Wexford 19 - The Babes In The Woods

by Ruth Rendell

  George Troy tried to supply an answer and failed, diverting from the central enquiry into all kinds of irrelevant by-paths. These threaded their way through properties he had visited owned by the National Trust, great houses such as Chatsworth and Blenheim he had always wanted to see but never had the time for and a stretch of Scottish moorland where a distant cousin, long-dead, had been shot in the leg while injudiciously walking there during a shoot. His wife, not Vine, finally cut him short with a, ‘That’s very interesting, darling, but not quite what the sergeant wants just at present.’

  ‘This moorland,’ said Vine, ‘where your cousin was, was it family-owned? I mean, did someone he knew or was related to own it?’

  ‘Good heavens, no,’ said Effie Troy, who had evidently heard the story before, perhaps many times before. ‘The Troys aren’t in that sort of league. This cousin came from Morecambe and, anyway, it was in nineteen twenty-six.’

  Vine wasn’t surprised. ‘So Joanna -, he had graduated to calling her Joanna since no one seemed to object ‘- didn’t know anyone who owned a large country property?’

  ‘Not to say “know”. The nearest she ever came to anyone like that was when she was giving GCSE candidates extra coaching for their exams. There was a girl, I can’t remember what she was called -, Mrs Troy looked as if she would like to have asked her husband for help but knew what the result would be ‘- Julia something, Judith something. Joanna didn’t care for her, said she was rude. Her parents owned Saltram House, probably still do. You know that big house that was completely refurbished ten or fifteen years back in about twenty acres? It’s on the Forby road. What was their name?’

  ‘Greenwell,’ said Vine. As part of a general search of estates in the neighbourhood, Saltram House and grounds had already been visited and the Greenwells interviewed. ‘There’s nowhere Joanna herself liked to go to? She wouldn’t necessarily have to know the owners and it wouldn’t have to be around here. A place where she went walking where there were public footpaths?’

  ‘She isn’t much for walking,’ said George Troy, no longer suppressible. ‘She’d go running, or jogging as they call it nowadays, or race-walking I think some would say. Not that she or anyone else would go a distance to a footpath on private land to do that. No, you can’t imagine anyone doing that, not if they had ample jogging or running space at home. When she wanted exercise she’d go to the gym, as they call it, short for “gymnasium” of course. She told me it comes from a Greek word meaning “to strip naked”. Not that she did strip naked, of course not. Joanna is always decently dressed, isn’t she, Effie? We’ve seen her in shorts, in hot weather that is, and possibly she wears shorts for this gym. Whatever she does wear, there’s no doubt that’s where she gets her exercise, at the gym.’

  He paused to draw breath and Effie cut in swiftly, ‘We really can’t help you, I’m afraid. Joanna was born in the country and most of her life she’d lived in it but I wouldn’t call her a country person, not really. The environment, farming, wildlife, that sort of thing didn’t much interest her.’

  ‘You’ll let us know when you find her, won’t you?’ George Troy, who seemed to have abandoned worrying about his daughter, spoke as if Kingsmarkham Police and forces all over the country were looking for an umbrella he had mislaid on a bus. ‘When she turns up, wherever she is? We’d like to know.’

  ‘You may be sure of that, sir,’ said Vine, trying to keep the grimness out of his voice.

  ‘That’s good to know, isn’t it, Effie? It’s good to know they’ll keep us informed. I was worried at first, we were both worried. My wife was as worried as I was. She’s not your typical stepmother, you know, no, not at all. She was a family friend while my poor dear first wife was alive, she was in fact Joanna’s godmother. Godmother and stepmother, that can’t be a very usual combination, what do you think? Effie’s both, you see, godmother and stepmother. Poor Joanna was only sixteen when her mother died, terrible thing for a young girl, she was disturbed by it, very badly disturbed, and there was nothing I could do. Effie did everything. Along came Effie like an angel, completely saved Joanna, she was mother as well as godmother and stepmother, all three she was, and I’m not exaggerating when I say she saved Joanna’s sanity...’

  But at this point Barry Vine, feeling as if he had been hit over the head with something large and heavy shut off his hearing. He sat, as Wexford might have paraphrased it, like patience on a monument smiling at these streams of pointless drivel, until Effie released him by springing to her feet and repeating her last words, ‘We really can’t help you, I’m afraid.’

