Missing Persons

My first case in the unit was high profile and high pressure . . .

WORKING ina bank is perfect for some people, but it wasn’t for me. Thankfully, my epiphany came on the day I read about Sislin Fay Allen, otherwise I’d still be sitting at a counter counting bank notes.

I had a light-bulb moment. At last I could see a different life ahead of me; a life without thousands and thousands of bits of paper. A life where I could achieve something and make a difference.

“Tanice Reid,” I said to myself, “it’s time for you to move on.”

Sislin Fay Allen was the first black policewoman in England and had joined the police force in 1968.

After I read about her in a local newspaper, she became my hero.

I applied to join the

Force, going through rigorous interviews and health checks. While I waited to hear if I had been successful, I couldn’t concentrate.

I nearly got run over as I crossed Oxford Street! I wanted it more than anything.

Thankfully, I received my acceptance letter on October 13, 1972.

I’ll never forget it.

Working as a policewoman was the most rewarding and satisfying work I’d ever done. I wore my uniform with intense pride and walked the beat with confidence, until . . .

“A position has come up at Scotland Yard for six months,” Sergeant Wax said. “Would you be interested?”

“What position, sir?”

I was excited at the prospect but didn’t let it show.

“Missing persons,” he said. “Cold cases. Desk job mostly, but it’ll get your foot in the door.”

I didn’t hesitate.

“Yes, sir. I’d be interested.”

“It would be remiss of me not to warn you, Tanice, the Yard is a mess at the moment. Lots of internal wrangling and politics. They’re drafting in people to cover.”

“Thank you, sir. I’m still interested.”

A few weeks later I was informed by Sergeant Wax that I’d got the position at Scotland Yard.

My path had changed again, and it looked like 1974 was going to be a good year for me.

****

The missing persons unit was located in a tiny room in Scotland Yard not far from Victoria Station. It was a huge building, all glass and aluminium.

“I’m Terry Janner,” my new boss said. “Detective.” “Tanice Reid.”

If I said Terry Janner was a big man I’d be understating the size of him. In truth, he was hugely overweight.

His hair was untidy and in need of a trim. His suit looked uncomfortably tight.

“I was one of the best,” he bragged, as he walked me to the place that would become my office for the next six months, “but I’ve done my time. Now it’s time for me to relax a bit.

“I’ve nine months until I retire and I can’t wait.”

He showed me to a room with two desks. Files in brown folders teetered lopsidedly on them. He handed me a file which was thin in comparison to the others.

“Read it and let me know what you think. I’m off to the canteen for a coffee. Want one?”

“No, thanks.”

It seemed that I wasn’t going to get a formal introduction to the famous Scotland Yard. I admit I was a little disappointed.

When Terry left, I opened the file.

In summary, Robert Smyth was forty-three years old when he was reported missing by his sister in 1962.

He lived in a council flat in Islington. Worked as a bin man for the council.

No enemies that his sister or his work colleagues could think of. Bank account was empty.

Medical records showed he’d visited his doctor years before. He’d been given antibiotics for some serious insect bites from a walking holiday.

Terry Janner returned with a cup of coffee in one hand and a massive ham roll in the other.

He leaned back in his chair and put his size elevens up on his desk.

I returned to the file. There were pictures of Robert’s flat. It was obsessively tidy. Not a thing was out of place.

There were no ornaments in the living-room, just an old settee with net curtains at the window. A radio sat squarely on a side table.

His bed was made and there was an old-fashioned wardrobe against a wall. The only thing on his bedside table was a . . . “What’s this, sir?”

I held out the picture towards Terry Janner.

“Looks like a sheep or goat.”

“I know it’s a sheep or goat, but what’s it doing there? There are no other ornaments in his flat.”

Terry shrugged.

“That’s for you to find out.”

“Can I take a photocopy of it?”

He gulped down another mouthful before he spoke.

“The photocopier is at the end of this hallway.”

I stood up and went to the door.

“You don’t have to call me sir,” he said. “Terry will do. And if you crack any of those cases, I’ll buy you a pint.”

“I don’t drink pints, sir,” I said. “I’m a rum and black girl.”

“Rum and black it is, then,” he said, smiling for the first time.

I smiled back. It looked like we might become friends.

When I returned, rather than listen to Terry eat, I concentrated on Robert Smyth.

How could a forty-threeyear-old man just disappear into thin air?

His neighbour, a Mrs Hammond, was interviewed and said he was quiet and kept to himself. There were no women visitors that she knew of.

No men, either.

Perhaps he had been depressed, but no-one interviewed mentioned anything odd about him, or any changes.

What puzzled me most about Robert Smyth was the foot-high ornament of a sheep (or goat) sitting on his bedside table, as if it was the last thing he wanted to lay his eyes on before he fell asleep.

When I finally raised my eyes, Detective Terry

Janner was staring at the dark clouds outside the office window.

“I think that animal meant something to Robert Smyth,” I said.

“Perhaps,” Terry said. “I might go to the library – see if anyone can tell me what it is.”

“Good idea.”

I wrote Robert’s sister’s address and telephone number on the back of the copy, and was about to ask Terry where the nearest library was when there came a knock on the door.

