Breaking Point (8 page)

‘Fred?' Molly repeated. She had been about to take a drink of tea, but now she set her cup aside and flipped to another page in the notebook in her lap. ‘Are you saying you know the man in the other car?'

‘Oh, yes. Sorry, I should have said, shouldn't I? Fred Dawlish is a patient of mine. He lives in Whitcott. Lived there all his life; retired a few months ago. Come to think of it, he may have seen those two men. I'll give you his address if you like.'

Beyond the market square at the top end of the high street in Lyddingham was the green. It was a long, narrow stretch of grass, at the far end of which was the cenotaph surrounded by flower beds filled with the jutting spears of daffodil leaves. In three, perhaps four weeks from now, they would be up and in full flower, but for now, at least, having tested the cold March air, they were on hold.

Molly found a parking space between two cars and pulled in.

She'd made notes while talking to Dr Chandler, but she wanted to think about them and jot down any thoughts she'd had at the time. The two men the doctor had described
could
be the same two men who had spirited Mickey Doyle away earlier that morning, but the descriptions of the men and the car were so vague as to be almost useless. Neither Mrs Turnbull nor Dr Chandler could remember the colour of the car – Chandler thought it might have been grey, but he wasn't sure – and Mrs Turnbull wouldn't even venture a guess according to Tregalles.

‘You said it was a big car, Doctor,' she'd pressed in an attempt to come away with something in the way of a description.

‘Not
big
, exactly,' Chandler said. ‘I mean, it wasn't like some of these American cars you see on the road, but it did seem bigger than my Rover, for example. Mind you, it may have just
seemed
bigger because it stuck out in the road, and my only interest in it was to avoid it as I went by.'

Molly had spent the next twenty minutes or so showing him pictures of cars, but he'd finally pushed the book away and sat back in his chair. ‘I'm sorry,' he told her, ‘but I would only be guessing at this point. It all happened so fast.'

Molly leaned her head against the headrest and sighed. She was no further ahead than she had been before talking to the doctor. And she had done no better at the Red Lion, where she'd stopped for lunch before her appointment with Dr Chandler. Several people said they knew who Newman was, but they knew nothing about him, but almost all of them knew Mickey Doyle. ‘Does good work when he's sober,' the barman told her, and the others agreed. ‘But he's just as likely to take off in the middle of a job as not,' another man said, ‘so you can't rely on him.'

‘Best come back tonight,' the barman advised. ‘Talk to Jack – he runs this place – or Emma. They might know.'

Molly closed her notebook and started the car. She felt as if she had been going round in circles and getting nowhere. Perhaps Dawlish, the man the doctor had mentioned, would remember something. On the other hand, she thought glumly, if Dawlish had been as worried about scraping his new car as the doctor seemed to think, she'd be very surprised if he'd paid any attention at all to what was happening on the side of the road.

Tregalles was faring no better. He had spent a fruitless and frustrating morning. While Geoff Kirkpatrick searched and dusted the caravan for prints, the sergeant had gone from door to door to ask if anyone had seen the car and the two men who had come to pick up Doyle, but no one had. Nor did they show much interest in the fact that Doyle was missing. The man was often away on a job for a week or more at a time, and the general consensus once again was, if he wasn't away on a job, he was probably either lying in a gutter somewhere, or drying out in a police cell.

That had been the first choice of Lou Cutter, the owner-manager of Cutter's Caravan Court, who lived on site. ‘He'll spend a few days in gaol, then come staggering back here, broke and begging me to give him time to pay his rent,' he told Tregalles. ‘The little bugger's already more than a week behind as it is, and you can tell him that from me when you find him.'

‘We think something may have happened to him,' Tregalles told him. ‘Now, you live here at the entrance to the court. Are you absolutely sure you didn't see or hear anyone drive in and out of here last Friday morning? Probably around seven?'

Cutter shook his head. ‘If I did, I wouldn't have thought anything about it,' he said. ‘As you found out this morning, not everybody in here is retired, and some of them leave for work around that time. Sorry, Sergeant, but I can't help you.'

