Wings over the Watcher

by Priscilla Masters

  And suddenly now the flood gates had been opened there was no holding Jewel back.

  “Look – I can’t hide it, Inspector. To be honest, I didn’t really take it that seriously. I didn’t listen that hard. You see.” She leaned forward, right across the counter. “I’ve known Beattie all my life, practically. I’m not saying she makes things up but she sort of romanticises. Maybe she reads too many slushy novels and it gives her ideas.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well – someone gives her a bit of a smile and she sort of takes it further, imagines they’re eyeing her up – when it’s just friendliness. I’ve known it happen a few times to Beattie and watched her slowly wake up to find out she’s been made a bit of a fool of. That’s when she needs her friends, Inspector. Me and Marilyn.”

  “But this time she must have gone somewhere, with someone,” Joanna pointed out.

  “Aye maybe this time it was for real. Maybe not.”

  “So how did you feel when she was telling you she’d found a lover?”

  “If you want to know the truth, Inspector, at first sceptical. I didn’t believe a word of it.”

  “Later?”

  “I started to believe in it.”

  “And then?” Joanna persisted doggedly.

  “Then I was glad for her.” Jewel was in defensive, defiant mood. “It was fun to see the old Beattie up to no good. She’d always been the stodgy one. I’d always been the tearaway. And then of course, Marilyn. Well – Marilyn.”

  Marilyn would have to wait until later.

  “Do you have Beatrice’s mobile phone number?”

  “Oh – somewhere.” Jewel looked vaguely around her. “But she never answers it, you know. Waste of time her having one. I don’t even know that she knows what to do with it. And she always forgets to charge it up. It usually has a flat battery so you start talking and then lose her. So frustrating.”

  “The number?”

  Jewel dived beneath the desk, fished out a brown leather handbag as big as a suitcase, delved around inside it and finally produced a maroon leather Filofax. She flicked through it, produced a scrap of paper and handed it to Joanna. Immediately Joanna dialled it on her own phone.

  The mobile phone you have just dialled may be switched off. Please call again later.

  “Bugger,” she said. There was no offer of a messaging service.

  It would have been so nice to have kept her promise to Korpanski and sewn the thing up by teatime.

  Jewel was watching her. “No answer?”

  Joanna shook her head.

  Jewel looked unsurprised. “That’s our Beattie,” she said pertly. “Mind you – if you’d just gone off with your fancy man you wouldn’t want your friends all ringing you up to find out how you were, would you?” She gave a dry cackle.

  Joanna put her phone away. “When did you last see her?”

  “Last Sunday.”

  “She didn’t come cycling with us that day.”

  “No.” Jewel scratched at a point on the back of her head. “She seemed a weeny bit down, to be honest. We sat in the garden and cracked open a bottle of wine. Cheered us both up.”

  “You don’t know what she was ‘down’ about?”

  Jewel shook her head. “She didn’t say and I didn’t probe.”

  “You had no ideas?”

  “Not really. I wondered if she was fed up with Arthur. You know – she’d wanted to go abroad again. Back to Italy. They’d been there, camping, a couple of years ago and she’d been hankering to go back but Arthur was having none of it. He hadn’t liked it. Quite a stick-in-the-mud, you know, our Arthur.”

  The two women regarded each other. Jewel broke the silence to voice Joanna’s thoughts. “I suppose she was plucking up the courage to finally go. And it’s a big step, isn’t it?”

  Joanna nodded.

  “You didn’t question her?”

  “No. I decided that if she wanted to tell me something she would. I’ve never been one to pry.”

  It was patently the truth. For all her sophistication Jewel Pirtel struck Joanna as an honest woman. Now it was Joanna who hesitated. “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Unconnected with the case.”

  “Go ahead,” Jewel said archly. “I can only say no, can’t I?”

  “What was your name before you changed it?”

  “How did you know I’d changed it?” She was quick, indignant and rapier-sharp.

  “Arthur Pennington told me.”

  She chuckled. “Disapproved, didn’t he? Well – he wasn’t christened Eartha.”

  “You’re joking.”

  “Aye. Me dad was an Eartha Kitt fan – big-time. And no matter what my mother said he would have his way. He registered my birth, you see, my mother being laid up like. The minute I could I changed it to something I really fancied.” She crossed her skinny legs encased in tight black trousers and asked archly,

  “Answer your question, Inspector?”

  “Yes. Thanks.” But she didn’t move. “Jewel,” she said slowly, “who is the man? Beattie lived an isolated sort of life, didn’t she? She didn’t know many people. If she was having an affair you must have some idea who it was with. Was it someone from the Readers’ Group?”

  “Oh, you know about that already, do you? Work fast, don’t you? I’m sorry, Inspector, I don’t know. I honestly don’t know.”

  It seemed a dead end.

  Jewel’s eyes were the colour of wood bark. A nice, warm, toasty brown. But they were very shrewd too. “Don’t worry. And don’t spend too much police time looking for her. She’ll be back. I know it. With her tail between her legs. She’ll have gone off somewhere for a little bit of drama. Have you tried the kids? Maybe they know something.”

  “She isn’t with them, according to Arthur.”

