Murder in House (16 page)

She went to see how Thomas was getting on. He was muttering away to himself, concentrating on his computer, but managed to recognize her after a few seconds, and even broke off long enough to remind her that he had a meeting up in town that afternoon and would be late for supper if that was all right with her. Of course it was; whatever suited him would suit her.

‘Oh, and Ellie. I've been thinking. A gift is a gift, isn't it? I mean, if you give someone something you can't specify what it's to be used for. What do you think?'

Ah. He meant that although she'd given Diana her old house on the understanding that her daughter intended to live in it, she couldn't take the gift back now just because Diana wanted to let it out. Perhaps he was right but no, she wasn't ready to admit it.

She went upstairs to check that the cleaners had done a proper job on the quiet room she'd set aside for Thomas, and found it just that: quiet. He'd moved the big chair a couple of feet along the wall. She wasn't sure why, but when she sat in it, she saw that he now had more space in front of him. He liked a bit of elbow room. Perhaps he was the tiniest bit claustrophobic? She sat in his chair, thinking about nothing very much. She'd noticed before that any room in which Thomas prayed soon collected an air of peace. This one had, already. She wasn't feeling particularly peaceful, herself.

She supposed she could try to pray. She didn't think she was much good at it. She certainly wasn't any good at listening, she knew that.
Dear Lord
. She couldn't get any further, she was in such a tangle. Oh well. She'd tried. Sort of. She thought she might have dozed off for a while, but something woke her, and she sprang to her feet smoothing back her hair, tugging her skirt into place.

What was she thinking about, wasting time like this? That poor child Mia was out there somewhere, if she weren't lying dead in a ditch. Ursula wasn't an alarmist, but a very practical person. There must be something that Ellie could do to help.

There was.

Downstairs, Pat held out some slips of paper. ‘My contact at the University says that Mia does seem to have dropped out, though it's early days to be sure. Term only started last week but she hasn't turned up yet. I asked about her friends – who might be in her class, that sort of thing. They said only her tutors would know and they hadn't time to worry about that at the moment – the start of term, you know; they're really busy.

‘Then I thought that if Mia went to a fee-paying school, well, there aren't that many, and so I rang someone I knew who taught drama at the nearest one. She's retired now and we both belong to the Ealing branch of the National Trust, but she remembers Mia well, though of course the girl left school some years ago. I said Mia had gone missing and she's anxious to help, so you might like to contact her.'

Pat hesitated, and Ellie raised an eyebrow. ‘A problem?'

‘Well, no. Not really. It's just that . . .' Pat made up her mind to be frank. ‘Grace Woodyates had a long-term relationship with a married man for many years, and it was always understood that when his wife died . . . you get the picture? Just as Grace retired, his wife died. Only he went and married his secretary instead, who was a much younger woman. It was quite a blow to Grace and it's turned her, I'm not sure how to put it but, well, she's a bit lonely, I suppose. She plunges into things left, right and centre. She can be a bit embarrassing.'

‘I've been warned,' said Ellie, taking the telephone number.

NINE

I
t didn't seem likely that a retired teacher who'd been out of touch with Mia for some years could be of the slightest assistance, but it was as well to check, wasn't it? Ellie tried the number Pat had given her, and heard a well-modulated voice say that she would be delighted to help. Would Ellie like to drop in some time, perhaps that very morning?

Mindful of the appalling weather, Ellie summoned a minicab and had herself conveyed to a narrow street of modern terraced houses at the back of the town centre. Ms Woodyates was an over-the-top anorexic blonde living in overheated, over-furnished surroundings decorated with photographs of old playbills. Ms Woodyates was powdered, painted and well over sixty, but was dressed in a bilious green silk suit with a décolleté neckline.

‘My little collection,' said Ms Woodyates, waving towards the playbills and trying to be modest about her hobby. ‘You are a theatregoer aren't you, Mrs Quicke? Most intelligent people are, aren't they? Theatre is the very pulse of life in society, don't you agree?' She didn't wait for a reply, but continued, ‘I've heard lots about you, so kind to so many, we really must have you on our Ealing branch of the National Trust committee.'

Coffee was offered. In fact, had already been prepared against Ellie's coming. Coming in out of the cold, Ellie dived for her paper tissues and blew her nose. She remembered Pat's words of warning, and prepared for a lengthy visit and a lecture on the benefits of the National Trust and all the good it did. It was no use saying that she was convinced and already a contributor, for Ms Woodyates – ‘call me Grace, please'– did seem lonely and was delighted to have a visitor. The coffee was good, anyway. At last Ellie managed to insert the name of Mia into the conversation.

‘Mia,' said Ms Woodyates, ‘a delightful child. Bright but polite with it. Most bright children are not polite nowadays, have you noticed? I am surprised to hear that she's gone missing. Not the sort to get into trouble, I would have thought.'

‘We're not sure that she's in trouble, exactly. It's just that she seems to have dropped out; left home without leaving a forwarding address. Her friends are concerned – one in particular. I'm trying to get a picture of what Mia was like. I suppose girls change enormously after leaving school, and it's hardly fair to ask you for your opinion, although –' as Ms Woodyates arched pencilled eyebrows – ‘I would certainly welcome it.'

‘You are referring to those girls who can't wait to experience life to the full, the ones who are ruled by their hormones from an early age. They may “blossom” out – or “bosom out” as I like to put it – but you can usually see the signs before they leave school. Mia was not like that. I don't mean that she was underdeveloped physically, because she wasn't. She was beautiful in a quiet way, with lovely eyes and long dark hair, much longer and thicker than most. Have you met the mother?'

