Joanna sat down again. ‘There must have been an investigation.’
‘There was. They didn’t find anything. She’d been out shopping in the afternoon and never came home. We knew she’d been finding things difficult, but surely ... surely she wouldn’t have abandoned her son?’
‘Sometimes women do.’
‘I can’t believe it of her.’ He fumbled in his jacket pocket and tugged out a crumpled photograph. It was of a lively-looking girl with dark curly hair and a huge smile. ‘This is the picture the police used,’ he said, suddenly bitter. ‘They said she looked like a girl who enjoyed a good time. Does she look to you as though she liked a good time?’
‘It’s just a phrase,’ Joanna said lamely.
‘I know what it means.’ He put the photograph back in his pocket.
‘Randall. Randall.’ Elspeth Pelham was standing over her husband, her hand gripping his shoulder.
He gave her a half-smile. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘Sorry, my dear.’
Elspeth Pelham tightened her lips.
‘This is Detective Inspector Piercy,’ he fumbled.
‘I know who she is.’ Her eyes were hard and hostile.
Joanna turned back to the husband. ‘I’m quite prepared to look into your daughter’s case,’ she said. ‘But you’ll have to come to the station and make a statement if you’d like us to pursue the matter. Think about it, Mr Pelham. But if there was a full investigation two years ago and they turned up nothing I don’t hold out a lot of hope unless you can produce new evidence. Many missing persons are never found.’ She met his eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘But I don’t want to give you false hope.’
The man’s face tightened. ‘Don’t you realize?’ he said. ‘Even false hope’s better than no hope.’
She crossed the room, back to Tom.
‘Well,’ he said ‘what was all that about?’
She glanced back at the unhappy man sitting staring into his glass. ‘Did you know that his daughter disappeared two years ago?’
‘No,’ Tom said. Then he stopped. ‘Hang on a minute – I do remember something. Something about ...’ He frowned. ‘She’d recently been divorced. As I remember, her husband worked in Saudi Arabia ... I didn’t really know her. The general feeling was that she’d gone off with some bloke.’
‘And left her baby son behind?’
Tom shrugged his shoulders, then grinned at her. ‘Come and have another dance with me,’ he urged. By the time they sat down again Matthew and Jane had disappeared.
Her body was completely covered now – a vague bump in the dim snowscape. No one would guess the lump had lately been a woman in a wine-coloured dress.
It was late when they left the dinner dance. The snow was falling in soft flakes on her hair. Tom watched her climb into the driving seat. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘It’s a luxury not to have to worry how much I drink.’
‘My pleasure.’
He eyed her long legs as she depressed the clutch and started the car. ‘It was bad luck, Levin being there.’
She nodded. ‘I wouldn’t have gone, Tom, if I’d known there was any risk of bumping into him – especially with Jane.’
‘But you said you couldn’t avoid him for ever.’
She gave a rueful smile. ‘I only really work with him on murder cases. And thank God there aren’t many of those.’
They were quiet as she moved the car up the road.
Tom broke the silence. ‘I suppose you wish you could learn to dislike him.’
She looked at him briefly. ‘Dislike Matthew?’ she said, then stopped and pondered. ‘No. I don’t think so. I really don’t. I just wish I could learn to stop loving him – at least quite so much.’
She gave him a quick glance, then touched his hand. ‘But then you know all about loving the wrong person.’
The car slithered uneasily over the freshly fallen snow, gliding precariously round the corners.
She turned to Tom. ‘I hope we get back all right.’
‘Just drive ...’ he said, grinning.
It was late and few cars were still on the road, but as they rounded the corner in the centre of the town a white Mercedes shot past them.
Joanna gave an involuntary ‘Bloody hell.’
Tom watched her with an amused look.
‘Not going to report him, Jo? High-speed chase?’ He was gently mocking.
She gave a wry exclamation. ‘Something will catch up with him. Driving like that in these weather conditions he’ll be lucky if it’s just the police.’
‘And you didn’t even get his number,’ he teased.
She took her eyes off the road for a second to look at him. ‘Oh, yes I did,’ she said. ‘RED 36.’
