A Wreath for my Sister

by Priscilla Masters

  A WREATH

  FOR MY SISTER

  Priscilla Masters

  CHIVERS

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data available

  This eBook published by AudioGO Ltd, Bath, 2012.

  Published by arrangement with the Author

  Epub ISBN 9781471311451

  Copyright © 1997 by Priscilla Masters

  The Author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work

  All rights reserved

  This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental

  Jacket illustration © iStockphoto.com

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter One

  The snow became his ally.

  It had come early this year – late in September – a date he had carefully planned without even hoping for the snow. But when he heard the severe weather warning read out over the radio he smiled and turned the volume up. This was good news. It would blanket her body, conceal it from prying eyes. Delay discovery. And help him.

  The first tentative flake floated down as he laid her straight. It landed on her tarred eyelash and sat for a while like a spider’s web before melting on her fading warmth to form a dewdrop on her cheek. He stood up and admired his handiwork. Then he frowned.

  Something was missing. He glanced around, searching. But now the snow was threatening to hamper his escape route. More flakes landed like wisps of cotton wool, forming a random pattern on the plain dark dress. Then as the temperature dropped the snow grew bolder and faster, noiselessly speckling the navy night sky, causing the few travellers still using the high road to squint through their windscreens, put their wiper blades on to sweep the snow away and hurry off the moors, unaware of what lay behind the swirling snow.

  Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy was attending the annual Legal Ball. And so far she was not enjoying it. In fact she was having a worse time than even she could have imagined.

  Tom had asked her to come. ‘Caro won’t,’ he had said. ‘And I really ought to go but I don’t want to on my own. Please, Joanna. Be my friend?’ His thin face had been boyishly appealing. She would have found it difficult to turn him down.

  And as Tom was her friend and always helped her when she asked a favour of him she had agreed. She’d even made the effort and bought a new dress.

  He called round promptly at seven and she laughed at the unfamiliar sight of Tom dressed up in his dinner jacket, hair slicked down, glasses polished.

  ‘I know,’ he said, grinning. ‘Hardly an oil painting. But everyone has to wear one. Then he noticed her dress. ‘Wow.’

  ‘Shall I take that as a compliment or a shocked expletive?’ She laughed.

  ‘I like it, he said firmly. It was a clumsy compliment but genuinely meant.

  She drove him to the hotel where the ball was being held and they arrived in good time to be announced by the Master of Ceremonies.

  ‘Mr Thomas Fairway and Miss Joanna Piercy.’

  A few people looked up and smiled as they descended the stairs to the ballroom.

  At that point in the evening she had still been feeling bright. Tom was good company, funny and witty. And he could be delicately sensitive, too. There was to be dancing, excellent wine and a choice menu. The evening promised well.

  They walked in and Tom immediately spotted some friends. He crossed the room and introduced her.

  ‘Joanna ... Richard McIlvoy, a colleague from a rival firm.’ The grin on his thin face robbed the words of any enmity.

  She held out her hand and Richard McIlvoy turned his attention to her with a friendly, firm handshake and a wide smile.

  ‘Hello, Joanna.’ His blue eyes were warm as he took in her appearance. ‘That’s some garment you’re daring to wear. Rather flattering.’ He cleared his throat and she shrugged her shoulders, gracefully accepting the compliment.

  ‘I understand from Tom you’re in the police force,’ he continued.

  She had learned that this could be the precursor to a complaint – say, an undeserved parking fine – a felony unresolved or a general criticism about rising crime figures and the failure of the police to tackle them.

  But she had not given Richard McIlvoy his due.

  ‘They do a fine job.’

  She smiled, slightly taken aback, and glanced around the room. It was at that moment that she saw Matthew.

  He was easy to spot, even hidden in the corner of a large room, his square shoulders unmistakable in a white dinner jacket that contrasted with the rumpled, honey-coloured hair. He and Jane were sitting alone at their table, she in a black dress, her back ramrod straight. Matthew was staring into space.

  Richard McIlvoy was still speaking. She forced herself to listen but her eyes were drawn past his shoulder towards the corner.

  Matthew hadn’t seen her. She was filled with a sudden panic. Soon he would glance around the room – or Jane would. She felt paralyzed.

  Tom noted her pale face and followed her glance. ‘I didn’t think Levin would be here,’ he commented drily. ‘Hardly his scene.’ He touched her elbow gently. ‘Come on, Jo,’ he said. ‘Let’s sit down.’

  She was grateful to him for his quick understanding and even more grateful that he found a small table round the corner, out of sight of Matthew and Jane.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Jo,’ he said as he handed her a drink. ‘I thought it would be Legal Beagles only.’

  ‘It doesn’t matter. I have to see him some time. I can’t avoid working with him occasionally. It isn’t practical to spend the rest of my life avoiding him, Tom.’

  He nodded. ‘You stay here. I’ll go and get us some of those delectable-looking snacks.’

