The Mother's Day Mystery

by Peter Bartram

  I shot away from the MGB leaving the door swinging open.

  I ran back the way I'd come but Desperate Dan lumbered around the corner. He panted like he'd just climbed Everest with a grand piano on his back. He looked at me like he'd decided I'd make me the hors d'oeuvres before a cow pie.

  I was trapped like the meat in a sandwich.

  Steve in the forklift truck closed in from the right. The two forks on the front - the arms which lift the heavy stuff - looked like sabres.

  Dan flexed his basketball biceps and closed in from the left.

  But Steve made it first. He floored the accelerator or whatever you do on a forklift truck. The thing surged towards me.

  The two forks threatened to trap me between them. They couldn't miss. One would hit me and break my legs. Or my hips. Or my backbone. I was going to end up like one of those crash victims in hospital. Wrapped in bandages and suspended by ropes from the ceiling. I'd be fed on rice pudding by a nurse with a starched uniform and a starched manner.

  I glanced at Steve. His face grimaced in a malicious sneer. There was a gap in his grey teeth. His tongue squeezed through, like an old snail creeping out between stones. He was going to enjoy every moment of this.

  The forklift roared closer. I looked for a way out. There wasn't one.

  In just a second, the prongs would catch me. They'd toss me aside like an old package. Like a broken mannequin.

  I jumped.

  No, I did more than that.

  I leapt.

  Like a ballet dancer auditioning for the Bolshoi. I flew through the air. If Rudolph Nureyev had been around, he'd have fitted me out in those tights which always get girls giggling about packed lunches and signed me up for the corps de ballet.

  Relief flooded my body as I soared through the air.

  And then it faded.

  Because I didn't make it.

  I landed on the left-hand fork of the truck. The forklift careened across the wharf at thirty miles an hour. I clung to the fork like I was gripping the handles of a roller-coaster.

  The forklift swerved to the left. It dealt Dan a glancing blow and he tumbled to the ground.

  Steve snarled at me as we rumbled across the cobbles. He pushed buttons and pulled levers. Suddenly I felt the forks rise. I was heading into the air. Steve had started the damned forklift. But he didn't know how to control it.

  Or stop it.

  We trundled across the wharf as the forks descended. Steve pulled a lever and we swerved to the right. We were inches from the edge of the wharf. This was getting dangerous.

  What was I thinking?

  It had been dangerous from the moment I'd decided to follow Hobson.

  Steve pulled another lever and the truck turned a circle like it wanted to dance the waltz. My head spun. I looked down. The fork was closer to the ground. If I chose my moment I could jump.

  Steve yanked another lever and the forklift swerved right.

  I leapt for it.

  I tumbled onto the cobbles. Steve glared at me as I scrambled to my feet.

  But he should have looked ahead. He'd oversteered. The forklift headed for the edge of the wharf. At thirty miles an hour.

  Steve yanked on a lever, but nothing happened. He looked frantically from side to side. He had a face like a child who's played with fire and knows he's burnt himself.

  And then the forklift plunged over the side of the wharf.

  A fountain of water sprayed into the air as the truck hit the surface. But I didn't stop to see whether it sunk or floated. And I didn't care what happened to Steve. After all, he'd tried to kill me.

  I raced towards the MGB.

  Freedom.

  I rounded the corner of the warehouse and screeched to a halt.

  Freedom was postponed.

  Desperate Dan was back on his feet. Worse, he'd rummaged in my car and foraged a mass of old paperwork from the back seat. He looked at me and then at the papers like a man who's not sure what to do next. Like a man who's rescued a trophy and won't give it up.

  I wasn't bothered about the papers. I was going to throw the stuff away anyway. But I had to get Dan out of the way.

  I said: "Steve is drowning. He drove the forklift off the edge of the wharf."

  Dan's mouth dropped open. He said: "What should I…?"

  I said: "If you rescue him, you'll be a hero. If you don't, the police will be along in a minute to arrest anyone on the scene."

  Dan said: "We don't want no rozzers." He took off. I heard his giant feet clump on the cobbles as he ran.

