It was Friday, the crack of dawn as it is measured by teenagers, and Saturday was still curled in the warm cave of his duvet, half asleep and half awake, contemplating the possibility of padding downstairs and making himself a baked-bean sandwich, when a diffident knock at the front door impinged on his comfort. He considered ignoring it. It wouldn’t be Hazel – she had her own key, and kept a spare secreted in the back yard for emergencies – and no one else knew he was here. Except Ash, and he probably wasn’t up to paying visits yet. No one would shout at him if he just went back to sleep …
The knocker sounded again, a little more doggedly. Saturday cranked one eye open enough to read the clock. Ten forty-five. The postman, maybe, with something too big to push through the letterbox? If Hazel was waiting for a delivery, she’d know he couldn’t be bothered to take it in. Reluctantly, hissing as his bare feet hit the cold lino, he headed downstairs. Lacking a dressing-gown, he pulled on his leather coat as he went.
It wasn’t the postman. It was a middle-aged man in an anorak and a bobble hat, carrying a shopping bag and holding a book in front of him rather like a shield. He seemed taken aback at the sight of Saturday. ‘Is Miss Best at home, please?’
Saturday shook his head. His hair looked more than ever like a badly made haystack. ‘She’s at work.’
The man in the anorak nodded, embarrassed. ‘Of course. I was thinking she was still on nights, but her shift changed last week, didn’t it? I’m sorry, I’ll come back later.’ He went to turn away.
Saturday said, ‘Do you want me to give her a message?’
The visitor hesitated. ‘Yes – perhaps, if you wouldn’t mind. You could tell her Mr Price called. Mr Price from the council – she knows who I am.’ He gave a shy smile and gestured at the patchwork of tarmac beside the kerb. ‘I was overseeing her roadworks.’
‘OK, I’ll tell her,’ said Saturday. ‘Do you want to leave the book?’
‘Er …’ Mr Price hadn’t thought that far. He switched the book into his right hand, which meant switching his shopping bag onto his left arm. ‘I probably shouldn’t. It’s not actually mine – I borrowed it from the Town Hall library.’ Thinking some further explanation was necessary he added, ‘I think I’ve found the waterfall she was looking for. Well, maybe … It’s not exactly the same, but then the book’s forty years old. I thought she’d want to see it, anyway.’
‘Of course she will,’ said Saturday kindly. ‘You’ll probably catch her at the police station if you want to talk to her. Or I could phone her.’
‘No, don’t do that,’ said Mr Price, faintly horrified. ‘Not when she’s working. I’m sure it’ll wait. I’ll pop back this evening.’ He gave a fleeting little scowl. ‘Of course, it’ll be dark by then. If she wants to go and look, it’ll have to be tomorrow. Unless she’s working this weekend.’ He nodded, the decision made. ‘Thank you, young man. If you’ll tell her I called, and I’ll come back this evening.’
Saturday’s own mental processes, sluggish from the night that his body insisted had hardly ended, were beginning to catch up. He knew about the waterfall, and Hazel’s attempts to identify a spot she was sure was important. Tonight and tomorrow were too far away if the man sending her photographs posed as much of a danger to her as he had to Gabriel Ash.
‘Wait,’ he said. ‘Look, why don’t you show me? Then I can check it out for her. If there’s anything there, I can tell her. If not, it’ll save wasting her time.’
Mr Price looked doubtful. Then he shrugged, and followed Saturday into the little sitting room at the front of the house. ‘All right. There may be nothing in it. But I came across this picture’ – he turned straight to it, aided by a bookmark bearing the legend ‘Poets do it in rhyming couplets’ – ‘and I thought it might be the place she was asking me about. I’ve never been there myself, but it must have been a bit of a local beauty-spot forty years ago.’ He laid the open book on the coffee table.
Hazel hadn’t wanted to keep the album she’d been sent in her sitting room, as if it was something to be proud of. She’d put it in the cupboard under the sink. Saturday went into the kitchen and took it out. Then he took out the photograph of the waterfall. He didn’t think Hazel would want him sharing the other images with Mr Price or anyone else.
He put the photograph Hazel had been sent beside that printed in the book. They studied them together, with much frowning and sucking of cheeks. Finally Price straightened up. ‘Well, I’m sure I don’t know. It could be the same place. It’s a lot more overgrown in that one’ – the new photograph – ‘but maybe that’s to be expected. And then, this one’ – in the book – ‘was taken in summer, with all the trees in full leaf and less water in the stream. Of course it would look different, forty years later and in December.’
Saturday too was struggling to find any diagnostic feature. It could be the same place; it might not be. He turned his attention to the accompanying text on the book’s opposite page. ‘Lubbuck’s Gully. At least they weren’t setting up unrealistic expectations with the name.’
Mr Price smiled thinly. ‘The Lubbuck estate was broken up in the Seventies. The usual thing – too many death duties to pay. Some of it was incorporated into Forestry Commission woodland, some of it was sold to adjoining farms.’