  “Oh – he’s that drippy. If I were you, Inspector, love, I’d do a bit of checkin’ myself. Arthur doesn’t always see what’s right in front of his face.”

  But Arthur had seen the Ann Summers underwear all right. And read plenty into the flimsy garments.

  Jewel touched her arm and with a heavy stare that bordered on psychic, repeated the sentiment. “It’ll be all right, Inspector. I promise.”

  Joanna wished she could be as certain. As it was she continued to fish.

  “Has she ever done this before – actually left her husband?”

  Jewel was stage-thoughtful, polished fingertip on chin. “No. No – I can’t say that she ever has. Not actually gone. She’s talked about it but no. She’s never actually left. She isn’t one for action.”

  “Until she joined the bike club.”

  “Well – yes – until then. But she’s fantasized before. That’s one of the reasons why I never took her little confidences too seriously. You see they weren’t real. They were in her head. Most of the time.” She had tacked the phrase on.

  “OK, thanks for your help.” Joanna tacked on the traditional policeman’s parting. “Here’s my number. If you should think of anything else…”

  Jewel flicked the card on to the shop counter. “Of course. But she’ll be back. I know it.” She gave a mischievous grin. “Mark my words.”

  But as Joanna left the shop she wasn’t convinced. Beatrice Pennington had appeared quite serious about the effort to make herself more attractive. It had been tough work and the phase had lasted for around six months. Something or someone must have been encouraging her. A real person and relationship, surely, lay behind it. Not pure fantasy. The problem was who? Was it fact or fiction? Or an odd mix of the two?

  She wandered back up Derby Street, dubious now that the job would be over by teatime.

  Maybe she should have remembered the words uttered as World War Two broke out. All be over by Christmas. Even now it conjures up jaunty, cocky faces, in khaki, marching to the battle-drum. For years.

  Still – it had been worth the trip up Derby Street. She now had the missing woman’s telephone num
ber. She could easily get Korpanski to run a trace through. She walked slowly back towards the station.

  It was a hawthorn hedge, thickly overgrown and tall, weeds growing through its roots, embedded in clay, farm land beyond, on a little-used lane between Grindon and Warslow. A couple of tractors passed by once or twice a day. The farmer even caught the scent of rotting flesh, recognised it and thought, badger or fox. Two or three cars rushed passed, too fast for the road, not caring about the mud thrown up into their wheel arches. None of the drivers noticed anything. They were absorbed in their thoughts and their car radios, one tapping the wheel in time with the bass rhythm of his favourite song.

  It will be a little while before she is discovered.

  Corinne Angiotti had finished her afternoon surgery and was sitting, motionless, for a while, thinking.

  The knock on the door was an unwelcome intrusion. Her “Come in”, sharper than usual.

  “Just a couple of prescriptions to be signed.” The receptionist hadn’t missed the frown on the normally good-natured doctor’s brow – or the failure to greet with a smile.

  Her eyes flickered as she placed a small pile of papers on the doctor’sdesk.

  “Thanks,” Corinne said absently, without looking at her.

  “Thanks yourself,” the receptionist thought.

  Corinne sighed and her hand wandered towards the pile of prescriptions. She hardly read them, as she signed one after the other.

  She was supposed to check due by dates, over use and under use of drugs, dates when blood tests should be checked. But she couldn’t be bothered. She felt a terrible, heavy lassitude.

  Her hand reached out again. A thick envelope.

  No. It couldn’t be. No. The voice screamed inside her. No.

  But it was. Same writing. Same envelope. Same person.

  Marked Personal. She tore the envelope open and scanned the words twice.

  “Don’t think you can be rid of me – ever. I am with you for always, you with me. Our relationship is far too precious to discard. Remember this when you work, when you eat, when you sleep – or not as the case might be. Remember this. We – are – together.”

  Medics call a faint a vaso-vagal attack. The blood pressure suddenly drops, leaving the brain short of oxygen. And so the person faints.

  Corinne slid from the chair and landed in a huddle on the floor.

  Korpanski was not in the office. Joanna tried Beatrice Pennington’s phone again and got the same recorded message.

  It was beginning to irritate her that this silly little problem was sitting at the back of her mind like a computer virus. It was a tease which she wanted resolved because while it distracted her she found it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

  She looked at the mountain of work in front of her. There was plenty to do, quite apart from her own, personal problem. For the next hour she worked her way steadily through statements and forms, checking details. The footwork of a detective. She managed to forget about Beatrice and Arthur Pennington.

  Right up until Korpanski appeared an hour and a half later waving a fax. “Got it,” he said. “Mobile phone details.”

  It would seem cruel to tell him she had already obtained the number, especially when he had found out so much.

  They poured over the list of numbers made from Beatrice Pennington’s phone. It was a long list of calls. Evidently Beatrice Pennington did use her mobile sometimes to contact people. And one number cropped up frequently. An 01538 number – Leek.

  But when Joanna tried it she was connected with the doctors’ surgery. Not what they had expected at all.

  “Well, this isn’t her secret lover,” Joanna said. “She must have had some sort of health problem. Even if her husband wasn’t aware.”

