Monday 22 October, 9.30 a.m.
They wouldn’t exactly be using the blue light to drive to Ryland’s. There was no hurry. The longer they left it, the likelier it was that the old boy would turn up of his own accord. Joanna had googled the home and read only glowing reviews.
‘Cared for my dad like one of their own.’
‘A pleasant, welcoming atmosphere.’
‘Wonderful, kind staff.’
‘They even made Mum a birthday cake.’
And so on. By the time they got there, she guessed, the old guy would have wandered back. They’d be met at the door by an apologetic matron and sent on their way, back to the station and Korpanski’s jibes.
She’d elected to bring PC Bridget Anderton with her. Besides the fact that she would do well interviewing confused elderly people, Joanna had an ulterior motive.
Bridget had three children. That meant three pregnancies and, presumably, three labours. If anyone knew about childbirth it was Bridget Anderton. As the time approached, Joanna was becoming increasingly anxious about this inevitability. Considering her husband had done three months’ obstetrics in his medical student days, Matthew had not been very helpful on this subject. He’d ummed and aahed and said, ‘They just get on with it.’ She’d wanted more details. A personal view from someone who had actually experienced labour and giving birth. At the back of her mind she was curious and increasingly concerned. The baby was growing and somehow, in the not too distant future, it was going to have to make an appearance, which meant being pushed out of her nether regions by her – unless, of course, she opted for or needed a caesarean section. She wanted Bridget’s story straight from the horse’s … she smirked. Not exactly the mouth.
She glanced at her watch. It was now ten a.m. Mr Zachary Foster had been missing for anything up to eight hours. Even so the chances were that he was still not too far away, probably cowering in a shop doorway or trying to buy a coffee in the Red Cross charity shop on the Butter Market. But no one had rung in so far.
She and Bridget made their way to the car, walking through chilly sunshine, anticipating the simple case ahead.
When, later on, she returned to that moment, she found herself again in that comfortable place where this disappearance was nothing more than a confused old man who had wandered out of a residential home which probably had next-to-no security measures. Later on she might wish herself back there.
Somehow Bridget, with her sensitive and intuitive nature, had already sussed out the reason for her being chosen to accompany her and was doing her best to respond to the DI’s questions. ‘It’s not that bad, Jo.’
Joanna kept her eyes on the road. What did that mean: It’s not that bad?
PC Bridget Anderton tried again. ‘It’s like period pains.’
‘Ugh.’
Bridget tried again, a bit harder. ‘Just a bit more fierce.’
‘And what about …?’
‘When you push – oh my goodness. That’s an urge like you’ve never felt before. It is all consuming.’
Joanna frowned. ‘Not sure I like the sound of that.’
Bridget sat back in her seat, a smile lighting her plain face. ‘You haven’t got much choice, Joanna.’
That drew a scowl.
Bridget tried for a third time. ‘But then they put the baby in your arms and, oh, Jo,’ she turned to look at her inspector. ‘It’s heaven. You feel this warm glaze of honey all over you. It’s magic and you feel powerful.’ She echoed Korpanski’s words. ‘You feel you would die for this tiny, vulnerable being that you’ve just produced.’
Joanna wrinkled up her nose and turned to look at the PC. ‘I’m really not sure about this.’
At which point Bridget burst out laughing. ‘That baby’s got to come out and that’s the way it’ll be. Head first – usually.’
‘Was Steve there with you?’
‘For Katie and Sollie but not for Troy. He came too quick.’ She turned to look at her. ‘But Matthew’s a doctor, Joanna. He’ll want to be there to see his child’s birth and make certain everything’s done right.’
‘Oh, he’ll want to be there all right. Make sure everything’s done properly.’ Was it a consolation that he would be there, witnessing the moment she gave birth to his son – or daughter – or would it inhibit her? Was being together at such a personal moment a good or a bad thing? She didn’t know … yet. Something else she would learn.
A sign, black with gold lettering, swinging in a light breeze, told them they were there and put paid to their conversation. Joanna turned the car into the drive.