  She accompanied him to the door, paused before opening it and said, ‘I’m still worried. Should I be?’

  Vine said truthfully, ‘I don’t know, Mrs Troy. I really don’t know.’

  Not a single dentist had come forward to report a young woman coming to him or her with a missing tooth crown. Wexford was sure some would have claimed to have seen her and worked on her mouth, even if these patients had obviously been incorrectly identified. But there had been none at all. Because it was so unusual he even had a call put through to a police headquarters, selected at random in a remote part of Scotland, and checked with the Detective Superintendent in charge there that his officers actually had alerted dentists. No doubt about it, every dentist in the large sprawling area had been told and every one had been anxious to help.

  If a crown fell off your tooth wouldn’t you be in pain? He didn’t know. He phoned his own dentist and was told that it depended what the crown was attached to. If the nerve in the tooth whose root was still there was dead or if the crown were attached to an implant there would be no pain. From a cosmetic point of view, the broken tooth wouldn’t show if it were a molar as it very likely was. But when he rang off Wexford remembered what Effie Troy had said, that Joanna had her teeth crowned because she thought them unsightly and they aged her...

  The tooth would be even more unsightly now. If she hadn’t been to a dentist, why hadn’t she? Because she no longer cared about this aspect of her appearance and wasn’t in pain? Because she guessed dentists would be alerted and didn’t want to attract attention to herself? Or for a more sinister reason?

  While the searches went on at Savesbury House and Mynford New Hall, both properties with extensive grounds easily accessible from the road, he walked to his appointment at Haldon Finch School. This too was a large comprehensive but generally considered - at least before the coming of Philippa Sikorski - as far more upmarket than the former Kingsmarkham County High School. It was where you sent your children if you could. Education-conscious parents had been known to move into the Haldon Finch catchment area with this purpose in mind. Joanna Troy must have obtained very good degrees and made an unusual impression to have got a job there at so young an age.

  It was the last day of term. Haldon Finch would break up at lunchtime and go home for the Christmas holiday. After today, no one would be there to look at the Chrismas tree, decorated in austere white and silver, which stood on a shallow plinth in the entrance hall. A man came out of the lift who looked neither like a teacher, a parent nor a schools inspector, but might have been any of these. He was small, thin and sandy- haired, dressed in jeans and a brown leather jacket. Wexford was escorted upstairs to the head teacher’s room. She was not at all his idea of what he had to stop himself calling a ‘headmistress’. She had dark-red fingernails and dark-red lipstick, and if her skirt wasn’t quite a mini it reached only to her kneecaps. Pale- blonde hair curled closely round her well-shaped head. She looked about forty, was tall and willowy and smelt of a scent Wexford - who was good on perfumes - recognised as Laura Biagiotti’s Roma. Like many successful women in the newly turned century, Philippa Sikorski’s appearances manner and way of speaking were quite different from her stereotype.

  ‘Naturally, I’ve read about Joanna’s disappearance, Chief Inspector. I imagine you want to ask me about the circumstances that led up to her resignation.’ The voice he expected to be patrician held a stron
g intonation of Lancashire. Another surprise. ‘By the way, you may care to know that a man called Colman has just been here. He said he was a private investigator. Of course I couldn’t see him, I had my appointment with you.’

  ‘I think I saw him downstairs. His firm has been engaged by the missing children’s grandmother.’

  ‘I see. But you’ll want me to get back to Joanna Troy now. I had only been here six months at the time she resigned and though it’s five years ago I still haven’t got over the shock.’

  ‘Why is that, Miss Sikorski?’

  ‘It was so unnecessary,’ she said. ‘She hadn’t done any thing. The silly boy imagined it or invented or what ever. I don’t know why. Some counsellor said he was on the verge of a breakdown. Nonsense, I said, I don’t believe in these breakdowns.’ Wexford heartily agreed but didn’t say so. ‘You’ll want to know what happened. Have you heard the Wimbornes’ side of the story?’

