'What did you want to know about the
knocking shop?'
'Knocking shop?'
'That's what we call the old chantry.
It's good for a bit of…you know...'
'Can't you find somewhere a bit
warmer?' The teenagers of Bereton were obviously a hardy lot.
'It's okay in summer... better than
behind the bus shelter.'
'I thought everyone these days did
it in cars,' said Rachel, trying to sound worldly-wise.
'Who can afford a bleeding car?'
There was no answer to that Rachel
continued, 'Have you been up there recently?'
"Not me. It's a bit cold.'
"Any of your friends?'
'Yeah ... me mate Kerry, she went up
there with Craig last week."
'And did she see anything unusual?'
Sylvia smirked, about to answer with
a ribald comment.
Rachel rephrased her question. 'Was
there anyone up there who wasn't... er ...' She hesitated to use the word
'courting', which sounded quaintly archaic even to her twenty-five-year-old
ears. 'Anyone on their own hanging about?'
'You mean Wayne? Oh aye... he likes
to watch. Can't get any himself so he watches everyone else at it.' She
laughed, a cruel laugh.
'Wayne Restorick hangs around the
chantry watching couples? Is that what you mean?'
'Everyone knows. We take the piss -
"see any good live shows last night, Wayne" - that sort of
thing."
'Were any of your friends up at the
chantry on the night of the murder... last Sunday?'
Sylvia shook her head. 'Nobody's
said nothing to me ... I would have heard.'
'Might Wayne have gone up there,
hoping to ... er ... catch someone at it?'
'Wouldn't surprise me,'
Rachel stood up to go.
'Is that all?'
'Have you got anything else to tell
me?'
Sylvia shrugged her shoulders. 'Not
really.'
'Can I have the names of your
friends who might have been up at the chapel? Don't worry. I'll be discreet. I
won't mention anything embarrassing in front of their parents.' Rachel smiled at
Sylvia conspiratorially. She knew that sex and parents were oil and water -
unthinkable that the two things could possibly mix.
Sylvia decided that Rachel could be
trusted: she wrote the names on the back of a used brown envelope.
The national press coverage of the
missing GI bride caught the public imagination, so much so that Sally Johnson
was sighted all over the country. But Gerry Heffernan doubted if she'd have gone
far - not of her own accord anyway. It was the other alternative that worried
him - if she had not gone of her own accord; if someone had forced her to go
somewhere she hadn't chosen to go.
Rat was still at large ... and he had a record of violence.
But it wasn't her blood on that
passenger seat, so Heffernan preferred to take the optimistic view. He
contacted the hospital at Neston.
The receptionist in the Accident and
Emergency department sounded harassed, but she was able to confirm that a total
of seven people had come in on the relevant night with injuries that required
treatment. Heffernan took pity on the woman, who sounded as if she had a queue
of anxious patients demanding her attention. He thanked her and said he'd send
someone down.
He was about to call Steve over when
WPC Walton appeared round the partition that separated his desk from those of
the lower ranks.
'Sir,' she said breathlessly, 'she's
here. Sally Johnson ... she's here.'
'Is she okay?'
'Oh yes. sir, but...'
'But what?'
'Well, see for yourself, sir.'
Heffernan stepped out from behind
his partition. His heart sank. Sitting there, crossing her elegant legs, was
the Sally Johnson they'd encountered at the Seddon Hotel: Sally Johnson the
journalist.
'Miss Johnson ... er... I didn't expect
to see you here. I think the WPC took you for the missing woman. You're a bit
young for a GI bride. I think that's what threw her. What can I do for you?'
Sally Johnson fluttered her long
black eyelashes. 'Just wondered if you had anything for me, Inspector?'
'Sorry, love. Nothing. You'll have
to make do with the press releases like everyone else. If there're any
developments we'll let you know, eh?'
'Don't you want to know a snippet of
information I picked up on my travels?'
'What's that, love?'
'Oh, come on, Inspector. You scratch
my back, et cetera ...'
She uncrossed her legs, clad in sheer nylon that any GI would have been proud
to give his girl in the days when such things were hard to come by.
'Withholding information is an
offence, madam.' This woman was too sexy by half and Heffernan was not going to
fall for it.
'Okay. I suppose it's my public
duty, but anything you get...'
'I'll make sure you get the first
look at the press release, if that'll keep you happy. I thought you were
covering the Neston Arts Festival ... what's happened to that? There'll be a
lot of alternative poets crying into their beer without the oxygen of publicity,
you know.'
'Oh, missing GI brides are far more
appealing than alternative poets, don't you think, Inspector?'
'I won't argue with that. What have
you got to tell me, then?"
