Elizabeth George - Missing Joseph

“But he seemed so…so sad about it. He seemed to take it personally.”

St. James nodded. “It’s the meal-ticket syndrome. Men like to think they’re more important than that in the general scheme of their women’s lives. What else do you recall?”

She sank her chin to her chest. “He didn’t want to be there.”

“In London?”

“In the gallery. He’d been heading somewhere else — was it Hyde Park? — when it started to rain. He liked nature. He liked the country. He said it helped him think.”

“About what?”

“St. Joseph?”

“Now there’s a subject for ample consideration.”

“I told you I wasn’t any good at this. I don’t have a memory for conversation. Ask me what he wore, what he looked like, the colour of his hair, the shape of his mouth. But don’t ask me to tell you what he said. Even if I could remember every word, I’d never be able to delve for hidden meanings. I’m no good at verbal delving. I’m no good at any delving. I meet someone. We talk. I like him or I don’t. I think: This is someone who might be a friend. And that’s the end of it. I don’t expect him to turn up dead when I come to call, so I don’t remember every detail of our first encounter. Do you? Would you?”

“Only if I’m conversing with a beautiful woman. And even then I find I’m distracted by details having nothing to do with what she has to say.”

She eyed him. “What sort of details?”

He cocked his head thoughtfully and examined her face. “The mouth.”

“The mouth?”

“I find women’s mouths a study. I’ve been readying myself for the last several years to posit a scientific theory on them.” He settled back against the bench and regarded the ducks. He could feel her bristling. He contained a smile.

“Well, I won’t even ask what the theory is. You want me to. I can tell by your expression. So I won’t.”

“Just as well.”

“Good.” She wriggled next to him, duplicating his position on the bench. She held out her feet and scrutinised the tops of her boots. She clicked her heels together. She did the same with her toes. She said, “Oh all right. Damn it. Tell me. Tell me.”

“Is there a correlation between size and significance of utterance?” he asked solemnly.

“You’re joking.”

“Not at all. Have you never noticed that women with small mouths invariably have little of importance to say?”

“What sexist rubbish.”

“Take Virginia Woolf as an example. Now there was a woman with a generous mouth.”

“Simon!”

“Look at Antonia Fraser, Margaret Drabble, Jane Goodall—”

“Margaret Thatcher?”

“Well, there are always exceptions. But the general rule, and I argue that the facts will uphold it absolutely, is that the correlation

exists. I intend to research it.”

“How?”

“Personally. In fact, I thought I’d begin with you. Size, shape, dimension, pliability, sensuality…” He kissed her. “Why is it I’ve a feeling you’re the best of the lot?”

She smiled. “I don’t think your mother beat you enough when you were a child.”

“We’re even then. I know for a fact that your father never laid a hand upon you.” He got to his feet and extended his hand to her. She slipped hers into the crook of his arm. “How does a brandy sound?”

She declared it sounded fine, and they began to retrace their steps up the lane. Much like Winslough, just beyond the village the open land rose and fell in gentle hills parcelled out in farms. Where the farms ended, the moors began. Sheep grazed here. Among them, the occasional border collie moved. The occasional farmer worked.

Deborah paused on the threshold of the pub. St. James, holding the door for her, turned back to find her staring at the moors and tapping the knuckle of her index fi nger contemplatively against her chin.

“What is it?”

“Walking. Simon, he said he liked to walk on the moors. He liked to be outside when he had to make a decision. That’s why he wanted to go to the park. St. James’s Park. He’d planned to feed the sparrows from the bridge. And he knew about the bridge. Simon, he must have been there before.”

St. James smiled and drew her into the doorway of the pub.

“D’you think it’s important?” she asked.

“I don’t know.”

“D’you think perhaps he had a reason for talking about the Hebrews wanting to stone that woman? Because we know he was married. We know his wife met with an accident…Simon!”

“Now you’re delving,” he said.

“FOR SPENCE. DIDN’T YOU hear?”

“The headmistress sent for her and…”

“…see his car? ”

“It was about her mum.”

Maggie hesitated on the school steps when she realised that more than one speculative glance was being directed her way. She’d always liked the time between the last lesson and the departure of the school bus. It presented the best opportunity to gossip with the pupils who lived in other villages and in the town. But she’d never considered that the giggles and whispers that accompanied the afternoon chit-chat might one day be about her.

Everything had seemed outwardly normal at first. Pupils were gathered on the tarmac in front of the school in their usual fashion. Some were lingering by the school bus. Others were lounging against cars. Girls were combing their hair and comparing shades of contraband lipstick. Boys were sparring with each other or trying to look cool. When Maggie came through the doors, threaded her way down the steps, and searched the assembly for Josie or Nick, her mind was engaged with the questions the London detective had asked her. She didn’t even stop to wonder about it when a ripple of whispers slid through the crowd. She’d been feeling rather dirty ever since the conversation in Mrs. Crone’s study, and she couldn’t exactly understand why. So her mind was taken up with turning over every possible reason as if each were a stone, and she was mostly conscious of waiting to see if a slug of previously unconscious guilt would slither away from exposure to the light.

She was used to feeling guilty. She kept on sinning, she tried to convince herself she wasn’t sinning, she even excused the worst of her behaviour by telling herself it was Mummy’s fault. Nick loves me, Mummy, even if you don’t. See how he loves me? See? See?

In reply, her mother had never used look-ateverything-I’ve-done-for-you-Margaret in the sort of play upon conscience that Pam Rice’s mother tried with no effect. She never talked in terms of deep disappointment as Josie reported her mother had done on more than one occasion. Nonetheless, prior to this very day, her mother had been the consistent, major source of Maggie’s guilt: She was disappointing Mummy; she was causing Mummy’s anger; she was adding torture to Mummy’s pain. Maggie knew all this without having to hear it. She had always been extremely adept at reading reactions on her mother’s face.

Which was why Maggie had come to realise last night precisely how much power she had in this war with her mother. She had power to punish, to hurt, to warn, to avenge…the list stretched on to forever. She wanted to feel triumphant in the knowledge that she’d wrested the ship’s wheel of her life away from her mother’s controlling hands. But the truth was, she felt troubled about it. So when she arrived home late the previous night — outwardly proud of the purple love bruises which Nick had sucked to the surface of her neck — the flames of pleasure Maggie had expected to warm her at Mummy’s frantic worry were instantly extinguished at the sight of her face. She made no reproach. She just came to the door of the darkened sitting room, and she gazed upon her as if from a place where she couldn’t be reached. She looked a hundred years old.