Laura became nervous when she saw a strange car parked outside the main entrance. She approached it warily and as she drew close the door opened and a woman stepped out. A pretty woman. A beautiful woman. All smiles and neat hair with a body that had curves in all the right plac
es. Laura felt
her blood begin to boil a little.
‘Good afternoon,’ chimed the young woman. ‘I’m sorry to bother you. Are you Laura Leach?’
Laura hesitated. Studied the woman. ‘Yes,’ she said moving swiftly to the door and pressing a key into the lock.
‘I wondered if you might be able to help me.’
Laura dropped the key. Scrabbled in the gravel to retrieve it. When she reinserted it into the lock her hand was all jittery. ‘I doubt it,’ she said flatly, swinging open the door.
‘I’m looking for someone,’ she said insistently, coming up to her. ‘You might know him.’
‘I’m extremely busy,’ said Laura. ‘I have to go.’
‘His name is Casper Younge. He’s my brother,’ Katherine lied. ‘He’s gone missing, you see, and I don’t know where he’s got to.’
Laura’s eyes steeled. She looked the young woman up and down. ‘So you’re
Casper
’s sister, you say?’
Katherine smiled, but it felt as if the wild-eyed woman was snooping about inside her head. ‘That’s right. He wrote to me from Langbridge, but that was weeks ago. He hasn’t called like he said he would and now I‘m beginning to get worried.’
‘What makes you think I might know this
Casper
of yours?’
‘He mentioned
Devereux
Towers
in a letter to me. Mentioned your name.’
‘I can’t understand why. I don’t know anyone called
Casper
,’ she said shortly. ‘I can’t help you.’
‘Are you certain?’ said Katherine. ‘Please think; it’s important.’
‘I’ve never heard of him.’ She stepped over the threshold, turned back. ‘If you’re worried, perhaps you ought to contact the police.’
She said it in such a way that it made Katherine doubly unsettled. ‘Maybe it’s just me, fussing over nothing,’ she admitted. ‘I don’t want to drag the police into this unnecessarily.’
Laura nodded slowly. ‘That’s right. No sense in going to the police in a hurry, is there?’ She closed the door so there was only the tiniest of cracks to peer through. ‘Good luck with the search for your brother. I’m sure he’ll turn up somewhere.’
The door closed with a
solid thump of finality and Katherine heard the sounds of bolts being slid into place, then the key being turned in the lock. It had been a risk, confronting Laura. But she was running out of options. Her denial of ever knowing Felix only increased her suspicions and her anxiety. Something was dreadfully wrong and this strange woman was at the heart of it.
She went back to her car and sat inside for a while, in the cold shadow of
Devereux
Towers
. She put her head in her hand, her worst fears – fears that she’d managed to keep a lid on - were rising to the surface. Something terrible had happened to him. It was the only explanation. She was confident in her heart he wouldn’t simply have taken the money and run; they were far too close a couple. That notion was only Martin’s vindictive way of getting back at her in the same way she had tried to get back at him for all the hurt he’d caused her in the past, both physically and mentally.
She thought she caught sight of someone at a window but couldn’t be certain. As she gunned the engine, part of her wished she’d never ever brought Martin into this in order to help satisfy her petty revenge. That Laura had discovered their plans was now without a doubt, she thought, glancing up at
Devereux
Towers
as she eased the car down the gravel drive. If that were the case and Felix had been confronted by Laura the plan was always the same; claim ignorance no matter what, scoot back to base and then they’d both get the hell out of there and find somewhere new to start all over again. Unless Martin was right and Felix really had taken the money and run…
No, she refused to believe that. Why would he dump his car in Langbridge? It didn’t make any sense, none of it did. What she couldn’t quite grasp was how it went wrong so fast. One moment Laura was a fish on a hook and all but in the keep-net; the next everything was in tatte
rs. She had to have been tipped-
off by someone. That was the only explanation. Someone took it upon themselves to warn her. So was it Martin? No, she felt he had too much to lose, no matter his show of empty bravado. There was only one other she knew about and that was the young projectionist from the Empire, the one who Felix had to beat up; the one who threatened to tell Laura. He’d be the most likely. He’d be smarting after his beating. He’d nothing to lose.
