A Choice of Victims (4 page)

‘Have you checked the hospitals?’

‘She isn’t in Limpsted General,’ Tom said. ‘I checked there.’

‘She drives a Fiat, doesn’t she?’

‘A Mirafiori estate,’ Victor said. ‘A red one.’

‘Do you happen to know the number?’

‘I’ve got it here,’ Frances said. She handed him a form Elizabeth had completed after a previous Meal on Wheels journey. ‘I guessed you’d want it.’

Hasted made notes. ‘On the face of it an accident looks unlikely,’ he said. ‘We’d have heard of it by now. So all we can do is put out a general call for the car.’

‘If she’s been driving for over six hours she could be miles away by now,’ Tom said.

‘Yes. In which case it’s no concern of the police. Not if she’s missing of her own free will.’ Hasted looked down at his feet, where Whisky lay on his back with his legs in the air, and gently massaged the dog’s stomach with the sole of his shoe. ‘You say Mr Doyle is away. Do you know if he’s been notified?’

‘I suggested it to Andrew,’ Tom said. ‘I imagine he has.’

‘I’m worried about Andrew,’ Frances said. ‘The poor boy is there on his own. We should at least have asked him over for a meal.’

‘I daresay he’ll manage, Mrs Holden,’ Hasted said. He stood up, carefully avoiding the dog, who made no attempt to move. ‘Young people do. But I’ll check.’

‘You’ll be seeing him?’

‘I’ll call in on my way home.’

‘Good,’ Frances said. ‘You’ll let us know if there’s anything he needs, won’t you? And if he’d prefer to spend the night here, tell him we’d be glad to have him.’

She went with Hasted to the front door and, out of hearing of the children, warned him that he might find Andrew somewhat under the weather; she suspected the boy had had too much to drink at midday, she said, and although he had sounded sober when she spoke to him later he might not have recovered fully from the effects. At 18 he was unlikely to be accustomed to heavy drinking, and certainly she had never known it happen before.

Hasted found him pale but sober. No, Andrew said, he had no idea where his stepmother might have gone. Yes, she had had several letters that morning, but none had appeared to awaken any particular reaction. Apart from her annoyance that his father had failed to warn her he would be away that weekend there had been nothing untoward in her manner or behaviour. No, he said, he had not contacted his father, for the simple reason that although he knew his father was spending the weekend with friends in Winchester, he knew neither the friends’ names nor their address.

‘He did mention the name at breakfast, I think,’ Andrew said. ‘But he was talking to my stepmother and I wasn’t really listening. I’ve searched through the telephone index, but there’s no Winchester number and none of the names listed rings a bell.’

‘Does your father keep an address book?’

‘I don’t know. If he does it would be in his desk, and he keeps that locked.’ They were in the large living room, talking above the sound of music on the television set. The music swelled in volume and Andrew switched it off. ‘Would you like a beer, Mr Hasted?’

‘No thanks, Andrew. I take it you’ve never met these friends.’

Andrew shook his head. ‘I’ve never met any of my father’s friends. Not the distant ones. They don’t come down here.’

Sad, Hasted reflected. ‘Is there any chance your father might ring this evening?’ he asked. ‘Most couples like to keep in touch when they’re apart.’

Andrew’s pale face twisted in a wry smile. An ascetic face, Hasted thought, with those large, deep-set dark eyes and the thin lips and the high cheek bones, framed in a mass of dark curly hair. Somehow the face did not seem to fit the body, which was broad and muscular and would probably thicken with age. According to Sybil, who was a mine of information on the youth of the village, most of the local girls thought him aloof and rather dull. Others, and Patricia Scott in particular, really fancied him.

‘They’re not that sort of a couple, I’m afraid,’ Andrew said. ‘But it’s not important, is it? I mean, you don’t really think anything’s happened to her, do you? There’s been no report of an accident, has there?’

‘Not to my knowledge,’ Hasted said. ‘But disappearing like this without warning—and in the middle of delivering Meals on Wheels—you wouldn’t call that normal behaviour, would you?’

‘I suppose not.’

‘So we must look for the abnormal. Have you a photograph of your stepmother?’

