Dorothy looked long and hard at the photo Cleo had printed.
“I just enhanced it,” said Gary, mortified.
“Beauty is in the eye of the enhancer then,” said Dorothy. “Fortunately,
it’s only black and white, Gary. Next time leave the editing to me. I know you
taught me how to use the programme, but I’m better at it than you now.”
“You’re very cruel to me, Dorothy,” said Gary.
“I don’t see how. I left you space here yesterday. didn’t
I?”
“You went to church,” said Gary.
“I knew you wanted to be with Cleo and I know that Robert
does his accounts late Sunday afternoon. I just put two and two together.”
“Your maths is exemplary,” said Gary. “What shall I do,
Dorothy? I can’t persuade Cleo not to marry that butcher.”
“I thought you would yesterday. I could have done without
Frederick Parsnip’s lugubrious sermon.”
“Was it that bad?”
“Worse,” Dorothy groaned.
“You’ll go to heaven for that, Dorothy,” said Gary.
“Since I’m colluding with you and Cleo, I think my fate will
be in hotter regions. On the other hand,
given the status quo if you stop fighting with Robert even on a theoretical
level, put a brave face on at the wedding and get your own life sorted out, I
might escape the fiery furnace, after all. I expect you know the adage of
closing one door to get another to open, don’t you?”
“Do you think I should find another bride?” said Gary,
horrified.
“Maybe not,” said Dorothy, looking at Cleo’s down-crested
expression.
“At least we are going to keep on meeting,” she said.
“That’s a start, isn’t it?” said Dorothy. “Cheer up. We’ll
find someone for Robert. In fact, I have a plan.”
“Are you going to tell me?”
“No, and it’s too late to stop the wedding, so we’ll have to
find something to end it.”
***
On the drive to Beethoven Road Gary warned Dorothy that
there might be dangerous characters at that block of flats. Was she sure she wanted
to go through with her mission?
“Don’t worry about me, Gary,” she had told him. “I’m just a
doddery old dame looking for relatives, friends, cleaning-women and suchlike.
The more dangerous I perceive it to be, the more doddery I become.”
“I can see why you are such an asset to the Hartley Agency,”
Gary said, again amused by what Cleo called her ‘personal tough cookie’.
“You can’t send young things on such an errand. No one would
believe them, but with me it’s different. I don’t arouse suspicion.”
***
”I saw a flat I liked last Saturday, but I think I’ll move
back permanently into the one I own, Dorothy. I don’t like it there, but after
seeing what there is on offer, I think that’s probably the best solution.”
Did Gary need looking after? Dorothy thought so. Why didn’t Cleo
ditch Robert? That was something Dorothy did not understand however hard she
tried. Robert was pleasant, but dull and probably a lousy lover.
Of course, Dorothy herself was not interested in sharing her
life with anyone. It was all very well for older men to choose wives who were
often younger than their children or grandchildren. Couples of whom the woman
was considerably older than the man often received disapproving glances and
looked even more incongruous than young things with old men in tow.
Had she married Jack, her sweetheart of student days, she
would probably be a grandmother now, Dorothy mused. Being single had its charm,
however, though she approved of partnerships, at least in theory. Could Gary
find someone he loved more than Cleo? She thought not. Things might change when
Cleo was married…always assuming she did not cry off at last minute, which was Dorothy’s
only hope. On reflection, Dorothy was
sure that Robert could look after himself better than Gary.
The rest of the drive took place in silence. Dorothy was
thinking great thoughts while Gary was trying not to think at all.
***
Gary stopped his car well out of sight of the high rise
block of flats, a precaution in case any of the criminal elements in the area
recognized his low-slung red sports car.
“I’ll get a bus into the city centre, Gary. I need one or
two oddments and can get the Upper Grumpsfield bus home.”
“If you need help, use this mobile,” said Gary, handing her
one of the phones he gave that connected directly to him and was registered in
a fictive name. “Just press G on the pad and as much as you can. The mobile can
be traced so I would find you wherever you are. I hope you won’t need it.”
