The Devil's Chair (28 page)

She blinked again and looked as wary as a cat.

‘We understand you were at a conference at the hotel there last November.'

It drew another blank look, which was then replaced by one of incredulity and a protestation. ‘What on earth can that possibly have to do with me?'

‘I believe you met the little girl's mother there.'

She put her head on one side in puzzlement. The two officers exchanged glances, lifted their eyebrows and wondered if this was a wild goose chase after all.

Ms Weston cleared her throat and finally spoke. ‘I really don't understand why you've come here,' she said.

‘We understand you struck up a friendship with Tracy Walsh?'

It drew another blank look.

‘She was one of the waitresses at the hotel where the conference was held,' Coleman filled in, feeling some sympathy with Roberts who must, he was thinking, be feeling a bit foolish.

Sheila Weston gave her head an imperceptible twitch. ‘I still don't understand what you're doing here,' she said. ‘I might well have talked to …' she hesitated, ‘… one of the waitresses six months ago. How can this possibly connect me with her daughter's disappearance?'

‘So you
have
followed the case through the papers and the internet?' Coleman put only gentle emphasis on the word.

‘As has probably the entire nation,' Ms Weston said with a twitch of her lips.

‘Do you remember Daisy?'

‘Sorry?'

‘The little girl. Apparently Tracy brought her in …' Roberts improvised, ‘… on the weekend of the conference.'

Coleman gave him a swift look.

It threw Sheila Weston. ‘Oh,' she said. ‘
That
little girl.'

Roberts couldn't resist a swift grin. ‘Yes,' he said, mimicking her tone. ‘
That
little girl.'

‘I, um, kept an eye on her,' she said.

PC Gethin Roberts gave it one last push, which was his downfall. ‘We understand you once worked in Dubai.'

At this Ms Weston threw back her head and burst out laughing. ‘You mean you've come all the way from Shropshire to ask me that?'

Please don't add the comment:
No wonder the police are overstretched and under resourced
.

Roberts had never felt so humiliated. PC Gary Coleman took pity on him. ‘You understand,' he said with dignity, ‘that this is a
major
investigation.'

Ms Weston fixed a stare on him.

‘And that means we follow up some very tenuous leads, Ms Weston.' He'd noted the absence of a wedding ring. ‘Did you ever meet a lady called Charity Ignatio in Dubai?'

Ms Weston looked bored. ‘I may have done,' she said, shrugging. ‘I meet lots of people out there.'

‘She lives in Church Stretton,' Coleman said.

She practically yawned. ‘What a small world we live in.'

‘Indeed. Anyway.' Coleman gave a bland smile as he stood up. ‘Thank you for your time. If we think of anything else to ask you we may well come again.'

She returned a confident glance. ‘Next time you might try using the phone first,' she said haughtily.

‘Oh, we will, Ms Weston. We will be in touch.'

C
oleman kindly waited until they were safely back on the M40 before making his comment to Gethin Roberts. ‘Well, that was a fat lot of good.'

‘I don't know,' Roberts said defensively. ‘Considering she went on a weekend course six months ago and had a couple of chats with one of the waitresses, how come she never asked us what we were really doing there? How come we didn't even have to remind her who Tracy Walsh was? Or Daisy,' he added meaningfully.

‘It's been in the papers.'

‘Yeah, but it's nothing to do with
her
, is it?'

‘I see what you mean.'

‘Besides, I thought there was definitely something there. We've rattled her all right.'

‘If you say so.'

‘Anyway,' Roberts continued, ‘I do feel a bit guilty dragging you all the way down here on a wild goose …'

‘I thought you said it wasn't a wild goose chase.'

‘Well, anyway, I'm buying lunch.'

Coleman grinned and patted his stomach. ‘I won't argue with that, Gethin, my boy.'

WPC Lara Tinsley was on the telephone to Charity Ignatio's employers in Dubai. And they were being very helpful indeed.

They confirmed the dates she had been at the resort. ‘Poor girl,' the secretary said. ‘She spends such a lot of time out there setting up businesses and helping with supply chains. It must be awfully lonely, staying in the hotel all on her own. I'm always pleased when she takes a bit of a break.'

