‘He was sick, wasn’t he,’ says Jones.
Bill comes back over. He smiles: ‘Not a well man your gaffer, is he?’
‘Never missed a day ’fore Saturday,’ says Michael Williams.
Bill is stood in front of Williams: ‘Is that right?’
‘Yep,’ says Williams, looking at Jones -
Jones nodding along -
Both of them starting to wonder.
‘I hope he’s all right,’ I say.
‘Maybe we should go check on him,’ winks Bill. ‘Just to make sure it’s nowt serious like.’
I ask Jones: ‘What’s his name?’
‘Who?’
‘Gaffer,’ whispers Williams to Jones.
‘Thank you,’ I say, looking at Jones -
Jones saying: ‘George Marsh.’
‘And where does George Marsh hang his hat?’
‘What?’
‘Where does he live, Terry?’
‘Mr Marsh?’
‘Yes.’
‘Netherton,’ says Terry Jones, looking at Williams -
Williams repeating: ‘Netherton.’
I stand up: ‘Thank you, gentlemen.’
Two telephone calls later and we’re driving through Normanton, bypassing Wakefield, heading to 16 Maple Well Drive, Netherton -
Bill pissed off no-one’s been out to see this Marsh bloke, cursing them anew: ‘Slack fucking County cunts the lot of them.’
Me, four eyes on the road: ‘Still want to see Don Foster after?’
Bill shrugs: ‘See what we get from this one first.’
I keep it shut and reach over for an Action form, one hand on the wheel.
We park in front of a little white van outside a little brown bungalow with a little green garden and a little blue bicycle lying on its side:
Number 16, Maple Well Drive, Netherton.
I ring the doorbell.
Bill looks at the bicycle: ‘Be a waste of time this.’
A brown-haired woman opens the door, her pink washing-up gloves dripping wet: ‘Yes?’
‘Mrs Marsh?’ I ask.
‘Yes.’
‘Police, love. Your George in, is he?’
Mrs Marsh looks from me to Bill then back to me. She shakes her head: ‘He’s up the allotment.’
‘Feeling better, is he?’ says Bill, like I knew he would.
Lips pursed, she says: ‘Taking some air.’
‘Wise man,’ smiles Bill, ear to bloody ear.
Me with a kinder smile: ‘Where are the allotments, love?’
‘Top of field, behind here,’ she gestures. ‘End shed.’
‘Ta, love,’ I say, about to move off -
But Bill stays stood there: ‘Mind if we have a quick word with you first?’
Mrs Marsh holds open the door: ‘Best come in then, hadn’t you?’
‘Ta very much,’ winks Bill.
We follow Mrs Marsh into their front room. We sit down on their pristine sofa. We are facing their brand-new TV.
I nod at the set: ‘Colour?’
‘Fat chance,’ says Mrs Marsh and takes off her pink washing-up gloves. She wipes them on her apron. ‘Not on his wage.’
‘Got ours on never-never,’ I say.
Mrs Marsh shakes her head: ‘George doesn’t believe in HP or any of that kind of business.’
‘Wise man,’ says Bill again and opens his notebook.
Mrs Marsh stands up: ‘Sorry, can I offer you a cup of tea?’
Bill gestures for her to sit back down. ‘Thank you, but we best get a move on.’
Mrs Marsh sits down again. The pink washing-up gloves are on her knees between her folded hands.
Bill looks up from his notebook: ‘You know why we’re here, don’t you?’
‘About the missing lassie? The one in Castleford?’
Bill nods. Bill waits.
Mrs Marsh says: ‘George was wondering if he should call you.’
Bilclass="underline" ‘Why was that?’
‘Thought you’d be wanting to speak to anyone who might have seen anything.’
‘He saw something then, did he, your George?’
Mrs Marsh shakes her head: ‘No, but he knew lass it was.’
‘How’s that then?’
‘He’d seen her, hadn’t he, working across road.’
‘Must have seen a lot of kids.’
‘Aye,’ she nods. ‘But he remembered her because she was, you know…’
I nod.
Bill asks her: ‘So what’s been up with him?’
‘George? Flu.’
‘Lads at work say it’s first time he’s missed a day.’
Mrs Marsh thinks. Mrs Marsh frowns. Then Mrs Marsh nods, just once.
‘When did it start?’
Mrs Marsh thinks again. Then Mrs Marsh says: ‘Sunday.’
‘Right, right,’ nods Bill. ‘What the lads at his work thought.’
‘Sunday,’ she says again, says to herself.
‘Remember what time he came home from work on Saturday, can you?’
Mrs Marsh says: ‘I can’t be right sure about that.’
‘Why -’
‘Took kids over to my mother’s Saturday lunchtime,’ she says. ‘But George was here when we got back tea-time, I know that.’
‘And what time’s tea-time?’
‘Half-six.’
Bill closes his notebook. He stands up.
‘You finished?’ asks Mrs Marsh.
‘Yep,’ nods Bill.
Mrs Marsh stands up. She leads us back out to the front door.
‘End shed?’ I ask her.
She nods, her eyes and brow full of worry -
Sorrow.
‘Thank you, Mrs Marsh,’ says Bill.
Mrs Marsh nods again.
We walk back down the little path, past the little bicycle, out of the little garden.
Mrs Marsh watches us go.
Bill stands by the car. He takes out a packet of cigarettes. He offers me one. He takes one himself. He lights us both up.
Mrs Marsh closes her front door. Minute later there’s a shadow behind the nets in the front room.
I say: ‘What you reckon?’
Bill shrugs. He looks at the end of his cigarette.
I say: ‘Not adding up, is it?’
‘Could be owt; another woman, horses, owt,’ he says.
I nod.
Another car pulls up. It is a big black Morris Oxford. A man gets out. He puts on his hat. He’s in black too -
A priest.
He looks at us. He touches the brim of his hat. He heads up the garden path to number 16. He rings the doorbell.
Bill raises his eyes: ‘But we best make sure.’
We open the gate to the field behind the bungalows and walk up the dry tractor path towards the row of sheds at the top of the hill. The sky is blue and cloudless above us, the field full of insects and butterflies.
Bill takes off his jacket: ‘Should have brought a bloody picnic with us.’
I turn around and look back down the hill at the little white van next to the two parked cars in front of their little brown bungalow and their little green garden, next to all the other little brown bungalows and their little green gardens.
I take off my glasses. I wipe them on my handkerchief. I put them back on.
I can see Mrs Marsh at the kitchen window of their little bungalow. She is watching us -
A shadow behind her.
I turn back.
Bill is up by the sheds. He shouts: ‘Hurry up, Maurice.’
I start walking again.
A man comes out of the end shed in a cap and shirtsleeves, blue overalls and Wellington boots.
‘Mr Marsh?’ Bill is asking him as I get up to them.
‘That’d be me,’ nods George Marsh. ‘Who wants to know?’
‘My name is Bill Molloy and this is Maurice Jobson. We’re police officers.’
‘Thought you might be,’ nods Marsh.
‘Why’s that then?’ asks Bill.
‘Be about lass who’s gone missing in Castleford, won’t it?’
Bill nods. Bill waits.
Marsh says nothing.
Bill keeps waiting.
Marsh looks at him. Marsh still says nothing.
Bill says: ‘What about her?’
Marsh takes off his cap. He wipes his forehead on his forearm. He puts his cap back on. He says: ‘You tell me.’
‘No,’ says Bill -
– the Badger: ‘You tell me about Jeanette Garland.’