David Webb 8 - Symbols at Your Door Page 6

  “Carol?”

  There was silence, and he knew with some sixth sense that the house was empty. Nevertheless he went into each room, one after the other, switching on all the lights. As he’d suspected, she was in none of them. The bedroom was exactly as he’d seen it that morning, the duvet plumped and neatly folded back to air the bed. She must have decided to teach him a lesson; probably gone into Shillingham or Lethbridge to the cinema. But, he remembered uneasily, her car was in the garage. Perhaps that bloody man from the Lodge had taken her out again.

  Going back downstairs, he noticed that her handbag, which, when she was in the house, invariably stood on the hall table, was missing. A glance into the cloakroom confirmed that her raincoat had also gone. That was it, then. She was off somewhere enjoying herself. He was all the more aggrieved because he’d been prepared to apologize. All right, stuff her, if that was the way she wanted to play it.

  He walked into the brightly lit sitting-room, crossed to the bar and poured himself a drink. In here the overriding smell was of polish, and the furniture gleamed richly. Obviously she’d been home most of the day.

  The sound of an approaching car took him swiftly to the window, but it didn’t stop. Angrily he swished the curtains closed, turned on the television and sat down, glass in hand, to wait for her.

  ***

  Alison undressed slowly, her mind on the events of the day just passed. The point-to-point had been enjoyable, and Philippa’s pleasure unalloyed. She herself, though, had had to keep dragging her mind back to the present, to the beautiful lines of horse and rider, the countryside and the sun-shine. Left to themselves, her thoughts slid inexorably to Neil and Daphne Warrender. What exactly had happened before his enforced “redundancy”? On past experience it was almost certain a woman was involved. But which? A wife of one of the directors? A secretary? Someone she’d met? Sick with humiliation and the anger she was unable to express, her resolution not to confront Neil with her knowledge had begun to weaken.

  And was their marriage really worth saving? she wondered now. She’d never be able to trust him again. Perhaps, now the children were able to cope, it would be better to separate and salvage some chance of happiness. Though she hadn’t realized it, the last three years had been borrowed time, and the mental strain of yet again trying to forgive and forget was too much to contemplate.

  On the other hand, as she’d decided by the pond, she could wait till Neil again brought up the subject of moving.

  Her tired brain teased at the problem, swinging first one way then the other. At last, still undecided, she climbed into bed and determinedly went to sleep.

  CHAPTER 5

  By the next morning, Stewart’s anger was mixed with unease. He’d slept only fitfully, constantly listening for Carol’s return, and by six o’clock was showered, dressed and pacing the floor. Staying out all night was a different matter from a possible visit to the cinema. Surely she hadn’t left him? A frantic look in the bathroom revealed that her toothbrush was still in the rack, but that meant nothing. She had a special travelling one which she always took on holiday. As for her make-up, how the hell could he tell if she’d taken any of that with her?

  At nine o’clock he phoned his office and announced tersely that he would be late in. Then, schooling his voice to casual inquiry, he rang first Carol’s mother, then Sue Kingdom. Neither of them had seen or heard from her in the last twenty-four hours, and the immediate alarm in their voices did nothing to calm him. “We had a slight tiff,” he explained unwillingly. “I took the children to Rachel’s and she refused to come with us, and when I got home she wasn’t here.”

  Having promised them both to ring as soon as Carol came back, Stewart replaced the phone and stood thinking. A suitcase. Could she have taken one? But if she’d intended staying away, surely she’d have taken her car? Only then, with a cold feeling in his stomach, did he remember he’d not yet recharged its battery. The car’s presence didn’t mean a thing; she couldn’t have used it anyway.

  Going up the stairs two at a time, he opened the boxroom door and stood surveying the collection of trunks, cases and grips from which, only the previous morning, Carol herself had extracted the children’s suitcase. Had that given her the idea? And had she taken another out, later, for her own use? To his frustration he could not tell if one was missing.

