Bronson Chapel lived in a flat in a converted church a mile from the offices of SJPS, in the trendy west end. His address was not difficult to find. It was late afternoon. Before they set off, McGuigan had phoned both the law offices, and Bronson’s mobile. The mobile went straight to answer machine. The receptionist at SJPS had put him through to Bronson’s secretary, who had informed him that Bronson hadn’t shown up for work, nor had he phoned in to say why.
“Perhaps he’s working from home?” she’d suggested.
“Does he often do that?” he’d replied.
A pause, then, “Now that you mention it, he’s never done it before.”
“Was he due to see clients?”
Another pause. “Yes. He had a full day. We had to cancel them.”
“Thank you.”
From the police station, the journey would take about fifteen minutes. Dawson drove.
“Maybe he’s ill,” he ventured. “Or maybe he really is working from home. Maybe he decided just to take the day off. He’s a partner. He can do what he wants. You don’t think you’re over-elaborating this situation?”
“That’s a lot of maybes. My wife says exactly that. That I over-elaborate. That I think too much. Imagine that. Have you ever heard of anyone being blamed for thinking too much? Often the accusers are those who tend not to think at all. But of course, you’re right. He could be in bed with a fever. Though not to call his work? Miss all those appointments without giving any reason? I’m not so sure.” He gave his head a weary shake. “I’d like to speak to him again. To satisfy my over-elaborate mind.”
Dawson blew through his lips. “I was only saying. It’s just… I’m not sure of the road we’re going down.”
“Me neither,” said McGuigan. “And to date, all the roads have one thing in common.”
“What’s that?”
“A dead end.”
They got to Bronson’s address. 10a Turnberry Avenue. It was 5.15. Despite being converted into flats, the building still resembled a church, complete with a small tower and steeple, and a high-peaked grey slate roof, and built with heavy blond sandstone. Not inexpensive, thought McGuigan. The upkeep of the steeple alone would be a fortune. The entrance was a mahogany wood door, Gothic, with large black iron brackets and fittings. Probably original, he mused. Required to be kept for tight planning laws. At one side, the door entry system. A metal rectangle of names, twelve in total, and beside each, a buzzer. Dawson pressed the one for Chapel.
They waited. No response. Dawson tried again. Nothing.
“No one’s in,” said Dawson.
“Or he’s not answering. Try the rest.”
Dawson drew a heavy sigh. It was clear from his demeanour he thought the whole thing a wild waste of time. McGuigan felt inclined to agree. He had no solid idea why he wanted to talk to Bronson. To satisfy an itch which didn’t want to go away. His niggling doubt.
Dawson pressed a number of buttons. A man’s voice crackled.
“Yes?”
“Hello. Detective Sergeant Kenny Dawson looking for Bronson Chapel. Can you let us in?”
“The police?”
“Yes.”
A pause. The door clicked. They entered. Bronson’s flat was on the first of two floors. The interior was clean and simple. Smooth white walls, carpeted floor. In a corner, a table, upon which, a vase with fresh flowers.
There were six flats on the first floor. They got to Bronson’s door. Dawson knocked. Nothing.
“Try again,” said McGuigan.
Dawson knocked louder.
Silence. The place felt empty. The door to the neighbouring flat opened. A man appeared, possibly in his seventies, short and overweight, dressed in a loose pullover, baggy white joggers, slippers.
“You’re the police?”
McGuigan was immediately interested.
“Indeed we are.”
“You’re looking for Bronson?”
“And you are?”
“Bert Biggins. Albert Biggins, if you want my Sunday name. I’m Bronson’s neighbour. Lived here for ten years. Bought the place when I retired. Just after my wife died. One of the first to move in. What’s he done?”
McGuigan assumed a knowing smile. “You’ll be aware of all the comings and goings, I’ll bet. You’ll keep your ear to the ground, I’m sure.”
Bobby sniffed. “It’s a quiet place.” He lowered his voice. “Except the young couple through the wall.” He gave a lascivious wink. “Hammer and tongs. Oh! To have the energy again. Where does the time go!”
“And Bronson?”
The man took a step closer, as if to confide in sensitive information.
“Keeps himself to himself. Nice young man. He’s a lawyer. Works for a fancy firm somewhere. You’ll not find him. He’s gone away.”
“Gone away?”
“Yesterday afternoon. I was coming back from walking Parsley. I walk him four times a day. Once round the park across the road. That does him. That’s the advantage of having a chihuahua. Short legs. They don’t need much exercise.” A hoarse chuckle. “Like a lot of women I know.”
As if on cue, a dog began to bark from within the confines of Bert’s flat – a jarring, high-pitched noise. McGuigan bit back his frustration.
“Bronson has gone away?”
