The Celibate Mouse (9 page)

‘What year was that?’

She turns it over and examines the back. ‘This was before the First World War–1898 actually– but the photos for that time are all mixed in together. The more recent ones are there.’ She points to the far wall, where modern photos are side by side with the ghosts of yesteryear.

‘Do you know who all these people were?’ I ask, craning my neck to see if there’s any means of telling what vintage they are.

‘No, but Edna was meticulous about writing all the names and dates and a paragraph or two about what was going on when the photo was taken.’

Was she indeed? The detective in me rises to the surface. ‘Are any of them still alive?’

Daniella shrugs. ‘Oh yes, some. Arthur, his brother John, sisters Connie, Grace and of course my mother, Kathleen. Only Edna has ... gone.’ Her voice breaks. Daniella isn’t as unmoved as she appears, but my experience is that families tend to crack hardy until the funeral and then break down. There is something about the open grave, the slow moving bier or the curtains creaking shut behind it in a crematorium, which can break down the most stoic, especially a guard of honour.
Don’t go there...

We sit in the kitchen and Daniella organises coffee. The hot liquid makes me feel better, but apart from slightly reddened eyes, my hostess shows no sign of distress. ‘How old was Edna?’

‘Seventy-six,’ replies Daniella, blowing on her coffee to cool it.

‘And did she keep photos of everyone in the family?’

‘Oh yes, I think every single person who has ever been connected to this family is somewhere in Edna’s archives, even the bastard vicar, great-uncle Roland, who bashed his wife senseless on her wedding night. The Bishop ordered him to get married because he batted for the other side, and that was a potential scandal for the church. He had a predilection for pickups in city parks. So they picked an elderly virgin out of the parish ladies guild, then forced him to court and marry her. Of course it was all hushed up, but a few people knew about it. The poor woman had no idea what a homosexual was–mid-1950s–and committed suicide six months after they got her away from him. It was all hushed up, of course, but these days she’d have had him up for assault and “outed” him on Facebook.’

‘Good grief! And nothing was ever done about – this, Roland?’

‘Oh no, he apparently lived to be an old man. “The devil looks after his own.” The Robinsons have had their share of crazies, believe me.’ She sips her coffee, eyes shadowed. Is
this
what Edna was referring to?

Suddenly, a way into the family archives springs to mind. A big fat lie blurts out of my motor-mouth. ‘I did part of a librarianship course before I joined the–er–public service. It involved some cataloguing of photography, so I could sort all the photos for you. You really won’t have time with everything you have to do and it would be most unfortunate if any get lost. Edna has gone to so much trouble to keep them. Adam and Carissa and the other children in the family might want to do the family genealogy one day.’

I’ve only done the training at the academy and read a comprehensive course which a friend was doing, but I have catalogued murder exhibits. When Daniella asked what I did for a living, I said I worked for the Justice Department which seemed to satisfy her at the time, but would she go for this whopper? I feel the idea appeals to her, but good manners prevent her leaping at the suggestion.

‘Susan! That’s an enormous job. No, it’s too much to ask anyone to do.’

I take ruthless advantage of her social graces. ‘I’m here for at least a couple more months and it would be good to have a project to keep me occupied. Really Daniella, I would be delighted to do it. You can come and help when you have time– and we’ll crack a bottle of James’s best wine!’ I add slyly.

She looks undecided for just a few seconds, genuinely not wanting to impose. ‘Well, if you’re sure ... I really don’t have time. All right! Thank you, Susan. Shall we just box up all the photos today and take them back to your place?’ She’s forgotten I am only house-sitting. We pack up the photographs. There are endless albums and boxes in the cupboards all bulging with photos. Fortunately, Daniella knows how many boxes there are.

We are covered in dust and exhausted, after loading the last of the boxes into the back of Daniella’s station wagon and putting all of Fat Albert’s personal effects into a garbage bag. Albert squirms, kicks and yowls as we stuff him into his carry case, all fat furry arms and pleading paws waving through the bars, claws extended. It takes the two of us to lift his case and poke it in beside the boxes. ‘I’ll shut him in the guest bathroom when we get back,’ I puff. ‘Do you think he’ll cope with the dogs?’

‘I know he will!’ Daniella wipes her hands on a towel which she throws over the cat box, effectively blotting out the pitiful sight of Fat Albert’s big, round, orange eyes. ‘Edna had two dogs until last year when they died.’

It is just after lunch-time by the time we get back to the house, run the gauntlet of the dogs and carry a furious Albert to the bathroom where he immediately kicks most of the litter out of his sand-tray and knocks over his water bowl, before settling down for a good sulk. Afterwards, we unload all the boxes into a side room.

Daniella declines lunch, saying she has a hairdressing appointment. As I watch her drive off, waving, I realise with some surprise that I actually like her. But I wonder whether we will still be friends when she finds out I am a police officer, and if I discover that at least one of the faces in the old family photographs was a murderer?

