EQMM, March-April 2010

by Dell Magazine Authors

  "So you reckon Bertie cheated on his wife too?"

  "I did not cheat on you.” He faced her, hands on hips.

  She shrugged. It was his story and he was sticking to it. But . . . “What base you did or didn't get to is not the issue. You played the game—the ball game—with someone else. And that's served to wake me up to the fact that you stole my youth."

  "You gave your youth voluntarily, as I recall, to help develop our business and to be the main care-giving parent for our twins."

  "Not anymore."

  When he said nothing to this, Mallory added, “Poor baby. Doesn't understand when things don't go the way he wants them to."

  "I remember days when you were considered to be a warm person,” Charlie said.

  "Well, I'm off to warm up in my office.” Mallory turned to the stairs. “What are you up to now?"

  "Finding Laura Banfield on my own. What else?"

  * * * *

  The facts of the case as Bertie Banfield had explained them to Charlie on the phone were simple enough. On Monday morning Laura Banfield left their house at about nine-thirty. Penelope Halfpenny, the cook-housekeeper, said that she saw Mrs. Banfield leave carrying a small bag, like an overnight case. Mrs. Banfield had said, “I'm off out now, Penny.” She had not been seen or heard from since.

  Monday night at about ten, Banfield had called the police. A man he described as “a pleasant enough chap named Orrel” came to the house. A constable, or maybe a sergeant. Some rank like that. Nobody top-flight. But civil, except for his refusal to commit either himself or the police force to do anything.

  Orrel had asked a number of questions, like whether Laura Banfield was mentally incompetent.

  She was not.

  Did she need medication on a daily basis that she wouldn't have access to elsewhere?

  No.

  Was there any reason to believe that she would be a danger to herself?

  No.

  A danger to others?

  Preposterous.

  Had Banfield contacted members of his wife's family?

  The only “family” was their fifty-year-old son and no one had heard from him for more than fifteen years.

  Friends?

  Who knew who his wife classed as a friend these days? He knew of no one she would confide in. Or spend a night with, voluntarily. Liked her own bed, did Laura.

  Constable—or Sergeant—Orrel had suggested that ringing his wife's acquaintances would be a good place for Bertie Banfield to begin. And at that point it was obvious to the abandoned husband that he was on his own.

  On his own for Banfield meant hiring help. In this case, call Hayden Investigative Services.

  But these details were not what occupied Charles Hayden when he visited Banfield House at noon on Tuesday. “There's a bit of a problem with Mallory, Bertie,” Charlie had confided. “But if you wouldn't mind coming to our house yourself, maybe we can get past it."

  Bertie Banfield didn't understand what the problem with Mallory was, or why a visit to the Haydens’ home and office would help. But he was very tired from worrying about his wife, so he just agreed and called for his car. He'd known Charlie from when he was a lad—and his father before him. So if Charlie said it might help find Laura if he came out, then he'd come out. Charlie wouldn't muck him about.

  * * * *

  When Charlie entered Banfield's study at four-thirty Tuesday afternoon, he saw that being back in familiar and comfortable surroundings had restored the old man to some extent. “So,” Banfield asked, “has this damn foolishness of your wife's been sorted, then?"

  "Not yet, I'm afraid. I'm sorry to have asked you to appear in person but it really was the best chance to get her on board."

  Banfield sighed and shook his head. “I'm disappointed in you, Charles. You and your missus have always worked well as a team."

  "I know that, Bertie. And I haven't given up."

  "What is the bloody point of being married to a woman if she's going to let you down?” Banfield held up his hands. “I know, I know. Mine has done the same. I don't know what gets into their heads these days. Maybe for yours it's because she's a Yank, but I don't know what Laura's excuse can be."

  "I promise you, Bertie, I will give your case my full attention and I will find Laura."

  "Dead? Or alive?"

  "Don't talk like that."

  "Perhaps not.” Another sigh. “So are you and Mallory splitting up?"

