Wednesday's Child (15 page)

II

“This must be it, sir,” said DS Richmond as he pulled in behind Patricia Cummings outside the last cottage in a terrace of four, right on the north-western edge of Eastvale, where the road curved by the side of River Swain into the dale. It was a pleasant spot, handy for both the town life, with its cinemas, shops and pubs, and for getting out into the more rural reaches of the dale itself. The holiday cottages were small—just right for a couple—and the view of the entry into the dale proper was magnificent. Of course, the slopes there were not as dramatic as they became beyond Fortford and Helmthorpe, but looking down the valley even in the fading light one could make out the grey, looming shapes of the higher fells and peaks massed in the distance, and the nearer, gentler slopes with their dry-stone walls and grazing sheep showed a promise of what was to come.

Patricia Cummings opened the door, and Richmond entered the living-room with Gristhorpe, who had returned to the station just a few minutes after Richmond had been to see Patricia. She turned on the light, and they looked around the small room that the estate agent would probably describe as cosy, with its two little armchairs arranged by the fireplace. Gristhorpe felt he had to stoop under the low ceiling, even though a few inches remained. He felt like Alice must have done before she took the shrinking potion.

What struck Gristhorpe immediately was the absolute cleanliness of the place. It reminded him of his grandmother's cottage, a similarly tiny place in Lyndgarth, in which he had never seen a speck of dust nor a thing out of place. The dominant smell was pine-scented furniture polish, and the gleaming dark surfaces of wood stood testament to its thorough application. They glanced in the kitchen. There, too, everything shone: the sink, the small fridge, the mini-washer and dryer unit under the counter.

“Did the cleaner do the place?” Gristhorpe asked.

Patricia Cummings shook her head. “No. It was like this when she found it. Spotless. She phoned me because she was sure they were supposed to be staying another two weeks.”

“And were they?”

“Yes.”

“They'd already paid the rent?”

“For a month, altogether. Cash in advance.”

“I see.”

Mrs Cummings shifted from one foot to the other. She was a middle-aged woman, neatly dressed in a grey suit with a pearl blouse and ruff. She had a small lipsticked mouth and pouchy rouged cheeks that wobbled as she spoke. Gristhorpe noticed a gold band with a big diamond cluster biting into the flesh of her plump ring finger.

“They said they were responding to an advertisement we placed in
The Dalesman,
” she said.

“What names did they give?”

“Manley. Mr and Mrs Manley.”

“Did you see any identification?”

“Well, no … I mean, they paid cash.”

“Is that unusual?”

“Not really. Not normal, but it happens.”

“I see.” Gristhorpe looked over towards Richmond, who seemed similarly constrained by the tininess of the place. “Let's have a look around, shall we, Phil?”

Richmond nodded.

“I'll show you,” Patricia Cummings said.

“If you don't mind,” Gristhorpe told her, “it would be best if you waited here. It would give forensics one less person to eliminate, if it comes to that.”

“Very well. Is it all right if I sit down?”

“By all means.”

The stone staircase was narrow and its whitewashed ceiling low.

Both men had to stoop as they went up. Upstairs were two small bedrooms and a bathroom-toilet. Everywhere was just as spotless as the living-room, ceramic surfaces gleaming.

“Someone's really done a job on this, sir,” Richmond said as they entered the first bedroom. “Look, they've even washed the sheets and folded them.” It was true; a small pile of neatly folded sheets lay on the mattress, and the oak chest of drawers shone with recent polish. The same pine scent hung in the air. The second bedroom was a little shabbier, but it was easy to see why. From the neatly made bed and the thin patina of dust that covered the wardrobe, it was clear the room hadn't been used by the cottage's most recent occupants.

“I can't imagine why there'd even
be
two bedrooms,” Richmond said. “I mean, it'd feel crowded enough in this place with two people, let alone children as well.”

“Aye,” said Gristhorpe. “It's old-world rustic charm all right.” Both the sink and the bathtub had been thoroughly cleaned out, and shelves and medicine cabinet emptied.

“Come on,” said Gristhorpe. “There's nothing for us here.”