Ryland’s was one of the last houses before the town gave way to empty moorland. It was a large Victorian house, set back from the A53, a road that climbed and climbed up to Ramshaw Rocks and the Winking Man, crossing miles of bleak moorland, empty apart from scattered smallholdings, finally dropping into the spa town of Buxton. Before they petered out, giving way to the deserted moors, the houses along this road were huge. Plenty big enough for a good-sized residential home. The sign moving in a cool autumn breeze read: Ryland’s Residential Home for elderly folk.
It sounded friendly. Safe. Reassuring. Inviting. As they travelled up the drive, Joanna’s thoughts were that this was the civilized way to care for the frail, the vulnerable, the elderly. Already she was piecing together a narrative. The guy had wandered out, too confused to find his way back. He would soon be found. The fact that he hadn’t yet been spotted could be an indication that he was somewhere near, perhaps paranoiac, hiding from what he would perceive as a hostile, alien environment and people who might harm him.
She inched the car along the drive, eyes alert to any sign of movement. Two squad cars told her a search was already underfoot. So why drag me in? she wondered, still irritated. Any time now there would be a shout and she could return to the station.
The grounds were neatly lawned with a few mature trees lining the driveway, already sprinkled with freshly fallen leaves which made it look like a brightly patterned carpet against the brilliant green of the grass. A sign pointed to a large car park at the rear but Joanna pulled up in front and parked at the side of the police cars, taking in tall bay windows either side of a panelled front door, shiny with black gloss paint, which was now firmly closed. Shutting the stable door? All looked neat, quiet, well-ordered and civilized, the squad cars the only sign of drama. She and Bridget climbed out of the car and locked it behind them.
Now Joanna had reached the scene her narrative was finding colour and movement. An old man creeping out of that door, standing on the step, looking around him, already tense, nervous and completely lost. He would step down, getting even more lost and confused as he reached the grounds. So had he headed down the drive, out into the long, unfamiliar street where he would either turn right, towards the town, a slight decline, or left, climbing up to Blackshaw Moor, stepping into the dangerous void that was the moorlands, where he might suffer exposure, an accident, and where there was less chance of him being found by a passer-by. And already she was working through something else. This end of the road wasn’t actually in the town but a good half-mile outside, and at night was lit only by lampposts. To his left the road would have been black and bare, the lampposts finishing in a hundred yards or so. To the right the road sloped gently down towards the town and civilization. But, depending on what time he had made his escape, Leek is hardly a town of late-night bustle, bright lights and noisy bars. It is a rural market town, the native folk, in general, more likely to keep to their homes on a cold night in late October.
So … she stood for a moment trying to put herself in his place. A confused old man. What would he be most likely to do? Surely he would have headed down the hill towards the lights? But there was always the possibility that he had turned left out of the gates and been swallowed up in the dark. It seemed unlikely but would their man have had the power of reason? Did he think he was heading somewhere? Had he a plan? A trigger for leaving – perhaps staff cruelty? Confusion? A misapprehension? The trouble was, unlike a person suffering from depression or a rebellious teenager, she had absolutely no idea how a person suffering from dementia would reason; whether they were capable of rational thought, a structured plan. She recalled the description of the missing man’s medical condition. They had described his mental state with the word dementia. A stroke two years ago. Surely that must have affected his mobility? And speech impaired, so if anyone did find him he might be unable to describe where he had come from. This didn’t look good. But surely he was nearby? He must be, hampered by that collection of medical stumbling blocks. She frowned.
Had he headed into the darkness, they would have a logistical problem – the need to sweep the moors to search. It would be very difficult to achieve this on foot or by car which meant the police helicopter. There were tracts of land that roads couldn’t penetrate. The ground was soft and peaty but she couldn’t see Chief Superintendent Gabriel Rush authorizing a search with the police helicopter. Not in today’s straitened economic climate.
But if their missing man was in the town, she would have thought the locals would have found him already. And if he was in the grounds, likewise the uniforms would have stumbled across him. It was only if he had, for some unfathomable reason, headed out towards the moorland that he might have escaped attention.
Still, in her mind, this was a case which should soon solve itself.
