Читать книгу Hard Evidence - Emma Page - Страница 11

CHAPTER 6

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 into the hall he saw the plump, pouter-pigeon figure of Mrs Marchant. She was standing chatting to a family party, her marmalade hair dressed higher than ever. Her sharp, darting eyes came to rest on him; he saw recognition wake in her face. She gave him a little fleeting nod and resumed her chat. He stood to one side, discreetly waiting till she was free. In the to and fro of the hall he caught here and there an American voice, the accents of France and Germany. After a few minutes the family party went off down the front steps and Mrs Marchant came over to him.

She smiled archly as she approached. ‘I remember you,’ she greeted him before he could open his mouth. ‘You lunched here back in the spring, with Miss Dawson.’ She made an apologetic movement of her head. ‘I’m afraid I don’t remember your name.’ Lambert supplied it.

‘It’s about Miss Dawson that I’m here,’ he told her.

She broke in before he could go further. ‘I thought it might be.’ She explained that after the phone call from the Eardlows she had questioned the hotel staff in a fruitless attempt to discover if anyone could offer a guess as to Miss Dawson’s whereabouts. In the course of her questioning she had unearthed the fact that the lunch guest at Miss Dawson’s table that Friday in the spring had been a policeman, a detective sergeant; Miss Dawson had confided as much to Iris, one of the waitresses.

‘The Eardlows told me they were thinking of going to the police if they had no luck with their own inquiries,’ she added. ‘I take it Miss Dawson hasn’t turned up yet?’

‘No, I’m afraid she hasn’t.’ Mrs Marchant clearly took it for granted he was here on an official visit and he didn’t correct this impression.

She apologized for the absence of her husband who had gone into town on business. She took Lambert into the office and sat him down but she didn’t offer any refreshment. Her manner on the surface was friendly and helpful but on another level he was receiving with unmistakable clarity a totally different message: Say what you have to say and then clear off out of here. This duality in no way surprised him. He well knew that no hotel, guest house or similar establishment encourages the presence of police on its premises; nothing makes the clientele more uneasy.

He set about dispatching his business as speedily as possible. He asked if Mrs Marchant could remember anyone calling at the hotel asking for Miss Dawson during her stay, any phone calls or mail that might have caused Miss Dawson distress.

She shook her head. There had been nothing like that. There had been no trouble with any guest or member of staff, nor was she aware of any friendship Miss Dawson had struck up while she was at the hotel.

Lambert asked if she had mentioned the matter of Miss Dawson’s present whereabouts to any of the guests. She looked horrified at the idea. She fervently hoped the sergeant had no intention of questioning any of the guests. She could assure him there was nothing to be gained by such questioning. The bulk of the guests at this moment were short-stay holiday-makers or overnight bed-and-breakfasters, none of whom had set foot in the hotel while Miss Dawson was there. The long-stay residents who had been at the hotel during Miss Dawson’s stay had either left for good or were currently away on holiday or staying with relatives; one had been taken ill and had gone into hospital.

Lambert assured her he had no intention of even speaking to any of the guests, let alone attempting to question them. She gave a sigh of relief.

He asked if she knew where in Calcott village Miss Dawson had lived before she went to Millbourne but she shook her head. Miss Dawson had mentioned that she used to live in the village but she hadn’t said where. Perhaps Iris, the waitress, might know, Lambert suggested; Miss Dawson might have chatted to her in the dining room. Would it be possible to speak to her?

Mrs Marchant considered. Yes, that would be all right. ‘Iris works 10.30 to 2.30,’ she told him. She glanced at her watch. ‘She’ll be in by now. She’s never late, she lives just down the road. I’ll go and get her for you.’ She paused in the doorway. ‘Was there anything else you wanted to ask me?’

Lambert told her no. ‘Then I’ll leave you to it,’ she said briskly. ‘I’ve a dozen things to attend to. I’m sure you won’t mind seeing yourself out when you’ve spoken to Iris.’

And Iris, when she appeared a few minutes later, was able to give him Julie’s old address in the village. She had not herself known the Dawson family. ‘The cottage is quite some distance from where I live,’ she told Lambert. ‘You have to go right through the village and out the other side.’ She gave him detailed directions.

She could offer no suggestion as to where Julie might be now. Miss Dawson had often chatted to her while a meal was being served but she hadn’t mentioned future plans. When she left the hotel Iris had told her she was welcome to drop in at her house for a cup of tea any afternoon if she found it lonely in the caravan. Miss Dawson did in fact drop in and they had spent a pleasant hour in casual conversation. Miss Dawson had said nothing that might throw any light on her intentions.

‘Did she ever mention anyone she’d met while she was staying at the hotel?’ Lambert asked. ‘Some man who took an interest in her? One of the guests, perhaps? Maybe someone she’d known when she lived in the village? Or someone she chanced to meet while she was going round visiting different places in the area?’

‘If you mean some sort of romantic interest,’ Iris said, ‘she never mentioned anything like that. She didn’t seem much interested in that kind of thing.’ She looked thoughtful. ‘A pretty girl like that, you’d expect her to have boyfriends, wouldn’t you?’ She grinned. ‘I did have a shot at getting her to open up, I’m nosy that way. But I couldn’t get anything out of her. She was quite definite there wasn’t anyone.’ She grinned again. ‘Could be, of course, there’s someone she’s not letting on about – for one reason or another.’

As Lambert came down the hotel steps he heard in the distance the put-put of a motor mower. He set off towards the car park. He didn’t turn his head to look across the wide expanse of lawn to where Luke Marchant on a ride-on machine drove up and down the greensward in a beautiful, precise pattern.