by M. J. Trow
‘That’s my boy,’ he said.
Year Seven made their way across the Esplanade and milled mutinously on the sand. Some of them could still hardly walk – they mostly represented Pansy Donaldson’s group from the day before. The vegan was nearly dead. The ginger kid was burnt by yesterday’s sun to an unattractive shade of magenta. Ethan Thingummy had tripped over a pebble. Pansy’s head hurt, not again, but still. Sylvia Matthews blew a shrill blast.
‘Face this way,’ she called. After some shuffling she saw just faces and no head-backs. ‘What we are going to play,’ she announced, ‘is knockout beach football. We will start with two games, numbers divided in half, then half again by me, so no team picking at this stage. Anyone who fouls more than once is out and that team will play a man down. Anyone seen fouling on purpose just to be sent off, stays on no matter what. My decision, or that of Mrs Donaldson is final. Now then …’ her voice faltered as she sensed she had lost her audience and she looked over her shoulder.
Coming along the Esplanade were her husband and the by-now ubiquitous Barton Joseph. Between them, limping a little but otherwise in perfect health, was Izzy Medlicott. She muttered an imprecation under her breath; she had been rather looking forward to Carisbrooke Castle. She pinned on a smile and went towards the little group.
‘Izzy,’ she said, when they were in earshot. ‘You’re limping. Can I help at all?’
Izzy looked meltingly at Guy and Barton who blushed to the roots of his hair. ‘I’ve just twisted my ankle, Sylvia. Nothing much. I was having a sit-down along the cliff path to rest it when these lovely men came looking for me.’
‘Well, we were worried,’ Sylvia said briskly.
‘I left a note,’ Izzy said.
‘Tom didn’t notice it,’ Sylvia told her. ‘Where did you put it?’
‘I typed it on his PalmPilot. It’s always the first thing he checks, every morning.’
‘Perhaps it isn’t the first thing he checks when he wakes up and finds his wife is missing,’ Guy ventured, with a wry glance at Sylvia.
‘Oh. No, perhaps not. But surely he noticed my running clothes were missing?’
‘Apparently not,’ Pansy Donaldson had also joined the fray. ‘He and Jacquie are up searching your room as we speak.’
‘Searching? Why? I’d only gone out for a run.’
Before Pansy could clock her one, a shout came from the top of the hotel steps. ‘Izzy!’ Tom Medlicott was dodging the light Sunday morning traffic and was suddenly on their side of the road, enveloping his wife in his arms. ‘Where were you? I’ve been worried sick.’
‘She’d left you a note, apparently,’ Pansy said abruptly. ‘Now then, Sylvia, gents, let’s get this football game going.’ And with a brisk toot on her whistle, she jogged back to the sand.
‘She really does have remarkable powers of recovery,’ Guy muttered.
‘Either that or the hair of the dog has just kicked in,’ said Barton, rather cynically. They bowed to his judgement; he had after all been her backup man the day before and he probably knew where the nips were hidden about her person. And when it came to Pansy’s person, there was a lot of person where nips could hide.
They fell in behind their leader, as Tom led Izzy back to the hotel as if she was made of china.
‘Quite a lot of street cred lost there, I would imagine?’ Guy mused to his wife. ‘With the kids, I mean.’
‘You have no idea,’ she muttered. ‘And, speaking personally, the staff are pretty pissed off, too.’
Chapter Seven
After the excitement of Sunday morning, the rest of the week couldn’t help but be an anticlimax. Year Seven were preternaturally good. The ginger kid had a small wobble on the Tuesday when he found he had filled his notepad, but a quick visit to Staples with Jacquie in the car soon put him right and all was well again. Ethan Doodah stayed remarkably upright all week. Pansy proceeded to get drunker each evening and more hung-over each morning, until soon her recovery time almost met the time when the staff met to unwind in the bar. But since, as usual, the kids already knew she drank, it didn’t really matter. Nolan had a whale of a time; spoilt rotten by staff and pupils alike, he thought that school trips were the best holidays in the world. Henry Hall kept Jacquie up to speed on Mrs Troubridge’s recovery – slight – and Metternich’s takeover of the cattery – total. In short, the Leighford High School Year Seven Getting To Know You School Trip was a resounding success. All of the plans were in place for the remaining days, groups sorted; even James the driver could finally find his arse with both hands and was almost as good at finding Ventnor.
