Chapter 7

At midday, Laurel parked Dorothy’s Morris Traveller outside the Harrops’ Edwardian house. She’d asked Dorothy if she could borrow her car as the Morris was less conspicuous than her Ford Cortina. At the meeting everyone had agreed she should take on Nancy’s case, and after consulting Nancy, she’d decided to try and make contact with Sam Harrop when his wife, Clara was out of the house.

She was parked on the opposite side of the street to the house, a discreet distance from the drive. She looked at her watch. Ten past one. She ate the Cornish pasty she’d bought from Smith’s Bakery, savouring the crisp pastry and the peppery contents. She made sure none of it dribbled onto her best blue suit; she’d not worn it since her first days at Blackfriars School, but she’d reasoned if she did bump into Clara she wanted to present a respectable picture. She put the greasy paper bag into the waste bin on the floor and opened a side window to let out the smell.

It was now quarter to three and she was bored. She opened up The Times newspaper which she’d brought to hide her face with, and flipped through a few pages. Nothing but bad news: a Belfast milkman gunned down in front of children; a life sentence for a squaddie who’d raped and killed a ten-year-old child and Lionel Bart fined £50 for possessing cannabis. She looked at the TV programmes: Softly, Softly at eight followed by a party-political broadcast. She groaned.

If she bumped into Clara she’d got her lie ready: she was looking for a Mr Froggatt, and must have got the wrong address. She sighed and wriggled, trying to find a comfortable position. She’d have to get used to doing stake-outs; she hoped they weren’t a regular feature of her work.

There was short, sharp shower of rain. When it was over she opened the door, and walked past the house. There was a female silhouette at one of the upstairs windows, and a Golf VW in the driveway. Clara’s car. She walked back and got in her car again. Perhaps this was a waste of time and Clara wasn’t going out today. She looked at her watch: ten to three. Time was moving as slowly as a limpet.

The distinctive noise of a VW engine cut through the air and the car’s bonnet edged out into the road. Laurel peeped from behind the hastily raised newspaper. It was Clara, alone, wearing bright green with her hair done up in an enormous bouffant. She drove away. Where to? Hopefully it wasn’t a short journey.

Laurel waited a few minutes in case she’d forgotten something and returned. She checked her handbag: notebook, pen, camera. She wished she hadn’t worn high heels along with the suit; they weren’t ideal for sleuthing.

The house was elegant, three stories high, with a flat castellated roof; long, wide windows lightening the grey stone walls. Three shallow steps led up to a dark blue front door, and lead pots on either side contained topiary box. Should she press the brass bell? Or circle the house first, looking in through the windows?

Nancy told her Clara had dismissed the cleaner and gardener several weeks ago, so there should only be Samuel Harrop in the house. She hoped she could make contact with him for Nancy’s sake. Supposing he wasn’t here? Would Nancy be justified in calling in the police? They’d talked about the possibility, but it was something Nancy didn’t want to do. She wanted to protect Sam’s reputation.

There was no one in the front downstairs rooms. Nancy had said Sam was ill; he might be in bed. She’d have to ring the bell if she couldn’t see him at the back of the house and hope he could get downstairs.

Laurel walked down the left side of the house; there was a narrow grass path and her high heels sank into the turf. She hoped Clara would think they were aeration holes made by the gardener on his last visit. The lawn at the back of the house sloped gently up to a flat plateau; primroses studded the bank. The first room she came to was the kitchen; there was no one there, and the door leading into it was locked. She looked through the keyhole, no key on the other side. She moved on. French windows, their curtains drawn back, showed a large room, its furniture stylishly black, very 1920s. She moved closer, pressing her nose against the glass so she could see into the corners of the room.

She nearly missed him. He was a stooped figure near a music centre, his cream-coloured dressing gown matching the flocked wallpaper. His right hand was raised towards a shelf stacked with music cassettes. She gently tapped on the window.

He slowly turned round. His eyes, the whites yellow, were full of fear. Laurel hardly recognised him from the photos Nancy had shown her. He was a frail, ill, old man; his hair no longer thick, was hanging in greasy locks round his face; his skin yellow, and so fine and tight over the bones of his skull she thought if she could reach through the glass and touch it, it would disintegrate like antique silk. He staggered towards the window, hope in the dull eyes. He must have a liver disease: cirrhosis? cancer? Poor man, he looked wretched.

