Private Sorrow, A (17 page)

The two women hurried out to the car, which was parked in Baltic Street. The rain was quite heavy and Marigold was grateful for the lift. The town centre was busy with people going out for the evening and the lit shop windows reflected off the wet pavements. ‘I wish you didn’t live on the other side of the river, Marigold,’ said Molly.

‘But you like living in your flat, don’t you, Molly?’

Molly said she did but it was a bit lonely in the evenings. Marigold had a suggestion. ‘Is there no place you can go to? Like an evening class or something like that?’

‘If there was an evening class for sleuths, then I’d gladly join that,’ said Molly, laughing.

Within five minutes, the car drew up at Craig Pier. The two women noticed the boat had already docked and Marigold quickly made her way down the walkway and on to the Fifie. Marigold stood on the lower deck and waved until the paddle steamer began to slip away from her moorings and headed for Newport. Molly was glad she wasn’t on it as the sight of the dark water made her shiver. She stood until the ferry was almost in the middle of the river before she turned the car around and made for home. Molly felt another familiar pang of loneliness but she decided she’d spend the evening reviewing the case again.

A white envelope was lying on the mat as she opened the office door. It was addressed to Miss McQueen and had obviously been delivered after she’d left with Marigold. Wondering who could have left it, she carried it upstairs to the flat. Inside was a single piece of paper from Maggie Flynn. Dear Miss McQueen, I hope you don’t mind me delivering this letter, I thought I would leave it with you when I went to the pictures with my friend. I’ve been thinking all day about the name Pedro and I’ve remembered where I heard it. My brother Jimmy has a workmate called Peter Walsh who lives at 28 Alexander Street. A couple of years ago, I heard someone call him Pedro but he said not to call him by that name as his wife Donna didn’t like it. He said it made him sound Spanish and that annoyed her. I hope this is a help to you and thank you for being so kind to me today. Yours sincerely, Maggie Flynn.

Molly almost danced with joy. This could very well be Etta’s one-time boyfriend. If it hadn’t been so late she would have gone to see him tonight but she planned to go tomorrow. Hopefully he would be able to add some sense to this mystery. She was so glad she had made a friend of Maggie and she would tell her when she saw her next.

She wondered what this Pedro looked like. From what Vina had gathered, Etta had gone out with him for a few weeks but then the relationship, if that was what it really was, had finished. Did they have an argument? Or was it just a youthful flirtation that ended when one of them had a change of heart? Or perhaps it turned out to be more of a friendship? Hopefully all would be revealed tomorrow and this case might get solved. Maybe this Peter Walsh had kept in touch with her and knew her address. But if that was the case why hadn’t he come forward when she disappeared? He must have seen the news of her father’s death in the papers, followed by Etta being reported missing.

According to Vina and Frances, Etta had been a master of keeping secrets. Whether it was to protect her boyfriends from scrutiny or to keep her lies from being detected, there was so much secrecy here that Molly didn’t think she would be able to get to the bottom of it. She would give it her best try though.

Marigold would be landing on the jetty by now and heading for her home. Molly was starting to wish she had gone with her.

Molly was unsure when she should go and see Peter Walsh. According to Maggie, he worked with her brother Jimmy, so maybe he liked to stay in bed later on a Sunday. She also didn’t want to go at dinner time. After a great deal of thought, she decided to go around one o’clock in the afternoon and if that wasn’t suitable, then she could always return at another time. Her desire to see this man was intense. After so many blanks in the story, she had at last found the elusive boyfriend that Mrs Pert had glimpsed that night twenty-four years ago.

It was a dreary wet day when she set off for Alexander Street. The tenements huddled in the rain like grey, stone ghosts and few people were out on the street. A couple of brave souls, wrapped up in their thick coats, were coming out of the little grocer’s shop on the corner of James Street but apart from them, even the children, who normally would be playing in the streets, had decided to stay indoors.

Peter Walsh lived on the second floor of number twenty-eight. A shabby looking door bore a tiny brass nameplate. However, before she reached the door, it was yanked open and a young girl who looked about fifteen rushed out. She had no coat on and was wearing a pair of scuffed slippers on her bare feet. ‘Get a
Sunday Post
and
The People
and don’t forget my twenty Capstan cigarettes,’ an irate male voice shouted loudly.

