Wings over the Watcher (11 page)

Corinne was looking in his direction but not at him. More through him. She was wondering. Why did married life have to be like this, saturated in mistrust, a permanent competition between the two of them. Why
should
she feel permanently wrong-footed, or that she should apologise for being content in her life as a GP, a high-earner. When he was not even working for half of the year. He worked short hours she would love to have, had long holidays and time off sick with a multitude of small complaints. What was wrong?

She put her hands to her face and gave a small, panting laugh. “Huh.”

Pete looked enquiringly at her.

“I was wondering…”

And she realised how very pointless it all was.

This was her husband, the man she had married.

“Like it or lump it, my girl.”

Her father, the military gentleman.

And her mother?

Her mother had departed when she was two. Departed?

Our dear departed?

Funeral words?

Her mother was not dead. Yet it was the word her father invariably used when referring to her mother’s absence. It had never struck her as strange before. But now she wondered. How abnormal is it to abandon your two-year-old daughter and never attempt to make contact?

Her father had given her no explanation. The military are like this. Hard. In permanent denial of their emotions.

But her mother was not military. She had been a secretary. And that was all she knew about her.

She had one photograph that had escaped her father’s destruction. Of a plain, dumpy woman with anxious eyes who stared into the camera and held on to her baby as though she was frightened someone would take it from her.

But it had not been like that but the other way round. Hadn’t it? Hadn’t it?

When Corinne had been a teenager she had often stared into the mirror. Not to search for spots or blackheads or perceived ugliness but to stare at her mother’s eyes and wonder whether she looked like her and where she was now. And something in Beatrice Pennington had struck a chord. She and her mother had been of the same type.

“I don’t even think you’re listening to me.”

It was an earth-shattering realisation. Enough to numb her. She was vaguely aware of her husband talking in the background.

“I am, Pete,” she said firmly. “But I don’t think you’re being fair. I didn’t invite this sort of attention. I found it
embarrassing and tiresome. Besides.” She grew suddenly fierce. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that this could endanger my job? Relationships between doctor and patient are scrutinised by the Medical Council. If there is the slightest hint of impropriety…(
how strange and old-fashioned a word – impropriety’
) it will be rigorously investigated, I can tell you. And the General Medical Council seem to come down hard on the patient’s side. No one will believe me. As you don’t.”

She spoke the last sentence more vehemently than she had meant to. She had meant it to be an appeal. Not a challenge. Her husband reacted as he usually did. By growing pale and quiet and thoughtful. Pete at his most dangerous.

“I see,” he said softly.

And he reminded her even more of her father so she wanted so scream out at him. Or appeal to him to be kind, show some emotion. Affection.

She smothered her mouth with her hand.

We are all damaged goods.

Grandparents? Paternal grandparents had seemed in awe of their son, slightly fearful. She had never met her mother’s parents. They must have known of her existence because they sent her money at Christmas and birthday time and even when she set off for university. Her father had thrown the cards at her with a growl and now there was not so much as a note or a card. They had made no attempt to make contact for years and had not been invited to her wedding. Her father’s choice. She knew only that they lived in Reading.

Nothing else. And her father never spoke about them.

Peter Angiotti scrunched up the letter into a ball of paper. “And you keep them,” he sneered. “How touching. How very touching.”

Corinne stared at him, thinking bitter thoughts.

Saturday morning dawned bright and hot. Joanna woke and within seconds was out of bed, throwing back the curtains and staring up at a Wedgewood blue sky.

Perfect.

She would ring Pagan and Pat and they would plan a long ride through the moorlands, ending up at a country pub.

But we cannot always plan our lives so.

The telephone ring was insistent – and early.

Her heart skipped once, twice.

Matthew?

But it wasn’t. It was Caro. Caro, her journalist friend, who had married Tom, a local solicitor, before scurrying back down to London. They had an apart marriage, she had haughtily said to Joanna, before laughing and saying that was the only way Tom could stick her – part-time – and then told the truth. That they would spend what time they could together, knowing that their separate jobs meant they must spend most of it apart.