  ‘The Wimbornes?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry. They’re Damon’s parents. He’s called Damon Wimborne. Obviously, you haven’t heard it. It’s briefly like this. Joanna had been substituting for the PE teacher who was ill. She’d been out with the students on the courts where the girls were playing netball and the boys, about eight of them, tennis. It was a double period in the afternoon. She came back with them into the cloakroom but she didn’t stay more than a couple of minutes. Next day Mr and Mrs Wimborne turned up here in a fine old rage and told me Damon said Joanna had stolen a twenty-pound note out of his backpack. It was hanging on his peg and when he came into the cloakroom with the other boys - all the girls were already there - and Miss Troy was doing something to his bag. She had her hand inside it, he said.'

  ‘Well, it was all very awkward. I questioned Damon and he stuck to his story. He hadn’t realised till he got home, he said. Then he looked for his money and it was gone. I asked him what on earth he thought he was doing leaving a twenty-pound note in a bag hanging up in the cloakroom, but of course that wasn’t really the point. I questioned the girls who were there but none of them had seen a thing. The next thing was that I had to ask Joanna.’

  ‘Not a pleasant task,’ said Wexford.

  ‘No. But it was rather odd. I’d anticipated outrage, disbelief, shock. But she didn’t seem all that surprised. No, that’s the wrong way to put it. She seemed to accept it the way - well, the way you’d accept hearing some thing bad had happened when there was a strong probability of its happening. You’ll wonder how I can remember after so long.’ She smiled as Wexford shook his head. ‘I just can. I remember everything about those interviews, they made such an impression on me. Joanna said something very strange. I could hardly believe what I was hearing. She said, “I didn’t steal his money but I’ll give him twenty pounds if that will make him feel better.” She spoke absolutely steadily, in a very cool and calm voice. Then she said, “I shall resign anyway. You’ll get my resignation this after noon.” She didn’t say anything about the police, didn’t ask me not to call the police in. I said, “I can’t stop Mr and Mrs Wimborne calling in the police if they want to,” and she said, “Of course you can’t. I know that.”’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘The Wimbornes didn’t call the police, as I expect you know. I don’t know why not but my guess is they knew more about their precious boy than they were letting on. Perhaps he’d made unfounded accusations of this sort before. But as I say, I don’t know. Joanna was adamant, there was no turning her. I was very sorry. She was an excellent teacher and I can’t help feeling it’s rather a waste when you can teach and you’re as good at it as she was, it’s a pity to waste that talent on translations and lessons on the Net or whatever it is she does now.’

  Philippa Sikorski had become very animated. A faint flush had mounted into her face. Here was someone else who appeared to be or have been fond of Joanna Troy, the woman her ex-husband had described as not likeable. ‘Have you kept in touch with her?’ Wexford asked.

  ‘It’s strange you should ask in the circumstances. I tried to but she didn’t seem keen. I had the impression she wanted to cut all connection with Haldon Finch School, put it behind her and try to forget. Damon, by the way, left school with just two GCSEs and the last I heard of him he was wandering about the world doing odd jobs to pay his way.’ She smiled. ‘The incident in the cloakroom, whatever that really was, evidently hasn’t put him off backpacks.’

  Thanking her and leaving, Wexford wondered if it would be much good talking to the Wimborne family if Damon, now aged twenty was away in some distant place. On the other hand, the parents might know as much or more about it than he did. Why would a boy of sixteen accuse a teacher of stealing from him? Perhaps because he really had seen, or thought he had seen, her searching through his bag. So what happened to make him change his mind? Or he hadn’t seen her and knew he hadn’t but wished for some reason to get her into trouble and so injure her. Again, why later change his mind? Mrs Wimborne or her husband might be able to enlighten him. Their home wasn’t far from the school. As he walked along the street where their house was, he thought about the protective and defensive mechanisms that were usually switched on when a parent was called upon to listen to accusations against his or her child. Especially her child. Women could be tigerish when they perceived their offspring as threatened. Even the most reasonable were unlikely to agree with anyone that their child had behaved badly.

  Rosemary Wimborne wasn’t among the most reasonable. As soon as he had told her what he wanted, seated opposite her in her very small and untidy living room, she broke into shrill denials that Damon’s conduct had been anything less than exemplary. All he’d done was make a genuine mistake. Anyone could make a mistake, couldn’t they? He thought he’d seen ‘that woman’ stealing his money. He was so upset he didn’t know what he was saying. But when he found his twenty-pound note was missing. . . Twenty pounds was a lot of money to poor Damon, a small fortune. They weren’t wealthy people, they had enough to get by on but that was all. Damon had earned that money working for the green grocer on his stall on Saturdays.

