And None Shall Sleep (6 page)

‘Do what you bloody well like with it.'

‘Thank you.' Joanna paused. And had your husband ever received a letter like this before?'

‘Absolutely not.'

So again Joanna changed tack. ‘Do you think it is possible, or probable, that someone abducted your husband from the hospital? Possibly even for money?'

Sheila Selkirk gave another explosive laugh. ‘You mean kidnapped?' she said. ‘For a ransom ... Jonathan? Oh, my dear. They'd wait a long time for their money.' Her face was pink with humour. ‘Kidnappers don't target middle-aged criminal solicitors. They go for pink-cheeked sweet little babies. Worth far more money, don't you think?'

Then she leaned towards Joanna, revealing an eyeful of ample cleavage. ‘Are you married, my dear?' She chuckled again before adding, ‘It wouldn't be worth their while kidnapping Jonathan ... I wouldn't pay the ransom, even if I had the money. And where's the demand, eh? Where is it?'

This time it was Joanna who was discomfited. For all her honesty and directness, Sheila Selkirk was an embarrassing woman. So she ignored the comment.

‘Tell me, Mrs Selkirk,' she said smoothly. ‘Is there nowhere your husband might have taken refuge, away from the hospital, if he was depressed or unhappy? If not close friends, your son, perhaps?'

Immediately the words were spoken she knew the dart had pierced a sensitive spot.

Sheila Selkirk flushed. ‘You know about him, then? My son …' Sheila Selkirk drew in a large, deliberate breath. ‘You know about Justin?'

‘I know only that you have a son,' Joanna's curiosity was pricking her.

Sheila Selkirk's face seemed to crumple. ‘Yes, I have a son,' she said sadly. ‘His name's Justin.' Here she stopped and stared out of the window, at the browns, reds and golds of the autumn trees. Her breath came in slow, heaving gasps. ‘Unfortunately he and Jonathan ...' she cleared her throat noisily, ‘they didn't get on. They never have. In fact,' she swallowed, ‘it would be nearer the truth to say that they couldn't stand the sight of each other. Jonathan packed the poor little blighter off to boarding school the minute it was considered decent.' She turned her gaze back to Joanna. ‘I don't really think Justin ever quite forgave him. He was bullied rather mercilessly.' She closed her eyes in pain. ‘Kids, they can be so cruel. Far more cruel than adults, you know.'

And a picture of Eloise flashed across Joanna's mind. ‘Yes,' she said softly. Kids can be cruel, more cruel than ...'

Sheila Selkirk seemed not to notice. But Mike was more vigilant. He shot her a sharp, enquiring look and for once Joanna met his eyes and didn't even try concealing her feelings.

Sheila Selkirk started. She looked at them both. ‘Funny,' she said drily. ‘Isn't it? His own flesh and blood and they just hated each other. In fact, inspector,' she said calmly now and without emotion, ‘if one walked into the room the other would walk straight out. They skirted round each other, avoided one another. The school holidays were sheer misery for poor old Justin. Absolute misery. And Jonathan did everything he possibly could to avoid coming home.'

‘Where does your son live now?'

‘Here, in Leek.' Sheila Selkirk stared boldly at Mike. ‘He's a teacher in the so-called Special School, the one for the children we would once have called retarded or mental defectives. They have some silly name for them now – severe learning disabilities or some such nonsense. ' She grimaced. ‘All that expensive education, Sergeant. Public schools cost a fortune. And my son ends up teaching a bunch of morons! Her dark eyes fixed on Mike. ‘No justice, is there?'

‘Is he married?' Mike chipped in.

Sheila nodded. ‘Oh yes.' And then unexpectedly her face softened and again her strange beauty shone through. ‘He has a daughter,' she said. ‘A lovely, lovely little thing.' She flushed. ‘Oh dear, here I am, boastful grandma ... But she really is a dear little thing.' She gave a short, self-conscious laugh. ‘Three years old. Wait, here ...' She crossed the room to a small, mahogany chest of drawers. It was so packed with photographs that she had difficulty opening it. She leafed through them until her hands touched one and she handed it to Joanna. It was a picture of a Shirley Temple lookalike ... a laughing, curly-haired, beautiful child, plump cheeks and dimples.

