georgia?’
The couple seemed to forget their differences and stared at each other in dismay. ‘Oh!’ breathed Sheena, ‘Well, I suppose we must have one somewhere …?’ She looked helplessly at Philip.
‘Justine took a few of her, sometime around Easter. I remember there were daffodils.’ He shrugged. ‘I have no idea where they might be. Presumably in the cottage.’
‘Maybe a video, then?’ Den suggested. ‘We could probably have a few stills made, if you could let us have …’
‘No, we haven’t got a video camera,’ Philip cut across him. ‘We don’t really do photography at all, you see.’
‘And you never took her to a professional?’ Den’s disbelief was growing. Surely everybody took pictures of their children? Especially girls, especially the first child. What was the matter with these two that they seem never to have bothered?
‘Oh, I remember!’ Sheena suddenly crowed. ‘Your mother sent us one, didn’t she? Georgia’s nearly three in that. She hasn’t changed much since then. I’ll fetch it.’
The photograph had been slightly bent, pushed carelessly into a drawer. It showed a small girl sitting on a blue carpet, wearing dungarees. Her hair was short and wispy, her eyes very large, her expression serious. Den’s impression was of a child very small for almost three. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It always helps to have a picture.’
‘You’re going to search for her then, are you?’ Sheena persisted.
‘We’ll definitely search for Justine Pereira,’ he told her. ‘Because it seems very likely that we’ll find your little girl with her, don’t you think?’
‘I hope so,’ the woman responded flatly.
‘Now I’m going to have a look around her cottage. One of you would be welcome to accompany me. In fact, that’s the usual procedure.’
Neither of them seemed inclined to act as chaperone. ‘We trust you,’ said Philip casually. ‘The key’s under a big stone to the right of the front door.’
Without further discussion Den walked down the track to the small house, thinking as he did so that he’d had cause to visit numerous such dwellings during his career. A great many farms had originally included workers’ cottages on their property, and although a lot had been sold off or allowed to fall derelict in recent times, a lot still remained. This one was typical in many ways. Set at some distance from the main farmhouse, allotted its own fair-sized garden, just big enough for a family – and almost completely unmodernised.
He looked into every room, noting the untidiness, the air of having been left abruptly, but with no signs of violence. He found the mobile phone and the toothbrush, as Maggs had described. He left with a feeling of having learnt almost nothing.
Karen had no clear idea of what she would say when she phoned her cousin Penn, except that this was the only person she felt might offer her some sense of being involved in the business of Justine’s disappearance.
‘You only just caught me,’ came the response. ‘I was going out.’
‘Thanks for the nice note you sent,’ Karen began. ‘I hope we can keep in touch, now you’ve made the first move.’
‘Has Drew made any headway in trying to find Justine? I was hoping to hear from him before now.’
‘What? Surely they’ve told you?’ Karen was incredulous. ‘I assumed somebody would have called you right away.’
‘What? What do you mean?’ Penn’s voice was strained, even panicked.
‘They probably just didn’t get around to it. Drew was at Roma’s last night, when Justine walked in. I haven’t heard the whole story, by any means. I was just going to bed when he got home and fell asleep before he could say much. He promised to fill in the details this evening, but I’m not holding my breath. Yo be honest, I thought you could probably tell me all about it.’
‘Are you sure about this?’ Penn seemed to be having trouble breathing. ‘I mean … did he really say it was Justine?’
‘Of course. Who else would it be? It was all rather exciting, apparently. She hadn’t seen Roma for years, as you obviously know. And Roma wasn’t too happy to see her. Drew’s busy today or I could go and ask him for the rest of the story. He’s got two funerals tomorrow.’
Penn was no more impressed by this boast than Detective Sergeant Cooper had been. ‘Look, Karen, I’ll have to go. I’m catching a train down to the coast and I haven’t got long. Thanks for the call, it was really nice of you. I’ll be in touch when I get back. It’ll only be a few days. Say Hi to Drew for me, okay.’ The haste was almost indecent and Karen felt the rejection. ‘Go on, then,’ she said curtly. ‘Have a nice time.’
The only response was a snort. Somehow Karen had the impression that Penn did not expect to enjoy herself.
Penn was indeed not optimistic about enjoying herself. Neither did she know what she ought to do next. She was indeed catching a train, as she had told Karen, but not for another hour. As she had fallen into the habit of doing in recent months, she reached for her bag of rune-stones. Originally treating them as a novelty when one of her students had given them to her, she had become increasingly impressed by their usefulness. The interpretation of each symbol was a real intellectual challenge at times, and she rationalised her interest as being a topic of serious study. Justine had gently mocked her at first, of course. ‘Look, it isn’t fortune-telling, or anything like that. It’s just a sort of pointer. It directs your attention, focuses your thoughts,’ Penn had insisted.
She shook the bag, then stirred the smooth oval shapes with a finger, and withdrew three stones, laying them out from right to left, as the booklet had instructed. The first two were very similar: one showed two triangles joined at one point, making a sort of bowtie. The one to the right of it was another bowtie, this time on legs – the symbol for The Self. Penn shrieked as she realised the implications of the third stone. Once again, as she had described to Drew on Sunday afternoon, she had drawn Breakthrough followed by the Blank. And this combination meant Death.
