The Hangman's Row Enquiry (24 page)

“Nearly there,” he said, remembering his childhood, when his mother had said those words every time they were on a journey, no matter how short a distance they had actually gone. “I am sure Deirdre will have a restoring cuppa for us both. I’m looking forward to our research,” he added. “I’ve been thinking of getting a computer myself.”

“What stopped you?” Ivy said. She knew how much computers cost, and was pretty sure Gus had no spare cash. Not that she was thinking of buying him one! Nor, for that matter, of lending him money.

His reply surprised her. His tone was serious when he answered. “Security. In my line of business, security meant everything. And even though I understand users are told their details are secure, I wouldn’t risk it.”

“What details?” Ivy said curiously. She had decided early on that Gus was probably exaggerating the importance of his “line of business.” Maybe a lowly security guard, but nothing more vital than that.

“Oh, you know, personal details, bank account numbers, pin numbers and pass codes, all that stuff. As far as I can make out, you put all that secret information on a computer and it goes off through the ether to God knows where!”

“Don’t blaspheme, please,” Ivy said automatically, as they turned into the driveway and made their way to the front door of Tawny Wings.

Half an hour later, the three were ranged around Deirdre’s computer screen. Ivy had to squint to make out the flickering words on-screen. “What’s Google?” she said suspiciously.

“A search engine,” said Deirdre blandly. She actually had no idea where the engine came in, but knew what Google could do for her. It could search miraculously until it produced undreamed-of information about any given subject.

“Right,” she said, “have you finished your tea? Good, then let’s begin. Best thing is to start with the name of the newspaper that Roy found. What was it, Ivy?”

Ivy looked blank. “No idea,” she said. “He didn’t say.”

Gus looked smug. “I asked him later.
Suffolk Independent Press
,” he said smoothly. “Folded in the eighties, but was once the most popular paper in the county.”

“Good lad,” said Deirdre, and typed the name in at speed. Ivy was impressed. “How did you learn to type so fast?” she asked.

“At the garage,” she said. “Although Bert had all the necessary office staff, I liked to keep my hand in, and worked one day a week alongside the others. I miss it, but they wouldn’t want me now.”

“Ooh, look, it’s doing something!” Ivy said, leaning forward.

“Yep,” Deirdre said, busying herself with the gadget which she had explained to a puzzled Ivy was a mouse. “Let’s download this archive website. Looks the most interesting.”

“We’ve got the date,” Ivy said, anxious to make amends for not knowing the name of the paper. “It was in the nineteen seventies.”

“Let’s hope it was a weekly paper,” Deirdre muttered, not keen to sift through hundreds of dates in ten possible years. She read through some information on-screen, and said, “Thank goodness it was a weekly evening paper. Now, what was the name of the woman who went missing?”

“Roy wasn’t sure, was he, Ivy?” Gus said.

“No. But didn’t he say it was something like Bentall. Katherine, or Caroline, or some such?”

Ivy nodded. “You know what,” she said slowly. “I think we should have brought Mr. Goodman with us. All this stuff”—she gestured at the screen—“might have triggered some more memories from him.”

“Well, we didn’t,” Deirdre said, annoyed at Ivy’s defeatist attitude. After all, she’d hardly started on her search.

“You could go and fetch him.” Ivy looked stubbornly at Deirdre. Gus sighed. Best keep out of this, he said to himself, though he did half agree with Ivy.

“Oh, all right!” said Deirdre. “And don’t try touching the computer while I’m gone. You could lose everything I’ve got stored on there.”

“There you are, then, Ivy,” Gus said mildly, as Deirdre flounced out of the room.

“That’s one of the reasons I haven’t bought a computer.”

“HE’S RESTING, MRS. Bloxham,” Miss Pinkney said sternly. “I’m afraid I cannot disturb him. Mrs. Spurling would be very cross.”