  I grabbed the key out of the car door, jumped inside and fired the engine. The tyres squealed as I took off towards Brighton.

  It's surprising what an evening's bell-ringing can lead to.

  Chapter 15

  Frank Figgis studied the two folios of copy I'd handed him, then tossed them on his desk.

  He said: "I was expecting a story about drug smuggling not dangerous driving."

  The story I'd given Figgis told how a man had been rescued by port workers after driving a forklift truck into the harbour.

  I said: "I picked up the details in a routine call to the cop shop last night."

  After I'd driven away from the harbour, I'd made the call. The harbourmaster would have alerted the cops after the fracas with the forklift. The cops told me an unnamed man - I knew him as Steve - had been fished out of the water. He was under observation at Southlands Hospital in Shoreham. He had severe bruising and suspected internal injuries. The police had dismissed the incident as a drunken prank that went wrong. And, I suspected, when the cops interviewed Steve, he wouldn't say anything to spoil that story.

  It was no use me explaining to Holdsworth that Steve was a bit-part player in a drug ring. Jock - Desperate Dan to me - and Toby, the frustrated ferret, had vanished. And Hobson had not sailed his boat back into Shoreham harbour since the incident. Jock and Toby would have used ship-to-shore radio to warn Hobson of the trouble. He would have diverted to another port - possibly Newhaven or Littlehampton - to steer clear of the cops and an angry harbourmaster.

  I explained this background to Figgis. He shook his head and lit up a Woodbine.

  He said: "You're no closer to landing the drug ring story - or the Hooke murder, if there was one. I'm beginning to think the cops were right and it's a tragic hit-and-run."

  I said: "I'm sure there's more to this. There are just too many people who'd have a motive to see Hooke dead. If Hooke had put the black on Owen Griffiths or Tom Hobson, that would link the killing to the drug running. We'd have a national story on our hands."

  Figgis gave a smoky sigh. "Where have I heard that before?"

  "So I can take some more time on the story?"

  "Would it make any difference if I said 'no'?"

  I didn't have time to answer that question because Cedric put his head around the door and said: "Call for Mr Crampton."

  I said: "I'll take it in the newsroom."

  "For this relief, much thanks," Figgis said.

  ***

  Back at my desk I picked up my telephone.

  A voice with an Aussie twang said: "Bill Freeman."

  Bill was the reporter on The Advertiser in Adelaide who'd agreed to track down Shirley's missing mother.

  I said: "Good to hear from you, Bill. Any news?"

  "Not good," he said. "I've been round to Mrs Goldsmith's house three times. No answer on any of them. There's a pile a post just inside the front door - you can see it through the window. The house is at the end of a track leading out of town so there are no near neighbours. But I asked further down the street and a couple said they hadn't seen Barbara Goldsmith for weeks."

  "What about police and hospitals?"

  "Did the usual checks, but came away with a big zero."

  "At least that means she's not seriously ill."

  "Not in an Adelaide hospital. I can't check the whole damned country."

  "Of course not. Thanks for your help, Bill. Much appreciated. If you've
got any missing mothers in the UK, don't hesitate to give me a call."

  I replaced the receiver and sat still thinking for a minute.

  I'd have to tell Shirley but it wasn't going to be easy.

  ***

  "You didn't invite me to a bonzer breakfast for no reason," Shirley said.

  She seized her knife and fork and attacked a plate of eggs, bacon and tomatoes.

  It was an hour later and we were in Marcello's. The early morning rush had finished but the heavy musk of fried food still hung in the air. Marcello was wiping down his espresso machine ready for the next customers. An old man at the corner table poured a dollop of brown sauce into his sausage sandwich.

  I'd called Shirley and suggested we meet up after putting down the phone to Bill Freeman.

  I said: "I thought you might need some comfort food to cushion the news I've got."

  Shirley dropped her knife and fork on her plate. She stared at me with worried eyes.

  "You've heard from that reporter guy in Adelaide," she said. "It's not good news."