CHAPTER 14

The Empty Bed

The Policeman’s Wife

Tuesday: mid morning.

N
ola Glenwood felt something was wrong. John had an afternoon to late evening shift and should be home during the morning, but she couldn’t hear the radio playing, hammering from the shed or whistling in the bathroom.

Nervously she closed the garage door, set her overnight bag on the concrete, picked up the bags of groceries, walked into the kitchen and dumped them on the bench. Automatically, she looked at the table. In thirty-five years, if he had been called out, John had
never
failed to leave a note for her under the garish rooster and hen salt and pepper shakers which they’d been given as a wedding present.

She slid her handbag off her shoulder onto the counter, took off her coat, checked the water level in the electric jug and switched it on. She walked along the hallway, glancing into the lounge room, slowing as she reached the bathroom. ‘John? John, are you in there?’ She cocked her ear to the door, listening for masculine sounds.

Nothing.

She moved on toward the bedroom, glancing into the rooms lining the hallway as she went, pretty much prepared for anything but the sight of the bed, neat as she’d left it late yesterday. Her heart rate picked up; he hadn’t slept at home. Had he gone in for another night shift? But he would phone her if that were the case. She went into the en suite, felt his towel and looked at his toothbrush; they were both dry.

He’d phoned her at their daughter’s where she baby-sat the previous evening to tell her he intended to go to the city, but refused to say why. ‘Luv, I can’t tell you what it’s about right now, but I’m hoping to get some information.’

‘Silly old fool thinks he’s going to earn kudos from the CIB. They’ll take whatever he gets and make out they thought of it themselves. John thinks the world of his job and the sun shines out of George Harris’s bum,’ she’d muttered bitterly to herself. She hadn’t been able to argue the point, because she’d had to slip out before the supermarket closed to buy some chocolate treats for their grandchildren.

Had he received a message on his mobile while in town and gone straight to the station? Surely after sitting outside Edna’s room all night, he’d taken time off. He must have been called out again. Nola had no faith in the police hierarchy to consider a person’s feelings after guarding a dead body. She’d experienced too many years of caring for screaming babies, and later the children on her own while John was on duty. Nola could count on her fingers, the number of public holidays they’d enjoyed as a family when he worked in the city.

‘He didn’t leave a note ... he’s never forgotten before ... but we’ve never had two murders in town before either,’ she chided herself. ‘That must be it. John’s been called in early and what with one thing and another, he’s forgotten.’

The electric jug was boiling. She took a last glance at the pristine bed before hurrying back to the kitchen. She thought she might give the station a ring to see if he’d gone in. ‘I’ll wait until I’ve finished putting the groceries away. Don’t want to look like a fool if he’s there,’ she muttered, having forgotten her overnight bag left on the floor of the garage.

***

Tuesday: late morning.

Adam Winslow was not unduly disturbed when Nola Glenwood rang the station. ‘No, Mrs G, he’s not due in until this afternoon. Is there a problem?’ He grew increasingly perplexed, as he listened to her agitated voice.

‘No, he called in sick late yesterday afternoon. Loy covered for him.’ He turned to his colleague. ‘Did you hear from John last night?’

‘No. Why?’

‘His wife’s on the phone. Says he’s not at home and the bed’s not been slept in. Apparently she stayed with the grandchildren in town last night and only got back this morning. She’s worried he might have had an accident.’

‘What’s he up to?’ They smirked at each other. Being young bucks on the prowl to get laid, their minds immediately sprang to the one conclusion which made sense to them. But Senior Constable Glenwood was the last man they’d expect to be playing away. Too old, for one thing and not enough imagination for another.

Adam knew he would need to cover all avenues of enquiry. ‘I’ll ring Loy and see if he knows anything. He was on last night until midnight.’ Loy Ng, the senior’s usual patrol partner and rostered with Glenwood on Sunday night.

‘Hold on a minute, Mrs G, I’ll make a call and ask if he came in this morning.’

He laid the receiver on the desk and went to use another phone, only to be advised that Constable Ng didn’t know the whereabouts of John Glenwood.

Reluctant to return to Mrs Glenwood with no news, Adam inquired of the civilian clerks in the back office the whereabouts of the Station OIC and discovered that Senior Sergeant Harris had been called out. Only Ron and he were available. He heard a steady murmur from the station conference room, now a major incident room. Should he ...? Maguire was the senior officer currently in the station.

Adam hurried down the passageway and peered around the door at the far end. Detective Inspector Maguire, talking on the telephone but noting the constable’s anxious expression, signalled he’d be a moment.

As he waited, Adam speculated on Maguire and his relationship to Mrs Prescott and her gorgeous daughter, Marli, with her father’s penetrating gaze, his square jaw line, high cheekbones, olive skin and lustrous dark hair. The DI hadn’t said anything as they drove away from the house the day before about catching him eyeing up his daughter, but Adam realised he’d better watch his step.

