Gift Wrapped (24 page)

‘Once. Over the years we had a succession of the things. What businessman did not own a typewriter?'

‘What did you do with them?'

‘Threw them out years ago,' Mrs Bartlem explained. ‘When the word processors came in, the typewriters went out.'

‘Very well.' Yellich tapped his ballpoint pen on his notepad. ‘So, your husband, can we ask you about him?'

‘Yes ... Edward ... it is so distressing not knowing what happened. It was awful.'

‘You don't know what happened?' Carmen Pharoah asked.

‘No.' Mrs Bartlem shook her head vigorously. ‘No, I don't. As I have just said, I don't know what became of him.'

‘He disappeared ... we believe.' Yellich raised an eyebrow.

‘Yes, we were holidaying in France about ten years ago.' Mrs Bartlem gave a quick nod of her head. ‘We had a camper van. He went for a walk one evening and he simply never returned.'

‘Was it normal for him to go away by himself?'

‘Oh ... not generally ... he was not a man who liked solitary pursuits but it became quite normal during that particular holiday. He just needed time to himself each evening,' Mrs Bartlem explained. ‘I think he was tired of the company of myself and my sister ... we argued a lot during the holiday, you see, me and my sister, I mean, and Edward got fed up with it all. He'd walk away after supper for an hour or so ... but never went far and he always came back; then one evening he didn't return.'

‘I see.' Yellich once again tapped his ballpoint pen on his notepad. ‘That was near the Belgian border, we believe?'

‘It was ... yes.' Mrs Bartlem's voice faltered. ‘You have been doing your homework.'

‘We chatted to your brother-in-law, Paul Bartlem,' Yellich explained.

‘Paul?' Mrs Bartlem glanced up at the ceiling. ‘I bet he had little good to say about me.'

‘He was ... shall we say, helpful ... he was very helpful.' Yellich avoided eye contact. ‘You reported your husband as missing to the French authorities?'

‘Yes, yes,' Julia Bartlem replied, ‘of course we did.'

‘But not to the Belgian authorities?'

‘No, there was no reason to do that because he went missing in France,' Julia Bartlem replied, once again defensively. ‘We didn't think to report him as a missing person in Belgium.'

‘Despite the area where he went missing to be right on the Belgian border? He could easily have wandered into Belgium.'

‘No,' she shook her head, ‘despite that. It never occurred to us. In fact, Belgium was beyond walking distance for Edward. He could manage about two or three miles, that's all. We were at least ten miles from the border when we stopped for supper that evening.'

‘It's all right,' Yellich smiled, ‘we have been in contact with the Belgian authorities anyway.'

Julia Bartlem paled in an instant.

‘Just before we came out here, in fact,' Carmen Pharoah added, noting with interest as she did so how Mrs Bartlem's complexion lost all its colour.

‘If it should transpire that a missing person was reported to the Belgian police at the time of your husband's disappearance, and that person proves to be your husband by description and DNA matching,' Yellich continued, ‘and if his corpse shows signs of violence ... then ... well, then that will be murder inquiry for the Belgian authorities, and if that does prove to be the case then I am sure they'll want to interview you. You have no plans to go anywhere, I hope?'

‘No ... no plans,' Julia Bartlem replied with a shaking voice. She cleared her throat. ‘No plans at all, not of that sort, anyway.'

‘Good.' Yellich stood, as did Pharoah. ‘We'll see ourselves out. Thank you for your time and your cooperation.'

The house, observed Webster, was of a solid, self-assured appearance, timber framed with plaster infill which was painted a pale yellow, with the timber being picked out in black gloss. The house was set back from the main road at the edge of the village of West Lutton, approximately ten miles to the east of York. It had, he estimated, a full acre of neatly cared-for garden. Webster parked the car at the verge of the road and he and Ventnor walked side by side up the paved driveway to the front door of the house. They were not, much to their surprise, greeted by freely roaming guard dogs. At the front door which had, they saw, been treated with a liberal coating of varnish, they halted and Webster rapped on it using the large metal knocker. The sound of the knocker was heard to echo loudly in the house, but other than that the only sound the officers heard was that of songbirds and the occasional car passing along the road behind them. Eventually the door was opened casually by a woman who instantly gave Webster the impression that he had seen her before.