This was followed by a shrill female tone: ‘Janey, put on your coat and shoes and don’t go out in the rain with your baffies.’

Janey paid no heed to this advice and proceeded to run down the stairs. Molly went to the still open door and knocked. A thin woman with dark curly hair appeared. She was still dressed in her pyjamas with a cardigan buttoned tightly over the top. Molly felt overdressed when faced by this morning ensemble but she was soon brought back to the reason for her visit when the woman spoke. ‘What are you wanting? I hope you’re no selling anything.’

‘Can I speak to Mr Peter Walsh, please?’

The woman’s eyes narrowed and she swept her hair back from her face with a thin hand. ‘What do you want him for?’

‘I’m looking into the disappearance of Etta Barton and I think your husband knew her.’

The woman gawped at Molly. ‘You’re joking. Etta vanished over twenty years ago. What’s Peter got to do with it?’

By now, Molly was getting tired of conducting a conversation on the doorstep. ‘Can I please speak to Peter?’

The woman went to close the door. ‘No, I don’t think so. He won’t even remember Etta Barton.’

No, but you do, Molly thought. Just then, Janey came rushing back upstairs and her mother was annoyed that she had run out in the rain with no proper shoes. ‘Didn’t I tell you to put on your coat and shoes?’

‘Just let the lassie get in the house with my cigarettes and papers for God’s sake Donna,’ said the man’s voice. ‘Who’s that at the door? The one you’re busy yapping with.’

Before Donna could answer, Molly said loudly, ‘Can I have a word with you, Mr Walsh?’

Peter came to the door. He was dressed in his pyjama bottoms and a vest. He also had dark curly hair and his face was unshaven. He looked very tired. ‘What do you want?’ he said, repeating the same words his wife had used.

‘Can I come in?’ asked Molly.

He looked at Donna and she looked dubious but he said, ‘All right but make it snappy.’

Molly was shown into the kitchen and she was glad that she hadn’t come earlier because it looked as if the family had just finished breakfast. The table, with its oilcloth covering, held plates with congealed egg and bacon fat on their surfaces and half-f cups of tea. The room was quite small with a sink at the window and the frying pan and kettle on the cooker. The fireplace still held the ashes from the day before.

A young girl of about eighteen years was sitting at the table. She was also dressed in a short nightdress with a thick woollen cardigan over her shoulders. She had the same black hair as her parents and had been wearing mascara at some point because she now had two black-rimmed eyes, like a panda. She barely looked at the visitor but concentrated on eating her toast. Molly was fascinated by her behaviour because she held the slice of toast in her hand and slowly rotated it, taking delicate little bites from the edges. Molly quickly reviewed her first impression of a panda and now thought she looked more like a squirrel.

The other girl, Janey, sat beside her mother and stared at Molly. It was very off-putting but Molly was determined to know if this man was Pedro, the one-time boyfriend of Etta. ‘I’m really sorry to bother you so early on a Sunday morning,’ she said, feeling a bit ridiculous since it was only a couple of hours until teatime. ‘I wanted to ask you, Mr Walsh, if you can give me any information on a girl called Etta Barton?’

Peter almost choked on his cigarette. He had a deep hoarse cough that spoke of too many cigarettes. He gulped down a swig of tea while Donna glared at her. ‘Etta Barton? Is that was this is all about?’ he said in disbelief.

Molly wanted to know, ‘Is your name Pedro?’

Before he could answer, Donna began to shout, ‘Don’t call him that. I hate that nickname. You would think we were bloody
Spanish
or something.’ She stressed the word Spanish and made it sound derogatory.

Molly silently thought that the Spanish might be annoyed that Peter was one of them. She decided to be extra polite. ‘Mrs Walsh, I’ve been hired by Etta’s mother to try and find out what happened to her. Now, you’re a mother yourself. Wouldn’t you want the same for your girls if this happened to you?’

Donna gave Molly a look that said, at that particular moment, she would be glad of a rest from panda eyes and Janey, who ran out in the rain in her slippers.