“So do I,” said Dorothy. “I’ll put it in my pocket for
emergency use.”
***
Dorothy was wearing a light-weight raincoat over an old-fashioned
tweed skirt and a flowery blouse with frills down the front. Her hat was the
famous cloche she only ever wore on such missions. She was very conscious of
the effect her appearance would have. It had already made Gary laugh heartily.
Her shoes were scuffed up and too big, her stockings were 60 denier, sagging
and far too warm. She was carrying a dilapidated mock croc handbag that
concealed the relevant photos, a pepper pot, a mobile, a pencil, her father’s
army pistol and a memo pad. In the buttonhole of her raincoat a tiny microphone
would record her conversations, mainly so that she could jog her memory later. The
hideous glittery brooch was part of a camera, but Dorothy had not really had an
opportunity to use it to good effect. All in all, she was well-equipped for her
research.
“They might not let you on the bus in that outfit, Dorothy,”
said Gary.
“They’d put me away if I had a pink punk hair-do and wore
jeans, a belly-button diamond and a top that only just covers my top 5 ribs,”
she retorted.
“Have I ever told you that I love you, Dorothy?”
“You have, actually, and the feeling is mutual, so bog off,
Gary. I have work to do.”
Gary laughed all the way to HQ.
***
Dorothy was soon standing at the main entrance to the ugly tower
block. The door was wide open, and a woman was sitting on a bench nearby, enjoying
the sunshine and smoking.
“Looking for someone, dearie?” she called as soon as Dorothy
was visible.
Dorothy abandoned her intention of ringing a few doorbells
and flopped down next to the woman.
“Well, actually I am. Do you live here?”
On closer scrutiny, you could see that the woman was older
than her makeup and clothes revealed. She must be in her late fifties.
“Who?”
“Someone called Banu.”
“You won’t find anyone called Banu here, because she doesn’t
come here anymore, Dearie, but I’m Berta,” the woman said, to Dorothy’s
astonishment. “My surname is Wojciechowski and I knew Banu.”
If only snooping were always so straightforward.
“May I call you Berta?” Dorothy asked, confronted with such
a mouthful of surname.
The woman nodded.
“Everyone does. My second name is a tongue twister.”
“I agree. Berta, if you knew Banu, did you also have
anything to do with a woman named Sybil Garnet? Did you look after her child,
for instance?”
“I don’t do baby-sitting, but Banu looked after the child
now and again, I remember. After Anna disappeared I never saw Sybil again.”
“So you knew about the child disappearing.”
“Heh Misses! What’s the snoopin’ all about? Sybil moved out ages
ago.”
“Oh,” said Dorothy, feigning disappointment. “I wanted to
look her up.”
“Well, you’re about three years too late. She was my friend,
but after she moved out I never heard from her again. Some friend. She left
without saying a word. Someone came later and took her stuff away. I don’t know
who it was.”
“So I don’t suppose you know where she moved to, either, do
you?”
Berta looked up and down at Dorothy. Finally she spoke her
mind in a rougher tone than before.
“Now why would a halfway respectable person like you want to
know that?”
Berta had turned tables on her. but attack is better than defence,
Dorothy decided.
“I’m looking for anyone who knew my great nephew,” she
improvised. “I think he was a friend of Sybil’s.”
“Friend? Don’t you mean client?”
“Is that what they say about… well, about….”
“….Call-girls?”
“Do you think my nephew was one of her….?”
“One of her clients, Mrs….what did you say your name was?”
“I didn’t.”
“So how do you know Sybil?”
“I don’t. My great nephew had a car accident. This address
and her name were in his diary.”
“Look, Mrs! Sybil has been gone for about three years. Your nephew
can’t have visited her here during that time.”
“He didn’t. The accident was three years ago and he has been
in a coma ever since. Till last week, that is. That’s when he died, Berta.”
