Stone Cold Red Hot (14 page)

“No. And I’m not any nearer knowing where to look than I was last week. But I have established a few new facts. I heard from Keele University this morning.”

He glanced up keenly.

“She never went there, they have no record of her.”

He looked stupefied, even his mouth was open. “But she was doing English...”

“I checked with the Faculty. She never attended.”

“I don’t understand. My mother said...” he trailed off.

“I need to talk to your mother - she’s the only person who can clear this up.”

He shook his head, slowly building up to a refusal.

“Let’s come back to that. I have established a couple of other facts. First of all, Jennifer was pregnant.”

“Really,” his whole face lit up at the prospect.

“But she may not have had the child,” I cautioned him. “Her friends say she was very unsure what to do; whether to go ahead or to have an abortion, whether to have the baby adopted or keep it.”

“You could check that though, couldn’t you? If she had a baby there’d be a record of that, wouldn’t there?”

“Yes.” And it would probably be easier to find than Jennifer was.

“I want you to find out,” his eagerness was poignant. I realised with a rush of understanding that Roger was re-inventing himself as an uncle, with nephew or niece to his name. Though they’d be in their mid-twenties by now.

“I’d have to go to Huddersfield,” I said, “that’s the nearest place with the most up to date national records. I don’t think there’s any point in going all the way to London. There is an office in Manchester too but they haven’t got such a comprehensive archive.”

“Try Huddersfield then.”

“There’s a problem, I’ve had my car stolen, I’ll need to hire a car - for a day, add it to my expenses.”

“That’s fine,” he said.

“I also found out who the father was. Someone that Jennifer met at the Bounty, the banqueting hall where she used to waitress. He’s called Jones, Maxwell Jones. He’s black and that probably made it even harder for Jennifer to confide in your parents.”

He gave me a puzzled look.

“Your father, in particular, held racist views.”

“Oh, yes,” he blushed.

“So not only had Jennifer broken faith with their moral and religious position she’d done so with someone your father could never accept.”

“Does he know? This man?”

“No. The relationship was over before Jennifer realised that she was pregnant. Her friends say she never considered marrying him, she knew she’d be on her own.”

He swallowed and covered his eyes briefly. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Yes.” When he looked at me again I continued. “We also know that no-one heard from Jennifer, none of her friends, and that they were surprised at her sudden departure.”

“But where can she have gone? If it wasn’t Keele?”

“That’s why I need to talk to your mother.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he protested. “Did they know?” he asked quietly, “about the baby, did my parents know?”

“I haven’t been able to establish whether she told them or not.”

“What she said, my mother, about Jennifer being a disgrace, that must be what she meant.”

“Roger, I need to talk to your mother. She was the one who led everyone to believe Jennifer had gone to Keele and then dropped out, that’s what she told Lisa and Mrs Clerkenwell and you. If anyone knows where she really went it’s your mother.”

“I don’t think she’ll see you,” he stonewalled.

“Don’t tell her.”

“What?”

“She’ll be in this evening?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come round after you’ve eaten, I’ll ask what I have to ask.”

He looked sick.

“The worst that can happen is that she’ll throw me out.”

“And she’ll know that I’ve hired you?”

“Yes. Look I could invent some mickey mouse story about being an old friend or a school re-union or something but all she’s going to say is that she’s lost touch with Jennifer. I have to challenge her, Roger.”

“She’s not well.”

Was his concern for her or for himself? He was thirty one for heaven’s sake, not a child. Wasn’t it about time he stood up for himself? “It’s up to you,” I said tiring of his weakness, “but if you won’t give me a chance to talk to her I’m afraid I’m not prepared to carry on with the case.” I paused.

He stared at his hands as though they held the correct answer.

“Maybe she should know; that you’ve hired me, that you’re determined to find your sister.”

“OK,” he sat back in the chair, “come round about seven. She should still be awake - she has a room downstairs now, it’s easier. Will I need to be there?”

“No. Just let me in and I’ll see her on my own.”