Seemingly endless minutes passed before Maguire finished his call and turned to Adam, only too eager to unload the puzzle onto senior shoulders. When he finished talking, the DI was silent for awhile before asking, with a wry smile, ‘Senior Constable Glenwood isn’t one of your tribal connections, is he?’

Adam almost choked. ‘No, he’s not. Do you think–?’

‘Relax, Adam. It’s most unlikely, but with two killings involving Robinson rellies ... on the other hand, didn’t I hear that he likes to walk around town talking to people?’

Adam’s expression lightened. ‘Yes, sir. John knows which cupboards hold the skeletons in this town. But Mrs Glenwood said John always left a note to say where he was going if he left before she got home.’

Frowning, Maguire got to his feet and headed for the outer office, followed by Adam. ‘Is she still on the phone?’

On being told she was, he went to perform damage control, but before he picked up the receiver, a weary-looking OIC walked in from the car park.

The tension in the room sent Harris into full alert. ‘What’s happened?’

Adam Winslow filled his boss in on the problem; Harris reached for the phone.

‘Sorry you’ve had to wait, Nola. No one seems to know where John is right now, but he’s due in this afternoon. He rang in sick late yesterday. You say it appears he didn’t sleep at home last night?’

As the squawks from the receiver reached epic proportions, the Sergeant made soothing noises. After he’d finished calming Nola and hung up, he stared thoughtfully at the carpet and then looked anxiously at his colleagues, perhaps hoping for enlightenment.

‘Is the man
likely
to be playing away?’ asked Maguire.

‘John? I’d never have thought it.’ Startled, Harris looked a question at the two young constables, who shook their heads, guiltily remembering their snide joke at the older man’s expense.

Harris glanced at his watch. ‘I can’t remember the last time John took sick leave. Well, we’ll have to wait and see if he turns up at four. He’s always in early. In the meantime, I’ll put out a call to see if anyone’s seen him, just in case something’s happened.’

Maguire nodded and went back to work. Shrugging, the two young officers turned to the front counter where one libido perked up considerably. A young, attractive dark-haired girl had arrived and asked to speak to DI Maguire. The other, belonging to Adam Winslow, couldn’t even raise a twitch–her father was only metres away.

Inspector Harris reached for his mobile, but before he could flip it open it rang with an urgent message, the content of which rendered them speechless.

***

Nola could hardly breathe for the fear which flooded through her. No one knew where John had gone. She felt much as she had when her daughter, aged two, had gone missing in a department store. They’d finally found her an hour later, playing in the toy section a floor below.

Where
was
John? He never “chucked a sickie.” But not coming home ... could he have had a heart attack? Was he lying in the hospital right now? But his fellow officers would have known if that were the case. What if he was lying injured somewhere? If only she’d known who he was going to meet last night. Why of
all
times did he have to turn off his mobile?

She cursed the Robinsons and their shenanigans. She didn’t care about Edna or Jack Harlow. So what if they’d gotten themselves murdered? His wife, Penelope had probably ignored Jack’s infidelity because she understood on which side her bread was buttered. Everyone in town knew that Jack was a disgusting creature who’d played around with other women all his married life. Jack had not been too fussy and if a jealous husband finally snapped and shot him, in Nola’s less than humble opinion it was no more than he deserved. She hoped someone had told CIB about his carryings-on.

She brightened as an obvious explanation for his absence occurred to her. ‘John’s come home from town, fallen asleep in the lounge watching TV. I’ll bet he’s woken up and gone off down the street, talking to people. He knows everything that goes on around here.’ The fact that under the circumstances this might be dangerous didn’t occur to her.

‘For God’s sake, woman, pull yourself together,’ she said loudly, embarrassed because she’d rung the station in a tizz. ‘What they must think of me!’ she giggled. ‘Young Adam must be thinking I suspect John of having an affair. The very idea!’ This was no way for a police officer’s wife to behave, especially after all these years.

She marched into the kitchen, turned the stove oven on ‘high,’ smiling at her foolishness as she put flour, butter, soda water and eggs on the kitchen table. ‘A batch of scones will go down a treat,’ she said to the cat, who had arrived in the kitchen as soon as the refrigerator door opened. She sifted the butter through the flour, mixed in the soda water, egg and milk, then lightly kneaded and rolled the mixture. When it reached the desired consistency, she put it back into a deep bowl, popped a clean damp tea towel over the top and then put it into the refrigerator to cool while the oven heated.

Relief flooded through her as a car pulled into the driveway as she finished washing her hands. She quickly wiped them dry, smoothed down her apron and headed for the door.

‘You silly old fool! Where have you been?’ She flung the door open and came face to face with a grim Senior Sergeant George Harris.