The Evil that Men Do (27 page)

‘My friend was never without it.'

‘You might go one step better,' said Alan diffidently ‘if you don't mind my making a suggestion. If anyone knows what doctor Ms Carter usually sees  . . .'

‘Of course! That will pinpoint it, and save us a lot of useless telephone traffic. And we can call the doctor, as well, and verify your diagnosis, Mrs Martin.'

He remembered my name, and he was polite, and he apparently believed us. Three points in his favour, to offset the many points his sergeant had lost with his boorish behaviour.

‘You'll let us know  . . .' I said as we left.

‘I will. You've both been of the greatest help, and we owe you that much.'

We were, all three of us, both tired and hungry. We stopped at a pub with a nice garden and ordered beer for two and bangers and mash for three. ‘Alan, I don't think mashed potatoes are very good for dogs,' I objected.

‘If he doesn't want them, I'll eat his serving. I'm hungry enough to eat one of those palominos, bleached blond mane and all.'

We finally dragged ourselves home and let Watson out for a good long run while Alan built a fire and I poured us some bourbon. I was hesitant about letting the dog off the leash at night, but Alan insisted. ‘He'll either come back or he won't, and if he doesn't we can assume he's gone back home.'

‘Yes  . . . but  . . .'

‘I know.' Alan patted my hand and took his glass. Neither of us uttered the words ‘He's not our dog.' Increasingly with every day, every hour, he
was
our dog, and I knew we'd both be miserable if we found his owner.

‘What's next?' I asked after we had sipped enough Jack Daniel's to blunt the edges of our unfruitful day. ‘Do we just wait until someone shows up with that prescription? If someone shows up? I don't think we can count on Ben having a lot of compassion, any more than a clean house.'

‘Actually, he probably does have a clean house. That sort of sociopath usually does. He's as obsessive/compulsive as they come. But he certainly isn't hiding Jo at his own home, and I agree that he's not likely to care overmuch about her comfort or cleanliness. There's one reason, though, why he might care about her health.'

‘Yes, I'd thought of that. If she had an asthma attack, it might scare him into getting her medicine. Because he needs her to be alive. Dead, she can't lead him to Sarah and Paul and the girls.'

It was a depressing thought. I picked up my glass and then put it down. The way I was feeling, it was too tempting. Drowning my sorrows would only add to them in the end. I saw that Alan hadn't drunk much, either. I queried him with my eyebrows and went to the kitchen to make tea, ‘the cup that cheers but does not inebriate'. It causes other difficulties, taken in the evening by people with bladders our age, but we could deal with that more easily than with a hangover.

‘So. We wait?' I said when we were settled with tea.

‘Unless you think we should keep on looking for the palomino that was at the shed.'

I shook my head. Today had convinced me that was a wild goose chase.

‘Then we wait, until we can think of something more productive.'

I turned on the television. We don't watch much TV, but I didn't feel like talking. There was nothing to talk about except our problem, and we'd been over and over that until there was nothing more to say. Rehashing it was like biting down on a sore tooth to find out that, yes, it still hurt. Television would fill the silence.

I hit a news programme. I don't like watching the news. It's all bad, and there's nothing I can do about it, and on the whole I'd rather be an ostrich. I reached for the remote to change channels, but Alan stayed my hand.

‘ . . . rumours circulating earlier in the pop music scene. Peter James, the latest singing sensation, was earlier reported missing. Now his agents are saying there's nothing in it, that it was simply a publicity stunt, but they're being very close-mouthed about the whole thing. Unusual for an agent not to talk about his superstar, isn't it, Derek? They're apparently not wanting publicity for their publicity stunt.'

A man in another location appeared on the screen. ‘It's very unusual, Glenna, and there's more. Our sources have learned that odd things are going on in and around the Cotswold village of Broadway, where Peter was last reported seen. The police still have no leads at all in the murder of an elderly man just outside Broadway last week, and now someone else seems to be missing. No one's talking about that, either. Coincidence? Or is there something rotten in the village of Broadway, the “jewel of the Cotswolds”?'

