Disappeared: MANTEQUERO BOOK 2 (2 page)

She put on her coat, picked up her briefcase and headed for the car park.

****

Alison sniffed appreciatively as she went through the big wooden doors leading into the library. She loved the smell of books and she loved the library. She visited it at least twice a week. There was something voluptuous about standing in front of the shelves choosing her next book – the delicious feeling that there were hundreds of books that she hadn’t read yet, just waiting for her to discover them.

The librarian looked up and smiled at her as she walked up to the desk. They were old friends.

“Hello, Alison. How are things?”
Alison smiled back. “Hi, Chris. I’m fine. Well, mainly.” She paused. “I was wondering, do you keep a copy of the electoral rolls in the library?”

“We don’t. They’re at the council offices. What do you want them for?”
“I wanted Miss Blacker’s address. She’s a teacher at my school.”
“June Blacker?” Chris raised her eyebrows. “Why do you want to know?”

Alison found herself talking in a rush, with no pauses between the sentences. “She didn’t turn up today, and she
always
turns up. She’s never had a day off all the time I’ve worked there. Nobody seems to have checked whether she’s all right. I’m really worried about her.” She stopped, aware that she had sounded like a small child desperate to explain herself.

A small, worried crease appeared between the librarian’s eyebrows. “That doesn’t sound like June. I’ve known her for years and she’s very reliable.” She allowed herself a small smile. “Doesn’t even let her books get overdue. I can’t imagine what might have happened.”

She got up from behind her desk and walked over to one of the long windows overlooking the street. Alison followed.

“But I think I can help you out there. You see that row of new houses at the end of the street?” Alison nodded. “You see there’s a gap halfway along? Well that’s June’s house.”

“What there? In the middle of all that new building? How come . . .?”

“It was her grandmother’s house and the old lady refused to sell. She was a regular customer in here as well. A regular matriarch of the old school. They offered her a fortune for the house, kept upping the ante. But she wouldn’t budge. Eventually they gave in and built around her.”

Alison almost laughed, imagining the valiant old lady waving her stick defiantly in the face of the developers. She could see where Miss Blacker got her determination from.

****

At first she couldn’t even see the little house. The gap between the new buildings was almost entirely filled with a tall privet hedge. But when she reached the gate, she could see a winding crazy paving path leading through bushes to what was probably a house beyond.

Big garden,
Alison thought.
Miss Blacker’s grandma must have been well-heeled.

The house, when she reached it, would have been more properly-described as a cottage. It did have two storeys, but the upper was really just the attic space in the roof. Alison could see two dormer windows peeping through the thatch. The front door was of old, weathered wood with an iron horse-shoe for a knocker. The whole effect was charming. A hidden fairy-tale cottage in the middle of the urban complex.

She knocked on the door and waited but she didn’t really expect an answer. The house felt deserted, the knock had a hollow, empty sound. She bent down to peer through the letter box. Nothing. All the windows must have been shuttered. It was pitch black in there and the space felt tiny, enclosed and musty.

“Can I help you?”

Alison shot up from her crouching position – so quickly that she felt giddy – and swung round to face the owner of the voice.

“I’m so sorry,” she stammered, feeling her face flare red. “I was looking for Miss Blacker.”

The owner of the voice turned out to be an old lady of the twinset and pearls variety – literally - Alison could see the pearls peeping from the open neck of her sensible tweed coat.

“And did you expect to find her in the letter box?” The old lady’s mouth twitched slightly at the corners as if she were suppressing a smile.

Alison, suddenly assailed by a vision of the enormous Miss Blacker crushed inside a letter box, had to smother a giggle. That was why it was so dark inside. It was actually, literally, a box attached to the inside of the door.

“I’m sorry.” She gulped. “I must look as if I’m casing the joint.”
This time the old lady really did smile. “I think a real burglar might be a little more discreet,” she said. Then, proffering her hand, “Mavis Wetherspoon. I’m Miss Blacker’s neighbour. I’ve come to feed the cat.”
As if on cue, a small grey and white tabby shot round the corner of the house. It halted for a moment as it took in the two women standing on the path and then launched itself into Alison’s arms. Alison, caught off guard in the act of shaking Miss Wetherspoon’s hand, let go automatically and opened her arms to catch the little creature.

“Well, goodness me,” said Miss Wetherspoon, as the cat nestled in Alison’s arms and stretched its neck to lick her face. “I’ve never seen her do that with anyone but June. She must like you.”

“I’m Alison Metcalfe,” Alison said, laughing as the cat’s rough tongue tickled her cheek. “I work with Miss Blacker.”
“Ah, you’re a teacher at Graystones. I expect that’s it. You probably smell like June. Chalk dust and so forth, don’t you know.”

At this Alison did burst out into laughter. “Well, I don’t know about that, but it’s very nice to be given such a welcome.” She smiled down at the little cat. “What’s she called?”
“Jessica,” said Miss Wetherspoon, with a slight grunt of disapproval. “Rather fanciful name for a cat if you ask me.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said Alison, quick to counter any possible criticism of the absent Miss Blacker. “I think it suits her.”

“A cat by any other name . . .” said Miss Wetherspoon, inconsequentially. “Anyway, she’ll be expecting her supper. Would you like to come in?” She produced a key from her coat pocket and opened the cottage door.

It was cold inside. Miss Wetherspoon shivered. “I’ve got the heating on low, but I don’t think it’s quite enough. I’ll just go and check.”

Alison looked down at the little cat, now licking her neck with every appearance of ecstasy. “Poor little Jessica,” she murmured. “Lonely
and
cold. This is no life for a cat.”

Hugging the animal to her chest, she wandered around the room. The furniture was old-fashioned, the settees and armchairs over-stuffed and comfortable, the walls lined with books. It was exactly the sort of place she imagined Miss Blacker living in.