  "It's not bad news," I said. "In fact, it's really no news. Bill visited Barbara's house three times but she wasn't in. There was a pile of mail in the hallway, which suggests she's been away for a few days. Most likely explanation is that she's taken a short holiday."

  "For five weeks?" Shirley said. "That's not a holiday. That's a disappearance."

  "The good news is that the police and hospitals have no bad news - if you see what I mean."

  "But it's still worrying with no news."

  "I understand," I said. I reached across the table and held Shirley's hand. "The lack of letters may have a simple explanation. Perhaps there's been a postal strike somewhere along the line - or perhaps sacks of letters have gone astray. It does happen."

  Shirley gripped my hand harder. "Thanks. You're great for morale - even if it is all bullshit."

  She grinned and picked up her knife and fork. Cut a piece of bacon and popped it into her mouth.

  "I should be grateful I've still got a mother, even if she is missing. Hell, Colin, I must be as dumb as a box of rocks to say that. I'd forgotten that your own Ma is dead."

  "It was a long time ago."

  Shirley reached across the table for my hand. She took it in hers and squeezed gently.

  "It must still hurt when other people talk about their mothers."

  "Not so much now. She died during the war. A lot of people did. And the folks they left behind had to get over it."

  "And have you got over it?"

  "Her death, yes. But the manner of it still hurts. Especially as my Dad had been killed only two months earlier. For years, Ma had suffered with a weak heart. The doctor said there was nothing that could cure it and it would get worse, but she took pills to relieve the pain. And she tried to live a normal life - as normal as we could in south London during the war. She used to help out at the local church hall, making tea at Women's Institute meetings and things like that. She refused to give up her WI meetings, even though my Dad said it would be the death of her. He was right. A doodlebug landed on the hall."

  Shirley's eyebrows lifted. "A doodlebug?"

  "A V1 flying bomb. It hit the hall. She was the only person in it. She'd stayed behind to wash up the cups and saucers after the Institute's monthly tea party."

  "That's terrible. That she stayed behind, I mean. Not the tea party."

  I forced a smile. "By all accounts, the teas were pretty grim as well. But in war terrible things happen. But let's eat our breakfast."

  I tucked into my scrambled egg.

  I said: "Anyway, the Bill Freeman call is not the only news I've got to tell you. I had a bit of an adventure last night."

  "I wondered why I hadn’t heard from you."

  I told Shirley about the fracas with the forklift truck.

  Her eyes widened. "Jeez. You crazy bastard. What made you jump on the forks?"

  "It was a knife-edge decision," I said. "At least it's given me some copy for today's paper. But I haven't cracked the big stories on the drug ring and the Hooke killing. I'm beginning to think the two may be linked. If Hooke had tried to blackmail Owen Griffiths, he could have found himself hunted by the drug baron behind the racket. But I've no idea who that is. Figgis is riding me hard. If I don't deliver soon, he'll shut down my investigation."

  Shirley mopped up the last of her egg yolk with a piece of bread. "So what's your next move?"

  "I think I've got to go back to square one. I've been thinking about the note I found on Hooke the night he died."

  "Some kind of message, wasn't it?"

  "Yes. It read: 'Hollow Bottom Barn. 7.30 tonight. Don't be late.' I assumed Hooke was on his way to meet a girl. It's about the only thing that would compel an eighteen-year-old boy to cycle along a lonely road in pouring rain."

  "He had the hots for some totty and needed to get his rocks off badly," Shirley said.

  "I'm not sure that's the way Figgis would describe it - but you get the idea."

  "But which girl?" Shirley asked.

  "We might be able to answer that question if we knew where the girl came from."

  "But that road is pretty lonely."

  "It is - but there is one house about three miles further on from where we found Hooke. Natterjack Grange."

  "Strange name," Shirley said.

  "And these days, stranger people."

  I told Shirley the information I'd picked up from Susan Wheatcroft. About how Natterjack Grange was the ancestral home of the earls of Herstmonceux. How it had been inherited by the Earl's granddaughter Christabel. And how she'd turned the estate into a hippie commune.

