Chapter 2

Laurel ran down the staircase of Dorothy’s house, now her home; the smell of coffee met her. Time for a break, thank goodness. Something to distract her from depressing thoughts. She hoped they wouldn’t agree to taking on the case of the missing boy. Why hadn’t she spoken out? Why hadn’t she expressed her fears? Was she afraid of looking weak? After the discovery of the murders of young girls by Philip Nicholson at Blackfriars School last September, she didn’t want the agony of finding another dead child. On the other hand, if they found him alive, and returned him to his parents, that would be wonderful. She squared her shoulders. Get real, theirs was a new business, they couldn’t afford to be picky.

She pushed open the kitchen door. Dorothy, frowning, was plonking cups and saucers on the table. She wasn’t the only one in a bad mood.

‘Smells good.’

Dorothy snorted, took a percolator from the stove and poured coffee, some into cups and some on the pine table. ‘Bloody hell.’

‘Something wrong, Dorothy?’

Dorothy sat down on a chair, her back ram-rod straight. She pushed back her grey hair from her forehead ‘Sorry, Laurel, this postal strike has driven me mad.’

‘It’s over now. You won’t need to drive to Ipswich with the post.’

‘What we’d have done without the private mail service I don’t know. Well! Seven weeks, and still they’ll only take first-class mail – I’d shoot the lot of them.’

Laurel sipped her coffee. ‘Then we’d never get our postal service back.’

Dorothy’s shoulders slumped. ‘I’ve been a grump, sorry. It was the last thing we needed just as we were starting up the agency.’

‘Despite the strike, we’ve done well. We’re breaking even.’

Dorothy smiled. ‘I’ve enjoyed working with everyone, being part of the team and listening to you, Frank and Stuart talk about the cases we’ve had. Much more exciting than being a school secretary. I know Frank is satisfied, but are you? You’ve seemed a bit down lately. Is it the missing boy case?’

‘It is, but I’ve given myself a stiff talking to. Just a bit close to everything that happened at Blackfriars School.’

Dorothy stood up and smoothed her blue jumper down over a navy tweed skirt. ‘I thought as much. It’s still raw, but we can’t afford to give in to morbid thoughts, although every time I go to Emily’s grave I shed tears. Philip Nicholson got what he deserved. Thank goodness he went to trial; I couldn’t have stomached it if he’d had a cushy time in some mental hospital.’

Dorothy’s twin sister, Emily, had been strangled by Nicholson, one in a series of horrific murders by the former headmaster of Blackfriars School.

‘Laurel, I’m going to ask you a favour.’

‘Go ahead; I’ll help if I can.’

Dorothy leant across the table. ‘Do you know Nancy Wintle? She lives in Aldeburgh, lived there all her life.’

‘No, I don’t think so, but I’ve heard you mention her. She’s a widow, isn’t she?’

‘She is; married James Wintle, nice man and a good doctor. I’m very fond of Nancy, she’s older than me, must be seventy, but there’s no side to her, not like some of the Aldeburgh folk.’

‘What’s the problem? Can’t you help her? Hasn’t she any children?’

‘Yes, a son, he’s a doctor in Carlisle; she doesn’t see him very often. She’s confided in me to some extent, but she wants to talk to you or Frank. She didn’t want Stuart, being as he’s local. She’d prefer a woman.’

‘And I’m the nearest thing.’

Dorothy laughed, her usual good humour restored. ‘You may be built like a blonde Amazon, but there’s no doubt you’re a woman.’

‘What did she tell you?’

‘Not very much. It’s to do with her brother, she’s worried about him.’

She frowned. ‘This doesn’t sound our kind of case; we can’t interfere in family relationships.’

Dorothy sighed. ‘I know, but Nancy seems … it’s out of character … she’s frightened. I’m not sure what she’s frightened of, but it’s not like her. I’d take it as a special favour to me if you’d talk to her.’

