by Fay Sampson
Millie’s face showed mute, obstinate grief.
Suzie jumped up. ‘Look, love. It’s not just that we’re going to Burwood. It would be just the same if Tamara was safe at home. He’s way too old for you. He shouldn’t even be asking a fourteen-year-old schoolgirl out. It shows what sort of man he is.’
Millie’s lower lip pouted. ‘You’re just prejudiced. I’m quite old for my years. I wouldn’t want to go out with any of the stupid nerds in our year. And he’s so good-looking.’ Her voice rose to a wail. ‘I may never get a chance like this again. Just think what the girls at school would say if I could show them a photograph of us together at the dance. I’d have to get a new dress, of course.’
Suzie put her arms around her daughter. But a chill hand of fear moved down her spine. How long could she protect this fragile, lovely child?
No one had been there to protect Tamara.
‘Look on the bright side. You’ll be seeing Reynard Woodman again. You adored him when you were younger. That’ll be something to tell your friends. I could take a camera and photograph the two of you.’
Millie sniffed. ‘Don’t be silly. He’s married. He’s got kids. It’s not the same.’
When she had gone, Suzie went back to her computer, uneasy and unsettled. For a while she stared blankly at the screen. What was it she had found which seemed so important?
Oh, yes. The South Farwood Presbyterian records. Something else for Pru to follow up. The baptisms were available on the web, but not the burials. They had already discovered that Johan had not been buried at the parish church. Would that be where she was?
Her eye ran down the list of research sources for South Farwood.
Cemeteries. Presbyterian. Meeting Lane.
She grabbed her phone. ‘Prudence? I’ve think I’ve got something for you to follow up while I’m away. You know we couldn’t find Johan’s burial in the Corley register? Well, if you can get to the Record Office tomorrow, they have the burial register for South Farwood Presbyterian Chapel. And if she’s there, there’s a Dissenters’ burial ground in Meeting Lane. I’m sorry I can’t take you, but there’s a bus to South Farwood.’
An eager voice came from the other end of the line. ‘That’s fabulous. I’m so grateful to you. Let me check that out. This burial ground’s in Meeting Lane?’
‘Yes. You know, it’s the oddest thing. I had a great-aunt in South Farwood we used to visit. She told me Meeting Lane was the place where lovers met. It never occurred to me till today that it was called that because there used to be a Dissenters’ meeting house there. With its own graveyard.’
‘I’ll surely follow that up. I wish you could come with me. But you’ve got more important things to do. I do hope you find your Tamara safely.’
‘So do I. Though even if we do, I’m not sure that I can see how this will end. If she’s as frightened as she seems, how can we put a stop to it?’
‘I’ll pray for you all.’
Suzie put down the phone. Currents of uneasiness swirled together in her mind. Tamara, running away from home, too scared to tell anyone where she was, or who had fathered her baby. Millie, flattered by a too-handsome older man, losing her sharpness of judgement.
It was not only Prudence who needed to pray.
TWENTY-TWO
They left the motorway for the quieter road of the rural Midlands. Gazing through the windscreen, Suzie thought it had changed less from Shakespeare’s time than she might have expected. They passed orchards, their boughs beginning to bend with the swelling fruit. There were still a surprising number of half-timbered houses. It was a gentler landscape than the moors and sea-coasts, the steep wooded valleys of the south-west, but with its own charm.
‘Left at the next crossroads.’
The road sloped down to a wide, shining stretch of the River Avon. They followed it through villages where modern wealth had built desirable residences by the waterside.
In the back seat, Millie sat up and began taking an interest. ‘Is it far now?’
‘Two or three miles. This looks like the Midlands version of stockbroker country, in the days when the stock market was worth something. It’s probably computer magnates now.’
‘And best-selling authors,’ Millie said.
‘We think he’s keeping that quiet.’
A few minutes later, Nick swung the car round a black-and-white pub with a hanging sign that announced the Bear and Staff. He glided to a halt and cut the engine. ‘So this is Burwood.’