“Where are you?”

“With my husband.” Caro sounded light-hearted and happy. “Can’t stick London in the summer so I’m here for the weekend, in Cheddleton. And Tom wants to know if you can come across so we can do the canal walk and then have an evening at the pub. OK?”

“What do you think?”

So the day was spent differently from how she had planned. But none the less perfect. Joanna smothered a smile as she greeted her friend. Caro looked so much the London weekender in her pale cotton trousers and designer t-shirt with pink loafers. And Tom. How little he had changed from the early days. However casually he dressed – in a polo shirt and chinos – he never looked anything other than a country solicitor. Maybe it was the glasses, Joanna reflected as she hugged them both.

“It seems ages.” Caro adopted her London-talk.

“It
is
ages. You haven’t been up for months.”

“Blame the West End,” she said, shrugging her thin shoulders. “There’s so much going on. I’ve bought a flat which has room enough to swing two cats at a time. So Tom has been coming down a lot.”

She linked her arm through Tom’s while he grinned good-naturedly. “You’ve got an open invite,” he said.

“In fact, I’m trying to persuade him to come down and join me permanently.”

Tom gave a mock shudder. “No way,” he said. “London’s OK but here is better.”

And Joanna agreed with him.

Caro waited until they were on the towpath, almost at Cheddleton Flint Mill, before she asked about Matthew. “Have you heard from him?”

And suddenly Joanna had had enough of the shadow hanging across her. “Look,” she said. “I’m sorting it out. OK? There’s a lot to explain and so on. I’ve written to Matt and posted it on the way here. He’ll get it middle of next week.”

“Why didn’t you ring him?”

“I did.”

“And?”

Caro was a typically tenacious journalist.

“Someone else answered his phone and I didn’t really want to talk to
her
.”

“Oh.”

And for once her dainty mouth closed – and stayed closed for a few minutes.

Tom, always quiet, and supportive, merely smiled at her. “It’s great to see you, Jo. It really is. I can’t tell you how much I miss having you for a next-door neighbour.” “I can imagine.”

She felt at home. Among friends.

June days are long. It was very late when she finally let herself in through the door. And the first thing she saw was the answering machine winking at her. One message.

As always she hoped it would be the one message she wanted it to be.

But it never is, is it?

PC Hesketh-Brown’s stolid voice delivered his message.
“Really sorry to trouble you, Ma’am, on your weekend off but I thought you’d want to know Arthur Pennington’s been ringing the station every half an hour. We’ve told him you’re not in till Monday, but he’s really makin’ a nuisance of himself. We’ll fend him off if you like. Enjoy tomorrow. I’ve heard it’s goin’ to be a scorcher.”

She replaced the phone slowly, wishing she had not been so curious as to pick it up.

Because now, despite the hot weekend, the perfect weather, the two friends with whom to go cycling, her mind was firmly fixed on Beatrice Pennington again.

She met Pagan and Pat in the market square in the centre of Leek early on Sunday morning and mentioned the disappearance of their cycling buddy. Like her they smiled and joked.

Beatrice was with her lover.

They could relax.

It was a day when everyone seemed to be enjoying the Staffordshire moorlands. Even so early the roads were busy. Not so good for cyclists so they headed out towards Flash, taking the smallest lanes and cycling fast. They stopped for drinks beneath the Winking Man. Inevitably the conversation turned towards the strange disappearance of Beatrice Pennington.

They were two widely different women, with different life experiences. But they both came down firmly on the side of Beatrice Pennington. They liked the thought that she had gone to find a new life – somewhere.

But it reminded Joanna too much of the end of the rainbow. Where was Beatrice?

Somewhere else.

Simply not here. But always in another place. Somewhere else.

For some reason the idea frightened her.