  Her lips were too cold now to melt the snow and it blew into the crevice between them, still slightly parted in her last surprise. Snow began to fill her mouth, blowing in little flurries as the wind whipped it around. It stuffed her nostrils, clogged her ears, smothered her eyes. Flakes sat on the network of hair, stiff with lacquer sprayed earlier. She hadn’t wanted the wind to flatten her style because flat hair made her look older. So Christine had ‘done’ her hair for her when she had dropped the kids off. But neither the backcombing nor the promised rejuvenating glow of the chestnut hair rinse could put youth back into this whitening face.

  During dinner they sat between a florid-faced barrister who drank too much and his determined-to-be-embarrassing wife.

  ‘That’s quite a dress, Joanna,’ she said sharply. ‘I always consider red such a cruel colour. So few women can wear it. I certainly wouldn’t dare.’

  Joanna stared. ‘Well,’ she said, smiling. ‘I must say, it is rather fun playing the scarlet woman.’

  But the woman was a quick match. ‘Really?’ she said sweetly.

  And now Joanna was silent. She had wondered about the dress when she had bought it. The clinging, scarlet lurex was risqué. She knew that. But she had also known that her slim, strong figure, full-breasted and long-legged, the dark, thick hair and olive tone to her skin made it a dress that suited her. Yet as she had slipped it on earlier that
evening she had become aware just how the dress clung to her outline. And she had wondered. Perhaps it wasn’t really suitable for the ball. And now her confidence was slowly ebbing and she wished she was sitting at home, alone.

  Her dress was red too. But not scarlet or lurex. She had not wanted to risk being thought of as a tart, or ‘common’. Not on such an important first date. But red was to be the colour. So she had chosen a modest and cheap garment, a port wine dress of synthetic velvet combined with Lycra. It had cost fourteen pounds from the Pakistani shop in the market square, money she could ill afford. It was short and clung tightly to the slim figure with its tendency to a pot-belly. Three children had left their mark.

  And now the dress was rucked up over her legs and quickly gathering snow.

  No one to pull it straight.

  Tom sensed her sudden change of mood and he stood up to make a showy bow. ‘A dance?’

  She was glad to move.

  He brushed her cheek with his lips and whispered, ‘No sense in being a wallflower, Jo. It doesn’t suit you.’ And his concern made her conscious she was spoiling his evening by being selfish.

  ‘Yes,’ she smiled. ‘Yes – of course.’ She glanced over his shoulder to see that people were watching them.

  And Matthew was one of them.

  Now the snowflakes were blanketing her pale shoulders, smothering the two, thin straps, as though nature wanted to wrap her against the weather. Her body was cooling quickly now ... fingers, toes and nose were beginning to freeze.

  Tom was unused to dancing and his movements were strange and jerky. In the end she wound her arms around him and laughed.

  ‘Just do what I do, Tom,’ she said and stole a swift glance over his shoulder. Others had joined Matthew’s table and he was laughing loudly. She could hear him over the music and see his blond hair, his high forehead as he threw his head back and laughed again. The sound made her feel sad and small and insignificant. Then she saw Jane Levin watching her with that cold, appraising stare and she quickly looked to another corner of the room.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Tom whispered in her ear.

  She looked at him. ‘I’m fine,’ she said. ‘Just fine.’

  ‘You don’t mind ...?’

  She knew he meant Matthew and shook her head. ‘I really am all right.’

  So they danced to the slow saxophone, oblivious now to others in the room until Joanna lifted her head from Tom’s shoulder, peered over it and caught the eye of a man staring at her.

  He was a stranger, sitting alone at an abandoned table, the other chairs pushed back, away from the debris, the half-filled wine glasses, plates holding the remains of food, bottles and crumpled serviettes. The others from his table had left. They must all be dancing or at the bar. But he wasn’t.

  And when next she looked in his direction he was still staring, his hands coiled round the stem of a full wine glass. But he wasn’t drinking. He seemed oblivious to everything and everyone in the entire room – everyone except her – and his stare was intent, almost an appeal. She stared back.

  He was elderly, large with a thick head of white hair and keen eagle eyes. He was frowning as he watched her and never once broke his gaze, even turning to stare when they danced almost directly behind him.

  She touched Tom’s sleeve. ‘Who’s that man? The one in the corner sitting on his own? He keeps staring at me.’

  Tom glanced over. ‘It’s my senior partner,’ he said. ‘Randall. Randall Pelham.’ He searched around the room until he picked out a short, plump woman in an ankle-length taffeta dress. ‘That’s his wife, Elspeth.’

  She looked back at the man. He was still staring, and even from across the room she could sense a strong, dominating power.

  Although he knew she had seen him watching her he didn’t turn away or drop his gaze. Instead his stare intensified as though he wanted to force her to stop dancing – to cross the room and speak to him.

  Tom looked puzzled. ‘I wonder what he wants.’

  As soon as they walked off the dance floor Randall Pelham approached them. He gave Tom a curt nod. ‘Hello, Tom,’ he said guardedly, and then turned to Joanna. ‘I don’t suppose you’d honour me with a dance?’ Puzzled, she nodded and followed him on to the dance floor.

