Missing, p.25
Missing, page 25
He turns the page again, finding examples of older work – wading seabirds, soft-eyed seals, a skein of wild geese – and sketches, mostly of landscapes. The landscapes are good, capturing riverbanks, coastal cliffs and rolling countryside in only a few strokes of light pencil.
And one of them shows a view Fox has seen before.
Thirty-Seven
The route Fox is following on the satnav involves the same kind of impossibly narrow twists that lead to the Hoppers’ farm, but whereas Bleak Tor lies in upcountry moorland, this way leads through idyllic lowlands, lush grazing for cows producing the region’s famous clotted cream. Outwardly, the two locations have no connection, but to Fox the common factor’s obvious: no near neighbours.
The old bones of Otterburn Cottage still show under the new thatch, and in the random geometry of the black beams criss-crossing the frontage’s white render. The outbuildings, though, have undergone expensive alterations; sheds have become seamless extensions to the cottage, and the barn’s been transformed into an architectural wonder, stripped back to its medieval framework, the spaces between infilled from ground to roof with glass.
The cottage’s front door is glossy primrose yellow, with trompe l’oeil red tulips painted along the base. Fox is admiring the tulips when someone shouts from the direction of the barn.
‘Can I help you?’
A man is standing in the barn doorway, an expression of annoyance on his face.
Fox raises a hand. ‘Good morning.’
He makes his way towards the man, who Fox puts in his sixties – his once-blonde hair and beard are run through with silver – though he’s dressed in a younger man’s clothes: tracksuit bottoms and desert boots, a hoody with an orange neck-warmer of the type favoured by downhill skiers.
‘This is private property,’ says the man.
Fox holds up his warrant card and introduces himself. ‘Simon Orchard?’
‘Yes.’
‘I wonder if I might have a quick word?’
He notices Orchard’s eyes slide very briefly to the left. Could he be worried?
‘In regard to what?’ asks Orchard. ‘I normally only see visitors by appointment.’
‘I tried to make an appointment via email, but you didn’t reply,’ says Fox. ‘Since I was in the district, I thought I’d call in, on the off-chance.’
He sees from Orchard’s face that he’s not buying the ‘in the neighbourhood’ story, but he doesn’t care. Why would he believe it, after all? His home is too far off the beaten track to be anything but a lengthy detour for anyone.
‘I’m not obliged to speak to you, then?’ he asks.
‘By no means, sir. Though if you don’t, since we’re here, face to face, I might be inclined to wonder why you’d refuse.’
Orchard sighs to signal his displeasure at being inconvenienced. ‘Come inside, then. I really can’t give you very long. I’m working on a commission, and I’m already days behind.’
He leads the way inside the barn. Undeniably, it’s a beautiful building, light and bright even in the gloomy overcast of a February Tuesday. The vaulted ceiling is high, with many lights hanging down, arranged to illuminate even the furthest corners. All around the interior, a walkway reached by oak steps has been constructed above head height, and from the rail hangs a gallery of Orchard’s sketches and paintings, ingeniously displayed so the birds depicted – mostly raptors, Fox notices, kestrels and falcons and a red kite – resemble a lively aviary, swooping and hovering in flight.
At the centre of the barn is a huge, high table, where all the artist’s tools – brushes and pens in ceramic pots, paints, paper and canvas – are spread out in an invitation to create, making Fox’s hand itch to pick out an implement and draw. Maybe he should think seriously about taking those art classes.
‘Very impressive,’ he says.
‘Please don’t touch anything,’ says Orchard. ‘And I can’t offer you any refreshment. I don’t allow food or drink in the studio.’
He sits down on a high stool, and signals to Fox to take a seat on a battered leather sofa. Fox declines; the paint stains on the cushions make him nervous for his suit trousers.
‘I’ll try not to keep you,’ he says. ‘I just want to ask you about your relationship with Alice Ansley.’
Orchard gives a dismissive snort. ‘Alice? What in God’s name do I have to do with Alice? I haven’t seen her in over twenty years.’
‘You’re aware that she recently died?’
Fox notes another of those sideways glances, a tell that Orchard may at least be considering not telling the truth.
He counts a full five seconds before Orchard says, ‘I did know, yes. I was contacted by her daughter – what’s her name, Marianne.’
‘Marietta.’
‘Marietta, that’s it. A flamboyant name, but that was Alice.’
‘Can I ask, what was the nature of your relationship with Mrs Ansley?’
‘You can ask, of course. My relationship wasn’t primarily with her, it was with her husband, Rob. He and I struck up a friendship over a couple of years. He was a fisherman, and I needed someone to take me to remote coastal locations for my work. He knew the coast like no one else, and I trusted him implicitly. Anything I needed, he was happy to oblige. And the best thing about him was his taciturn nature. He had the rare and admirable gift of not speaking unless spoken to. If there were more people like him, the world would be a much better place.’
‘You’re not someone who enjoys company?’
‘I enjoy company when it’s appropriate. But noise of any kind is death to the green shoots of creativity. Rob understood that. He was content with the sounds of the sea and the birds, as was I.’