Neither did things get any better when Tregalles went back to Doyle's caravan to see how Kirkpatrick was getting on.

‘Trouble is, I don't really know what I'm looking for in all this jumble,' Geoff said. ‘Nor can I find anything that would give me a clue to where he might have gone, and I certainly haven't found anything that connects him to Ireland.'

‘What about a workbook? Jobs he was working on? Could he have tucked that away somewhere? Maybe in his van?'

Geoff shook his head. ‘I've been through everything,' he assured Tregalles, ‘and if there ever was one, it's gone as well.'

Tregalles had intended to meet Molly in the Red Lion at lunchtime, but when it became clear that there was nothing to be gained by staying on, he rang her on her mobile phone to tell her that he and Geoff were on their way back to town. ‘How about you?' he asked. ‘Any luck?'

‘Not so far, but I've only just arrived at the pub, so perhaps I'll do better here. I'll let you know later.'

But when Molly rang him later in the afternoon, it was to tell him that she, too, had little to show for her day out. ‘Dr Chandler tried, but he wasn't much help,' she told him. ‘He did give me the name of another man who was also passing the cottage at the same time that morning, a man by the name of Dawlish. But when I went to see Dawlish at his house in Whitcott Lacey, there was no one home, and a neighbour told me that he and his wife left for Lowestoft last Sunday to visit their daughter, and they're not due back until the weekend.

‘I contacted Emma Baker at the college, and she suggested coming back to the Red Lion about eight this evening, when all the regulars will be in, so I'll come back then. Meanwhile, I'm coming in now; I have more than enough work on my desk to keep me busy for the next hour or two.'

Tregalles sat back in his chair, fingers linked behind his head. Eight o'clock at the Red Lion. Not a bad idea at that, he thought. Perhaps he should go along with Molly. Two could ask more questions than one.

What little sun there had been throughout the day had disappeared behind the hills, and a blustery wind tugged at Paget's coat as he made his way to his car. Another nasty night by the look of it, he thought, and the sooner he was home, the better. He glanced at the time as he drove out of the yard. Almost six! He'd meant to leave earlier, but it seemed there was always just one more thing to be done before he could tear himself away.

How very different things were now, he thought as he drove out of the yard. Before Grace Lovett had come into his life, he'd spent many of his evenings at work simply to avoid returning to an empty house. But now, with Grace there to welcome him, it was a completely different story.

If
Grace was there to welcome him. It was a sobering thought, and one he did not welcome, but it refused to go away.

Grace had been working late a lot these past few weeks. Her job as a SOCO analyst was a demanding one, as was his own, but it was happening far too often for his liking, especially as he wasn't convinced that she was fully recovered from her encounter with Mary Carr a few short months ago. She'd made light of it, insisting that she was fine, but
something
wasn't right, and if not that, what was it?

‘I think I should have a word with Charlie,' he'd said at breakfast one morning. ‘I know you're short-handed, and he depends on you for analysis, but I think he's forgotten just how bad that experience was for you at New Year. I'm sure SOCO could get along without you if you took some time off.'

But Grace had demurred. ‘It won't be for long,' she assured him. ‘And Charlie has been more than understanding. Besides, I feel perfectly fine. The psychologist pronounced me fit for work, and I don't want it to look as if you're asking for special treatment for me.'

‘And the dreams?' he said. ‘You know you've not been sleeping well.'

An impish smile crossed Grace's face. ‘And whose fault is that?' she teased. ‘Not that I'm complaining.'

He hadn't been able to stop himself from smiling in return, even though he knew that Grace had deliberately turned the conversation. God, he loved that woman, but he still found it hard to believe that she was in love with him. And looking back, he simply couldn't understand how he could have been so blind for so long. So much wasted time. But at least they were together now, and he couldn't be happier – except for the nagging thought that
something
was worrying Grace. He couldn't put his finger on it, but there were times when he would catch a glimpse of a haunted look in her lovely eyes – gone instantly the moment he asked her what was wrong.

‘Just a bit tired, that's all,' she'd say, and start talking about something else.

