‘Which implies that the murderer . . .’
‘Is someone very close to him. Dorothy, have you heard anything about his family?’
‘I don’t even know if he has one. No, wait! Jo said something . . . when we first met her, remember? Something about being a friend of his family. She would know.’
‘Then the first thing we need to do is talk to Jo.’
‘We have to find her first.’
‘That shouldn’t be too hard. She works in social services, presumably in Cheltenham. We’ll go to Cheltenham.’
It was a short trip, even in the rain, which by now had become a downpour. We finally found a car park with a few empty spots, paid-and-displayed, and then huddled in the car trying to decide where to go.
‘It might have been simpler to call,’ I said. ‘Drier, anyway.’
‘Perhaps, but bureaucracies are difficult enough to navigate in person. On the phone they can be impossible. Do you have any idea how many agencies could come under the general heading of “social services”?’
I was about to find out.
Alan has a mobile phone that does everything but dance the cancan, which he used to locate the main office of the Gloucestershire County Council. It was a long way from our car park, and our umbrellas didn’t help much. A receptionist in a skimpy stretch top asked if she could help us, quite obviously hoping she couldn’t.
Alan gave me his ‘Let me handle this’ look and said, ‘We’re looking for Ms Carter, Jo Carter. Can you tell me where we might find her office?’
‘And what agency is she with?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t quite remember. Foolish of me. Can you look her up?’
The woman, already bored with us, looked at her computer screen and then shook her head. ‘Not unless you know the agency. What kind of help were you wanting?’
I drew breath. Alan stepped on my foot. Gently, but unmistakably.
‘Actually, we’re simply visiting from out of town and wanted to call on her for a few minutes. Do you not have a directory by name?’
‘Can’t divulge personal information. Here, this might help.’ She handed us a brochure listing various agencies and turned her attention firmly back to the computer screen where, I saw as I took a deliberate look, she was playing a card game.
‘Blood pressure, darling!’ whispered Alan. We retired to a quiet corner and Alan tried all the agencies’ phone numbers, one after another. He spent enough time on hold, or being told by a computerized voice how important his business was and how privileged the voice was to serve him, that I wished I had a computer game to amuse me. I was sorely tempted to take over the receptionist’s desk.
And none of it was any use at all. Alan did, finally, get to talk to someone at almost every agency. Some were coldly polite, some actively stupid, and some genuinely interested in helping, but no one would admit to ever having heard of Jo Carter.
Even though I had surmised, from his end of the conversations, what he was going to say, my shoulders still sagged when he told me. ‘So that’s that.’
‘Oh, no, that is very far from that. Buck up, my dear. We’ve exhausted only the governmental agencies. Now we must try the private ones.’
‘Oh. And how many of those might there be?’
‘Dozens, I should imagine. There are almost unlimited numbers of well-meaning souls setting out to do good in some sphere or other. Churches, twelve-step programmes, women’s centres, homeless shelters, even police-sponsored charities.’
I took a deep breath. ‘We can’t cover all those in what’s left of the afternoon. It’s almost teatime. Let’s go find some tea and a telephone directory, and do what we can by phone. I’ll spell you.’
There was a tea shop nearby, though not the sort we usually favour. I like atmosphere with my tea and cakes. This place had once been starkly modern, with pale wood tables and angular steel chairs. Now it simply looked tired. Perhaps not surprisingly, it wasn’t well patronized, which was fine for our purposes. We secured a table in the corner; Alan went to the counter and bought a pot of tea and some shopworn buns.
We consumed our tea, and a great deal of time, with no more luck than before. Oh, there was a lot less waiting time until we were connected to real live human beings, and the people we talked to were nicer, on the whole, than the bureaucratic lot. Amateurs are often full of enthusiasm for what they do. Perhaps that’s their reward. But for all their eagerness to help, no one knew where we might find Jo Carter.
I was ready to give up, at least for the day, when Alan found one more number. ‘It’s a women’s shelter. You’d probably have more luck than I.’
