Truth Will Out (8 page)

‘DC Fleet, and if you want to help us to find him, you’ll stay here for a while longer. If we find this Jem I shall need you to identify him as the man who entered your garden. Then we’ll interview him and that may be the starting point that leads us to your husband.’ He leaned forward. ‘You’re booked in here for a week. This is where he expects you to be. Stay another day or two, Mrs Brent. It won’t be easy but it might help us to discover the truth. Will you do that?’

She nodded.

He smiled suddenly and she saw a softer side of him. His expression was warmer and his eyes had lost their hard glint.

‘Please understand that we will do everything we can and we always hope for a very rational ending, but we wouldn’t be doing our duty if we didn’t look on the dark side. If we delay, the leads dry up and we can’t solve the crime – if there is a crime.’ She nodded earnestly and he continued. ‘At present this Jem might be the man we need. He can tell us who gave him the envelope that seems to be somehow relevant to your husband’s disappearance. Trust us, Mrs Brent. We are on your side.’

He smiled and Maude felt herself relax marginally. She wanted to trust him and she longed to believe that Lionel would be returned to her. Her life – that is her
real
life – had somehow been snatched away from her and minutes later as she left the police station, she was clinging to the idea that DC Fleet would be the man to restore it to her.

Biddy sat up in bed at close to midnight with her diary open on her knees and a pencil in her hand. Earlier in the day Maude had phoned and had explained what was happening and why, at the moment, she felt unable to come home. Biddy and Alice had talked of nothing else all day but neither had been able to think of anything useful to add to the investigation. Now, forgetting her Ovaltine on the bedside table, Biddy wrote in her diary.

‘
Monday, June 12th. Our lives are turned upside down by the tragedy of Lionel’s disappearance. How can a grown man vanish leaving no trace? It’s impossible and yet it’s happened. Poor dear Maude. My heart aches for her. She is trying to be so brave and to keep up her hopes but I have this terrible feeling that things will get worse not better. I’ve tried praying but it seems to have gone unnoticed by Him.

Even Primmy is affected by the mystery and mopes about the house, not a bit like her usual excitable self. Poor little dog. She cannot possibly understand what is going on and we can’t explain it to her. All she knows is that Lionel and Maude are both gone.

I made a huge chocolate cake to cheer me and Alice up but we both ate too much and felt sick afterwards.

Last night we forgot the croquet set and left it on the lawn and it rained hard and it all got wet so we shall have to bring it into the kitchen to dry it off before Maude comes back.

I just keep hoping that in the morning Lionel will turn up and this will all have been a dreadful nightmare and we can go back to the way we were. Please God let it happen that way. If anything has happened to Lionel it will break Maude’s heart forever . . .
’

Biddy closed the book and slid it under the pillow. Discovering that her forgotten Ovaltine was now stone cold she uttered a word not suitable in decent company and slid down under the sheets.

FOUR

T
he following morning, Tuesday, Penny and Meg arrived at the Romilees Hotel within minutes of each other and were soon together in the Bluebell Room, comparing notes about the event that was taking centre stage in everyone’s life. The local newspapers were full of the mystery and various people had been interviewed for their insights into the disappearance of one of the guests from the well-known hotel.

Meg was wide-eyed with excitement as Penny described what had happened when the police tried to talk to Jem.

‘They only knew where he lived because of me,’ she told her friend as they began to strip the bed. Penny was trying hard not to feel superior. ‘When they asked if any of us knew of anyone called Jem I told them about the chap next door to Tom because it could have been the same man. I mean Jem’s about my age although he looks younger but it could be him. Tom says this constable turned up on the doorstep and Jem’s mother, that’s Mrs Rider, made out he wasn’t there and said they were victimizing him just because he was a bit wayward . . . or was it backward?’

‘Well, he is! Both.’

‘But she’s a funny woman. Tom reckoned she’s a bit like a witch only fatter and if you cross her she’ll give you the evil eye! Like a spell. Not that she’s got black hair – hers is a bit gingery – but she’s got piercing eyes.’

Together they began to clean the bathroom. Penny threw damp towels out of the door into the basket on the landing, gave the bath mat a shake, draped it over the sill of the open window and began to rub Vim around the bath with a damp cloth. Meg cleaned the basin and polished the mirror above the sink.

