The Merchant's House (22 page)

‘Please, Stan. Tell me about the sightings round here. I’ve got to know … please.’

Stan felt awkward. He knew he was about to do the inadvisable. ‘It was just this old woman – bit of a nutter. She said she’d seen Jonathon in Morbay. She’s been let out of somewhere, if you see what I mean. Totally unreliable, I’m afraid. You mustn’t get your hopes up.’

‘Jonathon… Did she say he was on his own?’

‘Well, she saw him with a man. Turned out to be his dad.’

‘Did you see him, talk to him?’

‘No, we didn’t, actually. They’d moved out by the time we tracked them down. But the neighbours said they were father and son – said the lad looked the image of his dad. And the hair was the wrong colour – darker than Jonathon’s. I’m very sorry. I shouldn’t have told you, should I. It’s upset you…’

She sat back and took a sip of her tea. ‘No, no, it’s quite all right. I’ll be okay now.’

Stan thought he saw hope return to her eyes.

Gerry Heffernan looked at Wesley. ‘Doesn’t look like she’s in.’

‘My guess is that she’s not answering the door.’ Wesley rang again; three loud, long rings. He wanted to show her that they weren’t prepared to go away. His persistence was rewarded. The approaching footsteps were slow and reluctant.

Wesley smiled when Mrs Hughes opened the door, hoping it would put her at her ease. ‘I wonder if we could have another word with you, Mrs Hughes. Do you remember me? Detective Sergeant Peterson. And this is my colleague, Detective Inspector Heffernan. May we come in?’

Mrs Hughes was dressed as immaculately as before. She held the front door open disdainfully and let them pass. Tea wasn’t mentioned.

‘Just a couple of things I want to clear up, Mrs Hughes. May we sit down?’ She nodded, unwelcoming.

Heffernan spoke. ‘Nice flat you’ve got here, Mrs Hughes. You own the one downstairs, I believe.’ She nodded again. ‘My daughter rents a flat in Manchester – she’s a student at
the music college. Furnished, it is. Pretty grotty, but then I don’t suppose they notice their surroundings at that age, do they? Too busy having a good time. I told her to get one unfurnished – it’d be cheaper, and she could always cadge some sticks of furniture.’

Mrs Hughes was staring at the inspector, wondering where this was all leading. She hadn’t got all day to listen to the housing problems of some scruffy middle-aged Liverpudlian’s daughter. She looked away impatiently.

‘I suppose the one downstairs is furnished?’

So this is where it had been leading. Mrs Hughes swallowed hard and hoped the policemen wouldn’t notice her unease. ‘Er, yes. It is.’

‘The thing is, you told my colleagues that Sharon Carteret rented the flat unfurnished. Is there a reason for that?’

The woman shifted in her chair and thought quickly. ‘Yes. It was let unfurnished then.’

‘So where did the furniture come from? Did you decide to let it furnished, buy the stuff after she’d gone, or what?’

Mrs Hughes looked distinctly uncomfortable. ‘Er, she left it. I presume she moved to somewhere furnished or …’

‘She left everything?’

Mrs Hughes nodded, looking for the first time at a disadvantage. ‘Yes. It wasn’t very good furniture. She might have bought new or …’

‘Can you tell us what happened when Sharon Carteret left, Mrs Hughes?’ Wesley became formal.

‘I… she just left, didn’t give me any notice. I was rather annoyed.’

‘Were you here when she moved out? Did her boyfriend help her to move her things?’

‘I wasn’t here. I went away to stay with friends for a few days. When I got back she’d gone. She’d posted the key through my letterbox.’

‘She left no forwarding address, no hint of where she’d gone? Never mentioned a new flat?’

‘No.’

Gerry Heffernan stood up to leave. Wesley watched the woman’s face and saw relief. ‘Thank you, Mrs Hughes, you’ve been very helpful.’

Wesley stood up to follow his boss. Surely he’d missed out the most important question of all. But Heffernan turned to Mrs Hughes as she was about to open the front door.