  Downstairs again and out into the road. Standing at the gate, he looked to right and left, half expecting to see her come walking towards him. He was tempted to knock on a few doors, ask if she’d been seen, if a taxi had called, but he refrained. He hardly knew anyone here, and didn’t want to look a fool. And what in heaven’s name could he say, anyway?

  Eventually he went back into the house, wrote a note saying, “Please phone the office as soon as you get back. Love, Stewart” and propped it prominently on the hall table. Then, with a last helpless look round, he went out to the car and belatedly set off for London.

  ***

  That evening, Shillingham police received two phone-calls from Beckworth. The first, from a Mr. Giles Parrish, reported a break-in while he and his wife had been at work; the second, from Stewart Dexter, that his wife was missing.

  What the hell had got into that village all of a sudden? Alan Crombie thought irritably. In response to the first call he arranged for Sage, accompanied by Sally Pierce since Perry was down with ‘flu, to go and interview the householders. The list of burglaries was growing daily, he reflected gloomily, and there was still no lead. The second call he ignored, knowing it had been dealt with by the desk sergeant and passed to him only for information.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” Sergeant Fenton had told Stewart, “it’s much too soon to initiate inquiries. From what you say, your wife might well have taken a suitcase with her, which would make it a voluntary disappearance. In any event she took her coat and handbag, which shows she wasn’t just popping out to the post. Yes, sir, I appreciate that you’re worried, but I’m afraid this happens all the time.”

  He listened while Stewart explained about the dinner-party. “We’d some important guests coming this evening, and my wife had prepared two of the courses. She wouldn’t have gone to that trouble if she’d been intending to go away.

  To Fenton, whose wife never prepared a meal until they were about to eat it, this proved exactly the opposite, but he didn’t say so. “Look, sir, we’re always getting calls saying someone’s wife or husband has disappeared, but they almost always turn up again in a day or two. I’m sure it will be the same for you.”

  ***

  In the police car Sally Pierce sat primly, knees together, as far from her companion as possible. She didn’t like Harry Sage, who had leered at her more than once and made suggestive remarks, but he was her superior and she wasn’t in a position to tell him to go to hell. At the moment, fortunately, his mind was on the job.

  “I’m wearing a track to this bloody village,” he said moodily, “and a chi-chi place it is nowadays. Been there lately, Sal?”

  Sally, who intensely disliked being called Sal, shook her head.

  “It’s been prettied up and gentrified, and if you ask me, its life-blood has been sucked out of it. They all live behind high hedges and fences and don’t even know the names of their next-door neighbours. Not much community spirit, I can tell you.”

  Sally made a non-committal reply and looked out of the window at the primrose-starred verges. She loved this time of year, when the trees were bedecked with blossom and the tender green of new growth showed in the hedgerows. As they drove up through the tunnel of trees, she hoped fervently that they’d be back down the hill before dark. She wouldn’t put it past Sage to turn the car into one of these sheltered pathways.

  “Anyway,” he was continuing, “I don’t know why we’re wasting our time on this. Should be turned over to Regional Crime, lock, stock and barrel.”

  The latest burglary victim was awaiting them at his gate, a striking figure with goatee beard and rimless tinted glasses. The bloke they’
d missed last time, presumably.

  “Bloody infuriating!” he greeted them as they got out of the car. “They’ve taken my brand-new music centre and a caseful of compact discs. Must have had a ruddy great van standing by to load it into. It’s a wonder the old folks next door didn’t notice it.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t an alarm system, sir,” Sage said in gentle rebuke. “I’m Detective-Sergeant Sage and this is Miss Pierce.”

  Parrish nodded absently. “We’d never thought it necessary, out here in the sticks. We’ll get one now, though, after the horse has gone. Becoming a high-risk area, isn’t it, two in less than a week.”

  “It’s possible a motorway gang’s involved. The North Park and Hatherley districts of Shillingham have also been hit.”

  “Well, let’s hope you nab them. I suppose you want a statement of some kind? Your fingerprint chaps are all over the house, but my wife’s in the back garden. Shall we go and join her?”