The cycle ride in had exhilarated Joanna but as she entered the station she knew perfectly well what would be lying in wait for her on her desk. Two things, to be precise. One, a summons from Superintendent Arthur Colclough of the bulldog jowls and the piercing eyes. Surely he should have retired by now!) But Colclough was a typical old-fashioned copper, married to the job. Liked to have his fingers in every single pie and was as nosey as a net-curtain-twitcher.

Two – a memo left by the weekend desk sergeants detailing every single telephone call from Arthur Pennington.

She was right on both counts. The only thing she hadn’t guessed at correctly was that Korpanski was late in. His chair was still neatly tucked underneath the desk with no jacket hanging over it; all the papers were cleared and the final giveaway – his computer was turned off.

Joanna smirked. She loved it when Korpanski was later then her, even though he lived in the town and drove in while she had to cycle in from Waterfall
and
she had to shower and change out of her cycling things which delayed her by at least ten minutes.

She dialled Colclough’s extension number first and he barked nicely down the line. “Ten minutes, Piercy. I want you here.”

“Yes, sir.”

It doesn’t do to argue with senior officers when you’re in the police force. Better to buckle under.

Her second phone call of the day was, of course, to Pennington, who provoked the usual mixed feelings of pity and exasperation.

He was, initially, aggressive. “Didn’t you get my messages?”

“They’ve all been delivered to me this morning, Mr
Pennington.”

“But I’ve been ringing all weekend.”

“It was my weekend off.”

There was a brief, pregnant silence before Pennington finally exploded. “But you
knew
my wife. She wasn’t just some stranger to you. And she’s
missing
, for goodness sake.
Anything
could be happening right at this moment. Don’t they care? Don’t
you
care?”

“Mr Pennington, as I’ve explained, there isn’t any reason to believe that something sinister’s happened to your wife. We’re not worried about her. She’s a grown woman, in good health. Able to make free choice.”

“What exactly are you saying? You think I’m dreaming that she’s gone?”

“I’m saying that we’re not concerned for her safety.”

“
You
may not be concerned.” Pennington’s tone was definitely chilly. “But I am. I’m
very
concerned. This is not in her character therefore I can only come to the conclusion that she has been abducted against her will.”

The pompous words should have sounded funny. Possibly sad. But they struck a chord deep inside Joanna. And the chord was in a minor key. She was beginning to realise that this case was going to stick by her side as close as a shadow. It was cornering her. Why?

Nothing. No reason. Except that Beatrice Pennington’s disappearance was untidy, full of loose ends and anomalies. It felt
wrong
.

She drew in a deep breath. “Mr Pennington. I thought I’d speak to your wife’s sister later on today and then I do have a lead I intend following up.”

“Oh – right.” The wind was nicely snatched out of his sails.

Korpanski had entered the room. Grinning broadly with a good-natured wave. She smiled back at him, twitched her shoulders in half a shrug, meant to inform him who was on the other end of the line.

There was no colleague in the world better than
Korpanski – when he was in a good mood. The day boded well. She felt quite cheerful.

He slung his jacket on the back of his chair, sat down behind the desk and switched his computer on.

It was time to wind up Pennington. “I can’t tell you any more at present but I will be in touch the moment I have any news.” She replaced the phone.

“So what’s put the smile on your face?”

“The Insurance company have stopped asking questions. That’s what,” he said. “The car’s mended, they’ve agreed to pay up.”

She grinned across the room at him. “So next time Fran tells you something wants fixing…?”

“Don’t push your luck,” he warned.

“Fancy a trip to Italy, Mike?”

“You serious?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I just wish Beatrice would turn up so we can put all our energies into this little lot.” She indicated the pile of forms in her In tray.”

Korpanski broke out into song. “Just one cornetto…” Then he stopped. “I take it that
was
her husband on the phone.” He paused just long enough to think. “We’ll never ride a trip to Italy out of the tax-payer,” he said, “when her passport’s still in Leek.”