“Hey, Terry. Chief Inspector Yardley wants you.”

Terry swung his legs off the desk and sat up sharply. It was the fastest

I’d seen him move.

“What does he want?” he said.

“Don’t ask me.” The man shrugged. “Just said it was urgent.”

Terry squeezed into his jacket and strode to the door.

“Well?” he said.

“Well what, sir?” I replied. “Are you a copper or not?”

I threw on my jacket and followed him down the corridor. Despite his bulk, he could move. Every one of his strides was like two of mine and I had to run to keep up with him.

****

Chief Inspector Yardley’s office was way across the building on an upper floor.

“You wanted to see me, sir?” Terry said on entering.

Inspector Yardley cut an imposing figure in his uniform and sported a permanent frown.

“Who are you?” he asked when he looked up and saw me standing at Terry’s side.

“WPC Tanice Reid, sir. I’m working on cold cases with Detective Janner.”

“You know everything said in this room is confidential?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Janner, I need to call in a favour.”

“What sort of favour?” “I’ve had a call from Fulham police station, and it’s a case that requires your expertise and discretion.”

“I don’t do live cases,” Terry said.

Yardley took a deep noisy breath through his nose as if to calm himself.

His frown deepened. His craggy face reddened and he placed his hands either side of a file in front of him.

“Cordelia Averill,” he said with emphasis, “is the daughter of Henry Averill MP and she’s gone missing.”

I glanced at Terry. He’d said that he was near the end of his working life and intended to take it easy, but what I saw in his eyes wasn’t irritation at being interrupted from his “work”.

Instead, there was a bit of a sparkle.

“She went missing from her house early this morning,” Yardley said. “Normally we’d wait a day or two before we raised any concerns, but Henry Averill, as you know, is a prominent MP.

“He’s been on the phone three times this morning. There was no sign of a break-in at her house. She hasn’t reached work yet, either, even though apparently she has a hundred per cent attendance record.

“Works as a statistician for some government office. Probably a spoiled socialite who might be still out there partying. All you have to do is find her so that I can get some peace.

“You can refuse to take the case, Janner, but you’re still employed by the Force. I can order you, but I hope it won’t come to that.

“With things as they are I need someone I can trust. I’ll put a press freeze on, but you know how quickly these things get out.”

Yardley looked at me. “Well, Janner?”

“I’ll take my old unmarked car if Franklin hasn’t sent it to the knacker’s yard yet.”

“Good,” Yardley said. “Here’s the file. Mesham has obtained as much information as he can. Addresses and so forth.

And Janner? Take Reid with you.”

I’d only been at Scotland Yard two minutes and already I was working a live case.

Although I was excited at the prospect, I felt I wasn’t ready for it. It was too soon.

“Are you sure I should be doing this, sir?”

I ran after Terry as he strode down the corridor. Good thing I was fit.

He stopped and turned round to face me.

“Why are you questioning a direct order? You heard what Yardley said.”

“I’ve never been involved in a missing person case. Suppose I make a mistake. Suppose I mess up.”

“Did you interview people and take notes while you were on the beat?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did you have to make decisions?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, this is no different. We just have to do it faster.”

Then he smiled with something akin to kindness.

“It can be daunting, I admit, but watch and learn, Tanice. Watch and learn.”

I deserved his little dig. In truth, I’d looked no further than being on the beat and here I was, working beside one of the best. Though looking at Terry Janner, you wouldn’t think it.

“There’s just one thing, sir.”

I pointed to the button on his shirt that had popped open, his hairy pink skin exposed. Not a good look.

“Humph,” he said as he tried his best to do it up.

After I picked up my bag and coat, Terry led me to the car park.

“Franklin!” Terry bellowed.”

Then a response came out of the blue.

“Yup. Over here.”

Terry and I followed the voice. A black man wearing green overalls pushed himself out from under a panda car. He had a small, untidy afro and was wiping his hands on an oily rag.

When he stood up he was all of six foot three. His overalls fitted tight across his chest.

Someone was feeding him rice and peas and dumplings – you didn’t get that big eating ham and tomato sandwiches.

“Hey, Janner. Where you been, man?”

He looked me up and down while he said it.

Rude, I thought. “Consigned to my desk for a while,” Terry said. “Where’s my Rover P6?”

“What do you want with that beat-up old car?”

“Going back on the road,” Terry said. “As a matter of urgency.”

“Well, it’s a good thing it’s still here, then, but it’s not the type of car I’d use to take my secretary out to lunch.”

Franklin looked me up and down again – this time with a smile.

“I’m not a secretary,” I shot back. “I’m WPC Tanice Reid.”

Terry looked at me and grinned.

“Tanice is my partner for

time being.”

“Well, now,” Franklin drawled. “Isn’t that something.”

He led us to the Rover P6 and Terry climbed in. Franklin opened the door on the passenger side.

“Enjoy your day, WPC,” he said, closing the door. “Bit cheeky, isn’t he, sir?” Terry chuckled and put the file on to my lap.

“Something else was going on there that we haven’t got time for.”

I blushed, though I didn’t know what he was talking about.

