by James Barlow
‘Yes,’ the plump girl said. ‘Then Mrs Harper came and said she’d sacked her.’
‘Did she say why?’
‘No.’
‘Has she explained subsequently?’
‘No.’
‘Did she say anything about wanting to go home?’
They both stared in negative silence.
‘Did Miss Hughes ever bring any of her friends here?’
‘The girl she lives with – Miss Murphy – came in now and again,’ said Miss Simson.
‘No one else?’
They thought about it. ‘No.’
‘Do you know where Miss Hughes went when she left the shop?’
‘No.’
‘Did she say anything at all?’
‘No. I think she was crying.’
‘Do you know any of Miss Hughes’s friends?’
‘Only Hazel – that’s Miss Murphy.’
‘Did either of you associate with Miss Hughes – outside of here, I mean?’
Miss Barber said, ‘I’ve been to the cinema a few times with her.’
‘What were her interests? Did she talk to you at all?’
Miss Simson said, ‘I don’t know. I’d never really asked.’
Miss Barber said, ‘She wasn’t fast or anything. I can’t think why –’
‘What sort of a girl would you say she was?’
Miss Simson said, ‘She was always nice to me, but I didn’t know her well enough –’ The explanation tailed off.
The mouse-like Miss Barber, scarlet and near to tears, said, ‘You’d think she ought to be conceited, she was that beautiful. But she wasn’t. Mrs Harper treated her like a servant, but Olwen never got angry. “Her work is her only happiness,” she said to me once. “Why spoil it?” It wasn’t sarcasm.’
‘Did either of you meet her boy friends?’
‘I don’t think she had any,’ Miss Simson said.
‘Oh, she must have,’ the plump girl said, ‘because I saw her get into a car.’
MacIndoe said, ‘Did you? When was this?’
‘A few months ago,’ said Miss Barber. ‘It was her half day – she had Tuesdays – and I happened to go across the road to the Post Office for Mrs Harper. I thought I saw Olwen at the crossroads – by the lights – getting into a car.’
‘What sort of a car?’
‘A red one.’
‘What sort of red?’
‘Scarlet.’
‘A saloon?’
‘No. A little two-seater. It had the hood down. The driver was a man – that’s why I thought – but perhaps it wasn’t her.’
‘At what time of the day was this?’
‘One o’clock. I’d just come back from dinner and Olwen had just gone for hers. That’s what made me think –’
‘Did you see the driver?’
‘It was too far to see clearly,’ Miss Barber said. ‘I think he was young. He had dark hair. Anyway, he was tall.’
‘How do you know that if he was in a car?’
‘Well, Olwen was quite tall, and when she sat in the car – if it was her – this man was a head taller.’
That makes him as tall as myself, MacIndoe thought. He asked aloud, ‘Did you mention it to Miss Hughes – that you’d seen her?’
‘No. I forgot all about it until just now.’
‘Do you know anything about the car or its driver?’
‘No, sir,’ the girl said. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘That’s all right,’ said MacIndoe. ‘Do you know if any of the travellers who call here have red cars?’
‘No.’
‘They don’t,’ confirmed Miss Simson. ‘I’ve never seen one.’
‘Do you know how Miss Hughes spent her half days?’
‘No,’ they both said. ‘I haven’t been out with her for several months,’ added Miss Barber.
‘All right,’ said MacIndoe. ‘We’ll leave it at that. If it becomes necessary I’ll come to talk to you again. You’ve both been very helpful. If you do recall any behaviour of Miss Hughes’s which was abnormal – and by that I don’t mean startling; I mean slightly different from the day-to-day routine – then let me know. I’m at the Almond Vale police station, but you can go into your local place any time.’
He and Baker took their leave of the two girls and Mrs Harper. ‘What’s the time?’ MacIndoe asked outside on the pavement.
‘One o’clock,’ said Baker. ‘Let’s have some lunch. Where can we go?’