  They walked round the side of the house adjacent to Coppins Farmhouse to an immaculate and colourful garden. Lalage Parrish was on the terrace, watching the Scenes of Crime men through the patio doors. She turned at their approach, a pale, gaunt woman with huge eyes and hollow cheeks, whose unlikely shade of hair—a deep copper—emphasized rather than lessened the wanness of her appearance. She was dressed in a fashionable version of a painter’s smock, and her designer jeans were a his ‘n’ hers replica of her husband’s.

  Parrish performed the introductions, and they seated themselves on the garden bench while Sally made notes. His wife’s main concern was some missing jewellery; a heavy gold pendant studded with turquoise, a cameo brooch and a pair of diamond earrings.

  Harry Sage sat listening to the woman’s low voice and the scratching of Sally’s pen. The early evening sunshine lay slantingly over the grass and lit the tulips to a glowing red. There was a froth of blossom on the cherry trees, and somewhere overhead a lark filled the sky with liquid music. He sighed, recalling his attention as the woman stopped speaking.

  “And as far as you know, that’s all they’ve taken?” he summarized.

  “All?” Lalage Parrish raised her eyebrows. “It’s enough, surely? I hope you can get it back for us.”

  Sage was glad she didn’t know the odds on that one.

  “I trust they know what they’re doing,” Lalage remarked, when Giles returned from seeing the police out. “I didn’t much care for the man. Too cocky by half.”

  “Oh, they think they know it all, these fellows, but the crime figures prove them wrong.”

  She turned to peer through the window again. “I wish they’d hurry up in there. I’m in need of a gin.”

  Out in the road, Sage was about to get in the car when Stewart Dexter came hurrying from the next-door house.

  “So they did take it seriously!” he exclaimed. “Thank God!”

  Sage looked at him in surprise. “Good evening, Mr. Dexter. We always take burglaries seriously. I suppose you didn’t hear anything of this one either? Your other neighbours this time!”

  It was Dexter’s turn to look blank. “You mean you haven’t come about my wife?”

  “Your wife, sir?”

  “I phoned a couple of hours ago to report her missing.” “I’m sorry, sir,” Sage said after a moment, “I know nothing about that.”

  The man’s shoulders sagged. “She wouldn’t just disappear without telling me, particularly with the dinner-party due.”

  Sally said rallyingly, “I’m sure there’s some simple explanation, sir.”

  Dexter ran a hand through his fair curly hair. “I hope to God you’re right,” he said, and stood despairingly on the pavement as the police car drove away.

  ***

  At nine o’clock the next morning Gina Cummings stood outside the locked gates of Beckworth House, wondering if she should ring the bell. As she hesitated, two women came down the short path from the Lodge, and thankfully she called to them.

  Alison, walking towards her, wasn’t sure for a moment who she was. Then she remembered: the woman from Mews Grange.

  “I’m sorry to trouble you,” Gina began, “but I’ve only just heard about Mrs. Dexter.”

  “Who?”

  “Our next-door neighbour. She’s gone missing. Her husband told mine just now, as he was leaving for work. He’s been on to the police, but it seems they’re not taking it seriously. They think she might have gone of her own accord.”

  “Oh?” Alison waited in some bewilderment.

  “But you see, I saw her on Monday afternoon. Here.”

  “Here?”

  “In the grounds. We came to have a look round, and I caught sight of her walking up the drive.”

  “Did your husband tell Mr. Dexter?”

  “No, he didn’t know I’d seen her. She was some distance away, and it didn’t seem worth mentioning at the time.”

  “Was she by herself?”

  Gina nodded.

  “And you’re sure it was her?”

  “Well—almost sure.”

  “So you think Mrs. Dexter was here on Monday afternoon, and she hasn’t been seen since?”

  “Yes, exactly. I was wondering if she could have had an accident in the grounds somewhere? Fainted, or twisted her ankle or something?”

  “But it’s almost two days ago! Surely she’d have attracted attention before this?”

