Hard Evidence

He was strongly minded to do nothing whatever in the matter. But there were the Eardlows, old, frail, anxious. ‘Better look into it,’ he told Lambert grudgingly. ‘But don’t go making a big production number out of it, just fit it in with everything else.’ Lambert knew the form well enough, he’d been over this kind of ground often before. He knew precisely how much time to spend, how much to do, just enough to be able to reassure the relatives the police were reasonably certain the girl had come to no harm. And that was what he set about over the next few days. His first step was to discover via a series of phone calls which estate agents in the area handled holiday lettings of caravans. He found three and went off to visit them all. He was in luck. At his first call, an office in the centre of Cannonbridge, the manager produced records which showed that a caravan had indeed been rented by a Miss Julie Dawson, giving the Honeysuckle Cottage address. She had taken the caravan from Tuesday, May 16th, to Saturday, May 27th. She had paid in full, in advance, by cheque, on Monday, May 15th. He could supply no further details himself, he didn’t attend to such bookings, but he passed Lambert on to the female clerk who had dealt with Miss Dawson. The woman did recall the matter. Two details in particular stood out in her memory: Miss Dawson’s unusually beautiful hair and her insistence on the cheapest possible let. She didn’t mind where the caravan was or how basic its amenities but she wanted to move in as soon as possible. The clerk was able to suit Miss Dawson immediately with the cheapest caravan on their books. It was old, isolated, furnished and equipped to a bare minimum, and in consequence difficult to let. It belonged to a fishing enthusiast, a bachelor, who kept it principally for his own use, whenever he could get away from his city job to fish the local streams. It was vacant at the time Miss Dawson made her inquiry; the next booking was for May 27th. Miss Dawson took it for the whole of the interim.

The caravan stood on a small farm a few miles from Calcott village. The clerk gave Miss Dawson directions for finding the farm; the keys were kept at the farmhouse. ‘Something else, I remember,’ she threw in suddenly. ‘Miss Dawson didn’t stay quite the full time at the caravan. And she didn’t return the keys to the farmhouse. They were dropped in here.’ She had found them in the mail on the Friday morning, May 26th; they hadn’t been sent by post, they had been delivered by hand. She particularly remembered because there had been no note, no word of any kind with the keys. They had simply been put into an envelope and pushed through the letter box. Every key ring carried a tag giving the name and address of the estate agent, together with a number identifying the property to which the keys belonged.

There had been no further contact of any kind with Miss Dawson. The clerk had no idea where she might have gone after leaving the caravan.

The following afternoon Lambert drove out to the farm, a small, old-fashioned, man-and-wife enterprise that appeared far from thriving. A stream ran between overhanging willows along one boundary. Close by, Lambert saw a sizable stretch of shadowy, gloomy-looking woodland, overgrown and neglected.

He walked across the cobbled yard to the farmhouse. His knock at the door was answered by a harassed-looking woman in late middle age. Her hands were covered in flour, wisps of hair stuck out around her face. She didn’t invite Lambert inside but answered his questions on the doorstep, briskly and without embellishment, already half turned back towards the demands of her kitchen. Her husband wasn’t in, he was out at a farm sale, she couldn’t say when he’d be back.

Yes, she remembered Miss Dawson very well; that is, she couldn’t recall the name but she did clearly remember a girl staying in the caravan in the latter part of May. It was the only time she could remember a pretty young girl staying in the caravan on her own, and she too had been struck by the beauty of the girl’s hair. Miss Dawson had also been unusual in that she had never called at the farmhouse for milk, eggs or vegetables, had never stopped by for a chat, never asked if it was all right if she took a stroll round the farm. ‘In fact, I only ever saw her twice,’ the woman added. ‘The day she came, when she called in here for the keys, and one other time, a day or two later – I saw her in the distance, walking towards the wood.’ The caravan stood at quite some distance from the house and wasn’t visible from it.

The woman was paid to clean the caravan after each let. There had been nothing untoward when she had cleaned through after Miss Dawson’s stay; she had found nothing left behind.

