‘Please yourself,’ said Winsome with a shrug. ‘You’re the boss.’
There were several cottages clustered around the small square facing the telephone box, and Banks had noticed the net curtains twitching in one of them while they had been standing there. ‘Let’s start with that one,’ he said. The cottage he pointed to had a gate of blackened iron railings and worn steps leading up to the arched stone porch around the door. Creeping vegetation covered almost the entire front of the building like something from a horror movie Banks remembered seeing many years ago.
A few seconds after Banks rang the bell, an elderly woman answered the door. She reminded him of Margaret Thatcher; at least her hair did. The rest of her was plump and matronly, like a cook from a television costume drama, and she was dressed for gardening, in baggy trousers and a shapeless jumper. Banks showed his warrant card and introduced Winsome. Joanna lingered at the bottom of the garden, inspecting the herbaceous borders, as if not quite sure what to do. Banks identified her for the woman anyway, just for the record.
‘Gladys,’ the woman said. ‘Gladys Boscombe. Please, come in. I saw you looking at our telephone box, and you don’t seem like the usual tourist types we get.’ She had a hint of a Yorkshire accent, but it sounded to Banks as if she had worked at adding a veneer of sophistication to it over the years.
Banks and Winsome followed her first into the hall, then through to the living room. Joanna didn’t seem at all sure what to do, so Banks gestured for her to accompany them. It was a small room, and it seemed crowded with the four of them in it, but they each found somewhere to sit, and Gladys Boscombe dashed off to make tea. Nobody had refused her offer. The front window was open a couple of inches, despite the chill, and the silence was punctuated only by birds singing. The room smelled of lavender. The velour sofa and armchairs were covered with lace antimacassars, and even the hard-backed chair Banks sat on had a covered seat cushion. Knick-knacks stood on every surface and filled every alcove: delicate porcelain figurines of piping shepherds or waiting princesses, whorled seashells and pebbles, silver-framed family photographs, a carved ivory and ebony chess set.
That gave him a sudden, sharp memory of Sophia, who had been his girlfriend until a few months ago. She liked to collect shiny pretty things, too, and he had been partly responsible for some of them being vandalised. She had never forgiven him for that; in a way, it had helped precipitate the end of their relationship. He still missed Sophia, despite everything, and sometimes he thought he should try to get in touch with her again, try to rekindle the spark, which he was certain was still there. Then he remembered how she had ignored his calls and emails before, and he didn’t want to risk rejection again. Her ‘dear John’ email had been banal, chatty and brutal. He remembered how low it had made him feel, and how he had half-drunkenly responded with some gibberish he could hardly remember now. He wished he had acted in a more grown-up manner, been more accepting and kind. Clearly such happiness as he had known in those few brief weeks they had been together was not meant for him. Sometimes he felt dragged down by the recent past, and he wanted desperately to get beyond it, to be OK with Annie, with Tracy, with Sophia, even though he realised he would probably never see her again. Right now, there was nobody in his life except family and friends, and that was just fine for the moment. He had nothing to give anyone else.
Gladys Boscombe came back with the tea service on a silver tray, delicate little rose-patterned china cups rimmed with gold, matching saucers and teapot. She put the tray down on the low table in front of the fireplace and beamed at them. ‘We’ll just let it mash a few minutes, shall we? Giles will be sorry to miss you. That’s my husband. He’s always been interested in detective stories. Never missed a Midsomer Murders. The proper ones, you know, with John Nettles. But he’s out walking the lads on the moor. Perhaps he’ll be back soon.’
‘Your children still live with you?’ She looked far too old to have children young enough to take for a walk, but Banks thought it best to be polite.
Mrs Boscombe patted her hair. She ought to be careful or she’d cut herself, he thought. ‘Oooh, don’t be silly, young man. Both our children are long grown up and moved away. No, I mean the lads, Jewel and Warris, the Jack Russells.’
‘Ah, of course.’ Banks managed to suppress his laughter at the thought of two Jack Russells named after a pair of music hall comedians. Jimmy Jewel and Ben Warris; he hadn’t thought or heard of them in years. Must be dead now, he supposed, along with their contemporaries Mike and Bernie Winters. ‘Right. Thanks, Mrs Boscombe. We’re here about the telephone box, as you might have gathered.’
Mrs Boscombe eased herself down on the sofa beside Winsome. ‘Yes, I couldn’t think for the life of me why you were all standing around it chatting, then examining it like some museum exhibit. I can’t imagine why on earth you would be interested in that old thing,’ she said, a note of distaste creeping into her tone. ‘True, I suppose it is famous in its way, but it’s still an eyesore. And some of the people it seems to attract...’ She gave a mock shudder.
‘Actually,’ said Banks, ‘that’s what we’re interested in. The people it attracts.’
‘Tourists, mostly. A lot of foreigners. They leave their litter in the street and keep their car engines running, filling the air with that dreadful carbon monoxide. Some of them even stand and smoke cigarettes. I suppose we should think ourselves fortunate it doesn’t draw the younger generation, or it would soon be vandalised, no doubt, but even so...’ Mrs Boscombe poured the tea, offering milk and sugar to all who wanted it. When Banks lifted the cup to take his first sip, he felt that he ought to stick his little finger in the air. Joanna did so, he noticed. She caught him glancing and blushed.
‘Do the villagers use it often?’
Her eyes widened. ‘Villagers? Why would we? We all have proper telephones. Some of the newcomers even have mobiles.’
What year was it here? Banks wondered. And just how new were the newcomers? He was surprised that mobiles even got coverage in such a remote area, but there were towers all over the place these days. Still, the fact remained that Bill Quinn had received two telephone calls from the very box in question over the period he had been at St Peter’s. That certainly didn’t smack of passing tourists; it indicated deliberation, rather than chance. ‘Perhaps for privacy, or a fault on the home line?’ Banks suggested. ‘Have you noticed anyone you know using that public telephone over the past week or two?’
‘I haven’t noticed anyone I know using it for the past year or two,’ Mrs Boscombe replied.
‘Are any of the cottages rentals?’
Mrs Boscombe bristled. ‘I should think not. We have strict rules about that sort of thing in the village. Besides, who’d want to rent a cottage here? There’s no pub, no general store, nothing. You’d have to go all the way to Lyndgarth for anything like that.’
‘Perhaps someone who likes the country air, a walker, bird watcher, naturalist? Some people enjoy the solitary existence, at least for a while.’
‘Perhaps. But there are no rental cottages available in the village.’
‘Mrs Boscombe,’ Banks said, hoping not to betray in his tone the desperation and frustration he was feeling. ‘It’s very important. We have information that someone we’re investigating received two telephone calls from that box within the past ten days. Now, does that sound like a tourist to you?’