‘How did you get on when Sharon was pregnant? You don’t allow kids here, do you? What happened to her baby? Did she have it adopted or what?’

Neat, thought Wesley. The woman had been caught completely off guard.

‘I … I …’

‘She was pregnant, wasn’t she, Mrs Hughes? What happened to the baby?’

‘I don’t know. I just told her she couldn’t keep it here. I never asked what arrangements she made.’

‘Were you here when she went into labour? What hospital did she go to?’

‘She led her own life, Inspector. I didn’t know and I didn’t want to know. If these girls mess up their lives, I’m not responsible. Ours was purely a business relationship – landlord and tenant. I was the last person she’d confide in. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an important appointment.’

Once outside, Heffernan spoke first. ‘Hardly a product of the caring, sharing nineties, is she?’

‘Hardly, sir. We didn’t even get a cup of tea.’

Rachel picked up the heap of files and saw the yellow rectangle of paper she had fixed to her desk after she had returned from seeing Mrs Willis in Morbay. ‘Get in touch with landlord.’

She had the address and number from Mrs Willis; she picked up the phone and dialled. A Liz answered. When Rachel introduced herself, Liz sounded vexed but grudgingly granted Rachel permission to call into the office, saying pointedly that she’d been bothered by the police before. Rachel thought she’d better take Steve, but she would do the driving.

When they drew up outside the office, with its flashy logo and vertical blinds, Steve announced he’d been there before – with Wesley, on the trail of Karen Giordino. The firm had been her landlord too; but that was hardly surprising as the company owned over half the private rented property in
Morbay. Steve got out of the car, squaring up for another encounter with the assertive Liz.

Liz kept them waiting; she was with a client. When she eventually emerged, she gave Steve her best scowl and looked Rachel up and down with suspicion. She led them into her office and reluctantly delved into her pale wood filing cabinets for the appropriate records.

The flat had been rented in the name of a Ms Sharon Carteret. She had paid by cheque, a deposit and a month’s rent in advance. She didn’t know the names of the other occupants, although she heard from the tenant upstairs that there was a child – not against the rules in this particular property. The tenant only stayed a month, moved out some time in late September.

Rachel felt disappointed. Liz had told her nothing they didn’t know already. She thought of one more question. ‘Does it say in your file when she rented the flat, what date?’

Liz pursed her lips and opened the folder again. ‘Yes. August fifteenth. Let furnished.’

‘Thank you very much for your help.’ Rachel gave Liz her most ingratiating smile and left. August 15 – that must mean something. What had made Sharon Carteret leave her flat and her job at the end of August? The renting of the flat a couple of weeks earlier suggested a plan of action, hardly a spur-of-the-moment decision. What change had occurred in Sharon’s routine life? Rachel pondered the question all the way back to Tradmouth.

Elaine Berrisford parked her VW Golf by the promenade. Morbay was a big place. It was a question of where to begin looking.

The day was sunny for late September – an Indian summer. Mothers with young children wandered up and down the promenade enjoying the bonus of sunshine. Some ventured onto the beach. Elaine’s eyes watched them all, hoping to see one child. Jonathon had been here – she knew he had. A mother always knew.

I have had little time to keep this journal as Oliver hath been ill again of the sweating fever and the shop hath been most busy. Yet I am glad of the occupation as I do not have much dealing with my wife whose sickness hath abated and who rules the household once more.

Jennet’s condition doth not yet show. I continue to go to her each night and have the sweetest pleasure in her bed. Her breasts do grow larger. I find her more comely now than ever. What shall become of this?

Extract from the journal of John Banized,
15 July 1623

Sitting at her desk in a first-floor office of Tradmouth police station, Rachel, using a telephone, fax and computer, was gradually building up a picture of Sharon Carteret’s life. When it comes down to it, she thought in a rare fit of philosophising, our lives these days can all be reduced to a series of electronic impulses.

She was on to the back page of the address book and had just spoken to an old friend of Sharon’s with the surname Williams. The friend had been at school with her in Morbay but had lost touch about four years ago when Sharon had taken up with Chris – a story now familiar to Rachel. The friend thought Chris might be in the building trade, didn’t
know for certain. Rachel made a note. It was worth following up.