When, on Thursday morning, Tom Medlicott appeared in the dining room doorway, not sleekly kitted out in running gear, an immaculate Izzy beside him, but in pyjama bottoms and skin, standing dramatically with a hand on each side of the door frame, as if to stop escapees, everyone knew what he was going to say.
‘Has anyone seen Izzy?’ he asked.
Maxwell sighed and put down his knife and fork. ‘Don’t get up,’ he said to the room at large. ‘I’ll get this.’ And indeed, no one did get up, or even react much. He walked up to the Head of Art and gently manoeuvred him to the foot of the stairs and then on up to his room. He waited politely to be asked in.
The room was neat, no clothes strewn around, just one side of the bed flipped back, the other side neatly made. Tom Medlicott’s PalmPilot was glowing faintly on the dressing table. There was no message on the screen.
‘Tom,’ Maxwell said, with a sigh. ‘I don’t know what’s going on between you two, but you seem happy enough together. If there’s something you would rather discuss with … well, anyone else, I’m sure Sylvia could be a big help. Or Jacquie. They’ve both had counselling training.’
Medlicott was horrified and looked it. ‘Counselling? Why should I want counselling? Izzy has disappeared. I just need help to find her, that’s all.’
‘But …’ Maxwell wasn’t used to being lost for words, but what could you say to a man who seemed intent on rerunning crises over and over? It was like Groundhog Day. It was déjà vu, all over again. He started afresh, hoping that the words would come. ‘But, last time, when you thought she was missing, she was just out for a run.’
‘Yes.’
At least he isn’t denying that, Maxwell was happy to note. ‘So, do you perhaps think she might be out for a run now?’ Colour him obvious.
‘No. All her things are here. All her things. Except her pyjamas, which she went to bed in last night. Her slippers are gone, as well.’ He was rummaging through them all again, as though to be doubly certain, patting the material in disbelief.
‘Last time, Tom—’ Maxwell began, but Medlicott cut him short.
‘Look, Max,’ he turned to face him, intensity in every pore. ‘I know what everyone will be thinking and I don’t blame them. On Sunday, Jacquie and I went through every piece of clothing in this room and I have just done it again. Everything that was here then is here now, I’m sure, plus her running things, which, as I know you remember, she was wearing on Sunday. Where is she, Max?’ He slumped down on the bed and buried his face in his hands. ‘Where is she?’ It was a desolate whisper.
Maxwell patted him on the shoulder. He was stuck for an answer other than, ‘Having a jog along the cliff top.’ Apart from being worried that the man might be having some kind of breakdown, he also knew how he would feel if Jacquie was suddenly not there with no explanation. But he kept it in mind that ‘not there’ was not necessarily the same as ‘missing’. He bent down, and said quietly, ‘Tom, you wait here. I’ll send Jacquie up and you and she can have a chat. She will take some notes and she’ll also be able to give you some help on how long we ought to wait before we … well, take other steps.’
‘Steps? What steps?’ He was looking up at him in terror. Somehow, as long as only he was panicking, it was all right. Now Maxwell seemed concerned, it must be real.
‘Tom, you’re saying that Izzy is missing. If she is, we’ll have to contac
t the police. You know that, surely.’ Maxwell was confused. Either the man wanted his wife found, or he didn’t.
‘Well … all right. But she won’t like it. She’s had a lot of involvement with the police lately, family stuff, won’t bore you with it. But she won’t want the police.’
‘Let’s be logical, Tom.’ Maxwell was always rather dumbstruck when people couldn’t see a simple piece of logic when it was plonked in their lap. ‘She won’t see the police, will she? Because, if she comes back … we won’t need the police.’
‘Oh, right. Yes. I see. I would like to see Jacquie, please. If I can.’ He looked at Maxwell, desolate and frightened. ‘She was very good last time.’ He sniffed. ‘Don’t spoil everyone’s day, though. Just carry on without us.’