‘I saw a pub a few miles back,’ said Baker. ‘Shall we try it? It’s called the Dragon.’
Chapter Four
The bicycle plunged down the steep hill into what seemed darkness. The constable put the gear into top and worked up as great a momentum as he could, for beyond the plunge the road climbed upwards again. The wheels hissed through puddles under the dark trees, the grey bulk of the vicarage on the right. A quick impression of two cows with mild expressions over the hedge on the left. Mr Dowell’s. In bottom gear now, then standing on the pedals; finally, the necessity to get out and walk. The saddle would get wet. The rain was driving parallel to the sea. The constable looked up, saw the grey patches scudding along the hillside. Bright yellow clusters of gorse stood out on a very dark blob where last autumn there had been a hillside fire. Some boys. He had caught them. At the top of the hill he reached the road that ran along the foot of the mountain; he turned right, mounting the bicycle again. Some English holiday-makers stood outside the pub, not knowing quite what to do with themselves. They must be waiting for the toast-rack bus to take them down a mile to the shore (where they’d get really wet, the constable thought). The two middle-aged women were obviously wishing they were indoors by a fire, but the men drank beer and were enjoying themselves like naughty boys. (Not a bad little place this. Must be twelve months since I had a drink.) The women sipped short drinks with visible self-disapproval. One of the men called out, ‘Hello, Constable. After a murderer?’
The constable started slightly and did not answer. He did not feel equal to answering. The weather was bad enough – it had penetrated most of his clothing – but his duty was even more uncomfortable. He had just received an instruction by telephone from the divisional police station at Bar Quay. A girl had been found strangled in Almond Vale – scores of miles away in England – and he had to request her parents to go through the pouring rain to the station and be informed. He did not have to inform them himself; which was a great relief. He did not know how he would remain expressionless – as if he had no knowledge – but he knew he would manage it. He had to. It would have to be another case of the mysterious they. They did not explain to me …
Now the constable turned left and dismounted to push his machine up a steep lane. Under the comparative shelter of a lamp-post and wide trees he lit a cigarette. He puffed the damp tobacco a few times and then threw the stub away. Mustn’t be indecisive, he thought. Must help the poor devils if you can. But he was still scared, knowing how much suffering he might inflict.
It was only a small place, called Wood Cottage, not because it was made of wood but because it was surrounded by trees. Behind it was the slope of the mountain. It was as dark as evening. The constable had passed the place scores of times before – poachers, peepers and courting couples went this way up the hillside – but he had never been inside. Here goes, he thought. God be kind to them.
A young man answered his gentle knock. ‘Hello, Constable. What can we do for you?’
‘I have a message for Mr William Hughes.’
‘You’re lucky. Dad’s in. We’re all having lunch, but come in, man; you’re wet enough as it is.’
The constable entered, taking off his helmet. ‘Go in there,’ said the young man, opening a door.
‘Perhap
s,’ said the constable, ‘you’d all better hear the message.’
The young man stared. ‘Okay. I’ll fetch Mama and Dad.’
The room was quite small and the eye was caught by pictures. A large oil painting, so dark that one had to stare at it for some time before one realized that it portrayed a human being, not a landscape. A clock ticked in the rain-enclosed silence of the room. It was on a marble mantelpiece. A girl’s portrait stared from alongside. Time like an ever-rolling stream bears – No, the constable thought, it can’t be you. His mind refused to admit the probability. There must be another daughter besides this one, who looked as beautiful as an advertisement. He looked more closely at the photograph and saw the embossed sign, ‘Swift, Birlchester.’ Jesu, he thought in horror, this is worse than the war.
They trooped in silently, in awe of his size and uniform. The parents were middle-aged, the man, rather tall and gaunt, carried quite a youthful air; the wife looked older, tired, as if other disasters had reached her first. The young man said, ‘This is my father and mother.’
‘I am sorry to interrupt your meal,’ the constable said. ‘I’ve been sent with a message for Mr William Hughes.’