‘I’ve stopped believing in luck.’ But I punched in the number. There was a long wait before a woman answered in a weary voice.
‘Eight-three-oh-five-two-seven, good afternoon.’
‘Good afternoon. I wonder if I might speak to Jo Carter, please.’
Silence.
‘Excuse me, I can’t hear you.’
More silence, or nearly. I could hear the cry of a baby in the background, so I knew I hadn’t lost the signal.
‘Hello? Are you still there?’
‘Yes, madam.’ A different voice, harder, crisper. ‘Who is calling, please?’
‘I’m a friend of Jo Carter’s. My husband and I are in town and hoped to see her for a few minutes.’
‘And your name?’
This hadn’t come up before. ‘Name?’ I mouthed at Alan, with raised eyebrows.
He nodded.
‘My name is Dorothy Martin.’
‘I see. One moment, please.’
Silence again, but this time real silence. The phone had been muted. ‘They’re checking, I think,’ I whispered to Alan.
The woman came back on the line and cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry, Ms Martin. There is no one here by the name of Carter. Good afternoon.’
‘Wait! Wait, I—’ But the connection was broken.
‘More tea?’ asked Alan, watching my face.
‘No. Definitely no more tea. A pint is what I need. Or better yet, a glass of wine.’ I looked at the clock on the wall. ‘Alan, it’s too late for us to accomplish any more here, and I’d like to get back to the cottage before nightfall. Driving those lanes in the dark, and in the rain, is a challenge even for you.’
We didn’t talk on the way back. I was trying to sort my thoughts, and Alan needed no distractions. But when we got back to the cottage, and Alan had built a fire and I had assembled a snack supper, I told him my thoughts about the last phone call.
‘They were lying, Alan. That was perfectly obvious. They know who Jo Carter is, and almost certainly where she is, but they wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Then why did they ask your name? If they weren’t willing to talk about the woman – and God knows why that might be – why didn’t they just say straight off that they’d never heard of her?’
I sipped at my wine. ‘Beats me. I’m beginning to think there must be something peculiar about Ms Carter. Nobody knows who she is or what she does or where she is. I suppose we really did see her, talk to her? She isn’t just a figment of our imaginations?’
‘My imagination is not that vivid, my dear. Nor is she a . . . what did they used to call an odd phenomenon . . . a mass hallucination.’
‘She’s the Sphinx,’ I said, and giggled.
Alan raised his eyebrows. ‘Either you’ve had too much wine, which seems unlikely at half a glass, or you’re too tired to think properly. Why the Sphinx?’
‘A riddle wrapped in a mystery inside an enigma. Didn’t somebody say that about the Sphinx?’
‘The phrase is Winston Churchill’s, and if I remember correctly, he said it about Russia. We are going to stop thinking about our problem tonight, Dorothy. Perhaps tomorrow our minds will be working more clearly.’
FOURTEEN
‘I figured it out,’ I said calmly over coffee the next morning. The rain had gone. The sky was beautifully clear and so were my thought processes.
‘Congratulations.’ It was a growl. For once Alan hadn’t been up as long as I had, and he was only midway through his first cup of coffee. One of the things I adore about him is that he is seldom cheery first thing in the morning. I don’t think I could stand waking up to a merry little ray of sunshine on the next pillow.
I was pining to share my brilliant idea, but I saw it would be better to wait. I poured myself more coffee, made more toast, and fidgeted.
‘All right, darling,’ he said at last with a husbandly sigh. ‘I’m more or less present. What did you figure out?’
‘It’s a women’s shelter!’
He didn’t roll his eyes. Quite. ‘Yes, I know. I believe I told you that. That’s why you called. I thought a male voice might put them off.’
‘Exactly. So what they got was a female voice. But on a phone belonging to a man. And a man with a different last name. You don’t have your ID blocked, do you?’
‘No, but . . . why should that make a difference? People use each other’s mobiles all the time. And you don’t even know that they can check.’