‘Perhaps she makes friends out there.' Tinsley was floundering.

‘I think she does.' The girl responded brightly. ‘Probably meets people in the hotel. She usually takes some time off when she's there, goes down to the Palm Jumeirah for a couple of days or something.'

‘Oh.'

‘And she took practically the whole week off in April.' The girl was still trying to be helpful. ‘That's unusual for her.'

Tinsley's ears pricked up. ‘How so?'

‘Well, she rang in from her two-day leave and said she didn't feel very well. I've never known her to do that before. Had to reschedule her meetings.'

Tinsley frowned. ‘I don't suppose you can remember the dates?'

‘Oh, yes I can.' The girl rose to the challenge. ‘It was my boyfriend's grandma's ninetieth at the beginning of the week. The week of Monday the eighth.'

The week following the accident.

Somehow it seemed significant. But for the life of her Lara Tinsley couldn't work out how or why.

The child stood quite still, as she'd been told to do and for a while no one noticed her. Everyone assumed her parents were just around the corner, on the other floor, looking at some other piece of furniture or ornament or picture – if they thought about her at all. Most people didn't. They were wrapped up in their own lives, their own search for a bargain or something that would transform their homes.

The child clutched the bunch of herbs as tightly as she'd been told to do, the letter in the other hand. And she waited, again as she'd been told to do.

At some point someone will notice you and then you must tell them the words I said and hand them the letter. Do you understand, child?

She had nodded solemnly, risked a sneaky smile.

You're going to be all right now.

The child's eyes had locked into hers, one set trusting and innocent, the other neither.

Finally at 3.50 p.m., the teenage girl who helped serve behind the counter addressed the child, who stood as still as a garden statue.

‘You all right there, love?'

Kelly Simms had been texting her boyfriend for the last twenty minutes, giggling at his suggestive responses and only now had she become aware of her surroundings. She eyed the little girl in the sprigged dress. The girl nodded gravely but said nothing.

Kelly came around to the front of the counter and bent over. ‘Your mum upstairs, is she?'

The little girl shook her head solemnly.

‘You with your dad then?'

Again the little girl shook her head with the same mute solemnity.

‘Who
are
you with?' Kelly's voice had grown sharp. Instinctively she felt that something here was unusual.

And at last the child spoke. ‘I'm not with anyone,' she said. ‘I'm on my own.'

Kelly hunkered down to meet the little girl's eyes. They were wide open. ‘You must be with
someone
,' she prompted.

‘No, I'm not.' The little girl shook her head, dimples in her cheeks, golden curls feathering out. ‘I am on my own.'

‘Well, how did you get here?'

‘She brought me.'

‘Who brought you?'

‘The lady.'

‘What lady?' Kelly scouted around for someone to lay claim to this one.

‘She's gone now.' The little girl put her hand on her arm. ‘She said she was going so there's no use you lookin' for her. She's gone back.'

‘Gone back where?'

The child looked at her as though she was stupid. ‘To her house,' she said, stating the obvious.

Kelly was taken aback.

The little girl spoke with growing confidence. ‘She told me you was to get the plees.'

‘Sorry? Oh, the police.'

‘And to give this letter and the bunch of flowers to the lady.'

‘What lady?'

The child pointed to the name on the front of the envelope.

Written clearly in large bold letters, she read:

A message to Martha.

A
message to Martha
. The phrase brought back memories.

Martha glanced up at the mantelpiece. There was a postcard there. Where it had come from was unmistakable. Lady Liberty held her lamp up high.

It had been sent by Finton Cley, one-time accused stalker through a misunderstanding about his family and the coroner's verdict of suicide which had impacted them all so hard. Now, hatchets buried, he was running a successful antiques business in the Big Apple. The message on the back of the card was jaunty.
Best thing I ever did, moving here. Sister engaged!!!

She smiled. Sometimes things turned out well after all. She turned her attention back to the white envelope. ‘And you say this was with her?' Gloves on, she fingered the envelope.

