John Eider - Late of the Payroll

However, Grey’s consideration proved unnecessary; for as he walked along the broad curving drive that met the glassy front porch of the large and unusually designed house, it was obvious that no one was at home — no lights on, no windows opened; only uncollected letters poking from their slot, which if their postie came about the same time as his, supposed the Inspector, then the couple had been gone since before ten or eleven that morning.

He rang the bell anyway, but hardly waited for an answer before moving on. It was only as he turned from the porch that he noticed one of the panels of the lounge window beside it was not glass but rather white plastic, filled in expertly, and much more subtly than the tradition chipboard panel, and leaving a reflective impression not unlike the glass remaining around it. They had filled that in quickly, he thought.

Around the side of the house, between the double garage and the wall ran a path connecting the front and back gardens. And it was on this path that Grey saw dark spots dotted along the slabs, and brown splashes by them on the house’s whitewashed wall. They could as easily have been the slops of a tin of creosote as the trail of a bleeding man struggling to his car.

Treading carefully, Grey continued on to the golf fairway of a rear garden, the lawn of which seemed to move and undulate as he walked along its edge, the whole space enclosed by centuries-old trees. The kitchen window had a pane missing also, the damage more recent though, a last shard still clinging to the frame; and as he moved to peer through the hole he saw further shattered pieces strewn across the kitchen table amid the remnants of breakfast; bacon gone crinkly, shrivelled up eggs, plates that might need a few spins in the dishwasher. And here the parts of the drama of that morning came together in his mind, Grey envisioning Alex Aubrey sat there eating, suddenly hit by whatever had just come through the window, as well as by the windowpane itself, his wife thrown into panic and bundling him into the car. The thrower could have hid behind any number of shrubs or garden features. What a bloody coward.

As he stood there the Inspector heard an engine stop outside; and walking back to the driveway met a fellow emerging from a glaziers’ van with a piece of his white plastic and a tool bag,

‘I’ve come to board another window up for you, mate!’ he called gratingly. ‘Round the back, this one, wasn’t it?’

Grey was caught off guard.

‘That was what you asked for, wasn’t it mate? When you called?’

The Inspector drew his badge, the easier to explain who he was and what right he had to be there.

‘Oh aye? Not surprised you lot are out here. What’s going on then? Someone got it on for them, do you reckon? Who is it lives here anyway?’

Grey ignored the man’s questions, asking himself, ‘When was the first one?’

‘Oh, yesterday, we were called first thing, happened in the night sometime.’

‘Did it really? And then this morning another, around the back this time?’

‘Funny business alright. So, you’re okay for me to..?’

There having been no crime reported, therefore no evidence to disturb, Grey said, ‘Yes, go ahead. But it’s a bit of a mess around there, so be careful. Don’t touch anything you don’t have to.’

‘No worries, mate. Be patched up for you in a jiffy!’

As the glazier headed down the path, Grey lingered on the drive awhile, pondering. He walked back along the road, and guessing where Cornelia would have headed, asked the Constable to drive him to the plant.

Directly from the interview with Mrs Long, and knowing Grey had already headed off to the Infirmary to cover the Alex Aubrey angle, Cornelia drove the short distance to the small mingling of plant and factory spaces to the north of the town. It has never been the prettiest of districts, she remembered from past visits, but reflected as she neared her destination that it certainly wasn’t getting any prettier. Sites were falling empty, others in mothballs. The length of the grasses growing through the cracks in the concrete forecourts and up the sides of bunkered buildings, seemed to her the surest sign of how long it had been since anyone had bothered to employ even basic upkeep on some of these once-proud industrial locations.

She recalled being told how this whole area had once been an aerodrome, quite famous in the War, and that some of the oldest buildings dated from that time. As she watched from her car’s tinted windows, she passed a concrete shed beside a row of Nissen hut-like structures, the legend Porter’s Precision Bearings borne upon a sign hanging at an unhealthy angle. Even the pouring sun brought no joy to the scene, the dust-blown drive and peeling off-white paint giving her the impression of some outback supply depot, as her shiny modern car slunk past. There were though signs of life amongst the relics: men with grimy faces stood by cavernous doors, others in clean overalls chatting and smoking, vans by bright newer buildings bringing goods; and from the more industrious locations, the sounds of grinding and firing as sparks flew from archways.

She hadn’t driven to the Aubrey’s site before and so was trusting the Desk Sergeant’s directions, which though they turned out to be good were not exact. The road she found herself on seemed to be taking her on around a giant curve, before for some hundred metres it ran alongside an articulated lorry-loading station that shocked her at the scale of it. She was almost delivered back onto the main road she had earlier turned off, before she found the end of the loading depot. There beside it, older but of greater stature, stood the short but ornate row of windowed offices, huge red logo atop them, that fronted the factory and workshops of Aubrey Electricals.

The receptionist was politeness herself, and at the sight of Cornelia’s badge showed her up the stairs and past a couple of what Cori considered to be suspiciously empty-looking rooms, before leading her right into the main open-plan office itself, where even here only two were toiling in the shade of long blinds.

‘It’s always like this at lunchtime,’ smiled the receptionist, pretty in her summer dress, Cori wishing her job didn’t have her in a suit even in this unseasonably bright weather. Poor woman though, Cori thought, putting a brave face on the fact these two women were the only ones in an office that should have held a dozen or more.

‘Hello, I’m Sergeant Smith,’ she began, addressing the women, the receptionist absenting herself before Cori noticed she had gone. She selected a nearby empty chair to sit down. ‘I wonder if either of you knew that your colleague Thomas Long has been reported missing by his mother?’

‘I know,’ began a small girl with long straight hair hanging in a centre-parting that threatened at any moment to join at the front and cover her face entirely. ‘I spoke to his mum this morning, she was worried about him.’

‘Yes, it’s a terrible business,’ agreed a middle-aged lady whose figure suggested to Cori that her time not spent behind her desk was spent in a no less sedentary position away from work. ‘We’ve been talking about it today, haven’t we Cynth?’

‘Cynthia, is it?’ asked Cori turning back to the girl, she nodding in confirmation. ‘You spoke to Mrs Long this morning, and I believe you told her that you were here yesterday when Thomas left work?’ She girl was so small and frail-looking that Cori imagined herself addressing her as she would a child, the older colleague in this scenario filling the role of responsible adult.

‘Yes,’ began Cynthia, ‘we said goodbye and he left as normal.’

‘And what time was this?’