“Who do you think we should speak to first?” he asked.

I cleared my throat. “Olivia St Aubyn, her flatmate?”

“Right answer,” Terry said. “Where does she live?”

I opened the file. “Fulham.”

He turned over the engine. For an old car it sounded pretty smooth. Terry caressed the wheel. “Brief me as I drive,” he said as he pulled away.

This wasn’t the Terry who had been sitting opposite me staring at the clouds; this was a new man.

I opened the file again and read him the contents.

I didn’t miss that Franklin watched us drive away with his arms folded across his chest, and with a ridiculous smile on his face.

****

Cordelia Averill lived in a tidy street in Fulham with her housemate, Olivia St Aubyn. When we arrived there was already a panda parked outside.

We jumped out of the car, and knocked on the door of number 17. It was opened by a uniformed WPC.

Terry flashed his badge. “That was quick,” she said. “Olivia’s in the living-room and is pretty upset. Follow me.”

Although Olivia St Aubyn had a fancy name, she was a plain sort of girl wearing a brown skirt, brown jumper and flat, oldfashioned shoes.

Terry dug me in the ribs. “Me?” I mouthed. He nodded.

He removed a notepad and pen from the inside pocket of his jacket. I took a deep breath.

“Miss St Aubyn,” I said. “I’m WPC Tanice Reid and this is Detective Terry Janner. Can you tell me what happened this morning?”

Her eyes were redrimmed.

“Something’s wrong. My boyfriend dropped me off at seven o’clock this morning so I could shower and change for work.

Delia’s bag and coat were still on the chair – nothing’s been stolen.

“As soon as I thought something was wrong, I called her father, Mr

Averill, hoping that that she’d gone home to her parents. He shouted at me and asked why I hadn’t called the police.

“Then I called Oluwa at home. He didn’t answer.” “Oluwa?” I said.

“Oluwa Conteh. Her fiancé. He was still here when I left last night.”

****

Before we left, Olivia informed us that Cordelia and Oluwa had met at York University.

“They’ve been together for years,” she said. “He’s a doctor. Works at

St George’s Hospital in Tooting.

“Her parents were pretty angry when they found out about him, you know, being black. When they got engaged, well, all hell broke loose. They tried to pay Oluwa off. Of course, he refused. Delia hasn’t spoken to them since.

“Please,” she begged, wringing her hands. “Delia has been my friend since boarding school. Something has happened to her. I know it has.”

I asked Olivia for a current picture and she provided us with a small framed photograph which had been sitting on the mantelpiece. Cordelia was a pretty girl, blonde and fresh-faced with freckles around her nose.

It was two o’clock in the afternoon by the time we reached St George’s Hospital. That meant Cordelia had been missing for at least six hours.

Terry flashed his badge at the receptionist in Casualty. She led us to a waitingroom.

Oluwa was quick to arrive and smiled as he pushed open the door.

I don’t know what I was expecting. He wasn’t as tall or as manly as I’d imagined.

He was good-looking in a soft sort of way, and his skin was strikingly dark.

Still, there was something about his eyes and the soft tone of his voice that made him seem very attractive. I could see why anyone would fall for him.

“Is this about Mr Fahey?” he asked. “I know you want to question him about the fight, but the head wound was serious and he’s slipped into a coma, so . . .”

“No,” Terry said. “We’ve come about Cordelia.” “What about Cordelia?” “It appears she’s gone missing.”

“Missing? You are mistaken. She’s at work.”

“She didn’t arrive.” Terry told him what we knew.

It transpired there was little Oluwa could tell us. Last evening he’d left Cordelia at about 9.30 and headed straight home.

He’d left with a spring in his step, he said, because they had fixed a wedding date for June the following year. But he had more to add that made me raise my eyebrows.

“I bet her father has sent her away,” he said. “There is no love lost between me and him.

“He has done this to punish me. He does not want his daughter to marry me.”

His words confirmed what Olivia had told us.

“Was she worried about anything?” Terry asked.

“It is funny you should mention this. She was worried about something a few weeks ago.

“We do not keep things from each other, but I knew she was not herself.

“I asked her if she was all right and she said she was and that I was not to worry. A few days later she was back to herself.”

He began to pull his white coat off.

“Her father has done this. We must find her. We will go to him and demand he tell us where she is.” I stepped in.

“No,” I said. “There is another way you can help us. You can go home and sit by the phone.

“I’m certain if she is worried about anything, the first person she will contact is you.”

“Yes,” he said. “You are right.”

His eyes became teary, so I placed my hand on his shoulder.

“Honestly, we are doing everything we can to find her. If you care anything about her, then you must wait for her to contact you.

“Go home, Doctor

Conteh. Go home.”

****

“That was smooth, Tanice,” Terry said as we walked back to his car. “Looks like I don’t need to teach you much about diplomacy.”

“Thanks, but it looked like we would have had Doctor Conteh hanging off the bumper if we didn’t do something.”

Terry laughed, and then became deadly serious.

“You know we still have to keep an eye on him.”

“I know that,” I replied. “I’m not stupid. He was the last person to see her.”

“Tell me what we’ve got,” Terry said.

