I hadn’t heard from Alison in a couple of days, but after what I’d learned about her father from Audrey Wills, I was almost relieved. I felt guilty about keeping secrets, of course, but how could I tell her what I suspected, especially without any concrete evidence?
I’d just stepped out of the shower when Alison finally called, but her news took me entirely by surprise.
‘Hannah, I’m sorry. It seems I’m always calling you for help, but I really need you this time. Dad’s gone missing.’
‘What? I thought he was happy at Coombe Hill.’ I wrapped the towel around my body, and sat down in a chair.
‘He seemed happy enough. But I just got a call from the administrator, and they can’t locate him. His room is empty, and they say his bed hasn’t been slept in. How can they have been so careless?’
‘Alison, it isn’t a nursing home. Your father’s free to come and go as he pleases, right?’
Her only answer was a whimpering sound.
‘Too bad they don’t have any granny cams,’ I added, ‘but that’s one of the reasons you picked the place, remember? Because it seemed dignified, more like a resort hotel than a retirement living facility.’
She sighed. ‘I know, I know. They do have a security camera at the main entrance, though, and it shows him walking out the front door and turning right. It’s time-stamped at ten minutes past two. He could have been heading for the bus station, or even the ferry. Neither one is too far a walk for a man in good physical condition like my father.’
‘Do you have any idea where he could have gone?’
‘He’s old and confused. He could be wandering around Dittisham somewhere, feeding the pigeons in the park, or chatting up barmaids. Oh… I don’t know!’
‘Have you checked the farm?’
‘But that’s miles away, and he doesn’t have a car.’ She paused. ‘Do you really think he would have gone back to the farm?’
‘Alison, for his whole life, that farm was the center of your father’s world. That’s where I’d go. When my mother died,’ I continued, ‘my father held on to the home they had shared for the longest time. Even after he moved into a smaller place and put the big house on the market, he’d show up at every viewing. It was as if he had to audition the buyers. If they made sarcastic remarks about the wallpaper, well, scratch that couple off the list!’
I was relieved to hear her laugh.
‘How would your father get back to Three Trees Farm?’ I wondered aloud.
‘Dead easy,’ she said. ‘The number one-twelve bus goes from Dittisham to Dartmouth, and he could catch the ninety-three from Dartmouth to Strete. Or he could have caught the ferry. Once he got to Strete, he’d walk the rest of the way, or hitch a ride with a local.’
‘Have you telephoned Cathy Yates?’
‘Why? She hasn’t moved in yet.’
‘I know she hasn’t. But when I saw her at breakfast, she had a sheaf of paint samples clutched in her fist. She said something about calling a cab and a meeting with contractors, so I just put two and two together. Does she have permission to be out there?’
‘She does. With Dad in Dittisham, I told her she could visit any time she wanted.’
Carrying my iPhone, I returned to the bathroom. I lay the phone on the toilet lid, set it to speakerphone, and began to towel dry my hair. ‘Look, give me a few minutes to get dressed, then come pick me up. We’ll drive around Dittisham. Maybe he’s having a pint in a pub somewhere. If we don’t find him in Dittisham, we’ll drive down to the farm. OK?’
Needless to say, we ended up at the farm.
As we climbed out of her car, Alison said, ‘I’ll check the house. Hannah, why don’t you go around to the barn?’
With a wave of agreement, I left Alison and wandered through the courtyard from which Stephen Bailey’s Prius had (or had not) recently been stolen, making my way, as instructed, toward the barn. Ahead of me, the barn door yawned open. Chickens scratched around in the dirt and gravel, and somewhere, a rooster crowed.
In the near distance, a flash of red distracted me. I didn’t recall ever seeing Stephen Bailey wearing red – he tended to favor clothing in the blue and yellow spectrum – but it could have been Tom Boyd, the man-of-all-work who Cathy had agreed to keep on, at a generous rise in salary.
But the red sweater didn’t belong to Alison’s father, or to his former handyman. It was worn by Cathy Yates, bent over a long-handled spade.
I called out to her. ‘Cathy!’
She looked up from whatever she was doing, resting her hands one over the other on the handle of the spade. ‘Hannah! What brings you all the way out here?’
‘Alison and I are looking for her father. He’s run away from Coombe Hill, and this is the first place we thought of to look.’
‘I’ve been here over an hour, but I haven’t seen him. I’ll keep an eye out, though.’
The noon sun was hot, and sweat glistened on Cathy’s brow. She peeled off her sweater and tossed it aside. A bottle of spring water sat on the ground near her feet. She unscrewed the cap, took a sip, and dabbed her mouth daintily, considering she was using her sleeve.
‘Why are you digging?’ I asked.
Cathy pointed with the spade. ‘What does that look like to you?’
‘A concrete slab?’
‘No. It’s the remains of a brick and concrete air-raid shelter with steps leading down to it.’ I recognized the quote from a passage in Ken Small’s book.
‘It doesn’t look like an air-raid shelter to me,’ I said gently.
‘It’s here! It fits the description perfectly, Hannah!’ She thrust the spade repeatedly into the dirt at the base of the concrete slab. ‘These are the steps, I’m sure of it.’
They were, indeed, crumbling steps, but the steps weren’t attached to anything, in my opinion, that remotely resembled an air-raid shelter.
‘Hey!’ somebody yelled.
Cathy and I turned to see Stephen Bailey striding toward us. He was waving both arms over his head, as if attempting to flag down a runaway train. ‘I wouldn’t go digging around there if I were you, missy.’
Cathy stared the old man down. ‘Why not?’
‘Unexploded shells,’ he said simply. ‘Time was we let bullocks out to roam the fields as mine detectors.’
Cathy’s eyes narrowed. ‘Were you the farmer that Ken Small mentioned in his book?’
Bailey’s smirk was tinged with amusement. ‘Not me. I told you you’d not find American bodies here in Devon.’
‘Isn’t this the remains of an air-raid shelter?’
‘No. Used to be my dairy barn. More than a hundred and twenty years old, it was. Blew away in a wind storm back in October 2000.’
Cathy stuck her spade into the ground, mashed down on it with her foot. ‘I’m thinking that the steps went down about here.’ While we watched, she turned over another spadeful of earth and added it to a growing pile to her left.
Bailey scowled. ‘This is still my property, Ms Yates, and I’ll thank you to put down that spade and leave, right now.’
Cathy glanced up from her digging. ‘No, it’s not, Mr Bailey. You agreed to sell the farm to me, contracts were exchanged, and I gave you a sizeable deposit.’ She looked pointedly at her watch. ‘In point of fact, my solicitor just called to say that everything’s moving along very smoothly. For the money I’m paying him to settle things as quickly as possible, he’d better be right.’ She waved a dismissive hand. ‘You’re welcome to stay, however. I know how hard it must be for you to let go of something that’s been in your family for so long.’
Bailey blinked rapidly. ‘You can’t have done. It’s too soon.’
In point of fact, Stephen Bailey was right. Until formal completion, he still owned Three Trees Farm, but Cathy was thinking like an American, not a Brit. Contracts had been exchanged, money had changed hands. In Cathy’s mind, it was a done deal.