“Oh – who knows,” she said impatiently. “All I know is I’ve got the usual interview with Colclough this morning.”

Korpanski blew his cheeks out in a useless attempt at impersonation of his senior officer.

But she had misjudged Colclough. He had remained as one of the senior officers in the town for good reason. He was fair. And popular. And he knew his job.

He looked up as she knocked and entered.

“Ah – Piercy.” There was no hostility in either his face or his voice but the warmth of the long years between them of an old, faithful dog. But like a Staffordshire Bull Terrier Colclough was tenacious and it was a great mistake to underestimate him and treat him as too close a friend. She
was wary and waited to be bidden to sit down.

He eyed her over the top of some half-moon glasses. “How are you?”

It was not what she had expected.

“I’m fine, thank you, sir.”

“And Levin?”

“Still in the States, sir.”

“Ah.”

A brief word. A wealth of meaning.

“I suppose you’ll be making some big decisions soon.”

“Sir?”

“Whether to join him or creep a little further up the career ladder.” He gave a rusty smile.
“Chief Inspector Piercy.”
He cackled. “Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

She didn’t know. Chief Inspector Piercy, Mrs Levin, Mummy. What did sound good?

She liked where she was, Inspector Piercy, the woman, who had worked hard when confronted by a succession of murders, which had all been difficult to solve – in their varying ways. Each one an individual story with suffering and unhappiness behind it. Both tragedies and comedies. Sometimes both at the same time.

She met Colclough’s eyes without flinching. “I don’t know, sir,” she said.

“Right.” As usual his perception was beyond the average senior officer. Colclough understood people.

“Now then, Piercy.” He continued briskly, without giving further thought to the subject. “The desk sergeant has informed me that a Mr Arthur Pennington is anxious about the whereabouts of his wife. Would you care to enlighten me?”

As succinctly as she could she filled Colclough in on the bare details of the case and watched his pupils sharpen as he took in her concerns.

“So you think she’s having an affair.”

She nodded.

“Of which her husband, I take it, is completely unaware.”

She nodded again.

“And yet…”

She nodded for the third time.

“I see,” he said. “Well, may I say you’ve had experience of these sorts of cases as have I. I think it perfectly possible that if Mrs Pennington doesn’t want to be found we never shall find her. But you should go through the motions. Keep her husband happy. Let him see that the police are takin’ his concerns very seriously. We are, after all, community police, are we not?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And we don’t want any hostile headlines in the
Post&Times
about us being uncaring or unhelpful, do we?”

“No, sir.”

“Right then, Piercy. Get on with it then.”

She walked back along the corridor wondering whether the interview had been to sound her out about her career prospects or to learn about the Pennington case.

Answer – she didn’t know. One often didn’t with Colclough.

Beatrice’s sister, Frances Sharnell, lived in a small, terraced, mill-worker’s cottage in one of the back streets of the town. With a front door which opened straight out to the pavement and just one window to the side, two above, it had an old-fashioned, Victorian feel to it. But the electronic doorbell which played
Für Elise
was bang up to date.

Joanna had a shock when the door was pulled open. She was staring at the missing woman. Same round face, same surprised eyes, same plump body and anxious expression.

“Excuse me.”

“Can I help you?”

She exhaled. The voice was different. Flatter. Without the spark that had lit her sister up like a candle.

“Are you Frances –?”

“Sharnell.”

The voice was snappy now. Irritable. She glanced behind her, anxious to return to whatever it was she had been
doing.

“I’m Detective Inspector Piercy,” Joanna said. “Leek Police. I’ve come about your sister.”

“Aye.”

Something else hinted at now. A resentment, dislike. Certainly the anxiety had melted away. So it had been for the intrusion of a stranger rather than concern for her sister.

“So you’ve come about Beattie, have you? Well there’s nothing I can do to help you, young lady. I don’t know a thing about it. Arthur’s been pestering me like a ruddy gnat. Up here all the time, bothering me.”