Sheila Selkirk gloated over it, her mouth quivering and moist. ‘Lovely, isn't she? Look at those eyes, her mouth, her beautiful little curls – exactly like Justin's at the same age.'

She took the photograph from Joanna's fingers and stared straight at her. Unhappiness tightened her face into spasm. ‘I suppose you're wondering why the pictures are stuffed into an already over-full drawer! She closed her eyes in sudden, tight pain. ‘Unfortunately, Jonathan's dislike of his son extends even to our granddaughter.' She gave the picture a fierce stare. ‘He wouldn't have a photograph of little Lucy in the house at all.' She gave a sideways glance at the chest of drawers and laughed. ‘Had he been a slightly more curious man', she said, ‘he probably would have found these pictures.' She stopped and the look of anguish was blended into one of fury. ‘And then he would have burnt them,' she said lightly.

Joanna and Mike looked at one another. ‘I'm sorry, Mrs Selkirk,' Joanna said gently, steering the conversation back on course, ‘do you have a photograph of your husband?'

The woman looked up sharply. ‘What for?'

‘Identification,' Mike said. ‘Someone might have seen him.'

‘Sergeant,' Sheila Selkirk said coquettishly. ‘When my husband disappeared last night he was wearing a pair of brown and cream striped pyjamas and bugger all else. I should think if he's wandering up and down Leek High Street someone would have called in a couple of your strong-arm colleagues.' The idea seemed to amuse her thoroughly.

‘A photograph, please, Mrs Selkirk.'

She recovered herself quickly. ‘Somewhere,' she said.

Joanna and Mike both gave an involuntary glance at the drawer.

‘Not here,' she said. ‘I don't put their photographs together.' She smiled and disappeared from the room, returning a few minutes later with a studio portrait of a grave-looking middle-aged man without a trace of humour in his face. She looked down at it for a moment, then handed it to Joanna. ‘This is my husband.'

‘Well,' Joanna said as Mike took the car down the drive. ‘So far, apart from the nurse who's only worried her head may roll, we seem the only ones at all upset by the man's disappearance.'

Mike grinned. ‘Look on the bright side, Jo.' he said. ‘She could have been one of those really neurotic types, breathing down your neck all hours of the day and night. At least like this she'll keep off our backs until we find him.'

She turned her head and stared at him. ‘Dead or alive, Mike?'

‘Well,' he said. ‘He was too sick a man to be wandering the streets for thirty-six hours in nothing but a pair of pyjamas. The weather's quite cold. If he hasn't taken refuge with a friend he's quickly stiffening.'

She smiled at him. ‘Thank you, Mike,' she said, ‘for your usual graphic and dispassionate thesis. Now commit yourself, Sergeant. Dead or alive?'

‘Dead,' he said soberly, ‘and some poor bugger's got to find him.'

She kept the preliminary briefing short, emphasizing the point that so far Jonathan Selkirk was a ‘missing person with cause for concern'. But as the hours ticked by, all the listeners were homing in on the same thought. The search would probably end with a sodden body, a crumpled heap of extinguished life.

She mentioned the probability that a car had picked him up and knew she could rely on a couple of them to check along the taxi rank as well as among his circle of friends. True, Sheila Selkirk had already rung their close friends, but it was possible that though Jonathan Selkirk's whereabouts had not been revealed to his wife, they might be to the police. Joanna's years in the police force had taught her to rely on no one's statement until it had been thoroughly checked. After the briefing Mike drove her home. She watched him handling the car with a touch of peevishness, irritated that the plaster cast was slowing her down, forcing her to be dependent. Making an invalid of her.

‘He asked for the telephone,' she said. ‘I wonder who he wanted to phone. His wife?'

Mike took his eyes off the road for a moment. ‘She claimed she was out all evening with her innocent family friend.'

‘Since when have you started believing alibis?'

‘Just reminding you,' he said good naturedly. ‘Surely it's more likely that he wanted to ring for a taxi?'

‘Ripped all his wires off and climbed in wearing pyjamas?' She shook her head. Even taxi drivers have their suspicions.'

‘Maybe he had a bag of clothes with him.'

She shook her head again. ‘His wife took the only bag of stuff away with her.'

‘As far as we know.'

‘From what she and the hospital staff have said, he wasn't in a fit state that morning to be packing bags of clothes.'