She scattered the stones with a violent hand, doing her best to ignore her thumping heart. It was pure coincidence. Those two had been on top of the bag from the last time. The whole thing was stupid anyway. How could it possibly mean anything?
But she couldn’t suppress the shaking that had gripped her; the sudden certainty that she was destined for something terrible. Penn Strabinski was, in short, decidedly frightened.
CHAPTER NINE
Drew was limp with exhaustion, having dug both graves by early afternoon.
Maggs looked up at him fleetingly as he came into the office, and wrinkled her nose. ‘You smell,’ she told him.
‘Well, let’s hope we don’t get any visitors, then,’ he puffed, wiping his face with a hanky. ‘I’ll cool down in a minute.’
‘You should have left it until this evening,’ she chided him. ‘Instead of choosing the hottest part of the day.’
‘Never mind. It’s done now.’ He flopped into a chair and waited for his breath to return to normal. Maggs seemed restless. ‘You did know the Frenches want to use the church tomorrow, didn’t you?’ she said. ‘And there’s that flower festival thing at the weekend; they want us out by three at the latest, so they can get started on the decoration and stuff.’
Drew sighed. ‘I wish they wouldn’t.’
‘What?’
‘Keep wanting to use the church, especially in summer. We can quite easily do i
t all at the graveside just as meaningfully.’
‘The Frenches think there might be fifty people,’ she observed. ‘Personally, I’d rather they used the church.’
‘In America they cheerfully get a hundred or more to the graveside.’
‘With rows of chairs and a catafalque all laid out on artificial grass,’ she snapped back. ‘And probably only in places where they can be sure it won’t rain.’
‘Really? They really use a catafalque?’
She leant back in her chair. ‘I don’t know for sure,’ she admitted. ‘That’s how it looks in the films sometimes. If you don’t like using the church, you should crack on with building us a chapel of our own.’
Drew sighed again. ‘I’ve told you a thousand times we can’t afford it,’ he said. ‘And anyway, it’s not the way I want it to go. Once we had a chapel, there’d be “Abide With Me” and fancy coffins, and processions and it’d all be back to the bad old ways.’
‘Not necessarily,’ Maggs said sternly. ‘It’s up to you to offer them alternatives.’
It was a recurring disagreement, that never seemed to move any further forward. Drew was aware of being unreasonable in his desire to keep the burials as plain as he possibly could. He firmly believed that the majority of church services meant nothing whatsoever to the people involved and were little more than a nod towards the old conventions. He wanted people to construct their own heartfelt ceremonies in the open air, with minimal fanfare. However much Maggs might try to convince him that most people just weren’t up to such creativity, he stubbornly resisted the idea of building their own chapel. The furthest he was prepared to go was some kind of open-sided shelter where people could gather when the weather was seriously inclement.
But his heart wasn’t in the argument today. He couldn’t shake off the memory of Justine Pereira, bruised and scratched and telling such a wild tale of what had befallen her. He’d stayed until well past nine, before realising he’d already been there far too long and should leave mother and daughter to resolve their differences as best they might. He’d barely managed to convey any of the story to Karen before she zonked off to sleep. Now Maggs was too busy to talk about it, too. She was annoyed with him for failing to pass the accusations against Penn to her new police friend.
Normally he would be more than happy to have two funerals to prepare for. Maggs had taken on most of the work for the burial of Mr French, while Drew handled Mrs Stacey. The old lady with the unsuccessful operation was a sad story, which he’d heard now from both the doctor and the lady’s daughter. She wasn’t so old, either – seventy-two, with all sorts of hopes and plans still for the future. She had heard Drew speak a year or so ago, when he’d been actively promoting his services to a variety of clubs and lunch groups, and had made sure that her daughter knew she’d be wanting a place in his cemetery when the time came. Efficiently, she had noted the phone number and included her wishes in her will. Everything was straightforward, apart from a continuing small doubt as to the rightness of proceeding without a post mortem. It happened regularly enough for him not to be tempted to raise any direct questions, however. The doctor was the final arbiter; it was his job to distinguish natural from unnatural deaths. But since the trauma and general loss of trust arising from the Harold Shipman story, most doctors were treading more warily. Everyone was now aware of just how simple it was for them to certify a death as unsuspicious, and it was a matter of self-protection to remain well on the right side of the law.
Mrs Stacey was a sad case for a number of reasons and Drew sighed as he envisaged the scanty attendance at the graveside the following day. An unmarried daughter, busy with a go-getting career; two or three friends, confused and perhaps resentful about the unorthodox funeral; a nephew who had phoned to ask for directions, and Maggs. Drew had offered to say a few words as the coffin was lowered, and the daughter had gratefully accepted. ‘It will seem awfully strange,’ she’d admitted. ‘No music or anything.’