‘I should think they’d have to, wouldn’t you? Think about it, Alan. This is a place where battered women go to escape their abusers. It’s a safe house for women and children, until they can straighten out their lives. They have to have a published phone number, but it’s essential that the abusers don’t find them. So they screen phone calls. Mine was suspicious, because of the difference in names, so they hung up. And I’ll bet you anything that if I call again on that same phone, no one will answer.’
He handed the phone to me. I punched redial and let it ring until it terminated the call.
‘So, what do we know, besides the fact that they are admirably careful about protecting their clients?’
‘We know Jo Carter is there, or at least they know where she is.’
‘And how are we going to use that information?’ Alan was still a trifle grumpy. I thought he had slept badly, as in fact I had, too.
‘I’ve figured that out, as well.’ I had in fact gone for an early-morning walk and done a lot of thinking. I thought perhaps I’d better not mention that. ‘I think the best thing to do is go to a clergyman in Cheltenham, someone who will certainly know the women’s shelter, and get him to make the call.’
‘Or,’ said Alan, smiling as the brilliant morning sunshine reached his back and bathed him in warmth, ‘we can simply ask the priest how to get in touch with Jo. If he knows the shelter and she’s associated with it, he’ll know. And I think we’ll start with All Saints’, since we met first met Jo there.’
I hit myself on the forehead. ‘And why on earth didn’t we go there to begin with?’
‘Beats me.’ He tried to say it with an American accent. I tried hard not to laugh.
There is something about sunshine that absolutely makes the world turn more smoothly, I’ll swear to it. We had no trouble getting to Cheltenham, no trouble finding a place to park. It was even free. The rector of All Saints’ was happy to put himself at our disposal. Alan explained our mission, this time with scrupulous truth.
‘Jo Carter? Certainly I know her. She has done fine work with those poor women. Of course I can’t tell you where to find her at this instant. She’s extremely busy and travels a great deal.’
‘Travels?’
‘Oh, in a very small circuit, only Gloucestershire and environs, but she wears out her little cars with some regularity. At any rate, you need to find her. Let me call the shelter for you and explain. I’m sure they’ll help you once they know who you are. If you’ll just excuse me . . . I haven’t yet resigned myself to a mobile. I’ll go to my office.’
We waited. The Burne-Jones windows, this morning, looked far lovelier than I had expected. I actually had only the vaguest memory of seeing them before. After a third study, however, their charm began to pall.
The rector returned, and the peaceful friendliness of his face had turned to a mask of worry. ‘It’s really most disquieting. Mrs Bryant, at the shelter, has not heard from Ms Carter since early yesterday morning. She said then she’d be in by noon at the latest. They’ve tried to reach her, but her mobile is out of service. She . . . really, it sounds terribly melodramatic, but she seems to have disappeared.’
Alan went straight to the police in Cheltenham, while I waited in the car. The time for amateur detection was over; the authorities had to become involved. In a few words he explained the possible connections with the ‘Broadway Tower murder’, as the tabloids were inaccurately calling it. If just anyone had put the matter to them, they might have paid little attention. Members of the public are always annoying the police with cockeyed theories. But Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, retired, had a reputation as an unusually competent, even a brilliant policeman. They listened, and they acted.
‘Would you like to come with us to the shelter, sir?’ asked Superintendent Davids, an attractive woman of about fifty. ‘They’re not always that keen on male visitors, as you might understand, but you have all the details at your fingertips. I think they should hear what you have to say.’
‘I would be happy to, on the condition that my wife accompany me. She knows just as much as I about the facts, and may be able to contribute some insights of her own.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
The car we took didn’t look like a conventional police car. No blue lights, no chequerboard pattern. It was, however, so anonymous and discreet that I felt it must scream ‘Police’ to any intelligent criminal who happened to see it. One hoped that the homes neighbouring the shelter didn’t house criminals, because the point, presumably, was to make our visit as discreet as possible.
