Max, reaching for a pen, said, “What’s the number?”
She dug around in her purse and came up with her own phone. She pulled up Poppy’s number on her screen and rattled it off.
Max thought it interesting that she didn’t know the number for her stepdaughter off by heart, but then again, it was so easy to hit “reply” and not have to have memorized anything these days. Unlike spellcheck, the reply function reduced rather than increased the chance of errors. But Max didn’t have any impression the two were close. Certainly not into exchanging text messages except to transmit essential information about expected arrivals and departures.
Max picked up the heavy Bakelite telephone on his study desk. As he dialed Cotton’s number, he asked Jane: “You’ll need to speak to Cotton yourself, but try to remember now: When exactly was the last time you saw her or heard from her?”
She was vague. “This morning perhaps? I tell you, I leave her to her own devices. She prefers things that way. There’s less friction. Anyway. When I got home I could see she had taken some clothing and makeup but left her favorite posters behind. All these stupid band groups she likes.”
“She could hardly travel with posters,” Max observed. “Too awkward unless she folded them, ruining them in the process.”
“She would never be separated from those posters voluntarily,” Jane insisted.
“I understand your concern,” said Max.
“You seem very complacent,” Jane said. She crossed her arms and began vigorously rubbing her upper arms, as if to warm herself.
“Not at all. I’m very concerned for the child’s safety. But let’s not worry needlessly. I am sure she is quite safe. Quite sure. I can practically guarantee it: Poppy has all the sense needed to take herself out of harm’s way.”
But Jane clearly was upset, and now closer to hysteria. He would have said this was atypical behavior, and he could see it was not an act.
She got on the phone with Cotton, telling him what she knew. He seemed to have the same reaction as Max to her comments about the posters, for at one point she wailed, “But, they’re her favorites!” After a few minutes she turned to Max and said, handing him the receiver, “He wants to talk to you.”
He took the phone, still warm from her hand, and listened as Cotton said, “Tell Jane we’ll get search-and-rescue volunteers out in the woods to look for her stepdaughter.”
Max turned to Jane and said, “They’ll be starting the search right away. Before we lose the light.” To Cotton, he said, “With dogs?”
“Certainly with dogs. Trailing dogs and air-scenting dogs.”
“Thea would love to be part of that. Perhaps I can take her out with the searchers.”
“I didn’t know Thea was trained. That would be helpful—the more the better. And I’ll see if I can’t requisition a helicopter. We can’t have a child go missing in the middle of all this, Max.”
“Before you do that, let me call you from my mobile with some more information. All right?” He listened and added, “If the circumstances were different, perhaps we wouldn’t be as worried. She’s a teenager and rather a headstrong one. But with her father dead and her great-grandmother, it’s too much…” He looked over at Jane, who nodded.
“I know,” said Cotton. “The timing is not accidental. It couldn’t be.”
“We’re assuming she just wandered into the woods.” Again he looked at Jane, as if to make sure she was listening. “But of course she could have taken a train into Staincross Minster. From there she could have gone anywhere.”
Jane mouthed the word “London.” Max nodded.
“I know,” Cotton said again. “Of course, we’ll be looking into that angle.”
“It’s possible she just—I don’t know. Felt it best to keep a low profile for now.”
“Why do you say that?”
Max, who had turned away to look out the vicarage window, stole another glance over his shoulder at Jane.
“Really, I’m not sure I can say right now. I suppose I’d rather think Poppy is in hiding or even off on a sulk than think she’s—you know. Rather than assume the worst. Again, I’ll ring you back in a few, all right? And of course let us know…”
Max rang off after a few minutes. He turned to Jane, who was pacing the floor in front of the fireplace, and he offered her the usual British panacea, a cup of tea. She accepted distractedly and after a few minutes had collected herself enough to sit before the fire, staring unseeing into its flames. She sat in the very chair Poppy had vacated not all that long before.
* * *
An hour had passed, and as there had been no word of Poppy, Jane had grown progressively more distraught. “Oh, this is all my fault,” she had said, more than once.