'Just that someone fitting Sally's
description was seen with a young man drinking in the bar at the Seddon. That's
all.'
Heffernan sat forward. 'You're
sure?'
'Oh yes. I heard the barman talking
about it, so I got chatting to him.'
'Why didn't he report this to us?'
He just said how this woman looked
like the missing woman's photo. He didn't think it was her. She was with a
young man.'
'So what makes you think he was wrong?'
'Instinct.'
'Fair enough. What about this young
man? Description?'
Surely Rat would be somewhat conspicuous in an establishment such as the
Seddon.
'Fair-haired, early twenties, very
good-looking; drank lager Heffernan felt some relief. .. this was no
description of Rat. 'And he had a bandaged hand.'
'Bandaged hand?'
"That's what I said.'
'When was this?"
'On the night she went missing ...
near closing time.'
Heffernan sat back and chewed the
end of his pen. It was the first time in his experience that a journalist had
been anything but a complete waste of space. Wesley and Steve entered the
Clearview Hotel and nearly collided with Dorothy Slater, who was rushing
through to the lounge with a tray of coffee. She gave the policemen an
unwelcoming look.
'When are these Americans going to
be allowed to leave?' she asked Wesley, her eyes desperate. 'They do nothing
but complain about being kept here. I feel like a prison governor. And they're
so demanding... coffee, coffee, coffee. And everything must be just so. It's a
strain on the staff. I've one waitress threatening to leave. They keep sending
things back to the kitchens ... not how it's cooked back home.'
Steve was about to give out the
benefit of his wisdom but Wesley, tactfully, got in first. 'I'm very sorry, Mrs
Slater. We won't keep them here any longer than necessary. You can appreciate
that they are vital witnesses, and with Mrs Johnson going missing...'
'Oh, of course, you're right.
Sergeant, but we've got some people booked in next week for a spring break.'
'We'll do our very best, Mrs Slater.'
Mrs Slater had said her bit. Now she
came to a matter she found more personally distasteful. 'I don't suppose
there's any news of my nephew?'
'Not yet. Sorry. We'll let you know
when we hear anything."
Mrs Slater had no choice but to be
satisfied with this impasse, but she was uneasy. The longer Nigel - or Rat, as
he called himself; goodness knows why - was at large, the more likely he was to
make trouble. He hadn't come all this way from London just to slink back
quietly with his tail between his legs.
But she didn't confide her fears to
the two policemen. She just confirmed that Mrs Openheim and Mr Weringer had
returned half an hour ago and were now in the bar.
Steve began to march purposefully
towards the glass door that separated the bar from the foyer.
Wesley put a restraining hand on his
arm. 'Not so fast, Steve. We don't want to frighten them, do we?'
Steve hung back sulkily.
Wesley went first, strolling into
the bar and acknowledging Todd and Dorinda casually, as if they were old
acquaintances. He smiled and asked if he could join them. Steve drew up a stool
and sat down, studying his fingernails.
'Been out anywhere interesting
today?"
Wesley's friendly enquiry put Todd
at his ease. 'Yeah, as a matter of fact we have. We caught the bus to Tradmouth
and took a cruise up the river to Neston. Lovely little place . . .and did you know
there's a market there and all the stallholders dress up in Elizabethan
costume? It's really something else.'
'Did you enjoy it, Mrs Openheim?'
Dorinda nodded, still somewhat on
her guard.
'It's good to see you getting about
after your sad loss.'
Dorinda pressed her lips together,
catching the irony of Wesley's remark.
'Mr Weringer, we'd be grateful if we
could speak to Mrs
Openheim alone.'
Todd stood up and put an encouraging
hand on Dorinda's shoulder.
'There's just one thing I'd like to
ask you, Mrs Openheim.' said Wesley quietly when Todd had gone over to the bar.
'What's that, honey?' She looked wary.
' We have a witness who saw you and
Mr Weringer walking towards Bereton village on the night of your husband's death..
.about 9.30.'
Wesley said no more: he watched
Dorinda's face carefully. She
was giving nothing away.
'Will you tell me what you did on
the evening of your husband's death, Mrs Openheim?'
Dorinda stayed silent.
'If you have nothing to hide there's
nothing for you to worry about. If what you have to tell us is embarrassing, I
can assure you we'll be discreet. If you'd prefer to come down to the police station
in Tradmouth ...'
"No. honey. I don't want to end
up in the county jail. I'll tell you. You're sure this won't get out? These old
soldiers sure like to judge folk who step out of line, and I..'
'Don't worry, Mrs Openheim, anything
you tell us will be confidential.'
Dorinda nodded, businesslike. 'Todd
and I planned to spend the evening someplace else. We were going to check into
a hotel in Tradmouth ... come back around midnight.'