Mrs Pargeter 02; Mrs, Presumed Dead

∨ Mrs, Presumed Dead ∧

Twelve

On the other hand, it did make a lot of things clear. If Theresa Cotton was about to enter some sort of religious order and make a complete break from the galloping consumerism of her old life, at least some of her behaviour was explained.

But the explanation only went so far. And in fact it raised almost as many questions as it answered. Particularly, it raised questions about her husband. Was Rod Cotton aware of his wife’s plans, was the change in her lifestyle something which they had discussed? Or had he, like everyone else, been misled by false information? Was Theresa intending just to vanish from his life and spend the rest of her days as Sister Camilla? Come to that, did Rod know that his wife proposed to donate the proceeds of their house sale to some obscure religious foundation?

What on earth was the Church of Utter Simplicity? Mrs Pargeter felt certain that she had never heard the name before. There were some alternative sects which were never out of the news, usually with bad publicity, but this one was completely unfamiliar. What were the precepts of the Church of Utter Simplicity? And how much money were they hoping to receive from their latest convert?

Mrs Pargeter hesitated for a moment. Now, thanks to the letter, even though it did raise all these questions, she knew where Theresa Cotton had gone. Though she might not approve of the deception the woman had practised, the mystery was cleared up. The more dramatic explanations of Theresa Cotton’s disappearance which had been encroaching on Mrs Pargeter’s thoughts could be dismissed. The truth was bizarre, but at least it did explain things. The fortunes of the Cottons were now no longer Mrs Pargeter’s business.

And yet…

There was still something that niggled in her mind. To call it an anxiety would have been to overstate the case, but there was a little shadow of disquiet there. Something didn’t quite add up, and Mrs Pargeter knew that she wouldn’t really relax until she had checked just one or two details.

All she needed to do was confirm the truth of what the letter implied, and then her mind would be set at rest.

♦

Though the existence of the Church of Utter Simplicity sounded much less likely than that of ‘Elm Trees’, Bascombe Lane, Dunnington, Directory Enquiries had no difficulty in providing her with its number.

She rang through and was quickly answered by an efficient American female voice. “Church of Utter Simplicity.”

The words still sounded incongruous to Mrs Pargeter, but she supposed that if you said them every time the phone rang they ceased to be odd. Certainly the American voice gave no sign of being amused.

“Good morning. Could I speak to Brother Michael, please?”

“Just a moment.”

The line clicked, then she heard, “Hello? Brother Michael speaking.”

The fruitiness of the voice was unmistakable. It was the man who had interrupted her sleep on the previous Friday afternoon, the man who had asked her where Theresa Cotton was. Just as she was now asking him. The little flicker of disquiet in Mrs Pargeter’s mind pulsed more strongly.

“Good morning,” she said without identifying herself. “I am trying to contact a Mrs Theresa Cotton…”

“Oh,” said the man’s voice. “I didn’t know anyone knew she was supposed to be coming here.”

“She did confide in a few friends,” Mrs Pargeter lied.

“That was foolish of her.” As in their previous conversation, the man made no attempt to be pleasant.

“Well, since I do know she’s there,” Mrs Pargeter insisted, “I wonder if it would be possible for me to speak to her…?” Though quite what she’d say if her request was granted Mrs Pargeter had no idea.

This was a problem she did not have to face, because Brother Michael immediately snapped, “No. If she were here, you wouldn’t be allowed to speak to her, anyway. That is not the sort of contact we encourage for our members. But, since she isn’t here –”

“She isn’t there? But she told me that she was going to join you last Wednesday.”

“That is what she told me,” said Brother Michael in an aggrieved tone. “However, she didn’t appear last Wednesday.”

“Oh?”

“And she hasn’t appeared since. But, if you do see her,” he continued, anger building in his voice, “please tell her that her change of mind – if that’s what it is – has caused great inconvenience to me, and wouldn’t, I’d have thought, have done her much good with the Living God! Goodbye!”

And the phone was slammed down.

