‘What can have happened?’ Now it was Ada who was starting to fret. She’d come out to the van with him when he left, her forehead creased with worry. ‘It’s such a strange thing to do. Going off like that without a word.’
She was right, of course, Sam could see that. But wasn’t it a fact that these apparent mysteries of life usually had simple explanations? Not forgetting, too, that people sometimes behaved in peculiar ways for peculiar reasons. Both possibilities had occurred to him in the course of the morning and he was prepared to take either into consideration.
What he wouldn’t accept, though, would have no part of, was the suggestion he could hear coming from Harrigan’s lips now.
‘I took him for a dependable fellow, someone I could trust.’ Burly, and with a moustache that matched his dark eyebrows, the foreman stood glowering. ‘Not the sort who’d let you down.’
‘Now you’ve got no cause to say that.’ Sam faced him squarely. ‘Not till you know the facts.’ He was pleased by the murmur of approbation his challenge evoked from the men around.
Harrigan grunted. ‘We’ll see.’ His glance stayed hostile. He seemed unconvinced.
‘When was the last time you saw him?’ Sam kept his own gaze steadily on the other.
The foreman shrugged. ‘Friday evening, knocking-off time, same as usual.’
‘Did he mention he had any plans for the weekend?’
Harrigan jerked his head in the direction of one of the men standing nearby, a youngish chap with fair, curly hair and stubbled cheeks. Sam recognized him as a pal of Eddie’s. A bloke called Pat McCarthy.
‘Nothin’ special.’ Pat shrugged. ‘He said he might join us for a drink Saturday night. There’s a pub down in Elsted we go to. But he never turned up.’
‘I sent Pat over to that barn Eddie sleeps in when he didn’t show up for work yesterday.’ Harrigan gestured towards the wooded ridge that ran alongside the road. ‘The doors were locked. There was no one around. Isn’t that so?’ He looked at the younger man, who nodded.
‘I hammered on them, and all.’
‘Well, that’s where I’m headed now.’ Sam gathered himself. ‘I’ve a key to the barn.’ He tapped his coat pocket. ‘I’m going to have a look inside. Then I want to go over to Oak Green. There’s a lady there who knows Eddie. She’s worried about him, too.’
‘Would that be Nell’s mother?’ Harrigan’s face had lost its grudging scowl. Sam saw that his belligerence was only a mask; he was as concerned as the others. ‘The lass was here yesterday, asking about him.’
‘Yes, it’s Mrs Ramsay.’ Sam looked around the ring of men. ‘I’ll be back later,’ he promised them. ‘We’re still waiting to hear from Hove. With any luck I’ll have something to tell you.’
He saw the doubt in their eyes.
‘Listen, there’s bound to be an explanation,’ he insisted. ‘People don’t just disappear. He’ll turn up. You mark my words.’
‘Come on, old girl, don’t dawdle…’
Sam called back to Sally from the crest of the ridge. She was still some way behind, plodding her way up the path. Poor old thing, she was starting to feel the cold; it was getting into her joints. But for once his patience was short.
‘Come on…’
Not waiting for her to catch up, he set off down the long slope, his gaze turning automatically in the direction of Coyne’s Farm, visible now in spite of the mist that still clung to the ground, blurring the contours of the landscape and bringing a hush to the woods, usually loud with birdsong, through which he had just passed. There was no break in the cloud cover as yet and Sam doubted they’d see the sun that day.
When he came to the gap in the hedge he paused once more, but it was obvious Sal was coming at her own pace. He could see her some distance back up the path, her nose buried in a bank of leaves. Delaying no longer, he slipped through the hedge and crossed the walled garden into the farmyard beyond.
It had come as a shock, talking to Harrigan and the others, to realize what they were thinking. That this bloke who they liked and had counted on, who they’d treated as one of them, had upped and walked off without a word, leaving them to wonder what had become of him. Sam told himself they were wrong – he knew Eddie too well, knew he’d never behave in such a way – but as he strode across the yard to where the barn was he could feel a nervous flutter in his stomach. There was no telling what he might find inside.