Suzie and Millie got out, into the summer sunshine. Further along, mature yew trees in the churchyard overshadowed the pavement. A yellow-and-red Post Office sign hung from the village shop. The street was quiet.
‘Well?’ Suzie looked questioningly at Nick. ‘I suppose we could go to the shop and ask them where Kevin Gamble lives. All I’ve got from Lisa’s address book is Wood Cottage, Burwood. They don’t seem to bother with street names here.’
‘I wonder if the locals know his pen name? I mean, there must be all sorts of stuff coming through the Post Office addressed to Reynard Woodman. From publishers and so on.’
‘He may have them mail it to his agent. Then she could forward it to him as Kevin Gamble.’
‘I bet they know. The question is whether the temptation to gossip about a celebrity wins out over local loyalty. Country people can be very close when they choose.’
‘Always supposing it’s still local people running the shop, and not some lifestyle refugee from London.’
‘Are we going to stand here all day?’ Millie enquired. ‘I could murder a choc ice.’
They strolled to the village shop. A white-haired woman smiled politely as she gathered up her purchases and made room for them. They were left looking at a bony-faced young man behind the counter.
Suzie checked the range of ice creams on offer. ‘Three Magnums, please.’ She turned her brightest smile on the young man. ‘Can you help us? We’re looking for an address in the village. Wood Cottage. A Mr Gamble lives there.’
‘Yeah, Kevin.’ The freckled face showed no surprise or guarded hostility. ‘He’s a bit out of the village. Carry on past the end of the houses and turn right. The road swings back on itself a bit, then takes a big bend and comes down to the river again. The house is right in front of you. Lovely spot. All right for some, eh?’
‘Do you know what he does for a living?’ She was pushing her luck.
‘Couldn’t say.’ There was a sudden abruptness in the shopkeeper’s manner. ‘I thought you were friends of his.’
‘It’s been years since we saw him. He used to live near us, but we lost touch. Millie went to school with his daughter.’
‘Oh, right, then.’
His eyes followed them out of the shop.
‘He knows,’ said Nick. ‘They’re protecting his privacy.’
‘Which would make it a good place for Tamara to come, if she wanted to keep her pregnancy a secret until the baby was born.’
‘All the same,’ Millie said, peeling the foil fastidiously from her ice cream. ‘I can’t see her living with that stepmother for months.’
‘There are a lot of questions that need answering,’ Suzie said.
The road swung round a bend. Shards of sunlight from the river dazzled them again. It was dappled by a weeping willow tree, so that it glinted like scales of dragon skin. To the left of the tree stood a substantial Georgian house. Three storeys, with, Suzie counted, six windows on each floor. A conservatory stretched its glistening length across the riverside lawn. It could, she thought, accommodate a wedding reception. Beyond it, the wood, from which the house took its name, flowed down to the water, heavy with summer foliage.
‘He calls that a cottage?’ Millie exclaimed. ‘I was expecting one of those dinky black-and-white beam things. You know, with hollyhocks in the garden.’
‘It’s a relative term. Anne Hathaway’s cottage isn’t exactly one up, one down.’
The white-painted wooden gate had been sculpted, rather t
han sawn. Suzie would not have been surprised if the coiling finials had ended in horses’ heads.
‘What do I do?’ Nick asked. ‘Park here, or drive up to the door?’
The short drive from the gate ended at a gravelled square at the rear of the house, with garages for three cars.
‘It looks as if the front door is round the other side, facing the river. So we’d have to walk round, anyway. There’s room here without blocking the road.’
Millie jumped out and ran to caress the woodwork of the gate. Its curves invited the hand to stroke them. When Nick had locked the car, she lifted the iron clasp and swung the gate open with a flourish. ‘Wood Cottage. Welcome to my humble abode.’
‘Didn’t Tamara tell you what it was like?’ Suzie asked.
‘She might have, once. She didn’t talk much about visiting him lately.’
‘I suppose it was a bit hurtful for her, if he’s got two more daughters.’
There were sounds of childish laughter, even as she spoke.
Suzie wished the drive led directly to the door, but what faced them was clearly the back of the house. On such a bright summer’s afternoon, she was nervous of rounding the corner and breaking in on a family party between the house front and the waterside. She wondered if eyes were watching them from the windows.