Laurel reached across the table and took Dorothy’s hand. ‘Of course I will. I could see her this afternoon, I’ve nothing on.’

‘Thank you, Laurel. I’ll phone her now.’ She bustled out of the room.

It’s better to have something to do and it was a sunny day. She could do some shopping in Aldeburgh; perhaps the fisherman might have an early lobster.

‘That’s fine, she’ll expect you at two-thirty.’

‘What can you tell me about her brother? Is he younger or older than Nancy? Hold on, I’ll get a notebook.’ This could be a waste of time professionally, but every new case must be taken seriously, and she’d do anything for Dorothy.

She settled at the kitchen table, biro poised as Dorothy lit a cigarette and took a deep breath of Players Navy Cut.

‘He’s her younger brother, by about four or five years; Samuel Harrop, a retired Harley Street surgeon. He left Aldeburgh when he went to university in London and never returned, except to visit Nancy and her husband; they all got on well together. When he retired he and his wife, Clara, came back to Aldeburgh to live. As well as being close to Nancy, it was the music which attracted him: Sam loves classical music and he’s especially fond of Benjamin Britten; can’t stand his music myself, not a bit tuneful. Nancy was overjoyed, she’s always been so proud of Sam, and being an older sister she’s always treated him like a little boy, much to his wife’s displeasure. Can’t say I care for Clara. She’s made quite a name for herself since they moved here. Big noise in the church, the WI, and any other society she thinks is good enough for her.’

Laurel looked up from her notebook and stared at Dorothy. ‘Dorothy Piff, you aren’t normally bitchy.’

Dorothy sniggered and took another puff of her cigarette. ‘Don’t care. I’ve seen the way she treats Nancy.’

‘I won’t be going into this case with an unbiased mind if you keep on like this.’

Dorothy shrugged. ‘Don’t you trust my judgement?’

‘More than mine. Although both of us were fooled by Nicholson.’

‘As was everyone else, apart from Frank.’

‘Don’t keep reminding him.’

She put her coffee cup on the draining board. ‘Do you want anything from Aldeburgh?’

Dorothy raised the forefinger of her right hand. ‘Could you take the post in? Would you believe it? The post office will be closed for several days for decimalisation training! Good Lord, it’s been nearly a month since the changeover – they should have grasped it by now. I need to do two more invoices, won’t take me long.’ She retreated to the dining room which served as a communal office and boardroom.

Laurel looked out of the kitchen window. Two blue tits were examining a nest box, some dwarf daffodils, heads folded, were showing streaks of yellow, and scudding clouds cast racing shadows over the lawn. A good day for a little light detective work.

Laurel parked near Aldeburgh’s Moot Hall, opposite the fishermen’s huts. She was glad she’d put on a warm coat, it was dry and sunny, but there was a nippy breeze. High waves were rushing in, falling on the beach, sending pebbles dancing, and seagulls, either perched on the nearest hut, or wheeling overhead, were raucously crying for food. She looked at her watch: just gone two, plenty of time to check on the day’s catch, though by this time most of the good stuff would have been sold.

She climbed the concrete steps to the wooden hut; the display on trays outside looked meagre: two rockfish, some undersized Dover Soles and a few mackerel. The gelatinous smell of dead fish was stronger inside. ‘Afternoon, Mr Fryer. Is that all you’ve got?’

‘What had you in mind?’ Mr Fryer was a lean, middle-aged man, skipper of his own boat and the first choice for fish by the residents of Aldeburgh.

‘What have you got hidden in your fridge?’

He grinned. ‘Can’t fool a detective, can I?’

After some friendly banter, she bought several medium-sized Dover soles,

He handed her the change. ‘Better check it, Miss Bowman. I’m still struggling with them 5ps and 10ps. Give me the old sixpences and shillings any day.’

Laurel asked him about Nancy.

‘Nancy’s all right, despite her funny hair-do. Well liked is Nancy.’

‘What about her brother, Sam Harrop and his wife. Do they ever come in here?’

