Lost Property

by Isabella Muir

  The vet spends some time poking and prodding around Charlie’s abdomen, then listens to his heart.

  ‘None the worse for the experience. I think he’ll be fine. He probably got rid of it all when he was sick. No harm done, just a bit rich for his digestion. You did the right thing to bring him in though. Keep an eye on him for the next twenty-four hours and if you’re worried at all, bring him back.’

  Having paid the bill, I stop at one of the bus shelters, sit down and take out my notebook. When Mr Elm took the delightful Chintzy through to the treatment room, I got enough of a look to be able to recognise him again, so I make a few reminder notes.

  Black hair, cut short, bushy eyebrows. Dark-rimmed glasses. Angular face with a protruding chin and deep-set eyes. Height, maybe six feet, average build, rounded shoulders. In his forties?

  I return Charlie to dad and report on the vet’s findings.

  ‘Not sure if I’ll find it that easy to keep an eye on him,’ dad says, smiling.

  ‘He’ll let you know if he’s not right. You two are so in sync. Might give fishing a miss for a while though.’

  ‘That’s the best thing you’ve said all day.’

  The next morning, when I arrive at the Central Library car park to pick up the van, I expect Hugh Furness to be waiting for me. Instead, Libby is pacing up and down in front of the van, checking her watch every few seconds.

  ‘Oh, you’re here at last,’ she says.

  ‘I’m not late, am I? What’s the panic?’

  ‘Nothing, it’s just I’ll be late myself unless I run. I had to see you though, to tell you about my brainwave.’

  ‘Which brainwave would that be?’

  ‘I’ve had a brilliant idea about how to flush your mysterious lady out from wherever she’s hiding.’

  ‘You have?’

  ‘Well, it might not flush her out, but I bet you’ll get some clues to take you closer to finding her. I can’t explain it all now. Meet me in Jefferson’s lunchtime?’

  ‘I don’t usually stop for lunch.’

  ‘Twenty minutes, that’s all I need.’

  ‘Okay, see you there. Now run, or you’ll be demoted.’

  The morning drags, despite the van being quite busy with customers. A variety of guesses turn over in my mind as to what Libby’s grand plan might be. If her brainwave involves the Tidehaven Observer we need to be careful. Hugh has mentioned that Dorothy could be in danger and the last thing I’d want to do is to make her location public, if that results in the wrong people finding her. The trouble is, at the moment I don’t know who the wrong people are.

  Lunchtime finally arrives. I encourage the last of my morning customers to leave before locking up and sticking a handwritten note on the door.

  Out for lunch, back at 1.30pm

  I walk as quickly as Bean will allow, taking all the short cuts and arrive at Jefferson’s to find Libby already sitting at a table in the window.

  Tamarisk Bay is neither a village or a large town, but something in between. Having lived here my whole life I used to take so much of it for granted. Now, with keen observation my watchword, I test myself each time I walk down a familiar street. When new residents make changes to a front garden, or a delivery van is parked up in a spot reserved for the local taxi, I make a mental note. Criss-crossing in-between the roads are footpaths and alleyways, perfect short cuts for locals, away from the traffic. The delicate pink fronds of the tamarisk bushes that give the town its name, separate the footpaths from people’s back gardens, providing an element of privacy. As we move into autumn many of the bushes have been hammered by the wind that whips through the alleyways. It will be spring before we see the fresh new shoots emerging and by then I plan to be pushing Bean down many of these paths, in a pristine new pram.

  ‘Come on, out with it,’ I say, once we both have a coffee in front of us.

  ‘Your new case involves tracking down a woman, right?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say, hoping she will detect the caution in my voice.

  ‘And this Hugh Furness chap, he knew her in the war.’

  ‘That’s what he’s said, yes.’

  ‘Well, I was thinking the newspaper could do a nostalgia feature. Remembrance Sunday is coming up, isn’t it? My editor will love the idea, he’s really into local history. We’d announce it in advance and ask people to write in with their anecdotes about life during wartime, good and bad.’

  ‘Good and bad?’

  ‘Well, life wasn’t all gloom and doom. Gran says the war brought people together, it was all for one and one for all.’

