The Chinese Egg (20 page)

He was shocked when he saw her. In the five days since it happened she must have lost pounds. Her eyes were sunk in her head like an old woman's and her skin had no colour at all, it was waxy grey. He could see that she'd tried to make something of herself, she'd had her hair done, she'd put on a little make-up this afternoon, and she greeted him politely as she would have any visitor. He could barely stand the flash of hope that came into her face when he told her, warning her that it mightn't be much, that they had got a step further. That was what he'd come to tell her.

She listened while he told her about the two identifications they'd had of a young man who'd been seen with a girl and a baby. He explained that they hadn't taken much account of the children's story except to check the whereabouts of the man Purfitt that the young girl had picked out. They'd found he'd moved from the last address they'd had for him and as far as they knew he wasn't serving another sentence. But that didn't prove anything. But when this Mrs. Plum had come forward with her story, and she'd picked out the same man, then they'd begun to believe that they might really be on to something. And the couple
had flitted that very morning, without a word. That looked suspicious too. Now they were getting out descriptions of both the man and the girl and circulating them all over the country.

“But you've got a photograph of him?”

“And we're getting an identikit picture of the girl. From the two descriptions, this Mrs. Plum's and the boy's. But these fancy pictures don't always help. Don't look like anyone. I often wonder whether they don't put people off more than help.”

“Didn't anyone see. . . the baby?”

“This Mrs. Plum did. Helped to look after it, apparently. That was what made her suspicious in the first place, that the girl didn't seem to know what to do for it.”

“What did she say about the baby?”

“The baby was all right. She thought the girl didn't know much about babies, but was really trying to do her best for it,” Price said.

“What about the people who saw them on the train? Didn't they notice anything about the baby?” Sally Wilmington asked.

“Not a thing. Just heard the couple talking and thought he sounded a bit too offhand to be its Dad.” Price hadn't told her the words the youngsters had repeated to him. He didn't like the sound of them himself, and didn't mean to frighten the poor girl more than necessary. He added, “They're quite young. Not more than sixteen or seventeen at the outside. Still at school, both of them.”

He was astonished to see Sally Wilmington's eyes focusing on him with interest. “What are they called?”

“Stephen Rawlinson and the girl's called Vicky something or other. Stanford. That's it.”

Sally Wilmington said, “I've seen them. They came round here.”

“You didn't tell me. . . .”

“Andrew said it was all made up. . . .”

“Made up? They gave quite a good account of themselves to me,” Price said sharply.

“Because of it all being. . . what d'you call it? Telepathy or something.”

“That's not how I had it from them. They said they'd seen this precious couple in the train, as I told you.”

“That's not what they told us.” She'd started shaking again.

“Mrs. Wilmington. Don't let this upset you.”

“Andrew didn't trust them. He thought they were in it for what they could get out of it. But I liked them. I liked one of the girls. . . .”

“One of the girls? Was there more than one?”

“There were two when they came here.”

“Vicky, she was called.”

“That's right. She was the one I liked. The other one was nice too. Pretty. But the Vicky girl. . . .”

“What?”

Sally Wilmington said slowly, “She made me feel she really wanted to help.”

“She's the one who turned up on Sunday with the boy, with this bit of news about the tube train.”

“And she said it really happened?”

“Yes, they both said so.”

“You think they're lying?”

They stared at each other.

“Suppose they did it because they knew they wouldn't be believed?” Sally Wilmington said.

“How d'you mean, Mrs. Wilmington?” Price said, not understanding.

“They came here on Saturday and told us this story. And Andrew wouldn't listen because it was all supposed to have been second sight. Something like that. The other girl, the pretty one, said that these two could see what was going to happen. And of course. . . you know. It is difficult to believe. They might have thought you'd listen to them properly if they said it had happened in the ordinary sort of way.”

“It would certainly sound better to me,” Price said.

“And they wanted to help. I know they did. I just don't believe they wanted to get paid or anything. That girl. . . the Vicky girl. . . I could feel. She really minded.”

“You say your husband didn't take much account of it?” Price asked.

“He got angry. He was terribly tired. And there's been a lot of silly stuff. People ringing up or coming round. Sometimes you can see they're frauds or that they're going to ask you to pay. But those two. . . I thought they were different.”

“I'd better see them and find out exactly what is going on,” Price said.

“But you said the girl picked out the same picture. Why shouldn't her story be true?”

“Mrs. Wilmington, I'm just a plain, ordinary policeman. I like facts. I don't like crystal balls and the stars telling you what's going to happen the day after tomorrow. In my experience it never does. . . .”

“But if they really could? If they could see where Caroline Ann is? What's happening to her? Then you could go there and stop them. . . get her back. It just might work, mightn't it?”

Price hated to have to take away any slightest thread of hope, but he knew his duty. “Look, Mrs. Wilmington. If I thought there was the smallest chance of these youngsters being able to tell us where to find your baby, you know I'd take it. But there's no reason to think they can. Whichever of the stories they told is true, they haven't said they can tell us where to look. And I'm short enough of men as it is. To my way of thinking it's better to use the force I've got going around London and asking questions, following up other leads, than sending men off on a harebrained chase set up by a crazy schoolgirl who thinks she sees visions.”

“I know you'll do your best,” Sally Wilmington said.

“You can be sure of that.”

“Only. . . if those children do suggest anything. . . You won't turn it down straight away?”

“I won't do that. And I'm certainly going to interview that precious pair again and get to the bottom of this caper,” Price said. He left the house, disturbed, angry with himself for having been taken in by the precious pair, and yet unable to decide how they'd picked out Purfitt's picture if they were indeed impostors. It was too late to do anything more that evening, he'd have to leave the confrontation until tomorrow.

