by A. B. King
“Neil,” came Tracy's voice, “I'm sorry, no luck. Danny hasn't been near her office all day, and the person I spoke to at Solent Security Systems hasn't seen or heard from her either. Where are you now?”
“Outside her home; her car's not here and I still can't get an answer from her mobile either.”
“What are you going to do?”
“I'm going to head back towards Willow's End; there's just the chance she may have gone back there for some reason. I'll have a scout around; I know Danny's car, and I know Pete's. If I see either of them in the village, or in the lay-by that leads to the footpath down to the river I'll phone you, and you can pass it on to Grayson.”
“Right, but do take care Neil, if what you fear has actually happened, then you are at risk also.”
There was a genuine note of concern in her voice, and somehow that appeared to steady my rising panic about what had happened to Danny.
“It's nice to know you care,” I said with real feeling.
“I do; where-else could I get such a cushy summer job?”
My heart went out to the girl. That she could still make a joke of a situation that would have frightened many youngsters silly really told me a lot about her. She had guts, and for that matter so had Danny. No, Danny wouldn't give up, and nor would I.
“Thanks,” I said. “I'm off now.”
As I broke the connection I thought I would have one last try to raise Danny. To my disgust my phone chose just that moment to run out of credit. There were no shops in that rather select neighbourhood, and I didn't want to waste more time driving round looking for one. I imagined there would be somewhere at Willows End so I decided that as I was going there anyway to see if I could spot her car I could get one in the Newsagents Danny had visited. I hated being out of contact with the world so I drove as fast as I could without taking too many risks, and some fifteen minutes later I was able to park in the centre of the village right outside Jackman's Newsagents. A quick look up and down the road failed to disclose the hoped for presence of Danny's car. There was no sound reason to suppose she had come here rather than anywhere else, but I couldn't just give up looking.
I left the car and went in to the shop where I was relieved to see a sign confirming that phone credit was available. The lady I assumed from Danny's earlier description to be Mrs Jackman was standing expectantly behind the counter, and passing over my card I explained that I needed twenty pounds of credit on my phone. She was obviously well used to such matters, and as she was getting things organised I glanced round at the various magazines and other odds and ends on display. Presently she handed me my card and receipt which I tucked into my pocket as I wondered where best to start my search. I wondered if Mrs Jackman, who from Danny's description seemed to know a lot about everything that went on in the village might be able to help.
“Thanks,” I said, “Tell me, do you recall the young lady that came in here doing research for a book?”
“Oh, you must mean young Danny Fortescue,” she said expansively. “Oh yes, very nicely spoken young woman she was.”
“Oh, you recognised her then?”
“Oh no, not at first, but when Andrew Parson's came in later he told me who she was. Why, is she a friend of yours?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact we are very close friends. Tell me; has she been back here today?” It was a long shot, but I was that desperate I was prepared to try anything.
“No, I only saw her the once. That was a terrible business about her sister wasn't it?”
“Yes, a shocking thing to happen to anyone,” I agreed, trying not to betray the disappointment that yet another of my guesses was proving wrong, “She still hasn't been able to find out everything that happened that night. I've been helping her gather information, and I thought she might have come back here today, only I couldn't contact her because my phone ran out.”
“I'm sorry I can't help you,” she said. “Still, you should be able to use your phone any moment now I think.”
She glanced up as the shop door tinkled as another customer walked in.
“Hello Mr Shepherd,” she called out. “I suppose you're on your way back to London now. Is your Mum ok?”
“Yes, she's fine thanks, Mrs Jackman,” the customer responded as he walked up to the counter. “I'll have twenty Castleman tipped please.”
I turned to look at the man who had come into the shop. He was a tall, clean cut chap of about my own age, casually dressed, but definitely not a local. Something was ringing a bell in my tired brain and I couldn't think what it was. I watched him as he paid for his cigarettes, and he glanced at me and nodded briefly, and finally I realised what it was that was doing the ringing.
“Excuse me,” I said as he pocketed his change and turned to go. “Did I hear that your name is Shepherd?”
He looked at me curiously. “That’s right, do I know you?”
“Mr Mark Shepherd?”
“Yes.”
“Sorry,” I exclaimed, gathering my tired wits, “My name's Hammond, Neil Hammond. You don't know me, but I wonder if I might have a quick word with you?”
“Well, I suppose so,” he answered a bit doubtfully, “only I don't have a lot of time; what do you want to talk to me about?”
“That's good of you,” I said, ignoring his question for the moment. “I promise you this won't take more than a few minutes.”
I glanced across at Mrs Jackman who was standing attentively waiting. No doubt every word I uttered would be quickly passed round the whole village before I could draw a breath if I wasn't careful.
“Do you have a car parked outside?” I asked.
“Why, yes, I'm on my way to London.”
“If it is ok with you we will talk there, we mustn't clutter up this good lady's shop must we?”