We were met at the door by Mrs Bryant, the matron or housemother or whatever she was called. She spoke a few words, and I recognized the voice of the woman who had hung up on me.
The superintendent introduced Alan and me. Mrs Bryant looked at us sharply. ‘Mrs Martin. And Mr Nesbitt. It was you . . .’
‘It was. And I understand completely. You have to be careful.’
‘Yes. Will you come in?’
Her office was spartan. She offered us no tea, nor any apologies. This was a no-frills operation, existing, I suspected, always on the edge of disaster. There was no room here for waste of either time or money. Her desk was innocent of any stray papers, or indeed of anything except a virgin writing pad. There was no phone, even. Presumably she used only a mobile. I shivered. The atmosphere was anything but warm and cosy.
‘You think something untoward has happened to Jo,’ she said without preamble.
‘I fear it might have done,’ said Alan.
‘Why?’
He had whittled the story down to its essentials to present to the Cheltenham police. He repeated it now for Mrs Bryant.
‘Our acquaintance with Ms Carter is very slight. We know she has some connection with a young man called Paul Jones, though that may not be his real name. He also uses the name Peter James, again perhaps a pseudonym. We have reason to believe that this young man witnessed a murder—’
Mrs Bryant made a small sound that might have been the beginning of a gasp. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Go on.’
‘—witnessed a murder last week. The last time we saw him, he seemed to be very much afraid of something. If we are correct in our surmises, and if Ms Carter is in the young man’s confidence, they could both be in danger. And you say she is not here, where you expected her to be. You can understand our concern.’
‘Yes, I see.’ She paused. ‘You say you know Jo only slightly. May I have the details, please?’
‘We met in Cheltenham. She overheard us talking about Paul Jones and asked if we knew his whereabouts, as he had missed an appointment with her. Later we saw her in Broadway, where we were staying. We are on holiday.’
‘And how do you know Paul Jones?’
I could no longer contain my impatience. ‘Mrs Bryant, I realize you have to be careful with what information you release to strangers, but we’re dealing with
a critical situation! We don’t know Paul well, either. He was staying at our B-and-B in Broadway, and we liked him. Now he’s in some sort of trouble, and we think Jo might be, too. Can you tell us anything that might help us find them?’
She sat looking at a picture on the wall. It was a cheap reproduction of one of the Renaissance Madonnas. I doubt if she saw it. After what seemed an eternity she spoke.
‘I wish I could help you, but I don’t think I can. The last time I talked to Jo, she said she planned to be here yesterday, as usual. I was disturbed when she didn’t turn up, but not unduly. Her work sometimes takes her far afield.’
‘What exactly is her work, Mrs Bryant?’
‘She is one of our social workers. She acts as advocate for individual clients, helping them to escape the cycle of violence. It can mean working with them to obtain job training and financial understanding, helping them to find permanent homes, getting them into treatment programmes if they are addicted to drugs or alcohol . . . any number of things. It is a difficult job that requires patience, compassion, clear thinking, and boundless energy. There is a high rate of burnout, as you can imagine. Jo has been doing it for over ten years, and is the best worker I’ve ever had. Please find her, Superintendent.’
‘We’ll try, Mrs Bryant. It will help if you can tell us more about Paul Jones and his connection with Ms Carter.’
‘I know nothing of anyone called Paul Jones. You say it may not be his real name?’
‘His real name might be Peter James.’
Mrs Bryant shook her head. ‘Nor is that name familiar. Have you a picture?’
I was opening my mouth to say no, when the superintendent produced one. ‘It’s not very good, I’m afraid, only a printout from the Internet.’
‘But this . . . this is some sort of performer!’
‘Peter James is the newest pop music phenomenon, my children tell me,’ said the superintendent with a smile. ‘He made his television debut on Saturday.’
‘He didn’t look like that when he was using the name of Paul Jones,’ I put in. ‘He had a beard and wore really scruffy clothes.’
The Evil that Men Do Page 10