“We’ve got a young woman who left her house this morning under suspicious circumstances.”

“Suspicious circumstances? Maybe she’s gone somewhere to get away from it all. Maybe she’s under a lot of pressure.

“I’ve seen this sort of thing before, Tanice. People who just up and leave when things get tough. We don’t usually worry for about forty-eight hours, unless it’s a child, of course.”

“Ah, but what about her bag and coat?” I asked.

“How many bags and coats do you have?”

He had a point.

“I feel something’s wrong.”

He smiled.

“You’re right. I feel it, too. Let’s see what her parents have to say about it.”

Before we got on the road to Richmond, Terry stopped at a newsagent and stocked up.

“Energy foods,” he said. “Heart attack foods,” I replied.

He offered me chocolate that I declined. Then he chomped on rubbish all the way to Richmond.

Henry Averill MP’s detached Victorian house was more like a mansion and screamed money.

The front garden was manicured to within an inch of its life and there was room to park at least eight cars. A Bentley and a smaller E-type Jag were already parked up.

Terry parked beside them.

“Nice, isn’t it?” Terry said, looking up at the house. “My wife would kill for something like this.” “I wouldn’t,” I said.

“You wouldn’t?”

“Too much cleaning.”

That brought a brief smile to Terry’s lips as he rang the doorbell.

Mrs Averill was the image of her daughter. They had the same blonde hair, though the mother’s was shot with grey, with a precision cut.

Terry flashed his badge. “Hello,” he said. “My name’s Detective Terry

Janner. Any chance I could speak to Mr and Mrs Averill?”

If that was my mother and I’d gone missing she’d be a mess, but Mrs Averill took stiff upper lip to another level.

“Please come in,” she said calmly.

She led us to a room with big fat sofas and patio doors that looked out on to another tidy garden.

“I’ll go and fetch my husband.”

Soon after, Mr Averill pushed open the door. He was one of those thin men who looked like they could eat pie and mash every day, or eat like Terry, and never get fat.

He strode across the room to Terry.

“Have you found her yet?” “No, sir,” Terry said.

“Well, then, why are you here? You should be out there looking for her. She’s run off with that man. Probably in Africa by now.”

“What man?” Terry asked carefully.

“That so-called doctor. Conteh. He’s the man you want. He only wants my daughter for her money. I bet he’s gone missing, too.”

So far I had remained pretty invisible, but I recalled what my mum always says.

That when it boils down to it, we’re all the same. We all have to eat and drink. We all have two arms, two eyes, one nose, and we all have to use the . . .

“No, sir,” I said. “Doctor Conteh has not gone missing.”

He turned to look me up and down.

“And you are?”

“WPC Reid,” I replied. “Actually, Doctor Conteh is sitting by the phone in case Cordelia gets in touch.”

“It’s all a ruse,” he said. “He’s aware of her recent inheritance and has her in his clutches. My daughter is naïve, Detective Janner. Easily taken advantage of, which is exactly what this man has done.”

I certainly wouldn’t be voting for Henry Averill MP, because he was completely obnoxious.

“What recent inheritance?” Terry asked.

“Her grandmother, on my wife’s side, was fabulously rich, though you wouldn’t know it the way she lived. She left everything to Cordelia. Came as a complete surprise.”

Mrs Averill butted in.

“My mother left everything to Cordelia rather than to me or my brother, Reginald

Pinkerton. I am ashamed to say it, but my mother was an insensitive old woman and should never have put Cordelia in such a position.”

“What was the value of the estate?” Terry asked.

“Over a million,” Mrs Averill replied.

I mentally whistled through my teeth.

“Our relationship with Cordelia has been strained,” Mrs Averill continued. “Cordelia has cut us off, and as soon as that man found out about the inheritance, he proposed. What have you got to say about that?”

“What’s most important,” Terry said tactfully, “is that we find your daughter. You don’t know if she was worried about anything?”

“Of course she had something to worry about,” Mr Averill said. “We were opposed to her marriage.” Terry frowned.

“If anything happened to Cordelia, who would benefit from her estate?”

Now, that’s a question I perhaps wouldn’t have asked, and it made Mr Henry Averill MP check himself.

Despite his bluster and rudeness, I now sensed he was genuinely worried.

His eyes seemed to sink into his face and he morphed into a worried father rather than an aggressive, arrogant MP.

“Why, my wife and I would benefit. You’re not saying that you think something terrible has happened to her, are you?”

“No,” Terry said evenly. “I’m not saying that. Yet.”

At that moment, it occurred to me that we had been looking for Cordelia as you would for a stray pet.

We didn’t really know her, and to get to the bottom of this mystery, we needed to know her better.

Inspector Yardley had flippantly said she was probably a partying socialite. Oluwa said that she had been worried about something some weeks ago.

Olivia, her best friend, was sure something terrible had happened to her.

To me, there was no doubt she was in trouble.

We needed to speak to Olivia again to find out exactly who Cordelia was.

“I’m assuming you can drive?” Terry said.

“Of course I can drive. I can drive anything.”

“Get behind the wheel, then. I want to eat my crisps and I can’t do it safely with one hand.” “Fulham?”