A wave of doubt leapt at my conscience. Shouldn’t I leave it all be, leave a dying woman to her secrets, let the mystery remain? I pressed my palms onto my desk to steady myself. I couldn’t walk away from this. I was in too deep and I needed to know whether my intuition was playing me false, or whether Jennifer was dead rather than missing. And if she was dead was her death due to illness or accident or something more sinister? I had to find out and maybe then it would all come clear. It would all be right as rain, I would laugh at the disturbing fears that were multiplying in my imagination and the aching sensation in my stomach would melt away. Maybe.

A fine autumn evening, there was a fresh wind blowing, encouraging the trees to let go of their first dying leaves. The wind brought a cooler feel with it and I shivered as I pedalled along in spite of the heat generated by my cycling.

I leant the bike against the garage at the side of the house and locked the back wheel to the frame. It was exactly seven o’ clock. I rang the bell and heard the shrill tone echo inside. Roger answered the door, his dread of my visit written all over his face. He lived with his mother in awe of her. Would he find release once she had gone? Shed his persona of nervous little boy?

“Come in, she’s in here.”

The house was the mirror image of Mrs Clerkenwell’s as far as its layout went, the front rooms off to the right of the passageway with the stairs at the left. The hall was dark, lots of deep polished wood, an antique umbrella and hat stand on the left. The floor was brown tiles with geometric border of blue and white triangles, a Victorian style. The kitchen door at the far end of the hall was ajar and through it spilt a ruby wedge of light from the setting sun. Like warmth in the distance. It didn’t stretch the length of the hallway and when it suddenly faded everything was sombre and melancholy again.

I gestured for Roger to open the door and braced myself. I followed him in.

“There’s someone to see you,” he said and withdrew.

She was sitting in a high-backed armchair, a crocheted rug over her legs and one of those v-shaped support pillows behind her. She looked haggard, her skin tone was yellow, she had a mob-cap on with lacy edge and I wondered whether the treatment had caused her hair to fall out. Her features were small, neat, and she wore bi-focals on a chain. I could discern a slight resemblance to Jennifer in the thin nose and the small mouth but not to Roger who presumably took after his father. In her hands she held a little magazine, a puzzle book, full of crosswords and word-searches. She lay it down on her lap.

“Are you from The Children?”

“Pardon?”

“The Children of Christ?”

“No. Are you expecting someone?”

“Tomorrow, I think. They’re very good.” Her voice was clear.

“You’re still involved with the church?”

She stared at me for a moment. “I am dedicated. The Children are my spiritual family, my one true family, surpassing all others. When all about is corruption...”

She stopped. I don’t know whether she was quoting something or making a social observation. I was still standing but there was nowhere for me to sit. A dining chair near to Mrs Pickering was covered in clothes and I didn’t want to perch on the bed.

“No, I’m not from the church,” I said, “I’m a private detective. I’ve come to talk to you about Jennifer.”

I thought she was going to keel over. Her eyes fluttered and she went even paler. She began to shake her head as though I were a noise she could dislodge.

“Jennifer has been missing since 1976,” I said. “I’m trying to trace her.”

“Go away,” she said quickly, her mouth trembling.

“I’d like your help.”

“I don’t know where she is, she went to university, after that I don’t know.”

“She didn’t go to Keele,” I said calmly, “she never got there. That’s what she had been planning to do, that’s what you told people but it wasn’t the truth.”

“Get out of here. Roger,” her voice rose, quavering.

I crouched down, better to talk to her at the same level. “I know she was pregnant, did she tell you? It must have been a terrible shock.”

“Why are you asking me all this?” she cried, anguish in her voice.

“Roger wants me to find his sister, he wants it desperately enough to go against your wishes.”

“She went to Keele,” she repeated.

“She didn’t, they’ve checked the records.”

“Roger,” she began to scream.

“Where did she really go?”

She got up and took a few steps still calling, “Roger, Roger, Roger.”

“Did you ever hear from Jennifer?”

“Roger!”

The door flew open and Roger came in.

I stood up. I know when I’ve overstayed my welcome. “I’ll wait in the kitchen,” I said to him.