‘I think the sooner you get rid of that flat in Friar's Walk, the better,' he'd said one evening. Even now, the very thought of what had happened there sent shivers down his spine, and it must surely do the same for Grace.

‘Except there's a stiff penalty for breaking the lease,' she reminded him.

‘Better that and be rid of it than paying rent for another six months on a flat you're not using,' he'd countered. But Grace had seemed reluctant to talk about it, and he'd dropped the subject, afraid of stirring up the very memories he so desperately wished she could banish from her mind.

What he couldn't banish from his own mind was the fear that Grace's reluctance to get rid of the flat was prompted by her desire to keep her options open. He was as sure as anyone could be that she loved him, but perhaps the transition had been too sudden after leaving hospital, and she needed time to get used to it. Perhaps she was afraid that living together would deprive her of the independence she'd enjoyed for so many years.

He hoped Grace wouldn't be late again tonight.

But there was no car in the driveway when he arrived. Disappointed, he climbed the steps to the front door, where he paused for a couple of minutes to look down the empty road before going inside.

He shed his coat and tie, washed, and began to prepare for dinner. They'd agreed, after several false starts, that he would stick to such basic things as peeling spuds, preparing vegetables, and setting the table, but Grace would do the cooking, and they would share the washing up.

He'd been in for half an hour when he heard her car. Not too late, tonight, he thought, but when, after three or four minutes, Grace hadn't come in, he went into the front room to look out of the window.

The car was there and Grace was in it, head back against the headrest, eyes closed, hands still on the wheel. He watched her for a moment. Tired, he told himself. She was simply tired after a hard day's work. He'd done the same himself after driving home. And yet he couldn't shake the feeling that there was more to it than that.

Grace opened her eyes and looked up at the window. It was as if she knew he'd be there. She smiled and waved, then got out of the car and ran lightly up the steps.

‘Sorry I'm late, darling,' she called as she opened the door. She shrugged out of her coat and tossed it on the oak settle beside the grandfather clock in the hall. ‘Miss me?' she asked as he came to meet her and put his arms around her.

‘I miss you whenever you're not with me,' he told her.

‘Flatterer,' she said, and kissed him, ‘but I like it.' She leaned back to look at him, hands still clasped behind his neck, and suddenly there were tears in her eyes. ‘Oh, Neil, I love you so much,' she whispered, and pulled him to her so fiercely that he gasped for breath. He held her close; she was trembling.

‘Grace . . .' he began hesitantly, but before he could phrase the question, she pulled back, then kissed him again. ‘You must be ravenous,' she said, ‘and here I am keeping you from your dinner. What
are
we having for dinner, anyway?'

‘Your call,' he said as she slipped away, ‘but it had better be something that goes with potatoes, carrots and cauliflower. Roast beef would be nice.'

‘Dreamer,' she called back as she ran up the stairs to change. ‘How about grilled veal chops and a cream sauce for the cauliflower?'

‘Sounds good to me,' he called after her. He followed her with his eyes until she disappeared, then slowly made his way toward the kitchen. Grace was right, he
had
been hungry, but now, in these last few seconds, he seemed to have lost his appetite.

T
here could be little doubt that most people in the pub that night knew who they were when Molly and Tregalles walked in. The hum of conversation died as they made their way to the bar, and stopped altogether when Emma said, ‘Back again, then, Sergeant,' loud enough for those close by to hear. ‘Any news, yet?'

‘Nothing so far, I'm afraid,' he told her, ‘which is why we're here now. Any chance of giving us a few minutes of your time?'

Emma shook her head. ‘Afraid not for a while,' she said. ‘As you can see, we're pretty busy. Perhaps a bit later? Meanwhile, what are you having? We have Banks Mild, Banks Bitter, Draught Bass or Caffreys.'

‘I'll have a Banks Mild,' he said. ‘And make it a pint. We could be here for a while.'

Emma drew the pint and set it on the bar. She smiled as she looked at Molly. ‘You're driving, I take it,' she said. ‘What's it to be? Orange juice?'