‘Damn and blast!' Alan smacked his hand on the arm of his chair, and clicked off the TV. ‘We wanted all that kept quiet, and now some perishing reporter's got hold of it somehow!'

‘But how, Alan? And how did they get the idea that Paul was in Broadway? He was in disguise!'

‘Who knows? Some fan spotted him, I suppose. We don't know that he took any great care not to be seen when he first got back from Birmingham. And of course the murder is a matter of public record. How they know about Jo, I cannot imagine. But I think the first thing we need to do is call Sarah and Paul and reassure them, tell them progress is being made and they need to sit tight.'

A lie, I thought but did not say. I suppose the agonizingly slow process of elimination we'd been going through was progress of a sort. And I agreed that they'd probably be in a bit of a panic if they'd seen the news.

Alan pulled out his mobile to make the call.

‘Yes, this is Alan Nesbitt, and I'd like to speak to the concierge, please.' After a brief pause he repeated his name and the code number he had given the hotel, and asked to speak to Sarah Robinson. Pause. ‘What? Repeat that, please. When? Did they say  . . . I see. Thank you.'

I didn't really need him to tell me, but I asked anyway. ‘They've checked out?'

‘A few minutes ago. Said nothing to anyone, used the automatic checkout system. No one apparently saw them leave. They're gone.'

Of course Alan called the police immediately. Unfortunately, the same condescending sergeant we had encountered before was on duty, and he was not inclined to take the matter too seriously. ‘After all, sir, they've not committed a crime. Not under arrest, are they, or wanted for anything? They've a right to go where they wish.'

Alan's temper was getting shorter and shorter, and he finally clicked the phone off and paced the room, while I worried about his blood pressure. When he could trust himself to speak calmly, he placed the call again and asked the front desk for the inspector's home telephone number. Of course he met with resistance. ‘I realize that,' he said, his voice growing dangerous. ‘This is Chief Constable Alan Nesbitt, and I must speak to your inspector immediately.'

It worked. Alan redialled, and waited. And waited. I could hear when the voicemail system picked up and the tinny voice issued its instructions. Alan left the briefest of messages, and when he sat down again, breathing as if he'd been running, I had a glass of bourbon waiting for him. There is a time to be sensible, and a time to abandon sensibility and soothe one's irritations.

The inspector did not call back, and we spent the rest of the evening in fruitless speculation. The one bright spot in the entire day was the return of Watson, shortly before we went to bed.

TWENTY-NINE

T
hings looked a bit brighter in the morning, as they often do. Alan seldom stays angry for very long, and by the time he'd had some coffee and my super-deluxe scrambled eggs, he was ready to concede that the supercilious sergeant did perhaps have an operating brain cell or two.

I wasn't so sure. ‘What more does he want, for heaven's sake? These people have been threatened, Jo's missing and maybe  . . . well, missing and in danger, we know that for certain, we know that the guy who's after her has a record of violence and has already killed one man, apparently for kicks. Where in that can he not find a reason to get upset that Paul and his mother have vanished?'

‘I think I'll wait to answer that until you don't have a pot of hot coffee in your hand,' he said, looking at me over the top of his glasses in a way I always find hard to resist.

‘You're going to go all calm and reasonable, aren't you? I don't
feel
like being reasonable!'

‘I don't either, really. I'm still annoyed with the chap. He's far too full of himself, but to give him his due, he was only following procedure. I lost my temper and bullied the poor girl at the front desk into giving me the inspector's phone number, a thing I had no right to do – and a fat lot of good it did me. The sergeant's only problem is—'

‘That he's terminally stupid!'

‘Not stupid, not really. Only stolid and lacking in imagination. He'll never rise far in the force, because he can't see into a criminal's mind and work out what he's likely to do. I expect he's a real whizz at writing up reports and checking number plates.'

‘That,' I said, my good humour restored, ‘is the nastiest thing I've ever heard you say about anybody. Except Ben, of course.'

‘Ben is a special case. And I wish to heaven I knew what we were going to do about him. With or without the help of the Gloucestershire constabulary.'