“Sorry, I’m sure. So why did you wait so long, Mrs?”
Dorothy resisted the temptation to correct the Mrs to Miss.
She was fabricating a whole new life for herself and that included the dubious
respectability of being a Mrs.
“His mother gave me the diary after the funeral, Berta. She
told me she couldn’t face telling everyone in it that he was dead. We had all
been hoping that he’d come round one day, but he never regained consciousness. I
said I’d talk to the people in his diary. We thought she must be one of his
girlfriends.”
“Have you got the diary with you?”
Dorothy thought fast.
“No. I didn’t want to lose it and I can only look up one of
the names in it at a time.”
“You’re doing a good work, Dearie, but now you know everything
I can tell you, Mrs..”
“Not quite everything, Berta.”
“Well?”
“Sybil had a daughter.”
“Yes. We’ve just talked about that, Mrs. Anna.”
“And you said that you don’t know what happened to Anna or
her mother, didn’t you?”
“I’d like to know how you know about the kid if you have
only known about Sybil for a day or two, Mrs.”
Things were getting a bit complicated. Dorothy decided was
time for the story to get a bit nearer home.
“Because a friend of mine found Anna wandering the streets
recently.”
“Holy cow! The kid can’t be more than 7 years old. But how
do you know it’s Sybil’s daughter?”
Dorothy opened her handbag and took out a copy of the photo
Cleo had found in Anna’s teddy-bear. Berta recognized Sybil.
“That’s her,” said, lighting a new cigarette from the one
that was still burning. “That’s a turn-up for the books, Mrs.”
“The child had a teddy-bear. This photo was in its stuffing.
The name Sybil and this address were written on the back.”
Berta was moved almost to tears. She threw her cigarette onto
the ground and stamped it out with her foot.
“I swear I had nothing to do with her disappearance, Mrs, I
never did proper baby-sitting for anyone. Me and Sybil were friends. We shared
the work sometimes.”
Dorothy preferred not to think of what that might have
entailed. Berta was about 20 years older than Sybil. What sort of men didn’t
mind getting Berta instead of Sybil?
“Don’t upset yourself, Berta,” Dorothy said. “A woman called
Alice Crane was in charge of the child when it happened.”
“How do you know that?”
“It was a guess, but now you’ve confirmed it, Berta.”
Anyone really curious might have asked Dorothy how she knew
about Alice Crane, but Berta was too busy twisting a fresh cigarette into her mother-of-pearl
holder. Then she looked hard at Dorothy and Dorothy wondered if she had seen
through her disguise.
“Listen, Mrs. I doesn’t want any trouble. You’d better go
now.”
“Tell me about Alice Crane, Berta. I promised to keep
anything you say to myself. You’d be doing it for Anna.”
“Promises, Promises.”
“I mean it. I’m doing it for my dead great-nephew. Where is Alice
Crane now, Berta?”
“In the slammer.”
“In prison?”
“She got 10 years for manslaughter.”
“Who did she kill?”
“People still left their kids with her. One of the kids she
looked after got stroppy. She pushed it onto a rockery in the park. It died of
head injuries.”
“But surely that was an accident.”
“The child’s body was severely bruised. They thought she had
done it, Mrs, but I could swear she hadn’t. She frightened children just by
shouting at them. She didn’t manhandle them.”
“Didn’t you appear as witness?”
“No one invited me.”
There was no point in going into that, thought Dorothy. She
would consult Gary and he could look into it.
“It’s a tragic story, Berta.”
“Anna was quite possibly running away from Crane when she
disappeared., Mrs. Crane had a viscous temper and might have screamed at the
kid.”
Dorothy was now doubly sure that the woman found dead in the
Bell Tower was not Alice Crane. She thought Berta told the truth when she said
the woman was in prison, and anyway, that could easily be checked.
“May I show you the photo of a woman who was seen with Anna?
“Go on then!”
Dorothy fished the second photo out of her handbag.