Ellie shook her head.

A frown disturbed Ms Woodyates's smooth brow which had, Ellie thought, probably been treated with Botox. ‘A trifle, shall we say, flamboyant? She was quite a beauty in her day, she tells me, though I'm not sure she realizes how many years have passed since that time. Mia was her daughter by her first marriage, you know, and perhaps . . . the Snow White syndrome, you know? I think she was jealous of the girl's beauty, because she used to put her down at every opportunity. In spite of what her mother said, Mia was a bright girl, currently studying some foreign language, I believe.'

Well, that was an interesting sidelight on the mother and daughter relationship.

‘Perhaps it's an odd question to ask nowadays, but do you think Mia was still a virgin when she left school?'

A moue of distaste. ‘In the staff room we believed you could count them on the fingers of one hand. But yes, I would say that Mia was still a virgin when she left school.'

Ellie sighed. ‘So many years ago; so much may have happened to change her.'

‘Oh, I don't think so. I don't know if it's scientifically proven but we used to say in the staff room that, after a girl has experienced sex, her lower eyelids appear more prominent, almost pouched. I can honestly report that Mia's eyelids showed no sign of it when I last saw her. Now when would that have been?'

She closed her eyes and lifted her chin, holding up one hand to prevent Ellie from interrupting. ‘Ah, I have it. It was just before Christmas; carol-singing in the tube station. Someone had bought the choir these adorable little red Father Christmas caps, and the boys were all wearing them but the girls!' – a shrug – ‘I suppose they didn't want to crush their hairstyles. Mia was wearing one. I was coming back from town and got out my purse to make a donation. I don't remember exactly what charity they were singing for, but Mia recognized me. I put the money in her tin, she smiled at me and said “thank you”. I remember thinking then that she hadn't altered at all from when she was at school. I'm sorry to hear she's missing. What do you think happened?'

‘That's what I'm trying to find out. Can you work out which day it was that you saw her? Perhaps I can trace her companions through the choir she was with.'

Ms Woodyates sought for her last year's diary. ‘The Saturday before Christmas. I'd been up to town for a matinée. I suppose it would have been half six or a quarter to seven in the evening. And, let me think . . . if I could only visualize the banner they had with them, or the stickers on the collecting tins . . .'

Again she closed her eyes and lifted her hands in an effort to recall the occasion. ‘Was it Help the Aged? No. The Hospice, I think. Now what choir was it? I recognized one or two faces, didn't I? Yes, yes. My old friend Ronald was with them. Shall I ring him, see if he can cast any light . . .?'

She didn't wait for Ellie to agree, but attacked her phone book and pressed numbers. ‘Ronald? Yes, it's Grace here. Grace Woodyates. Yes, long time, but perhaps some time soon . . . oh yes, of course I understand. Well, what it was, I wondered, one of my past students seems to have got herself into a bit of a pickle; left home under a cloud . . . yes, in this day and age, but really she's not like that. At least, I don't think so. Now I spotted her in your choir at the tube station just before Christmas, and I wondered . . . Mia, a nice, quiet girl, with long, dark hair . . . no, I don't know exactly what . . .' The phone quacked on and on. Grace Woodyates gave a comically despairing gesture to Ellie, but continued to listen.

Ellie studied the tips of her shoes. Were they getting shabby? She wasn't much good at cleaning shoes, but did try to keep them free of mud. Though when they developed cracks across the leather, you might just as well give in.

Finally Grace Woodyates put the phone down. ‘He doesn't know anything, is very surprised to hear, she wasn't involved with anyone in the choir that he knows about except for the lad who brought her along last term to sing with them, and of course, she joined in the session at the tube station. The boy's name was Lloyd; sang bass. Ronald will look up the address, if you're interested.'

‘That's a dead end. He was killed in an accident early in the new year.'

‘Oh, that Lloyd? I read about him in the paper. Ronald says Lloyd wasn't a boyfriend, not the kissing kind. Just a friend, he thinks. Anyway, she sang second soprano with them, hadn't much of a clue about choral music, but had a pretty little voice, helped make the tea, that sort of thing. The only other thing he can remember about her is that she said she could get some posters put up in the Avenue for their concert, since she knew someone who worked there. The Palladian Singers, they call themselves. He's always after me to join them, and maybe I will now I'm retired and have some time on my hands. I'm afraid I haven't been very helpful so far. Now, who else can I ask who might know something? Do you know the Priors socially at all? Shall I arrange an introduction?'

‘So kind, but perhaps not at the moment,' said Ellie, being polite. ‘And now I think I should . . .' She made as if to rise, but her hostess stopped her with a dramatically raised hand.

Grace was anxious for Ellie to stay. ‘Do you have to go straight away? It's so strange the way we've been thrown together. I feel we're going to become great friends. I could rustle up something tasty for lunch, and we could talk some more, if you're not too pressed for time? I'd like to tell you about our special spring programme for—'

‘I'm so sorry, but I really need to—'

‘I quite understand, but if I think of anything else I'll ring you straight away, shall I? Are you in the book? Oh, but Pat can give me the address, can't she?'

‘Of course, of course.' Ellie made her escape, thinking that a little of Ms Woodyates went a long way.

The Avenue was always busy, even on a wet and windy winter afternoon. It would be even busier shortly, when the children came out of school. There were sixty odd shop units and, unless you wanted Marks & Spencer or WHSmith, you could usually find what you wanted there. One of the things you couldn't find there was a new mobile phone, but Ellie decided she couldn't face going into Ealing Broadway for one at the moment. Something was urging her on to look for Mia. It wasn't a premonition, exactly. Just a feeling of unease.