Grabbing a towel that he had thrown carelessly over his shoulder while Bill Haley rocked around the clock, Albert dried his hands as he walked to the other room. The birds ceased calling as he stood beside a reclining chair and he scratched his thinning hair while scanning the room for a phone that seemed well hidden. A series of sharp tones gave him guidance, and he focused on the sofa where, after some flipping of cushions and delving of hands into the sides, he retrieved several assorted coins and Diane’s sturdy black phone. A small green light blinked, and he triggered the screen to life.
“Inspector Crothers?” he said, returning his hand to head scratching, depositing several crumbs that had stuck in his fingernails onto his scalp. “On a Sunday? I should get Diane.”
Spinning in place, the slick soles of his slippers gliding over the heavy carpet, Albert turned to the back door without dislodging a large vase that came within millimetres of his swinging knuckles. He took it as a small victory, as a sign that his coordination was finally improving.
The dew soaked into the fabric of his slippers as soon as he stepped onto the grass. Diane’s pile of twigs and branches now stood two feet on each side. Diane had her back turned to the stack and Albert and seemed to be staring at a knot in the wood of a fence panel. She was muttering softly to herself, and occasionally a gloved hand waved gently against her side, an externalization of her inner discussion. Albert hesitated, not keen to interrupt what could be a breakthrough. He looked from the green light to Diane and back again. It could be urgent, he thought. Surely, a call from the Inspector is important enough.
“Diane?” Albert ventured quietly, partly hoping that she could not hear him.
As if his speaking had flipped a switch, Diane’s movements amplified and, with a slight pause to pull off a glove, she turned toward Albert, a glassy sheen slowly evaporating from over her eyes.
“Albert,” she said, as if a little surprised to see him standing there. “Still no luck, James just isn’t doing as I want him to. Probably that petulant streak he has.” She smiled softly as she talked about her character.
Albert had realized early on that when Diane wrote a character, the process seemed to be by mutual agreement between Diane and the character itself. The characters had a voice, a personality, and rather than Diane telling them their role, they imparted to her what they would prefer to do and moulding her story became a series of negotiations with these mental constructs. Sometimes, an agreement was hard to come by, the characters refusing any attempt by Diane to coax them along a particular path.
Proffering the phone, Albert said:
“Inspector Crothers called, my dear. I thought you would want to know.”
Diane took the phone and gazed at the lighted screen with a frown.
“He left a message. Let’s see what he has for me. Hopefully it’s not another psychic with vague knowledge that a sense of mischief was floating around in the ether.”
As Diane pushed the phone to her ear and looked over Albert’s shoulder to a point an infinite distance away, the doorbell chimed in the house. Albert made to speak, raising a finger toward Diane, but decided to just answer the door. His toes were getting cold within his dripping wet slippers, and he wanted to get inside and put on some warm socks.
The doorbell rang again as Albert kicked off the slippers before stepping onto the carpet of the hallway. The friction of the carpet on the soles of his feet provided welcome warmth and Albert shuffled them along the floor, savouring the tingle in his toes.
Rufus sat at the top of the stairs slowly licking his tongue out of his mouth as he looked with displeasure at the front door.
“Finally decided to join the waking world, have we?” questioned Albert with a grin.
Turning his displeasure upon Albert, the small dog huffed, licked a last time and turned back towards the bedroom. This visitor would not be feeling the wrath or welcome of Rufus today. The punishment for these people was the removal of his grace.
“Too much personality,” chuckled Albert.
A small flip of a key and Albert pried the door from its frame. The visitor, a young woman with straight blond hair, was walking slowly away from the house with her head bowed. Her thin frame was clad in a light brown jacket and skirt, and she scuffed her shining high heels on the concrete slabs as if she had never worn that type of shoe before.
“Err, Miss?” enquired Albert softly. He had a sense from her gait that a gentle touch was needed.
She stopped in her tracks as Albert spoke and, with a heavy sigh, turned toward him. Albert took a step over the threshold, concerned that her unsteady steps would see her take a tumble. She looked up at his movement, and he saw large almond eyes rimmed with a thick red and the deep dark smudge of tear-washed mascara. She sobbed and moved a petite handkerchief to her face where she dabbed at the shining tracks on her cheeks.
“Oh, you poor thing,” blurted Albert who took several steps towards her, heedless of the chill slabs against his bare feet. “You poor thing, let’s get you inside.”
He placed a gentle hand upon her shoulder, and the visitor curled into his body, her head upon his shoulder, sobs shaking through her. Albert patted her lightly upon the back and made comforting noises as he felt his shirt becoming damp.
“Monique?” said Diane from the doorway. “Come inside and let’s get you a cup of tea.”
Monique raised her head from Albert’s shoulder, smiling weakly as she looked up through long matted lashes.
“I’m sorry. I don’t know what got into me,” she sniffed as she straightened and wiped her handkerchief over her eyes. It came back darker, and Albert noted that his shirt had dark smudges within rings of beige where his wet white shirt was stuck to his shoulder.