There was a pause during which Berta looked at the photo
briefly and then long and hard at Dorothy. Finally she came out with what she
had been thinking.
“Mrs, you’re not what you look like, are you?”
Dorothy was not sure how to react.
“I think you’re a snoop.”
“Only as a hobby, Berta.”
“A Miss Marple look-alike? You look like her, only thinner
and much taller.”
Dorothy did not correct that. She could only know the
character from books or films. Most people imagined her as being short and
stocky with a crooked mouth and wearing a woollen cloak she could sweep over
her shoulder. Agatha Christie had not been happy with that casting, and neither
was she, especially when love interest was built into the films.
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Well, go home. I don’t talk to the likes of you.”
A dilemma for Dorothy.
“But you must.”
“Give me a good reason!”
“The woman in this photo was found dead and Anna was calling
her Mama.”
Berta gasped and squashed the next cigarette under her shoe.
“Poor kid.”
“I think you know who that woman is, Berta.”
“It’s Banu. She was a friend of Alice Crane’s.”
“Was she?”
“No. I tell a lie. Banu was more of a stalker than a friend.”
“Do you happen to know her second name, Berta?”
“I think it was Akbari. She could be Indian or Persian, or
do they say Iranian these days? She followed Crane around.”
“Why?”
“I’ve no idea. Crane told her to buzz off, but she kept on
turning up.”
“So she might have taken Anna away to make trouble for Crane.”
“That’s what I think.”
“Did you tell anyone about your suspicion?”
“Not me. The woman was oriental-looking, and someone was
following her around, too.”
“Who?”
“I think was her husband. Them Arabians think they own their
wives. And I mean wives. Some have several.”
“That’s called polygamy, Berta, and it’s legal in some
countries. Can you describe the man?”
“Quite nice looking. Brown skin, well-dressed. He was attractive
to women, especially Alice Crane.”
“Did he attract you, Berta?”
“Not likely. I wouldn’t be his type either and neither was
Crane.”
Berta nudged Dorothy significantly at that point, as if to
remind her that everything she said was in strict confidence.
“You never told anyone about that, did you?”
“Christ, no! If you ask me, he was a dealer and a pimp. I
never got mixed up with that kind of man. I was always free-lance.”
Berta paused to light yet another cigarette and inhale its
fumes.
“When you think about it, if the Banu woman did run off with
Anna, she must have known that she could not pass it off as her own,” Dorothy
said.
“Anna had brown eyes
and fair hair. I remember that clearly,” said Berta. “Not a bit like Banu. She
was Indian-looking or Egyptian.”
“Could she have been a Romany, Berta?”
“It would fit her dress – all those long skirts and shawls.”
“You are very observant, Berta. What are you doing in this
dump?” said Dorothy.
“I married the wrong man, Mrs. Who did you marry?”
“No one. The Dorothys of this world don’t always find a
mate.”
Berta nodded. She knew instinctively what Dorothy had been
through, she decided.
“Of course, the kid was just learning to talk. If Banu was
the only contact Anna had, she might have accepted her as her mother. Maybe
Banu told her lies about Sybil.”
“We’ll never know for sure,” said Dorothy.
“Sybil ran for Akbari,” said Berta. “He was proud to have a
white woman to offer. He fathered the kid and it came out with Sybil’s blond
hair.”
“That all makes sense, Berta.”
“Call-girls can’t afford to pick and choose if a client can
pay. Pimps often sleep with their girls. It keeps them on their toes and binds
them. Like a cigarette, Dorothy?”
That was a sign of friendship, thought Dorothy, so she
accepted. The two women relapsed into silence, Berta inhaling deeply and
Dorothy pretending to inhale. Dorothy wondered how she could ask Berta to spell
her full name now a kind of intimacy had sprung up between them.