  ‘You’ll be singing a Vera Lynn song next.’

  ‘Am I brilliant or what?’

  ‘Brilliant, yes. Just a couple of little things.’

  ‘Don’t go all practical on me and throw cold water on the idea.’

  ‘We have to assume Dorothy doesn’t want to be found, so why would she write in? We could end up with a wonderful double-page spread about wartime in Tamarisk Bay and be no closer to finding her.’

  ‘I know, I’ve thought of that. But every person who does write in will be a new contact for you. These are all people who might know Dorothy, they would be her peers. You might be able to elicit some little snippet of information. Isn’t that what Poirot does, focus on the detail?’

  ‘I’ll take a bet you’ve never read an Agatha Christie novel in your life.’

  ‘It’s an educated guess. Anyway, we’ve got nothing to lose. But in the meantime, you need to pin Hugh down and find out more about this apparent danger Dorothy is in. How does he know about it? He must have been in touch with her recently, mustn’t he? In which case, he must have some means of contacting her. Have you asked him?’

  ‘I know, I’ve thought the same thing.’

  ‘It’s like he’s only telling you half the story. You need to be a bit firmer with him, Janie. I’ll have a go, if you like? You’re lucky, you know, having an investigative journalist on your team.’

  ‘Let me try first and if I can’t get him to open up, I’ll let you loose on him, but remember not to bully the poor man.’

  ‘I can’t wait,’ she says and winks.

  Chapter 8

  The next time I see Hugh I’m ready to interrogate him. But before I can say anything he holds a hand up as if to silence me.

  ‘I’m being followed,’ he says, launching into a fit of coughing, his eyes are cloudy, his face pale. I wait to speak until he has stopped coughing and caught his breath.

  ‘Are you certain?’

  ‘It’s been several days now. Each evening I walk from my lodgings, down to the seafront. I like to stretch my legs after tea, take in the sea air.’

  I nod, waiting for him to continue.

  ‘The first time it happened I thought nothing of it. I guessed it was someone choosing the same route as me. But on the second evening, when I came out of my lodgings, I noticed the same man. He was standing on the other side of the road, looking towards the guest house. As soon as I emerged he turned away and lit a cigarette.’

  All Hugh has told me so far leaves me thinking he is a touch paranoid.

  ‘I decided to alter my route,’ he continues, ‘and when I could I paused and turned to see if he was still behind me. Sure enough, there he was.’

  ‘Can you describe him? He’s not a policeman, is he?’

  ‘No, why do you say that?’

  ‘No reason. So what does he look like?’

  ‘He’s about my height, wears a dark raincoat, no hat.’

  ‘What about his face, did you see his face?’

  ‘He was quite a way off, so I can’t describe his features, but he is clean shaven and wears glasses. Dark-rimmed glasses. Why is he following me? What’s his intention?’

  ‘I can’t imagine. Are you sure it’s not just a coincidence? Lots of people like to walk in the evening. He might not be following you at all. Is his demeanour threatening in any way?’

  ‘He knows I’ve seen him. For a couple of nights I stayed
in, I thought he might get tired of waiting and give up. But then, the next time I went out, there he was.’

  ‘I can see it must be disconcerting for you. Leave it with me. You carry on doing the same thing, don’t change your routine. I have an idea.’

  If my plan pays off, Hugh will have more than one follower.

  ‘I might go out myself tonight,’ I tell Greg over supper.

  ‘Round your dad’s?’

  ‘No, I might meet up with Libby, she’s at a loose end.’

  ‘Not definite?’

  ‘She is calling round after she’s seen Phyllis, but I’m not sure what time. Then we might go for a drive. I’m guessing you’ll walk round to the pub for your darts match?’

  ‘That’s fine, but if you take the car make sure you concentrate on the driving, I know what you two are like once you get chatting.’

  ‘Have a nice time, Janie,’ I say, pointedly.

  ‘Yes, have a nice time, but be careful.’

  ‘Three days a week I drive a 7.5 ton van around, so I think I can manage a Morris Minor, don’t you?’