All she had to do was to play the game for a few hours, speak her lines and wait for the inevitable to happen, i.e., for Mr Zachary Foster, aged ninety-six, to turn up.
Alive. Someone would find him. But for now she needed to act the professional, ask the right questions, home in on the detail. Privately she gave the case one day at most.
PC Bridget Anderton was standing on the doorstep at her side, waiting for her to knock or ring the bell. Bridget wasn’t one of the world’s beauties – her face was pale and plain, the skin slightly doughy. The transformation happened when she smiled. It was as though all the love and joy in the world was contained in that smile. It actually seemed to radiate happiness. Added to that she was genuine and loyal and Joanna trusted her. She was one of the world’s good people who, unusually for a policewoman, rarely saw harm in anyone.
Before knocking, Joanna eyed the solid-looking door. Unless this had been left open or unlocked, her missing man would have had no chance of getting through it. But then, surely in a well-run establishment which catered for elderly gentlefolk, all doors should have been secured so residents could not wander off. So what had gone wrong last night? Her first thought was how had he left without anyone noticing? There were surely watchful night staff? Had one door been left open and that had been enough for Mr Foster to abscond? Had he watched and waited for his chance? Plotted and planned? So her first questions to them had to be when exactly had he gone and when had his absence been noticed?
Again her questions turned full circle back to Mr Foster’s state of mind and his ability to form a plan. She tried the front door. Locked. As it should be.
She pressed the button and heard a satisfying ring reverberate inside.
After a minute or two the door was pulled open by a pleasant-looking woman of about fifty wearing black trousers and a pale blue sweater. A pair of glasses sat on the top of her head. She looked questioningly at them, blinking shrewd grey eyes.
‘Detective Inspector Joanna Piercy.’ Joanna flashed her ID and Bridget did the same.
The woman bent forward slightly to read them. ‘Have you found him?’
‘I’m sorry. No. Not yet. And I take it he’s not turned up here either?’
Yeah, that was a little too hopeful.
The woman shook her head and put her hands to her cheeks, sighing, ‘Oh, I do hope he’s all right. He’s a nice old man. I wouldn’t want any harm to come …’ Her voice trailed away as she realized how inadequate her words were. She gathered herself, stood upright.
‘Come in. Come in.’ She held out her hand. ‘I’m Sandie Golding.’
‘You’re the owner of Ryland’s?’
‘No, no. I’m just the manager. The owner is Sadiq Haldar. He’s based in the Potteries. He owns quite a few …’ an ingratiating smile, ‘… establishments. I just see to the day-to-day running. That is—’
Joanna interrupted her. ‘Can we go into your office and speak privately, please?’
‘Yes. Of course.’ Embarrassment surfaced. ‘Umm, I’ll have to get you to sign in, I’m afraid.’ And the usual explanation. ‘Health and safety.’
Which hadn’t worked for the missing man. But to release that comment wouldn’t exactly move the case forward.
They obliged, Joanna in a flourishing signature, Bridget’s childish and square lettered. Then they followed Ms Golding along a cream-painted corridor lined with sepia prints of ancient Leek, passing a room of residents sitting in high-backed chairs.
Joanna peeped in. The television was on in the corner but most weren’t watching it. Though many of the residents, mainly women, were simply sitting, staring, doing nothing, she noticed one woman fiercely knitting and was immediately transported back to the pink-washed cottage in Shropshire and her grandmother’s knitting needles similarly flying and clacking, the air of total absorption identical. The woman looked up from her knitting, met her eyes and smiled.
The manager led them into a small, snug office, pale green walls lined with rows of certificates. From a quick glance it looked as though all the staff had passed the appropriate training which must, in turn, have inspired potential clients to park their elderly relatives here with confidence. For the first time Joanna saw this disappearance of one of their residents from another angle. It would result in bad publicity for the home. Next time a potential user Googled it the reviews would not be all so good.
Sandie Golding sat behind a desk and Joanna and Bridget took their seats. Joanna’s instinct was to ascertain the hard facts as soon as possible, a description, the when and where of the last sighting. ‘So …’ She pulled out a notebook. ‘First of all, let’s start with a description.’
