By a Hand Unknown, page 14
‘…she said she couldn’t trust me any more.’
‘She was probably in a state of shock when she said that, Nigel. She just needed time and space to get her head round it and think things through. She might have come round.’
‘Do you think so?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘But I’ll never know, will I?’
Hannah offered an understanding smile but struggled to know what to say.
‘You mentioned her notebook?’ she prompted.
‘Yes, I’ve got it with me. I can’t understand much of it but then I wouldn’t. Anyway, she used her own kind of shorthand. They were notes to herself, not for other people to read.’
‘I see.’ She glanced at his plate. The beer was going down but not much food. ‘Come on, eat some more. I bet you’re not eating properly at home.’ Now she sounded like her mother.
Nigel played around with a little more food then gave up, pushing the half full plate away and cradling the dregs of his beer, looking introspective. Hannah finished eating and picked up her soda.
‘Did Carrie talk to you much after she moved to East Ranling?’
Nigel took a minute to focus on her. ‘No, not really. We spoke over the phone a couple of times.’
‘Did she talk about her work here?’
‘No. Yes, well a bit. I didn’t understand the half of what she did. But I don’t think she was sure she’d done the right thing taking that job.’
‘Why, what did she say?’
He shrugged. ‘Something about being the outsider, that she didn’t fit in.’ He paused, looking cross now. ‘And some guy was giving her grief. That’s all she said.’
‘Did she say who?’
‘No. Anyway, that’s one of the reasons I didn’t want to go back to the manor with the notebook. I don’t want to have anything to do with them. But she was very proud of her work and I thought maybe she’d have wanted them to see any special notes she’d made or…’
His voice trailed off and he reached into the inside pocket of his jacket on the back of the chair to get the notebook. He held it for a moment as if having second thoughts, then passed it over. It was a long, thin hardbacked book, easily pushed into a pocket or handbag.
‘See what you think.’
‘OK. We’ll take a look and if you give me your address I’ll send it back to you if there’s no need to pass it on. There probably won’t be. It’ll be things she thought she might do, plans for the collection perhaps.’
The words hung in the air, only emphasising a future that would never come to pass, a young life cut short. Hannah inwardly squirmed and wished she could take them back.
They made desultory conversation after that. Nigel asked what Hannah had been doing these recent years and was sympathetic when she told him about the passing of her mother. She asked after his work and if he liked where he was living now. It was a struggle to keep it going and eventually they parted. Hannah didn’t head straight back to East Ranling but drove around for a while, checking out a couple of places she’d seen on the map that morning, visiting another wildlife reserve and then stopping to drink tea at a roadside café with a view over a river. She spent time there, trying to clear her head. The conversation with Nigel had been unsettling; he was a tortured soul and nothing anyone said was likely to help him at the moment.
She left the notebook in her handbag, reluctant to even think about it yet. The words some guy was giving her grief kept running through her head.
*
Nathan hadn’t intended to go to Pollersby but found himself driving there all the same, the newspaper which Hannah had given him dumped on the passenger seat beside him. He’d gone to Horning first, trying to revisit the pleasure of his childhood trips there but the newspaper article had put his head in the wrong place. It had thrust him forward, away from the carefree days of his youth to the tormented months and years after Sam disappeared and, no matter how hard he tried to quell them, the memories refused to go back in the box.
Now he’d seen that picture, he had to go and look. He had no choice.
He arrived around half past twelve. Pollersby was a pretty village. A similar size to East Ranling but more compact, its river frontage smaller and the bulk of the older settlement – including the pub – clustered around an ancient village green. Nathan parked the car, grabbed the middle sheet from the newspaper, folded it up small and pushed it into a pocket of his linen jacket. He went to explore. The green had clearly been used for the maypole dancing and he recognised The Fisherman and Dog from the photo. A hard forecourt in front of the pub, where a number of customers were already sitting at wooden tables, was where the morris dancing had taken place. There was a pleasing buzz of talk and laughter as he drew near and a general air of activity in the area but nothing approaching the crowds he’d seen in the newspaper. He went inside.