“It sure looked like that. He had a small suitcase with him. Not a briefcase. A suitcase. I passed him in the corridor. I tried to strike up a conversation, to be polite you understand. He was rather rude. He barely said hello. Which was unusual. He’s a chatty type, normally. The man was in a hurry. What’s he done?”
“Did he happen to say where he was going?”
“As I said, the man was in a hurry.” Another step closer. “You think the suitcase was full of money? I’ve heard of that. Lawyers running away with the client’s money. Is that what he’s done? I’ll bet that’s what he’s done. Lawyers and politicians. Can’t trust them.”
The dog’s barking continued. “Shut up, Parsley!” Bert raised his shoulders in resignation. “He doesn’t stop, when he gets going. You might laugh, but chihuahuas make marvellous watch dogs. It’s true. It’s an established fact. They might be small, but by God, once they start, they never shut up.”
Rather like its owner, thought McGuigan. “I’m sure. Did Bronson happen to mention where he was going?”
“As I said, he barely spoke. Couldn’t wait to leave. Rude he was. What’s happened to common courtesy? In my day, people had both the time and the decency to strike up some friendly chat. The art of conversation. When good neighbours looked out for each other. What’s he up to? These lawyers. Crafty, yes?”
McGuigan handed him his card. “Should you see him, ask him to contact me. Better still, give me a phone when you see him next.”
Parsley’s barking seemed to raise a notch, perhaps irritated at the lack of attention.
“Say no more,” said Bert. He stroked the tip of his nose with his index finger in a conspiratorial gesture. “Hush-hush.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful.”
Bert nodded, made his way back into his flat. McGuigan and Dawson headed for the stairs.
Bert turned – “Did I mention the boat house?”
McGuigan stopped, looked back. “Pardon me?”
Bert spoke as if he were imparting information they ought to have known about. “Sure. The boat house.”
McGuigan made his way back, Dawson following.
“Tell us about the boat house, Bert.”
Bert puffed his chest, clearly enjoying the focus of attention.
“He has another place. Where he goes ‘to get away from all his troubles’. He calls it the boat house. His ‘little sanctuary’. His words. He told me once, he loves the sound of the water. Personally, I hate the sound. Makes me want to pee.”
“He goes there often?” It was Dawson who asked the question.
Bert furrowed his brow, as if in deep contemplation. “Good question.”
Parsley’s barking continued, an incessant yelp.
“It’s pretty regular,” said Bert, at length. “Two weekends a month, I would say. Yes. Now I think of it, that sounds about right…”
McGuigan cut in. He sensed a long rambling monologue.
“Did he ever give you an address?”
Bert shook his head. “He never did. I never thought to ask.” Surprising, thought McGuigan.
“Perhaps he mentioned a landmark. A place nearby he liked to visit. A restaurant maybe? Or a pub?”
“Nope. He just gave me the name. The boat house. And I suppose it must be close to the sea. Is that a clue?”
“Thank you, Bert. I think you’d better see to Parsley.”
“It’s his walkie time. He becomes crotchety if he thinks I’ve forgotten. Nothing worse than a crotchety chihuahua.”
“I can imagine.”
They left the building. McGuigan stopped, looked back, gazed at the architecture, those original parts which hadn’t been changed – the tower and spire, the entrance. The overall shape remained – the nave, the transepts on either side.
“A hundred years ago, transforming a church into flats for the wealthy would have caused outrage. Now, the church can’t wait to sell off their buildings and fill their coffers.”
“Change,” observed Dawson. “The world moves on.”
“I go to church most Sundays,” said McGuigan. He gave a rumbling chuckle. “Have I mentioned that? I’ve learned a lot about churches recently. This building for example. It’s in the shape of a cross. The tower is always on the west end. And the north wall, in the old days, had a special door. This one will be bricked up, no doubt.”
“A special door?”
“The Devil’s door. Kept open during baptisms to let the evil spirits fly away. Do you believe in evil spirits, Dawson?”
Dawson pursed his lips. “I can’t say I’ve given it a great deal of thought.”
“I wonder if that was the root of the problem.”
Dawson said nothing, waited. McGuigan gave a frosty smile.
“If the Devil’s door was shut tight when our friend The Surgeon was baptised it would explain much.” He drew a deep breath. “The boat house. Is that where Bronson’s gone?”
“Could be. His little sanctuary. Maybe he had a tough time at work, and needed space. I can’t see anything in it, sir. He escapes for a little while. Can’t say I blame him. If that’s where he is. But he could be anywhere.”
“The sound of the sea. It’s soothing, don’t you think?” He turned away, started walking back to the car, Dawson at his side. “Find out where this ‘boat house’ is. Check the land register. Something will turn up.”
Dawson shook his head. “I don’t understand your interest in this man.”
“He intrigues me. Plus, I think he’s a liar.”