The disquiet in Mrs Pargeter’s mind by now would have qualified for the description of anxiety.

♦

“Hello? C,Q,F&S.”

If Mrs Pargeter had been hoping that the girl on the switchboard might give some helpful gloss on what those initials stood for, she was destined to be disappointed.

“Oh, good morning. Could I speak to Mr Rodney Cotton, please?”

There was a silence from the other end. Then, presumably having checked in some list, the girl announced, “Sorry, we don’t have anyone of that name working here.”

“Ah,” said Mrs Pargeter, sticking to her prepared script. “It’s possible that he may have been transferred to your northern branch. Could you give me their number?”

“Do you mean Carlisle, York or Blackburn?”

“York.”

The girl gave the number. Mrs Pargeter rang through to York and received exactly the same answer as she had in London. The accent was different, but the message was the same. “Sorry, we don’t have anyone of that name working here.”

She thought about it. Southerners are extraordinarily vague about the North of England; for most of them Carlisle, York or Blackburn would be pretty much interchangeable. To the denizens of Smithy’s Loam Rod Cotton would just have gone ‘up North’. Perhaps it was only the false address Theresa had given that had pinpointed York.

Mrs Pargeter went back to Directory Enquiries and got the Carlisle and Blackburn numbers of C,Q,F&S. She also got some extra information gratis when the man said, “Oh, you mean the computer people?” So at least she now knew in which industry Rod Cotton worked.

Carlisle hadn’t heard of him.

Nor had Blackburn.

Puzzled and by now quite uneasy, Mrs Pargeter again rang the London number and asked to be put through to the Personnel Department.

“Good morning,” she said to the fast-talking young man who answered. “I’m trying to make contact with one of your employees.”

“Oh yes?”

“A Mr Rodney Cotton.”

“Just a moment.” There was a silence. No rustling of papers, so presumably he was checking some computer record. “No. Sorry. No one of that name.”

“Well, that’s most odd. I mean, I know he was definitely working in your London branch six months ago.”

“Six months ago? Just a moment.” Another silence, while further data was summoned up on to a screen. “Oh yes. Rodney Cotton. Yes, he was one of our Sales Directors. He doesn’t work here any longer.”

“What?”

“The company let him go.”

“Let him go?”

“Took him out.”

“Took him out?”

“Yes, took him out! Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t you understand – he was fired.”

“Fired?” Mrs Pargeter echoed softly.

“Yes. You understand that word, don’t you?”

“Yes. Yes, I do. So what you’re saying is that Rodney Cotton hasn’t worked for your company for the last six months?”

“Exactly.”

“And you’re sure he wasn’t transferred to one of your northern branches?”

“Madam, he has not worked for any part of C,Q,F&S since the eleventh of March this year.”

“Oh. What, so, I mean, would he have got some sort of redundancy payment?”

“I dare say he’d have got some sort of package, but not a great deal. He hadn’t been with us that long. He went as part of the rationalisation earlier this year.”

“Oh. I don’t suppose, by any chance,” Mrs Pargeter asked politely, “you would know where he’s working now…?”

There was a grim laugh from the young man in Personnel. “I’m sorry. I don’t know. Mind you, I think he’d be lucky to be working anywhere.”

“What do you mean? Was he very bad at the job?”

“I’ve no idea. Never met the poor devil. All I mean is his end of the business is not exactly a growth area at the moment. There was a lot of over-recruitment in sales when micros were first launched. Now the balance of the market’s shifted, I’m afraid there are a good few people like Mr Cotton around.”

“And all chasing the same few jobs?”

“That’s it. What I’m saying, Madam, is if Mr Cotton has now got another job at the same sort of level as he had here, then he’s performed a bloody miracle.”

Mrs Pargeter thanked the young man for his help and went into the kitchen finally to make herself that cup of coffee. She needed it.

Nestled into her favourite armchair, she took a welcome sip and gave in to the stampede of thoughts rampaging through her head.

Now there was not just one missing person who had covered their tracks with lies. There were two.

And one of them might have been missing for as long as six months.