Seeing Mrs Jackman's chagrined expression he cottoned on immediately. “Quite right,” he agreed. “Cheerio, Mrs Jackman, I'll call in to see you next time I'm down to visit my mother.”
A few moments later we sat side by side in his Merc that was parked just behind my own rusty heap.
“How come you know my name?” he asked as I closed the door.
“I'll explain everything in a moment,” I answered. “Tell me; were you with a party of Venture Scouts at a camp down by the river fourteen years ago?”
He looked at me blankly for a moment. “Well, now you mention it, yes I was,” he answered slowly, “Fourteen years you say; good greif, seems only like yesterday. May I ask why you want to know?”
“Mr Shepherd, I'll be as brief as I can. I am a private enquiry agent, and I'm investigating the tragedy that occurred at the time you were at that camp.”
“Oh, you mean that young girl that was drowned?”
“Yes, that's the one.”
“But what's to investigate? I mean, it was a terrible accident; why on earth would you want to rake all that up now?”
“My client is her sister.”
“Oh, I see! Didn't she get blasted by lightning or something? Terrible business; but how can I help?”
“She engaged my services when some fragments of memory came back suggesting that what happened that night wasn't an accident at all. I've spoken to a lot of people, and the consensus of opinion is that there was also a man present at the time who may either have witnessed what had happened, or perhaps had something to do with it.”
“Hey, hold on a minute, if you think that I had anything to do-”
“Mr Shepherd, I don't think anything of the sort,” I interrupted, “but I have witness testimony that you did in fact see a man somewhere on the footpath leading to the bridge. It's vital that I trace this man.”
He looked at me blankly for a moment, and then his face lit up, “Oh, you must mean Steve Sanders,” he exclaimed, “Yes, that's right, I did see him, but he didn't see me. Mind you, I don't recall mentioning the fact to anyone.”
It wasn't what I expected to hear. “Steve Sanders,” I echoed, “who's he?”
�
�Old Steve used live up at Cobblers Bottom,” he explained, “and he was courting young Jessie Addlington from Holten's Farm. Sometimes of a weekend they used to come down to the footpath that crosses the river a bit further downstream from here for a bit of, well you know. He was a bit of a lad was Steve, and we all wondered how long it would take Jessie to rumble him. Obviously it must have happened that very night, because we found out later that she fell out with him big-time, and very wisely, he never came back any more.”
For a brief moment I wondered if he was lying to protect his friends, but there was something so genuine in his manner and tone I had no choice but to dismiss the idea. Was it possible I had been wrong all along, and that this Steve Sanders was responsible for what happened? It didn't seem in the least degree possible, yet I was ready to grasp at any straw.
“Where can I find this Steve Sanders?” I asked.
“That's easy, up the crem; he died last year.”
I was starting to get a very uneasy feeling about everything. “Tell me, did this Steve drive a car?”
“If you could call it that; he had an old Reagan three wheeler as I recall. He wrote it off a few months after he stopped chasing Jessie.”
My uneasy feeling was getting worse. If Sanders was the man on the footpath, where the hell did Pete fit in with all this? Worse, even if Sanders was responsible for the drowning, who disposed of Julia? I was starting to get the feeling that I was on a wild goose chase to nowhere!
“I see,” I said absently.
“Does all this help?”
“To be honest, I don't know. Something doesn't add up somewhere, but I can't figure out where.”
“Well, I'm sorry I can't be of more help. How is the surviving sister? I haven't seen her in years; she must be quite grown up now. Feisty little bit she was, I really enjoyed chatting to her until that sister of hers butted in and put a wet blanket on everything! I recall I was a bit cheesed off with her at the time, not that I knew how old those girls were until later, so I suppose it was a bit of a lucky escape. Anyway, I gave up and went back to the camp.”
“Was everybody there?” I asked.
“Oh, sure, Emerson was pretty strict on things like that.”
I looked at him in astonishment; first Sanders, and now somebody called Emerson, at this rate I would soon be adding Father Christmas to my list of suspects and witnesses!
“Who,” I asked as patiently as I could, “was Emerson?”
“He was our troop leader, why do you ask?”
“But I thought that a man called Andrew Parsons was in charge of that camp?”
“Well, yes, it was his idea; we were all due to go off to a trek in the Cairngorms as I recall. He had a phone call that evening, and was called away for some family emergency as far as I can remember. As it turned out, I think it was something that he sort of half expected, because Emerson was already on standby and finished the camp with us.”
Something in my expression must have caught his eye, and he stopped talking and looked at me quizzically.
“Have I said something important,” he asked?