‘What happened to him?’
‘He died. An accident at sea. Of course, Alice was devastated, and as a family friend – which I was, by that stage – I did my bit to offer succour and comfort.’
‘To what degree?’
Orchard regards Fox with narrowed eyes. ‘What do you mean?’
‘I mean, were you and Alice in an intimate relationship at any time?’
‘Define intimate relationship.’
‘Did you and Alice Ansley have sexual relations?’
Orchard laughs. ‘Spit it out, man. You mean did I fuck her? Well, for the record, yes, I did. Once and once only, after an evening of tears and red wine.’
‘And after that?’
‘We resumed our platonic footing, to the extent that relations between a man and a woman can ever be truly asexual. I gave her a little money from time to time, until she was back on her feet. That was the least I could do, for Rob’s sake. She made a slow recovery from her loss, and as she did, we grew apart. She had no further need of me, and as I said, in the first instance, I was Rob’s friend, not hers. I’d heard nothing of her until her daughter contacted me to let me know she’d died.’
‘Did you go to the funeral?’
‘Yes, I did. I thought it the decent thing to do, though God knows I couldn’t spare the time.’
‘I wonder if I could ask you to have a look at this?’ From his pocket, Fox produces a photocopy of a page from the Windrush gallery catalogue showing a landscape pencil sketch. He holds it out to Orchard. ‘Can you tell me where you drew that?’
Orchard glances at the paper, and shrugs. ‘I’m afraid not, no. As you can see, it’s a fairly generic landscape. I’ve made thousands of such sketches in my time, and I couldn’t begin to give you locations for all of them. Probably I could for one or two that are special to me.’
‘And yet in that exhibition there were only two or three other sketches, apart from this one. If you’ve done thousands, what made you pick this?’
‘I didn’t pick it. The exhibition was curated by the gallery. They show the works they think will best sell. The idea of art for art’s sake is totally outmoded, Inspector. I’m afraid we’re all in the business to make what we can. And if I’d been doing the choosing, that sketch wouldn’t have been shown. I don’t think it’s one of my best.’
Fox puts the paper back in his pocket. ‘Well, thank you for your time, sir. I’ll let you get on.’
‘Hold on a moment,’ says Orchard. ‘You haven’t told me why you’re asking these questions. I have a right to know, don’t I?’
‘In law, actually you don’t, but I’ve no reason to be secretive. It’s come to our attention that Mrs Ansley had a third child, and it’s in my remit to find out who was the father.’
A tiny flicker of the eyelids, and Fox knows for certain Orchard’s got something to hide.
He gives a snide grin. ‘Surely it’s not a crime to have a baby?’
Fox smiles back. ‘That very much depends on how the baby’s treated. From what you’ve said to me, it’s a possibility the father was you.’
‘I doubt it, but even if I was, what of it? That doesn’t make me a criminal.’
‘Did you know she was pregnant?’
Again a delay before Orchard answers, long enough, this time, for Fox to count to six in his head.
‘When it comes to women, I’m not an observant man. I focus my attention on the natural world around me, some would say to my detriment. I’ve never married, and that’s probably why. I think women find me insensitive, whereas what they actually mean is that I’m insensitive to them.’
‘So you and she never cohabited?’
‘Absolutely not.’
‘This is a lovely place you have here.’
‘My life’s work, or should I say my life’s other work. When I first bought it, it was a tumbledown shack, water from a well in the yard and a bucket in a shed for a toilet. I’m proud of what I’ve done with it.’
‘Did Alice ever visit you here?’
Yet again, that hesitation.
‘She brought the girls here once or twice, when they were very young. I doubt they’d even remember.’
But they might, thinks Fox. Smart guy, telling the truth on that one.
‘Only once or twice?’
‘As I remember.’
‘And when they came to visit, did the baby come too?’
‘Their visits were well before any baby arrived. My friendship with Alice, such as it was, was already on the wane, and having the girls here once or twice was more than enough, from my point of view. Nothing is more guaranteed to disturb my creative equilibrium more than noisy children. Which isn’t to say they weren’t – aren’t – lovely girls. I was very fond of them for a time, as I’m sure they’ll confirm. I suppose you’ve spoken to them, have you?’
‘I have, yes. What would really help me in this investigation would be if you’d agree to taking a DNA test. To rule you in, or out.’
‘Rule me in or out of what? I’ve already told you I had sex with the woman. That doesn’t make me a criminal. Whatever you’re investigating is nothing to do with me.’
‘Then you’ll have no objection to taking the test.’
Orchard shakes his head. ‘I’d have to speak to my lawyer about that. It might be misused. If paternity were established, I could be liable for support.’
‘After twenty years? I very much doubt that. Especially as the child is dead.’
Fox can see Orchard making an effort to appear indifferent. ‘That’s unfortunate, but again, nothing to do with me.’
‘To be frank, that’s what I’m trying to ascertain.’
‘What?’ Orchard seems blusteringly outraged. ‘Are you accusing me of being involved in the boy’s death?’
‘Were you?’