  Libby arrives shortly after Greg’s departure and as soon as we are in the car she grabs my arm. ‘Exciting news, my editor says, as long as I’m the one to trawl through the letters, we can have the nostalgia feature. Oh, and the sorting needs to be done in my own time. He’s expecting there to be a deluge, I think.’

  ‘That’s perfect. I’ll help.’

  ‘We can see if there’s anything relevant to the case that might not be suitable for newspaper articles, if you get my drift?’

  ‘You mean we can get to the writer before anyone else?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  It’s already dark as we drive off, with the sun setting soon after 6pm. With no daylight, observations will be trickier. It also means we may not be able to use my Instamatic, as the flash will draw unwanted attention to our presence.

  We drive to the end of First Avenue and park up in a lay-by. From our parked position we can easily see the doorway to Hugh’s lodgings, as well as anyone loitering in the road. A few feet from the lay-by and opposite the guesthouse is a bus shelter. The shelter is closed in with wooden panelling at both ends, so it’s impossible to see if anyone is inside, unless we get out of the car. However, I can see someone’s legs stretched out towards the kerb.

  After a few minutes, the door to the lodgings opens and Hugh steps out. He glances up and down the street, then turns right and starts to walk slowly in the direction of the seafront. A few moments later, the person who has been sitting in the bus shelter gets up and starts to follow Hugh. Now that he is in full view, I can see he’s tall, slightly stooping and wearing a mac. But from where we are parked, that’s all I can see.

  ‘Now what?’ Libby says.

  ‘Let’s wait a while, then we’ll drive slowly in the same direction.’

  ‘But we can’t see his face, we still don’t know who he is.’

  I can guess the route Hugh has chosen, down First Avenue, left down North Street, into Washington Road and onto the seafront. We wait a while before driving down First Avenue, where we see the stranger still ahead of us, matching his pace to Hugh’s. I pull up on the roadside and watch until they have both turned the corner into North Street and are out of sight.

  ‘I’ve had an idea,’ Libby says. ‘Why don’t we drive ahead of them? That way we’ll get to see the man’s face as he walks towards us.’

  ‘It’s a risk, they may turn down a different road, we could lose them.’

  ‘Worth the risk?’

  I nod and we pull away, driving past the stranger and Hugh. We park in front of a small row of shops.

  ‘How about I get out of the car and wait in one of the doorways and you wait in the car?’ I suggest to Libby. ‘That way we have two possible angles covered.’

  ‘What about the camera?’

  ‘I don’t think we can risk it. The flash will give us away. Let’s just use our keen powers of observation,’ I say and wink at her.

  ‘I can see why you like this amateur sleuthing lark, it’s fun.’

  ‘It’s not meant to be fun. We’re doing a serious job here.’

  As I get out of the car, the wind picks up my hair and tugs at it. I’m grateful for my hair band that keeps it from covering my eyes. Hugh turns the corner into Washington Road, but I’m certain he hasn’t seen me. He has his head down, occasionally glancing behind him. I position myself well back in the doorway of Billy’s newsagents. Hugh crosses the road and walks past the shop doorway, without a glance in my direction. Then, I hear the footsteps of the stranger approaching. Just before he is level with me I step out and walk straight into him.

  ‘Oh, I’m so sorry, I didn’t realise…’ I say, staring at the face of someone I recognise. We haven’t been introduced, but I know who this man is. I know because I’ve seen him before, at the vets. The mysterious stranger following Hugh is Mr Kenneth Elm.

  When I get back in the car and report the discovery to Libby, there is disappointment on her face. Clearly, she would have liked to be the one to solve the mystery of Hugh’s elusive follower. We drive back to Jefferson’s to mull over our findings. This evening the café is heaving and the music is loud. It’s like walking into a nightclub, but instead of a dance floor there are twenty or so tables, crammed with people. It’s as well that Richie has help on busier nights, but the chap who approaches our table is a new face and I can tell from Libby’s expression that she is instantly smitten.

  ‘Crikey,’ she says, when he moves away from us, having taken our order. ‘What a dish.’

  ‘Not bad, but not my type.’

