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Hard Evidence. Emma Page
Читать онлайн.Название Hard Evidence
Год выпуска 0
isbn 9780008171858
Автор произведения Emma Page
Издательство HarperCollins
Whenever she came back she would be listened to sympathetically. If it turned out that some illness had overtaken her, if she had suffered any kind of breakdown, then she would – if she so wished – be reinstated and her absence treated as sick leave, with backdated pay.
But if it should turn out that she had decided to leave permanently, had found herself another job, maybe, there would be no difficulty about that. She would be given any references she might require, very good references, too. She would be advised about pension rights.
As to what Fielding’s own private guess might be, he admitted he still felt no real concern. He had employed a good deal of female labour for some years now; sudden departures, abrupt termination of employment, unexplained absences, brief or more lengthy, were by no means unknown. He smiled. ‘Usually it’s for some personal reason – when a reason is ever given. You learn not to ask too many questions; you don’t want to find yourself involved in some emotional mishmash, drowned in floods of tears.’
On that score, no, he knew of no boyfriend among the Advertiser staff. ‘But I would scarcely expect to know,’ he added. ‘I never concern myself with gossip, there’s far too much work to be done. Audrey Tysoe – Julie’s landlady at Honeysuckle Cottage; she used to run Personnel here till she retired – she’d be far more likely to know about anything like that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If there’s nothing further, I do have an appointment.’
Lambert rose at once. He thanked Fielding for his time, his assistance. If he learned anything definite he would be sure to let Fielding know. Fielding promised to do the same.
Fielding shook hands, walked with him into the corridor. ‘I don’t for one moment think anything’s happened to Julie,’ he said with conviction. ‘In my opinion she’s a girl well able to take care of herself.’
On Monday morning Chief Inspector Kelsey returned from his conference in a worse state than ever. Late nights, smoke-filled rooms, food and drink far too abundant, too indigestible.
A great many matters clamoured for his attention. Very low on his list of priorities came the unknown whereabouts of Miss Julie Dawson. He listened with ill-concealed impatience as Lambert sketched in a brief account of his endeavours with regard to the missing girl. Towards the end of the sergeant’s recital the Chief burst into a paroxysm of coughing. He reached into a drawer and laid hold of yet another bottle containing yet another lethal-looking mixture. He took an extra-long swig, totally heedless by now of all warnings on all labels.
He replaced the bottle in the drawer and sat leaning forward, gasping. No good, he thought, I’m going to have to give in. I can’t go on like this. For once in his life he was going to have to do what the doctor ordered, remove himself from the scene for a couple of weeks. He didn’t give a tuppenny toss where, just somewhere quiet and soothing, where he could let his mind go completely blank, let peace wash over him.
He became aware that Lambert had finished his spiel and was waiting for his response. The Chief pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘I can’t see anything in it. She’s a grown woman, not a child. She’s able to please herself as to what she does, where she goes. I’ve decided to take some leave, I’m never going to feel right till I do. You can forget Julie Dawson. Drop the case.’
Lambert at once suggested that he should take some leave himself at the same time. He still didn’t feel one hundred per cent right.
‘Fine,’ the Chief agreed without hesitation. ‘Good idea. Better get started clearing up the odds and ends. Don’t want to leave things in an almighty mess.’ A thought struck him. ‘Those relatives of the girl, what was the name? Eardlow, that was it. Better get over there to see them, have a word in person.’ Old folk, easily overwhelmed by anxiety, justified or not; a letter or phone call would be too impersonal, would do little to calm their fears.
On Thursday afternoon Lambert managed to find an hour to spare for the Eardlows. This time he didn’t let them know he was coming. He was quite certain he would find them both at home and the last thing he wanted was for the two of them to wear themselves out cleaning and polishing, preparing another elaborate tea.
And he did find them both at home, watching an old film on television. They searched his face apprehensively, fearful of what he might be about to disclose. He tried to reassure them, leave them in a hopeful frame of mind. They did their best to oblige him by assuming looks of buoyant optimism but he was far from sure that he had succeeded in his attempt.
‘Don’t forget,’ he reminded them as he left. ‘Let us know the moment you hear anything from Julie.’
By Friday afternoon Kelsey and Lambert had cleared their desks. The Chief had booked himself a cruise, a cancellation vacancy. He was due to board the ship on Sunday, not without deep misgivings. ‘You’ll love it,’ they told him encouragingly in the police canteen. ‘All those footloose, blue-rinse ladies. Six to one, the ratio, by all accounts.’ It was not what he wanted to hear.
Sergeant Lambert had not as yet decided where to go. He would allow himself a day or two to unwind, think about it, decide between the attractions of Sussex and Wales.
His landlady had been delighted to learn he would be taking himself off. She had made immediate plans for having his room redecorated while he was away.
When he came in on Friday evening, relaxed and smiling at the thought of two weeks of utter idleness, she asked when he was likely to be off.
‘All in good time,’ he promised.
By the time he had washed and changed, eaten his meal, he had more or less decided on Sussex. It would be good to see his sister and her family again. Two or three times during the evening he picked up the phone. Once he got as far as beginning to tap out the number. But always something niggled at his mind, preventing him from going further, some little point of disquiet he couldn’t identify. Always he replaced the receiver.
On Saturday morning he woke early to discover, the moment he reached consciousness, that the niggle had at last declared itself: what if it wasn’t Julie Dawson but someone else who had returned the caravan keys to the estate agent? Someone who didn’t know about the arrangement with the farmhouse, someone who cleared Julie’s things out of the caravan, locking it afterwards. Someone who read the agent’s address on the key tag, put the keys in an envelope, drove into Cannonbridge during the hours of darkness, slipped the keys in through the letter box.
He linked his hands behind his head and lay staring up at the ceiling. He could spend the first few days of his leave here, in his digs; use them to have another unobtrusive little ferret round on his own. He wouldn’t be a detective sergeant on duty, just a holidaying member of the public. Nothing to stop him touring round the area; no law against chatting to folk here and there.
More than once in the course of Sunday his landlady permitted herself to display overt signs of irritation. Deep sighs, clicks of the tongue, shakes of the head. By evening she could contain herself no longer.
‘I can’t for the life of me think why you should want to hang round Cannonbridge when you’re supposed to be on leave,’ she burst out at him. ‘Any ordinary normal human being’ – by which she meant any citizen not in the police force – ‘would be only too glad to get away from the place for a real break. Heaven knows it’s no beauty spot.’
Lambert judged it prudent to offer no reply.
Shortly before ten on Monday morning he began his unobtrusive little ferret round by driving over to Calcott House.
The holiday season was advancing towards its peak. The car park was a good deal more crowded than on his previous visit, the number of guests had visibly increased, there was considerably more bustle.
As he came