She smiled at him and waved her hand as you would to a small child you didn’t want to panic. He reached the window and pressed a hand to it, as though to support himself, or perhaps wanting to make human contact. He mouthed something. She couldn’t hear his words. She nodded and smiled again, then took out the notebook and biro from her handbag.

She quickly wrote in capitals and held the pad so he could see the words.

NANCY SENT ME

He nodded his head and said something, it might have been ‘Good,’ or ‘Thank God.’ She mimed to him, pointing at him and pretended to write on the pad, hoping he’d latch on. He looked puzzled, his eyes vague, his mouth open; he shook his head.

She wrote CAN YOU WRITE? on a fresh sheet and held it up to the window. Understanding dawned in his eyes, he nodded and slowly turned away and shuffled towards a dark wooden sideboard on which a clock read twenty-five past three. Time had changed pace: now it was rushing forward like an incoming rip tide. Clara might be back at any moment.

Sam rummaged in a drawer, his movements slow and juddery. He seemed to have found what he wanted, turned back, then doubled up, his face creased with pain. He leant against the sideboard, panting and looked at her. She thought he said. ‘Don’t go.’ She smiled and nodded. What she felt like doing was finding a shovel, breaking the window, putting him in her car and taking him to Nancy. Hold on, girl, she told herself. Look what happened the last time you let impetuosity get the better of you, stupidly continuing to read the log book when you should have left the cottage and contacted Frank. That nearly got you killed. This is an investigation, not a rescue mission. We need to find out more about the situation and I mustn’t move without consulting Nancy.

He started to straighten up, as though the pain had lessened. He shuffled to the window.

Laurel printed on her pad:

CAN YOU GET OUT?

He shook his head, the piece of paper dangled from his fingers as though he’d forgotten about it.

I WILL GET NANCY AND BRING HER HERE, she wrote.

He stared at the words, then slowly wrote on his piece of paper, and held it up for her to see. The writing was shaky, uneven and the line veered lop-sided down the page.

No need She is coming. Clara fetching her.

She stared at him. He nodded and a ghost of a smile touched his lips. So Clara had changed her mind. Was that where she was driving to? To fetch Nancy? They might be back at any time. If they saw her it would embarrass Nancy and probably infuriate Clara. She wrote another message:

I’LL GO NOW. NANCY WILL BE SO PLEASED TO SEE YOU.

His eyes swam with unshed tears. He wrote on his paper.

Who are you?

She scribbled quickly, wanting to be gone:

LAUREL BOWMAN – NANCY’S FRIEND

She didn’t think letting him know she was a detective would calm him down. Suddenly his face changed, and his head started to shake. Was his pain increasing? The paper in his hand shook as though it had a life of its own. He turned his head and looked towards the music console and pointed, his arm vibrating like the marionette conductor of an invisible orchestra.

The sound of a car turning into the drive made Laurel gasp; she tapped on the window and waved goodbye. He stared at her, his mouth open and closing, as he tried to tell her something.

She moved to the side of the house and waited. There was the sound of two car doors closing, one after the other. Then a turning key, the front door opening and closing. She waited a few seconds, then bending low she scuttled to the front of the house, and peeped round the wall. All clear. Clara’s car was once more on the drive. She and Nancy must be inside and hopefully with Sam. She ran down the drive and breathed a sigh of relief once safely inside Dorothy’s Morris. She took a deep breath. That was close.

She imagined Nancy’s face as she saw Sam, how the pleasure of seeing him would be tempered by how ill he looked. He was dying. No doubt about that, but now Nancy would be able to help care for him, if Clara let her. What should she do now? No point in waiting for Nancy to come out, Clara would drive her home. She would ring Nancy later and ask her how the meeting had gone. Would she still think Clara wanted to kill Sam? Surely, she would see this was a genuine illness and perhaps Sam hadn’t wanted her to see how ill he was. Clara was merely obeying his wishes. Perhaps her dislike of Clara had coloured her judgement. She frowned – Nancy was a balanced person. This case looked as though it’d come to a swift conclusion; a pity as she didn’t want to be involved looking for the missing boy; anything to do with a school brought back too many memories of dead children.