The caravan was currently occupied by a young couple with a baby. They had gone out for the day and wouldn’t be back till it was time to put the baby to bed. They would have taken the caravan keys with them; there was only the one set. She jerked her head. Even if she had a second set she wouldn’t have been happy about letting the sergeant take a look inside in the absence of the young couple. But he was welcome to walk over there, to see the location. He must excuse her from going with him, she was up to her eyes just now.

Lambert followed her directions. The caravan was in a secluded spot, well out of sight and earshot of both the farmhouse and the road, provided with an even greater degree of privacy by a thick screen of trees. The caravan curtains had been left closed.

He stood for some moments glancing about. The breeze carried with it the scent of clover fields. From the topmost branches of a nearby tree rang out the clear, bell-like notes of a blackcap.

The situation was certainly pleasant enough. Apart from the glowering presence of the wood.

Next day Sergeant Lambert found himself free in the middle of the morning to run over to Millbourne. The town was somewhat smaller than Cannonbridge, thirty miles away.

As he neared Honeysuckle Cottage the road took him through undulating countryside, past deep gorges running between thickly wooded hills, green copses, bracken-covered slopes, old gravel pits and quarries filled with water, hedgerows decked with wild roses.

Because of the phone call she had recently received from the Eardlows, Audrey Tysoe wasn’t surprised at Lambert’s visit. She was busy in the garden when he arrived but she broke off readily enough. Lambert noticed her limp. Habitual, he guessed, probably from some old injury; she used no stick, wore no plaster or bandage that might suggest a more recent mishap.

She took him into her charming cottage, sat him down and gave him coffee. No, she wasn’t anxious about Julie, she was sure she would turn up again before long. She had left most of her things at the cottage – that must surely mean she intended returning, if only to collect her belongings. She had lodged with Miss Tysoe for two years. Before that she had stayed with three or four other landladies but hadn’t been happy with any of them.

Miss Tysoe didn’t normally take in lodgers. She had been in charge of personnel at the Advertiser until her retirement and Julie had told her she hadn’t been able to find digs she was happy in. ‘I offered to take her in here, temporarily,’ Miss Tysoe explained. ‘Till she could look round to find somewhere she really liked. But we both found it worked well, her being here. I liked having someone around in the evenings and at weekends, and Julie liked living out of town; it was what she had been used to before she came to Millbourne. She wasn’t a girl who wanted to go out much in her free time. So she stayed on.’

But they had never been close. Both tended to be self-sufficient, and Julie was not by nature a confiding girl. It was a satisfactory relationship of good-natured live and let live, with mutual benefits. There had never been any friction between them.

Lambert told her he now knew that Julie had stayed in a caravan for several days after leaving Calcott House. No, Miss Tysoe had no idea where Julie might have gone at the end of her caravan stay. She wasn’t entirely surprised at Julie taking herself off on indefinite leave; she had been showing signs of restlessness for some time. She had made remarks about the Advertiser being small fry, Millbourne being a very provincial place, Honeysuckle Cottage being in a backwater.

From her years in personnel work Miss Tysoe had garnered a good deal of experience of young women and she believed she could read the signs. ‘I think it could have been her twentieth birthday that sparked it off,’ she hazarded. ‘She seemed to feel it was some kind of milestone. When she first came to Millbourne she hadn’t long lost her mother. She badly needed a breathing space to come to terms with adult life. And I suppose, coming more or less straight from school into a newspaper office, from a little village to a town, it all seemed new, interesting and exciting, being out in the world on her own, learning a job, earning money.

‘But that was three years ago. By this time she must feel on top of her job, it can’t be much of a challenge any more. She’s probably beginning to want something livelier and more demanding. She might feel she’s completed one stage of her growing up – after all, at twenty, she’s no longer an adolescent. I imagine she’s ready to spread her wings again, take a good look at her life and how she intends to spend it. She’ll come back, I’m positive, when she’s reached some decisions.’

‘What about boyfriends?’ Lambert wanted to know. ‘A pretty young girl, she must surely have boyfriends.’

