Such a Nice Girl
STORM CONSTANTINE
The residents of Willowdale Farm Estate were united in the opinion that Emma Tizard was such a nice girl. Nothing bad could possibly have happened to her because she was so sensible. She never walked out at night alone, never invited strangers beyond her security chain and would never, ever dream of stopping her smart new car on a deserted stretch of road at night. Her mysterious disappearance must have some straightforward explanation.
The first time anyone got to know Emma was actually missing was when her employer, Michael Homey, knocked on Cynthia Peeling’s door that Tuesday morning. Mrs Peeling lived in the bungalow next to Emma’s. Cynthia belonged to that breed of women whose hair became blonder as they grew older, whose clothes became more youthful, and who got away with it because of sheer panache. Michael explained that Emma hadn’t turned up for work the day before, hadn’t telephoned to give an explanation — which she always did if she was ill — and was still absent today.
‘It really isn’t like her,’ he said apologetically. ‘That’s why I felt I ought to come round. I know she lives alone and wondered, well, if she’d had an accident. There doesn’t seem to be anyone at home. ’
Although Cynthia could hardly claim to be an intimate of Emma’s, she knew the girl sometimes disappeared for days at a time. Usually, she popped over to ask Cynthia to keep an eye on the bungalow for her, never giving any explanation for her absence, other than a bright remark such as, ‘Time to recharge my batteries!’ This made Cynthia think of open spaces, sporty pursuits. Emma always looked so healthy, and gave the impression she could look after herself more than adequately. Therefore, Cynthia was not that perturbed by Michael Homey’s worrying. She invited him in for coffee and Viennese fingers, in the hope of calming his fears. He refused to be convinced by Cynthia’s gentle arguments.
‘We should check she isn’t lying unconscious in the house,’ he said. ‘I would never forgive myself if something’d happened to her, and I’d done nothing to help.’
Peering through the spotless windows of Wren’s Nest, they were joined by elderly Mr Godleigh from number 10 and young Mrs Treen with her toddler, Danny, from number 15. Everyone tried the windows, which were all sensibly locked from inside. The bungalow looked immaculate, not a cushion out of place, not a single item of crockery left on the kitchen drainer. In the bedroom, the pale grey duvet was undented and there were no clothes lying around. Admittedly, they couldn’t see into the bathroom, and curtains were drawn over one of the frosted windows. Through the garage door, the red gleam of Emma’s car could be seen. ‘Do you think we should break in?’ Lily Treen suggested.
‘That’s against the law,’ Mr Godleigh said. ‘Perhaps we should call the police.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that’s necessary,’ Cynthia responded hurriedly, visualizing Emma’s alarm should she turn up again. She really didn’t feel that Emma was inside but didn’t want to say so, not having any proper foundation for her feelings. ‘There’s bound to be a good reason why she’s not here. She might have caught a train to visit relatives, got a cab to the station. Do you know any of her family, Mr Homey?’
Michael Homey shook his head. ‘Perhaps Mr Godleigh is right,’ he said. ‘It’s better to be safe than sorry.’
‘I think we should wait until tomorrow,’ Cynthia insisted, and her tone of voice brooked no argument. ‘Emma is a respectable young woman. I don’t think we should have policemen breaking her windows just yet.’
At five past six that evening, a long ring on the doorbell disturbed the Peelings from their salad and quiche. Cynthia opened the door to a rather sinister-looking couple, who turned out to be detectives. They asked if the Peelings had a spare key to Wren’s Nest, as Emma Tizard’s parents thought they might.
Taken aback, Cynthia shook her head. Was anything wrong? Her guts, ahead of the subsequent information, began to churn. She could see two police cars parked at the kerb: uniformed officers were looking in through the windows of the bungalow next door.
Emma Tizard was dead. Her body had been discovered by children playing truant from school. It appeared she’d been brutally murdered, horribly mutilated as if with mindless fury.
If the police found any evidence in Wren’s Nest, they presumably removed it from the property. As the last car pulled away, the two plain-clothed detectives came back to interview the Peelings. Cynthia felt utterly sick, guilty for not having suspected something was wrong after all, and confused as to why her instincts hadn’t alerted her.
‘Did Miss Tizard tell you what she was planning to do over the weekend?’
Cynthia shook her head. ‘No. We weren’t that close.’
The male detective made a swift note on his pad.
The body had been found still clutching a handbag. The authorities had had no difficulty discovering who Emma was. ‘And you never met any of her friends?’
Cynthia uttered a brittle laugh. She was still deeply shocked. ‘No, no. None of us in Cherrytree Lane know much about Emma at all.’
‘So you don’t know what kind of interests she had?’ The female detective seemed to conceal an unpleasant implication in the words.
‘Art,’ Cynthia said, ‘History too. She borrowed books from me once, well, from my son. Ancient history.’
‘She never mentioned anything a little more…unusual?
‘What kind of unusual?’ Cynthia didn’t like the tone of the question.
The female detective shrugged. ‘Well, anything to do with the occult.’
Cynthia had to laugh. ‘What? Emma? Certainly not. She was a very down-to-earth person. What are you trying to say?’
The male detective cleared his throat. ‘Certain items in the house suggest she had an interest in that sort of thing. Books and so on. ’
‘She must have used them for her art,’ Cynthia said lamely. She could think of no other explanation. Emma had been such a nice, ordinary girl.
The detectives wanted to know when Emma had last been seen. Cynthia couldn’t clearly remember, but thought it was before the weekend. ‘She used to paint and draw a lot. Sometimes we’d never see her at weekends. She used to work then, you see. She worked very hard.’ Cynthia felt tears come to her eyes, remembering the water-colour that hung above her bed, a haunting scene, painted by Emma. Soft Emma, gentle Emma; a quiet, artistic soul.