Wings over the Watcher (7 page)

“She isn’t with them, according to Arthur.”

“Oh – he’s that drippy. If I were you, Inspector, love, I’d do a bit of checkin’ myself. Arthur doesn’t always see what’s right in front of his face.”

But Arthur had seen the Ann Summers underwear all right. And read plenty into the flimsy garments.

Jewel touched her arm and with a heavy stare that bordered on psychic, repeated the sentiment. “It’ll be all right, Inspector. I promise.”

Joanna wished she could be as certain. As it was she continued to fish.

“Has she ever done this before – actually left her husband?”

Jewel was stage-thoughtful, polished fingertip on chin. “No. No – I can’t say that she ever has. Not actually
gone
. She’s talked about it but no. She’s never actually left. She isn’t one for action.”

“Until she joined the bike club.”

“Well – yes – until then. But she’s fantasized before. That’s one of the reasons why I never took her little confidences too seriously. You see they weren’t real. They were in her head. Most of the time.” She had tacked the phrase on.

“OK, thanks for your help.” Joanna tacked on the traditional policeman’s parting. “Here’s my number. If you
should
think of anything else…”

Jewel flicked the card on to the shop counter. “Of course. But she’ll be back. I know it.” She gave a mischievous grin. “Mark my words.”

But as Joanna left the shop she wasn’t convinced. Beatrice Pennington had appeared quite serious about the effort to make herself more attractive. It had been tough work and the phase had lasted for around six months. Something or someone must have been encouraging her. A real person and relationship, surely, lay behind it. Not pure fantasy. The problem was who? Was it fact or fiction? Or an odd mix of the two?

She wandered back up Derby Street, dubious now that the job would be over by teatime.

Maybe she should have remembered the words uttered as World War Two broke out.
All be over by Christmas.
Even now it conjures up jaunty, cocky faces, in khaki, marching to the battle-drum. For years.

Still – it had been worth the trip up Derby Street. She now had the missing woman’s telephone number. She could easily get Korpanski to run a trace through. She walked slowly back towards the station.

It was a hawthorn hedge, thickly overgrown and tall, weeds growing through its roots, embedded in clay, farm land beyond, on a little-used lane between Grindon and Warslow. A couple of tractors passed by once or twice a day. The farmer even caught the scent of rotting flesh, recognised it and thought, badger or fox. Two or three cars rushed passed, too fast for the road, not caring about the mud thrown up into their wheel arches. None of the drivers noticed anything. They were absorbed in their thoughts and their car radios, one tapping the wheel in time with the bass rhythm of his favourite song.

It will be a little while before she is discovered.

Corinne Angiotti had finished her afternoon surgery and was sitting, motionless, for a while, thinking.

The knock on the door was an unwelcome intrusion. Her “Come in”, sharper than usual.

“Just a couple of prescriptions to be signed.” The receptionist hadn’t missed the frown on the normally
good-natured
doctor’s brow – or the failure to greet with a smile.

Her eyes flickered as she placed a small pile of papers on the doctor’sdesk.

“Thanks,” Corinne said absently, without looking at her.

“Thanks yourself,”
the receptionist thought.

Corinne sighed and her hand wandered towards the pile of prescriptions. She hardly read them, as she signed one after the other.

She was supposed to check due by dates, over use and under use of drugs, dates when blood tests should be checked. But she couldn’t be bothered. She felt a terrible, heavy lassitude.

Her hand reached out again. A thick envelope.

No. It couldn’t be. No. The voice screamed inside her. No.

But it was. Same writing. Same envelope. Same person.

Marked Personal. She tore the envelope open and scanned the words twice.

“Don’t think you can be rid of me – ever. I am with you for always, you with me. Our relationship is far too precious to discard. Remember this when you work, when you eat, when you sleep – or not as the case might be. Remember this. We – are – together.”

Medics call a faint a vaso-vagal attack. The blood pressure suddenly drops, leaving the brain short of oxygen. And so the person faints.

Corinne slid from the chair and landed in a huddle on the floor.

Korpanski was not in the office. Joanna tried Beatrice Pennington’s phone again and got the same recorded message.

It was beginning to irritate her that this silly little problem was sitting at the back of her mind like a computer virus. It was a tease which she wanted resolved because while it distracted her she found it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

She looked at the mountain of work in front of her. There was plenty to do, quite apart from her own, personal problem. For the next hour she worked her way steadily through statements and forms, checking details. The footwork of a detective. She managed to forget about Beatrice and Arthur Pennington.

Right up until Korpanski appeared an hour and a half later waving a fax. “Got it,” he said. “Mobile phone details.”

It would seem cruel to tell him she had already obtained the number, especially when he had found out so much.

They poured over the list of numbers made from Beatrice Pennington’s phone. It was a long list of calls. Evidently Beatrice Pennington
did
use her mobile sometimes to contact people. And one number cropped up frequently. An 01538 number – Leek.

But when Joanna tried it she was connected with the
doctors’ surgery. Not what they had expected at all.

“Well, this isn’t her secret lover,” Joanna said. “She must have had some sort of health problem. Even if her husband wasn’t aware.”

Korpanski was frowning. “Why use her mobile to ring the doctor,” he mused. “Why didn’t she ring from home?”

Joanna was less curious. “Some illness she didn’t want her husband to know about? Women do like their secrets, you know, Korpanski. Particularly when it comes to their health and personal problems.”

“Ye-e-s.” He was not convinced.

None of the other telephone numbers cropped up frequently or were prolonged conversations. They’d check them all out, of course, but neither of them was hopeful.

They’d basically drawn a blank. So far.

The last time the phone had given out a signal had been in the Leek area, slightly to the north east. That had been at 10 a.m. on Wednesday morning – an hour after her husband had left for work.

