Emma Page - Element of Chance

The flowers had scarcely withered on Mr Tyler’s grave when Alison received an approach from the rival agency of Kingfisher. Judith Padmore, the founder and sole owner of Kingfisher, had had her eye on Alison for some time, well aware that it was largely Mrs Rolt’s ability and youthful energy that allowed Tyler’s to struggle on at all. Miss Padmore was a shrewd, hard-working woman with long commercial experience behind her. Now in late middle age and ready to take a little more leisure, she made her proposition in a forthright manner. A junior partnership, a percentage of the healthy Kingfisher profits in return for an investment of capital and the application of Mrs Rolt’s talents to the business.

It had taken Alison no time at all to say yes. She had joined Tyler’s when she closed the door on her marriage. She was twenty-three years old at the time, determined to make a good career for herself; she believed she had found a suitable niche. But her ambition had increased along with her experience. She hadn’t much enjoyed the final six months at Tyler’s and the bleak realization that in spite of all her endeavours she was now merely part of a rapidly failing concern.

After her departure Tyler’s had struggled on under its inadequate manager, finally giving up the ghost a few months ago when the manager decided to retire. Miss Padmore took over what was left of the business and goodwill, the few remaining staff, together with the furnishings and equipment, all in exchange for a lump sum paid over to the invalid lady on the South Coast.

The graphs on the walls of Miss Padmore’s office already showed a marked upswing and could be expected to present an increasingly satisfactory appearance for the next year or two. But there’s a fairly rigid natural limit to expansion in a town of this size, Alison thought, squeezing the sponge over her slender shoulders.

She lay back in the bath and stared up at the ceiling. She’d probably have to move on in a couple of years, seek lusher pastures. She blew out a long calculating breath.

Nothing in her thoughts so much as brushed against an image of Andrew or flicked awareness of his existence into the forefront of her mind. Her marriage – or what was legally left of it – was now totally lacking in significance for her. When some chance happening brought it to her recollection it seemed as if she was recalling with difficulty an almost-forgotten interlude. She felt more and more that exciting possibilities were opening out before her, that the real business of her life was only just beginning.

The sound of the newsboy’s whistle reached her ears. It must be turned a quarter to eight. She pulled out the bath plug and stretched out a hand for a towel. She stood up and dried herself with easy, rapid movements. Along with the goods and chattels that had moved across from Tyler’s in the course of the final transfer, there had also come a certain tinge of slackness that began before long to affect the Kingfisher staff. Girls started to arrive a little late in the mornings, to vanish a trifle early in the evenings, to absent themselves for an occasional afternoon without good reason.

And the time has come to root the slackness out, Alison thought, stepping out of the bath and flinging down the towel. She picked up a bottle of lotion and began to massage it into the fine smooth skin of her calves and thighs.

When she got back to her bedroom the clock showed five minutes to eight. She pulled open a drawer, looked rapidly through the filmy underthings. She certainly couldn’t risk being late for work herself if she was going to get her campaign off to a good start. Some of the girls were only too quick to take advantage of any little lapse on the part of the management.

The central police station in Barbourne was a modern building, bright and airy. The reception area was almost empty at this time on a Monday morning; it had a leisurely air after the busy traffic of the weekend. On a bench against the wall an old man sat alone in a patient, relaxed attitude.

Detective Sergeant Colin Viner stood in front of the long polished counter, dealing with a couple of girls, office workers, who had come in to report an incident which had taken place – or which they said had taken place – on Friday night. Viner was not at all sure that he was disposed to believe their unsupported tale of a man springing out at one of them as she walked home alone across the hill from an evening class in the town.

There had been vague rumours for some little time of a man haunting the hills. Nothing substantiated, nothing serious. Such rumours were not uncommon; often the episode which sparked them off was nothing more than a prank, a moment’s mischief.

‘It’s a great pity you didn’t manage to get a good look at the man,’ Viner said briskly. He slid a speculative glance at the taller of the two girls, the victim of the alleged assault – or more precisely, of the attempted assault, for the girl, according to her story, had taken to her heels at once with scarcely more than a finger laid upon her. She was really quite pretty in a fluid, drooping way … and he had always been rather partial to fluid, drooping girls … He flicked the thought away and returned his attention to business. He’d have liked a little more evidence than the statement of this young woman whose path – during the short time he’d been stationed in Barbourne – had crossed his own a little more frequently than he was inclined to put down to the simple workings of chance.

‘If you could give me some idea of the man’s age, his height—’ He ran his eye over the brief details he had jotted down about the girl: Tessa Drake, eighteen years old, shared a small flat with the other girl in Leofric Gardens, a run-down area of Barbourne. Employed as a shorthand-typist by the Kingfisher Secretarial Agency.

On her way to work now, twenty past eight by the station clock, having – so she said – spent the best part of the weekend recovering from her nasty experience of Friday night and bracing herself – with the moral support of her friend who stood now levelling at Viner a sternly challenging gaze – to walk up the steps of the police station and recount her shocking tale.

‘Did the man say anything?’ Viner asked without hope. ‘I don’t know what you expect us to do when you can tell us practically nothing.’

‘Well, she was very upset.’ The friend, little more than five feet in height but bristling with protective ferocity, jerked her head in indignation. ‘Who wouldn’t be? A man jumping out at her like that.’

Detective-Inspector Bennett came striding into the hall and swept a glance over the reception area. He closed his eyes for an instant at the sight of old James Ottaway once again on his bench, now sitting bolt upright, staring rigidly ahead. Bennett came to a halt a few yards from where Sergeant Viner was writing something down with an air of resigned boredom.

‘Mandy Webb. Nineteen years old,’ Viner said aloud as he wrote the words. He glanced up at the second girl. ‘The same address in Leofric Gardens?’ She nodded. ‘And you work at the same place as your friend?’

‘No. We used to work together. At Tyler’s agency. When it folded up Tessa went to Kingfisher and I got a job at CeeJay Plant Hire.’

‘You’d better get off to work then,’ Viner said. ‘Both of you. Wouldn’t do to keep your bosses waiting.’ He caught sight of Inspector Bennett. ‘These young ladies have come across – or fancy they’ve come across – our phantom prowler,’ he said as Bennett came over. ‘Most upset,’ Viner added with unsubtle irony. ‘So upset they didn’t notice anything about him.’

Bennett ran his eye over the girls, the short one like a terrier with her fringe of fawn-coloured hair, and the taller one, not bad-looking in her dreamy way. He frowned. Hadn’t the tall one been into the station only a week or two back on some pretext or other? He flicked a sour-grape look at Viner’s smooth tanned skin and thick dark hair; a pity the sergeant had nothing better to do than stand around encouraging silly girls to run in and out making eyes at him.