It was quarter of an hour before Roger joined me. I stared at the notice-board with its neat list of names and numbers, clinic appointment cards and money off coupons. I considered ways to get Mrs Pickering to talk to me but couldn’t come up with anything that would get me past her hysteria. Why was she so agitated at the mention of Jennifer? Surely after twenty odd years the reaction to Jennifer’s pregnancy would have softened a little? Jennifer must have told them about the baby, that much seemed evident. Was Mrs Pickering’s illness affecting her emotional state? But according to Roger he’d had the same response a year previously.

I stared out of the back window to the house opposite where Frances Delaney had grown up and I worked out which had been her room. The stone wall separating the gardens was substantial, about six foot high, darkened by the smoke from the city before the Clean Air Act came in and they sand-blasted everything.

When Frances talked about Jennifer climbing over the wall and becoming distraught I thought perhaps she’d been imagining what waited for her at home and it had all been too much. I re-considered. Could she have seen something? There was a large garden shed at the bottom of the Pickering’s garden and it would be about the only thing you’d see from the Delaney’s wall. Had she seen something in the shed? I opened the door at the side of the kitchen and walked round to the back garden. It was uninspiring. Roger definitely hadn’t inherited his father’s green fingers. A couple of rhododendron bushes, some lavender and geraniums were all that stocked the borders, weeds were rampant in-between. The rest of the place was lawn, dotted with dandelions. I walked over to the shed and circled it, no windows. I went to the wall which was about four feet from the shed. I easily found foot holds in the stones and hoisted myself up until I was sitting on the top. A startled cat leapt down and shot away into the large trees at the bottom of the garden next-door. From my vantage point the shed obscured any view of the Pickering’s house. I shuffled along to the left and found I could see the upper floors of Mrs Clerkenwell’s. From the other end the house at the right, where the Shuttle’s had lived was screened by a Leylandii hedge which grew above the dividing fencing. There was precious little chance of Jennifer seeing any thing from there.

I made my way back to the kitchen. Frances may have been right, something she had said had got to Jennifer or it was the thought of going home. But why so sudden? Had she made up her mind to tell them that evening and then panicked? And run away? Where? With no money, no spare clothes. As far as I could tell that had been the last that any of her friends had seen of her. She’d missed Caroline’s birthday the following evening and no-one had seen hide nor hair of her since.

Suicide? I’d not thought of that. Her body never discovered? Or found but never identified? If she’d been anywhere in the Lancashire area it would have been all over the papers and the telly, her family or friends would have made a connection. But what if she’d gone to London or further afield, run out of hope there? Her parents had never reported her missing and it was doubtful whether Lisa’s attempt to do so would have received much attention so if an unidentified body had been found they wouldn’t have been able to compare dental records with those of missing persons.

It was all a mess, I thought, a hopeless, confusing mess. I rubbed my neck, trying to ease the tension lodged there. I heard Roger coming.

“Is she alright?”

“I think so. I’ve put her to bed. She’s absolutely livid with me.”

I nodded. “At least it’s out in the open, now. She knows that you’re serious. What do you think she’ll do?”

“There’s not much she can do. But she’ll be difficult to live with. She’s not used to me going against her.” He sighed and filled the kettle. “Did she tell you anything?”

“No.” Just lies. “Same old stuff about Jennifer going to Keele. Why do you think she’s so upset?”

“I don’t know, it’s like I told you - she won’t talk about it, like some ancient feud and I don’t know what’s behind it apart from Jennifer expecting the baby. But why she won’t tell you, tell me...” he broke off in exasperation then sighed. “Tea?”

“Coffee, if you’ve got it.”

Neither of us spoke until he’d made the drinks. He sat opposite me at the small table cradling the mug in his hands.

“Do you want me to carry on?”

“Yes.” He didn’t need to think about it.

“Roger,” I wondered how to phrase it, “I may not be able to find Jennifer, sometimes people just get lost, stay lost and with the time lapse...”

“I know,” he said. He cleared his throat. “I want you to keep looking. I want you to go tomorrow. You said you could check the records to see if she had the baby.”