Difficulty with the padlock delayed his entry. For a while it seemed jammed, the mechanism refusing to budge, and it took him several tries, pushing his key in and out and jiggling it about, before the spring inside was released and the curved arm sprang open.
Even with the double doors pulled wide the interior remained dimly lit – the grey light from outside provided little in the way of illumination – and by the time Sam had made his way through the stacked hurdles and canvas-covered bits of furniture to where Eddie’s quarters were at the back of the barn he found himself enveloped in a leaden twilight.
It made little difference to his mission. What he’d come to seek out wouldn’t be in plain sight.
But he knew where to start his search and without pause he went straight to the tall mahogany wardrobe which stood near the back of the building, the same piece from which he’d retrieved Eddie’s mirror. Its canvas covering was still drawn back, allowing him to open the doors without hindrance. When he saw what it contained a sigh of relief issued from his lips.
He’d found what he was looking for: Eddie’s bedroll. The blankets were neatly stowed on one of the shelves that took up half of the wardrobe. (The other half was given over to hanging space.) His spare clothes were laid out on a separate shelf above.
He hadn’t walked out on them. The proof was plain to see. He hadn’t gone anywhere.
Except maybe to Hove for the weekend, as Mrs Ramsay had suggested. But there was nothing Sam could do about that. He could only wait for his return and for the explanation of his sudden departure, which he was sure would follow.
Relieved, he lingered for a moment longer to look about him. Now that his eyes had grown accustomed to the half-darkness he was able to make out familiar details and he saw at once that Eddie had been making some changes to his living quarters. His bed of hay had grown to more than double the size of the original mattress he had raked together and made into a rectangular shape so that his bedroll would fit neatly on top of it. Now it spread in a large triangle across the corner of the barn.
And that wasn’t all. The mirror had been moved. (The one Sam had salvaged.) Formerly it had been propped against the back wall behind the old washstand so that Eddie could use it when he was shaving. Now it stood in the corner where the bedding was, reflecting the strewn hay in front of it; but little else.
Sam scratched his head.
What was the use of putting it there?
Then he thought he saw an explanation, though it was one that brought a scowl to his face. One of the oil lamps he’d found for Eddie was hanging from a nail above the straw bed, and what displeased Sam was that they’d both agreed at the very start, when Eddie was settling in, that it would be dangerous to put it there since it only had to slip off the nail and fall onto the straw beneath for everything to go up in flames: hay, hurdles, furniture, barn. The whole bang shoot!
Yet there it was, just where they’d decided not to put it, and the only thing Sam could think was that it had something to do with the mirror, and where it stood now. Positioned as they both were, the light from the lamp would be reflected more widely, illuminating the area where the hay had been gathered. Though why Eddie should want to do such a thing was beyond him.
Sam clicked his tongue with impatience. He was fed up with trying to work out what it meant. If there was a puzzle here, its solution would have to await his pal’s return. He was more concerned about the lamp. Should he leave it where it was, or move it to a safer place?
It required only a few moments reflection to persuade him it would be better to leave things as they were. He didn’t want Eddie to feel he’d been checking up on him. There was no danger with the lamp unlit. He’d have a quiet word with his chum when he got back.
He turned to go, but as he did so his toe struck something on the floor and he glanced down and saw it was a workman’s boot. Another lay near it. Sam sank to his heels and picked them up. They were old and well-worn and he supposed they must belong to Eddie. The lace of one of them was broken.
Puzzled afresh, he examined them, looking at first one, then the other, as though the worn soles and scuffed leather might offer up some answer to the riddle he was faced with.
Had Eddie left in a rush? Sam pictured him tearing off his boots, breaking a lace in the process, hurrying to catch a bus or a train. (Yes, but that still didn’t explain the problem that had bothered him earlier. How could any summons to depart have reached Eddie, isolated as he was at Coyne’s Farm?)
A feeling of unease was starting to grow in Sam; it was like a cold lump in the pit of his stomach. Something was wrong. The very silence of the barn seemed to hold a secret. It was as though all the little things he had noticed – the mirror, the hay, the lamp – and now the boots, dropped carelessly on the barn floor in a way that seemed at odds with Eddie’s natural tidiness, were clues to some mystery he was yet to unravel.
