on the A14, not far from the Covington turn-off. Thank God Drew stayed with her last night.
Next it’s Wadsworth’s turn to report. He spends a long time talking about an arrest for a serious assault that Lacey covered last week. A man was badly beaten in broad daylight, for no obvious reason. At least they got the bastard who did it. Actually that was near Covington, too, but there is nothing to connect it with the Caxtons. Eventually, he gets round to the missing-person report. Yes, it’s now official, although they have nothing to go on so far. A general alert has been issued, description and photo circulated, hospitals contacted, all the usual procedures. Yesterday, they interviewed all of the neighbours they could find, and they will follow up the rest this morning.
‘At least we’ve established that the husband did exist and was seen by a customer earlier on the morning of his disappearance. No obvious problems with the marriage, no domestic incidents so far as the neighbours are aware. Seem like a nice, ordinary couple. Records are running a trace on their history, but I doubt they’ll find anything.’
‘Nothing from the media release yesterday?’ That’s one of thedetectives speaking; Lacey thinks his name is Fletcher. He indicates that he would like to look at the report.
‘Not a thing.’ Wadsworth passes the sheet across the table. ‘I called in on my way here this morning. Mrs Caxton says there’s been no word from her husband, though I couldn’t get much out of her. The woman who was with her—one of the neighbours, a Miss Audrey Stanton—she says Mrs Caxton’s in quite an emotional state. I think we’re going to have to start taking this one seriously.’
‘Hmm.’ Fletcher scans the form. ‘It’s what? Less than forty-eight hours? And no suspicious circumstances?’
‘No circumstances at all that I can find.’
‘Mind if I take a crack at this one?’ Fletcher looks across at the Chief Inspector.
‘Be my guest,’ the Chief Inspector replies, ‘but don’t be too disappointed if it turns out to be a domestic.’
Shortly after that, the meeting breaks up. Lacey was hoping to have another word with Wadsworth, but he’s talking with Detective Inspector Fletcher, who, she remembers from a previous run-in with him, is not the most approachable of men. What’s more, on that occasion he’d made it quite clear that he didn’t think much of the press in general and female reporters in particular.
On the other side of the city, Gideon is still in his dressing gown. One of the pitfalls of living alone, being self-employed, and of independent means is that life could so easily drift into being disorganized, undisciplined and, therefore, unproductive. Sometimes it is good to take time out and live a bohemian existence for a while. But mostly he has discovered that life is more enjoyable within the boundaries of a flexible structure: a personal routine, a balance of work and pleasure, activity and contemplation. Only, this morning he overslept. And when he did wake, instead of pulling himself out of bed, he lay retracing last night’s dream in his mind while watching the breeze teasing the ivy leaves around his window.
Last night, he’d left the dinner party as early as courtesy wouldpermit and had taken his charming friend to her home, saying goodnight rather more abruptly than was polite. He was eager to get to his own bed, although at first he thought that sleep would elude him. Then he found himself walking along a beach, maybe the same beach as in the photograph. He saw her in the distance. Her hair rose and fell like a sheet of silk as the wind moved around her, catching the cloth of her skirt and pulling it tight to her legs. She waited as he approached, and she smiled, raising her hand in greeting.
‘Hello, Gideon. You understood my message?’
‘Message?’ He drew close to her.
‘Yes, the newspaper.’ Her English is perfect, although there has always been the
Next it’s Wadsworth’s turn to report. He spends a long time talking about an arrest for a serious assault that Lacey covered last week. A man was badly beaten in broad daylight, for no obvious reason. At least they got the bastard who did it. Actually that was near Covington, too, but there is nothing to connect it with the Caxtons. Eventually, he gets round to the missing-person report. Yes, it’s now official, although they have nothing to go on so far. A general alert has been issued, description and photo circulated, hospitals contacted, all the usual procedures. Yesterday, they interviewed all of the neighbours they could find, and they will follow up the rest this morning.
‘At least we’ve established that the husband did exist and was seen by a customer earlier on the morning of his disappearance. No obvious problems with the marriage, no domestic incidents so far as the neighbours are aware. Seem like a nice, ordinary couple. Records are running a trace on their history, but I doubt they’ll find anything.’
‘Nothing from the media release yesterday?’ That’s one of thedetectives speaking; Lacey thinks his name is Fletcher. He indicates that he would like to look at the report.
‘Not a thing.’ Wadsworth passes the sheet across the table. ‘I called in on my way here this morning. Mrs Caxton says there’s been no word from her husband, though I couldn’t get much out of her. The woman who was with her—one of the neighbours, a Miss Audrey Stanton—she says Mrs Caxton’s in quite an emotional state. I think we’re going to have to start taking this one seriously.’
‘Hmm.’ Fletcher scans the form. ‘It’s what? Less than forty-eight hours? And no suspicious circumstances?’
‘No circumstances at all that I can find.’
‘Mind if I take a crack at this one?’ Fletcher looks across at the Chief Inspector.
‘Be my guest,’ the Chief Inspector replies, ‘but don’t be too disappointed if it turns out to be a domestic.’
Shortly after that, the meeting breaks up. Lacey was hoping to have another word with Wadsworth, but he’s talking with Detective Inspector Fletcher, who, she remembers from a previous run-in with him, is not the most approachable of men. What’s more, on that occasion he’d made it quite clear that he didn’t think much of the press in general and female reporters in particular.
On the other side of the city, Gideon is still in his dressing gown. One of the pitfalls of living alone, being self-employed, and of independent means is that life could so easily drift into being disorganized, undisciplined and, therefore, unproductive. Sometimes it is good to take time out and live a bohemian existence for a while. But mostly he has discovered that life is more enjoyable within the boundaries of a flexible structure: a personal routine, a balance of work and pleasure, activity and contemplation. Only, this morning he overslept. And when he did wake, instead of pulling himself out of bed, he lay retracing last night’s dream in his mind while watching the breeze teasing the ivy leaves around his window.
Last night, he’d left the dinner party as early as courtesy wouldpermit and had taken his charming friend to her home, saying goodnight rather more abruptly than was polite. He was eager to get to his own bed, although at first he thought that sleep would elude him. Then he found himself walking along a beach, maybe the same beach as in the photograph. He saw her in the distance. Her hair rose and fell like a sheet of silk as the wind moved around her, catching the cloth of her skirt and pulling it tight to her legs. She waited as he approached, and she smiled, raising her hand in greeting.
‘Hello, Gideon. You understood my message?’
‘Message?’ He drew close to her.
‘Yes, the newspaper.’ Her English is perfect, although there has always been the
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