‘I expect so.’ Andrew crossed to a corner table and began to leaf through an album. ‘Not many, though. She didn’t like being photographed.’ He selected a print. ‘Will this do?’

Hasted nodded. The photograph depicted a group of people on the Manor lawn, with Elizabeth Doyle looking typically smart in a white linen suit. The Scotts were there, and the Holdens, and the vicar and his wife. The only member of the group Hasted did not recognize was a middle-aged man in typical city dress, who stood on the fringe.

‘We can blow it up,’ he said. ‘Who’s the city gent?’

‘Elizabeth’s solicitor. The London one.’

Hasted pocketed the photograph. ‘Now, how about you, Andrew? All right here on your own, are you? Mrs Holden said to tell you you’re welcome to a meal or a bed at their place.’

He was fine, Andrew said. And should he not stay home in case his stepmother returned? Or she might ring. So, just conceivably, might his father. Hasted agreed, and asked him to concentrate on trying to recall the name of his father’s friends. ‘Let me know if you do,’ he said. ‘Anytime.’

It was after nine-thirty by the time he got home, and although he had eaten before visiting the Holdens he was hungry. But then, as Sybil said, he was always hungry. He telephoned a report on the missing woman to Central Control—‘It’s not really our pigeon—there’s no evidence of accident or crime—but there are unusual aspects that make it interesting’—and as he ate the omelette Sybil had hastily prepared for him they discussed Elizabeth Doyle and her husband.

‘There’s never been a hint of scandal concerning her, has there?’ Hasted asked. ‘Another man, I mean.’

‘I’ve never heard anything,’ Sybil said.

‘And you hear most things, eh? How about him?’

‘Nor him neither.’ She pushed back a wayward lock of hair. ‘But whatever caused her to go couldn’t have been planned in advance, could it, or she’d at least have finished the round first? So it must have been a sudden impulse.’

He nodded. ‘She could have been hijacked, I suppose. Ten hours, though. I’d expect something to have broken by now.’

‘Hijacking doesn’t seem to go with Meals on Wheels and West Deering.’ Sybil stood up, slowly and laboriously. ‘I’m off to bed, darling. I feel lousy tonight.’

He smiled at her. ‘You look great.’

‘I know.’ She patted her bulging stomach. ‘That’s the trouble.’

*

Detective Superintendent the Honourable James Fraser Hunt, elder son of Baron Hunt of Whitley and known throughout the Force as ‘Driver’, was normally a cheerful and contented man. Aged 41, educated at Rugby and Balliol, unmarried but not lacking in girlfriends, with a small private income that permitted the occasional extravagance beyond the scope of his pay, happy in his work and popular with his colleagues, it would have been strange had he been otherwise. But on that particular Saturday morning he was very much otherwise. Four months previously he had splashed out ten thousand pounds on a brand new six-cylinder Rover 2300 saloon, and yesterday, on his way back from lunch, he had parked the car briefly on the road south to the coast outside the home of his chief, Detective Chief Superintendent Greenway, while he called to enquire how Greenway was progressing after a severe bout of pneumonia. He had been talking to Edna Greenway in the hall when they heard the sound of the collision. It was a tearing sound rather than a bang, and it had taken a few seconds for the implication to sink in. Then he was out in the road, staring in horror at the off-side of the Rover, which was scratched and scraped and dented for almost its entire length. The offending car was out of sight—‘An old Morris 1100. Grey, I think,’ a knowledgeable neighbour called to him as he struggled to open the buckled off-side front door. ‘And going like the clappers. I just caught a glimpse of the tail end as it rounded the bend.’ Then he was in the driving seat and doing as fast a three-point turn as the traffic permitted and streaking off in pursuit. After twelve miles he gave up—there were too many side turnings down which the driver could have made his escape—and he returned to division and put out a general call for a grey Morris 1100, or any car with a similar rear end and carrying evidence of having been involved in a collision. Not that he expected a satisfactory result. Probably some young tearaway who had nicked the Morris for a joyride. They might find the car, but they were unlikely to find the driver.

The windows of his office overlooked the parking lot. He was staring down at the damaged Rover when Hasted came in.

‘A photograph of the woman missing from West Deering,’ Hasted said. ‘You wanted to see it.’