‘About five foot ten. Brown eyes, sparse …’ The first glimmer of humour. ‘Very sparse white hair.’
‘His eyesight?’
‘He wore glasses. Like most elderly people he had limited sight.’
Bridget Anderton interrupted. ‘Registered blind?’
‘Oh, no. Nothing like that. Not that bad.’
Joanna took over. ‘And his hearing?’
‘He wore a deaf aid.’
‘Is that in his room or is he wearing it?’
For the first time Ms Golding faltered. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said. ‘I don’t know. I should have checked.’
‘No worries. We’ll search for it when we look around his room.’
That provoked a smile.
‘So …’ Joanna moved on to less tangible matters. ‘Tell me about Mr Foster. What was he like?’
On safer ground here, Sandie Golding smiled. ‘He was a sweet old man with dementia.’
‘And what form did that take?’
‘He lived in the past.’ She smiled again. ‘He’d lived in Leek all his life. Worked for the Staffordshire Moorlands District Council – as a clerk, I think. He’d lived with his mother but when she died years ago he just lived alone – in the very same house he’d been born in.’ She smiled. ‘I can see him now, wandering around, always looking a bit bemused, clutching a battered old teddy bear he’d had since he was a child, dragging it behind him like Christopher Robin.’ She paused, lost in the memory.
Though it was a sweet picture, it described someone suffering from dementia quite graphically. But when you superimposed this image of a ninety-six-year-old man clutching his teddy like a six-year-old, possibly wandering the moorlands on a chilly October night, the smile was soon wiped from your face.
‘Was he prone to wandering?’
‘No. He wasn’t.’ A thoughtful smile. ‘He wasn’t one of our wanderers. He was a contented sort. He’s never done this before.’
‘OK.’ Joanna continued writing. ‘His full name?’
‘Zachary Foster.’ She gave an ingratiating smile. ‘No middle name.’
Joanna didn’t smile back. ‘Can I confirm his age?’
‘He’s ninety-six.’
‘And you say he’s never absconded before?’
‘No.’
‘Does he have family in Leek?’
‘No. He was never married and his mother died years ago. He was quiet and self-contained. A shy man who said little.’
‘The stroke. How did that affect him?’
‘He dragged his leg a bit but – considering his age – he’d made a pretty good recovery.’
‘And his speech – how bad was that?’
‘His speech was slurred. Deliberate and slow. Sometimes he just couldn’t find a word. That could make him upset and a little frustrated but in general he was a quiet, contented man.’
‘I see.’ Now for the nitty-gritty. ‘How did he get out, Miss Golding?’ (No wedding ring.)
‘I don’t know.’ Hesitation before the infill. ‘We’re reviewing our safety policy.’
Of course they would. Joanna was finding it hard not to sigh. ‘Do you have CCTV?’
Sandie looked even more embarrassed. ‘No – Mr Haldar …’ Her voice trailed away with misery and embarrassment.
Joanna could guess. Saving money. Cutting costs. Privacy.
‘How many entrances are there to Ryland’s?’
‘Three main ones plus two fire exits.’
‘We’ll take a look at those in a minute. Do you know which exit he used?’
Ms Golding shook her head miserably. ‘No,’ she said. ‘The front and back doors into the kitchen are both deadlocked. The keys are locked in my office and the spares stay with whoever is in charge. He couldn’t have got out through either the front or the back doors.’
‘And the third exit?’
‘The French windows open from the day room. The keys hang on a hook to the side. The night sister is responsible for locking up after the evening staff have left. The French windows were locked and bolted this morning when they were checked. We take security very seriously here.’
The irony of her statement was obviously eluding her.
Joanna bit back her words. So, this old guy with dementia is a reincarnation of Harry Houdini, able to exit through locked, bolted doors, hanging keys back on the hook, shooting the bolts across behind him. Either that or he magically pickpocketed the nurse in charge, relieved her of the keys to either the front or the back door, locked it behind him and equally skilfully replaced them. Without her knowing.