But Miss Tysoe was positive there was no one. Nor did Julie have any close girlfriend. There had been two girls at the Advertiser she had been friendly with at one time but both had left some time ago. As far as Miss Tysoe knew, Julie hadn’t kept up with either of them, nor could she say where either was now living. She was sure Julie had made no special friend since then. ‘Most of the young women at the Advertiser are married, with young families,’ she pointed out. ‘They have their own very busy lives to lead, apart from their jobs.’

Lambert asked if she could tell him the name of Julie’s bank and she was able to supply it. She also told him Julie had a savings account with a building society, but she didn’t know which one. Nor did she know if she had a post-office account.

Lambert asked if he might look through her things. She took him upstairs to a good-sized room, comfortably furnished as a bedsitter. ‘She often stayed up here, reading or watching TV,’ Miss Tysoe told him. She indicated a portable television set, well-filled bookshelves. ‘If she wanted to join me downstairs, she was always welcome.’

Lambert went over to the bookshelves and stooped to read the spines. Old bound editions of the Strand Magazine, handsome copies of Edgar Allan Poe, Wilkie Collins, Conan Doyle, Rider Haggard, John Buchan, Dorothy Sayers, Agatha Christie. He picked out a book at random and opened it. An ornamental ex-libris plate bore a name and date written in faded ink: Gilbert Michael Dawson. March, 1935.

He picked out other books here and there. Some bore the same bookplate with dates ranging from the thirties to the sixties. Others carried more modern plates with Julie’s name – written sometimes in a schoolgirl hand, sometimes in a more adult style, with more recent dates.

The room was very neat. ‘That’s the way she left it,’ Miss Tysoe said. ‘I’ve never had to clear up after her, she’s always been tidy.’

Lambert glanced through the contents of the wardrobe, through drawers and cupboards; he opened the bureau. He found no bank books, no chequebook or credit cards. No letters or diaries, no personal papers of any interest.

But he did come across a folder of snapshots: Julie at various ages, exterior views of a cottage, a garden, a couple who were clearly her parents. Another woman, sitting beside Julie’s mother in the garden under an apple tree, looked about the same age as Julie’s mother. There were several snapshots of a freckle-faced, dark-haired lad of nine or ten, with a cheerful, open smile. And a few photographs of the Eardlows, taken some years ago when they were rather more hale and hearty.

Miss Tysoe could identify none of the photographs; Julie had never shown them to her. She had said little about her background and Miss Tysoe had never pressed her.

When Sergeant Lambert left, Miss Tysoe came limping out to the car with him. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know the moment I hear anything from Julie,’ she assured him. ‘And of course I’ll let the Eardlows know too. I’m pretty certain in my own mind she’s just gone off to think things out. She may decide to leave here altogether, find herself a job in London or some other city. After all, she has no ties, she can please herself.’

Lambert drove on into Millbourne. He called at Julie’s bank and spoke to the manager. Julie had a current account with the bank; it hadn’t been disturbed since the third week in May, the last two transactions being cheques drawn on the account, one dated May 15th, in favour of the estate agent from whom she had hired the caravan and the other, dated May 16th, made out to Calcott House.

Lambert went next to the Advertiser premises, a few doors from the bank. Mr Fielding was busy but when the sergeant’s name and an indication of his mission were sent in to him he broke off at once and came along to reception. He shook hands with Lambert and took him into his office. On the way he mentioned the recent phone call he had received from the Eardlows. He was sorry they felt so worried. He was sure the anxiety was groundless, he had done his best to reassure them. Had the police found any genuine cause for alarm?

No, Lambert told him. They were merely looking into the matter, trying to discover if there was any need for concern, hoping very shortly to be able themselves to reassure the old couple.

In the office Lambert told Fielding he had traced Julie to a caravan a few miles from the hotel where she had gone after leaving Honeysuckle Cottage. She had left the caravan in the last week of May and there, for the moment, at least, the trail ended.