But after spending so much time with Berta, Dorothy decided
she had better leave further investigation to the police so Gary would have to
take over. Alice Crane’s whereabouts should be easy enough to trace. The movements
of Banu Akbari might even be traced to a certain extent, though that still did
not explain how she got to the Bell Tower. Maybe the man who had stalked her,
presumably her husband or ‘employer’ could be traced and questioned. She could
have shown Berta that photo of him that she knew Mitch had taken, but she did
not have a copy. That omission would have to be corrected. One thing was
certain: the Crane woman hadn’t killed anyone recently. She was behind bars.
“I’d like to come again, Berta, and bring a friend.”
“Why come here again when I’ve told you everything?”
“I want to show you a photo of the man who could be Mr Akbari.”
“OK. I’m always here and I’ve taken a liking to you.”
“And I to you, Berta. Thanks for telling me so much.”
After her cigarette had burnt to a frazzle, Dorothy got out
her notebook, wrote the office phone number on a sheet, ripped it out and gave
it to Berta.
“If you think of anything, call me, or my friend and
colleague Cleo Hartley. She runs the detective agency I work for in my spare
time. But don’t ring on Thursday. She’s getting married and we are all going to
celebrate.”
Berta stared for some time at the page.
“Do you want to ask or tell me something else now, Berta?”
“No, but it’s been good talking to you, Mrs. It’s taken a
load off my mind. I’m glad the kid survived.”
“Just call me Dorothy and between you, me and the gatepost,
it’s Miss.”
“I’m a widow, Dorothy. I went on the streets to support the
bastard, but he died leaving me with a pile of gambling debts. Be glad you are
on your own.”
“I usually am,” said Dorothy.
***
Dorothy wondered what it was like to be a widow. The love of
her life might still be alive somewhere. Sometimes she imagined that he had
been at her side all those years. Jack Cooper had been nice-looking, but
ruthlessly ambitious. She wondered if he had succeeded in the career he had
mapped out for himself in Canada. He had never contacted her. Was he dead?
Could Cleo find out for her? Could she find out herself? The internet had
brought the four corners of the world together.
***
Berta lit yet another cigarette from the previous one.
“What was the load on your mind, Berta?”
“I’ve always thought the disappearance of Anna was a nasty
business. I’ve often tried to remember anything Sybil might have said that gave
me a clue about what happened to the little girl. I would have liked to help
Sybil, but then she moved away and I started to think she was involved in some
way.”
“How?”
“What if she had sold the child? She wouldn’t be the first
in our profession to get rid of kids because they cramped our style.”
“Did that happen to you, Berta?”
“No. I didn’t have any kids. But now I think the Banu woman
was involved, so Sybil was innocent all the time.”
“I’ll find her, Berta, and let you know.”
“That would be nice. I’ll think about what you’ve told me, Dorothy,
and I’ll get in touch if I think of anything.”
“That would be marvellous,” said Dorothy, turning to go. She
turned back and put her arms round Berta briefly. Berta seemed grateful. She
was not used to being comforted. Her job had not included genuine affection.
***
There were even more questions to be answered than those
Dorothy had put to Berta. Why would a Persian woman follow Alice Crane around? Jealousy?
If Berta knew that for certain, why had she not told her instead of dropping
hints, or better still, gone to the police? Would Cleo get more out of her?
Cleo was good at getting to the bottom of things. And if Banu Akbari did abduct
Anna, where had they been for all that time?
Banu Akbari was dead. Dorothy could confirm that
identification, though Gary might want Berta to look at the corpse and identify
it in person. Would Alice Crane know who the stranger was who bought Banu Akbari
a drink at the bistro. Was it her husband? Berta would have to see Mitch’s
photo. Dorothy would get Cleo to find out from Gary whether Alice Crane had
received any visitors in prison – notably the stranger from the bistro. Could
he have poisoned Banu Akbari? She would tell Cleo her new theory.
For today Dorothy’s mission was accomplished. She would take
the next bus into the city and collect her wedding gift for Cleo and Robert
though she had a sneaking feeling the Cleo would appreciate the results of her
chat with Berta more than the precious Spode figurine she had decided to give
the couple to match the one she had seen on Cleo’s mantle-piece.