And without Jacquie, Maxwell thought. That left them at just over half-strength, but he thought they should be able to manage. As he left him briefly to fetch Jacquie, he tried hard not to show his concern to Tom Medlicott. While it was almost certain that Izzy had just popped out for a run again, there was a niggling little itch at the back of Maxwell’s head that was tickling the bit of his brain that stored the information that lightning doesn’t strike twice in the same place. Crying and wolves didn’t necessarily go hand in paw. Izzy was not particularly friendly and, despite the best part of a week in her company in the evenings, he wasn’t much further forward in working her out. But one thing did seem to be the case and that was that she didn’t seem to be the sort of woman who would mess her husband, or indeed anyone, around unnecessarily. She would have left a message somewhere and probably in capital letters after last time.
But meanwhile, Maxwell had a school trip to rescue and he went to break the news to his remaining team. It wouldn’t be so difficult; the sketching party had been the smallest group all week, with the extras being spread between the others as the changeover happened. He and Jacquie had been due to do the Tennyson Trail up to the Needles and his feet and legs weren’t sorry to be able to pass that one up. It might have been all right for Tennyson but he was a) barking and b) usually running away from the insufferable Julia Margaret Cameron. So their group could happily coalesce with the squirrel cohort. But what would be best of all would be to mass into one group and visit one poor benighted attraction, preferably a free one, to save Bernard Ryan completely combusting when the final accounting was up for consideration; although, clearly, when that great day came, there was no doubt where Bernard Ryan was going – he already, it was rumoured, had the handcart. Maxwell gestured Barton Joseph over – why keep a dog and bark yourself?
The local man came up trumps. A visit to the Newtown Nature Reserve would tick all the necessary boxes. A bit of history, a bit of botany, a bit of zoology and rather a lot of walking the kids all over the estuary until they were so covered with mud and the sweat of exhaustion that nothing would matter.
Maxwell left him to muster the troops while he went up to the Medlicotts’ room to do a final liaise with Jacquie. The door stood open and through it he saw Jacquie sitting on the bed, opposite Tom Medlicott who had his head in his hands; Maxwell hoped that was again, rather than still. He gave a small cough and Jacquie turned to face him. She gave Medlicott a final pat and tiptoed over to Maxwell and ushered him back onto the landing.
‘He’s in a bad way,’ she whispered. ‘I must say, I’m thinking that he’s overdoing it a bit. She’s a grown woman, with no known illnesses, weaknesses or anything. She’s not anyone we can report as missing at this early stage, but he’s desperate to contact the police.’
‘Aren’t you the police?’ Maxwell asked, confused about that not for the first time in his life.
‘Not here, I’m not. Here, I’m just a woman trying to have a few days’ break with her husband and son. But I suppose I can make a few calls. Just to chat, see how the land lies. I certainly don’t want to call out the coastguard and the land and sea rescue, like Tom wants.’ She reached up and gave him a kiss. ‘Clear off with the kids. I’ll catch you up later with Tom and Izzy when she turns up. Where will you be?’
‘We’re going to Newtown. That’s up at the top bit, along to the left.’ Maxwell would have no truck with geography; let others teach in a Humanities Department, he was a historian through and through. ‘It used to be Francheville, the capital of the Island, in what Barton likes to call the “old days”.’
‘I didn’t know there were any more big towns. Is it easy to find?’
‘It’s not what you’d call big, any more. There’s a town hall and about six houses, from what I remember. But it is well signposted and the satnav will find it, I’m sure.’ He returned her kiss. ‘See you soon.’
Jacquie felt she had to ask the next question, just to be polite. ‘I’ll phone you, shall I?’
‘Sweet,’ he muttered. ‘If you like, but I’ll only hear it ring if I happen to be in the bedroom at Columbine. Try Sylvia. You’ll be almost certain to have more luck.’
‘Thought so,’ she said, and crept back into the bedroom, where Tom Medlicott didn’t appear to have moved a muscle. She stuck her head back round the door and crooked her finger to beckon him nearer. ‘I’ll give the local lads a ring,’ she said. ‘I’m sure there’s more to this than meets the eye.’ She blew him a final kiss and was gone.