Fielding asked in what way he could be of use. His manner was friendly and helpful. The sergeant told him it would be useful to know Fielding’s general impression of the girl, any idea he had about what might have led her to go off in this way, any guess at where or with whom she might now be. Perhaps, he suggested, Fielding might harbour some half-formed notion, too ill-defined to mention over the phone to the Eardlows, which might nevertheless be of use to the police.

Fielding shook his head with regret. No, he had no such notion. In the three years Julie had been with the Advertiser she had always been a willing and capable worker, punctual and accurate. She had progressed from the general office to telephone sales and was earning good money. He had thought her happy and satisfied in her job. She certainly hadn’t come to him looking for some further opportunity, something with more challenge. If she had he would have taken her seriously, would have done his best to find her a suitable niche.

He was not aware of any trouble between Julie and any other employee. She was a quiet girl with a pleasant manner. The official position was that she was on indefinite leave, unpaid now as her entitlement to paid leave had run out. Her job was being kept open for her – within reason. When she went off in the second week in May Fielding had never imagined she would be absent as long as this, but he would make no attempt to fill her job permanently for another month or two.

Whenever she came back she would be listened to sympathetically. If it turned out that some illness had overtaken her, if she had suffered any kind of breakdown, then she would – if she so wished – be reinstated and her absence treated as sick leave, with backdated pay.

But if it should turn out that she had decided to leave permanently, had found herself another job, maybe, there would be no difficulty about that. She would be given any references she might require, very good references, too. She would be advised about pension rights.

As to what Fielding’s own private guess might be, he admitted he still felt no real concern. He had employed a good deal of female labour for some years now; sudden departures, abrupt termination of employment, unexplained absences, brief or more lengthy, were by no means unknown. He smiled. ‘Usually it’s for some personal reason – when a reason is ever given. You learn not to ask too many questions; you don’t want to find yourself involved in some emotional mishmash, drowned in floods of tears.’

On that score, no, he knew of no boyfriend among the Advertiser staff. ‘But I would scarcely expect to know,’ he added. ‘I never concern myself with gossip, there’s far too much work to be done. Audrey Tysoe – Julie’s landlady at Honeysuckle Cottage; she used to run Personnel here till she retired – she’d be far more likely to know about anything like that.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘If there’s nothing further, I do have an appointment.’

Lambert rose at once. He thanked Fielding for his time, his assistance. If he learned anything definite he would be sure to let Fielding know. Fielding promised to do the same.

Fielding shook hands, walked with him into the corridor. ‘I don’t for one moment think anything’s happened to Julie,’ he said with conviction. ‘In my opinion she’s a girl well able to take care of herself.’

CHAPTER 6

On Monday morning Chief Inspector Kelsey returned from his conference in a worse state than ever. Late nights, smoke-filled rooms, food and drink far too abundant, too indigestible.

A great many matters clamoured for his attention. Very low on his list of priorities came the unknown whereabouts of Miss Julie Dawson. He listened with ill-concealed impatience as Lambert sketched in a brief account of his endeavours with regard to the missing girl. Towards the end of the sergeant’s recital the Chief burst into a paroxysm of coughing. He reached into a drawer and laid hold of yet another bottle containing yet another lethal-looking mixture. He took an extra-long swig, totally heedless by now of all warnings on all labels.

He replaced the bottle in the drawer and sat leaning forward, gasping. No good, he thought, I’m going to have to give in. I can’t go on like this. For once in his life he was going to have to do what the doctor ordered, remove himself from the scene for a couple of weeks. He didn’t give a tuppenny toss where, just somewhere quiet and soothing, where he could let his mind go completely blank, let peace wash over him.

He became aware that Lambert had finished his spiel and was waiting for his response. The Chief pulled down the corners of his mouth. ‘I can’t see anything in it. She’s a grown woman, not a child. She’s able to please herself as to what she does, where she goes. I’ve decided to take some leave, I’m never going to feel right till I do. You can forget Julie Dawson. Drop the case.’

Lambert at once suggested that he should take some leave himself at the same time. He still didn’t feel one hundred per cent right.

