Dead And Buried

Twenty-four

He was unaware of it, but Bob Skinner smiled as the train emerged into the daylight. He had never suffered from claustrophobia to his knowledge, but he never felt comfortable in railway tunnels. Whenever he was in London, and he had the option, he chose bus or taxi over Underground.

The deputy chief constable was casually dressed, in jeans, a heavy cotton shirt and a lined cow-hide jacket that he had bought in America on one of his visits there with Sarah. He had packed a medium-sized suitcase for the trip: it held, among other things, an overcoat, a suit, several shirts, a pair of black shoes and, still in their wrapping, two packs each of new socks and underwear from Marks amp; Spencer. On extended trips away from home he regarded such items as disposable. It was easier to replace them as necessary than to have them pile up in his room, or hand wash them and dry them on radiators.

Dottie Shannon sat opposite him, engrossed in a Sheila O’Flanagan novel that she had bought at the airport. She was dressed more formally than the DCC, in a charcoal grey suit and white shirt. It had concerned her at first, but he had put her at her ease. ‘You’re fine; it’s no problem. You’ll make a good impression. I’ve been there before, so I can dress like a slob, as most of the people who work there do.’

‘Where are we going?’ she had asked.

When he told her that they were bound for the headquarters of the Security Service, she had gone instantly pale.

‘Don’t worry, Dottie. It’s just another office, and the people we’ll be interviewing will be subjects, that’s all, just like any others.’

‘But why, sir?’ she had asked anxiously.

‘Because they need their problem signed off by someone from outside.’

‘Why us?’

‘Because my signature counts for something, and because I’m privy to the nature of the problem and its aftermath. It isn’t the sort of aftermath where you can stick a retired judge in a room for a month, let him hold public hearings and then write a whitewash report. But that’s enough for now: I’ll give you a full briefing when we’re there.’

He glanced down at his own reading choice, a golf autobiography. . he had never been able to concentrate on fiction when he had things on his mind. . and was about to reopen it when his mobile sounded, deep within his jacket. He took it out and glanced at the screen identification. ‘Hello, Jimmy, how’re you doing?’ he asked.

‘Where are you?’ the chief constable asked.

‘On the Heathrow Express, heading to Paddington.’

‘Can you speak?’

‘Within reason. Why?’

‘I’d like some advice, that’s all.’

‘Sure, if I can.’

‘If you were looking for a missing person, where would you start?’

‘At the place where he was seen last, or in the mortuary: one or the other. How long’s he been missing?’

‘Forty-one years.’

‘Bloody hell.’ Skinner chuckled. ‘Forget the morgue, then. Their fridges aren’t that good. In that case I’d be checking with the people at the General Records Office to see if his death’s been registered.’

‘I’m told it hasn’t.’

‘Do you have a birth certificate for him?’

‘No.’

‘Then get one. What age is this absconder?’

‘Mid-seventies.’

‘Then try the Department of Work and Pensions. Give them all the details from the birth certificate, and as much employment history as you can, and see where they’re paying his pension.’

‘What if I do that and find he isn’t claiming one?’

‘Then you’ll need to go back to his friends and family from forty years ago. You’ll need to go back to my starting-off point, the place where he was seen last. Jimmy, fill me in on this.’

He listened as Proud described his meeting with Trudi Friend, and about her search for her mother.

‘So what you’re telling me,’ he said, when the story was over, ‘is that this married man, with a cracking-looking wife, bewitched a naïve, if not innocent, girl from up north, and told her he was going to marry her, then they both disappear from jobs, home and everything else on the same day. Question: did Annabelle know he was married? Answer: assume that she did. They worked in the same school; he couldn’t chance her finding out in casual conversation, especially if Señora Bothwell was known there and gave you your running cup. . congratulations, by the way. Question: he vanished, she vanished, so what about the wife? She seems to have been a confident woman, by your account and by Mr Goddard’s. So what did she do when the pair did their runner? If their house was empty when Goddard went looking for Adolf, where the hell was she?’

‘I don’t have answers for any of these.’

‘Then find them. But if I was in your shoes, right now I’d be trying to find out everything there is to know about your old teacher.’

‘But who’s going to tell me?’

‘There’s always somebody. You don’t live for thirty-six years in a modern, developed country without leaving a pretty big trail behind you. While you’re waiting for your SSTA lady to get back to you, look for his social-security number and his NHS number. Do his health records still exist somewhere? Could he have paid social security after the day of his disappearance? Most of all, when you go to GRO, find out about every public record on which his name appears.’

‘Such as?’

‘There’s his own marriage certificate for a start. Then, maybe he was a witness to someone else’s. It’s a long shot, but if that’s the case and those people are still alive, they could be of assistance. Last but not least, and this is where my detective’s nose starts twitching, was he married before Montserrat? If he proposed to commit bigamy with Annabelle, was he a first offender?’

‘Bob, that’s great. That’s a big help.’

‘Thanks, but, Jimmy, you’re going to need more help than that.’

‘Not at all. It’s a private matter, my own initiative, something any citizen’s entitled to do off his own bat. What’s wrong with that?’

‘Nothing, if you weren’t the chief constable. This woman’s reported her mother missing. Okay, she’s forty years late, but she still deserves to have her complaint handled officially.’

‘Bob, I’m not passing this down the line, and that’s final.’

‘You’re the boss, but you still have to open a file on it. Once that’s done, it has to be followed through. You have other duties, Jimmy, and you owe it to the public not to be diverted from them by something not worthy of an officer of your rank. Supervise the search by all means, but use a leg man at least. Take big Jack McGurk, my assistant. He’ll have time on his hands till I get back.’

The chief constable considered Skinner’s advice. ‘Very well,’ he said at last. ‘I’ll do that. But bloody hell, you’re some man to be giving me lectures about delegating.’