Terry looked at his watch. “Actually, no. Time to set up an incident room, and I haven’t had dinner.”

“You’ve been eating all day!”

“This isn’t food,” he said. “Besides, you haven’t eaten anything since we left this morning. I don’t want you fainting on me.”

I put the car in gear.

“I bet you wouldn’t say that to a man.”

“No. You’re right.”

“It’s sexist.”

“Get moving.”

“Food’s better at the pub than in the canteen,” Terry said. “Want to come?”

“No, thanks. I’m not really into pubs.”

“Well, drop me off here.

I’ll meet you back at the office in an hour.”

I returned to our office, removed my coat and went in search of the canteen.

It was pretty empty and about to close. I managed to get the last pasty and ordered a cup of tea.

I removed the photocopy of Robert Smyth’s bedroom and stared at it while I ate.

Again it struck me that the animal on his bedside table had some significance, but for the life of me I couldn’t put my finger on it.

“Hello,” a voice behind me said.

I glanced over my shoulder. Franklin, the mechanic, had approached with a mug of tea in his large hand.

Our first meeting in the underground car park hadn’t been too cordial.

I said. I folded the photocopy and shoved it back in my bag.

“Do you mind?” He indicated the empty chair in front of me and sat down without waiting for my answer.

He was still wearing his overalls. His greasy fingers left streaks on his mug.

He smiled as he looked down at my dried-up pasty.

“I’d rather have rice and peas and chicken, WPC Tanice Reid,” he said with a smile.

Rice and peas was a safe subject.

“Yes,” I said. “But there’s no rice and peas here.” “One day, maybe.”

“You never know.”

There was a long pause. I looked over at his hands. They dwarfed the mug and were crusty, hard and dry.

If I were his wife/ girlfriend/mother, I would have insisted he used hard-core hand cream.

Then my eyes ran up the buttons of his oily overall, past his broad shoulders, up to his strong chin and then to his face.

He was smiling and his smile sort of kicked me in the stomach.

“Where’s Terry?”

“I – I left him at the pub. It looks like it’s going to be a long day so he needed something to eat.”

“He’s eating himself to death,” Franklin said.

I looked Franklin square in the eye.

“No, I’m serious. Everyone knows it. The man’s got problems.”

“What sort of problems?” “Not for me to say, but I’ve known Terry a long time. He’s one of the good guys. Look after him for me. Anyway, I’ve got work to do.”

He stood up.

“By the way, you handled that car smoothly.”

“What?”

“Saw you park up in that tight space. Smooth.”

“I bet you wouldn’t have said that if I was a man.” He laughed.

“You’re right. It’s a bit sexist.” He raised his hands in supplication. “Sorry.”

I looked up into his eyes. What I saw was humour. His smile was genuine and

warm. So he wasn’t a great lummox, after all.

****

When I returned to our office it had morphed into an incident room.

Chief Inspector Yardley had arrived. So had a young detective simply called Mesham.

Our cold case files were dumped back in their boxes and shoved in a corner.

The WPC who had supported Olivia St Aubyn that morning arrived.

“WPC Yvonne Roos, at your service.”

The photo of Cordelia had been pinned to the middle of the board. The names of Oluwa Conteh, Olivia St Aubyn and Mr and Mrs Averill were pinned up around the photo.

Terry gave out orders. “I want to know who else might have been disadvantaged by the will, and who was at the reading.

“Get hold of Cordelia’s solicitor and see if he still has any previous wills. Get in touch with work. See if there’s anything going on there.”

Despite looking like an overfed teddy bear, Terry was masterful. One day I hoped to be able to give orders like that.

I raised my hand.

“What about her uncle?” “Good thought, Tanice. Somebody find out where he lives, but don’t speak to him. Tanice and I will pay him a visit.”

Yardley spoke next.

“In the meantime,” he said, “I’ll keep the press at bay, though I don’t think they’ve got wind of it yet. Let’s get to it, men.” I coughed a bit loudly. “And women,” he said. Yvonne looked at me and winked.

Terry and I left them to it and made our way to the underground car park.

He turned on the ignition, put the car in gear and eased out.

I looked for Franklin but he wasn’t around.

****

“Have you found her?” Olivia asked.

“No, not yet,” I replied. “We need to ask you some more questions.”

I had been wrong about her. This morning she seemed dowdy. Now she was wearing a pair of jeans and T-shirt.

With her hair tied up from her face she was fresh-faced and pretty.

She led us to the livingroom.

“We need to know a bit more about Cordelia,” I said. “You know, people she associated with. Enemies. Places she liked to go.”

“Delia spent most of her time between here and Oluwa’s place. No-one disliked her.

Honestly, she’s a lovely girl. Down to earth.

“We used to be bullied at school because we were both brainboxes. Square, you know. That’s how we got together. Safety in numbers, I suppose.”

Olivia gave a weak smile and shrugged.

“And what can you tell us about her and Oluwa?” Olivia glared at me.

“Are you suggesting Oluwa has anything to do with this?” she said. “Well, don’t. She and Oluwa are tight.”

I changed direction quick. “We’ve been told that a few weeks ago she was a bit upset about something. Do you know what it was?”