  The snow on the moors was falling thick and fast now, gradually disguising the shape of the body until it was a white mummy. The road was smothered. A car slithered towards the shape. The driver could have picked the mummy out with his headlights, but the flurry of flakes made visibility difficult. He could hardly see two yards ahead and he wasn’t looking into the verge. As he reached the crest of the hill, the driver changed into second gear, moved over the brow of the hill and slipped down into the valley towards home. No more cars would pass this way until the snowplough carved its channel through the deepening drifts.

  Randall Pelham wasted no time.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he said formally. ‘Perhaps I should have introduced myself properly.’

  ‘I know who you are.’

  ‘Ah yes,’ he said, glancing at Tom. ‘I understand you are in the police force.’

  She nodded.

  ‘An Inspector – did I hear?’ He was a big man with strong arms, broad shoulders. She felt a sudden curiosity.

  ‘I’m a Detective Inspector.’

  He whirled her twice around the room in an ungainly waltz before speaking again.

  ‘Would you mind telling me, then, Detective Inspector,’ he said rather breathlessly, ‘what is the procedure for finding missing persons?’

  She stopped in her tracks. The pretence was over and the question surprised her. He gripped her arm.

  ‘No, please,’ he said. ‘Please don’t tell me to make an appointment to come and see you at the station. I’ve plucked up courage tonight to do something I should have done long ago. Please, just tell me. What do I do?’

  Joanna looked at the lines of unhappiness in his face. Deep lines – old lines.

  ‘Why don’t we sit down?’ she said. ‘So we can talk properly.’

  He looked relieved. ‘Thank you, my dear. I hoped you would say that.’ He flushed. ‘My wife says I’m not much of a dancer.’ They walked towards an empty table and he pulled out a chair for her. ‘Let me get you a drink.’

  She asked him for a Coke, remembering that she had promised Tom she would drive him home. While he was gone she sneaked a glance across the room and saw Matthew, still seated at his table. He and Jane had been joined by more friends, but as she watched he turned and looked at her. She looked away without acknowledgement. Not a nod; not a wink; not a word.

  Randall Pelham returned with two glasses and set them down on the table. Joanna cupped her chin in her hand. ‘Now tell me,’ she said, ‘who is missing?’

  ‘My daughter,’ he said unhappily. ‘My only daughter. My only child.’

  She sat back in her seat. ‘For how long?’

  ‘Two years,’ he said. ‘Please, just tell me generally. What do the police do in such cases?’

  ‘Well,’ she started slowly, ‘the way we tackle a missing person enquiry really depends on who is missing, and the circumstances surrounding their disappearance. Whether there’s – as we call it – cause for concern. Everything hinges on that phrase. We have to gather the facts and work from there.’ She stopped, not knowing whether she was telling Randall Pelham what he wanted to hear.

  ‘You must understand,’ she continued. ‘Many people leave home for perfectly valid reasons and there is no cause for concern. The police couldn’t possibly investigate every single missing person. There are thousands every year. It wouldn’t be practical – or financially viable. So we have to single out the persons missing who give rise to concern and exclude situations such as domestic dispute, money worries, or suspicion of extra-marital affairs.’

  ‘None of those,’ he said impatiently.

  ‘The nearest and dearest don’t always know,’ she said. ‘The police simply don’t have time to investigate every singl
e disappearance. But we normally visit the home – look for obvious clues: missing passport, clothes, money, talk to close friends, take statements. We do try to find out all we can, and we take notes of insurance numbers, national health numbers, tax codes, credit card details. We find out whether the person has disappeared before. While we’re doing that,’ she continued, ‘we take note of anything unusual at the house ... signs of a struggle, things missing – wheelie bins, blankets ... But as I told you, Mr Pelham, most people leave home for perfectly valid reasons.’

  ‘She didn’t,’ he insisted. ‘And would a woman leave her young child?’

  ‘It happens.’ She was fumbling a little.

  He shook his head. ‘Not in this case.’

  ‘We would determine mental state,’ she continued, a little needlessly. Pelham looked unconvinced.

  ‘Would you arrest someone on suspicion?’ His voice was thick with emotion. His hands trembled around the whisky tumbler.

  ‘Not usually purely on suspicion,’ Joanna said coolly. ‘We’d want a bit more. Some definite evidence. But,’ she added quickly, ‘we would probably do a more thorough search of a suspect’s premises and car if we felt the disappearance was suspicious.’

  The man nodded. ‘I see.’

  ‘But surely all this was done at the time of your daughter’s disappearance? It’s routine, Mr Pelham.’

  He was silent, his eagle eyes fixed on hers.

  ‘Did you let the police know you suspected someone of being involved?’

  He looked away. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I didn’t. Now ... Now I wish I had. There was someone, you see.’

  Joanna stood up. ‘It’s always best to be frank with the police,’ she said rather primly and then, more kindly, ‘You really should come to the station if you want us to look into it.’

  He looked downcast and she felt she hadn’t helped as much as he had hoped she would.

  ‘By the way,’ she said. ‘What’s her name?’

  ‘Deborah.’

  Randall Pelham covered his face with his hands. ‘She left her home two years ago.’ He looked at Joanna, and she sensed the pain in his eyes almost as if it were her own. ‘She left her little boy behind. Abandoned him.’ He stopped. ‘She would never have done that – if she’d been alive.’