Possibly sensing the flaw in her account, Ms Golding frowned, and Joanna knew someone would be getting into big trouble over this. She had to go through the motions – the public expected this from their police service. But already she could see holes. Someone was lying here. Probably to cover their back. Someone had broken the rules and Mr Foster had walked.
‘The fire exits?’
‘They were both secured and closed.’
Joanna absorbed this. ‘So back to the day room. The French windows, you say, were locked and bolted?’
There was a touch of asperity in the manager’s reply. ‘The key hangs on a hook, the bolts shot across.’
‘Could he have reached the key, shot back the bolts, opened it himself and maybe the staff secured it after he’d gone not realizing he was outside?’
Sandie Golding gave a miserable shake of her head. ‘No,’ she said, reluctantly. ‘I don’t think he could have let himself out. The bolts are stiff, the top bolt right on the top of the door, halfway across, only reached by standing on a chair,’ She smiled. ‘Even by the staff. We did that deliberately to stop anyone reaching them. The key is hidden behind the curtain and quite high up. I don’t think Zachary could have reached it.’
‘How tall is he?’
‘Oh, around five ten. I’m not absolutely sure.’ Her eyes grew hard and challenging.
But Joanna sensed hesitation. ‘So had he exited that way, somebody would have had to let him out and then locked and bolted the door behind him?’
The manager shook her head, hung it miserably, focusing on the parquet floor. ‘I was wondering whether the night staff forgot to lock it in the first place and he wandered outside then later, one of them realized the door wasn’t properly secured and locked it, and he couldn’t get back in.’
‘Has that happened before?’
Sandie shook her head and, more confident of her ground now, looked up again. ‘Not to my knowledge. They’re generally pretty thorough and careful. And he would have shouted.’
‘Have you checked with them?’
‘Of course. They insist they followed correct procedure.’
Joanna looked up. ‘And you say you don’t think Mr Foster would have been capable of unbolting and unlocking the door by himself?’
Sandie Golding tried to retrieve her previous comments. ‘Well …’ She looked flustered and changed her story. ‘Well, yes. Perhaps he was physically capable. I think he could have …’ She gave in. ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ she said.
Bridget Anderton spoke. ‘What was Mr Foster’s mobility like?’
Perhaps sensing a softer persona, Sandie Golding’s attention turned to the PC. ‘He could get around,’ she said cautiously, as though anticipating a trap.
Bridget persisted. ‘Was he unsteady on his feet?’
‘Not particularly. It was only the effects of the stroke that made him drag his foot.’
Bridget wasn’t giving up. ‘How far could he walk?’
‘I don’t know. It’s hard to say.’ Sandie Golding was hedging.
Joanna pressed her. ‘Roughly?’
She ducked the question. ‘You’d better ask the nursing staff.’
‘Could he have climbed on the chair to let himself out?’
‘I don’t know.’
Joanna reverted to the subject of Mr Foster’s point of exit. ‘You say the day-room key hangs on a hook right by the door?’
‘In case of fire.’
Joanna remembered the fire certificate. ‘How high up?’
‘About shoulder level.’ Her eyes were evasive. But Joanna was trying to puzzle out this initial part of the investigation. If the missing man was only a couple of inches short of six feet, he could easily have reached the key. Climbing on a chair and shooting back stiff bolts, though, might have proved more of a challenge. Looking at the manager’s face, Joanna sensed she could already see the negative reviews and dwindling list of prospective residents. For the home this could prove a disaster.
But … Joanna’s mind moved along. If Mr Foster been accidentally locked out, surely when they had realized he was missing they would have found a cold, shivering old man sitting on the doorstep. Or else a corpse.
She glanced at Bridget Anderton. Her face was a picture of sympathy and understanding. But, mirroring Joanna’s thoughts, there was a touch of accusation against the manager. In their opinion this case was one neither of them should have been involved in. Joanna breathed in the scent of elderly people, something fusty and confusing. She was resentful at being here at all. And the humiliation was making her mood scratchy.
‘And he was last seen …?’
‘They checked on him around two a.m. He was fast asleep. The staff had given him his evening medication.’