  Charlie was surprised that Banfield had asked such a thing. But in response to the question he just spread his hands to say, I don't know. At this point he felt himself to be the victim of something that he couldn't control. However much his thoughtless actions had triggered the situation. And perhaps his general thoughtlessness over the years. But if Mal had been unhappy with things for so bloody long, she should have said something. Or had she and he just hadn't heard it?

  "You shouldn't let that one go without a fight,” Bertie Banfield said. “Jolly clever, your girl."

  "I know. But look, about Laura..."

  Banfield sighed deeply. “Laura, oh Laura. I don't know what I'll do if she doesn't come back. I rely on her.” He looked Charlie in the eyes. “Is this the way they tell you they're breaking it up? Run off some damn place without saying?"

  "Do you think Laura's breaking up with you?"

  "How would I know?"

  "I have to ask, Bertie, did the two of you have a fight of some kind?"

  "Not a fight. No, of course not."

  "But words?

  "We did have a disagreement. But it's one we've had before."

  "About?"

  "Winston—and don't say ‘Churchill?’ just to be clever. You know damned well who Winston is."

  The Banfields’ only child. “Have you heard from him?” Charlie asked.

  "After all this time? Certainly not. And if I had I wouldn't bloody answer."

  Charlie knew little more than that Winston Banfield had rejected his parents’ lifestyle and values. But just as he was about to request a brief review of what had so alienated father and son, Banfield said, “Don't ask. Blood's blood and all that, but there are also times to cut your losses."

  Mallory would agree with that, Charlie thought. It sounded so cold when she said it. It sounded cold now, too, coming from Bertie Banfield. Getting back to the business at hand, Charlie said, “Could Laura's departure have had anything to do with the disagreement about Winston?"

  "As far as I'm concerned it could have had to do with just about anything, since I don't know what it was about. But nothing new was said. And deciding it was about Winston won't move you closer to finding her. Nobody knows if he's even still bloody alive, much less where he is. They move their tepees all over the shop, don't they, these hippy-dippy travellers?"

  If Banfield had hired them to find Winston, chances were high that he and Mallory could have located him years ago, Charlie thought. But rather than persist with the subject of the missing son, he returned to the missing mother. “Have you looked in Laura's effects for clues?"

  "That's your job, isn't it?"

  Delegation of tasks was all well and good, but if your wife is missing, doing a little looking for yourself seems an obvious step. Still. “So you don't know for certain that she didn't leave you a note."

  "If she'd left a note, she'd have put it where I'd find it, not in her knickers drawer. Mind you, I'm not so sure Laura even remembers how to write by hand nowadays."

  Charlie frowned. “I don't understand."

  "It's Internet this and Internet that. She spends all day at her bloody computer."

  "Ah, she's one of those."

  "Yours is too, I expect."

  "Mallory is technologically pretty savvy, yes."

  "And there's that chappie you keep in the basement too, isn't there? I'd have thought if he never goes out he'd be good at the Internet and all that kind of thing."

  The Haydens’ huge house had basement rooms in which a reclusive lodger lived. “Spike is an
old friend,” Charlie said. “And he came with the property. All very complicated."

  "Your father, rest his soul, never liked things simple,” Banfield said.

  "Tell me about it."

  "But this Internet lark . . . Must be ideal for someone who never goes out."

  "Yes, Spike is a much better techie than either Mallory or I."

  "And he's good on the phone too, isn't he?” Banfield looked like he was remembering something. “Lovely voice, as I recall. Helps on your cases sometimes."

  "I'm impressed you remember,” Charlie said truthfully.

  "I've got a few candles burning yet."

  "Look, Bertie, I'll need to go through the parts of the house where Laura may have left a diary, or letters, or . . . “ Charlie shrugged inclusively.

  "Look anywhere you bloody like. Anything else?"

  "She left yesterday morning?"

  "Yes."

  "Did anything else happen before she left?"

  "Meaning?"

  "Did she get a phone call? Or something in the post?"

  "The post doesn't come till nearly noon these days. But I have no way of knowing about a phone call. She has one of those . . . those little . . . whatdoyoucallthems . . . “ He waved a hand. “They vibrate...."