His eyes took a minute to adjust after the sunshine outside. It was an old inn, low beamed, with a traditional long wooden bar and stools dotted at intervals in front of it. He edged onto one of the vacant stools, ordered a half of bitter from the young woman tending bar and sat for a few minutes, glancing around, taking in what sort of a place it was. Why on earth would his brother be here of all places? There again, why did he disappear in the first place? And this was as likely, or as unlikely, a place as anywhere else.
Nathan took a mouthful of beer, savouring it slowly. There wasn’t much activity at the bar. Only one other guy sat there, an old bloke with a shaggy grey beard, nursing a pint of cider from the look of it. Nathan waited until the bartender reappeared then produced the newspaper from his pocket and unfolded it.
‘Excuse me, have you got a minute?’
She came over to face him across the bar. She couldn’t have been more than twenty-two or twenty-three, her hair bobbed and blonde, cut higher at the back, her kohl-lined eyes curious and expectant.
‘Were you working here over the May Day celebrations?’
‘Ye-es,’ she replied warily. ‘Why?’
‘Would you be able to tell me who this guy is, standing outside here, watching the morris team?’
He thrust the sheet of paper in front of her and pointed out the man. The girl screwed up her eyes, leaning forward to peer at the photograph, then shook her head.
‘Nah, I’m not sure. It’s not a very good picture, is it?’ She walked to a doorway which led to the back rooms of the pub and shouted. ‘Ian? Are you free? There’s a guy here wants to know if you know someone.’ She turned back to Nathan. ‘Ian’s the landlord. He might know him.’
The bearded chap at the other end of the bar and the people at a couple of tables not far away all looked up. Nathan felt himself examined. So much for trying to do this discreetly.
Ian appeared and came to stand facing him. He was a big man with bulging muscles and the kind of nose that suggested he might have played rugby in his youth.
‘Yes?’ He fixed steely eyes on Nathan’s.
‘I wonder if you recognise this man watching the morris dance the other week?’
Again Nathan proffered the newspaper article and pointed. He watched Ian study the image without expression then straighten up and give him with the steely look again.
‘I’m not sure I know him. Why do you want to know?’
Nathan shrugged. He wasn’t going to tell the story to this suspicious stranger, especially with half the pub listening in.
‘It was just chance. I saw the article in the paper and thought I recognised him as someone I went to school with. Haven’t been in touch for ages so I thought I’d look him up.’
‘Uhuh. What was the name of this schoolmate of yours?’
Nathan hesitated. ‘Sam.’
‘Sam,’ repeated Ian. His eyebrows rose then he curled his upper lip and shook his head. ‘Doesn’t mean anything to me.’
‘But you do know who this man is?’ Nathan pointed at the photograph again.
‘Can’t say that I do. I might have seen him before. I see a lot of people, especially on days like that.’ Ian nodded at the photograph and wandered away.
Nathan took another mouthful of beer and left. He was sure the landlord did recognise the man in the picture but he clearly wasn’t going to tell him. He strolled down to the riverside and glanced along the quay. Several boats were moored up. No doubt most of their occupants were now enjoying lunch at The Fisherman and Dog. He sighed and sat down on a bench overlooking the water. He’d known this would be a wild goose chase but he supposed Hannah was right: he’d had to follow it up. After a few minutes watching ducks and swans prospecting for food, he became aware of his stomach rumbling. Rather than return to the pub, he remembered seeing a small tea room on the other side of the green and made his way back towards it.
Passing the forecourt of the pub, a middle-aged couple stopped him and the man spoke.
‘We were inside just now when we overheard you asking about someone you know. We didn’t catch it all but perhaps we might be able to help if you showed us the photograph. We’ve lived here quite a while now.’
‘Thank you.’ Nathan unfolded the newspaper article again and showed it to them. ‘It’s this guy here.’
