The road towards the coast through the sprawling docklands along the Tyne was the longer route to North Shields, but, in Clara’s estimation, the most likely to have been gritted and cleared of snow. Andrew’s green Austin 7 puttered along City Road with the heaving, black-water artery of Tyneside to its right. There was little view of the river between the chimney stacks, cranes and hulking ships in the Swan Hunter dry docks, while to her left the cramped, overpopulated streets of Byker, Walker and then Wallsend housed the dockyard workers and their families in varying degrees of squalor. This is certainly not the scenic route, thought Clara.
There was a train to North Shields but Clara only had a few hours this Friday afternoon and she’d been told that the dock from where the ferry to Amsterdam left was ‘quite a walk’ from the station, and then she still needed to get to the post office after that. Besides, Andrew’s motor hadn’t had a run in a while, and she’d promised him she would keep the engine ticking over. Clara had learned to drive on the family estate at Henley-on-Thames, and the jaunts along the river there – carrying picnickers on summer days – were in stark contrast to this dirty, slushy, industrial landscape.
Clara used her indicator flag to turn right at the old pit village of Percy Main, and joined a line of traffic heading down to the North Sea ferry dock to Amsterdam. The ferry would be leaving at five o’clock, and cars and lorries were lining up. She did not want to actually get her vehicle onto the ferry, so she spotted a lay-by and pulled over, then made the rest of the way to the shipping office and passenger departure building on foot.
She entered the arrival and departure hall and stamped the slush off her boots. Groups of families – heading to the Netherlands for Christmas – were gathered around their luggage, the children chatting excitedly, in Dutch and English, about the overnight trip on the steamer. There were some men travelling alone too – businessmen by the cut of their suits and choice of newspaper. After standing in a short queue, she reached the information kiosk. A clerk greeted her with a ‘good afternoon, madam, how may I help you?’
‘Good afternoon. I was wondering if you might give me some information. I’m looking for a friend of mine who may have left the country without telling anyone. We are a bit worried about her. There’s a chance she got the ferry to Amsterdam earlier in the week, possibly travelling on her own, or with a Dutch gentleman.’
‘What day was that?’
‘I’m not sure. Possibly Tuesday.’
The clerk shook his head. ‘Wouldn’t have been Tuesday. We only have departures Monday, Wednesday and Friday.’
Clara considered this a moment, knowing that the money order to Mrs Morrison had been postmarked Tuesday. So if Sybil had sent it, that meant she was still here on Tuesday. The earlier telegram had been sent from York on Monday, but it wasn’t impossible to get from York to the ferry dock near North Shields in an afternoon. She could have asked someone else to post the money order on Tuesday. Or she could have posted it herself after the last collection on Monday and it was only franked at office opening on Tuesday. ‘All right,’ she said, ‘then either Monday or Wednesday. The lady’s name is Sybil Langford. Could you check for me, please?’
The clerk looked at her curiously. ‘And what’s your authority, madam?’
‘My authority?’
‘Yes, your authority. That’s private information. There would be a record of it at passport control if she went through, but those are official records. We can’t just give that out to anyone.’
‘But I’m not just anyone. I’m a friend of Miss Langford and I’m worried about her.’
The clerk gave her a sympathetic look, but would not budge. ‘I’m sorry, madam, I can’t give out that information to someone without authority.’
‘But—’ The clerk’s expression hardened so Clara stopped speaking and softened hers. ‘That’s all right,’ she said, ‘I understand. But I hope you understand that I’m worried for my friend. Perhaps you could look at a photograph of her and tell me if you have seen her. In your private capacity. That would not be divulging any official records.’
The clerk’s lips pursed and he looked at the growing line of impatient passengers behind Clara. ‘All right.’
Clara reached into her bag and brought out the two photographs of Sybil – the glamour shot and the relaxed one. The clerk looked from one to the other, back and forth. He eventually shook his head. ‘Sorry, can’t say I recognise her.’
‘Are you sure?’
