‘Waste of time,’ I say. ‘There are two or three women that could be Dorothy, but their faces are too indistinct and faded now, after all this time.’
‘Oh, Libby, do you know, the longer I carry on with this case, the more I feel like I’m on a wild goose chase.’
‘Nil desperandum.’
‘Blimey, I didn’t know I had such an intelligent assistant.’
‘I loved Latin at school. Every translation was like a puzzle, trying to decipher all those funny words, with their strange endings.’
‘Were you good at it?’
‘Of course. What about you?’
‘Of course,’ I say and grin. ‘Now, getting back to the matter in hand, what are we going to do next?’
‘I have an idea.’
‘I always feel slightly nervous when you say that.’
‘You’ll like this one. We can make a two-pronged attack.’
‘Sounds painful?’
‘Seriously. I have the details of all the people who wrote in for the nostalgia article. I could visit each of them, explaining that we would like to do an in-depth piece, focusing on their story. I could have the chess article with me and present it to them, in a nonchalant fashion and ask if they remember anything about that day.’
‘Nonchalant?’
‘I can do nonchalant with the best of them, I’ll have you know,’ she says, beaming. ‘Now, the other prong is you. You can do the same thing in the library van. Have both articles out on the counter, or on the noticeboard and engage people in conversation about them.’
‘On what pretext?’
‘You’ll think of something.’
‘Great, thanks for that. Only one problem. We only have one copy of the chess article.’
‘Ever heard of photocopying?’
We agree to compare notes after a week.
‘You sure your boss won’t mind? Won’t he wonder what you’re up to?’ I ask her.
‘I’m still in his good books. Sales of the paper went up off the back of the nostalgia article, so I’m on a roll. I need to make the most of it before he changes his mind. But before you dash off, give me your hands.’
‘Oh, crikey, not that again.’
I hold out my hands, revealing ten chewed fingernails.
‘I’ve made it my mission to rid you of the disgusting habit, so humour me. Let’s make a date and I’ll paint them for you. Shall I come to you?’
‘Yes, Saturday night, if you’re free?’
‘Perfect, I’ll be there.’
A vague thought is forming in my mind. It’s time to come clean with Greg and having Libby there as back up might not be such a bad idea.
Chapter 15
I’m due for an ante-natal check-up, so as soon as I drop the van back to the car park I make my way to the clinic. A few of the mothers are huddled around in a group and as I approach I realise they have circled around a young woman who has her head down between her knees and is making groaning noises. Before I can say or do anything one of the midwives arrives and eases her way through the group.
‘If you could all move back and give Mrs Bertrand some air,’ she says.
We all step back, but continue watching while the midwife speaks quietly to the woman, rubbing her back.
‘Is she going to be alright?’ one of the other mothers says. ‘It’ll be morning sickness I expect. They call it morning sickness, but it grabs you any time of day. I’ve had it with all of mine, dreadful it is. Makes me wonder why I keep putting myself through it.’
‘It’s alright for you, you’re married so you could go on the pill if you wanted,’ another woman in the crowd pipes up. A hush descends, as if an imaginary line has been crossed.
‘That’ll do,’ the midwife says, attempting to take control of a situation that is feeling increasingly uncomfortable. The young woman is now sitting up, still looking peaky and holding her hands across her tummy. As I move away to one of the empty chairs I notice that her ring finger is bare. It would appear Mrs Bertrand is still a Miss, a fact that may have contributed to the flurry of unspoken opinions about the plight of unmarried mothers.
‘How long am I going to be plagued with these hiccups?’ I ask the midwife, once she has confirmed that everything appears to be in order, as far as Bean is concerned. ‘I’m six months into my pregnancy, shouldn’t my symptoms have settled down by now? You would have thought my body would be used it after all this time.’
‘It doesn’t really work like that.’ The midwife is young, fresh-faced, possibly a year or two younger than me. She has a calm, confident manner about her and I think about the way life filters each of us in a particular direction. What kind of midwife would I make? How would she be as a librarian? Or a private investigator, come to that.
