Strictly Murder (13 page)

“
Playground?”

“
Yes, there were more woods and open land here, then. We'd not had him long as a pup,” he nodded towards the dog, “and we used to walk all over here, regular like, until the developers moved in.”

He looked as sad as his labrador.

“
I'm surprised they've not built on what's left,” I said. “Do the trees go back far?”

“
Oh, a fair way. Half a mile or so till you reach a stream. There's a bomb hole in the middle. A crater, like," he explained seeing my blank look, "where a bomb exploded during the war. It's all covered over now, nature reclaims its own, and farmer's fields beyond that. At one time they had planned to extend, to build more houses here,” he pointed towards the woods, “but fortunately for Blackie and me, and the local kids, the property crash put paid to that.”

So twenty years ago there had been quite a stretch of woods and common land close to where the Hughes family lived. I glanced across to the trees. It was hard to see anything behind them. At this time of year the grass and undergrowth were high and straggling. If it stretched back for half a mile as the old man thought, well … it might be possible to hide a body there, perhaps at the bottom of the crater. I had a sudden vision of a girl, struggling to break free from her captor as he dragged her into the trees. I shook myself and brought my thoughts back to the present and the old man now looking curiously at me.

“
Memories, eh?” He suggested.

More like an over-active imagination, I thought.

“
Ah, well. Better be off home for some breakfast. Nice talking to you, Miss.” He touched his cap again. “Come on, Blackie.”

“
Goodbye. Goodbye Blackie.”

I watched them go for a moment, the dog obediently walking a few paces behind his master, before I carried on up Conway Drive.

I passed the end of Rhyl Close before I reached my objective. Kimberley Hughes's old home was a typical 1980s detached house with a small, neatly kept front garden and a curved tarmac drive. Somebody had been spending money on the place, for it had recently been fitted with new UPVC windows and fascia boards that shone brightly in the sun. Other than that nothing distinguished it from the identical little boxes that stretched away on either side. I took a couple of photographs from different angles to give KD some idea of the house when she got round to working on the story. There was every probability that the four bedroomed bow-fronted property would metamorphose into something completely different by the time she had finished but that, she had often told me, was the joy of writing fiction.

In contrast, Charlotte Neal's house when I reached it some twelve minutes later, looked unkempt and uncared for. The garden was a wasteland of grass and dandelion intersected by a path of broken concrete slabs leading to a faded and peeling front door. I wondered how long ago Charlotte's family had moved out and who lived in it now—there was no listing for a Neal at this address in the phone book. I needed a nosy, and talkative, neighbour but there didn't seem to be anyone around and my job description didn't involve ringing doorbells, asking prying and unwelcome questions. I crossed to the opposite pavement for a better angle and nearly dropped the camera when a voice behind me said,

“
Excuse me.”

I spun round. Leaning on the gate of the house behind me, a small, elderly woman looked suspiciously up at me.

“
What are you doing?”

What did she think I was doing? I was stood there with a camera in my hands, for goodness sake.

“
I'm just taking some photographs.”

“
Are they moving, then? The Jones's?”

Manna from heaven! I seized my chance.

“
Yes. Or at least, I've been told by my boss to come and take some photos.”

Which was no word of a lie. She didn't need to know my boss wasn't an estate agent.

“
Unlucky house that,” she offered.

“
Unlucky? In what way? It certainly looks an eyesore.”

“
Oh, it's never been cared for. Been let go to rack and ruin.”

“
How does that make it unlucky?”

“
It was the Neal house, that. Their little girl disappeared, you know, about twenty year ago or more. All over the papers it was”

“
Did she? Were you here then? What happened?” I asked as casually as I could, though my eagerness was beginning to make me sound like the Spanish Inquisition.

“
Oh, I've been here since these houses were built, love. Back in the eighties that were. The Neals moved in shortly after and it were their daughter that vanished coming back from a friend's house.”

“
How awful. What do you think happened?”

“
No idea. No more idea than the police had anyways, and they were swarming all over the place for nigh on a week. House to house they come, asking if we'd seen anything. Well, of course, we 'adn't.” She sounded rather regretful at this as if she longed to be someone who gave the police vital information. “But then nobody 'ad. At least, no one admitted 'aving seen the girl.”

The more excited she got the more her aitches disappeared, I noticed, but at least she was talking.

“
I suppose the police did a thorough search of the area?”

“
Oh yes. And of the house,” she pointed across the road to number 17. “They even dug up the garden.”