They went back downstairs and found Patricia Cummings painting her nails. The sickly smell of the polish pervaded the small room. She raised her eyebrows when they entered.

“Are all the cottages rented out?” Gristhorpe asked.

“All four,” she said.

They went outside. The row reminded Gristhorpe of Gallows View, a similar terrace not too far away, where he and Banks had investigated a case some years ago. The light of the cottage next door was on, and Gristhorpe thought he saw the curtains twitch as they walked towards it. Gristhorpe knocked, and a few moments later a skinny young man with long, greasy hair answered.

Gristhorpe introduced himself and Richmond, and the young man let them in. The place was furnished exactly the same as next door: sideboard along one wall, a small television on a stand, two armchairs, an open fireplace, wall-to-wall dark carpets and wallpaper patterned with grapevines against an off-white background. Job lot, no doubt. The young man had made his mark by arranging a row of books along the sideboard, using wine bottles as bookends. They were mostly poetry, Gristhorpe noticed, and a couple of local wildlife guides.

“This won't take long,” he said to the youth, who had introduced himself as Tony Roper. “I'd just like to know if you can tell me anything about your neighbours.”

“Not really,” said Tony, leaning against the sideboard. “I mean, I came here mostly for the isolation, so I didn't do much mixing.” He had a Scottish accent, Gristhorpe noticed, leaning more towards Glasgow than Edinburgh.

“Did you meet them?”

“Just in passing.”

“Did they introduce themselves?”

“The Manleys. Chris and Connie. That's what they said. They seemed pleasant enough. Always had a smile and a hello whenever we bumped into one another. Look, what's wrong? Nothing's happened to them, has it?”

“When did you last see them?”

Tony frowned. “Let me see … It was a couple of days ago.

Thursday, I think. Thursday morning. They were going off in the car.”

“Did they say where?”

“No. I didn't ask.”

“Had they packed all their stuff, as if they were leaving?”

“I'm afraid I didn't notice. Sorry. I was out walking most of the time.”

“It's all right,” Gristhorpe said. “Just try and remember what you can. Did you see or hear them after that time?”

“Come to think of it, I don't reckon I did. But they never made much noise anyway. Maybe a bit of telly in the evenings. That's about all.”

“Did they ever have any visitors?”

“Not that I know of.”

“You never heard them arguing or talking with anyone?”

“No.”

“Were they out a lot?”

“A fair bit, I'd say. But so was I. I've been doing a lot of walking, meditating, writing. I'm really sorry, but I honestly didn't pay them a lot of attention. I've been pretty much lost in my own world.”

“That's all right,” Gristhorpe said. “You're doing fine. What did they look like?”

“Well, he … Chris … was about medium height, with light, sandy-coloured hair brushed back. Receding a bit. He looked quite fit, wiry, you know, and he had a pleasant, open kind of smile. The kind you could trust.”

“Any distinctive features?”

“You mean scars, tattoos, that kind of thing?”

“Anything.”

Tony shook his head. “No. He was quite ordinary looking, really. I just noticed the smile, that's all.”

“How old would you say he was?”

“Hard to say. I'd guess he was in his late twenties.”

“What about the woman?”

“Connie?” Tony blushed a little. “Well, Connie's a blonde. I don't know if it's real or not. Maybe a year or two younger than him. Very pretty. A real looker. She's got lovely blue eyes, a really smooth complexion, a bit pale …”

“How tall?”

“An inch or two shorter than him.”

“What about her figure?”

Tony blushed again. “Nice. I mean, nice so's you'd notice in the street, especially in those tight jeans she wore, and the white T-shirt.”

Gristhorpe smiled and nodded. “Did you notice what kind of car they drove?”

“Yes. It was parked outside often enough. It was a Fiesta.”

“What colour?”

“White.”

“Did they always dress casually?”

“I suppose so. I never paid much attention, except to her, of course. Now I think of it, Chris was a bit more formal. He usually wore a jacket and a tie. You don't think anything's happened to them, do you?”