Diane stepped back into the house, and Monique followed her inside, her steps steadier now, the clicks of the heels much more certain against the pathway. Albert followed behind, closing the door and made for the kitchen to put the kettle on, scuffing his feet as he went.
Monique took a seat on the sofa with her body hunched over her knees as Diane took a chair opposite, peeling off her other gardening glove and placing it neatly on the arm. She watched Monique without expression, trying to gauge who this strange woman was. She had noted the long face and large eyes that men found especially attractive. Her clothes were smart but not fancy, an effort to project seriousness when dealing with the police. Jewellery was modest, a single bright platinum band with a solitary diamond on her slender ring finger and a pair of simple diamond studs in her petite ears which flashed faintly when Monique pushed her hair back from her face.
“Monique Carstairs?” asked Diane.
“Yes,” said Monique while nodding her head in short, vigorous motions. “You’re Diane Dimbleby, I hope. Inspector Crothers told me to come and see you. He said you might be more help than he could be.”
Diane snorted gently, and a wry grin touched the edges of her mouth. Might be. Really, Inspector.
“You have found the correct house. The Inspector was kind enough to let me know you were coming my way. Why was he not able to help you himself?”
Monique looked up into Diane’s face, keeping her hands clenched on her knees.
“It’s my husband. He didn’t come home last night, and I’m terribly worried about him.”
Diane heard a tinge of a Wolverhampton accent buried deep in the r’s under a more sophisticated sounding voice.
“The Inspector told me that he did not come home last night.”
Monique swallowed heavily and answered with a nod. The angle of her head suggested pleading to Diane, though whether it was pleading for help to find her husband or a hope that Diane would not state the obvious was uncertain. That helped Diane with her next question, as she had found that a very useful guide to a person was to see them react to unpleasantness.
“And you don’t think he might have spent the night... elsewhere?” Diane deliberately left a pause to make sure that Monique fully understood the implication.
>
Monique’s eyes hardened, and the set of her mouth went from loose full lips to a thin strained line. Diane saw a flash of anger before Monique looked down at her hands.
“No,” said Monique brusquely. “These are exactly the same questions the police asked me. And my answer was the same. We’re happily married.” With a shake of the head and an exasperated sigh, Monique continued, “Maybe I’ve come to the wrong place after all. I just need to find him.”
She made to rise, but Diane rose more quickly and placed a firm hand upon Monique’s shoulder.
“Now do sit down, dear. I had to ask the question, you understand. This wouldn’t be the first case I had heard of. Poor girl that was a substitute teacher at the school here. Thought her husband was away at a conference and, when he didn’t come home, frantically called his office only to find out there hadn’t been a conference at all. He eventually turned up in Margate with a mistress. So you see, I’m just trying to be clear.”
“I understand, but you see why I think it’s just a distraction. He wouldn’t have done anything like that.” Monique leaned forward onto the toes of her feet, again making a pleading pose before Diane.
While not convinced, Diane realized that there was still a mystery here to be looked into.
“So the Inspector sent you to me because…”
“He said there was nothing he could do because there wasn’t any reason to suspect a crime had been committed. He told me that he knew someone that would be able to focus properly on the situation. So he gave me your address and said he would call ahead.”
“And you came directly here from his office?”
“Yes, I want to get to the bottom of this as soon as possible. I almost got into an accident because I was so eager to get here.”
Diane wondered if it was the eagerness or the cause for the tracked mascara down Monique’s face that had almost caused the accident. All of the scenarios for her husband being missing would have played through her mind in those solitary moments.
“Well, you’re here safely now. And I will definitely do what I can to find your missing man. They are quite clumsy creatures,” said Diane with a soft smile. “He probably got lost and was too stubborn to admit it.”
Monique replied with a smile of her own, the face gaining a measure of life, a view of her without misery. With the rattling of pottery preceding him, Albert walked into the room balancing two cups of tea on saucers. A spoon and sugar cubes nestled against the cups and were twice doused with overflowing liquid. Albert made his apologies, settled the cups onto side tables beside the ladies and shuffled out to the kitchen again.
“Now, tell me everything about yesterday. Why are you worried?”
“Jonathan, my husband, works in Birmingham. He’s a chartered accountant, and he commutes from our home every day. We live north of Shrewsbury, and there’s a train station about half a mile from us. He likes to walk there in the morning, says it’s his exercise for the day before sitting behind a desk cranking a calculator. Yesterday was like any other. He left for work, told me to get the hotel booked for our five-year anniversary getaway; that’s next month. He called me again when he got to work, as usual, and then he called me again at five when he was on his way home. The only unusual thing was that he was stopping in Telford on the way home. I thought he was getting a surprise for me, he does that all the time. Flowers or something.”
Monique blushed slightly at that, the ‘something’ being a more intimate gift, Diane assumed.
“I waited for his call to come and pick him up from the station at home, but it never came.” A shimmer of light along the lower edge of Monique’s eyes threatened that more tears were forming.
“What happened when you called his phone?”
“At first, it rang and then went to voicemail. I must have left him a hundred messages. Now, there’s no ring, just voicemail, as if his phone battery has run out.”