  ‘Good job too, consider him taken. Besides, you’re well and truly spoken for. How is that husband of yours? Have you told him what you’re up to?’

  ‘Not yet, but I will. I’m waiting for the right moment.’

  ‘Maybe there won’t be one? Anyway, what happened with Kenneth, did he say anything?’

  ‘No, he just mumbled an apology and carried on walking.’

  ‘Will he think it’s odd, you hanging around in shop doorways on a Saturday night?’

  ‘I could have just finished stock-taking.’

  ‘You have a vivid imagination. Must be down to all those crime novels you’ve spent your life reading. So, you know him?’

  ‘No, I’ve seen him at the vets, when I’ve taken Charlie there, but I’ve never spoken to him.’

  ‘Why is he following Hugh?’

  ‘He must know that Hugh is searching for Dorothy. Maybe he’s protecting her, perhaps she’s hiding away in his house?’

  ‘Why doesn’t he just confront Hugh? It’s weird, why would he keep following him night after night? He must have realised Hugh has seen him, it’s not like he’s very discreet? There’s something else, Janie.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Hugh has told you Dorothy is in danger, what if he’s the danger?’

  ‘Who, Kenneth?’

  ‘No, silly, I mean what if the real reason Hugh wants you to track her down is because he wants to confront her about something, not because he’s worried about her at all. Maybe that’s why he’s so tight-lipped and maybe that’s why Kenneth is following him.’

  ‘I’ll talk to Hugh and tell him what we’ve discovered and see what he says.’

  ‘Let me know.’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will.’

  When Hugh strides into the library van the next day he looks hopeful.

  ‘Did it work?’ he says. ‘Your plan to follow me. Did you find out who is pursuing me?’

  ‘Take a seat for a moment.’ I pull out the spare chair that I keep behind the counter, unfold it and offer it to him. He shakes his head.

  ‘It’s Kenneth, Dorothy’s brother,’ I say, watching his face for a reaction.

  He turns away, down the length of the van, as though he is trying to gather his thoughts before replying. ‘I thought as much,’ he says.

  ‘Why would he follow you? Do you have any idea? W
hy doesn’t he just speak to you?’

  He doesn’t respond, but his expression shows his discomfort.

  ‘Hugh, you say Dorothy is in danger. Surely her brother would want to protect her. Now you know who he is and where you can find him, why don’t you talk to him? Tell him your concerns and let him warn her about whatever it is you are scared about? Isn’t that the best way forward?’

  ‘You don’t understand, it’s more complicated than that,’ he says.

  ‘I can’t help you unless you are straight with me, unless you tell me the truth. Are you telling me the truth?’

  He studies my face, as though he is trying to decide what to say next.

  ‘The Tidehaven Observer has agreed to print a nostalgia feature, encouraging people to write in about their wartime experiences. We thought it might help to flush Dorothy out, or at least people who know her.’

  ‘We?’

  ‘I have a friend who works for the local paper, she is helping me. But I need much more from you Hugh. If you want me to succeed you’re going to have to tell me what you know.’

  But before he can reply, the door to the van opens and Ethel Latimer, the mother of the asthmatic child, returns.

  ‘Bobby is no better,’ she says, approaching the counter. ‘It’s got so that we have to sit up all night with him.’ She appears to be oblivious to Hugh standing there, with his mouth open, poised to tell me what I need to know.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I say, wondering where Bobby is while his mother is looking at books.

  ‘I’ve left him with a neighbour,’ she says, reading my thoughts. ‘I had to pop back, even though it’s further for me to come when you’re parked down here on Milburn Avenue. I don’t know what I was thinking the other day, when I was last in, but I didn’t swap my husband’s book. It’s important he has a book to read.’

  A host of questions appear in my head. Should her husband be expecting her to swap in his library book if it means leaving poor Bobby with a neighbour? She is speaking, but I’ve missed what she’s said. I need to focus. Perhaps Bean is affecting my concentration, as well as my digestion. Mrs Latimer likes to chat. But chatting often leads to gossip and gossip can be dangerous when it comes to objective thinking. I guide her to the shelf laden with thrillers, hoping to return to speak to Hugh in peace, but when I turn around he has gone.