There was one other entry on the page. No name, just a number. She picked up the phone and dialled.

‘Good morning. Morbay Clinic. How may I help you?’ said a female voice on the other end of the phone. Rachel hadn’t expected this. She introduced herself. The voice became wary. ‘I’ll put you through to our Clinical Director, Dr Downey.’

The line went dead for a while then a smooth male voice broke the silence. ‘Good morning, Constable. Dr Downey, Clinical Director. What may I do for you?’

Rachel explained.

‘I’m very sorry, Constable, but I can’t help you. I’ve never heard of this young woman. I’m sorry not to be of more assistance. But she’s not been a patient at this clinic, of that I’m sure.’

‘Perhaps your records …’

‘I’m absolutely certain, Constable. I’ve never treated anybody of that name.’

Rachel felt it would be fruitless to argue with the man. ‘Well, thank you for your help, Dr Downey. I’m sorry to have bothered you.’ She put the phone down. Dr Downey seemed very sure of his facts. Too sure? And he had assumed Sharon to be a patient rather than an employee. Perhaps that was a natural assumption, but Rachel had phrased her questions to encompass both possibilities. Maybe she mistrusted smooth-talking men and her prejudice was affecting her judgement.

Gerry Heffernan, who certainly didn’t fall into the smooth-talking category, came out of his office and asked her how she was getting on. He made a mental note to ask Wesley about the set-up at the Morbay Clinic.

It wasn’t often that Stan Jenkins wandered into Heffernan’s office. But wander in he did, resembling the proverbial lost soul. He was looking for someone to talk to, preferably someone of his own rank.

‘How’s it going, Stan? Take a seat. We’re out of cyanide, you’ll have to make do with tea. God, man, you look
depressed. What’s happened?’ Heffernan hesitated for a moment as the possibility occurred to him. ‘You’ve not found Jonathon, have you?’

‘No. I almost wish we would – get it over with one way or the other. It’s the not knowing. It’s the mother – she’s come down here again. It’s getting to me, Gerry, it really is.’

Heffernan nodded sympathetically.

‘I can’t take much more, Gerry. When this lot’s over, I’m taking early retirement.’

‘Your wife won’t like it, you getting under her feet all day.’ Stan gave a weak smile. ‘We all have bad times, Stan. We all feel like jacking it in when it’s not going as we want it. You’ve got too involved. It’s easily done in a case like this – a missing kid gets to everyone.’

“The mother’s taken to wandering round now, looking for him herself. I mentioned that woman, the nutter, and next thing I know Mrs Berrisford’s taken herself off to Morbay. She’s only going to make herself worse.’

‘At least she thinks she’s doing something. It’s probably what she needs.’

‘She rang me when she got back. She seemed so sure she’d find Jonathon, so sure he was alive.’

‘Try and forget about it, Stan. I’ll take you for a pie and chips this lunch-time if you’re feeling naughty.’

Stan fingered his waistline and nodded.

Steve Carstairs was getting used to building sites. The trouble was that every time he thought he was getting close to finding out about the stolen building materials he came up against a metaphorical brick wall. The stuff he’d found at Mr Carl’s sister’s cottage was pinched, right enough, but the builder hadn’t known the name of the man who sold them to him – just a bloke in a pub, a dark, youngish bloke with an earring – no names; always better to keep names out of it.

He picked his way over the foundations of some embryonic executive homes on the outskirts of Neston, looking for the site manager. PC Johnson was following behind, trying not to get mud all over his highly polished boots. Steve stopped and consulted his notebook. That batch of
plastic guttering was nicked – he could tell by the reference number on the packaging. That would be the second thing he would ask about.

Steve thought it was a bit of a long shot – one of Sharon’s friends thought Chris might, just might, be in the building trade. He had asked on five sites already that morning. He wasn’t getting his hopes up.

The site manager was a middle-aged man with sparse oily hair and an oily manner. He was only too happy to help the police – always was.