‘No. It was a young man. The car was pretty old and battered. And no, I didn’t see the number and I don’t know what kind it was. It was white, I think. But mucky.’
She saw he wanted to ask her more, but cut him off. ‘I’m sorry. There’s really nothing else I can tell you. And I have to get on with my work.’
From the corridor he watched her. She smiled at each child as she called out his or her name. Further down the hall other classes were already gathering for assembly. The bearded man was playing the piano. By the time he reached his car the children had begun to sing the first song.
Perez drove back to Biddista. The evening before, Taylor had arranged for a sketch of the murdered man’s face to be released to the national press. Until they had identification, he said, they couldn’t move forward. Perez had taken the comment as a statement of his own incompetence. He should have focused on tracing the victim, not spent two days drinking tea in croft kitchens. Yet now, Taylor was keen to get to know the people in the community too.
Driving west, the sun was behind him and made the driving easy. At least he had something to offer Taylor. A battered white car, which had dropped the victim off. He’d get Sandy on to finding that. If he didn’t know already who it belonged to he would by the end of the day.
The land tilted slightly and Perez had a view down towards the main road from the south and Biddista beyond. He could see all the houses. The three small ones at the jetty, the Manse and Skoles. Already he knew more about these people than he did about his own neighbours. He realized then that he hadn’t yet talked to Kenny’s wife, Edith. She’d been at work when the body had been found and would probably be at work today. It would be something else for Taylor to pull him up about.
Chapter Twenty
Martha lived in a flat over a launderette in a leafy suburb of Huddersfield not far from the Royal Infirmary. She’d lived alone since leaving university, and enjoyed it, but now she wished there was someone at home to share her worries with. Someone to tell her not to be foolish, or to sit with her while she phoned police stations and hospitals. It was Thursday and there was still no word from Jeremy. Tomorrow would be the last day of rehearsals. Tomorrow night – or afternoon if they got their way – the cast would go home for a weekend’s break and on Monday the tour would begin.
There had never been a production that had had no input from Jeremy. He always supervised the last run-through and gave notes. Even the actors had begun to comment about his absence. There was a middle-aged woman, Liz, who was a regular. She did the Interact gigs for fun and pin money. Her kids had left for university and it seemed that her husband bored her to tears. Martha thought the work made her feel young and irresponsible again. Liz was already starting to ask questions.
‘Where on earth has he disappeared to, darling? We are all going to get paid, aren’t we?’
Money was another problem. Jeremy had left a couple of hundred pounds cash in the office as a float, but with diesel for the van to buy and subsistence while the troupe was on the road, that wouldn’t go far.
Martha took the Penistone line train from Huddersfield to Denby Dale. She owned a car, but she tried not to use it if she was going to the office: there was always a possibility that it would break down on the way home. The train went through a wooded valley. The small stations were strewn with hanging baskets full of garish flowers. Liz was already in the Mill, waiting outside the Interact door. She followed Martha into the office.
‘Is there anything you’re not telling us, darling? Jeremy’s not done a bunk, has he? I don’t think it would be the first time.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘As I understand it he had a perfectly respectable life until he was in his mid-twenties. Marriage, a kid. Then he left them one morning to try his hand in the theatre. Vanished without a word. He’d joined an amateur dramatic society and got bitten by the bug, apparently. I always said those am-dram groups should come with a health warning.’
‘When was this?’ Martha was thinking that there was no sign of the family in Jeremy’s house. No photos that could relate to them. Unless he’d ended up marrying the woman on the beach. Surely he’d have kept a picture of his own child? Bloody actors, she thought. This will be one of Liz’s stories. They’re all liars and self-dramatists.
‘Oh, yonks ago,’ Liz said airily. It was obvious that her knowledge was sketchy. ‘And you wouldn’t know now. He never sees them. Not even the child – who must be quite grown-up. Jeremy could even be a grandfather. Now there’s a scary thought.’
‘He never mentioned any of this to me.’
‘He never mentions it to anyone unless he’s maudlin drunk, and then it all comes out. Or most of it. Even then I think there’s stuff he’s not telling.’ Liz had been leaning against the door. ‘So what do you think? Has the stress been too much for him again? Has he pissed off to start a new life somewhere else?’
‘Of course not. He owns that house. It’s a major asset. And he wouldn’t go away and leave all his stuff.’
‘I wouldn’t be surprised if the house isn’t mortgaged to the rafters,’ Liz said.
‘Nonsense.’ But Martha wasn’t as sure as she sounded. She’d seen the books, seen what schools were prepared to pay a theatre group in order to tick a few boxes for the Ofsted inspectors, but actors and premises and the minibus didn’t come cheap. ‘This is a profitable business. And Jeremy likes money. I’m sure he’ll be back.’
Late in the afternoon when they’d all gone, Martha sat in the office alone. She’d fended off the actors’ questions all day, even giving the impression that she’d heard from Jeremy, that he was out pitching for work and he’d be back early next week with plans for a new project. She could see that Liz hadn’t believed a word, but she’d not said anything and the others had been taken in.
Now the strain of putting on a brave face was too much for her. She picked up the phone – strictly work calls only, according to Jeremy’s instructions, but where was fucking Jeremy now? – and talked to her best mate Kate.
‘Do you fancy a drink in town? Early before it gets busy. Straight after work?’
Kate was a trainee reporter on the Huddersfield Examiner. She liked gossip. No one else might be interested in the disappearance of a middle-aged actor, but Kate would surely listen to her concerns. There’d be a relief just in talking it through.
‘Have you seen the papers today?’ Kate had ambitions beyond a local daily in West Yorkshire. She took the qualities and read them every day.
‘No.’ I’ve been too busy, Martha thought, suddenly sorry for herself. Keeping this bloody show on the road.
‘There’s some guy they’re trying to identify. They found the body up north somewhere. “Suspicious cir cumstances”. That means murder. There’s a drawing of him. It looks just like your boss.’
There was a giggle in her voice. Like she was saying, Weird coincidence, huh?, but not believing that it really could be Jeremy. Martha couldn’t speak, found she could hardly breathe.
Kate must have sensed something was wrong. ‘Martha, what is it?’
‘My boss, Jeremy. He seems to have disappeared.’
‘My God! Don’t move. I’m coming to get you now.’ Martha knew this wasn’t just about Kate coming to support a friend. It was Kate smelling a story a mile off and wanting to be on it before anyone else found out.