Joanna found herself, unexpectedly, bound to defend Pennington. “He’s very worried.”

“Well there’s no use him bothering me. I can’t help him. There’s nothing I know.”

Joanna looked up and down the street. “Can I come in?”

Frances stood back, grunted and allowed Joanna to pass.

The room was small, stuffy, and stank of cigarette smoke. It was filled by two armchairs and a television set which was switched on without the sound. Perhaps Frances had switched it down when the doorbell had rung.

Joanna sat down. “When did you last see your sister?”

“A week or two ago. Market Day anyway. I bumped into her in the town. We exchanged a few words. Nothing more.”

“Which was it, a week or two weeks?”

Beatrice’s sister thought for a moment. “It were the 16th,” she said finally.

“You’re sure?”

“‘Course I’m sure. I had a doctor’s appointment in the afternoon,” Frances snapped.

“How did she seem?”

“Her usual self.” Joanna studied Beatrice’s sister. Now she looked closer she could see differences. Frances was marginally thinner. Her face was more wrinkled, its expression sour and shrew-like. Joanna studied her. The two sisters were not really alike at all.

What makes this woman tick? What makes her laugh or smile?

She looked at the walls for inspiration. Photographs of friends or family?

One reproduction of Van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
.

Nothing there.

Somewhere, deep inside this woman, is a trigger which will explain how Beatrice’s sister came to be like this, why she is so guarded. Does she hate her sister? Is she jealous of her?

“Who is older, you or her?”

“What’s that got to do with it,” Frances snapped. “How is that going to find her?”

“Just answer the question,” Joanna said coldly. She did not like this woman.

“I am. By three years. Now I suppose you’ll find her somewhere or other. Drawing attention to herself.”

Frances fumbled down the side of the chair and pulled out a packet of cigarettes, lit one and stared boldly at Joanna.

Was it then purely sibling rivalry which had made the three-year-old Frances jealous of her baby sister?

Only that?

Joanna stood up. Even if there had been antipathy between the sisters
she
could not expect to find the trigger. And she did not have the right to ask Frances whether she had disliked her sister. Besides – much as she hated to admit it, Frances was right. It had no bearing on this investigation. The solution lay away from Beatrice’s family.

Joanna strolled back to the station and sat down at her desk.

Korpanski was out of the room.

The golden rule of policing is check, check and double check.

She picked up the phone. Walking through Tuscany. Or so he said.

Telecommunications are a wonderful thing. Within
minutes she had spoken to a very nice girl who worked for Explore Holidays and confirmed that Adrian Grove was indeed walking in Tuscany. Once she had allowed the same girl to ring back and confirm that she was, indeed, talking to a police officer, things got even easier.

She had faxed through a copy of the other people on the same tour. No Beatrice Pennington. Grove had booked alone and there was not another single woman on the walking tour. There were other women but they were either married or with other partners. Joanna stared at the list and felt uncomfortable. Nothing more powerful. A simple discomfort. Like indigestion. Or the beginnings of a tension headache.

This was the sixth day that Beatrice had been missing. Almost a week. From the first Joanna had assumed that she was with her secret lover, her invisible man.

OK, she reasoned, so the missing man is not Adrian Grove.

It is someone else.

But Beatrice had led a quiet life. She met few people, she reasoned. It must be one of an inner circle of friends or acquaintances. And something else puzzled her. How had Beatrice kept the identity of this mystery man secret? Her husband admitted she rarely went out – to work, to the Readers’ Group, few social occasions. So how come, in such a small town as this, no one had ever seen them together?

Adrian Grove had been the natural suspect but he was in the clear.

So who was it?

Korpanski barged back in, kicking the door open as his hands were full of two mugs of coffee. He set the cup down in front of her.

“Do you know your lips twitch when you’re thinking out loud?”

She laughed, brushed her hand across her mouth and slid the papers across her desk in his direction.

“Take a look at this.”

It took him moments to come to the same conclusion as she had.