His mobile rang. He glanced at the number and shrugged at me. Not one he recognized. ‘Nesbitt here.' A silence followed. ‘I see.' More silence.

I was nearly dancing with impatience.

‘Pity, but it couldn't be helped.'

I gave him an anguished, silent query with upraised hands. He shook his head.

‘Yes, of course. And thank you.' He clicked off.

‘
What?
' I asked, unable to wait another second. ‘What's a pity?'

‘The fellow came in to fill the epinephrine prescription, but the pharmacist was very busy and didn't remember to phone the police until about an hour later. By then, of course  . . .' He spread his hands.

‘He was long gone.' I sat back, deeply discouraged. It was a bad blow. ‘Well, at least he did fill it. That's more than I expected of him, the monster. I don't suppose he gave an address.'

‘False. He went to a big Boots in Cheltenham and gave a Winchcombe address. Said they'd spent the day in Cheltenham and his wife was in a bad way, forgot to bring her medicine with her and didn't want to risk driving all the way home. The clerk who served him said he was very convincing.'

‘Aren't they supposed to check addresses when it's someone they don't know?'

‘Not if they recognize the doctor's name and registration number. Which of course they did; it's a legitimate prescription.'

I was near tears. ‘It was our only hope, Alan! Jo's only hope. Why can't this guy make just one teeny mistake? Just one. He's not perfect. Nobody's perfect. Why can't our side get a break, just once?'

Alan said nothing. There was nothing he could say.

I poured more coffee, just for something to do. It was cold. I zapped it, but it never tastes as good reheated; neither of us wanted it.

‘He apologized, by the way.'

‘Sorry, I wasn't paying attention.' I was wallowing in the doldrums.

‘Inspector Owen apologized. I gather he gave the sergeant a wigging and told him he was to be informed immediately when I, or you, for that matter, gave the station some information.'

‘That's nice.'

‘Here, buck up, old thing. That means they're looking for Paul and Sarah, and they've put out a call all over the southern half of England.'

‘Wonderful. They haven't been able to find Jo, and we pretty much know she's not more than a few miles away. I'm sure they'll be just as efficient finding Paul and Sarah.'

‘What is it, love? You're not usually so ready to give up.'

‘Oh, Alan, it's all my fault!' I gulped some cold coffee to hide the quiver in my voice. ‘If I hadn't thought up that fool publicity stunt, no one would have ever known Paul was missing, or Peter or whatever you want to c–call him  . . .' I was crying in earnest now.

Alan, over many years of marriage to his first wife and then to me, had learned to cope with a woman's tears. I suppose he'd seen his share of hysterical women in the course of his work, as well. At any rate, he fetched the box of tissues, put it in front of me, and let me get it out of my system.

When I had reached the sniffling stage and started to mop up and blow my nose, he brought me a glass of water, a damp washcloth, and a bottle of ibuprofen. I washed my face and took the medicine and said, ‘How did you know I was getting a headache? I don't have crying jags all that often.' I was embarrassed and realized I sounded belligerent.

‘You may not believe it, but I've wept from time to time myself. I know what happens.'

Of course he had. If I'd cried buckets when my first husband died, certainly a warm, caring man like Alan had cried at the death of his wife. She'd been quite young, too. I felt like an insensitive clod.

‘Now, don't start again. I put the kettle on, and we're going to have some tea and talk sensibly. Are there any biscuits?'

‘In the cupboard over the microwave. They might be a bit stale.'

He rightly ignored that remark and brought, in short order, a tray with all the necessities except the teapot, which followed as soon as the water boiled. I rather enjoyed the novel sensation of being waited on, and began to feel better.

‘Now, then.' Alan tented his fingers in his lecturing mode, and I relaxed. ‘First of all, get rid of any silly notion that any of this was your doing. How long do you think it would have been before word would have leaked out that the fabulous Peter James had disappeared?' He didn't let me answer, but pushed ahead. ‘Second, because of your idea, Rose and Co. were able to pass the thing off casually. You watch, they'll have begun damage control the moment the story went out, and if they can pull it off, and I have every confidence in them, the whole thing will die down like a damp squib.'