‘At what time?’
‘Around nine. Sometimes earlier.’
‘The medication consisted of …?’
‘Zopiclone.’ Sandie Golding shifted her glasses down from the top of her head to cover her eyes. She was embarrassed that the staff medicated their way to a quiet night. But that wasn’t Joanna’s concern.
‘And he took it?’
‘Oh, yes. There was never any trouble with Mr …’ Her voice trailed away as she acknowledged she’d just, inadvertently, used the past tense.
Joanna glanced at the notes she’d already made. ‘Can you think of a reason why Mr Foster might have wanted to go outside?’
That drew a deep breath, hesitation and a flicker in her eyes. ‘I mentioned he always carried an old teddy bear, dragged it around like Christopher Robin. He’d mislaid it.’ There was a certain tinge of contempt creeping into both her voice and her facial expression.
Bridget spoke up again. ‘So what happened to it?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ It was a throwaway remark. ‘Perhaps one of the other residents “borrowed” it. It’s possible it was accidentally thrown away. It was a horrible old thing his mother had given him years ago when he’d been a child. But he was very attached to it. Took it to bed every night. Carried it everywhere, got in a panic if he couldn’t find it.’ She smiled, for an instant forgetting the story behind this interview and to whom she was speaking. ‘In a way, many of our residents are children.’ Her face hardened. ‘The teddy went missing last week and he was upset.’
Joanna felt an expletive bubble up inside her, imagining the leg-pulling at the station. Not only searching for a missing geriatric but his teddy bear too. Great!
Out loud she meliorated her response, managing to make her tone if not concerned at least neutral. ‘His teddy bear’s gone missing before?’ She avoided Bridget’s eyes. The pair of them would have exploded.
‘No. He kept it very close.’ Ms Golding’s tone was severe. No mirth there. Joanna reminded herself this was a vulnerable adult, their responsibility, who was missing – on a quest for his beloved teddy bear or not.
‘When exactly did it go missing?’
‘I don’t know – exactly.’ She seemed irritated by the question. ‘I only know some time last Wednesday he couldn’t seem to find it and spent the day searching for it. Half the staff helped him look.’
Bridget’s quiet voice broke in again. ‘But you didn’t find it?’
‘No.’
Joanna took over. ‘And you think that would have been reason enough for him to get up in the night, sometime after the night staff had, presumably, observed him sleeping, and search for it outside? When he’d been dosed up with sleeping tablets?’ Somehow she’d made it sound almost impossible.
‘I can’t think of any other reason,’ Ms Golding responded sharply, still defensive. ‘Some of our patients do wander. But not Zac. He always seemed perfectly content with his daily life.’
‘Until his teddy bear went missing,’ Bridget put in again. Joanna’s head flicked round to look at the PC and Bridget gave her a cheeky smile in response.
Sandie Golding appeared not to have noticed, simply adding, ‘It did upset him.’ She gave a little huff of a laugh. ‘The strange thing is that he seemed to have found another one from somewhere. Or maybe one of the staff took pity on him and got hold of another one.’
Joanna didn’t even know why she picked up on this. ‘Did anyone say they had?’
Ms Golding looked even more irritated. ‘Had what?’
‘Substituted another bear?’
‘No.’ Said curtly, it shut the avenue down.
Joanna looked at Bridget and raised her eyebrows. Was this what pregnancy had reduced her to? Investigating the theft and substitution of an old man’s teddy bear?
‘I think somehow,’ Ms Golding continued, ‘that he must have slipped out and gone to look for it and then got lost.’
While someone locked the doors behind him?
‘The grounds are currently being searched,’ Joanna said, ‘by a team of uniformed officers, but so far they haven’t found him.’ She couldn’t resist tacking on with cruel irony, ‘Or, apparently, a teddy bear. If your patient did wander, it seems he left the grounds and has wandered further afield.’ She made a mental note-to-self to make sure the search of the home had been thorough. Maybe they should look again inside the home.