Katherine resolved to confront him, pump him for information, and if anything had happened to Felix because of that interfering nobody he’d pay dearly for it.
As she left
Devereux
Towers
behind, jolted her way down the uneven track, the distance shrinking the melancholy old building, her mind wandered to what Martin had told her about Laura. That she was crazy, unstable. She wasn’t your average woman in the street; Katherine knew that much for sure. There was something weird going on in that head of hers and you didn’t have to be any kind of shrink to read it in her demented eyes.
Christ, what had they gotten themselves involved in, she thought?
Laura leach sat in the dark, rocking slowly back and forth in the chair, a plaintive little mewl issuing from her dry lips twisted by despair. She ran a clawed hand through her messed-up hair, her eyes saucer-wide and unblinking.
She looked down at her arm, carefully rolled up the sleeve. The blood-sodden bandage needed changing, she thought, touching the dark, oozing patch.
And though the searing pain shot up her arm and into her skull she did not wince.
* * * *
When he saw the woman stood behind Monica’s desk he almost gave a shriek of alarm. He hadn’t expected anyone to be in his office.
‘Edith, what on earth are you doing here?’ he snapped, taking off his coat and hanging it on the back of the office door.
T
he young woman looked
awkwardly
about her
for a second or two. ‘I’m cleaning your office, like I usually do, Mr Caldwell,’ she explained.
‘Cleaning it?’ he repeated brusquely.
‘Yes, sir; cleaning it. It’s what I do.’
‘Oh,’ he said, his index finger tracing one of the fine lines on his forehead. ‘Yes, sorry, I understand. You startled me.’
‘You startled me too, Mr Caldwell; you’re in much earlier today than normal.’
‘I am?’
‘Nearly a full hour or so.’
‘That right? Yes, well I have work to do. Have you finished here?’
‘Yes, sir.’ Edith scuttled around the desk, picking up her duster and can of Pledge furniture polish and made a hasty retreat.
Caldwell
shut the office door, hung his keys up on the board on the wall filled with a multitude of other such keys. The place reminded him of a jail, he thought. He slid open a desk drawer and took out a bottle of vodka. He didn’t bother with a glass, took a hefty, breath-sponging swig from the neck. He wiped a hand across his mouth, was tempted to take another drink but resisted and screwed the cap back on. He’d stuffed the bottle back in the drawer when a knock came at the door.
‘What is it now?’ he said harshly.
Edith poked her head round the door. ‘Sorry, Mr Caldwell, but there’s a man from the Langbridge Gazette to see you.’
‘Send him to Vince. He takes care of all that crap.’
‘He specifically asked to speak to you. Says it’s very important.’
‘It always is. Send him in.’
A young man entered, probably just sneaking into his twenties, thought
Caldwell
. He was dressed in a cheap suit that was too long in the arms and a tad too short in the legs. The knot of his tie did not cover the top button of his shirt; a sin
Caldwell
found unforgivable. To top-off the sorry-looking picture his hair was far too long and badly cut.
Caldwell
groaned inwardly as the young man dashed out a hand to shake.
‘Mr Caldwell? Good morning!’
Caldwell
gave it a half-hearted shake. ‘And you are?’ He didn’t invite the man to sit down.
He didn’t reply. He was looking animatedly about the office, giving an enthusiastic nod as he did so. ‘I love cinemas,’ he said. ‘The glitz, the glamour of
Hollywood
and all that.’
‘Oh yeah,’ said
Caldwell
, ‘lots of glamour here.’ He took out a packet of cigarettes from his jacket pocket, flipped the top and popped one out. He offered one to his visitor who declined. ‘So who are you exactly and what’s so urgent?’