  "Mobiles."

  "Mobile phones, that's it. Take bloody pictures, too. Are they mobile cameras, now?"

  "Did the disagreement about Winston happen in the morning?"

  "The night before. Sunday, not long after that God-awful televisual thing she keeps track of."

  "What thing?"

  But Banfield, tiring, had lost another word. He waved a hand around. “Something . . . something to do with the queen."

  "The queen?" Charlie wasn't aware of any programming about the Royal Family that had been on recently. Unless it was a repeat of The Royle Family, but Laura Banfield wasn't likely to enjoy watching a bunch of working-class oiks talk on a sofa and fart.

  Mallory loved it, of course.

  But Bertie Banfield was looking in some papers on his desk. From his “Hah!” it seemed that he had found what he was looking for. He withdrew a television guide from the stack. He flipped pages. “Bloody hell. How could I forget that?"

  "What?” Charlie asked.

  "That wretched soap opera. Coronation Street."

  * * * *

  Before heading for Laura Banfield's part of the house, Charlie sought out Halfpenny, the cook-housekeeper. He found her in the kitchen. Sunlight was pouring through French windows, and she was sitting in it in one chair with her feet up on another. A cup of tea by her side, she was reading a newspaper and smoking a cheroot. Slowly she turned to take him in. “Yes?"

  "I'm Charles Hayden. Mr. Banfield has asked me to look into his wife's disappearance."

  "That must be tough."

  Charlie wasn't sure what she meant. “Excuse me?"

  "Looking into a disappearance. You're attempting to observe something that isn't there."

  "Penelope, isn't it?"

  "Ms. Halfpenny to strangers. Even the cute ones."

  "I hope that finding Mrs. Banfield will turn out to be a practical matter and not an existential one."

  "That would make it easier for you, I daresay. Though not necessarily more interesting."

  "I'm told you were the last person Mrs. Banfield spoke to before she left on Monday."

  "I believe I was."

  "Do you have any idea where she might have been going?"

  Ms. Halfpenny took a puff on her cigar as she considered the question. “Hmmm, any . . . idea . . ."

  "I'd be grateful if we could bypass a tour of semantic options, Ms. Halfpenny. Before Mrs. Banfield left, did she speak to you—either verbally or non-verbally—in a way that suggested where she might be intending to go?"

  "I'll give you a break, but only because you're pretty,” Ms. Halfpenny said. “No, I don't have a clue where the old lady went or where she might be."

  "Is she ever mentally vague?"

  "That one? Hah! She knows exactly what she wants and when she wants it."

  "Do you get along with her?"

  "Well enough. But I keep myself to myself."

  "You've been here a long time?"

  "Forever. Are you married?"

  "Excuse me?"

  "That's not a difficult question, is it? And I've been answering yours."

  "Okay. Yes, I'm married."

  "Pity. But I'll bet it's not been plain sailing. I can see that in your eyes."

  Despite himself, he was startled by the observation.

  Ms. Halfpenny smiled. “I'm right, yes? And I bet it was triggered by something you did."

  Gawd, am I that transparent? Charlie thought. “It's not a simple story."

  "They never are. But I'm a good listener, you know, when I want to be.” She gave him a toothy grin.

  "So am I, Ms. Halfpenny. Now, about Laura Banfield..."

  "Please,” she said. “Call me Penny.” She put her feet on the floor and patted the chair they'd been on. “Sit down. Make yourself at home. Cup of tea?"

  * * * *

  When Charlie got upstairs he found that Laura Banfield's suite included a bedroom, a bathroom, a dressing room, and a study. He headed for the study, on the grounds that it was the only room he had a chance of being comfortable in. The others would be full of women's things. In such places Mallory might see automatically what was important and what wasn't, but for him it would be a confusing struggle.

  The study was tidy and well-organised, which didn't surprise him given Ms. Halfpenny's—Penny's—description of the lady of the house. The furniture was unexpectedly modern. Instead of the feminine equivalent of her husband's heavy mahogany desk, Laura Banfield had an L-shaped computer table built from light wood and steel. Matching units bore an array of office machines that would put many a small business to shame. Mind you, Bertie Banfield had complained that for his wife everything was “Internet this and Internet that."