His face hardened again. ‘Yes, I’m sure. Now please, madam, can you step aside. I have real passengers to serve.’
Clara muttered to herself as she drove out of the ferry port and turned back onto the road to North Shields. Vince Vexler was right: she really was an amateur. She should have anticipated that the clerk wouldn’t just hand over information like that. She should have considered – what did Vexler call it? – a budget for co-operation payments. From reviewing Uncle Bob’s files it was clear that he had sometimes resorted to payments, but he seemed to do much of his work using other means – knowing people of influence, quid pro quo sharing of information, and so forth. Clara, new to town and new to the business, hadn’t had much time to cultivate those relationships. It’s something she ought to work on.
It was mid-afternoon, the day before the winter solstice, and the sun was setting over the twin harbour towns of North and South Shields on either side of the Tyne estuary. Just a few miles on and Clara would come to Tynemouth with its giant statue of Admiral Lord Collingwood marking passage into the North Sea. Entering North Shields, Clara didn’t turn down towards the famous fish quay, but rather, following the map Jonny Levine had drawn for her, stayed on the main road, Saville Street, and pulled up in front of the post office.
A few minutes later she was inside and showing her photographs to two postal workers, telling the same story about her looking for her friend. On the drive from the ferry dock she had considered offering some money for the information, but very quickly realised she would be guilty of attempting to bribe a member of the civil service – and that might result in a prison sentence! So she was left with the photographs. The postmaster shook his head, saying he couldn’t recall a lady like that coming in on Monday or Tuesday; however, to Clara’s delight, his lady assistant said: ‘That’s Sybil Langford! I’ve seen her at the theatre, I have.’
‘It is indeed, miss. Did you see Miss Langford here earlier in the week?’
To Clara’s disappointment the woman replied in the negative. However, the trail did not go entirely cold: ‘No, not this week, I haven’t. But I saw her last summer, I did. In the tea room across the road. I couldn’t believe my eyes. She was sitting there like a regular person having a cup of tea.’
Five minutes later, Clara was also sitting there like a regular person having a cup of tea – and a toasted teacake. It was a small café with around ten tables and just one lady serving. Clara had her cup of tea and cake, then, as she was paying, raised the subject of Sybil Langford who had been seen there in the summer.
The woman’s eyes narrowed. ‘Are you a reporter for one of them gossip papers?’
Clara smiled. ‘I’m not, no. I’m a friend of a friend of Miss Langford who has lost touch with her.’
The woman appeared to find this a satisfactory answer. ‘Well, in that case, yes, she was in here – August, I think. I wouldn’t have recognised her, but Betty from the post office did.’
Clara smiled. ‘Yes, that’s who told me you’d seen her.’
The woman relaxed even more, then adopted a conspiratorial tone. ‘Well, what Betty wouldn’t have told you, because she left before it happened, was that Miss Langford wasn’t alone.’
‘Oh?’
‘There was a gentleman. He was using the lavatory when Betty was in – she’d just come to pick up some iced buns.’
‘And what was this gentleman like?’
‘Tall, blond and handsome. Like a regular Viking.’ The woman laughed.
‘Viking as in Nordic?’
‘Aye, I would think so.’
‘Could he have been Dutch?’
The woman thought for a moment and then nodded. ‘Aye, he might have been. We get Dutchmen and Norwegians here sometimes. Some of them sailors; some of them better class.’
‘And this one, was he better class?’
‘I’d think so, yes. He was well dressed. Nice suit, tie and hat. I remember he had a smart tie pin. Looked quite expensive – with a diamond on it. And he didn’t have a sailor’s hands.’
Mr van Lelysomething? mused Clara. Then she asked: ‘Did Miss Langford seem happy to you? With this gentleman?’
The woman gave her a curious look. ‘Why’d you ask that, miss?’
Clara tried to sound nonchalant. ‘Oh, just out of curiosity.’
Again, the woman took this at face value. ‘Well, actually, yes, she seemed very happy. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say they were sweethearts. The way they looked at each other. Yes, I’d say they were happy. Very happy indeed.’