She looked down at her knees.

“I’m not sure I should tell you. It’s family business.”

“Whatever you say is confidential. Any scrap of information you provide might help us.”

Olivia hesitated. If she didn’t answer, I’d threaten to haul her down to the station for questioning.

That would scare the socks off her.

She relented.

“All right, but you mustn’t tell her that I told you. It was her uncle.”

“Reginald Pinkerton?” Terry shifted in his chair but didn’t butt in.

I remembered his advice about letting people speak, and what he said was true, because Olivia started talking without further encouragement.

“Delia came into a lot of money. More than she could spend in a lifetime.

“Reginald turned up about a month ago asking her for money to open a recording studio. In Pimlico, if I remember rightly. She refused.

“To be honest, I don’t blame her. He’s high risk. Every venture he’s ever started has failed.

“She felt bad about refusing him, but she didn’t want to throw money away when it could have gone to better use.

“She and Oluwa have decided to give most of it to charity.”

I looked at Terry. He stepped in.

“Did she say how he took the refusal?”

“Oh, he was all right about it. I’ve met him a couple of times over the years and he’s not the type to hold grudges.

“Very flamboyant man. Easy going. You know, a loveable rogue type.”

Well, that didn’t sound right. His sister, Mrs Averill, was as stiff as a board!

“I think you’ve given us all we need, Olivia,” Terry said, closing the questioning. “If you think of anything else, you can contact us at Scotland Yard.”

“Please find my friend,” she said as we departed.

****

Reginald Pinkerton, Cordelia’s uncle, lived in an apartment directly facing the good end of Edgware Road.

He was fifty-six years old, single, and was considered a bit of an impresario.

He’d owned several businesses: a clothes shop in Mayfair, a restaurant in Soho, a record shop in Portobello Road. He was currently a music promoter.

Flat 9 was opened by a smartly dressed man wearing a rather fashionable cream suit.

He was as blond as his older sister, Mrs Averill, and rather handsome for his age. Film-star handsome.

“Come in, come in,” he said anxiously.

We entered straight into a huge bright living space. Whoever had decorated had a great love of chintz and flowers and shiny things.

“Sit down,” he said. “Oh, do sit down.”

We sat down side by side on a rose-covered sofa. Terry then opened his mouth to speak, but Reginald Pinkerton beat him to it.

“I assume you’ve come about Cordelia. My sister rang me a couple of hours ago. Said she’d gone missing.”

He wrung his hands together as he paced the floor in front of us.

“I do hope this has nothing to do with me asking her for money. I didn’t know who to ask because the bank won’t lend me a penny.

“I only asked for twentyfive thousand. In the scheme of things, it was only a pinch.

“But what with this man she’s engaged to and with her parents practically disowning her, and all that money and jewellery and property falling into her lap, and then me asking her for money, well, it must have been too much for her. I feel this is all my fault.”

I was surprised he came straight out with it. It seemed we were back to square one.

“Just a question,” Terry said. “Why did your mother leave all her money to Cordelia?”

“Cordelia and my mother were like best friends. They were always together.

“Even I will admit that my mother was a better mother to Cordelia than my sister. My sister, you see, can be cold at times.

“She wasn’t always like that, but she seems to have lost herself, despite Mother urging her to leave the man. I suppose you can’t help who you fall in love with.

“As for me, I can only assume Cordelia couldn’t trust me with money. I don’t bear her any ill will. She’s a lovely girl, considering.”

Well, that answered the business about the inheritance. It also answered the question of why Mrs Averill was so cold. I reminded myself that I shouldn’t be so quick to judge.

“When you find Cordelia will you please tell her not to worry? I’ll be raising the money another way.

“I’ve cleared out my country home and I shall put the house on the market. I know exactly what she’s going through, I really do. No wonder she upped and left.”

As he finished we heard a key in the front door.

“Ah, here’s my business partner, Philip,” Reginald said.

Reginald’s eyes lit up as Philip entered the room. He wore a finely cut expensive overcoat, and around his neck, a cashmere scarf. As he approached he reached out a scratched hand.

Terry and I stood up.

“This is Detective Janner,” Reginald said, “and this is WPC Reid.”

“Terrible news,” Philip said smoothly. “That poor, poor girl. Reg has been beside himself.”

“I can see that,” Terry said. “Well, if you hear from Cordelia, please get in touch.”

We turned to leave but something was nagging at me.

“You’d better put something on that hand before it gets infected.” He laughed.

“I have a cat, Mitzy. She’s a vicious little thing. A mouser. Scratches like a demon.”

I had a cat once, which I received as a birthday present. But when I realised it wasn’t going to be my best friend, I lost all interest.

One day I went to pick it up because it was sitting in the middle of the passage and wouldn’t get out of my way. It scratched the back of my hand and slunk off.

I can remember the scratches to this day and they weren’t like Philip Cranston’s.

His scratches were made by something bigger than a cat called Mitzy

But what would Philip gain from abducting Cordelia Averill? Nothing, as far I could see.

Terry and I discussed the matter when we returned to the car.

“A cat never made those scratches,” I said. “He’s lying.”