Ms Golding continued trying to find an explanation. ‘He was quite disturbed. I’m sorry, but it’s the only reason I can give you for his absconding.’ But something had changed in her expression. Doubt. She was doubting her own version. All three of them could hazard a guess as to what had gone on. If Zachary Foster had not managed to unlock the door himself, the door must have been left unlocked by a member of staff. So it appeared that the befuddled elderly gent, possibly in a quest for his missing teddy, had simply wandered out and been unable to get back in, possibly accidentally or as a result of his confused state of mind. Either that or someone had deliberately let him out and locked the door behind him. There seemed no logical reason for that, unless a member of staff had malicious or psychopathic tendencies. And that seemed unlikely. Joanna recalled the glowing tributes to Ryland’s.
Looking at the guarded expression on Ms Golding’s face, if he had managed to open the doors himself and accidentally been locked out, at the very least Ryland’s needed to review their safety and security policy. And judging by Sandie Golding’s face, her mind was tracking along the same route, displaying wariness slowly morphing into damage limitation.
There was an uneasy silence until Sandie Golding spoke again, confessing more to herself than to the two officers. ‘This’ll be bad publicity.’
We all have our own perspective.
Joanna looked out of the window to a large patio which stretched the entire side of the home and a patchy lawn beyond. As in many Victorian houses, the grounds were extensive. The likelihood was that if the missing man was nowhere in the home, he was somewhere in the undergrowth and would soon be found. She could see the team of officers moving forward in a line. They would have divided up the grounds into a grid and would cover every single inch of lawn, flowerbeds, bushes, trees.
Bridget followed her glance. ‘Shall I go outside to talk to them?’
‘Yeah. That’d be good.’
Bridget left.
Minutes later Joanna saw her outside the window, approaching a couple of fellow officers who were poking through the bushes with long sticks. From their demeanour the old man was still missing.
Joanna watched.
Bridget was wrapping her arms around herself against the cold. The weather had turned bitter, as it could in a town which was high and bordered miles of moorland. Leek, in times gone by, could easily be cut off even in autumn. The sky was a heavy, luminous grey and threatening enough to herald a storm which could even bring snow. The wind was rising, the leaves swirling around on the trees which bordered the lawn, branches jerking in an increasingly frenetic, mad dance. Soon they would be stripped bare, wearing winter’s nudity. If a ninety-six-year-old man was out there, he would be unused to such cold after the oppressive heat of the home. It was no weather for him to be wandering around searching for a lost teddy bear. He would die of exposure if he hadn’t already.
Unless.
‘What would Mr Foster have been wearing?’
‘I – I don’t know. I’m not sure.’
‘Slippers? Pyjamas? A coat? A dressing gown?’
‘I don’t know. I really don’t know.’ The manager was flustered. ‘You’ll have to ask the nurses. They’ll know what clothes he had.’ She hesitated, adding, ‘What’s missing.’
‘Right. I shall need a list as soon as possible, please. As well as a list and contact details of the staff who were on duty last night.’
‘Of course.’
Afterwards Joanna would deliberate over questions she could have asked, focused more on points she was now discarding like unwanted cards in a poker game, expecting all the time for there to be a shout from outside.
‘Excuse me one moment.’ She pulled her mobile phone from her pocket and located Korpanski. ‘I take it the uniforms have done a thorough search of the premises?’
‘Yes. They’re still there, aren’t they?’
‘Yes. I’ll speak to them and see if they’ve come across a teddy bear.’
Korpanski’s splutter was as eloquent as a comment. When he spoke his voice was low and still full of humour. ‘You are kidding me, aren’t you, Jo?’
‘Unfortunately,’ she responded drily, ‘no.’ She wanted to add so much but Sandie Golding’s grey eyes were taking everything in and her ears practically flapping.
I’m now reduced to finding a fucking teddy.
She knew Korpanski was having trouble suppressing his laughter as he said formally, his voice mocking and saturated with humour, ‘Description of the said Edward Bear?’
And now even she was having trouble concealing her smile.
‘I’ll see if I can get one, Mike.’ And returned to the point of her call. ‘So our missing man hasn’t turned up yet?’