As well as the book he’d brought a map – an Ordnance Survey walkers’ map with sites of interest in and around Norbold marked on it. There weren’t many of them. Price sketched a rough circle with his thumb. ‘The thin blue lines are water-courses. To get a decent waterfall, you’d probably need one coming off a fairly steep hillside. Like this one’ – he pointed again – ‘or this. That whole area is probably pretty overgrown. It’s too rough to farm, too steep for forestry.’
Saturday was staring. ‘You can tell all that from looking at a map?’
‘I used to do a bit of bush-craft,’ said Benny Price modestly.
‘How do I get there?’
Benny pointed again. ‘I know that track. They use it to extract timber – it’s stoned and not too rough. You could drive to within half a mile. After that you’d have to walk.’ He looked down at Saturday’s bare feet and smiled. ‘Unless you’ve got some proper boots, you might be better leaving it to Hazel.’
If it wasn’t meant as a challenge, Saturday responded to it as one. ‘Half a mile? I’ve walked half a mile in wet trainers more times than I care to remember. What about you? Will you show me the way?’
He didn’t think Mr Price was expecting that. ‘I left my car at home.’
‘I have a car. Give me five minutes to put some clothes on, and we’ll go check it out. Yes?’
‘Er …’
‘Do you have to go back to work?’
‘No. But …’
‘Mr Price, you’ve already gone to a lot of trouble to help Hazel. I’m sure she’ll be grateful. She’ll be even more impressed if we can tell her we’ve identified the place in the photograph. Or even that we went there and there was nothing to see. Right now she needs a bit of help. We can be there and back in an hour. How about it?’
Benny Price drew a deep breath. ‘Oh, all right.’
As they left the house, the postman was poised to knock. ‘You need a bigger letterbox,’ he muttered darkly.
‘No, just smaller mail,’ said Saturday airily. But he took the assorted fliers and envelopes, and took them back inside.
That was when it occurred to him he should leave a note, in case Hazel dropped in at lunchtime and missed him. He scribbled something on a scrap of paper and propped it up on top of the post on the kitchen table.
‘Are we going, then?’ called Benny Price from the door. He sounded as though he was already having second thoughts.
The chilly gust of air that came in with his voice blew the note onto the kitchen floor. Saturday picked it up and weighed it in place with some of the post. Hazel would find it when she sorted through her mail. ‘I’m coming now.’
Benny regarded the yellow sports car with misgivings. Saturday saw him weighing up the relative sizes of himself, his book, his map, his shopping bag and the passenger seat. Saturday took the bag. ‘I’ll put this in the boot, shall I? Good grief,’ he said then, ‘are you tooling up for a siege?’
Benny frowned. He wasn’t very good at levity. ‘Asda were doing buy-one-get-one-free on tinned goods. It was a good time to stock up.’ He gave a shy smile. ‘So I treated myself with what I saved.’
Saturday couldn’t imagine what a middle-aged man who worked for the council and used to do a bit of bush-craft would consider a treat. A solar-powered torch? Tungsten-tipped tent pegs for use on rocky outcrops?
‘New tools. I’m a bit of a carpenter on the side. Nothing fancy – rustic garden furniture, that kind of thing. But I can’t pass a hardware shop without seeing what they’ve got. It’s not the saw that weighs so much,’ he added by way of explanation, ‘as some of the other stuff.’
The car’s engine came to life with a throaty roar. ‘You want to tell me where to go?’
Benny looked at him in surprise. Saturday sighed. ‘You’ve got the map. I don’t do maps – I do sat-nav. You need to tell me which way to go.’
‘Oh – yes,’ said Benny Price.
Hazel wasn’t going to tell Ash that Saturday was missing. He wasn’t strong enough to do anything but worry, and she could worry just fine by herself. But Gorman called him. ‘I need you to go round to Hazel’s house and make sure she doesn’t leave.’
His tone brooked no argument, and Ash offered none. ‘I’ll be there in ten minutes. What’s happened?’
‘Hazel will fill you in when you get there. Gabriel – don’t let her leave. Whatever happens, however much she wants to, don’t let her out of your sight.’
While Ash was reading Saturday’s note, Hazel said, ‘I’m going next door. Mrs Burden may have seen something.’
Ash looked up doubtfully, Gorman’s injunction ringing in his ears. But she didn’t have her coat on, and he could see her car keys hanging in their usual place on the back of the kitchen door, and he decided it would be absurd to insist on accompanying her the couple of metres from her front step to Mrs Burden’s. ‘Come straight back.’
It was too cold to talk outside: Mrs Burden asked her in. She was cleaning the house. Experience told her that if she did it as soon as Alec went out in the morning, it would stay done until he got home in the evening. Doing it with him there was like herding cats.
Hazel explained briefly that she’d mislaid her lodger and was becoming concerned, and that he probably left the house about eleven o’clock the previous morning. ‘I don’t suppose you saw him go?’