“I have to agree with you,” Terry said, biting down on a custard cream.

“And did you notice the way he crossed his arms as we were leaving?”

“Yes, I did. Looked fishy, but Tanice, remember many people in close vicinity to the police come over all strange, even if they’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Yeah, but since we’ve been going around in circles and he’s the dodgiest person we’ve met so far, don’t you think we should take a punt?”

“Let’s wait for a while and see where he goes.”

“Good,” I said. “To be honest, I don’t want to let that man out of my sight!” Terry smiled and nodded. “Since he’s just arrived, he’s not likely to go anywhere yet. Go to the shop and get some food. I’ll sit here and wait.”

There was no evidence of a corner shop where we were parked, so I turned into a side street and saw a library ahead.

Two members of staff were closing the building. I reached for my badge. “I need some information.”

The older woman relented and we slipped through the door.

“What information do you want?” she asked.

removed the photocopy from my bag.

“Is that a sheep or goat?” “It looks like a sheep,” she said. “We have a reference book that can tell us what breed.”

I followed her to the reference section. She knew her stuff because she put her hand on the book she wanted and opened it up on the nearest table.

“It’s a Boreray,” she said. “Rare breed. Not to be confused with the blackface.”

“Where can I find them?” “Says here, Boreray. It’s an island off St Kilda.” “Where on earth is that?” She grabbed another huge tome, which turned out to be a detailed map of the British Isles, and thumbed through it.

“Here it is,” she said. I looked closer. Boreray was a dot in the sea, north of Scotland.

****

I handed the bag of food to Terry through the car window, then climbed into the passenger seat.

“Some of that’s mine, remember,” I warned him. “Anything happening?”

“No. The light’s still on.” “Suppose he leaves by the back entrance?”

“Why should he? We didn’t give him any indication that we were suspicious of him.

“I’ve been on the radio. Got more information.

“Reginald’s other property is near a place called Clewer in Windsor. Philip Cranston lives in a house in Wandsworth. I’ve sent Yvonne to look the place over.

“Mesham’s holding the fort at base. And Yardley is getting his ears ripped off by Henry Averill.”

“It’s going to be a long night,” I said.

At about 11.30 Yvonne came up on the two-way radio.

“A man’s turned up on foot fitting the description of Philip Cranston, sir,” she said.

Terry sat up straighter. “Keep an eye on him.” “Will do, sir.”

Minutes later the two-way radio crackled to life again.

“Sir, he’s on the move,” Yvonne said. “He’s just placed something wrapped up in a blanket in the boot of his car.”

“Are you in an unmarked?” Terry asked. “Of course,” Yvonne said. “Don’t approach. Follow him. Let us know where he’s going and don’t try to be brave.”

“He took the back way,” I said.

“I should have listened to you.”

Terry looked at me and me at him.

“Are you thinking what

I’m thinking?” I said.

“I think you’re thinking about Windsor.”

“I am. Where would you hide a millionaire?” I asked.

“In an empty house that has just been cleared and is not on the market yet,” Terry offered.

He took up the radio. “Which way is he heading, Yvonne?”

“West, sir. He’s driving fast, but I don’t think he’s on to me.”

“Keep with him. We think we know where he might be heading.”

I took a battered map from the back seat.

“Mesham, get us

Reginald Pinkerton’s address, will you?”

****

“I’ve lost him, sir,” Yvonne reported. “Shall I retrace my steps?”

“Don’t,” Terry said.

“We’re right behind you. We’ll be there in less than five minutes. Park up and sit tight.”

Then Mesham came on. “Sir, Forensics have confirmed there was blood on the door frame of Cordelia’s house.”

Terry and I looked at each other.

“Thanks for letting us know,” he said.

Terry negotiated the A4 like a racing driver. Soon we had reached Clewer with its posh houses set back from the road.

It wasn’t lit up like

London so I could understand why Yvonne had lost him.

“Keep going,” I said. “The turning should be coming up on the right.”

Terry made a face. “What’s up?”

“Got heartburn.”

“Not surprised.”

“Don’t let me miss the turning.”

“It’s coming up. Now!” “Let’s cut the engine and walk,” he suggested.

We must have walked 50 yards past trees and bushes and still there was no evidence of a house.

“Listen,” I whispered. “What’s that noise?”

It sounded like scraping. Terry put his fingers to his lips. We retraced our steps and found a gate.

“It might make a noise,” he whispered. “Climb over.”

It was easy for me because I was fit. Terry struggled, but made it.

The scraping noise was coming from the back of the house, which was hidden behind some trees. No wonder we had walked past it.

At the back of the house Philip stood with a spade in his hand, digging a hole. Digging and chopping into the hard ground as if his life depended on it.

“Get ahead of him,” Terry whispered. “But don’t do anything stupid.”

I sneaked ahead and settled behind a shrub.

“Philip Cranston?” Terry said, taking a few steps forward.

Philip froze, threw down the spade and stood up.

“Isn’t it a bit late to be gardening?” Terry asked.

“It’s never too late,”

Philip said sarcastically.

“What are you expecting to plant in that lawn?”

Terry went on. “A tree?”