They both stared at the image, eyes puckering. The woman straightened up, shaking her head.
‘Is Ian new here then?’ asked Nathan.
‘Not very. He’s just tricky sometimes. I’m sure he loses custom the way he talks to people. He’s not so bad with locals, mind.’
The man was still examining the photograph. He tapped it with a forefinger. ‘I think I do know your man. He lives on a boat but only stops here now and then for a day or two. I’ve seen him come in the pub for a meal and a drink. The next thing you know, he’s moved on.’
‘What’s his name?’
The man chewed on his lip, trying to recall. ‘I’m not sure. I’ve never spoken to him. He keeps himself to himself.’
‘Sam?’ suggested Nathan.
‘I don’t think so. John maybe. Or Joe. Something like that.’
‘Well thanks anyway.’
‘If you left us your phone number, we could let you know if we see him again?’ said the woman. ‘Would that help? I’m Glenys, by the way, and this is Paul.’
Nathan gave them his name and the number of The Boatman as a point of contact and thanked them again. He doubted he’d ever hear any more about it. It was another dead end.
*
‘I’m sorry.’
She’d found Nathan. He was sitting in the snug downstairs at the inn and looked up in surprise as Hannah spoke. She sank into the armchair opposite, dropping her bag on the floor alongside. It was early evening on the Sunday, earlier than they would normally eat, but it was pretty clear that Nathan had already been there some time. He had a half-drunk pint of beer on the table in front of him and a paperback book open on his lap. She’d tried his room before coming down and got no reply.
‘I shouldn’t have gone looking for a copy of the newspaper,’ she added now. Over the course of the afternoon, she’d had time to reflect on the whole newspaper debacle and realised she’d been tactless. Which wasn’t unusual. ‘I wanted to help but I did it all wrong.’
Nathan nodded slowly, closed his book and put it down on the table.
‘I’m sorry too. I overreacted. I shouldn’t have made those remarks about your parents. That was mean.’
‘No, well… families are complicated, aren’t they?’
‘You can say that again.’ He hesitated then stood up. ‘Can I get you a drink?’
She smiled. ‘Thank you, yes. I’ll have a medium white wine please.’
He returned a few minutes later, put the wine on the table in front of her and sat down again.
‘Thanks. Book any good?’ She nodded at the paperback.
‘Not bad. What have you been up to?’
Hannah glanced round. There were just two other people in the small room, a couple near the wall on the other side.
‘I went to meet Nigel in Acle.’
‘Nigel?’ His explosive response made the couple look round. He dropped his voice and looked at Hannah suspiciously. ‘Why?’
‘Because he rang. Here. Yesterday evening. And asked to see me.’ Hannah glanced towards the couple but they’d lost interest again and were talking. ‘He had a notebook that he’d found in Carrie’s belongings.’
‘You’re sure he didn’t just want to see you?’
‘I’m sure. Hell, Nathan, he’s just lost his wife. Anyway, he just didn’t.’
‘All right. So what kind of notebook?’
‘A workbook, the sort of thing you jot reminders to yourself in – things you need to do or hope to do. I’ve only glanced at it. It really is just jottings, some of which only Carrie would have understood but he seemed to think there might be something in it that the people at the manor would need to know. Though I doubt they’d be interested. The truth is Nigel’s a lost soul at the moment, trying to make sense out of something that has no sense.’
She leaned over and pulled it out of her bag. ‘This is it.’
Nathan flicked through a few pages, frowning. ‘She really did have terrible handwriting. Still, it might be worth looking at. I’ll keep it shall I? Is that all he wanted?’
‘Yes. But he talked a lot – about Carrie. He’s pretty messed up about her, as you’d expect. I didn’t know what to say.’ She took a sip of wine. ‘What have you been doing? Or have you been here all day, reading?’
‘No, I went out. I went to Pollersby and took that newspaper piece with me.’