‘Oh, sorry, please forgive me! Leonard Kimble, pleased to meet you.’ He plonked himself down in a chair opposite
Caldwell
.
‘Kimble – as in related to Mrs Kimble, my admin assistant?’
‘Ex-admin assistant,’ he corrected. ‘You sacked her.’
‘We came to a mutual understanding,’ he said, lighting up the cigarette and blowing out smoke. ‘What’s all this about?’
‘She’s my grandmother, if you must know,’ he went on.
‘You came here to tell me that?’ said
Caldwell
. ‘I’m pleased for you but very busy…’
Leonard Kimble fumbled in his ill-fitting jacket for his wallet, and fumbled inside this for a business card. He showed it to
Caldwell
. ‘I’m from the Langbridge Gazette.’
‘That much I know already,’ he said. ‘What is it they say about that local rag? That’s it – tomorrow’s chip paper today.’ He sucked on his cigarette. ‘So you’re a reporter, if the Gazette has such a thing.’
‘That’s right, Mr Caldwell – features reporter,’ he said proudly.
‘
Features
, eh?’ he said. ‘How thrilling. The last review your paper gave of my cinema it said it smelled of damp and suggested people ought to bring hot water bottles.’
‘That wasn’t me, Mr Caldwell. I like the Empire, though admittedly it can get a trifle cold in winter.’
Caldwell
sat back in his chair. ‘What is it you want, Kimble? I’m a busy man.’
The young man took out a notebook and pen. Flicked paper. ‘Can I ask you a few questions?’
‘You’ve got exactly five minutes.’
‘It’s about Monica Andrews.’
The cigarette was removed from his lips. ‘What about her?’
‘Well, she’s still missing.’
‘No shit, Sherlock. Look, that’s not something I’m going to talk to you about. I’ve already had the police in here asking about her. Go ask them.’
He grinned disarmingly. ‘Already have, thank you.’
‘Then there’s nothing else to say, is there?’
‘Do you think Monica had any enemies?’
‘Haven’t you articles on missing cats and dogs to write about?’
‘My grandmother said that Monica was, let’s say, not the friendliest person she’s known.’
‘She would, wouldn’t she? Monica took her job.’
The man nodded. ‘Yes, she did. I understand Monica’s background in admin was limited. So limited as to be virtually non-existent. I couldn’t help but wonder what special something she possessed – as she obviously lacked certain charms and people skills as well as a distinct lack of practical ability – that a woman of thirty-five years experience in the trade did not possess.’
‘What’s with all this Columbo stuff, Kimble?’
‘I’m writing an article, hoping we can help in our small way to trace her, jog people’s minds, that kind of thing. Her sister has asked us to and we thought we’d oblige.’
‘Fine,’ said
Caldwell
, stuffing the cigarette back into his mouth. ‘What’s that got to do with me?’
‘My grandmother said Monica used to do the odd-bit of cleaning for a number of folk around Langbridge, besides here at the Empire.’
‘Your grandmother knows a lot. Best ask her.’
‘Did she tell you of some of these other places?’
‘Sometimes.’
‘Care to tell me?’
‘Not really. I’ve told the police all I’m going to say on the subject of Monica Andrews and I’m not about to repeat myself to a second-rate arse-wipe of a newspaper.’
It didn’t faze Kimble. ‘
Devereux
Towers
ring any kind of bell?’
Caldwell
stared hard at the young man. ‘Maybe. Maybe not.’
‘Ah, the Witch of Devereux Towers,’ said Kimble with a smirk.
‘I hear some people call her that,’ said
Caldwell
. ‘Some people can be quite horrible when they have a mind. Have you finished, Mr Kimble? I believe your five minutes are up.’ He indicated the door with the flat of his hand. ‘Talk to Monica’s friends – if you can call them that. She has a few here. Wait until their shift is finished; they’ll use any excuse to down tools as it is.’