Mr Fryer nodded as he ripped off the skin from a Dover sole and stepped outside to chuck it to the screeching seagulls. ‘He’s a quiet chap, doesn’t say much when they come to buy fish, but she’s a snob, treats me like dirt, and barters over lobsters as though she’s dealing with a bloody Egyptian carpet seller. Acts as though she’s doing me a favour buying the bloody lobsters, she pokes at ’em and says they don’t look fresh to her.’

She put the fish in the boot of her car. So Dorothy wasn’t the only one who didn’t like Clara Harrop. As she walked past The Jubilee Hall the music of a string quartet poured into the street. Soon be time for the music festival, then the town would be throbbing.

Nancy’s cottage was one of the terraced houses on the right side of the High Street as you went towards the main car park. It was part of a group of five houses placed between a restaurant and a greengrocer’s shop. All the cottages doors were brightly painted, pots of bulbs and herbs on the pavement, and window boxes containing pansies, crocuses and daffodils. Laurel’s nose twitched; the aroma of fresh bread and savoury Cornish pasties drifted towards her from the nearby Smith’s Bakery. She hadn’t felt hungry at lunch time and only had a couple of biscuits and a coffee, now she was ravenous. A pasty would go down well after the interview.

Nancy’s cottage had a blue, lapboard door with a brass knocker in the shape of a dolphin and a matching brass name plate: Sea Salt. Blue hyacinths, fully in bloom, filled the window box and the pots round the door. All neat, tidy and ship-shape. No wonder she and Dorothy got on. She knocked.

Nancy had difficulty in prising the door open. ‘Give it a shove, would you? Let me move back a bit.’

Laurel put her shoulder against the door and leaned on it. She nearly fell into the front room.

‘Well done, Miss Bowman. Dorothy said you were strong. Wish I was.’

Nancy Wintle was like a flamboyant sparrow, dressed in brightly coloured tartan trews and a white polo-necked sweater, her hair a mass of short pink curls showing glimpses of a matching pink scalp. ‘Thank you for seeing me. Do come in.’

The front room was small, crammed with antique furniture: two Georgian armchairs close to a two-bar electric fire, a sideboard with silver-framed photos, and a table with four chairs, all mahogany and of good quality. In contrast a large, white television sat glowering in a corner.

She saw her interest. ‘It’s a colour television,’ Nancy boasted, ‘Got it for the World Cup in Mexico last year.’

She suppressed a smile as an image of Nancy sitting in front of it, gyrating a rattle, sprang to mind. She picked her way through the crowded room.

Nancy pointed to one of the armchairs. ‘Please take a seat.’

The electric fire was belting out heat from both bars. ‘Would you mind if I took my coat off?’

‘Ah, an outdoor girl. Of course, remiss of me. I do feel the cold, I’m afraid. Not too much flesh on me nowadays.’ She took Laurel’s coat and danced nimbly between the furniture and hung it on a hook on the back of the door. ‘Would you like some tea?’

Laurel sat down and angled her legs away from the fire’s dry heat. ‘No, thanks. Shall we get down to business? Dorothy says you’re worried about your brother. I’m not sure we’ll be able to help, but everything you say will be in confidence although, if we do take this further, then all members of Anglian Detective Agency will share the information. Are you sure you want to tell me about your worries?’

Nancy hopped to the chair opposite Laurel, hitched up her trews and sat down; she leant forward, her brown eyes gleaming like well-polished pebbles. ‘Yes, now I’ve met you I’m quite sure I want to tell you and ask you to investigate. Dorothy said you were a trustworthy woman and I like your business-like attitude. I know you won’t think I’m a batty old woman.’

She wasn’t so sure.

‘Dorothy’s told you about my sister-in-law, Clara?’

She nodded, but didn’t say anything, wanting to hear what Nancy would say.

Nancy took a deep breath as though preparing for a dive into deep water. ‘This is difficult to say … I think Clara is going to murder my brother.’