The next morning Detective Chief Superintendent Price was at the address the girl had given, bright and early. He knocked on the door and it was opened at once. Before he knew it, he'd almost come out with his thought—“So you're the pretty one,” but he managed to check the words before he'd said them and he only asked, “Does Vicky Stanford live here?”

Chris said, “Yes,” and stood looking at him.

“She's at home? Could I see her? Police.” He showed her his card.

“She's out,” Chris said.

“Know where she's gone to, by any chance?” Price asked.

“She's having coffee with. . . with a friend.”

“Would that be Stephen Rawlinson?” He was amused to see her surprise. Show her that her sister and the boy-friend weren't the only ones with second sight.

“How did you know?” Chris asked, not liking it.

“They came round to see us in the Criminal Investigation Department on Sunday with some information about a case I'm working on. There are one or two things I'd like to ask them about. We've had some further evidence we think they might be able to help us with.”

Chris obviously hesitated.

“Could you tell me the name of the coffee shop?” Price inquired.

“It's in the High Street. The, Witches' Cauldron. I'll show you, if you like.”

“I'd like that, if you can spare the time,” Price said. It was always useful to get some idea of the sort of background there
was to a story as unusual as this was. He was still sure they'd been taken in by this Stanford girl and the boy because although Mrs. Wilmington seemed to think they were genuine, the stories just didn't fit. Something must be wrong somewhere.

But he didn't get much further during the ten minutes' walk with Chris. The most interesting thing he picked up was the strong impression of normality. By the time they reached the High Street he'd have been willing to swear, against all his better reason, that this girl wasn't mixed up in anything shady, and was convinced her sister and boy-friend weren't either.

He saw Vicky and Stephen, talking earnestly, before they saw him. Plotting something else? his suspicious mind asked. But again when he reached the table and they stood up to greet him, they didn't look to him guilty. Vicky, in fact, seemed pleased to see him. She asked, “Is there any news?” at the same moment as he said, “I'd like to ask you a few more questions.”

“What. . .? Do you mean here?” Stephen asked.

“Not here. Would there be a room at your house that we could have to ourselves for half an hour? Or at yours?” Price said, looking at Vicky.

Chris and Vicky looked at each other, and Chris said, “The front room. Mum's out anyway.”

“You'll come?” Price said to Stephen. It was not exactly a question, more a statement.

They hardly spoke till they'd got back to the Stanford house and were sitting round the table in the small, seldom used front room, Chris as well as the other two. Vicky asked again, “You haven't found the baby, then?”

“No.”

“I thought perhaps you'd caught them.”

“No such luck.”

“Something's happened though, hasn't it?”

“Why do you say that? Seen the future in a crystal ball?” It was meant to take her off her guard, and it did. She flushed and looked quickly at her sister, “Chris! You didn't. . . .”

“Your sister never said a word. It was Mrs. Wilmington told me you'd been round there before you came to us, with a story about seeing what's going to happen before it takes place.”

She sat scarlet and silent. The sister urged her, “Tell him it's true.”

She said, “What's the use? No one ever believes us.”

“Is that why you told a different story at the Yard?”

She said, “Yes,” defiantly.

“Which story are we supposed to believe? The one about the tube train or the other?”

She said, “Does it matter? If you want to get the baby back.” “So now you don't believe a word we've said?” the boy asked. “I didn't say I didn't.”

“What have you come here for, then?”

“To ask you which is the truth. The story you told us or the one you told the Wilmington couple?”

The boy said, “It seemed important to tell you what we knew. So I told Vicky we should pretend it happened on the train like we told you.”

“But it didn't really?”

“No.”

“How, then?”

Vicky was silent, Stephen tried to explain. Pictures, flashes. Unexpected, they never knew when or why. Like remembering, Vicky had thought, only working backwards. You didn't always choose what you remembered, did you? They didn't always get it exactly the same. . . Vicky interrupted.

“I'll tell you what it's like. It's like smells.”

“Smells? Not for me it isn't. . . .”

“I don't mean in the flash. I mean how it comes. Don't you know how sometimes you suddenly remember something and you can't think why just then, and then you realise it's because of a smell? Like meths always reminds me of hospital, when I had my tonsils done. They used meths to clean the trolleys.”

“That's right! Kippers make me think of Yarmouth. . .” Chris said, but Price wasn't listening to her. In his mind he was standing by a fruit and vegetable shop on a hot day last summer, wondering why he'd suddenly had a picture of the garden where his grandmother had lived in Kent. He could see her clearly, a little woman with white hair pulled back into a bun and the black apron with white spots that she always seemed to wear, laughing. She
was laughing at him, Jimmy Price. Only Jimmy Price was a small boy who'd been caught eating the gooseberries before they were ripe. The sourness of them had made him screw up his face and spit them out. Then she'd picked a leaf from another fruit bush and told him to smell it, it would take the sharpness away, and he'd smelled blackcurrant for the first time he ever remembered. A lovely distinctive smell, different from anything else. Funny! He didn't like the fruit much even now, but he did like the smell. It had been the smell of sun-warmed blackcurrants on that fruit stall that had brought back his Granny and her country voice and the garden which had seemed to him, a London child, so big and rich. He wondered what had happened to that cottage and its garden now. Pulled down to make room for a council estate probably. Or worse, bought by some business man who'd be there only for weekends. . .

He came back suddenly to the Stanford front room and the other three at the table. Chris was still speaking. Funny thing too how all those memories and all that feeling could take no time at all. He'd lived through five summer holidays of exploration and content such as he'd never recaptured, and the girl hadn't come to the end of the sentence.