After his visit to Mrs Dalrymple’s, Rupert Shawcross was not satisfied. He knew she was hiding something and he couldn’t fathom what it could be.
Back in Casselton, he looked around, saw some minor signs of change, but was pleased to see that the town was easily recognizable between visits. He left Inspector Galway at the police station and took a bus to Ferndale, an estate of bungalows that looked like toy-town. At Number 6 Pennington Close lived a cousin of his, a schoolteacher whom he had seen twice or maybe three times in the past five years. Normally it was she who looked in on him if she happened to be in Manchester.
‘Well, this is a surprise, Rupert,’ she said. ‘It must be ten years or more since you came this far north. Business, pleasure, or has somebody died that I don’t know about?’
Audrey always took a mocking tone with her cousin. He seemed to her to be stiff and pompous, but not bad really. He did not resent being made fun of; he was simply puzzled by it.
‘Business,’ he said, ‘but not business I can readily discuss. You understand?’
‘All very hush-hush then, is it?’ she said. ‘Time for a cup of tea?’
‘Yes, please,’ said Rupert gladly, knowing that the tea would be accompanied by cakes and sandwiches. They had been childhood friends as well as cousins. That is something that never gets lost.
‘There is something you might be able to help me with. I can’t give you any details of course, but we are trying to trace a missing child. I have spoken to the woman who used to look after him, before he and his father set off for who knows where, and I feel sure she is covering something up.’
‘Not the missing child?’ said Audrey promptly. ‘The one who disappeared from Casselton General? How on earth does it concern you? I thought you were a government department, interested in international drug barons and that sort of thing.’
‘That sort of thing,’ mumbled Rupert as he chewed his sandwich.
‘No leads?’
‘Not really, but we are thinking that the boy may have given something away before the accident – told someone something that might give us a clue. Only it’s hard to know who to ask.’
‘Ask his teacher,’ said Audrey promptly. ‘She’ll be able to tell you who his best friend is. If he had a secret, the best friend is surely the one he could trust. All kids have their cronies.’
That was a dangerous suggestion! In Belthorp lived Mickey Trent, Thomas/Tonitheen’s best friend. Mickey was one of the only two people on the planet who knew the truth about the Derwents. Rupert had got nowhere in his questioning of Stella Dalrymple. Might he fare better with an innocent child?
Rupert tried to get a visit arranged the next day but the school was closed – teachers on a training course. So he had to be content to wait till Monday to check out the school at Belthorp. Friday was not allowed to lie fallow, however. There was this boy, James Martin, living right here in Casselton. The boy, by his own account, had known Thomas Derwent for no more than two days. It was a slim chance, but better than doing nothing.
It was quite dark though still reasonably early when Rupert reached the house in Hedley Crescent where James lived with his dad and mam and younger brother and sister. It was six-year-old Carla who opened the door, followed by her mother and a white dog that might have been distantly related to a smooth-haired terrier.
‘Yes?’ said Mrs Martin sharply, holding on to the dog by its collar and pushing Carla behind her. ‘What do you want? I’ve got all the double glazing I need and I don’t wish to buy anything.’
Calypso, the dog, struggled to be free. She did not bark. She just wriggled.
‘I wonder if you’d mind, Mrs Martin – it is Mrs Martin? – letting me have a word with young James?’
‘I most certainly would,’ said his mother. ‘I don’t even know who you are. And I think I should point out to you that this dog does not bark; but she bites quite hard if strangers attempt to cross the doorstep uninvited.’
Rupert fumbled in his pocket for identification.
‘This is official business,’ he said. ‘We are concerned about the disappearance of Thomas Derwent. You will appreciate that we don’t take such disappearances lightly. If your son disappeared, just think how you would feel.’
‘I would feel desperate,’ said Mrs Martin, ‘but that doesn’t alter the fact that Jamie can tell you nothing. I only wish he had had the sense not to write to the paper about it. He’s too clever by half.’
‘That’s just what we need,’ said Rupert, smiling, ‘the evidence of a clever and observant boy.’
At that moment, Jamie came up the garden path, his school bag slung on his back and a half-eaten packet of crisps in his hand. Calypso wagged her tail frantically but remained silent. Mrs Martin swooped on the crisps and said, ‘How many times have I told you! Get in and wash your hands. Your tea’s keeping warm in the oven. Why do you have to dawdle your way home?’
‘This must be James,’ said Rupert quickly. ‘My name’s Rupert Shawcross, James. I am one of the people looking into the disappearance of your friend Tonitheen.’
He put out his hand to shake Jamie’s but, flattered though he was, Jamie knew condescension when he met it. He thrust his own hands deep into his jacket pockets.
‘I told all I knew in the letter to the Courier,’ he said. ‘I suppose that’s why you’re here.’
‘You mentioned in that letter that you would be willing to help him any time he needed you. Has he been in touch? Has he asked you for help?’
Jamie gave him a look of contempt.
‘I don’t want to answer any questions,’ he said. ‘I think you should go away. Our dog doesn’t bark, but she sometimes bites, especially if she doesn’t like visitors.’
‘That’s what I told him,’ said his mother. ‘Now go upstairs and get washed. It’s too cold to be standing out here.’
Jamie turned his back on the stranger.
Rupert, undeterred, called after him, ‘If Tonitheen does put in an appearance, you must let us know immediately. I’ll leave my card and telephone number with your mother.’
Calypso at this point managed to break free and shot back into the house out of the cold and the dark. She was an animal very fond of her creature comforts.