Penny went on. ‘She refused to let him in – the policeman I mean – so they went away but Tom had seen Jem looking out his bedroom window, so he got on his bike and went after the police to tell them but when they got back, Jem had gone. Run off somewhere. So Tom thinks he must know something or why would he run off like that? Made him look guilty.’ She straightened up from the bath. ‘That’ll have to do. I’ll start on the bed.’

Meg said, ‘That poor Mrs Brent. She looks so pale and her eyes are all red from crying. If I were her I’d go home.’

Just then the door of the room opened and, as if somehow summoned, Mrs Brent came nervously into the room. Both young women stared at her.

She said, ‘I understand one of you knows this Jem. Mrs Cobb told me.’

Meg said,‘It’s her. Penny. She knows him.’

Penny said, ‘It’s not me exactly. My young man lives next door to him.’

‘Please tell me anything you know about him. I understand the police were going to interview him.’

Penny and Meg exchanged startled looks.

‘I’m sorry, Mrs Brent,’ Penny said, ‘but I’ve never even seen him. I only hear about him from Tom. He says Jem’s a bit of a tearaway and often in trouble with the police but that’s all I know . . . except his mother’s a bit sort of scary. Tom saw the policeman arrive and Jem was in the house but his mother said he wasn’t and as soon as they’d gone away Jem went out.’ She shrugged.

‘Oh!’ Mrs Brent’s face fell. ‘So he hasn’t been interviewed.’

‘Not yet.’

She hesitated. ‘Would you say this Jem was . . . violent? I’m wondering if he might have . . . done something to my husband.’ Her voice was shaking. ‘Whether he might have . . . hurt him. I saw him, you see, when he came to my house, but only briefly and I didn’t look at him seriously. I had no idea . . .’ She pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and pressed it to her eyes.

She looked, thought Meg, as though she might faint at any moment. ‘I don’t think he’d hurt anyone,’ she said quickly. ‘Not violent. No. Not Jem Rider. Just up to no good. Pinching things off doorsteps and name-calling and . . . and throwing stones at cats. He was in my class at school and when he turned up he was always getting the cane but no, I don’t think he’d do anybody any real harm. Would he, Penny?’

‘Not from what I hear.’

Mrs Brent uncovered her eyes and took a deep breath. To Penny she said, ‘If you do hear anything else, would you let me know? I’m staying here for another night but I may go home tomorrow.’

‘I will, yes. Try not to worry. The detective is really good at his job. You’re lucky to have him on the case. He’s got a wonderful reputation.’ She smiled reassuringly.

‘That’s good news. Thank you. You’ve really helped me. I must let you get on with your work.’

When she’d gone Meg looked at Penny with raised eyebrows. ‘The detective is wonderful? Good at his job? What do you know about him?’

‘Nothing,’ Penny admitted, ‘but she’s in such a state. I just wanted to cheer her up.’

Emily Rider heard the front-door bell and swore under her breath. She went into the front room, looked out through the thick net curtain and swore again. The man on the doorstep wasn’t in uniform but she knew the type. A detective. They were back.

‘I knew it! I just knew it!’ She put a hand to her heart and tried to compose her features. Never let the police think you’re scared. Her husband had said that more times than she cared to remember before he took himself off four years earlier – and good riddance to him! In and out of prison like a blasted yo-yo!

On the way to the front door she pushed back her lank hair, which was now a faded auburn, and smoothed her floral pinafore over plump hips. She also struggled to forget her anger with Jem. Must keep calm in front of the police. They were like bloodhounds. If they thought she had anything to hide they’d be on her like a pack of wolves.

Opening the front door she said, ‘You lot again?’

‘Mrs Rider?’

She gave an exaggerated groan. ‘Whatever you’re selling, the answer’s “No”.’ She smiled and hoped she sounded perky and carefree.

‘I’m Detective Constable Fleet and I’m investigating the—’

‘I’m not interested. I’ve got a load of ironing to do so . . .’ She began to close the door but the DC put his foot in the way. ‘What?’ she demanded.

‘I’d like a word with your son Jem, Mrs Rider. We think he may be able to help us in our enquiries. Is he in?’

‘No and if he was he couldn’t help you. He doesn’t know anything, that’s why. We know your lot. You’ll twist his words, trip him up over everything he says and try and pin the blame on him.’

‘Blame? Blame for what? What do you think your son has done, Mrs Rider?’