Everything in her behavior seemed unmoored and out of character. She stood up several times, saying, “I really must go. She might be at home.” Max, wanting to keep an eye on her, persuaded her that Cotton would be more likely to call the vicarage if there were news. She seemed to be coming unglued before his very eyes. The tissues Max had handed her, several times in fact, were in shreds, used less to dab fiercely at her eyes now than as a sort of stress ball.
She spent part of the time wandering the room, perusing the shelves of the study, her mind clearly elsewhere. It had to be said there was little on those shelves to interest even a professional archivist. Max had inherited most of the musty old volumes from his predecessor. He wondered if she’d notice the Blackwood books.
At an earlier point he had excused himself to ring Cotton as promised, from another room. He had also rung Awena to fill her in. He had then returned to his study to resume fitful work on his sermon but in truth she was such a distracting element in the room, he finally put the pages aside—yet again.
“How is it your fault?” Max finally asked her. He rose from his desk, rejoining her at the fireplace where she sat in a dejected pose, literally wringing her hands, rocking herself back and forth, lightly keening. A quickening wind made a haunting sound, too, as it whistled round the top of the chimney. Max spoke in measured words in a low tone, hoping she would match her mood to his own. In the silence she might realize how out of true her behavior was. She hadn’t mourned for her husband like this.
She looked up at him, somewhat in surprise, as if she was not used to anyone taking time for her like this. She stared at this solemn, well-intended vicar for a long moment, seeming to reach a decision. She said, “I—I wasn’t honest with you when we spoke before. I considered it all to be no one’s business but my own. This village—well, you know how they are in the village. Busybodies, all of them. Busybodies. But now, if we’re to find Poppy, I have to say. I have to be clear and tell what I know about—things. Things that might have set Poppy off. It’s the only way. I see that now.”
“And what is that?” he asked. “What is it you want to tell, Jane?”
“It’s just this: I knew … I knew about the affair, you see. Colin’s affair with Marina. Well, to be completely clear, I suspected there was something between them. The way she hung on his every word. But with Colin gone so much, it was hard to see it as ongoing, you know. I think—no, I’m certain; I know—Lord Duxter sent Colin away to put an end to it. To their being together. It doesn’t appear to have worked. Absence making the heart grow fonder and all that.” She looked at Max intently, willing him to understand. As if this were a burden she had lived with for too long, and she welcomed the chance to free herself of the worry. Or at least to share what had been bothering her.
The one thing we all want most, Max reflected, is just that. Not so much fame, not so much riches, but to be understood by at least one other living soul. It had been obvious to Max that something had been going very wrong in Jane’s world, and in Poppy’s, and for some time.
“I wasn’t worried about it, you see,” she added. “And for Poppy’s sake, I should have been.”
“What do you mean?” he asked. “You didn’t see Lady Duxter as a threat to your marriage?�
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“If I’m honest, no. Perhaps I should have been less complacent, less egotistical—less whatever it was that shielded me from the truth. But so far as I knew, Colin was planning to quit his job in Saudi, just as soon as he’d built up some savings, and we were going to move away once he did. Especially since his mother was getting so old, and then of course she died … well, there was nothing keeping us here.”
“How did Poppy feel about these plans? She would have had to change schools. And then, there’s Stanley she’d be leaving behind.”
“I don’t think she was aware of our plans. We treated her like a child in that respect. And now I regret not taking her into my confidence about things that affected her. Do you know, in spite of everything, in spite of all the nonsense with the hair dye and so on, Poppy is basically a good girl. We just assumed she would fall into line—for her father’s sake. How arrogant of us! But we told ourselves we’d take care not to move her in midterm or anything too upsetting like that.”
“What does all this have to do with her disappearance?”
“I think she knew, too,” said Jane miserably. “About the affair.”