“
Did they find anything?”

“
Nah. Nothing. There's some around here that reckoned she'd gone off with a feller, but she were a nice girl, Charlotte. I'd known her since she were two years old. Watched her grow up, I did.”

She nodded in satisfaction as if watching a child grow up gave you a deep insight into their character. Perhaps it did but not if the watching had only been from across the road.

“
Not like modern teenagers then? Covered in make-up and wearing clothes that reveal far too much.”

“
Oh, I know, shockin' it is nowadays but Charlotte weren't like that." She paused. "I did see her wearing make-up a time or two, though.”

“
Did her mother approve?”

“
Carol? I wouldn't 'ave thought so. She were quite strict and so were Charlotte's dad. She always had to be home by a certain time. Not like today with kids roamin' the streets at all hours.”

I was about to ask her who lived in the house now but remembered just in time that I was supposed to be from the estate agents who might be expected to know that. Instead I asked,

“
When did the Neals move out?”

She thought for a moment.

“
Oh, about a year after, I'd say. Carol reckoned there were too many memories. They were going down south somewhere to make a fresh start, she said. It's been sold about five times since then. None of 'em 'ave looked after it nor cared for it much. As you can tell.”

I nodded. It was time I wrapped this up. I'd got about as much out of her as I was going to get, though she had given me one possible pointer.

“
Well, I must get on. Nice talking to you.”

“
And to you. Good morning.” She turned and shuffled back down the path while I strode off towards Conway Drive and the patch of woodland near the shops.

I had the place pretty much to myself when I got there. There were no dog walkers about and the children were in school so I wandered at will, stopping now and again to take a few photos. I found the 'bomb hole' easily enough and stood on the rim for a few minutes while I thought about the missing girl. If the police had scoured the area and found nothing then there was probably nothing to find. Surely Blackie and his mates would have unearthed anything hidden here in the twenty years since Charlotte's disappearance, so this was probably a wild goose chase on my part. Still, KD might find it useful as she weaved the few meagre facts I had been able to gather into a plausible story.

I looked at my watch. Half past twelve, time to return to Crofterton and get some lunch at the ABC.

On a whim, I called in at Knight's Estate Agents on the way to Valentino's. I still needed a place to live and I might as well kill two birds with one stone. Mr Oily was in the outer office and came across as soon as I'd shut the door.

"Good morning. How may we help?"

No sign that he remembered me, I noticed. Good. It avoided any potentially difficult comments or questions.

"I'd like your lettings department, please."

He accompanied me through to the boxed in space behind the screen.

"Client for you, Mr Powell."

The smile Tom directed upwards died on his face as soon as he recognised me.

"Hello, Tom," I said taking the chair at the end of his desk. "Can you let me have some more details, please. I've decided against the last property you showed me."

I smiled in what I hoped was a friendly way but Tom merely threw me a black look as he got up and slid open the top drawer in his filing cabinet.

"Any particular property in mind?"

"Not this time, no."

He rifled through the contents for a moment before sitting back down clutching a handful of papers which he thrust towards me.

"Have the police been giving you a hard time too?" I asked, hoping to inspire a feeling of solidarity. It seemed to work for he relaxed and turned towards me, almost eagerly.

"I'll say," he replied, voice barely above a whisper. Fortunately there was a lot of noise coming from the main office. I thought it unlikely we'd be overheard.

"Anyone would think I killed her."

I widened my eyes in mock horror and incredulity that they could think such a thing and tried to look sympathetic.

"Then, yesterday, they came in and confiscated the appointments diary." He indicated a blank space on the desk.

"Really? I suppose they wanted to know who'd viewed the place last? Before me, I mean."

"Yes."

"And?" I prompted, I didn't want Tom going all monosyllabic on me. He stayed silent, so I applied a little flattery.

"Naturally, they'd come to you. You'd be the best person to tell them. After all, you must be a good judge of character by now. Meeting so many people, showing them round. You could probably recognise a dodgy character a mile off."

Was it my imagination or did young Mr Powell sit up a little straighter and taller in his chair as he considered this?

"Well, there is that, of course."

"They'd rely on that," I assured him. "Your assessment would be important to them."

"There was only an old lady, Mrs Smith, about a fortnight ago," Tom finally admitted.

Mrs Smith? Oh great! It was going to be fun trying to find her, then. For a moment I indulged in the malicious pleasure of imagining the attempts of Inspector Farish and his team in doing so before re-focusing my attention on the lad in front of me.