Randall was pale and looked exhausted. He nodded and handed her the bunch of plants. ‘Together with this. She was clutching it like her life depended on it.'

Martha eyed the sprigs and thoughts began to tumble through her mind. Helter-skelter.

Oblivious to this, Randall continued apologetically, ‘I wasn't sure if both were meant for you.'

‘I think they were.' Martha slid a paperknife along the top of the envelope, preserving the glue, although no one licked envelopes these days. They either trusted the pathetically weak adhesive on both envelope flaps or they stuck on a strip of Sellotape. Still, you never knew your luck. Perhaps this once their perpetrator might have been careless, though she doubted it. The person behind all this didn't strike her as someone who was careless.

She pulled out a blank sheet of paper. ‘I see,' she said, unsurprised. The child had been the clue. That and the bouquet of plants.

Randall nodded wearily and Martha took her eyes off the sheet of paper and focused on him instead. ‘Alex,' she said with concern, ‘are you all right?'

DI Randall shook his head.

‘But surely …' She reached across and touched his hand. ‘The child is safe.' This is wonderful. A success story – surely?'

He met her eyes briefly. ‘Of course,' he said, not moving his hand away. ‘Of course. It's wonderful. I can't believe that Daisy is all right. It is fantastic.'

‘But …?'

He gave a deep sigh. And Martha decided it was time to jump the next big step.

‘Alex,' she said tentatively, ‘we've been colleagues. No – friends – for a few years now. I've offered before … if ever you want to confide in me …' she felt compelled to add, ‘… as a friend.'

For what more can a married man be?

Alex Randall hesitated, then lifted his eyes. ‘Thank you,' he said simply. ‘You don't know how very comforting I find that.' He smiled at her and her heart began to sing.

There was a moment's pause, which was broken by the detective just before it became embarrassing. He indicated the blank sheet of paper, the envelope and the sprig of herbs which the child had delivered so conscientiously. ‘So what on earth is the significance of this?'

Martha was silent, thinking and working out before speaking. ‘Where is Daisy now?'

‘With social services at a foster home.'

‘Has she said anything?'

‘Not much – mainly that she hurt her leg and a lady looked after her.'

‘Has a doctor examined her leg?'

‘It looks fine. There's a wound that looks as though it came from the accident. It's quite nasty and would account for the blood found in the car.'

Martha dropped her gaze to the sprig of plants and began to understand. She fingered the hairy leaves, the bell-shaped blue flowers. ‘And the X-rays?'

‘Show a recent fracture of the right tibia, now healed.' He screwed up his face. ‘I think they called it callus formation and …' he was less sure of himself now, ‘… greenstick?'

Martha nodded. ‘Aligned?'

In spite of his weariness, Randall smothered a smile. He often forgot that Martha was a qualified doctor.

‘Perfect alignment,' he said.

‘Has Daisy said anything else?'

‘Very little so far. We've had some of the experts in child psychology interview her but it's very difficult. It's almost as though she's been warned not to speak.'

‘Maybe she has.'

Randall nodded, watching her. ‘This woman is dangerous,' he said.

‘But she kept Daisy safe. You have no evidence she's dangerous.'

‘We might have, soon,' he said.

Martha lifted her eyebrows in enquiry.

‘We've subjected Daisy's dress to forensic analysis,' he said. ‘It was bought in Tesco's and only stocked there since last week. It was probably bought in Shrewsbury so we can look at their CCTV. And …' His pause was significant. ‘We've come up with some dog hairs. Short and gingery. We're thinking a terrier.' His eyes gleamed. ‘The field is narrowing.'

She met his eyes fearlessly. ‘I want to see Daisy,' she said. ‘I want to talk to her.'

The child who had been the focus of so much attention was smaller than Martha had imagined. She was tiny – even for a four-year-old, and entrancing, mainly due to her very beautiful bright blue eyes, which gazed back at Martha with the transparency that only a small child can give. She was sitting on the floor, surrounded by Lego bricks and small plastic farm animals. She was being watched by a stocky woman in a tweed skirt, presumably one of the team of social workers assigned to her care.