Max, remembering all those pregnancy kits, was tempted to ask, “Which one?” but he kept his own counsel along with a bland expression on his face. He allowed himself a small lift of the eyebrows and said merely, “Did she have any suspicions? About Colin’s—let’s call it a proclivity for suicide? When a child is given to hero worship, as I gather Poppy was, it can be an extra letdown to learn…”
“To learn a father has feet of clay?” Jane asked. “Yes, I know what you mean. With Colin it was a bit hard to tell what he was thinking. Still waters, you know. His mother’s supposed suicide really messed with his head. Actually, there was not a lot of question that her death was a suicide. But apart from that, apart from the sort of emotional void inside him, he was as clever as could be. In fact, he was a genius, everyone said so. And for that reason, he was perhaps a bit hard to follow. A bit hard to live with. What he didn’t know about cybersecurity just hadn’t been invented yet. But depressed? If he was he kept it well hidden. Keeping his feelings buttoned up—well, that was just second nature to him. I blame his mother for that, as well.”
“And how so?” Although Max thought he knew the answer.
“She was cold, distant—very secretive. She made a secret of the silliest things, he told me. Where she was going, and who with, and when she’d be back. She never talked about her past, completely shutting him out. I never got any impression that her children—Colin had a sister; she lives in Devon somewhere … Oh, dear, I suppose I must phone her about Poppy now. It flew right out of my head. I don’t think I can cope with any more of this!”
“If that news would be better coming from a sort of disinterested party, I’d be glad to call on your behalf.”
“Oh, would you? It’s that—I barely know her. She was at our wedding, and we exchange Christmas cards and the like, but I don’t have a real sense of her. Just what Colin told me—that they endured a fairly wretched childhood with a superficial woman not really cut out to raise children. Colin said once they were her props—just as everyone said Netta made props of her own children. But he was angry at the time and that just came out. He never said anything like it again. I do know he thinks—sorry, thought—his sister was sort of damaged and he avoided her. He felt sorry for her but he couldn’t cope—he said he had his own problems. I don’t think I can either, if she falls apart at the news—she couldn’t even pull herself together to make it to Netta’s funeral. So, yes, I’d really appreciate your help.”
Since helping people was ostensibly why he was there, help he would. But his conversation with Jane had raised more questions in his mind than answers. If the affair between Colin and Marina was real, was their suicide attempt real, too? Had he and Cotton set off on the wrong track altogether?
Cotton would soon supply some answers that only muddied the equation.
Chapter 16
THE CHARIOT
The night passed without news of Poppy.
Later that same evening, Jane finally had insisted on returning to Hawthorne Cottage, quite alone, refusing further offers of help. Also offers of dinner and breakfast invitations from Max and Awena. “If Poppy calls or comes home, that is where I need to be,” she’d said. “I am quite used to being on my own, and I would prefer it now. Please don’t let’s make a fuss.”
Nonetheless, Max rang his curate as soon as Jane left the vicarage, asking Destiny to stop in at the cottage and check on Jane that evening, on whatever pretext she could dream up. “She can’t be alone,” said Max. “Keep an eye on her, please. But for the moment, let’s do more or less as she asks. In a few more days things should look a little brighter.”
“How can you know that?” Destiny asked. “With the child missing?”
“I suppose,” said Max, “because for Jane, things couldn’t look much worse, now could they? And I actually think it’s as well Poppy is out of the way for the moment.” Max peeked out from behind the curtain to where a biscuit moon kept watch over the village. “Until we know what’s going on.”
The next morning DCI Cotton appeared at Max and Awena’s cottage as they were taking turns feeding Owen his breakfast. Cotton stopped to ruffle the soft, downy hair on Owen’s head.
“I’ve got something I want you to see, Max,” he said. “Morning, Awena.”
Max invited Cotton into the sitting room, carrying in coffee mugs for both of them.
“We’ve got some new evidence,” said Cotton without preamble. “Evidence captured by CCTV.”
“CCTV? There are no security cameras around the priory.”