It still wasn’t enough evidence to cause concern. Most people nowadays knew that mobile phones were eminently traceable and sent out frequent signals. If Beatrice was really serious about her bid to disappear she may well have dumped her mobile phone somewhere. And Jewel had made a comment about her friend allowing her mobile battery to run down.

So this meant nothing.

Or something.

And it was back to the irritating little question. “So where is she?”

Mike shrugged. “Search me.”

“Are you all right, doctor?”

Corinne felt such a fool. She had lifted herself from the floor and was sitting at her desk, dizzy and sick, a pulse pounding in her head.

“I’m fine,” she mumbled and knew she had fooled no one and certainly not herself.

Joanna glanced back at the still large pile of papers waiting to be dealt with. She could not afford to waste time on this knotty little problem.

And yet…

She made a small note for herself of people to contact if Beatrice Pennington didn’t turn up in the next day or two.

Top was the members of the Readers’ Group. They could probably get a list of participants from the library – and speak to Beatrice’s colleagues at the same time. Then there were her two children, her other friend, Marilyn, her parents and her sister. Surely
someone
would be able to throw some light on the whereabouts of the missing woman?

There is always a voice inside you which acts as devil’s advocate.

Jewel Pirtek had been her confidant. She had been the most likely person to know. And Joanna didn’t think Jewel had hidden anything that she
really
knew.

She worked hard until five o’clock. But Joanna still felt fidgety and dissatisfied by the end of the afternoon. She looked up Arthur Pennington’s number in the phone book and called him. He was in.

“It’s Inspector Joanna Piercy here.”

“Hello.” His voice was eager. He thought she’d found something out.

“I wondered…”

“There’s been no sign of her?” His disappointment was tangible. He was close to breaking point.

“No. I’m sorry. I’ve tried her mobile number.”

“Oh.” It was as though he’d just remembered. “I was supposed to… I’m so sorry. It just slipped my mind. I came home. Suddenly everything caved in on me.”

“Is there somewhere you could stay?”

“I can’t leave here. What if she comes home and finds me gone?”

They all do this, parents of missing children, husbands, wives. All the detritus of the missing. They wait and stay, as a dog guards a bone and just as pointlessly they stand guard
inside their homes and wait.

What else is there to do?

Sometimes they expend their energy. They drive round areas where they think their loved one is. They haunt hospital casualty departments or search other places their loved ones felt attached to. Sometimes – in desperation they visit places their loved ones would never have been to – churches, Salvation Army hostels, railway stations.

And each time they leave the house they leave a neighbour or friend on guard or pin a note to the front door, “Darling, if you read this…”

Just in case.

“Is there someone who can come and stay with you? One of your children, maybe?”

She was sure his laugh hadn’t meant to sound so dry and cynical.

But it did.

There was a short pause before, “No.” The pedant had won. “It wouldn’t be fair to drag them in to all this. They have their own lives to live. I’m sure when Beattie comes back she’ll have a perfectly rational explanation.

When Beattie comes back.

It sounded an empty refrain.

When
Beattie comes back. Not
if
.

“It’s been two days now, Inspector,” he said. “I don’t know what to do next.”

There is nothing, Mr Pennington. Nothing you can do except wait, hope and forgive.

She felt action was expected of her. “Can you give me your son and daughter’s telephone numbers?”

“But I’ve already–” He capitulated. “Hang on. I’ll just look them up.”

He came back with the numbers.

She asked then for a complete list of the telephone numbers and addresses of all of his wife’s friends, family and acquaintances.

It was the least she could do.

But under her breath she was already cursing Beatrice.

Damn you, woman. How could you leave this mess behind you when a short note would have saved so much?

He did not demur but read the list out mechanically.

“If you do hear anything, Mr Pennington, you will let me know, won’t you?”

“Of course. Of course.” He hesitated. “And if
you
hear anything, Inspector.”

“Yes. Yes. Of course.”

“And may I ring you again to find out how your investigation is going?”

It was a mistake but she agreed anyway and gave him the number which led straight to the phone on her desk.

Like him she wanted a neat solution to the problem.

She put the phone down then picked it up again, struck with a sudden picture. Beattie’s bike, a Dawes hybrid, racing green, almost brand new. She detailed a couple of officers to go and detach it from the railings outside the library – if it was still there. Bikes were popular with thieves.

To herself she was relating the small fable, that it could do no harm for the forensics team to give it
the once over.

She could have gone home then, back to the empty cottage in Waterfall. It was late; she’d done a full day’s work. But there is something of the terrier in all detectives. She wanted answers, just to hear the end of the story. Not this unsatisfactory question mark.

Obviously the library should be the next port of call. And it would still be open.

Leek library is halfway up Stockwell Street, the road that runs behind, and parallel to, Derby Street. It is housed in a Gothic Victorian building called the Nicholson Institute. Marked by its green copper dome and like many libraries more of a cultural centre than a mere book-house.

As Joanna mounted the stone stair case she was reminded of the strange story she had heard about the ‘ghost’ of Joshua Nicholson, its founder, said to walk here. Listening to her footsteps echoing as she climbed, she could almost
believe it was true.

And that was not the only strange story connected with the library. In 1965 the mummified remains of what had been thought to be a child were discovered in a barrel in the loft of what had been the museum. The fact that the discovery had been made on April 1st had not alerted the authorities that it was, in fact, the remains of a carefully dissected orang-utan, until after the National Press had run the story.

Leek has more than its fair share of strange stories and odd legends. Maybe it is the moorland which surrounds it and seals in its people, isolating them from the rest of the world and not subject to its wider laws and rules.

During the ten minute walk from the station to the library Joanna had toyed with the idea that Beatrice Pennington’s secret lover was possibly someone at work. In which case would he be there too? Or on a sudden “holiday”?