Drew was only faintly optimistic that she would in the event find it a genuinely moving experience. It didn’t sound as if her mother had managed to convince her that this was a far better way of ending her time on earth than some scrappy formulaic cremation.
The day continued cool, with a light breeze and grey skies. Drew found himself thinking about Justine Pereira and the bizarre story she’d told the previous evening. He wondered how she and Roma were getting along now, and whether they’d come to any accommodation. He found himself stabbed by compunction at having concealed the latest twist in the tale from Detective Sergeant Cooper, who obviously trusted him and wanted his co-operation. Drew had not missed the spark that had been struck between Maggs and the tall policeman and felt almost fatherly towards her as a result. She could do worse, he told himself, having watched her work through a number of unsatisfactory boyfriends, not one of them lasting more than a few weeks.
‘I’m going to phone Roma and see how they’re getting on,’ he announced suddenly, making Maggs jump.
‘What?’ She was carefully marking the positions of the two new graves on their chart of the burial ground, using a ruler to keep it accurate to the nearest centimetre. ‘Look what you’ve made me do,’ she reproached.
‘Sorry. I was thinking about Justine.’
‘Oh. So was I, sort of. Make them tell the police, then, will you? It’s their duty, after all. You can’t just leave them in the dark. It’s perverting the course of justice.’ She uttered the phrase in a sing-song, enjoying the sound of it.
‘I’ll tell them I think I’ll have to say something if they don’t. And then you can call your friendly detective, if you like.’ His generosity was amply rewarded by the sudden twinkle in her eye.
‘Right then,’ she said carelessly.
‘And I suppose I ought also to be a bit firm with them about the missing child? Try to get them to take it seriously.’
‘How do you know they won’t?’
He rubbed his neck again. ‘I don’t, do I? It’s just a feeling. I mean, it seems as if we’re the only people who know the whole story. Everyone else is working in the dark.’
‘We don’t know the whole story,’ she corrected him. ‘We don’t know where the little girl’s got to. And when the police find out that Justine’s turned up without her, they’re going to be taking her disappearance a lot more seriously.’
‘Yes,’ Drew agreed, with a frown. ‘Of course they are. With good reason. Somehow I didn’t see it like that. Bloody hell, Maggs, they won’t be happy about this, will they? With me not saying anything this morning.’
‘Better late than never then,’ she observed. ‘Shouldn’t I just phone Den right away, before you talk to Roma?’
‘Go on, then. Make his day.’
Penn repacked hurriedly, adding clothes and necessities to cover more days than she had originally planned for. She’d have to rush for the train now. If it was true that Justine had turned up, then things had obviously changed dramatically and she had to be prepared. There was really no knowing what might happen next or where she stood. Even without the disquieting rune reading, she was clearly in trouble.
With everything so uncertain, it seemed wise to remain out of sight for the time being. There was only one person who might safely be approached at this stage, and even he might be unpredictable. All the same, the idea struck her that a brief call to him wouldn’t hurt. She keyed in the number and waited with crossed fingers for him to be the one to pick up at the other end.
She was in luck. ‘It’s me,’ she said. ‘Look, I’m going away for a bit. Down to the coast. It’s all getting much too messy. You can keep in touch on my mobile number, okay?’
Having replaced the phone, she stood for a moment, waiting for the trembling to subside.
The train was surprisingly prompt in arriving and she joined the short queue for taxis just outside the station. She knew of a hotel that would probably have a room, even in the high season. They wouldn’t remember her – it had been three years since
she last stayed there, during a dutiful weekend escorting her maternal grandmother on a trip to the seaside. The old lady had been in her late eighties and had died not long afterwards. Penn had rather resented the task, demanding to know why her mother or aunt couldn’t have done it instead. But Helen had conveniently developed sciatica, and everyone knew there was no chance of Roma putting herself out in such a cause. Roma had been impatient of her mother’s forgetfulness and deafness and constant need to go to the lavatory.
The hotel was set two or three streets back from the sea front, in a tree-lined avenue filled with similar establishments. It was an ideal place to hide, although Penn was some decades younger than almost all the other residents. She smiled self-consciously at the girl on Reception. ‘I’m hoping to persuade my father to join me here,’ she explained. ‘But there’s no sense in forcing him. I take it you could find a room for him if he suddenly puts in an appearance?’
‘I’m sure we can manage something, Madam. How long would that be for, do you think?’
‘That’s a bit difficult to say at the moment. I’ll be here for a week or so, I suppose. Am I being a terrible nuisance?’ she simpered. ‘I’m afraid it’s one of those complicated family things.’
The receptionist became confiding. ‘To be honest, we’ve got quite a few empty rooms. People don’t come to the seaside the way they used to. If it wasn’t for the weekend conferences, we’d be virtually empty most of the year.’
‘Oh dear,’ Penn sympathised. ‘But lucky for me. I’ll keep you posted, anyway.’
‘Thank you, Madam.’
* * *
Den was a few miles away from Gladcombe when his mobile warbled. Assuming it was the DI or someone from the station, he flicked his hands-free button and barked ‘Cooper.’