Mike agreed.

‘Anyway, thanks for the lift,' she said as he pulled up outside her cottage.

‘My pleasure. I'll be along in the morning – nice and early.'

‘You're at the gym tonight?'

He grinned and flexed his muscles.

‘You should have told Sheila Selkirk how she could get a body like yours.'

‘See you tomorrow,' he said, and she laughed as she slammed the car door behind her.

Even getting her keys out of her bag was tricky. Turning the key while holding down the door handle was even worse. Elbows have no grip. And her damaged arm had no strength either. She cursed softly and eventually opened the door. Inside, she struggled feebly with her jacket. The sleeve was too tight over the plaster and it tore.

‘Damn.' she cursed softly and wondered whether she should have accepted Matthew's offer and moved in with him. But she knew it would be easier to move in than to move out. She filled the kettle awkwardly and sat, pondering, before hunger drove her back into the kitchen.

Matthew arrived at eight thirty, a take-away tucked under his arm. He grinned at Joanna and held out the brown paper carrier bag. ‘This is a large slice of humble pie,' he said, bending and kissing her cheek. ‘I'm so sorry.'

He gave one of his boyish, apologetic grins and rubbed his chin ruefully.

‘The only thing I can say in mitigation is that I really did think it would be better for you to have a couple of days' rest instead of charging around the place on the hunt for a missing patient.'

‘If this is Chinese humble pie,' she said, sniffing the contents of the bag, ‘you're forgiven.'

‘It is,' he said. ‘And I'm sorry. I didn't really mean you were like Joan of Arc.'

She met his eyes. But in anger there was an element of truth.

He smiled and drew her to him. ‘My mother always told me the way to a woman's heart was through her stomach,' he said softly, into her hair.

‘Your mother,' she said, ‘sounds a remarkably sensible woman.'

He tilted her chin towards him and stared at her. ‘You should meet her.'

‘Should I?' Matthew drew back and hung up his jacket. She didn't pursue the subject.

‘Well, as I didn't think you were going to manage much in the way of culinary adventures with that thing on your arm ...' He was speaking too quickly, ‘I thought ...'

Sometimes she wondered whether Matthew's parents would ever accept her. Perhaps not while he had a daughter and a legally bound wife. Occasionally she would wonder which of the three disliked her most?

Like Snow White's stepmother peeping into the magic mirror, the answer never varied. Eloise hated her most and the answer still had the power to wound her. Maybe one day she would cease to care but today, already wounded, it still did.

She walked into the kitchen and picked up two plates with her good hand.

Matthew's voice reached her there. ‘I remember when Eloise broke her arm ...'

The kitchen seemed suddenly icy, frost edging under the door, through the windowframes, down the stairs. And even Matthew, with his selective, wilful blindness, must have sensed it as she returned with the plates.

‘... anyway, she couldn't do anything for herself,' he finished quickly. ‘I only hope your help with the investigation was worth leaving that luxurious hospital bed for. Besides all that delicious free hospital food.'

She motioned towards the food. ‘Nothing as good as this.'

‘Well,' he said as she set the plates awkwardly on the table, ‘have you found the old goat yet?' He clutched his chest and staggered around the room. ‘Lost – man with chest pain wearing pyjamas.' He shot a wicked glance at her. ‘And did I hear he was dripping blood?'

She laughed uneasily. ‘Theatrical – isn't it?'

‘Just a bit. Surely the whole case is quite simple,' he said. ‘Just follow the blood trail.' He gave her a mocking glance. And you a Detective Inspector, Joanna. Really.'

She enjoyed sparring. ‘It ends in the car park.'

‘So,' Matthew said in conspiratorial tones, ‘an accomplice with a car.'

She shrugged.

‘What do you think – was he loopy or depressed? Or possibly both?'

‘I honestly don't know about his mental state,' she said, ‘and we haven't found him in spite of the police search.' She paused for a moment before adding, ‘His wife's not exactly concerned about his disappearance.' She put her head on one side, considering. ‘And that always makes me a bit uncomfortable, when the next of kin are less concerned at a disappearance than are the police. In fact,' she said, forking stir-fry into her mouth, ‘I cast her more as the merry widow than the grieving one.'

Matthew looked up. ‘You do think he's dead, then?'