“And you didn’t get the indication he was screening your calls?”
“No, I called from a payphone at the station and got the same response.”
Diane nodded. She is a smart girl, this one, thought Diane.
“And no calls from strange numbers?”
“None, just my parents, and an inspector over in Shrewsbury telling me there was nothing he could do either. I’ve reached out to Birmingham too, but they all tell me the same thing. I’m not sure where to go next, Mrs. Dimbleby. You’re pretty much my last lead.”
Diane sat back and reached for her tea, looking at the curtains behind Monique’s head. Ideas were beginning to form, possible scenarios, avenues of inquiry that might bear some fruit. She hummed softly as Monique watched her take a sip of tea.
“We definitely need more information before we can do much else,” said Diane brusquely. “I will see what I can do for you, my dear, but do not bet all your chips on me. Inspector Crothers is very good at his job, and when he can, I’m sure he will get right to the bottom of this. Until then, there’s not much else you can do, I think.”
Monique’s face had held a look of optimism and hope until Diane had started talking. It quickly changed to exasperation, and she buried her face in her hands.
“What good are the police right now?” came her muffled response. “Right now my Jonathan could be dead, and no-one cares.”
Chapter 2
“You should go home, Monique,” said Diane softly. She had leaned forward in her chair and placed a comforting hand upon the woman’s knee. “There could be an entirely innocent explanation for all of this. I know you might not think so, but you should be at home in case he tries to contact you there.”
“Why wouldn’t he call my mobile? We only have a house phone for the internet connection we get with it. I don’t even think he knows the number.” Monique’s tone was almost pleading but feebly so, as if she had given up hope of convincing Diane.
“Go home and wait for Jonathan. He could have a perfectly rational explanation for all of this. He may even be waiting there for you right now.” Diane rose from her seat and moved towards the door. “Call me if you hear anything at all. Any time.”
Reluctantly, Monique stood, straightening her clothes as she did. She looked at Diane, a final plea in her eyes, the dark stains around them making them seem hollow, distant, lost. Diane again placed a hand upon her shoulder, a firm pressure to partly reassure and partly to guide towards the door.
“If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call Inspector Crothers in the morning and see what he plans to do.” With a wink, Diane said, “I have a knack for lighting a fire under him.”
“Thank you for trying to help me,” said Monique resignedly. “There’s nothing more I can do, is there?”
Diane shook her head.
“You need to keep your chin up and eyes and ears open. You never know what may come and probably sooner than you think.”
“I suppose you’re right,” said Monique as she opened the front door. “You’re so kind to have seen me.”
Diane and Monique exchanged parting pleasantries and Monique left along the pathway, head still slumped forward, but her stride was steadier than when she had arrived.
“Poor girl,” said Albert over Diane’s shoulder. “She’s having a rough time.”
Diane nodded slowly as the top of Monique’s head disappeared behind a neighbour’s garden hedge.
“She seems certain it’s foul play. If he turns up in Paris with another woman, I’m not sure what she will do.”
“A woman scorned, eh.”
“Exactly.” Turning back into the house and closing the door, Diane returned to the living room with Albert trudging behind. “There are just so many possibilities right now. If I’m to help her, I need more information.”
“So you’re going to help? I thought you think he’s done a runner on her?”
“Either way,” said Diane over her shoulder, “she’s in distress, and I can’t leave her like that. It wouldn’t be right.”
“A female detective c
ode thing, eh,” Albert said sagely, but with a small smile that Diane knew as playfulness.
“Exactly. We women have to work together against you misguided men.” She turned and punched Albert lightly in the chest.
“Someone needs to watch over us,” agreed Albert with a grin. “We’re not equipped with the most effective thinking apparatus.”
Diane punched him slightly harder and returned his smile.
“Well, let me guide you back to the dishes.”
Albert chuckled as he made for the kitchen. “Another cuppa?”
Diane just shook her head as she lowered herself into her computer chair. Her mind was already elsewhere as she tapped the spacebar and the screen flicked into life. She adjusted her glasses, using a small cloth to clean dust from the front of a lens, the specks glowing brightly in the light of the computer screen. They were a distraction that she did not need.
“Let’s see who you are, Jonathan Carstairs.”
Diane’s fingers flitted with practiced ease over the keyboard and in short order had arrived at the Birmingham-based firm that Jonathan worked for. Some deft mouse clicks had her looking at a company description, and then on to an employee page.
FDN–Birmingham, Chartered Accountants was a fairly small company from comparison with other chartered accountants in the city. They had only one office in a renovated warehouse about five minutes’ walk from New Street station, even though their name suggested aspirations of a multi-city future. Other tenants of the building were small finance firms and a cleaning supply company, along with what seemed to be, based upon their name, a couple of tech startups.
The employee page also implied a drive for expansion as the bottom of the page still housed an Under Construction image with stick figure workers digging and pushing wheelbarrows full of ones and zeroes. Jonathan Carstairs was listed second on the page beneath a stern bubble-faced man with a receding hairline who specialized in company audits.
The Diane Dimbleby Murder Collection Volume 2 Page 15