“Could be, but you know it’s best not to plant a tree when the ground’s so cold and hard.”

“Is Cordelia dead, then?” Terry asked.

“She wasn’t this morning, but I think she is now.”

“You think?” Terry said. “Reg told me Cordelia was timid. He was wrong about that. Very wrong.

“She thought I was going to hurt her and fought like a wildcat. I hit her a bit too hard and she banged her head on the doorframe. Don’t know my own strength. She has expired.”

“Why did you do it?” Terry asked.

“Only meant to talk to her and frighten her a bit,” Philip admitted. “Say she’d stolen Reg’s inheritance and she should give him what he asked for.” “Unfortunate,” Terry said. “I’d do anything for Reg. Did you know we’ve been together for twenty years? All under cover, of course. His family have treated him despicably, especially that old witch, his mother.

“She hated what he was and punished him for it. Didn’t want her money to go to us, so she gave it to her prissy granddaughter instead.”

“Maybe Cordelia was more deserving,” Terry said. “From what I’ve heard, Reginald wasn’t such a good businessman.” Philip stiffened. “How dare you! He had a lot of bad luck.”

“I see,” Terry said. “Obviously you don’t see.” Philip looked around him. “By the way, where’s your little sidekick? It’s nice to see a black woman in the Force. I predict there’ll be all sorts in the police force one day. Wouldn’t that be grand?”

“You know what I think?” I think that’s enough. I also think it’s about time you put your hands above your head and come quietly.”

“Oh, I won’t be coming quietly,” he said.

He spun round on the spot and made a run for it in my direction.

I had a split second to make a decision. As he ran past I stuck my leg out then tackled him to the ground.

He hit his head as he fell and moaned into the soil.

I’d never cuffed a man so fast, but I did myself some damage in the process.

“Got him, Terry,” I called, but when I looked over my shoulder Terry had collapsed to the moonlit ground.

****

Thankfully, Cordelia had survived her ordeal but was terribly concussed.

Yvonne and I found her in the basement of the house, weak and dehydrated.

She was sprawled on the hard cold floor suffering from hypothermia.

I placed my jacket over her shoulders and held her tight until help arrived.

****

Unlike Cordelia Averill, who was in a private room, Terry was in a ward with 19 other beds. When I arrived his curtains were drawn, so I called out before I pulled them aside.

“Are you in the altogether?” I asked.

“Tanice?” he said. “No. Come in.”

I pushed the curtain aside with my good hand.

“Can’t stand it,” Terry said. “All those old men coughing and spluttering around me.”

I laughed. He looked a lot better than he had two days ago, when I thought he was dead.

“Apart from that broken wrist, have you anything to report?” he asked.

“Cordelia was seriously concussed, but they expect a full recovery. You’d like Cordelia. She’s tough and knows what she wants, in a quiet, reserved sort of way. I’ve just left her.

“Oluwa and her relatives are visiting just now. I think they’re going to be all right as a family from now on.”

“And what about Philip Cranston?”

“Like he said, it all went wrong and he panicked. Anyway, he’s going to be spending a long time as a guest of Her Majesty.

“I’ve got some more good news, though.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“You know that ornament Robert Smyth had on his bedside table?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, it was a clay replica of a rare sheep called a Boreray. They’re only found on an island off the Scottish coast. I say island, but it’s more of a rock.

“Didn’t I always say it had some significance? Before he went missing, Robert went on a walking holiday in Scotland. Ended up on an island called St Kilda.

“He braved the seas over to Boreray and must have had an epiphany. A month later he left his old life and never came back.

“He’s married to a local artist on Uist. Once a year he travels over to Boreray with a group of conservationists to check on the health of the sheep.

“We’ve asked him to get in touch with his sister.”

Terry raised his eyebrows.

“And you found this out how?”

“I tried to ring the local authority, but they couldn’t help over the phone. Pulled rank on Stornoway Police HQ and they got back to me this morning.”

“I’ve got to say it, you’re a natural, Tanice.”

“Thank you, sir,” I said proudly. “I mean, Terry.”

“Since you’re on a roll, Tanice, perhaps you can look at case that’s been bothering me for years.

“Camilla Jewson. Fortyyear-old housewife. Went missing fifteen years ago.”

“Course I will, but in exchange, promise you’ll keep to the diet. You don’t have to retire if you don’t want to, so you can stop eating yourself to death.

“The Yard still needs people like you.”

****

When I finally left, I climbed into the passenger seat of the Rover P6. “Everything all right?” “Yes,” I said. “Thanks for the lift.”

Franklin put the car in gear and drove off.

“Never been to Windsor before,” he said. “It’s pretty. Shall we stop and find something to eat?”

“What? As in a date?” I asked hopefully.

“Sure, why not?” He laughed.

Franklin found a shop that sold afternoon tea. We walked in, Franklin in his overalls and me with my arm in plaster. We looked a right pair.

He took my good hand in his rough one and squeezed it reassuringly. Did I mind that his hand was rough? Not at all!

“Afternoon tea?” a smiling waitress asked.

“Yes,” Franklin said. “We’re dying for a cuppa and we’d like your best table, please.”

The End