‘Police.' Ventnor showed her his ID and Webster did likewise.

‘Yes?' The woman smiled; she stood confidently on the threshold of her house, remaining calm and casual in her manner. ‘How may I help you, gentlemen?'

‘Well, we are actually looking for a Mr Mellish,' Ventnor explained. ‘Is this the correct address?'

‘It is ... I am Mrs Mellish. My husband is at work at the moment.'

‘I see.' Webster replaced his ID card in his jacket pocket. ‘When is Mr Mellish due to return, please?'

‘Whenever he feels like it is the answer to that question, I'm afraid.' Mrs Mellish looked beyond the officers for a brief moment and then returned her attention to them. ‘He is self-employed, you see, and so he does not keep to a routine. He is starting up a new venture at the moment and seems to be working exceedingly long hours.'

‘Can I ask the nature of the business?' Webster asked as he tried to place the woman. She seemed to him to be so familiar somehow.

‘Frankly,' Mrs Mellish replied, ‘he hasn't got one. Unlike someone who has a particular skill, my husband's business is everything and anything. If it makes money he will work it and take the necessary risks, but he is very good at assessing the risks involved and wins much more than he loses.'

‘Yes,' Ventnor cast an eye over the house, ‘he certainly seems to be successful.'

‘He frequently buys struggling businesses, turns them round, makes them a going concern and then sells them for a handsome profit. He is good at that but he has other irons in the fire. As I said, he does anything and everything.' Mrs Mellish gave a slight shrug of her shoulders. ‘He definitely has the Midas touch.' She wore a lightweight summer dress, of pale yellow, which blended well, Webster thought, with her house. ‘With a little bit of seed money he can build up a very nice business,' Mrs Mellish added. ‘He has earned the nickname “Mr Mustard”, of which he is quite proud.'

‘Mr Mustard?' Webster queried.

‘Yes ... as in a large tree growing from a small seed.' Again Mrs Mellish looked beyond the officers for a second as if, Ventnor thought, searching for someone, then once more she returned her attention to Webster and Ventnor.

‘Well, again,' Ventnor remarked, ‘he seems to have earned that nickname.'

‘Yes. I am very lucky to have a house like this to manage,' Mrs Mellish replied. ‘It's bought and paid for, no nonsense about a mortgage. This and our house in Norway.'

‘Norway?' Webster could not contain his surprise. ‘That's a little out of the ordinary.'

‘Yes,' Mrs Mellish smiled warmly. ‘Unusual, don't you think? Most people have villas in Spain or somewhere, but we have a small house in Norway and we holiday there each year, if my husband can afford to take the time off. That's the constraint – not the cost involved, but whether he can afford the time. It's in a little town called Voss, by a lake, halfway between Bergen and Oslo. Do you know it?'

‘Can't say I do,' Webster replied.

‘Me neither,' Ventnor added.

‘Oh ... I tell you ... it's delightful ... the midnight sun effect, the endless pine woods – it is all so mystical. If you go into the woods when the sun is casting long shadows you can see why the Scandinavian folklore is always full of trolls and goblins ... you see such strange shadows in the half-light. My husband also owns a few houses in York which he lets to university students. He sees those properties as a sort of safety net. If all else fails, then we still have the rental properties to provide an income for us. We could retire now on what rents they generate.'

‘I see.' Ventnor nodded. ‘What is the nature of his present venture?'

‘It is a “park and ride” idea,' Mrs Mellish explained. ‘It is not an original idea by any means. Many local authorities run such schemes but this will be a wholly private venture and that, I confess, is all I know. It is, in fact, all I am permitted to know. My husband ... well, he does not and never has included me in his business life. I am to take care of the house and not to ask questions – not too many, anyway. I am a rich man's wife and I am expected to look the part. I must also manage his house and help to entertain his guests. I just don't get to be part of the wheeling and dealing of my husband's business world, nor in fact do I particularly want to be part of it. Running this house is a full-time job as it is.'

Still Webster could not place the woman, and was beginning to feel irritated that he could not.

‘Can you tell us,' Ventnor asked, ‘if your husband ever mentioned a man called Wenlock, James Wenlock?'