***
Dorothy sent Cleo a text in the bus on the way home. Later
that afternoon Cleo walked to Dorothy’s cottage to collect her wedding outfit
and hear about the interview with Berta. But her mind was not on the job, so
they agreed to postpone the report until after the wedding. Dorothy had never
known Cleo to be so jittery. Dorothy hoped there would be no more hitches, but
she wished Cleo would change her mind. The wedding was the biggest hitch of
all.
Cleo closed the agency office for the rest of the week. She could
only marry a man she did not love by remembering his kindness. It pained her to
think that Gary would be a witness. He was putting on an act of selflessness.
In her dreams he called out “Stop this farce!”, but she knew instinctively that
he would not humiliate Robert by doing that.
***
Edith Parsnip was told about the Registry Office marriage
and invited but sworn to secrecy. She would not tell the vicar. Instead, after
the ceremony she would get home in a taxi paid for by Cleo and navigate her
sulky husband to the bistro for half past one, when the reception would just be
starting. Edith would feign surprise, since she would not like Frederick to
know that she had been in on the plan. The vicar would be a bit offended not to
have officiated at the wedding ceremony, but he would eventually accept the situation,
especially after he had swallowed enough gin-laced bubbly to make him light-headed
and been invited to share the sumptuous buffet Delilah was organizing.
Dorothy reflected that it was just as well that Frederick
Parsnip was not aware of how complicated he made other people’s lives. The day
before the wedding he came perilously close to smelling a rat when his sister
Beatrice turned up.
“What’s she doing here?” he had wanted to know.
“She has been to a conference. I invited her to tea on her
way home and she’s staying till tomorrow,” Edith said. She had reason to be
thankful for her resourceful sister-in-law, not least because Beatrice could
cope with the boys and would look after them all day Thursday.
“Oh,” said Frederick. “You didn’t ask me first. I might not
have wanted her to come.”
“Why ever not?” Edith had been bound to ask, though she knew
exactly what he would reply.
“She bosses me around.”
Edith refrained from telling him that someone had to. She
had not been sure if he would actually consent to visit the bistro at lunchtime
if only to avoid Beatrice’s dubious cooking, but Beatrice was also fully
informed about the wedding and would support her, as she always did when it
came to the crunch with her brother.
Was Edith finally learning how to get round her domestic
dilemmas? Beatrice was always surprised to find that Edith had not gone off
again, like she had when being pestered by the fake bishop. On the other hand,
what does a mother do when she has five boys to rear? Beatrice was astonished
to see that a sixth child had been given a home.
“Only temporarily,” Edith had told her sadly. The whole
story shocked Beatrice. Reading between the lines, which Edith was unable to
do, Beatrice decided she that would also take a closer look at all primary
schools in the district. Supposing that little girl had been used to traffic
drugs?
“We now not only inspect academic achievements,” she had
told Edith. “We also have to keep track of debauchery.”
Beatrice was an inspector of school. She insisted on
correctness and justice that put fear into many a teacher and more than a few
school directors.
“I suppose it’s a new trend,” Edith said.
“The trend isn’t new, Edith. For a long time the failings of
parents were simply ignored, but now we sincerely try to help the victims and
their parents.”
“What victims are we talking about?” the vicar asked, having
heard the tail-end of the conversation when he emerged from his study and came
into the kitchen for more coffee.
“Oh, the usual,” Edith had told him. Frederick Parsnip had a
knack of putting his foot in it whenever his do-gooder rhetoric was aired.
***
Edith spent a long time thinking about Cleo and Robert’s
marriage. She had often cast Robert as a lonely bachelor, but that was all
going to change. Edith was disappointed. Cleo could choose between Robert and
that nice Chief Inspector. Could she tell her that Robert was the wrong choice?
Of course she couldn’t. She would grin and bear it like all the other
disappointments in her life.
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