Martin Edwards - Suspicious Minds

“He was lying,” said Stirrup. “He must have Claire tucked away somewhere.”

“Do you really believe that?”

Stirrup turned a ravaged face towards Harry. “What else can I believe?”

Harry didn’t answer. Kuiper had expected to find Claire here, of that he was certain. If not, why turn up? Screaming in on a motor-cycle was hardly furtive. His shock when told she had vanished had surely not been feigned. But why ride off again if he was as anxious as Stirrup for the girl to be found?

For a second time they crunched along the pathway to the house. Stirrup was silent, plainly turning ideas over in his mind. Eventually he spoke in a raw, cracked voice.

“Doesn’t look good, does it? First Alison goes, now Claire. What will Inspector Bolus make of it, do you think? After all, I can’t prove either of them left of their own free will.” He gestured towards the untended grounds. “Where do you think they will start digging? Here or under the beech trees?”

As they reached the kitchen, Harry said, “A fifteen-year-old girl is a different proposition from a woman twice that age.”

“Spit it out.” Stirrup took a deep breath and said, “You must be thinking what I’m thinking. What if that bastard has got hold of her?”

“Peter didn’t…”

“No. You know who I mean. If you’re right and Kuiper really had nothing to do with it, there’s only one explanation, isn’t there?”

Harry stared at Stirrup.

“The Beast.”

“Christ, Jack. Let’s not start thinking on those lines. Make your call.”

As Stirrup began to dial, however, Harry reflected that their secret fear was indeed the same. It was easy to take refuge in the knowledge that Claire’s hair was dark and that the monster supposedly craved blondes. But can a monster always be relied upon for logic and consistency?

Suddenly Stirrup slammed down the receiver. He swore as if stung by a wasp.

“What is it, Jack?”

Stirrup pointed to the internal door. From a metal hook hung a gaudily coloured PVC cook’s apron and a shopping bag in a Liberty print.

“I remember now. When Claire set off this morning, I thought there was something strange. She wasn’t carrying her bag with the library books. And look, it’s still there.”

He strode over to the bag and ripped it from the hook. Three hardbacks in protective covers spilled out onto the floor. Stirrup picked up one of the books, called To Be the Best , flipped it open and shoved it under Harry’s nose.

“See the return date? Today. She lied to me. The little witch — she never meant to go to the library at all.”

“Still no news about Claire?” asked Valerie.

Harry shook his head. “Close on thirty-six hours now and none of us has any idea where she is.”

They were studying the dinner menu at the Ensenada. It was their first time together since Stirrup’s anguished summons had interrupted their Saturday afternoon. Harry hoped a meal in his favourite Liverpool restaurant might make amends; he refused to think of its effect on his bank balance. At the door, Pino Carrea, the amiable and loquacious proprietor, had greeted them as if favoured by a visit from royalty. Pino had kissed Valerie’s hand and extolled the virtues of the Chateaubriand. But then an actress currently starring at the Everyman had arrived in the company of a gentleman other than her husband and, with a flurry of apologies, Pino had turned to welcome the newcomers and glean as much gossip as possible.

“What do the police think?”

“Bolus obviously reckons Jack’s eliminating his family one by one.”

“And you?”

“No way he’d ever harm that girl.”

Claire had vanished into thin air. A search of her room at Prospect House had revealed no hint of the assignation from which she had failed to return. Assuming there had been an assignation. But why else would she deceive her father about the purpose of her visit to West Kirby? The police had rapidly obtained confirmation from a bus driver that he had picked Claire up at the nearby stop on Saturday morning. He remembered her getting off the bus on the edge of town. Thereafter the trail petered out. No sightings either in West Kirby or elsewhere.

Harry had spent most of the day with Stirrup and the police. Not once had Bolus even raised his voice. But his questions had become scalpel-sharp.

“For your wife to go missing, that’s unfortunate,” suggested the policeman late in the afternoon. “But for your daughter to disappear as well…”

For Stirrup that had been the last straw. He’d leapt to his feet, the veins in his head bulging.

“You stupid bastard! While we’re here wasting time, my daughter…”

Only the combined efforts of Harry and a burly constable restrained him. Bolus never flinched, assessing his suspect’s demeanour with unruffled calm. After his outburst, Stirrup had sat down again, head in hands. Not weeping, but not far from it, Harry judged. And Bolus had been content not to push any further. At least for the time being.

All the obvious leads were being followed. Detectives were interviewing Claire’s schoolfriends, her teachers and people she knew locally. As yet they had turned up nothing helpful. Bolus wanted urgently to see Peter Kuiper. The student was not to be found at his digs and no one there could say where or with whom he might be.

“Is it possible,” suggested Valerie gently, “that you may have been wrong about the boyfriend?”

“Okay, he may have something to hide — Claire’s underage, after all. Yet I’m equally sure he expected to find her at home.”

“What about Jack Stirrup? Perhaps Claire discovered he’d done away with Alison? She might have tried to blackmail him. There may have been a struggle. A violent blow. A more or less accidental death.”

“Nothing’s impossible,” said Harry slowly.

“But?”

“Okay, there were occasional hesitancies. Contradictions. Useful for a prosecuting counsel, perhaps — but nothing to convince me Stirrup killed his own daughter. He loves the girl. Even if he did murder her in a moment of madness, he wouldn’t be able to hide his guilt.”

“Then if he’s innocent…” She broke off to demand: “What are you looking at?”

“See over there,” whispered Harry. “The feller who has come in with the young blonde.”

“Don’t tell me he caught your eye, rather than her.”

“Jealous? I can’t believe it. Anyway, the answer is yes. You know who he is?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. Bryan Grealish and I go back some way.”

“Seriously?”

“Now who’s jealous?”

Pino had entrusted the actress and her escort to a minion and was now lavishing hospitality on Grealish and the girl. Bearded, pot-bellied and barely five feet tall, the restaurateur resembled a pint-sized Pavarotti; Harry always half-expected him to burst suddenly into song. For once Pino seemed unconcerned that a male diner was tieless; perhaps he realised that by Grealish’s standards of sartorial elegance, a plain open-necked shirt and grey slacks were much the same as formal dress.

The businessman took the welcome as his due, like a film star being flattered at an Oscar ceremony. Harry recalled the blonde from his visit to the Majestic; the low cut and brief length of her expensive white cocktail dress meant that she was almost as skimpily clad by night as by day.

“How do you come to know him? Is he a client?”

“No, I met him through Daddy. They’ve had business dealings for years. Bryan bought a lot of shares in Saviour Money and he was elected to the board a month or so ago.”

“Small world. I ran into him myself the other day. He also happens to be an old rival of Jack Stirrup. What do you make of him?”