A look of alarm flickered in her eyes. Both officers noticed it. Her head jolted slightly but Mrs Mellish replied, ‘No.' Though the name clearly meant something to her, she nonetheless replied, ‘No, I think I would have remembered that name, Wenlock ... Wenlock ... It isn't the name of a relative or of a family friend and, as I said, I am not privy to his business dealings and contacts.'

‘Are you sure?' Webster pressed.

‘Yes,' she persisted, ‘very, very sure.' But a distinct edge of nervousness had crept into her voice.

‘Mrs Mellish,' Webster continued, ‘if you are hiding something then I must warn you ...'

‘I am hiding nothing,' she replied indignantly, ‘nothing, I tell you ... nothing. I know nothing of my husband's business affairs, nothing but the bare outlines and no one called Wenlock.'

‘This would have been about ten years ago,' Ventnor added.

‘You're both like a dog with a bone!' Mrs Mellish hissed. ‘I don't remember what I did yesterday, never mind ten years ago.'

‘He ... that is, Mr Wenlock, was an accountant with Russell Square,' Ventnor continued. ‘It was Russell Square who provided us with your address. Mr Mellish, your husband, was one of Mr Wenlock's clients ... if that might jog your memory.'

‘Well, it doesn't, will you please listen to me? I tell you, there really is no memory to jog. I can't make it any plainer than that.' Mrs Mellish was adamant. ‘And as I said, if my husband, Mr Mellish, had dealings with an accountant then I would definitely be the last one to know. I just would not have been involved. I am the little woman at home, remember? His to come home to ... slippers by the fire and supper on the table and I am kept well in my place. It's just my lot in life, but I do not complain because my husband has provided us with a very high standard of living. I am content with that.'

‘All right,' Webster smiled, ‘just so long as we are clear about that. Can we ask where your husband's business premises are?'

‘In York.' Mrs Mellish seemed to relax, rapidly so. ‘I don't know the address but it's in the
Yellow Pages
. Mellish Finance is the business name. I will have to phone him and let him know you have called here and that you will be calling on him. He will expect me to do that.'

‘And we would also fully expect you to do that,' Ventnor replied, ‘but thank you for your time.'

Walking away from the house, Ventnor said, ‘The name Wenlock meant something to her.'

‘I know,' Webster replied, ‘I also saw that look flash across her eyes. As you say, the name holds significance for her.' He fell silent as he and Ventnor continued to walk back to the road and their car. Then he added, ‘But as well as that, as well as the fact that she was hiding something, I am convinced that I have seen her somewhere before. I can't place her ...'

‘It'll likely come to you,' Ventnor offered encouragingly.

It likely came to Webster as Ventnor, who drove the car on the return journey, slowed to a halt at the set of traffic lights. He buried his head in his hands and then turned to Ventnor and said, ‘I know who it is ... her ... back there. I know I haven't seen her before, I've seen her sister. That is Mrs Bartlem's twin sister, I know it is. Mrs Mellish and Mrs Bartlem are ... or they were, the Cleg sisters. They were the Cleg twins. The evil Cleg twins. It was her, Mrs Mellish, who was on holiday with Mr and Mrs Bartlem when Edward Bartlem allegedly went for a stroll from which he never returned.'

‘Allegedly,' Ventnor repeated softly, ‘allegedly ... but if you are right, and she is the second Cleg sister ... then she certainly becomes a person of interest.'

Alice Mellish closed the door on Ventnor and Webster and walked calmly to the lounge of her house, curled on to the settee and sat in a feminine posture with her legs folded under her. She examined her left-hand fingernails as she calmly reached for her mobile phone with her right hand. She keyed in a number, pressed ‘call' and when her call was answered she didn't introduce herself, said only, ‘They've visited. Just left a minute ago.'

‘Suspicious?' asked the other person.

‘Yes,' Mrs Mellish smiled, ‘deliciously so. It was like watching a fish swallow a hook or rather like watching two fishes swallowing a hook each.'

‘You didn't overact, I hope?' asked the voice on the phone.

‘No ... no ... I was very careful. They mentioned James Wenlock's name, as we expected, and when they did so I allowed the slightest hint of recognition of the name to cross my eyes. I definitely know they saw it because they then warned me about withholding information.'