Peter said, ‘When I was about sixteen and an apprentice joiner, I went out with Etta for a few weeks. It didn’t last long, as I wasn’t really keen on her, but we went out to the pictures. It wasn’t serious, at least not on my part.’

‘I have spoken to someone who says Etta was in love with you and that she took your relationship very seriously.’

Panda eyes stopped eating her toast and looked at her father in total disbelief. He noticed the look and said crossly. ‘Don’t look at me like that, Andrea. I happened to be a great looking lad when I was young.’ He shrugged. ‘Well, she might have been serious, but I wasn’t and she knew it.’

‘Did you tell her it was over?’

He looked guilty. ‘No. I’d met Donna by then and I dropped Etta. I just stopped seeing her and I think she got the message.’ On seeing Molly’s look, he said, ‘That was what we used to do when we were young – have lots of girlfriends before settling down and getting married.’

‘I never liked that Etta,’ said Donna. ‘I mean, she wasn’t pretty and she had a funny nature.’

‘Do you think the fact that you left her made her run away, Peter?’

He lit another cigarette and blew the smoke up to the ceiling. ‘No. We split up a few weeks before that all happened.’ He leant his arms on the table. ‘Look, I was very sorry when I heard about Etta and her dad. In fact, I still feel sorry for Vera Barton, but nothing good comes from digging about in the past. Will you tell Vera that?’

Molly said, ‘I think she knows that but she wants to know the truth, regardless of what might come up.’ Molly couldn’t think of any more questions, so she thanked them and said, ‘I’m sorry I disturbed you on a Sunday.’

Donna stood up to show her to the door. ‘It doesn’t matter. Sunday, Monday, Tuesday – they’re just days to me.’ She stood on the stair landing. ‘Look at this dump. Trying to bring up a family in this house is terrible. We all live on top of one another. We’re waiting for a key to a new house in Kirkton and then we’ll all have our own room, plus a kitchen and bathroom. The girls keep asking when they’ll be able to have a bath. Janey’s even bought a jar of bath salts. Oh well, maybe next month we’ll hear from the Corporation.’

Molly suddenly felt a wave of sympathy for the woman. For all her bravado, she was only wanting the best for her family, just like Vera had wanted for Etta. Molly handed her a card. ‘If you can think of anything else about Etta, please get in touch with me.’

Donna looked at the card and said, ‘All right.’

Molly took hold of Donna’s hand. ‘I hope you get your key for the new house soon and I really mean that.’

Donna nodded as she went back inside her house and Molly descended the stairs to the street. The rain was heavier than ever and Molly pulled up the collar of her coat before hurrying away down the Hill to her own flat, which was about the same size as Donna and Peter’s house. Her flat had one occupant while the other had four. She felt disappointed and deflated. She had pinned so much hope on finding Pedro and now it turned out that he didn’t know what had been in Etta’s mind. It was another blank wall.

The woman was almost incandescent with rage. It burned like a fire in her heart and she could barely hide her hatred. That nosy woman, Molly McQueen, was the cause of her anger. Why was she raking up all this old muck? Etta Barton was truly in the past and that’s where she should stay. Not picked over like yesterday’s dinner. Of course, it was all the fault of Vera Barton. Why didn’t she let the past stay hidden? Trying to find out the truth would be like facing the jaws of hell. Well, there would be tears soon or even worse, she thought. Oh yes, she would make sure of that. Vera Barton and Molly McQueen had better watch their steps.

Phil had received his call-up papers and was leaving on the Monday night. When he had met Mary at Kidd’s Rooms on Saturday night he had said, ‘Will you come to see me off at the station, Mary? My train leaves at half past six.’

Mary had said she would and now she stood on the platform along with Stan, Phil’s parents and his two sisters. The two girls, who were younger than Phil and still at school, looked like they had been crying. The conversation was a bit stilted. Mary and Phil were friends but they hadn’t known each other for long. Mary had never stood on a railway platform to say goodbye to anyone and she didn’t know what to say. Also, the fact that his family were standing beside them made her feel shy and tongue-tied.