Dark eyes stared directly at him. Like hers, the constable thought, but not the same colour. ‘I am Hughes,’ the man said. They were all standing, although the woman had made a gesture, an invitation to sit, with her hands. ‘What is the message?’
‘It was from the station at Bar Quay. They would like you to go there, see?’
‘The railway station?’
‘No. The police.’
‘What’s up? What have I done?’
‘It’s nothing like that. They would like to see you.’ The constable turned his helmet round in his hands. I wonder what these things are made of? Damn silly anyway, turning me bald. ‘It’s about your daughter.’ If there were two they would ask now, ‘Which one?’
They didn’t speak at all for long moments. From the other room a technical voice could be heard saying, ‘Speaking today at Newcastle, he said that before negotiations could be resumed there had to be mutual trust, and he did not feel that at the present time such trust existed or could exist –’ The other game went on.
The father said, ‘Has she done anything?’
The constable looked up from his helmet. ‘No. It’s just that they have to inform you. As far as I know – I mean, I understand – well, see, she’s been – hurt.’
He had done it. The rest was evasion.
‘What’s happened to Olwen?’ the woman said, breathing with obvious difficulty. ‘Which hospital is she in? Is she – dead?’
‘Be calm, Mama,’ the young man said. ‘Was it an accident? Can you tell us anything?’
‘I think it would be better for you to go to the station,’ the constable said. ‘They have all the information, see?’
‘Yes, we’ll do that. That’s the best thing,’ said Mr Hughes. He was slightly dazed, but endeavouring to be sensible and calm.
The young man said in irritation, ‘Why can’t you tell us? She’s my sister. You know, don’t you? Why didn’t they give you all the information?’
The constable remained calm. He had done his duty; nothing they said could irritate him, he pitied them so much. Anger, anxiety, the pursuing of details – these were normal tendencies and he could deal with them. ‘Believe me,’ he said, ‘it’s best for you to go to the station. I don’t know everything. Have your dinners first, and when you get there ask for Inspector Prosser.’ You won’t eat another meal for days, he thought.
Mrs Hughes said, ‘We’ll go now. I can’t eat. Let’s get it over with.’ She was eager to be hurt on Olwen’s behalf, to share her disaster.
‘It’s useless going now,’ Hughes said. ‘There’s no bus for half an hour. Let’s have a drink of tea.’
‘There’s no hurry,’ said the constable. ‘Mr Prosser will be in all afternoon. I’d better be on my way. I am sorry to be the one who –’
‘It’s all right,’ said Mr Hughes. ‘Tom, boy, show the constable to the door.’
At the front door Tom said, ‘Listen. Is it very bad?’
The constable whispered, ‘Yes.’
‘How bad is it?’
‘As bad as it can be.’
The young man said, ‘Oh … Thank you.’
He returned to his parents, who were discussing the implication of the constable’s every word. They were trying to ignore the numb despair that told them Olwen was dead. Optimistically they decided she had lost her money. It was, of course, even remotely possible that she had done something wrong; unintentionally, though, they did not doubt. The very worst thing any of them could imagine – even Tom, who knew his sister must be dead – was that she had been involved in an accident. She was all right, of course, the parents decided – and Tom could not bear to be the one who told them otherwise – but why all this fuss? Red tape. You had to have things done legal like when the police were involved. In some obscure respect for authority, Mrs Hughes insisted on changing into her best dress. They drank their tea and in the end had to hurry to catch the small bus which Hughes drove himself sometimes.
The driver, accepting their fares, said, ‘Hello, Hughes. Going to the market?’ but Hughes merely said, ‘Hello, Parry,’ and his wife and son, obviously in distress, said nothing at all. There were no other passengers in the vehicle; it hissed through the rain until they approached Bar Quay, when Hughes said to the driver, ‘Put us off at the police station, will you?’
;The police station?’ the man echoed. ‘Anything wrong, man?’