‘I heard the car,’ said Mrs Burden helpfully. ‘Yes, around mid-morning.’
Hazel had hoped for more. But Mrs Burden wasn’t a fully fledged nosy neighbour who would drop whatever she was doing in order to investigate a knock on somebody else’s door. ‘Do you know if he was alone?’
‘I didn’t see, dear. But there was someone at the door ten or fifteen minutes earlier. When I was letting the cat out.’
Hazel’s instincts sharpened. ‘Who?’
‘I don’t know his name. But you might – I saw you talking to him while they were working on the road.’
‘One of the workmen?’ Memory focused, presented her with a picture. ‘Mr Price, the man from the council?’
‘A slightly tubby gentleman, not particularly tall, maybe about forty? Wearing an anorak and carrying a shopping bag.’
Hazel didn’t know about the bag, but otherwise the description fitted. ‘And Saturday answered the door?’ Mrs Burden nodded. ‘I don’t suppose you heard what they said.’
Mrs Burden sniffed, ready to take offence. ‘I’m sure I don’t go round listening to other people’s conversations. Nobody can accuse me of going round listening to other people’s conversations.’
‘Of course not, Mrs B.’ Hazel tempered her sense of urgency with the need to keep the other woman on-side. ‘But these are small houses – voices carry. Especially men’s voices, don’t you find? I just thought you might have caught a few words. If Saturday headed out soon afterwards, it might be because of something Mr Price said to him.’
‘Well,’ said Mrs Burden, mollified. ‘He was looking for you, of course. The council man. Your young friend offered to take a message. I don’t know if that’s what they did – I went back inside. I heard nothing more until I heard the car leaving ten or fifteen minutes later.’
There was nothing more to be learned from her. Hazel thanked her and returned home.
The simplest way to find out what Benny Price had said to Saturday was to ask him. Hazel phoned the council works department. But Benny had finished for the weekend.
She asked for his home address and phone-number. Very properly, the council clerk at the other end of the line declined to give them.
‘I am a police officer,’ Hazel reminded her, ‘and this could be quite urgent.’
‘And of course we’ll co-operate with police inquiries,’ the clerk assured her. ‘But I need to be sure you really are who you say you are. I can’t take your word for it over the phone.’
Hazel breathed heavily, but actually she couldn’t argue with that. ‘Fine. Me and my warrant card will be with you in five minutes.’
Ash had promised DCI Gorman that he wouldn’t let her out of his sight. Actually, he’d promised that he wouldn’t let her leave the house, but he didn’t think this was what Gorman had been worried about – that she might go as far as the council offices on Jubilee Road. ‘I’ll come with you.’
They took Hazel’s nice new car. She spread a blanket on the back seat and Patience, rolling her toffee-coloured eyes, sat on it.
The clerk inspected Hazel’s warrant card and apologised; but in fact she had nothing to apologise for. ‘You’re right to be cautious,’ said Hazel, scribbling down the information she’d been given. ‘People shouldn’t believe everything they’re told.’
‘I hope Mr Price isn’t in any kind of trouble.’
‘Good Lord, no,’ said Hazel, surprised. ‘He was trying to contact me. I think he left a message with my friend – but my friend’s now gone missing, and if I knew what the message was I might know where to look for him.’ She frowned. ‘Where exactly is Studley Row?’
‘It’s that terrace of agricultural labourers’ cottages off Wittering Road,’ the clerk explained. ‘A couple of miles out of town. They were built for the old parish council back in the nineteenth century.’
Hazel nodded. ‘I’ll try phoning him first. But if I can’t get hold of him, I’ll take a run out.’
She called from the car park. It was a mobile number, which slightly surprised Hazel. She’d had Benny Price down as the last man in England to hold onto his landline, with the possible exception of Gabriel Ash. But the call went straight to voice mail. She left a message, asking him to call her back. But with no confidence that he’d get it in the immediate future, she started the car again and turned towards Wittering.
‘Aren’t we going home?’ asked Ash.
‘I need to talk to Benny Price,’ said Hazel doggedly. ‘As far as I know, he’s the last person who spoke to Saturday before he disappeared. It may be a coincidence, but he must have had some reason for calling at my house. I asked him about the picture of the waterfall: if he remembered something, maybe he came round to tell me. And since I was at work, Saturday may have decided to check it out himself. It’s only a couple of miles, Gabriel. If Benny isn’t at home, we’ll be back in ten minutes.’
‘And if he is at home?’
She knew what he was asking. ‘That’ll depend on what he tells us.’
‘Dave Gorman will have my guts for garters if I let anything happen to you.’
‘What’s going to happen to me?’ she scoffed. ‘I just want a word with a member of the council works department! If he has anything useful to say, I’ll call Dave.’
‘And let him take it from there,’ insisted Ash.
The slight hesitation may have been significant. ‘And let him take it from there.’