Bryant & May 06; The Victoria Vanishes

∨ The Victoria Vanishes ∧

38

Disappearance

Meera Mangeshkar peered in through the kitchen window and saw rows of polished copper pots, steel utensils, framed maps, memorabilia collected from canal barges, Victorian vases and jugs filled with dried flowers. But of Mrs Quinten, there was no sign.

“You’re wasting your time,” said a gap-toothed pensioner who was unnecessarily clipping the front hedge next door. “She’s gone out.”

“Do you know where?” asked Mangeshkar.

“She’s got a sister in Hemel Hempsted, but I don’t know if that’s where she is. The lights have been off since this morning.”

“She could still be inside. She might have had an accident. Is there a side door?”

“You’re a copper, aren’t you?”

Meera bristled. “Is it that obvious?”

“We don’t get many coppers round here anymore. You can come over my garden wall, it’s an easy climb. Jackie always leaves the back window ajar. She knows it’s safe because I never go out, so I don’t miss anything. But you’re wasting your time, because I saw her go out over an hour ago.”

“Did she seem all right to you?”

“Fine, dressed for the shops, coat and handbag, not like she was having a funny turn, if that’s what you’re implying.”

“Anything unusual about her?”

“I remember thinking she looked a bit worried.”

“You didn’t ask her what about?”

“Oh no, I keep to my own business.”

“And you’re sure she didn’t come back?”

“Positive, because I was watching at the front window.”

“In that case,” said Meera, “I think I will hop over your fence and take a look around.”

Her arms were slender enough to fit through the gap in the window and unclip the latch. Climbing through, her boots touched down into the darkened lounge. Once inside, she opened the curtains. Hundreds of neatly rolled maps were stacked against the walls almost to the ceiling, but apart from that, everything appeared as it should be, magazines folded, cups washed, an ashtray emptied. A single wooden hanger lay on the bed, left where Mrs Quinten had donned her overcoat.

It appeared that she, like the others, had set off to meet someone.

Meera checked the cluttered corkboard in the kitchen and searched the rooms for an appointment diary, but found nothing. A call to her cell phone from someone masquerading as a friend, a work colleague, a dead woman?

As a child, Meera had blocked out the sounds of the housing estate by reading detective stories from the library. It has the ingredients of an Agatha Christie without the logic, she thought. If this was Christie, the killer would be a dead woman who’d turn out not to have died. According to Mr Bryant, Mrs Quinten knew about his investigation. She understood that middle-aged women were at risk, so why would she be so trusting? Because she knows the killer. She looked around the cosy room, praying that its occupant would live to see it again.

When Meera returned to the unit, she sought out Bryant and asked him about the conversation he’d had with Mrs Quinten in the upstairs bar of the Yorkshire Grey.

“I don’t think she had any inkling of what had happened to her colleagues,” he said, concentrating on the recollection of events, “because she expressed no concern to me. If anything, she complained of being bored recently. I didn’t give her any names, so how could she have realised that she knew them? Although there was a moment at the end of our conversation.” He beetled his brow, trying to recall the moment. “She was always inviting me over, but I got the feeling she wanted to consult me about something on a professional basis.”

“She didn’t say what?”

“I don’t think she felt comfortable about talking to me in public, said it was a private matter. She said we. So if she knew the other victims, perhaps they wanted to consult me as a group.”

“For all you know, she could have wanted to talk to you about her historical maps,” said May, overhearing.

“I’d forgotten about those. She collects them, doesn’t she? Meera, did you see any at her house?”

“You couldn’t miss them. They were everywhere, stacked against all the walls.”

“Where do we start looking for her?” asked May.

“Get April to track down the sister in Hemel Hempsted and find the addresses of any other relatives she might want to visit, starting with the nearest.”

“She was meeting someone she felt comfortable with,” said Meera suddenly.

“How can you be sure of that?” asked Bryant.

“I questioned the next-door neighbour about how she was dressed. Flat shoes, wool coat, warmly clothed, not smart.”

“She thought she was meeting the others, one or more at least. That’s what they all thought when they went out to their deaths – that they were going to meet each other.”

“If she’d known that any of them had been killed, she wouldn’t have gone, would she?”

“Not unless it was very important.”

“A meeting so urgent that you have to risk your life?”

“It’s someone she trusts,” said Meera. “A former boss, someone in authority. Someone we haven’t reached yet.” She looked around the room and realised that a pair of workmen were packing computers and files into boxes. “What’s going on?”

“We’re being shut down again,” Bryant explained. “Take no notice. I never do.” He tossed the end of his scarf around his neck.

“Wait, with all this going on, where do you think you’re going?” May asked.

“If one of these women lied about working for Theseus Research, they probably all did,” replied Bryant. “I’m heading for King’s Cross.”