‘I don’t know.’
The driver watched in morbid curiosity as the three persons stepped from his bus and walked with terrible slowness – ignoring the rain – along the pavements. They were soon lost in a jostling crowd of holiday-makers who poured out of Woolworth’s sucking pink ice-cream and screeching enjoyment. He saw the three figures mounting the steps into the police station when the traffic lights ahead of him changed and he had reluctantly to drive on.
Inside the police station all was unfamiliar. A constable was typing. Another was on the telephone, shouting into the mouthpiece as though the person at the other end of the line could only hear the machine. A middle-aged holiday-maker, with time on his hands and a straw hat on his head, talked to another constable who was writing. ‘No, it isn’t the same now. You can’t get them. I can remember thirty years ago when you could get a first-class one, hand made by a craftsman, for five shillings. It’s not a lie. Five shillings.’ The constable yawned, but the voice went on. It seemed as if no one was going to take any notice. They would have to go out and make another entry. They were too afraid and tired to protest. Their eyes looked unseeingly at the unfamiliar notices on the walls, the books and a hard gleam of metal on a desk: a revolver. Please, constable, can you tell me if my daughter is dead? All in good time, my man. This is not the post office. We have crime to attend to. Anybody know anything about this man’s daughter? It was market day and already a few drunks had been captured. Somewhere a man was singing a hymn; he stopped, groaned for some time and then began to be sick. Someone was upbraiding him in Welsh. Please, constable, can you tell me if my daughter is dead? Don’t hurry it, my good man. You are approaching your own destruction. Dead? did you ask. You look upset. Death is so easy. It comes in so many forms. Anybody know how this man’s daughter died? Did it come in an attractive form? Was there much pain? Oh, she was killed by the man she loved? Unusual, that. Not so protracted as death by boredom, death by exhaustion, death by cancer, tuberculosis, marriage, childbearing, napalm bomb, food-poisoning, blood pressure, starvation, old age, bayonet thrust, road accident. But when you learn how she died you will curse God for not letting her live another five, ten or forty years to die another way. Anybody know why the man this man’s daughter loved should kill her? No. Sorry, I’m
afraid we don’t know that. There’s a man called MacIndoe working on it now. Perhaps he’ll find out. He’s quite a good fellow – the best we have.
The constable replaced the old-fashioned receiver on its cradle and came to attend to Mr Hughes. ‘And what can I do for you?’ he asked.
‘I’m Hughes. The constable called. I have to see Inspector Prosser.’
Jocularity was replaced by caution – caution and courtesy. The courtesy was so marked that it could only presage disaster. Inexperienced as the three of them were, they recognized this. The courtesy was based on pity. They were that official inconvenience, the next-of-kin. No sooner had chairs been fetched for them than the same constable walked – with such delicacy as to seem to be tiptoeing – over to them to say that the inspector would see them now.
They were ushered into his room – it was an office, but with comfortable chairs. The constable was waved away and there was silence. It was like a three-guinea consultation. An operation would almost certainly be advised.
The uniformed inspector was a large, dark, rather handsome man. He viewed his three visitors carefully and said, ‘You are Mr and Mrs Hughes?’
They sat in discomfort on the edges of the comfortable chairs, hands on knees, eager to show politeness. ‘Yes,’ they said, and added, ‘This is Tom, our son.’
The inspector said with a calmness that was almost detached, ‘It is my duty to offer you some unpleasant information. I would particularly ask for your co-operation. What I mean by that is that we may need your help – in fact, we would be glad of it. What is done is past and we cannot undo it – I only wish we could. The information concerns your daughter, Olwen Hughes …’
The mother was already weeping, quietly, endlessly, not concerned with suffering silently or keeping a stiff upper lip; her emotion was total and excluded room for analysis, etiquette or thought of others beyond Olwen. Mr Hughes said, ‘What has happened to Olwen?’
‘Would you first tell me where your daughter was living?’