We chat for a while about breathing techniques.
‘You need to be mindful of your diet,’ she says. ‘Regular meals, but small portions. Little and often is probably the best way forward. And avoid anything spicy, or fizzy drinks.’
‘Seems like Bean is a fussy little thing.’
‘Bean?’
‘Yes, that’s what we call it. Makes it easier than saying ‘he’ or ‘she’ all the time.’
She looks at me quizzically.
‘It started out looking like a kidney bean, or at least that’s what the pictures in the textbook reminded me of.’
‘Bean, it is then,’ she says and smiles. ‘Pregnancy can do all sorts of things to your body, some people have a lot of trouble with sickness and so on and others sail through. And there’s no saying your next pregnancy will be the same as this one.’
‘Don’t worry, there’s no next pregnancy on the cards.’
‘You never know what’s around the corner.’
‘When you’ve mapped out your route, that’s exactly what you do know. One Bean is fine with me, thanks.’
As I leave the cubicle, I spot Nikki waiting to go in next.
‘Shall I wait for you? We could grab a drink afterwards?’ I say, as she passes me.
She hesitates and nods. ‘Okay, yes, I won’t be long.’
After five minutes or so she emerges, frowning.
‘Is everything alright? You seem worried,’ I say.
‘Fine, everything is fine.’ Her words and her voice don’t match up.
We leave the clinic and walk down to one of our regular pit-stops. As we walk, I chatter about the guidance the midwife has given me, but Nikki says very little, just nodding occasionally in response.
Once inside the café I order two lemonades, temporarily ignoring the midwife’s advice about fizzy drinks and we take a seat at a table furthest away from the door. There’s a real autumn chill in the air today and I’m grateful for the warmth of the café.
‘Are you okay, you seem a bit quiet?’ I say.
She looks at me, but doesn’t respond.
‘You did get my thank you card, didn’t you? It was a lovely evening. You’re an excellent cook. Greg is still on about your Yorkshires. And the company was great too, in fact, we got on so well with your neighbours, Howard and Joanne, we’re planning another get-together with them. They’ve got a boat, you know, a little fishing boat. I took dad and Charlie out in it and, well, that’s another story. Bit of a disastrous day, to be honest.’
As I’m rambling she is looking down at her lemonade, running a finger around the rim of the glass. I pause to take a breath and then she speaks.
‘Frank wants to see you,’ she says.
‘Right. Sorry, how do you mean, he wants to see me?’
‘At the police station. He wants to see you in his official capacity as Detective Sergeant. He asked me to ask you next time I saw you.’
‘Oh, right.’ I’m not sure how to respond and a hundred questions are running around my head. ‘I’m surprised he’s asked you to speak to me. I thought he was an advocate of not mixing work and home life?’
She gives me a blank look, as though my comment has made her wonder about her husban
d’s motives.
‘Is that why you’re upset with me? Because of something Frank has said?’ I ask her.
‘You make it very difficult for us to be friends, Janie.’
‘Do I? How do I make it difficult?’
‘Frank has to be my priority. He’s my husband and whatever you think of him, I love him.’
‘Nikki, I have no idea what this is all about. I’m sorry if you feel I’ve done something wrong, but I thought we agreed to focus on our friendship and not let anything our husbands do or say interfere with that.’
She shakes her head and doesn’t reply.
‘So, are we still friends?’ I ask her.
‘Will you go and see Frank?’
‘Yes, of course I will. I’ll go straight there this evening.’
‘Well, that’s good. I’m sorry, Janie, but for now I think we need to call a halt to our friendship. Maybe when things settle down again, then…’
‘You’re speaking in riddles. I don’t know what you are hoping will ‘settle down’ but fine, yes. Whatever you like. If you’d rather not be friends, I’m sad about that, but I respect your decision.’