  Which made it all the more surprising to find a laptop in the centre of the main table. Wherever Laura Banfield had gone, she'd not taken the laptop with her. Was this consistent with her being organised, alert, and cyber-dependent? It didn't seem to be a good sign.

  A superficial examination of the drawers and surfaces in the room didn't yield anything interesting, so Charlie opened the computer. It took the machine a few moments to boot itself up. Then Charlie moved the cursor to the e-mail program and clicked. But before the machine would display Laura Banfield's e-mails, it asked him to enter a password.

  Charlie leaned back in the chair.

  Wasn't it surprising that Laura Banfield felt the need to protect her mail with a password? Nothing he'd heard suggested that she took the computer out to places where it would be left unguarded. Which maybe only proved that he hadn't been told about such things.

  But was she, in fact, restricting access by people in the house? Defending her privacy against her increasingly doddery husband? Age was no longer the guarantee of technical incapacity that it used to be, but forgetfulness was.

  Would anything be going on in Laura Banfield's e-mails that would interest the philosophically inclined Halfpenny? Charlie had stayed twenty minutes with her and shared a pot of tea. He'd even let her pat his knee a few times, but nothing she said suggested she had any interest in or intimate knowledge of either of her employers’ lives.

  So was something else going on with this password thing?

  Someone new to the Haydens’ house might think it a place where only they lived, and that was wrong. Not only was Spike entrenched in the basement, the twins each still had a room at the top from which they came and went, if only occasionally. Heaven help the Hayden parent who suggested that either of these rooms—with their spectacular views over Bristol—might be used for any purpose other than being on-call for the children who'd grown up in them.

  But there was no one resident in the Banfields’ basement. And their child, Winston, wasn't a factor if they didn't e
ven know where he was.

  Charlie looked at the screen in front of him. That a mature, confident woman, living where she had lived for decades, felt the need to defend her privacy with a password spoke of secrets and complications.

  Of course, any marriage is incomprehensible to outsiders, perhaps in direct proportion to its duration. And Bertie and Laura Banfield had endured. She was, after all, a first wife. How many women of her age could say that, these days?

  How many men of Bertie's age were first husbands, if it came to that?

  And then another thought occurred to Charlie. If there was no evident reason Laura Banfield would need a password routinely, then perhaps she didn't. Perhaps the password defence was new.

  Might it have been put there because of the situation that had led her to leave the house? Either because suddenly she'd received a new cyber-communication that was in some way compromising, or even—was this really possible?—because she knew that when she left the house her husband would bring someone in—himself, in all likelihood—to find her. Was the password block there specifically to obstruct him?

  It was a tenuous chain of connections, but it felt possible to Charlie. And making unlikely connections was one of the things he was good at.

  Okay, just suppose, for a minute, that's what had happened. That Laura Banfield had put the password requirement in to obstruct him, as her husband's representative. If that was so, then it hadn't been there long. And might have been set up in a hurry. So what password would Laura Banfield possibly use? What would come rapidly to mind? Perhaps after the Sunday night disagreement?

  In the password box Charlie typed “Winston” and hit Enter. The screen came to life and Laura Banfield's e-mails were revealed. Bingo! He punched the air. It was a real result.

  But then, to Charlie's astonishment, he saw that the last e-mail Laura Banfield had received, on Sunday night at twenty-two minutes past nine, was from Mallory Hayden.

  Mallory had been in contact with Laura Banfield?

  Charlie stared at the line on the computer for seconds. Then he opened it. The message read, “Confirmed for ten. M."

  Mallory was making chili and enjoying herself.

  These days she didn't make it exactly the way her mother had made it, back in Kokomo, Indiana. Mallory used fresh chili peppers where Mom always used chili powder. And she used extra-lean minced beef. But most of the rest was the same and, in any case, making chili always reminded Mallory of childhood and home and comfort.