As Maxwell made his way down the stairs he was trying his best to damp down his murder vibes. Like Jacquie, he was finding Medlicott’s reactions a little over the top. But his relief at finding that his wife was all right on the Sunday morning had seemed genuine enough. But perhaps that was just because he hadn’t been the one who had made her disappear. Or did he get the idea on Sunday to dispose of her completely? It was all rather sub-Hitchcock. He found the dining room disconcertingly empty and was disoriented for a moment until he glanced to his left and saw a row of faces pressed to the windows of the waiting coach. He trotted out and jumped onto the lower step and, checking only to make sure that Nolan was present and correct, halfway down the coach being fed Maltesers by two doting girls, cried, ‘Chocks away, chaps! Tally-ho, Red Bandit Leader!’
It was a perfect Richard Todd, but it took James a few minutes to realise that this meant they should be on their way, but when he finally tumbled to the general idea he let in the clutch and they were off.
Jacquie had crept out of the Medlicotts’ room to make her phone call to the local police station. She had the direct number, but thought it would be good politics to use the one that was accessible to the general public. In the same spirit, she began the conversation as a member of the public, too, but found that got her precisely nowhere.
Finally, she got to the point in the conversation when she thought a tiny bit of rank-pulling might not come amiss.
‘Yes, thank you,’ she firmly interrupted the nice-sounding but stubborn clerk on the other end of the phone. ‘Thank you, but I wonder if you could put me through to a police officer?’
‘I’m sorry, Mrs er … Maxwell, but using our checklist, I’m afraid that I am unable to log this case as a missing person. My guidelines …’
‘I’m aware of the guidelines, but I am also aware of the whole picture in reference to this case. I am Sergeant Jacquie Carpenter-Maxwell of Leighford CID and I really must insist that you put me through to a police officer.’
‘Is this a case we are working on with Leighford Police, Mrs er … Maxwell?’ the plodding voice asked.
‘No, but—’
‘Then, I’m afraid that, using my guidelines, I’m afraid that I can’t log this case as a missing person.’
Jacquie sighed. ‘Thank you, then. Goodbye.’ She rang off and stood with her phone hanging limply in her hand while she cooled her fevered brow on the wall. After a slow count of ten, she brought the phone up again and dialled another number.
‘Hello? Frank?’ Good old Leighford. You knew where you were with the front desk there. ‘Can you put me through to the Isle of Wight main police station? Newport, it’ll be, I should think.’ She listened to the man at the other end and gav
e a quiet laugh. ‘Yes, I am on holiday, but a bit of a crisis … yes … yes, if you would, that would be brilliant. Thanks. See you next week.’ She tapped her foot and hummed quietly under her breath as she waited for the connection. At least they didn’t play music while you waited. Maxwell would have expected the Z Cars theme. A voice in her ear made her jump.
‘Newport Police.’
‘Hello …’ A light lilt to the voice had alerted her. ‘Is this Newport Police on the Isle of Wight?’
‘No. This is Newport, Gwent.’
‘Thank you. Thought so. Are you able to redirect me, please?’
‘I’ll certainly try,’ sang the voice, Welshly. ‘Where would you like me to redirect you to?’
‘Er … Newport, Isle of Wight?’ She knew that Maxwell would forgive the interrogative – it certainly wasn’t her that was the moron on this occasion.
‘Of course. I often have to do this, for some reason.’
‘Well,’ Jacquie said, with minimal irony, ‘what an odd thing.’
‘Isn’t it, though? Putting you through.’
The echoing silence had a slight ping to it, indicating that she hadn’t been cut off, so she waited, until, suddenly, ‘Hello. Newport Police.’
Oh no. Another Welshman. ‘Is this Newport, Isle of Wight?’
‘Yes.’
‘Not Newport, Gwent?’
‘No. I can put you through if you like. We get a lot of this.’
‘No!’ Jacquie was immediately contrite. ‘Sorry. I’ve been on the phone quite a while waiting to get through to you. No, it’s you that I want. I’m Detective Sergeant Jacquie Carpenter-Maxwell, from Leighford CID.’