‘Thanks,’ Driver said, not bothering to turn. ‘Leave it on the desk, George, will you? There’s no news of her, I suppose.’

‘No.’ Hasted joined him at the window. ‘Sorry about the car. Made a right mess of it.’

‘Yes.’

‘Cost the insurers a packet to put right. And you’ll probably lose your no-claim bonus.’

‘Yes. But do you mind if we forget the car? It’s a sore point.’ He turned away from the window and picked up the photograph. ‘Hm! Not a bad likeness.’

‘You know the lady?’

‘We’ve met.’

He had been introduced to her at the Follicks’ cocktail party in June; Brigadier Follick was an old friend of his father, they had been at Sandhurst together. But it was not the image of Elizabeth Doyle that drew his attention now, but that of the girl standing on her right. That was the first time he had met Felicity Scott. He had met her twice since; once at the art gallery in London where she worked, after which he had taken her to dinner at Lacy’s, and a fortnight ago at the Scotts’ tennis party at their West Deering home. She was tall and slim and beautiful, with rich auburn hair and a captivating smile, and was rapidly rising to the Number One spot in his list of desirable girlfriends. In fact...

‘I’ll arrange for blow-ups to be distributed,’ Hasted said.

‘Eh? Oh, yes! Yes, do that, George, will you?’ Thinking of Felicity Scott had improved his mood. ‘How’s Sybil, by the way? Just about due, isn’t she?’

‘Just about,’ Hasted said.

‘Must be a trying time.’ The telephone rang. Driver picked up the receiver. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘Put him through.’ He looked at Hasted. ‘For you.’

It was Andrew Doyle. He had remembered the name of the friends with whom his father was staying, Andrew said. Fisher. But he did not know the initials and he did not know the address, and there could be a lot of Fishers with a Winchester number. So what did he do? Leave it to me, Hasted said, and told the switchboard operator to get cracking. Fifteen minutes later he had Mrs Fisher on the line. Mr Doyle was out, she said, and she had no idea when he would be back. Her husband would know, but he was unavailable at the moment. Could he ring the inspector back? In ten minutes, say? Hasted said he could, gave her his number and rang off.

He was in his own office when Fisher rang. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting, Inspector,’ Fisher said. ‘I was on the throne. Now, what’s this all about, eh? Doyle’s not in, I’m afraid. Can I give him a message?’

‘I’d prefer to speak to him myself, sir,’ Hasted said. ‘When do you expect him back?’

‘Sometime between twelve-thirty and one. In time for lunch.’

‘Well, ask him to ring me as soon as he comes in, will you? Tell him it’s urgent.’

Hasted replaced the receiver and checked the time. Eleven-twenty. Over an hour to wait. So why did he not return to West Deering and have Doyle call him at home? Or perhaps at the Manor; Doyle would want to speak to his son. And after the call he could join Sybil for lunch, perhaps for the afternoon. That would please her. Her main criticism of the job was that she did not see enough of him at weekends.

He rang Andrew. ‘But I won’t be here, Mr Hasted,’ Andrew said. ‘I’m lunching with the Scotts. Patricia’s just called to pick me up. We’re leaving in a few minutes. Couldn’t you ask my father to ring me there? I’m sure the Scotts won’t mind.’

‘I’ll have to be there too,’ Hasted said. ‘For the call, not for lunch.’

‘Of course,’ Andrew said. ‘I’ll tell them.’

Hasted went into Driver’s office and told him what he had arranged. ‘It’s important I speak to Doyle myself. I’m hoping he’ll have some idea of where his wife may have gone.’

‘Yes.’ Driver smiled. ‘And then you could pop home for lunch, couldn’t you?’

Hasted echoed the smile. ‘So I could. Now why didn’t I think of that?’

‘Well, give Sybil my love.’ Driver thought for a moment. ‘You know, there’s something about the Fishers that puzzles me.’

‘Oh? What’s that?’

‘If Mr Fisher knew Doyle was returning for lunch, why didn’t Mrs Fisher know?’

*

Andrew replaced the receiver and looked at the girl. ‘I’m afraid your parents will be having another visitor this morning,’ he said. ‘Is that all right?’

‘For lunch, you mean?’