“Don't worry, Tony,” Gristhorpe said. “I'm sure they're fine. Just one more thing. Did you ever hear sounds of a child there at all?”

Tony frowned. “No.”

“Are you sure?”

“I'd have noticed. Yes, I'm sure. They didn't have any children.”

“Fine. Thanks very much, Tony,” Gristhorpe said. “We'll leave you to enjoy the rest of your holiday in peace.”

Tony nodded and accompanied them to the door.

“You'll let me know, will you, if they're all right? I mean, I didn't really know them, but they
were
neighbours, in a way.”

“We'll let you know,” said Gristhorpe, and followed Richmond to the car.

“Will you be needing me any more?” asked Patricia Cummings.

Gristhorpe smiled at her. “No, thanks very much, Mrs Cummings. You can go home now. Just one thing, could you leave that set of keys with us?”

“Why?”

“So we can let the scene-of-crime team in.”

“But—”

“This
is
important, Mrs Cummings, believe me. I wouldn't ask it otherwise. And don't rent the place out again until we give the OK.”

Her cheeks quivered a bit, then she dropped the keys into Gristhorpe's outstretched hand, climbed into her car and drove off with a screech of rubber. Gristhorpe got into the police Rover beside Richmond. “Well, Phil,” he said, “what do you think?”

“I'm not sure, sir. The description doesn't fit.”

“But it would if they dyed their hair and got dressed up in business clothes, wouldn't it? Both descriptions were vague enough— Brenda Scupham's
and
Tony Roper's.”

“That's true. But what about the car?”

“They could have stolen one for the abduction, or rented one.”

“A bit risky, isn't it? And we've checked all the rental agencies.”

“But we used the descriptions Brenda Scupham gave us.”

Gristhorpe scratched his ear. “Better get back to the rental agencies and find out about
any
couples their general age and appearance. Mention the man's smile. That seems to be a common factor. And the woman is clearly attractive. Someone might remember them.”

Richmond nodded. “You think it was this Manley couple, sir?” “I'm not saying that, but I think we'd better treat them as serious contenders for the moment.”

“It certainly seems odd the way they left the place in such a hurry.”

“Yes,” Gristhorpe muttered. “And that cleaning job. Why?” “Just a fastidious couple, maybe?”

“Maybe. But
why
did they leave in a hurry?”

“Could be any number of reasons,” Richmond said. “A family emergency, maybe?”

“Did you notice a phone in the cottage?”

“No. I suppose that's part of the rustic peace.”

“Mm. There is one thing.”

“Sir?”

“Let's say, for the sake of argument, that they did have to leave because of a family emergency. Nobody could have phoned them, but they could have used the nearest phonebox if they had to keep checking on someone who was ill.”

“You mean they wouldn't have stayed behind to clean up the place, sir?”

“There's that, aye. But there's something odder. The money. They paid cash in advance. How much do these places go for?”

“I don't know, sir. I forgot to ask.”

“It doesn't matter, but it must be a fair whack. Say a hundred and fifty a week.”

“Something like that. And probably a deposit, too.”

“Then why didn't they ask for some of their money back?”

“They might have had a hard time getting it.”

“Perhaps. But they didn't even try. That's three hundred quid we're talking about, Phil. Plus deposit.”

“Maybe they were loaded.”

Gristhorpe fixed Richmond with the closest his benign features could get to a look of contempt. “Phil, if they were loaded, the
first
thing they would do is ask for their money back. That's how the rich get that way, and that's how they stay that way.”

“I suppose so,” Richmond mumbled. “What do we do now?”

“We get the forensic team in, that's what we do,” Gristhorpe said, and reached for the radio.

III

The house was in darkness when Banks got home from the station around ten o'clock that Saturday evening. Tracy, he remembered, was at a dance in Relton with her friends. Banks had grilled her thoroughly about who was going and who was driving. He had been undecided, loath to let her go, but Sandra had tipped the balance. She was probably right, Banks admitted. Barring a punch-up between the Eastvale lads and the Relton lads, a fairly regular feature of these local dances, it ought to be a harmless enough affair. And Tracy was a big girl now.