I pay for the drinks and leave the café before she sees me cry. I can’t remember the last time I cried. This is hardly a monumentally difficult experience, so I hold my hand on my midriff and whisper to Bean that he or she needs to take the blame for my over-emotional response. The last time a girl chose to stop speaking to me was when I was thirteen. I can’t even remember why we’d fallen out. The injustice I felt then resurfaces now, made worse because I don’t even know what I’m meant to have done. Hopefully a visit to Tidehaven Police Station will provide some answers.
When I last visited the police station I was bringing DS Bright news about Zara. This time, though, I’ve been summoned. I present myself at the front desk and ask to see Detective Sergeant Bright.
‘And you are?’ the desk officer asks.
‘Mrs Janie Juke. He’s expecting me. At least, he’s asked to see me.’
‘Righto, miss. If you’d like to take a seat for a moment, I’ll see if he’s free.’
After a few moments the desk officer reappears, followed by Frank Bright. He nods a greeting and gestures to me to follow him.
Tidehaven Police Station must have just one interview room, because the room he shows me into is the same room I have sat in on several occasions, during my search for Zara. The room is bare, except for a wooden table and two uncomfortable wooden chairs. The single window casts a dull light and, at a guess, is permanently closed, resulting in an almost suffocating stuffiness. From my previous dealings with Frank, I know he’s a smoker, but fortunately this time he has no ashtray in his hand. Someone has recently been smoking in the room, though, as the cloying smell lingers.
‘Thank you for coming, Mrs Juke. Do take a seat.’ His voice is measured, almost formal.
It’s strange to think that the last time we spoke, we were standing looking at a photo of his dead wife. Any softness in his personality I detected then, is not in evidence today.
‘How can I help you?’ I say.
‘I’ve had a complaint.’
‘A complaint?’
‘Yes, a complaint about you.’
I hold his gaze, trying to ascertain how the conversation might go from here.
‘Can you tell me anything about this complaint? Like who made it?’
‘I’m not at liberty to disclose the name of the person making the complaint. But I’m told you’ve been making a nuisance of yourself, asking questions, following people.’
‘Following people? You don’t need to tell me who. I can tell you. It’s Kenneth Elm, isn’t it?’
He stares at me, narrowing his eyes a little, but doesn’t respond.
‘Can I be open with you, Detective Sergeant?’
‘I would appreciate it if you were.’
‘Mr Elm has an extremely threatening manner.’
‘Has he threatened you?’
‘Not in a direct way, no. But he has threatened an acquaintance of mine. In fact, as a result of his interference and bullying, my acquaintance is now very poorly, in hospital.’
‘I see. And can you tell me the name of this ‘acquaintance’?’
‘The thing is,’ I continue, ignoring his question, ‘my acquaintance was worried he was being followed. So, he asked me to investigate and that’s when I came across Mr Elm.’
‘You were following the follower?’
‘Yes, that’s about the size of it.’
‘What concerns me, Mrs Juke, is your use of the word ‘investigate’. I thought we’d agreed not so long ago that ‘investigation’ is the job of the police force, not librarians.’
This is a pivotal moment. Do I share what I know with the police, despite Hugh’s insistence that the police are not to be involved? DS Bright can throw more resources at the problem than I can drum up, even with Libby’s help. However, any police involvement could scare Dorothy even further into hiding. On the other hand, if she is in danger, maybe police protection is exactly what she needs.
‘I’m sorry Mr Elm felt he had to approach you,’ I say. ‘And I’m surprised you involved your wife. As a result, Nikki now feels she can’t be friends with me. Or perhaps that was your intention?’
‘I’m sure you will agree with me that you have a different way of looking at the world, Mrs Juke. Nikki is a gentle soul, I don’t want her upset.’
‘You mean you don’t want her to make her own choices?’
‘As I told you the other evening, I am old-fashioned and my wife and I understand each other. But I haven’t asked you here to talk about my wife. You still haven’t told me the name of your acquaintance. Please remember, if you have information that may be relevant to a police enquiry, you need to share that information. It’s an offence not to disclose…’
‘Yes, I know,’ I interrupt him, holding my hand out to shake his. ‘If that’s all Detective Sergeant, I’ll be off. I will bear in mind what you’ve told me though, and if there’s anything I feel I need to share with you, then, of course…’
This time, it is his turn to interrupt. ‘Mrs Juke, this is not about needing to share, we’re not talking about a mother’s meeting here. If you are aware of any crime that has been committed, it is for us to investigate, not you. Do you understand?’