She was silent for a moment, weighing up what she could and couldn’t say. She found herself wishing that she had taken off the pinafore. He was a decent-looking chap, for a policeman.

He said, ‘Do you want us to have this conversation on the doorstep, Mrs Rider?’ and jerked his head in the direction of the woman next door, who was pretending to polish her already gleaming brass knocker.

‘Nosy cow!’ Reluctantly Emily held the door open and they moved inside and into the front room. ‘She thinks herself so much better than the rest of us, next door, but her Tom’s a troublemaker. He tries to wind Jem up. Knows he’s got a short fuse, as they say. You can sit down if you want to.’ Without waiting for an answer she seized a tortoiseshell cat from the only armchair and tossed it none too gently into the hallway.

‘I won’t sit down, thank you, Mrs Rider. I mustn’t get too comfortable because I have a lot of work to do. We’re investigating the disappearance of one of the guests at the Romilees Hotel – you may have heard about it – and we believe Jem met him recently and might give us a clue to his whereabouts. That’s the only reason we want to talk to him.’

The relief was enormous. So Jem was not in any trouble. She allowed herself another smile. ‘Maybe he can help but he’s not here at the moment. If you want to call round again—’

‘I need to speak to him now, Mrs Rider. If he
is
in I’d—’

‘I just told you, he isn’t here!’

‘Then if you can tell me where he is . . .’

‘No, I can’t. I don’t know where he is. Very independent, my son. Always off, here and there.’ She shrugged. ‘Kids, eh! They worry you to death.’

‘Are you worried about him?’

Emily cursed her careless tongue. Of course she was worried about him. He hadn’t come home the previous night and she had no idea where he was or when he would come home. ‘Worried about Jem? No more than any mother worries about her kids. You got a family?’

‘Not yet.’

‘My advice is to think about it, long and hard. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’ She glanced at the only framed photograph she owned, which showed her and her husband outside a church. She said, ‘I’m the one in the wedding dress!’ and tried to laugh but something caught in her throat and the laugh was choked off.

The detective said, ‘Maybe I could speak to your husband.’

‘You’ll be lucky. He packed his bags years ago, silly sod!’

‘So there’s just you and your son?’

‘My daughter’s married with three kids. Jem was a late arrival, as they say. He’s a good kid. A bit young for his age but that’s no bad thing. He’ll get himself a job before long and that’ll give him something to do. Keep him out of mischief.’

‘I’ll call back later then, Mrs Rider, but if Jem comes back, please tell him to come down to the police station as he might be able to help us with this missing person enquiry.’

She nodded and showed him out. So this chap who’d gone missing was staying at the Romilees Hotel. A bit posh, then. She found it impossible to care about people like that. Rich people. ‘Fat cats’ her husband had called them. They had too much. Too much luck. Too much money. Too much everything. Served the blighters right if they got burgled now and again. They could afford it.

As she closed the front door the cat slipped back into the front room and leaped on to the armchair. Emily went back into the kitchen and stared round sightlessly. Where the hell was Jem, she wondered, and what had he done – if anything? It wasn’t like him to stay out all night. He liked his home comforts, did Jem. Please God he wasn’t going to turn out like his father.

Her anger was turning into anxiety.

Biddy and Alice were eating their lunch when they heard a car draw up outside.

Alice said, ‘Oh no! Not the police, please! But it might be Lionel!’

Biddy almost choked on her cold sausage and salad while Alice sprang to her feet and rushed to the front door. It was not the police, nor was it Lionel. Instead it was Maude, who stood on the front step waving to two people who drove off in their car.

‘Maude!’ cried Alice. ‘Oh, let me look at you! How thin you look!’

As Maude stepped into the hallway, Alice threw her arms around her neck and hugged her. Biddy arrived and Primmy went mad, dancing round Maude’s feet and whining hysterically until Maude disentangled herself from Biddy’s arms and bent to make a fuss of the dog.

Biddy cried, ‘Oh, Maudie love! Thank goodness you’re back. You’re much better off here than stuck in a hotel with a lot of strangers.’

‘I’m going back later today,’ Maude told her as she sank on to a chair in the kitchen and looked round the familiar room with pleasure. ‘I began to feel that I’d never see my home again,’ she confessed. ‘I know that sounds melodramatic but . . .’