  ‘But Miss Troy hadn’t stolen it, had she, Mrs Wimborne?’

  ‘No one had stolen it, like I said. Anyone can make a mistake, though, can’t they?’ She was a virago of a woman, sharp-featured her face prematurely furrowed. ‘There was no call for her to leave like that. Damon admitted he’d made a mistake. She was proud of herself, that was what it was, she thought such a lot of herself that she couldn’t take it when an innocent boy made a genuine mistake. She just went off in a huff.’

  ‘Did Damon like Miss Troy?’

  ‘Like her? What’s that got to do with it? She was just a teacher to him. I’m not saying he didn’t prefer the real PE teacher. That was a man anyway, he didn’t need a woman supervising him, he said.’

  Wexford said mildly, ‘Where did Damon eventually find the note?’

  ‘It was in his bag all the time, folded up and stuck inside his book to keep the place.’

  A pointless exercise, a fruitless enquiry, Wexford thought as he walked back. It was quite a long way to the police station and now he couldn’t understand what had possessed him to make the journey on foot. Good for him it might be but he hadn’t at the time faced the fact that he would have to walk back again. The rain had begun once more, was now falling steadily.

  Stocking up for Christmas? said the bad pun on a winking neon sign spanning the Kingsbrook Bridge. Once it would have said Five Shopping Days to Christmas but all days were shopping days now. Had the sign been there earlier and he hadn’t noticed? Probably he hadn’t noticed the decorations in the High Street either, the customary symbols, angels, fir trees, bells, old men with beards in funny hats. This lot, executed in red, green and white lights, seemed more than usually tasteless. What hadn’t been there earlier was the poster headed ‘Missing from Home’ with two colour photographs of Giles and Sophie under it. He didn’t recognise the phone number. It wasn’t a local one but probably belonged to a dedicated line o
pened by Search and Find Limited. For some reason it made him cross, exacerbating his anger with himself for so far failing to buy any presents. Would he and Dora be expected to buy something for Callum Chapman? The usual Christmas panic seized him. But, really, it was only for Dora he had to buy. All the rest she would have seen to had probably bought them already and wrapped them as exquisitely as usual. He felt a pang of guilt, hoping she liked doing this, hadn’t been only pretending to like it all these years.

  The film showing at the cinema was too appropriate: What Women Want. They never seemed to want any thing he bought them. He went into the Kingsbrook Centre, walking slowly, catching sight of more ‘Missing from Home’ posters, then staring bemusedly at displays of clothes, handbags, small ridiculous bric-a-brac ‘for the woman who has everything’, at bottles of perfume, tights, absurd, mind-boggling underwear. Into this boutique he went. Burden was standing at the counter, making what looked like a knowledgeable choice.

  ‘Snap,’ said Wexford, but he felt better. Mike would know. He would probably know more than Wexford himself what other men’s wives liked or wore. He might even know what size other men’s wives were. With a sigh of relief he gave himself into the inspector’s keeping.

  Chapter 12

  Peter Buxton’s idea of marriage had never been that the two people in question should live in one another’s pockets. He had been married before. His first wife and he hadn’t exactly lived separate lives but they had individually had their own interests and pursuits, and often went out without the other. That was where the rot started, Sharonne said, that was what went wrong. Her beliefs were quite different.

  Her husband needed her support and counsel, an ever-present voice in his ear uttering words of wisdom and prudence. Without her he would be lost. She didn’t even care to have him sit next to someone else at a dinner party lest his indiscreet behaviour and unwise words landed him in trouble. It wasn’t that she was jealous or even particularly possessive. Her absolute confidence in her appearance, sexual attractions and personality saw to that. In her own eyes, she was there to look after him every minute of the day except when he was in Trafalgar Square, and then she phoned frequently. Her power over him consisted in a need for her which she had largely manufactured herself. She had set out to mould him into the pattern of the man she wanted and all she had failed to do was stop him drinking.