Millie, too, was looking up, as if hoping for a glimpse of Tamara’s face at an upper window.
The gently sloping lawn in front of the house came into view. It was deserted. The laughter must be coming from inside the house. Most of the windows were open. The front door was slightly ajar.
Millie, who seemed to have assumed leadership, rang the bell. Chimes pealed through the house. The laughter stopped. There were light, pattering steps. The door was tugged open, and a very small girl stood before them. She wore a yellow satin dress, with frills down the front and a sash tied in a bow. White patent leather shoes and white socks gave her a curiously formal and old-fashioned look. She wore a cardboard crown.
‘Do you want Mummy or Daddy?’ Her size was in no way a measure of her self-importance.
‘Your daddy, please,’ Nick answered.
She toddled away, across the spacious parquet floor of the hall, lit from above by a stained glass window. They heard her calling for him.
Suzie struggled to remember what Kevin Gamble had looked like, all those years ago.
The man who came across the hall towards them was certainly different from the somewhat scruffy, red-bearded, bookish man she recalled, with eyes twinkling behind his glasses. He had had a magic then, which he seemed to turn on like a light for children, enchanting them in the flesh, as well as on the page.
This man – she found it easier to think of him as Reynard Woodman now – was casually, yet immaculately, dressed, in carefully pressed shorts and a crisp short-sleeved shirt. His sandals looked expensive. Gone were the beard and glasses. His hair was sleeker, the red just beginning to grey. It gave him a more authoritative air. The blue eyes, she supposed, wore contact lenses.
He was, she realized with a start, more handsome than she remembered.
He gave them an assured smile. He didn’t look like a man in hiding from his fans or persistent journalists. There was a slight twist of surprise in his eyebrows, but no alarm. ‘Lovely afternoon, isn’t it? Can I help you?’
‘I’m Millie,’ said the platinum blonde teenager on his doorstep.
‘Yes?’ It was a question. There was no flicker of recognition.
‘Millie Fewings.’ There was an edge of belligerence in her voice.
She has no idea, Suzie thought, how much she’s changed, even in the last few weeks.
‘Tamara’s friend.’
Poor Millie. All those memories of picnics in the woods, of make-believe games, of the children’s author who had been like an uncle to her.
‘Ah!’ The realization dawned in his face. ‘My dear. I’d never have recognized you. You’ve grown into a real princess.’
‘I’m the princess,’ said the little tot at his knee.
‘Yes, sweetheart.’ He ruffled her hair inside the crown, but his eyes were on Millie.
The smile was genuine now. He hesitated for a moment, then swept her into a hug. ‘Well, what a surprise! Come in. No, belay that. Let’s sit outside and enjoy this marvellous weather. Pet! We’ve got visitors,’ he called back into the house.
He led the way across the lawn to where a wrought-iron table and chairs were set out in the shade of a willow tree. He sat them down. Surprisingly swiftly, a young woman appeared with a tray bearing jugs and glasses. She was fair-haired, in an Eastern European way. From her modest grey dress, Suzie guessed she was a maid. She set down in front of them what looked like jugs of fresh lemonade and Pimms, and a stand of delectable-looking cakes. Suzie sensed Millie’s hand reach out, even before she was offered one, then hold back, poised.
As the maid was filling their glasses, another young woman came across the grass. She wore a thigh-high, closely-fitting black dress with shoelace straps, and sunglasses. Her sculpted black hair shone with glints of purple. Running alongside her were the toddler in the yellow dress and a rather taller girl in a pirate outfit.
‘My greatest fans,’ said Reynard Woodman with a smile. ‘The dastardly Persephone, with the eyepatch, and Her Highness Princess Calliope. And this –’ twisting to smile up at the woman – ‘is my sternest critic. Petronella.’
Now he focused the warmth of his smile on Millie. ‘To what do I owe this privilege? What brings you all the way from the marvellous south-west to Burwood?’