  Korpanski was frowning. “Why use her mobile to ring the doctor,” he mused. “Why didn’t she ring from home?”

  Joanna was less curious. “Some illness she didn’t want her husband to know about? Women do like their secrets, you know, Korpanski. Particularly when it comes to their health and personal problems.”

  “Ye-e-s.” He was not convinced.

  None of the other telephone numbers cropped up frequently or were prolonged conversations. They’d check them all out, of course, but neither of them was hopeful.

  They’d basically drawn a blank. So far.

  The last time the phone had given out a signal had been in the Leek area, slightly to the north east. That had been at 10 a.m. on Wednesday morning – an hour after her husband had left for work.

  It still wasn’t enough evidence to cause concern. Most people nowadays knew that mobile phones were eminently traceable and sent out frequent signals. If Beatrice was really serious about her bid to disappear she may well have dumped her mobile phone somewhere. And Jewel had made a comment about her friend allowing her mobile battery to run down.

  So this meant nothing.

  Or something.

  And it was back to the irritating little question. “So where is she?”

  Mike shrugged. “Search me.”

  “Are you all right, doctor?”

  Corinne felt such a fool. She had lifted herself from the floor and was sitting at her desk, dizzy and sick, a pulse pounding in her head.

  “I’m fine,” she mumbled and knew she had fooled no one and certainly not herself.

  Joanna glanced back at the still large pile of papers waiting to be dealt with. She could not afford to waste time on this knotty little problem.

  And yet…

  She made a small note for herself of people to contact if Beatrice Pennington didn’t turn up in the next day or two.

  Top was the members of the Readers’ Group. They could probably get a list of participants from the library – and speak to Beatrice’s colleagues at the same time. Then there were her two children, her other friend, Marilyn, her parents and her sister. Surely someone would be able to throw some light on the whereabouts of the missing woman?

  There is always a voice inside you which acts as devil’s advocate.

  Jewel Pirtek had been her confidant. She had been the most likely person to know. And Joanna didn’t think Jewel had hidden anything that she really knew.

  She worked hard until five o’clock. But Joanna still felt fidgety and dissatisfied by the end of the afternoon. She looked up Arthur Pennington’s number in the phone book and called him. He was in.

  “It’s Inspector Joanna Piercy here.”

  “Hello.” His voice was eager. He thought she’d found something out.

  “I wondered…”

  “There’s been no sign of her?” His disappointment was tangible. He was close to breaking point.

  “No. I’m sorry. I’ve tried her mobile number.”

  “Oh.” It was as though he’d just remembered. “I was supposed to… I’m so sorry. It just slipped my mind. I came home. Suddenly everything caved in on me.”

  “Is there somewhere you could stay?”

  “I can’t leave here. What if she comes home and finds me gone?”

  They all do this, parents of missing children, husbands, wives. All the detritus of the missing. They wait and stay, as a dog guards a bone and just as pointlessly they stand guard inside their homes and wait.

  What else is there to do?

  Sometimes they expend their energy. They drive round areas where they think their loved one is. They haunt hospital casualty departments or search other places their loved ones felt attached to. Sometimes – in desperation they visit places their loved ones would never have been to – churches, Salvation Army hostels, railway stations.

  And each time they leave the house they leave a neighbour or friend on guard or pin a note to the front door, “Darling, if you read this…”

  Just in case.

  “Is there someone who can come and stay with you? One of your children, maybe?”

  She was sure his laugh hadn’t meant to sound so dry and cynical.

  But it did.

  There was a sh
ort pause before, “No.” The pedant had won. “It wouldn’t be fair to drag them in to all this. They have their own lives to live. I’m sure when Beattie comes back she’ll have a perfectly rational explanation.

  When Beattie comes back.

  It sounded an empty refrain.

  When Beattie comes back. Not if.

  “It’s been two days now, Inspector,” he said. “I don’t know what to do next.”

  There is nothing, Mr Pennington. Nothing you can do except wait, hope and forgive.

  She felt action was expected of her. “Can you give me your son and daughter’s telephone numbers?”

  “But I’ve already–” He capitulated. “Hang on. I’ll just look them up.”

  He came back with the numbers.

  She asked then for a complete list of the telephone numbers and addresses of all of his wife’s friends, family and acquaintances.

  It was the least she could do.

  But under her breath she was already cursing Beatrice.

  Damn you, woman. How could you leave this mess behind you when a short note would have saved so much?

  He did not demur but read the list out mechanically.

  “If you do hear anything, Mr Pennington, you will let me know, won’t you?”

  “Of course. Of course.” He hesitated. “And if you hear anything, Inspector.”

  “Yes. Yes. Of course.”

  “And may I ring you again to find out how your investigation is going?”

  It was a mistake but she agreed anyway and gave him the number which led straight to the phone on her desk.

  Like him she wanted a neat solution to the problem.

  She put the phone down then picked it up again, struck with a sudden picture. Beattie’s bike, a Dawes hybrid, racing green, almost brand new. She detailed a couple of officers to go and detach it from the railings outside the library – if it was still there. Bikes were popular with thieves.

  To herself she was relating the small fable, that it could do no harm for the forensics team to give it the once over.