The dazzle of a flashing blue light distracted her and it took a minute or two until it had overtaken her for her to realize she was being stopped.
A tall policeman wandered around to her window.
She pressed the button to lower it. ‘Parry?’ she said, puzzled.
‘Evening, ma’am.’ His tone was wooden. It was as though he didn’t recognize her.
‘Parry?’ she said again.
‘Have you had anything to drink tonight, ma’am?’
She sighed. ‘What do you take me for?’
He repeated the question, in the same, zombie tone. ‘Have you had anything to drink tonight, ma’am?’ Then he produced a breathalyzer kit and she knew she had been set up.
‘Would you mind blowing into this bag, ma’am?’
‘Yes, I bloody well would,’ she said, then glowered at him. ‘Who put you up to this, Parry?’
He avoided her eyes. ‘The bag, ma’am.’
She tapped the steering wheel, unable to look at Tom, but she could sense his amusement.
She grabbed the bag from Parry, gave a quick puff into it and handed it back. ‘Satisfied?’
He looked at the digital display.
‘Satisfied!’
‘Right, madam,’ he said.
She put the car into gear, narrowed her eyes. ‘Who put you up to this?’ she asked again.
He blinked and she sighed. ‘While you’re bloody well at it solving vendettas amongst the police force why don’t you charge after the damned Merc?’
‘Sorry?’
‘Never mind. Don’t trouble yourself. I can guess.’
He stared back at her without a trace of humour.
She pressed the switch for the window, muttering, ‘And you can forget about your bloody promotion, Parry, my boy.’
As they moved off she glared at Tom and they spoke the name together: ‘Korpanski.’
Then she added, ‘I might have known. He’s always had a complex about the people I mix with.’
‘The Nobs?’ Tom laughed. ‘A bit old-fashioned, isn’t it.’
‘Mike is old-fashioned – in many ways. I’ll kill him in the morning.’
Tom was still laughing and after an angry pause she joined in. ‘Blowing in the bag,’ she said. ‘Blowing in the bag! What a night.’
She looked at Tom. ‘I watch Matthew having a ball with his wife, have your senior partner request I find his long-lost daughter ... get breathalyzed. Look at the snow. And it’s only September.’
They both laughed.
She paused for a moment to concentrate on the road. ‘I bet it’s lying thick on the moors,’ she said, peering through the space galaxy of swirling snowflakes.
She changed gear carefully. ‘I wonder where that car did come from. It was coming from the direction of the moors, but there was no snow on the roof.’
Tom yawned and leaned back in his seat. ‘Stop being a nosey policeman, Joanna,’ he said. ‘Probably came from one of the side streets.’
‘Still, no snow,’ she said, thoughtfully.
The orange flash of a snowplough illuminated the car as it drove past, leaving the road clear, Moses parting the Red Sea. She accelerated and they were back at her cottage in under ten minutes.
At three a.m. the snowplough strug
gled along the moorland road, carving a lane into the drifts. It tossed a shoe into the pile of snow pushed from the road but did not go within six feet of her freezing body.
She parked the car outside and locked it, then turned to Tom. ‘Nightcap?’ she asked. ‘Or have you had enough?’
He grinned. ‘I can manage a small brandy,’ he said, ‘if you’re offering.’
‘Just one,’ she said, ‘and I’ll join you. I need it. Then you’re back next door where you belong.’
When they were sitting down, glasses charged, she turned to Tom. ‘Tell me a bit about Deborah Pelham,’ she said. ‘My curiosity is aroused.’
Tom screwed up his face. ‘I didn’t really know her. Only met her once. She lived abroad. Deborah Halliday was her married name.’
Joanna sipped a little brandy. ‘I wonder what did happen to her.’ She met Tom’s eyes. ‘I sometimes wonder about the long lists of missing persons we’ve circulated. How many of them are alive – perhaps living alternative lives – an existence away from previous family and friends. And how many of them are dead. How many lie somewhere undiscovered.’
‘What a morbid fantasy,’ he said, grinning. ‘You know, Joanna, you’ll have to change the subject or I’ll be having nightmares.’