“No there aren’t, worse luck. But this footage didn’t come from the priory. Our robbery team was scanning footage in connection with some recent holdups outside the Sainsbury’s on the High in Monkslip-super-Mare. One of the sharper lads noticed something else—rather, someone else. They’d been captured on film in a nearby alleyway that the team thought was being used as an escape route by the robbers.”
“Yes? And?”
“Well, wait for it.” He paused. Cotton had spent much of his childhood backstage in theaters where his mother was performing. Sometimes, this early exposure to drama showed.
“I’m waiting,” said Max.
“It was Lady Duxter.”
“Marina? Taking a shortcut to the parking garage, perhaps.” Max knew that particular Sainsbury’s well. If a shopper didn’t exit at the back there was an alternate route to the car park via the alley Cotton described. That store was where he and Awena generally did the “big” shopping for dry goods. Even Awena had sometimes to allow the convenience of paper products, so long as everything they bought was of a recycled brand.
Cotton shook his head. “That’s as may well be, that she was on her way to the garage, but where she was headed was beside the point. She was with a man. And it is evident from the footage that they were lovers.”
Well, thought Max, we knew she had a lover. But from the look on Cotton’s face, that wasn’t his news. He had been saving a surprise for Max—a surprise he wanted Max to help him pick apart. “When was the footage taken?”
“About a week before she was found with Colin.”
Taking it from the look on Cotton’s face, Max said, “And it was not Colin she was with in the CCTV footage.”
“No, most definitely it was not. It was not Colin Frost. It was Carville Rasmussen.”
Ah. The writer staying in the old church at the priory. Ostensibly “polishing his manuscript.”
“Interesting,” said Max. “Have you spoken with him yet?”
“I was just on my way. Do you want to come with me?”
“Are you serious? Of course. Let me grab my coat and say good-bye to Awena and Owen.”
Unorthodox as it was, Max had sat in on dozens of interviews with Cotton or a member of his team. He was by now considered to be a sort of unofficial mascot on many an investigation
, bringing luck in apprehending the bad guys.
But luck, Cotton knew, had nothing to do with it. Max had an uncanny ability to notice what others missed, and to draw out of suspects things they’d rather were kept undisturbed. Or things they knew of great importance that they didn’t realize were important.
“All right,” said Cotton. “Let’s go.”
* * *
Cotton drove expertly through the narrow lanes of Monkslip Mallow on the way to the priory.
“Apparently this Carville person rated his own separate accommodation,” he explained, slowing as he drew up behind a tractor. “It’s a bit of a secluded spot but not far from the main priory building.”
“I know,” said Max, settling his sunglasses case on the car’s console. The day, which had started out sunny, had turned overcast.
Like everything else in Cotton’s world, his car was spotless. No junk or random papers thrown about. No empty paper cups or wrappers. He probably wiped it clean of prints at the end of every working day, before returning home to Patrice and their daughter, Alexis. How Cotton managed with an infant in the house Max couldn’t begin to guess. He probably walked around the place with his feet covered in crime scene booties. His love for Alexis was immense, and he never complained about the upset to his routine.
“Most likely,” Cotton continued, trying to peer around the tractor, “Carville made a contribution to the upkeep of the place. These crumbling old piles cost the moon in maintenance, or so I am told. Even Lord Duxter of Monkslip probably finds making ends meet to be a bit of a challenge.”
“When did people stop reading?”
“They never stopped, not really. They just started reading on screens and no one quite knows how to turn a profit from that. E-books seem so ephemeral. Here we are.”
Cotton slowed the car to a crawl as they neared the front door of the old church, less to conceal their arrival than to stem the waves of gravel being thrown up by the tires. The author apparently heard their crunchy approach, for before long he stood waiting at the entrance. Indeed, he looked delighted by the distraction, an impression he confirmed by saying, once introductions had been exchanged, “I am very glad of your company at the moment. Philip Delaplante is the biggest ninny ever invented and I regret every day having invented him. Do come in.”
In Prior's Wood Page 14