“Blow that!” said Deirdre. “I’m cross!” she added. “I’ve been sent up here by Miss Beasley to fetch Roy Goodman, and I’m not going back without him.”

Miss Pinkney was shocked. She had never experienced such an encounter before in all her time working in retirement homes. What was she to do?

“Oh, look, there he is!” Deirdre said. “Poor old lamb looks bored to tears, staring at the telly with all the others. He’s as sharp as a pin, you know,” she added to a rigid Miss Pinkney.

Deirdre walked into the lounge, went straight up to Roy Goodman, and said, “Hi, Roy! We need you. Can you come with me? I’ll bring you back for supper. Ivy and Gus are waiting up at Tawny Wings.”

“
Need
me?” said Roy Goodman. He got to his feet without assistance. “I haven’t been needed for thirty years,” he said. “Lead on, Macduff! Get my coat, Pinkers—I’m needed!” he said, and like an agile gnome, followed Deirdre to reception, where she helped him on with his coat and led the way out to her car.

Envious eyes watched as he left. The lounge had its inevitable share of men and woman who couldn’t hear, couldn’t see and some who could no longer care what happened to them, but had once been needed. And some who would have given all their considerable savings to be Roy Goodman, if only for one afternoon.

Ivy and Gus greeted him with pleasure, and he joined them round the computer.

 

“AH YES,” HE said. “I see you’ve got a website up for that newspaper I told you about. What would we do without Google?” he said, turning to Ivy.

For once, Ivy spluttered and was speechless. Gus gulped. “Um, I see you’re, um, er, computer literate, Roy? Is that right?”

Roy nodded. “Only in a small way,” he said modestly. “Nice little Katya has been giving me lessons when the old dragon is out of the way. Pinkney doesn’t mind. She’s a good lass, really. Bark’s worse than her bite. So where have you got to, Mrs. Bloxham?”

“Deirdre, please,” she said. “We’ve got the right newspaper archive, but need to know as close as possible the date of the issue, and then remind us of the name of the missing woman, if you can still remember it.”

Roy scratched his head. “Now then,” he said. “It was in the seventies. I remembered that before, didn’t I. The month would get us a lot nearer.” He closed his eyes, and the others waited silently. “August!” he said triumphantly. “I know that, because there was a story lower down the page about the rotten harvest. Rained solidly for six weeks, apparently. Well, I knew that, of course, from our own farm, but friends who had all arable and no cattle had all their eggs in one basket. We had chickens, too!” He chuckled, pleased with his joke.

“August,” said Deirdre, tapping away on the keyboard. “Ah yes, here it is. What was the woman’s name again? Only the big stories would get into this archive by name.”

“Bentall,” Roy said. “Katherine?” interposed Ivy, feeling left out. “Or Caroline,” said Gus, not wishing to be a silent partner.

Roy nodded. “Try Caroline Benthall,” he said.

“With an
h
?” Deirdre asked, fingers poised.

“There’s always an
h
in Benthall,” said Ivy. “Surely you know that, Deirdre. With your secretarial experience an’ all.”

“Yes, with, I think,” Roy said placatingly. “Try it with.”

So Deirdre typed in Caroline Benthall, but with no luck. She tried again, this time leaving out the
h
. “Hey! There it is!” she shouted. “Look, Ivy! The picture and everything.”

Suddenly everyone fell silent. It was the photograph. A woman in her forties smiled tentatively out at them.

“Ye Gods,” said Gus. “It’s her to the life. Beattie Beatty. Except, of course, that it must be her mother.”

“So our Beattie’s name is really Beatrice Bentall, not Beatty at all,” said Ivy, confusing everybody. “Well, I don’t know I’m sure,” she added. “The woman looks happy enough. What could have made her run off, leaving small children?”

“Not all that small,” said Deirdre, who had been reading on. “It says here there were two girls, one of five and the other fourteen. Both have been taken into care, and the police were treating the case as very serious, it says.”