Orchard laughs again. ‘You have a wicked sense of humour. My involvement with Alice – I had better call it a friendship, so nothing is misconstrued – was terminated more years ago than I care to remember. I shall speak to my lawyer, and if he tells me there will be no come-back on me, you shall have your DNA. Maybe you could leave me your details, and I’ll have my lawyer call you when he and I have spoken.’
As he drives away, Fox wonders if he’s made any progress at all. With Alice gone, there seems to be only Orchard’s word as to how the relationship was, when it began and when it ended, how casual or intense it might have been.
But a DNA test proving Orchard was Baby Michael’s father might prove a valuable weapon in Fox’s armoury.
Especially since Orchard seems already aware that Alice’s baby was a boy.
Thirty-Eight
Rarely do circumstances contrive to make Fox’s life easier, but when he learns on Monday morning that Barbara Constant lives within three miles of the police station, he takes it as a win, even more so when she’s happy to attend in person.
‘A little bit of excitement,’ she tells him on the phone. ‘When you get to my age, you clutch at any straw.’
Even though he suspects she may have nothing of interest to say, instead of inviting her to the Portakabin, he books an interview room. Mrs Constant will take the matter more seriously in the kind of space that leaves no doubt the business at hand is official.
To that end, he keeps her waiting a few minutes after she’s been shown in by a uniformed PC, giving her a chance to settle down from This is fun curiosity to the uncertainty of How long am I going to be here?
When he finally enters the room – carrying a weighty file – he’s putting away his phone, generating the impression he’s a busy man who doesn’t have time for idle chatter.
First impressions, he puts her in her sixties, expensively dressed in cashmere and a Burberry raincoat. With her blonde hair beautifully styled, she’s as well groomed as minor aristocracy. Which, with her accent, she might be.
‘I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Mrs Constant.’
She’s scented the room with French perfume and cigarettes. When she speaks, the tobacco smell intensifies.
‘Barbara, please. And don’t apologise. I know how busy you must be. Those of us with limitless time at our disposal don’t worry about a little tardiness.’
Is there a reproach hidden under that affability? Her face is hard to read, the mask of civility locked firmly in place.
‘Thank you for coming to talk to me, Barbara.’
‘Not at all. I’m intrigued.’
‘I have some questions relating to a friend of yours, Alice Ansley.’
‘Ah. I did wonder if it might be about poor Alice. Is there something untoward about her death? I gather it was ruled a suicide, but I must say I found that very out of character for her. She was always such a cheerful soul.’ She hesitates. ‘Maybe I should qualify that. She was a cheerful soul when we were at school together, which is – as you may imagine – longer ago than I care to think of. In latter years, she and I were thrust apart by life’s vagaries, and didn’t see as much of each other as we might have liked. You always think, don’t you, that there’ll be other opportunities, and then suddenly, just like that, there aren’t.’
‘How well do you know her children?’
‘Oh, not well at all. If you’re looking for information about them, I’m afraid I’m not your best source. I knew the girls – at least I met them a few times – when they were very young, but I hadn’t seen them for years until Alice’s funeral. One of them’s a beauty, but I found the other – was it Lily, or Marietta? So easy to get them confused – rather sullen. She’d be pretty too, if she’d smile a little more readily.’
Fox doesn’t say he thinks it quite natural to be sullen at one’s mother’s funeral, but bets all his chips on his next question. Make or break.
‘You looked after them for a little while, I gather, when they were small.’
Barbara smiles. ‘Yes, I did. I wasn’t at all what you’d call a competent childminder. I don’t know much about children to this day, never having had any of my own, and by extension, no grandchildren either. But we muddled along all right. I was glad to help out in an emergency.’
‘What was the emergency?’
Barbara wafts a hand weighted with rings. ‘Some domestic hoo-ha, as I recall. I hadn’t seen Alice for ages, and she phoned me out of the blue, asking if I could have the girls until her mother got back from Corfu or wherever it was. I seem to remember Alice claimed to have slipped a disc or some such. I’ve done it myself, and you really have no choice but to lie still for days and days on end, so I’m not surprised she felt she couldn’t look after the children. Probably it was lifting them about that caused it. Anyway, of course I agreed, she dropped them off, and a few days later a very disapproving grandmother came and picked them up again.’
‘Was Alice with anyone, do you recall?’
‘With anyone?’ Barbara pulls a face. ‘Are you thinking of a man? Someone was driving the car, yes, but I couldn’t see who. It was a bit of a scramble, the girls rather tearful and confused at being left, Alice handing over their luggage and giving me instructions. She didn’t come in the house, not even for a cup of tea. I do remember being a bit surprised at that.’
‘She handed over the girls’ luggage? With a slipped disc?’
‘Oh. I never thought of that.’
‘Couldn’t the driver have helped?’
‘Well, he just sat there with the engine running, keen to be on his way. Rather rude, I thought, since I was doing Alice what was by any measure a huge favour. But she said they had a long drive back.’
‘To where?’
‘To his house. She wasn’t living in Selmouth, she was living with him in some ghastly cottage with no running water. I know that because she’d sent me a card with a note over Christmas. She made light of it, but it sounded beyond grim to me.’