Crouched on his haunches, he scanned the semi-darkness around him, seeking some further sign that might bring enlightenment. Wrinkling his nose at the musty smell coming from the dirt-covered floor, he bent lower to peer beneath the washstand and as he did so he heard a faint sound behind him and felt a warmth on the back of his neck.
With a start he spun round on his heels.
Sal’s moist black nose was an inch from his. Her pink tongue touched his cheek.
‘Gor blimey! Do you want to give me a heart attack, old girl?’ He fondled her head. ‘Creeping up on me like that.’
Sal wagged her tail, then turned aside to sniff at something on the floor. He watched as she followed whatever scent it was she’d caught across the dusty, hay-strewn surface back into the area where the furniture was stored.
‘Well, that’s enough of that.’ Sam rose from his crouched position, groaning with the effort. He took a moment to ease the cramped muscles of his thighs. ‘We won’t find any answers here,’ he remarked after Sal’s disappearing form. ‘It’s best we get over to Oak Green.’
He was impatient to ring Ada at home to discover whether there’d been any word from Hove yet. To find out if Eddie was there, and if not, whether his sister and mother knew of his whereabouts. He still nursed the hope that this whole business could be resolved in a flash.
Taking a last look round, he noticed a pitchfork lying on the floor by the back wall and realized it must have been used by Eddie to gather hay for his now-enlarged mattress. The sight of it stirred Sam to look again at the mass of dried grass stalks filling the corner, and to shake his head in bewilderment.
‘It doesn’t make sense.’
He spoke the words aloud, then turned to leave, threading a path through the furniture to where the hurdles were stored, whistling for Sal as he went. There was no sign of her when he got there, so he went back, calling her by name.
‘Sally! Where are you?’
Peering around, he caught sight of her then at the side of the barn She was sniffing at something; a long, low object, most likely a chest, covered in canvas like the rest.
‘What have you found there? Is that a rat you’re after?’
He whistled to her again, but she paid no attention, remaining stubbornly where she was, running her nose up and down the length of the chest, until in the end he had go over there and pull her away.
‘We can’t hang about here, old girl.’ He tugged at her collar. ‘There’s no time to waste. We have to find Eddie.’
27
Sinclair paused at the open door and surveyed the scene before him.
Close to a score of detectives were crowded into a room that might comfortably have housed half that number. Some had found chairs, but most were either standing or sitting on the edges of desks. In the far corner a space had been cleared and a large-scale map of the town of Midhurst had been propped on an easel. The hum of conversation, loud enough to be heard on the floor above, where Sinclair had just come from, dropped to a murmur as those nearest the door noticed his appearance and that of the officer beside him, a uniformed inspector by the name of Braddock, who was in command of the Midhurst police station.
‘Pay attention, everyone.’
Sinclair’s companion issued the order in a ringing tone, and silence fell.
‘I’ll keep the introductions short. For the benefit of new arrivals, this is Chief Inspector Sinclair from Scotland Yard. He’s in charge of the investigation into the girls’ murders, and it’s at his request that we’ve been conducting a search for this man Lang all over Sussex. According to information received this morning, it now appears likely he’s been living here, in Midhurst, or somewhere nearby. From this moment on, Mr Sinclair will be directing the search, and you’ll take your orders from him. Sir…’
He turned to the chief inspector.
‘Thank you, Mr Braddock.’ Sinclair nodded to him. He walked briskly to the head of the room and took up a position beside the easel. Stuck to the wall behind him was a copy of the poster that had been sent to all police stations. Taken from the grainy snapshot supplied by Philip Vane, it showed a blown-up image of Gaston Lang’s face, the enlargement process lending stark emphasis to the wanted man’s features, deepening his pallor and transforming his eyes, slightly widened, into dark tunnels.
‘I’ll try to keep my remarks brief, as well.’ Sinclair faced the assembled detectives. ‘While there’s every reason to think Lang is in the neighbourhood, it’s by no means clear how long he plans to remain. He may in fact already be preparing to depart, and even if he’s not, it won’t be long before the search we’re about to launch will be common knowledge, and he’ll know he’s in danger. So time is of the essence.’