“What else does it say?” Gus peered at the screen.

“Not much,” Deirdre said, and scrolled down the page.

“Stop!” said Roy suddenly. “Well I never,” he muttered. “I’d forgotten all about that bugger,” he said, and the others looked at him curiously.

“See that picture there.” He pointed at the screen. “Isn’t that young Roussel? Right on the end of the picture. On a horse, at the county show?”

“Ask Deirdre,” Ivy said drily. “She’ll know.”

Already staring closely at the screen, Deirdre shrugged. “Could be,” she said. “But it could be any of those young twits who rode to hounds and all that stuff. I know he was a good rider. Won all the jumping classes at the show. I remember that. But couldn’t swear that was him.”

“Can you print it out, then we could look at it under a magnifying glass,” Roy said. “I’ve got a really powerful one back at the detention centre. I use it for reading now.”

“Back at the
what
?” Gus said.

Roy laughed. “S’what me and my old mate at Springfields used to call the place,” he said, and his expression changed. “Dead now. He was a good old boy, was Donald.”

Ivy reached out and patted his shoulder. “You still got some mates around,” she said. “We three, for a start.”

Roy began to hum, and then sang in a cracked voice, “ ‘We three, at Happydrome, working for the BBC’ . . . Can’t remember any more,” he said, and the others burst into spontaneous applause.

“Right,” said Deirdre, sniffing a little, “I’ll print out this page, and then we can all go back to the detention centre and put it under Roy’s magic magnifier.”

 

UNFORTUNATELY, MRS. SPURLING had returned unexpectedly, and had given Miss Pinkney the rough end of her tongue, which could be very rough indeed.

“They pay very good money to be in here,” she had rasped. “And what for? Not to be let out on the loose with irresponsible people like those three! They come in here for protection, comfort and SECURITY!” The last word was shouted, and Miss Pinkney looked around nervously. She knew Katya was checking in all the rooms looking for Mrs. Somerfield’s spectacles. Hunting for lost specs was a regular job in Springfields.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Spurling,” Roy Goodman said, leading the other three through the door into reception.

“My dear Mr. Goodman,” she said, rushing forward and taking his arm. “Are you all right?” She glared at Ivy, who glared back.

“Of course I am,” Roy replied, shaking her off. “Don’t treat me like an old man, Mrs. Spurling,” he said, “or else I must look for another detention centre with greater opportunities for parole.”

“What? Did you say ‘detention centre’?” Mrs. Spurling gasped.

“A joke,” Gus said, stepping forward quickly. “We have taken great care of Mr. Goodman, and I think you will agree he is none the worse for a little outing.”

Deirdre beamed. “Look at his pink cheeks!” she said. “Years younger, wouldn’t you say, Miss Pinkney?”

Miss Pinkney nodded timidly. “I must see about supper,” she said, and vanished swiftly.

“Ah, supper!” said Roy. “What’s for supper, Mrs. Spurling? I could eat a horse,” he added enthusiastically. This reminded him that they had to magnify a horse and rider before supper, and he beckoned the three to follow him to his room.

“If my ever-loving husband had not run off with the cook,” Mrs. Spurling said to herself, “I would not have to stand here without support in front of a load of old loonies on the rampage.” She grabbed the book she had come back for, and went out of the building with shoulders hunched and fury in her heart.

 

“HERE IT IS,” Deirdre said, picking up a hugely magnifying eyeglass. Give me the paper, Gus.”

He put it down on Roy’s bedside table, and said she should take first look. “You’re the one who’s likely to recognise distinguishing features and so on,” he said.

Deirdre refrained from saying that the picture was unlikely to show the birthmark on Theo’s right buttock, but looked seriously at the photograph.

“Oh my God,” she said finally. “It’s him. Look, see that hard hat he’s wearing. It’s got a couple of pheasant feathers tucked in the band round the crown. It was his trademark. It’s him. I could swear it.”