Quite suddenly, things started to slip into place. When Danny had seen Andrew Parsons he had deliberately concealed the fact that he wasn't actually at the camp on that fateful night. If he wasn't at the camp, then there was no way he could have known about a man on the bridge, unless? A cold shiver went down my already well-chilled spine. There could only be one reason in my book why he would do that. The man seen leaving the three wheeler obviously had a totally different agenda, but he could be a useful red herring should anyone be suspicious! So who was the man on the bridge? Who was Julia's secret lover? Was it possible that Andrew Parsons had not been called away on an emergency at all? He had admitted to Danny that he knew Julia, and professed to having disliked her. But what if he liked her only too well? If he had been the man on the bridge, then Danny's visit could have alarmed him to the point that he feared that Julia was going to let the cat out of the bag? It was all wild theory, and as far as I was concerned there was only one way to find out.
“Can't explain now,” I said, opening the car door, “but you may just have solved at least part of the puzzle for me. Do you know where Andrew Parson's lives?”
“Sure, he lives out at 'Chestnut Cottage', that's up the top of the lane that runs off to your left just up ahead.”
“Thanks a lot,” I called as I stepped out of the vehicle. “I have to dash now; have a safe journey back to London.”
Within seconds I was back in my own car, and just as I got in and slammed the door my phone rang.
“Hi Neil,” came Tracy's voice, “I guess you've had no more luck than I have?”
“I'm not sure,” I answered truthfully. “I certainly haven't found her or her car yet, but I've come across a bit of new information I'm just about to follow up that may do the trick.”
“You mean you've managed to track down Pete Lanscomb?”
“Not exactly; in fact in light of what I've just learnt he may not even be our man.”
“You're not serious?” she exclaimed, “I thought-”
“Look Tracy, I may be barking up the wrong tree entirely, but I'm off right now to find out.”
“What is it you've discovered?”
“I'm sorry,” I interrupted rudely, “there's really no time to explain anything now, I'll give you a call back when I've found out a bit more.”
“Where are you?”
“Willows End. Look Tracy, I've really got to dash now; speak to you later.”
I broke the connection without waiting for a response, turned the starter, and then sped off in the direction Mark Shepherd had indicated. Maybe I was still chasing shadows, but something seemed to tell me that what I was looking for was now very close. It didn't take me more than a minute or so to reach my destination, and I pulled up outside determined now either to prove or disprove what I suspected was the truth. I jumped out of the car and all but ran up to the gate of the premises. The garden was empty; unlike the time that Danny had made her visit. I walked up the path and rang the door bell. There was no response. I rang it twice more without getting any response. I hated just walking away from the place, and after the briefest of hesitations I walked round the outside of the premises. At the back I found an outbuilding I suspected was used as a garage, because only a matter of yards from it there was a large field-gate leading onto an unmade lane.
Not unnaturally the heavy wooden doors of the garage were locked, and there was no window that I could see. I tried peering through the cracks in the ancient woodwork, but it was so dark inside I couldn't pick anything out. I looked again at the padlock, which appeared to be pretty solid, and at the hasp and staple, which were equally massive. Once again I hesitated, but then I knew that if I walked away from the place without satisfying myself that I was quite wrong I would never be able to live with it. I went back to my car, and from the boot I collected a heavy screwdriver and a tyre lever I kept there. I rang the doorbell again on my return, but there was still no response. I went back to the garage, and using the screwdriver as a fulcrum I managed to get the tyre lever in behind the hasp. It took quite a bit of heaving, but finally I pulled it away from the ancient woodwork. If I was wrong, well, I would just have to pay up and take the consequences. I heaved the door open and looked inside, and in that instant I knew I was right. Sitting quietly in the garage was Danny's car.
I stepped quickly inside the garage and tried the door of the car. It was unlocked. I peered inside, but everything was in order. Whatever had happened to her, it hadn't involved a traffic accident or anything of that nature. The question remained; why was her car in Andrew Parsons' garage, and where were the pair of them right now? I suddenly remembered what Tracy had said before I dropped her at her home. We were talking about the awful possibilities of the situation, and she had commented about the killer finishing the job. If Parsons was the man who had bugged the office and not Pete as I had suspected, then it was just possible that tha
t was exactly what he intended to do. I knew that it was possible that he could have taken her anywhere, even that he might already have killed her, yet Danny's instinct that he might want to go back to the same place as her sister had died, with the hope that if she was found drowned, it would be assumed that she had finally committed suicide out of remorse for the loss of her twin loomed large in my mind. Underneath all the glamour Danny was undoubtedly a very shrewd person and her assessment of 'Mr X' was probably right. The trouble was she hadn't allowed for the fact that 'Mr X' was also a clever person who had obviously seen through her little scheme, and decided he would play the game his own way. Returning to the bridge on a hunch was an awful long-shot with nothing really to substantiate it, yet somehow I felt convinced that I was right. I had to trust my feelings and get to the bridge by the old camp-site immediately. I tried to still that nagging doubt that even if my hunch was correct, I might already be too late. I ran back to the car, dialling Tracy as I went. I couldn't get through because she was talking to someone else. I left a quick voice message for her to pick up.