‘Uhuh.’ She waited. ‘And?’
‘And nothing. Another dead end. The only people who said they recognised him seemed to think his name was John or Joe. At least I can tell Mum that I looked into it.’ He paused. ‘Thanks anyway.’
Hannah nodded. She was on the point of saying that if Sam had wanted to disappear he might very well have changed his name, but she stopped herself just in time. She picked up her glass and sipped at the wine.
‘I had an idea.’ She leaned forward. ‘There’s a guy I know in London, an art dealer. He has his ear to the ground when it comes to pictures changing hands. He might have heard of some Old Master drawings being moved. I thought I might go up and see him, maybe next weekend. In fact, I figured if I work a few long days this week, I could go Friday afternoon and stay over.’
‘We should both go.’
Her eyes narrowed. ‘That makes more of a thing of it.’
‘You don’t think that asking if any under the counter deals have been going on in the art markets won’t make a thing of it anyway?’
‘Loads of deals in the art world are “under the counter”. Besides, the thing is, he’s…’ She hesitated, searching for the right words. ‘…he might be more likely to talk freely if it’s only me.’
‘Is this guy a crook?’
‘No, no. Just… OK so maybe he’s a bit of a wheeler-dealer.’
‘You mean you won’t ask too many personal questions.’
‘Exactly. I need to keep it… general.’
‘How the hell did you meet someone like that?’
‘It’s a long story.’
Nathan leaned forward too until she could see the untanned skin in the creases round his eyes.
‘Hannah, Carrie was murdered, we both know that, don’t we? You are not going alone.’
Chapter 11
Mortimer walked over to the control panel and switched on, setting both trains in motion. Over the years, this simple hobby from his childhood had developed and slowly consumed him. Half the capacious shed was now given over to the trestle tables supporting his fictitious terrain and tracks and he had meticulously painted the walls against which the tables stood with a trompe l’oeil landscape to match. The two main circuits of track were connected with junctions and points, and were supplemented by a couple of sidings where he kept extra carriages and tenders. The outer circuit was the simpler of the two, rising gently up an embankment to a hillside station before turning and descending to another station near the control panel. The inner circuit was a more complicated double loop incorporating a tunnel, two stations and three bridges. He stood to watch the trains move off, still feeling the calm satisfaction they always gave him.
It was just after five and he was expecting Hannah. She had come to his study to see him on the Friday, wanting to ask about the talks he’d asked her to give, but he’d been about to go out to meet someone.
‘Just a chat about a possible bequest,’ he’d told her. ‘Though, of course, it might not come to anything.’
Lying didn’t come easily to him but he was surprised at how good he was becoming at it of late. He’d even had the presence of mind afterwards to suggest this meeting here in his den after the weekend. An idea had come to him about something she might be helpful with but he wanted time to think it through.
Now he reached into the bag of aniseed balls in his pocket, took one and was still sucking on it thoughtfully when he heard a knock on the door and went across to open it.
‘Hannah, come in, come in.’ He closed the door behind her, then pulled the bag of sweets out of his pocket and offered it to her. ‘Aniseed ball?’
She looked surprised, then grinned and took one, popping it in her mouth.
‘I haven’t had one of these in years. Mm, I’d forgotten how good they are.’
‘I love them. There’s a shop in the village sells old-fashioned candy from big jars – perhaps you’ve seen it? Sid keeps telling me they’re bad for me, though. Too much sugar, she says, so I ought to cut down.’ He offered a guilty smile. ‘We don’t always do what we’re supposed to though, do we? Anyway, I’m sure you’re not interested in my digestion or my teeth. Come over, have a look around. Can I make you a drink? You don’t drink coffee, do you? Perhaps something stronger?’
He walked over to a cupboard by the sink and bent over to look inside.
‘I think I’ve only got whisky and maybe some brandy. Yes, that’s all, I’m afraid.’ He straightened up. ‘I’m not a big drinker.’