‘Sorry, Jo. Not yet.’ And he couldn’t resist tacking on, ‘Nor his teddy bear.’
‘Not even any sightings from our ever-vigilant public?’
‘Not so far.’
‘Only – the weather’s turning.’
‘Yeah, I know. Forecast is bad. Below freezing tonight. You got any useful leads from the home?’
‘Not so far.’
In front of the manager she couldn’t share the fact that there was little likelihood of there being any logical plan in the missing man’s mind. He would simply wander at random, so the police search could not be structured around a ‘plan’ or delving into the missing geriatric’s confused state of mind. Apart from what their missing man was wearing – dressing gown? Striped pyjamas? Slippers? The thing she was most curious about was how he had got out. If he’d let himself out that spoke of memory – where the key was held, purpose – a hunt for a lost toy, and forward planning if he had dressed for the outside in a dressing gown or coat. Ryland’s itself was very warm, almost stifling, the heat hitting the moment you stepped inside the front door. He would not be acclimatized or prepared for the bitter outside weather.
And she still hadn’t worked out how he’d got out in the first place.
Unless one of the staff had opened the door for him or the night staff had lied that they’d locked it, it seemed, on the surface, impossible. The most likely explanation was that they’d forgotten to lock up properly. He’d wandered, they’d realized their omission after he’d gone, locked and bolted the door after him and then, when the consequences had become apparent, lied to cover their tracks and keep their jobs.
In her notebook she started jotting questions, making plans, testing theories. Did one of the night staff go outside for a smoke, perhaps, and forget to relock the door, locking it later? Mr Foster found it open and slipped out? So why hadn’t he slipped back in again? Once more she was trying to follow the maze of a befuddled mind which she didn’t understand.
‘Jo?’ Mike was still on the line.
‘Yeah.’
‘I’ll ring you if we get a sighting.’
‘Thanks.’ She ended the call.
For a second she allowed herself the luxury of returning to her beloved chief superintendent, Rush’s predecessor, Arthur Colclough. ‘Good detectives,’ he’d advised her, ‘never stop asking questions.’
Trouble was focusing on the right questions.
She took another glance out of the window at the fruitless search. ‘Did Mr Foster have many visitors?’
‘No. He’s got no living relatives and, apparently, no living friends.’ A mirthless little smile bent her mouth. ‘No one visited him. That’s one of the penalties of staying alive into your nineties.’
‘So how is he …?’
‘Funded?’
Joanna nodded.
‘His house was sold and some of his fees are paid by the council.’
‘Where was his house?’ It seemed a promising place to start. Maybe he had gone back there to look for …
‘Leonard Street. Number seventeen. But it was sold eighteen months ago.’ The stony, hostile face was back.
‘I think we’ll take a look there all the same. Can you think of anywhere else he might have gone?’
Sandie Golding shook her head.
‘How many staff were on duty last night?’
‘Three.’ Her eyes were wary now as she continued. ‘Two health-care assistants and a qualified nurse. But they’ll be sleeping now.’
‘We’ll speak to them later.’
Joanna paused for a moment, trying to gather her words into the right order. ‘The thing I’m struggling with, Miss Golding, is would Mr Foster have been capable of formulating a plan to search for his lost toy? How bad was his dementia? What form did it take? Did he have …’ she dragged a phrase she’d heard some time in the past, ‘short-term memory loss?’
‘I don’t know. You should speak to the matron about that. She’s medically qualified and had more to do with him on a daily basis. She would have more idea of his mental capabilities.’
‘Her name?’ Pencil poised.
‘Matilda Warrender. She’ll be on duty later today.’
‘Thank you.’
It was a shot in the dark but she decided to pursue it all the same. The missing man’s point of exit was still bothering her. It was surely the first step in his disappearance.
‘Do any of your night staff smoke?’
Predictably Ms Golding looked bemused at the question. ‘I don’t know. I really don’t know the night staff that well.’
Ms Golding was shutting down. Joanna sensed she would extract nothing more from her. She stood up. ‘I need to take a look around, please. The day room, front doors and all the other entrances and exits. Perhaps starting with his bedroom.’