‘I do, really I do. And I’m grateful to know that I can call on you, should I need to. It’s very reassuring.’
‘We’re not the back-up reserves, you know,’ he says, frustration evident in his tone.
‘No, of course not,’ I say smiling.
I leave the police station more determined than ever to discover what it is that Kenneth Elm is so keen for me not to find out.
Chapter 16
Whenever the weather is damp, the library van chooses not to start. I’ve told my boss at the Central Library about it an endless number of times and am just encouraged to ‘coax’ it into action. Some mornings it’s all I can do to coax myself into action, particularly now we are into November, so the added problems with my place of work is one thing I can do without. As a result of the coaxing, by the time I arrive at my regular Wednesday parking place in Rockwell Crescent, Mrs Latimer is there waiting for me. She is returning her husband’s book.
‘He’s a fast reader,’ I say, as we walk into the van together. ‘Let me take my coat off. How is Bobby? Any better? Is he back at school?’
She sighs and remains hovering at the counter.
‘You’ve had quite a walk, why not sit for a while, it’s nice to have someone to chat to.’
She nods and looks relieved, unwinding the scarf from around her neck. I pull the spare chair out from behind the counter, unfold it and offer it to her.
‘Bobby is much better, thanks,’ she says. ‘But now it’s my mother-in-law, Freda. Edgar, he’s my husband, he’s that worried about her. She’s going downhill fast. He reads to her, you see, that’s why he’s got through the book so quickly.’
>
‘I’m sorry to hear she’s poorly.’
‘He’s a rock, you know, my Edgar. He does a full day’s work, has his tea, then he’s straight round to Freda. He makes her supper, settles her down for the night. You wouldn’t think it to look at him. Great big lump. But he’s as soft as marshmallow inside.’
I silently reprimand myself. Once again, I’ve made assumptions. Once again, they are wrong.
‘Good news about Bobby, though, you must be relieved,’ I say.
She nods and her face is transformed with a cheerful smile. ‘Do you know, he even joined in the cross-country run the other day. He’s got the hang of his inhalers now. As long as he uses one before he sets off, well, he’s that happy, being able to join in. ‘
‘Will you be choosing another book for your husband? His mum must be so grateful to have his help and support. Lucky they like the same books,’ I say and laugh. ‘I’ve read to my dad for years, but we’ve always taken it in turns to choose the book. He loves sea-faring adventures, but I’m more into crime.’
She looks at me and raises an eyebrow.
‘Crime stories,’ I say and we both chuckle, then I point to the noticeboard. ‘What did you think of the nostalgia article in the Observer? Have you had time to read it yet? I was born after the war, but learning about people’s experiences here in Tamarisk Bay, well, it makes you think. It’s so easy to take life for granted, isn’t it?’
As she stands, I move her chair out of the way, so we can stand side by side in front of the noticeboard. We scan over the article for a few moments, without speaking, then she points to the other press cutting.
‘What’s this?’ she says.
I wait for a while before responding, to give her a moment to inspect the photocopy of the faded sheet.
‘It’s from the Tidehaven Observer just after the war. 1946,’ I say.
She moves closer to the noticeboard and peers at the photo.
‘Do you know… well, how strange. To think we were talking about her a few moments ago and then, there she is,’ she says, pointing at one of the women in the photo. ‘That’s Freda, that one there.’ Her face brightens, it’s as though her mother-in-law has suddenly been restored to good health, to youth and vitality. ‘Doesn’t she look smart? She was always one for making the most of her looks, you know. And she’d never be seen out without a hat. She has some beautiful hat pins, keeps them all in a velvet lined jewellery box. They might be worth a bob or two, but she’d never sell them. Course, she’ll never use them now.’
Lost Property Page 11