  "Plenty of girls there, if what Susan tells me is correct. Peace and love. And not hard to know which of those Hooke would have been after."

  "What makes you think the mysterious girl comes from there?"

  "I'm willing to bet an egg sandwich to an earl's coronet that Hollow Bottom Barn is somewhere on the estate."

  ***

  "You're sure as hell gonna look like some square cat when we pitch up at this commune," Shirley said.

  "I can't see what the problem is," I said. "I'm wearing what I always wear for work - jacket and tie, grey flannel trousers. Nobody's complained before. And as a reporter I've met everyone from dukes to dustmen. The dustmen are usually better dressed than the dukes, by the way. But none of them has ever objected to what I'm wearing."

  "These cobbers won't object," Shirley said. "They'll just laugh - that's if they notice, 'coz most of them will be so spaced out they could be flying round the moon."

  We were in the MGB heading along the road towards Natterjack Grange. Shirley had insisted she should come as the culture shock might prove more than I could handle. I agreed as I thought it might take her mind off her missing mother.

  I said: "What should I have been wearing?"

  "Kaftan, perhaps. Or bell-bottom jeans."

  "If I turned up at the office in a pair of bell-bottoms, Figgis would think I was auditioning for a part in HMS Pinafore."

  I glanced at Shirley. She was wearing a denim jacket and a mini skirt with white leather boots.

  She caught my glance. "Yeah, I know I look good," she said.

  I said nothing - but she was right.

  The entrance to Natterjack Grange was at a sharp turn in the Bostal road, just as it loses height along the ridge of the South Downs and descends towards the Sussex coastal plain. There were two tall pillars on each side of the entrance. They'd have been erected years earlier and were encrusted with yellow lichen. The pillars would once have held gates. Big wrought-iron jobs designed to keep the peasants out.

  No need for the gates now. The peasants were inside. But perhaps that was an uncharitable thought. Someone had stuck a hand-painted sign on one of the pillars. It read: "Enter in peace and love."

  I said: "We could pull into the side of the road and make sure we're up to date on the second of those."

  Shirley grinned. "Keep your feet on
the pedals and your hands on the wheel, buster."

  The driveway into the estate wound between a copse of old trees – oak, hazel and beech. The copse was overgrown with brambles and ivy. There were clumps of bluebells. Here and there scarlet toadstools grew on fallen branches.

  We drove round a curving bend into a hollow where a spring bubbled up from the earth. The water had left a pool of sandy mud across the driveway. I felt the wheels slip as we splashed through it.

  It was an unexpected entrance to the land of peace and love.

  I swung the car around a bend and we came out of the copse. Ahead Natterjack Grange stood like a black inkblot against the sky. The place looked as though it had been put up in Victorian times. It was a squat three-storey building with a crenellated arrangement around the roof to make folks who didn't look too hard think it was a castle. The house had been built out of cheap grey stone, probably by a builder who'd put in the lowest estimate. It was never going to be one of the great stately homes of England. Nikolaus Pevsner would not rhapsodise about the poky windows with rotting frames. Or the rusting drainpipes that left brown iron stains on the walls. Or the roof clumsily patched with different coloured tiles. It looked like a house that had long ago given up on its owners. I wondered whether that was the reason the late Earl had left it to his errant granddaughter.

  Not a gift, but a curse.

  I pulled the MGB up on to a wide driveway in front of the house and switched off the engine. To the left of the house, the driveway led into a stable block surrounding a cobbled courtyard. A beaten-up old coach - the kind of charabanc you'd have seen on seaside outings in Brighton years ago - stood in the centre of the courtyard. Except you wouldn't see this coach bringing trippers to the beach. The thing had been painted in all the colours of the rainbow in sweeping swirls. It had been decorated with skilful paintings of red birds, and yellow butterflies, and green fish. It was an explosion of colour to dazzle the eyes and confuse the senses. Beside the coach, two young hippie types - a man and a woman - dressed in jeans and smocks were painting an old Austin Cambridge car in the same theme.