Miss Wetherspoon came bustling back into the room. “I don’t think it’s working at all,” she said. I can’t see a pilot light or anything. It’s always the way, isn’t it? The owner goes away and all the life support systems break down.”

She gave Alison a wintry smile.” I really can’t decide what to do. June should have been back on Saturday but she didn’t turn up and hasn’t called and I know for a fact she didn’t take her mobile phone with her.”

She was walking into the kitchen as she said this, closely followed by Alison, still clutching the little cat. “I tried ringing her sister,” she went on, reaching into a cupboard over the sink and bringing down a small tinfoil tray of cat food and a bag of biscuits, “but she didn’t seem to know anything.”

She bent down to retrieve two dishes from the floor and set them on the counter where she began to spoon food from the tray into the smaller of the two. The little cat watched with hungry eyes, following Miss Wetherspoon’s every movement. “As a matter of fact,” the old lady said, pausing with her hand hovering over the cat’s dish, “she was rather abrupt.”

Unable to contain herself any longer, Jessica launched herself at the counter and fell upon the food. “Oh dear,” said Miss Wetherspoon, inserting the last spoonful of cat food into the dish and then gently picking up cat and dish and depositing them both on the floor. “She said she hadn’t had any contact with her sister for several weeks and had no idea where she had gone or why she hadn’t returned.” She pursed her lips in disapproval. “Given that June has practically brought up her daughter for her, I thought that was a rather peculiar attitude.”

Alison remembered Miss Blacker talking about her niece – Poppy? Pammy? – neither name sounded quite right.

Miss Wetherspoon began pouring biscuits into the other dish.

Alison felt disoriented. She had come to rescue Miss Blacker but Miss Blacker wasn’t there – had never returned. She had gone off on holiday and never come back. Leaving her little cat and her beloved niece. She hadn’t phoned or written or got anyone else to contact anyone.

She leaned back against the table and rubbed her hand on her forehead.

“I can
’t believe she’d do that,” she said at last. “Just go away and not come back. I can’t believe she wouldn’t contact you.”

Miss Wetherspoon placed the biscuit dish on the floor next to the other dish. Jessica glanced at it then went back to devouring the meat.

“That’s what I think,” she said, grimacing slightly as she straightened up. “Completely out of character”

“So what do you think happened?”

Miss Wetherspoon shook her head.

“Something must have happened to her,” Alison said, her visions of Miss Blacker falling down the stairs replaced with car accidents, drowning, kidnap, rape. “Do you know exactly where she was going? Her flight details or anything?”

Miss Wetherspoon shook her head again. “Only that she was going to Spain and coming back this Saturday. When she didn’t come I checked my calendar in case I’d got the date wrong. I don’t usually get things like that wrong.” She shrugged and Alison thought,
I bet she doesn’t. I bet everything she does is neatly organised.

“That was why I rang her sister. I thought she’d be able to confirm.” She glanced over towards the door and Alison saw a board with various papers and cards pinned to it, including one headed ‘IMPORTANT NUMBERS’. Directly below the emergency numbers, the doctor and the vet, was Ruth – 3048952.

“Is this her?” Alison began to rummage in her bag for a pen and paper. She was ready to go round to the sister’s and throttle the information out of her if necessary.

“Yes, dear. But I genuinely don’t think she knows anything.”
Alison stopped rummaging, feeling deflated.

The little cat, having finished the meat, was eyeing the biscuits unenthusiastically. She looked up at Alison and gave a plaintive little cry.

“Can I give her some more?” Alison asked.

Miss Wetherspoon looked dubious. “Well, you can, but there’s not much left.”

Alison went to the cupboard. There was another packet of biscuits, but only two little trays of meat.

“How often does she eat?”

“Just twice a day. I come and give her her breakfast first thing and then I give her her supper about this time.”
“So, if I came back tomorrow with some more supplies, I could give her another one now?”

Miss Wetherspoon smiled, “Of course you can, dear. After all, I’d have had to have bought some more tomorrow anyway.”

It suddenly occurred to Alison that Miss Wetherspoon might not be very well off. Perhaps she had been worried about having to buy more food for Jessica.

She refilled the cat’s bowl and set it back down on the floor. Jessica gave her hand a lick of gratitude and then turned her attention to the meat.

“What a lovely little cat she is!” Alison exclaimed. “It seems such a shame to leave her all on her own like this.”

“I know,” Miss Wetherspoon said, with a small sigh. “But I have two very aggressive Siamese and I think she’d be even more unhappy at my place.”

“I could take her,” Alison said, rather too quickly, aware she sounded over eager. “Sorry, you don’t know me. I could be anyone.”

Miss Wetherspoon regarded her, head on one side, then smiled. “No, I’m sure you’re who you say you are, but I ought to check, I suppose. Do you know Jean Harris?”
“Of course I do. She’s Head of the English Department.”

“Well, we could go over to my place and have a cup of tea while I ring her and then we’ll come back and you can take Jessica home. You can leave your address and telephone number and I’ll leave a note for June. I must say it’ll be something of a relief. She’s such a sociable little thing. I don’t like leaving her alone for so long.”

Half an hour later Alison set off down the path to her car with Jessica in a cat carrier and holding a carrier bag filled with what remained of the food. In her handbag was a note with Miss Wetherspoon’s telephone number, that of the vet and that of Miss Blacker’s sister, Ruth.

Miss Wetherspoon followed on behind carrying Jessica’s bed and her toys.

“By the way,” she said, sticking her head through the window just before Alison set off. “I’ve just had a thought. Patsy will know.” Alison frowned.
Patsy? Yes, of course, the niece.

“Sorry.” She shook her head. “Patsy will know what?”