  “If she was conscious,” said Gina, and shivered. “Are the grounds patrolled?”

  “Well, no, but we have a team of gardeners who cover a pretty wide area.”

  “All the same, there must be parts of the grounds that aren’t visited every day.”

  “True. Right, if you think there’s a chance she might be out there we’d better start looking.” She unlocked the small inset gate and Gina walked through. “This is Mrs. Barlow; I’m sure she’ll help us.”

  Having unavoidably overheard the conversation, Hazel nodded to Gina, her round eyes full of concern. She didn’t herself know the incomers along the top road, though of course Joe did, being their milkman. “Poor lady,” she murmured, “I do hope she’s all right.”

  Alison held down a quiver of apprehension. Could someone have been lying out there all this time? It was an unnerving thought. Falling into step, the three women set out on their macabre search.

  There’d been a frost overnight, and under the trees it still silvered the grass. “Let’s go to the place where you saw her,” Alison suggested. “Then we can separate and look in different directions. What time was it, would you say?”

  “Quite late, just before we went home. About five, I suppose. We’d had a cup of tea in the Orangery, and I know that was at four-thirty, because Bob remarked that Mother would be waiting for hers. Then when we came out we went to the shop and I spent some time choosing pots of herbs.”

  “So where was she when you saw her?”

  “Just about where we are now. She’d come up the drive and was standing looking at the House.”

  “If it was five o’clock she’d have been too late for a tour. So the question is, where did she go from here?”

  “If it was me coming for the first time,” Hazel said timidly, “I’d read all those signposts and follow one of them.”

  “Then let’s do that.” Alison ran her eye rapidly over them. “The gift shop’s out. She couldn’t have disappeared there, and the same goes for the antique market. The staff would have been there till they locked up. Which leaves the rose-garden, the walled garden and the lily-pond as the most likely places. If those are no good, we’ll move on to the park, but we’ll need an organized search-party for that. So—” She turned to Gina. “This is ridiculous—I don’t know your name!”

  “I’m so sorry—Gina Cummings.”

  “Then would you take the rose-garden, Hazel the walled garden, and I’ll start with the lily-pond. And if you see any gardeners on your travels, press-gang them to join us. If we’ve no luck, we’ll meet back here and decide what to do next.”

&
nbsp; “And what if we do find her?” Gina asked nervously.

  “Yell for the rest of us. We’ll all keep an ear open.” She paused. “In all probability she’s back home by now, drinking a cup of coffee. And I have to say I wish I was.”

  They nodded sombrely at each other, then turned and set off in their appointed directions. She’d come this way on Saturday, Alison reflected, after hearing Daphne’s bombshell. Now, she walked slowly, heart beating with apprehension, between the tall enclosing hedges and the wide flowerbeds that, in a month or two, would be a riot of colour. It was very still, and she wished suddenly that she hadn’t suggested they separate, that all three of them were searching together. Yet if Mrs. Dexter had really been here since Monday, every minute could be crucial. Where had her husband been, Alison wondered inconsequentially, on a bank-holiday afternoon? It was usually a family time. Though in fact she hadn’t been with her own husband, either.

  She turned into the long straight avenue which led to the pond. High overhead an aeroplane droned lazily over the blue arc of the sky. There was no other, nearer sound. Irrationally, Alison wished she were in it, as moments before she’d wished she were drinking coffee at home. Anywhere, in fact, but here, engaged in this disturbing search.

  As she walked, looking from side to side, she called softly, unwilling to raise her voice in the oddly churchlike silence. Occasionally she bent to peer under overhanging shrubbery, though surely if Mrs. Dexter had collapsed, it would have been on the path or close to it.

  Emerging from the hemmed-in avenue to the open area of the pond, she drew a breath of relief. Seating herself on the bench as she had on Saturday, she ran her eyes slowly round the circumference of the water. There was nothing untoward. On the left-hand bank a group of mallards preened their feathers and across the water a family of moorhens swam self-importantly in single file.