They both laughed at that, then Joanna sighed and stared at the glass in her hand.
‘I thought Matthew looked happy tonight.’
Tom didn’t know what to say. He shrugged and she looked at him. ‘He did,’ she insisted. ‘You thought so.’
‘I couldn’t tell.’
She drained her glass and set it down on the table. ‘Well, he isn’t my province any more. And you, Tom, had better not forget. You promised to come to the police Christmas party.’
Tom laughed. ‘Fine,’ he said. ‘But next time I’ll drive.’
She also laughed. ‘I don’t think even Korpanski would breathalyze anyone the night of the Police Ball,’ she said. ‘He wouldn’t know how big a fish he might catch. He might lose his chance of promotion.’ She narrowed her eyes. ‘That is – if he’s still got one after tonight.’
‘It’s certainly been eventful.’ Tom stood up and yawned. ‘Thanks for coming, Jo. I appreciate it – especially in the glamour dress ...’ A mischievous look crossed his face. ‘You will be wearing it to the Police Ball?’
‘Maybe.’
He kissed her cheek. ‘Goodnight. I’ll see myself out.’ As he disappeared through the door a few snowflakes drifted in and landed on the mat, melting quickly in the warmth of the room.
Christine Rattle was peering out of the window at the silent whiteness.
The baby had woken up and she was cradling him in her arms. She bent and kissed the top of his soft head. ‘I just hope your mum’s having a good time,’ she whispered. ‘She deserves it. Life’s been hard enough for her so far.’
She lifted the curtains and stared at the blank, black windows of the house opposite.
‘Damn it, though, she’s late. She must be having fun.’
Her sharp eyes noted things. Not only were the windows still black. There was no car in the drive. ‘Must have gone back to his place, wherever that might be.’
The baby sucked at the rubber teat, taking the juice greedily. ‘I hope your mum’s back before morning,’ she whispered.
‘She’s left me no milk. I don’t know what you have, little thing, for your breakfast.’
The baby stared up at her. His eyelids began to droop, his mouth hung open slackly. Christine sighed, peered one more time at the dead house and dropped the curtain. She could put Ryan back in his cot now.
She shivered. It was cold tonight. The first snow of a long winter ahead. But she daren’t put the gas fire on, spend a fortune she didn’t have.
She touched the baby’s hands, feet, nose. Stone cold. But he didn’t seem to notice. Plump and red-cheeked, he lay against her shoulder, his breathing deepening to a soft snore. She left the window and laid him down in his cot.
And the woman in the snow coffin grew colder.
Chapter Two
Dawn was bright and sparkling over the moor, the snow glistening purest white. It was quiet, too. The moorlanders had sense enough to stay inside. The animals took shelters; they had met this weather before and waited until the threat had passed. Motorists avoided the roads, putting off their journeys. The snow delayed everything, including discovery.
Joanna was up and feeling distinctly ‘morning-afterish’ when the telephone rang.
Joanna?’ It was Christine and she sounded hassled. Joanna could hear children crying in the background, and the unmistakable howl of a hungry baby.
‘Joanna, I’m really sorry ... I can’t come in today. I was looking after a friend’s kids, you see ... She was going out. I thought she might be a bit late so I said leave them here. I told her I’d look after them for the night and she could pick them up in the morning.’ There was a pause. ‘Only she isn’t back.’
‘I expect she had a good time,’ Joanna said idly. ‘And it has been snowing.’
‘I’m so mad,’ Christine said. ‘I did her hair for her. Her nails, too. And she doesn’t even have the decency to get back when she said she would. Three kids she’s got, too. I’ve a bloody houseful. I’ll lose some of my wages.’
Joanna told her not to worry but Christine was still apologizing. ‘I’m ever so sorry to let you down. I’ll be in tomorrow,’ she said. ‘I promise. Just leave everything. I’ll do it all in the morning.’
Again Joanna told her it didn’t matter. The cottage wasn’t dirty. The cleaning could wait.