‘Fine,’ the Chief agreed without hesitation. ‘Good idea. Better get started clearing up the odds and ends. Don’t want to leave things in an almighty mess.’ A thought struck him. ‘Those relatives of the girl, what was the name? Eardlow, that was it. Better get over there to see them, have a word in person.’ Old folk, easily overwhelmed by anxiety, justified or not; a letter or phone call would be too impersonal, would do little to calm their fears.

On Thursday afternoon Lambert managed to find an hour to spare for the Eardlows. This time he didn’t let them know he was coming. He was quite certain he would find them both at home and the last thing he wanted was for the two of them to wear themselves out cleaning and polishing, preparing another elaborate tea.

And he did find them both at home, watching an old film on television. They searched his face apprehensively, fearful of what he might be about to disclose. He tried to reassure them, leave them in a hopeful frame of mind. They did their best to oblige him by assuming looks of buoyant optimism but he was far from sure that he had succeeded in his attempt.

‘Don’t forget,’ he reminded them as he left. ‘Let us know the moment you hear anything from Julie.’

By Friday afternoon Kelsey and Lambert had cleared their desks. The Chief had booked himself a cruise, a cancellation vacancy. He was due to board the ship on Sunday, not without deep misgivings. ‘You’ll love it,’ they told him encouragingly in the police canteen. ‘All those footloose, blue-rinse ladies. Six to one, the ratio, by all accounts.’ It was not what he wanted to hear.

Sergeant Lambert had not as yet decided where to go. He would allow himself a day or two to unwind, think about it, decide between the attractions of Sussex and Wales.

His landlady had been delighted to learn he would be taking himself off. She had made immediate plans for having his room redecorated while he was away.

When he came in on Friday evening, relaxed and smiling at the thought of two weeks of utter idleness, she asked when he was likely to be off.

‘All in good time,’ he promised.

By the time he had washed and changed, eaten his meal, he had more or less decided on Sussex. It would be good to see his sister and her family again. Two or three times during the evening he picked up the phone. Once he got as far as beginning to tap out the number. But always something niggled at his mind, preventing him from going further, some little point of disquiet he couldn’t identify. Always he replaced the receiver.

On Saturday morning he woke early to discover, the moment he reached consciousness, that the niggle had at last declared itself: what if it wasn’t Julie Dawson but someone else who had returned the caravan keys to the estate agent? Someone who didn’t know about the arrangement with the farmhouse, someone who cleared Julie’s things out of the caravan, locking it afterwards. Someone who read the agent’s address on the key tag, put the keys in an envelope, drove into Cannonbridge during the hours of darkness, slipped the keys in through the letter box.

He linked his hands behind his head and lay staring up at the ceiling. He could spend the first few days of his leave here, in his digs; use them to have another unobtrusive little ferret round on his own. He wouldn’t be a detective sergeant on duty, just a holidaying member of the public. Nothing to stop him touring round the area; no law against chatting to folk here and there.

More than once in the course of Sunday his landlady permitted herself to display overt signs of irritation. Deep sighs, clicks of the tongue, shakes of the head. By evening she could contain herself no longer.

‘I can’t for the life of me think why you should want to hang round Cannonbridge when you’re supposed to be on leave,’ she burst out at him. ‘Any ordinary normal human being’ – by which she meant any citizen not in the police force – ‘would be only too glad to get away from the place for a real break. Heaven knows it’s no beauty spot.’

Lambert judged it prudent to offer no reply.

Shortly before ten on Monday morning he began his unobtrusive little ferret round by driving over to Calcott House.

The holiday season was advancing towards its peak. The car park was a good deal more crowded than on his previous visit, the number of guests had visibly increased, there was considerably more bustle.

As he came into the hall he saw the plump, pouter-pigeon figure of Mrs Marchant. She was standing chatting to a family party, her marmalade hair dressed higher than ever. Her sharp, darting eyes came to rest on him; he saw recognition wake in her face. She gave him a little fleeting nod and resumed her chat. He stood to one side, discreetly waiting till she was free. In the to and fro of the hall he caught here and there an American voice, the accents of France and Germany. After a few minutes the family party went off down the front steps and Mrs Marchant came over to him.