‘Tamara. I’m looking for her.’ Millie turned on the woman in the black dress. ‘You’re the one I spoke to, aren’t you? Petronella Gibson. Did you tell him I’d phoned about Tamara?’
The woman’s colour rose beneath the veil of make-up on her cheekbones. She tossed her head but said nothing.
‘Pet?’ Reynard’s voice was surprised. But he controlled it. He wasn’t going to risk a domestic row in front of them. ‘I’m sorry, Millie,’ he went on. ‘But Tamara only lives a few streets away from you. I assume you’re still in the same house. Why would you come looking for her here?’
‘She’s missing. She ran away.’
The alarm in his face looked genuine. ‘When was this? Why?’
‘Ten days ago,’ Suzie said. ‘She set out for school, but never arrived. But we have reason to think that she was planning to go. We don’t think she was kidnapped, or anything like that.’
‘Poor Tamara! She never said anything to make me think she was unhappy. Quite the contrary. She comes here occasionally, you know. But it’s been . . . Oh, my goodness!’ He turned to Petronella. ‘This should have been one of her weekends, shouldn’t it? Do you know, I never thought. Lisa usually rings me beforehand.’
Either he’s genuinely thrown, or he’s a very good actor, Suzie thought.
‘And you haven’t seen anything of her?’ Nick asked. ‘Or heard from her in the last ten days?’
‘Not a word. But, ten days . . .? Surely the Dawsons have called the police? I’m surprised they haven’t contacted me before this. It didn’t need you to drive all this way. No offence, my dears. Of course, it’s lovely to see Millie again. And . . . Suzie, wasn’t it?’
Was the warm smile he turned upon her genuine?
‘They haven’t called the police,’ she said.
He jumped up. ‘Not called them? Tamara’s run away . . . But she’s only fourteen. They can’t just do nothing!’
Suzie tried to marshal her words. ‘Mr Dawson is a headmaster. I expect you know that. Have you met him?’
‘No. I can’t say I was falling over myself to make his acquaintance.’
‘He’s a bit of an authoritarian. He’s reputed to rule his school with a rod of iron. We think . . . he might have felt it would dent his image, if it got around that his stepdaughter had run away from him.’
‘But Lisa? She must be out of her mind with worry.’
‘As Suzie said,’
Nick put in, ‘he’s a strict disciplinarian. That includes his wife. She’s terrified of him.’
‘Poor Lisa!’ Was there just a hint of smugness in his voice? ‘What a sad business. And poor Tamara.’
The conversation seemed to hang. Where do we go from here, Suzie wondered. ‘She’s not here?’
‘Definitely not.’
‘Look,’ Nick said unexpectedly. ‘They haven’t reported it to the police. And I don’t think the police would take much notice if we did, because we’re not related. Dawson has put out a story about her being unwell and going away for convalescence. But you’re her father. You said she should have been here with you this weekend?’
‘I’m truly sorry I forgot about that.’
‘Well, then. You could report her missing.’
‘Mm. That’s a possibility.’ He thought it over. ‘Do you have any idea why she ran away?’ His eyes were intent on Suzie.
‘He used to beat her,’ Millie said. ‘It was bad enough before, but when he found out about . . .’ She stopped and turned alarmed eyes to her parents.
Suzie looked into Reynard’s concerned blue eyes and made a decision. ‘About the baby.’
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I think, as her father, you need to know this. Tamara is expecting a baby.’
She saw the greyness of shock take over his face. The look of consternation in those eyes. Her heart constricted as she thought how she would feel if someone she hardly knew told her this about Millie.
‘Whose?’ It was almost a whisper. ‘Some pimple-faced schoolboy, I suppose.’
‘We don’t think so. We’re afraid it may be someone older. There’s a tennis coach she was rather smitten with. But we wondered if it could be . . . Leonard Dawson.’
Something blazed in Reynard Woodman’s eyes then. He hit the table. ‘I’ll kill him!’
‘We don’t know that,’ Nick told him. ‘It’s just a suspicion. That sort of authoritarian figure can abuse his power over women and children. Whoever it is, she wouldn’t tell Millie. That suggests there was something unmentionable, some of sort of taboo.’