She looked around her home while she finished getting ready for work. The old furniture was gleaming from years of beeswax and elbow grease. Some of it had been acquired through the local auction sales, the rest inherited from an aunt. She lived alone, was reasonably civilized in her habits.
The cottage was small and needed little cleaning. She could manage without a cleaner, really, but she loved to return to the scent of polish and the feeling of the place being cared for. And Christine was a meticulous cleaner who didn’t mind spending half an hour removing a grease mark, whereas Joanna quickly grew bored.
She decided against the bike, and backed her Peugeot 205 out of the garage. This was no morning for freezing fingertips and chapped knees. And she didn’t want to fall off on the ice.
The children were all awake now and clamouring to go home.
Christine stared angrily across the road. She had a good mind to dump them on the doorstep. She looked at the tear-stained faces and put some more bread in the toaster, then turned back to stare at the house. The curtains were still tightly drawn and Sharon’s battered Fiesta was missing from the drive. Christine felt angry, not worried. She’d told Sharon not to be late back. Sharon knew she had work to go to. How the hell was she supposed to make a living cleaning with this lot to mind? Now she’d have to get the big ones ready for school. ‘Art,’ she said sharply to her eldest. ‘You’ll have to walk Sheila and Tarquine to school.’ As he began to demur she hovered between coaxing, bribery and threats. ‘You’ve got to take them,’ she snapped. ‘I can’t take them – not with your Auntie Sharon’s three to mind. Go on, I’ll let you have a fifteen video out tonight.’
Arthur sulked. ‘Big deal,’ he said, then screwed up his face at her. ‘Which one?’
‘Oh – I don’t know ...’ She had lost interest.
The baby started up, screaming for his bottle. ‘Shut up, Ryan, will you ...’ Then she sat down on the brown settee and lit a cigarette. ‘I can’t cope, Shaz,’ she whispered, chewing at her nail. ‘I’ll bloody kill you when I find you.’
The words held no pathos for her.
October was the oldest of Sharon’s three children. She attended a small nursery school, mornings only. Once her three were safely packed off to school, Christine Rattle began to button up October’s coat.
‘Where’s my mummy?’ she demanded. ‘She take me to school.’
Christine cursed but Oct
ober was adamant. ‘I want my mummy,’ she wailed and William Priest took up the chorus.
‘OK,’ Christine said. ‘If you don’t want to you needn’t go to school today.’ She pulled the cushions off the sofa and put them on the floor, facing the big picture window. ‘Look, you can sit here and watch for Mummy to come home. All right?’
The message even seemed to reach the baby Ryan. Solemnly the three children sat watching the street, waiting for the familiar green car to turn the corner. Ryan sucked noisily on his dummy. The other two watched, their mouths hanging open. When they saw the car they would jump up, shout... run to Mummy.
Christine switched on the television. Perhaps that would keep them amused. ‘Any minute now,’ she said brightly. ‘Any minute now.’
Motorists were struggling along the main road to Buxton, tuned into the local radio station. No further snow was forecast but there was no sign of a thaw either and the roads were still bad. Some of the high roads had been closed. The DJ was discouraging motorists, asking the question, ‘Is your journey really necessary?’
Some were. Passing places had been carved into the snow by the snowplough, but the wind was blowing the snow back across the road and, once stuck, a motorist needed boots, a shovel and some of the salted grit thoughtfully placed by the council workmen.
One of the motorists, well prepared for the weather, was digging only a few yards from the frozen body. He’d pulled into the side to allow a tractor to pass and when he’d tried to move, his wheels had slipped round without gripping. The tractor had turned out of view and the motorist was left alone to struggle against the spiteful wind and snow, glad his wife had insisted he wear his thickest jacket against the weather. Up here there were two different worlds. The quiet, warm, heated place inside the car, where you could be lulled into false security by the warmth of the engine. And the other – the raw blast of nature, the battle against the weather that took place the moment he opened the car door. As he dug out his wheels, the weather challenged him to a fight, whining around his ears like a banshee. He struggled, his eyes and ears filling with the blown snow and his fingers numb with cold, even through the thick gloves.
A Wreath for my Sister Page 2
