Missing Without Trace Read online

  Missing Without Trace

  by

  P.F. Ford

  Cover Design by Angie Zambrano

  Edited by KT Editing Services

  © 2013 P.F. Ford

  All rights reserved

  This is a work of fiction. All characters, places and events in this book are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real life counterparts is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter One

  The little house was the end one of a short terrace in a quiet street less than five minutes’ walk from the centre of town. It was the sort of quiet, unassuming, leafy street you might expect to find in Tinton, a small, nondescript town in the south of England.

  The house was owned by my friend and part-time mentor Dry Biro. I know, it’s a strange name. It’s a nickname that was given to him many years ago now when he retired as a journalist. Dry Biro – no longer writing... get it?

  He was in his eighties now, but he still possessed a razor-sharp mind, and although he was no longer writing he still liked to keep his eye on what was going on. If there was a wrong that needed putting right around here, he knew about it. He was no longer fit enough to investigate these things himself, but he felt I was just about ready to take over and carry on the good work.

  My name is Alfie Bowman. I suppose you could call me a writer; at least, that’s been my aim since I realised, after 20 years of unhappy marriage, that it was time to re-start my life. It’s a long story, which I won’t bore you with – let’s just say the moral codes of myself and my ex-wife were at odds with each other.

  I knocked hard on the front door. There was a muffled yowling from the back of the house. That would be Betty the basset hound, DB’s dog. She didn’t really bark; it was more of a howl. Imagine the sound you might expect from the Hound of the Baskervilles and you’ve got the picture.

  A door opened somewhere inside and the volume rose as Betty neared the front door. A voice rose above the din. ‘Who is it?’

  ‘It’s me. Alfie.’

  The dog howled even louder as she heard my voice. Betty and I were old friends – she just knew my arrival guaranteed a good fuss. As the door opened she rushed out to meet me, tail drumming loudly against the door as it waved furious circles of delight.

  ‘Come in, my boy, come in,’ said the old man, backing up to let me past. We walked through to his kitchen, warm and welcoming on this cold November afternoon. ‘Sit yourself down.’ He pointed to a chair by the table. ‘How are you now, and how is that arm?’

  He was referring to my right arm, which had been fractured when I was attacked by three guys with baseball bats a few weeks ago. I’d ended up in hospital that night with multiple bruises and stitches in the back of my head.

  I had actually been attacked ‘by mistake’, can you believe? But in the end, I had helped reunite a young Serbian girl and her long-lost aunt so that had made it worthwhile. To be honest, I was fine now and I’d put it behind me.

  ‘I’m fine now,’ I said. ‘All the bruises are gone, and my arm’s working pretty well.’ I flexed my right arm to demonstrate. ‘It’s still a bit stiff at times, and it doesn’t quite straighten out fully, but I’m good to go!’

  We exchanged a few pleasantries while he made tea and I made a fuss of Betty. Finally, he set two mugs down on the table and sat down beside me. Recognising the signs that we were getting down to business, Betty heaved a big sigh then padded off to her bed.

  Dry Biro reached across the table to a battered folder, about an inch thick, and dragged it across in front of me. He tapped the folder.

  ‘This is all the research I have on Daphne’s missing son. There are newspaper cuttings, interviews I conducted, and my own notes. I want you to take it away and see what you make of it. A fresh pair of eyes might see something I missed. But first, I’ll fill you in on the story.’

  Daphne Younger was something of a local legend. She had become famous locally through misfortune when her son had gone missing 30 years ago. She had never really got over it, and now she was more famous for the way she appeared to handle her grief, looking through the bottom of a glass.

  She had been just thirty-two when her son, Simon, went missing. Ten years old, he always caught the same bus home from school. On this fateful afternoon he had been late leaving school, and instead of catching the usual bus outside school, he had intended to walk into town and catch a later bus home from the bus station. But he never reached the bus station, and he seemed to have simply vanished into thin air.

  The police investigation had quickly focused on one of the teachers, Mr Rooke, but no hard evidence was ever found to link him to the crime. Eventually, the investigation had fizzled out and now was just another unsolved crime from many years ago.

  As for Daphne, she had blamed herself for not being able to meet Simon after school every day. The fact that many other mothers also relied on their children catching the school bus home didn’t make any difference, as far as she was concerned.

  To make matters even worse, he was also the only child she would ever have – a difficult birth had resulted in surgery that made it impossible for her to have another.

  Her husband had been a tower of strength for her, and it was thought she would have gone totally off the rails if it hadn’t been for him. But fate can so often be cruel, and it dealt Daphne a further blow when her husband had died five years ago. With her prop gone, she had turned to the bottle to help her forget and could often be found in The Cask, my local pub, quietly drinking herself into oblivion.

  It had been an incident in the pub one night that had led me to ask Dry Biro what he knew about Daphne and why she was always plastered. And that’s why was I was here today.

  ‘So,’ I said. ‘Basically, the police thought it was the teacher, Mr Rooke, but couldn’t prove it. Wasn’t there anyone else they were interested in?’

  Dry Biro scratched his head. ‘That’s the odd thing. As far as I could tell, they never even considered anyone else,’ he said. ‘And another thing – the detective running the case was always very evasive when I tried to talk to him about it.’

  ‘Who was that?’

  ‘His name was Nash. Detective Inspector Tommy Nash. He’s retired now.’

  Telling the story seemed to have drained the energy from him and he slumped tiredly in his chair. I could understand that – it certainly wasn’t the happiest story I’d ever heard.

  I would definitely look at Daphne in a new light now. I used to think she was just an old soak. It just goes to show you shouldn’t judge people without knowing their story. Now I felt distinctly ashamed for doing exactly that.

  It was time to go. I stood and put my hand on his shoulder. ‘You feel bad about this, don’t you?’

  ‘I watched a woman in her prime become an empty shell.’ His eyes glistened with suppressed tears. ‘She never even had a chance to bury her only son. I wanted to help her, but I couldn’t do it. I always felt that something wasn’t right but I couldn’t find it. I feel I let her down.’

  ‘No,’ I said. ‘That’s not right. It wasn’t your responsibility to find out what happened. You did your best. And you never for
got.’

  My attempt at consoling him didn’t seem to work, but I thought of something else that might help.

  ‘When did you last look at this?’ I asked him.

  He thought for a moment. ‘Not for many years if I’m really honest.’

  This thought seemed to make him slump even further into his chair. Now even Betty seemed to pick up on his sadness and she climbed from her bed to join him. Placing her chin on his knee, she gazed mournfully up into his eyes as he gently caressed her head and those long, velvet-like ears.

  This just wouldn’t do. I couldn’t leave him feeling down like this. Then I had an idea.

  ‘Remember when we first talked about this? You told me it’s never too late to help someone and right a wrong. Well, you were right. Maybe now, between us, we can right Daphne’s wrong.’

  This had caught his attention. ‘But I’m too old to help you,’ he said, confused.

  ‘No, you’re wrong. There’s plenty you can help me with. Don’t forget this all happened 30 years ago. Back then you couldn’t access information online like you can now.’

  It was like I had just switched a light on in his head. At last, a smile creased his face.

  ‘Of course! I can poke around online and see what I come up with.’

  I patted his shoulder. It just goes to show what can happen when you allow someone to get involved and feel useful. Now I could get on with my part of the deal.

  ‘Just one more thing before I go. You know Daphne – can you call her and see if she’ll speak to me?’

  ‘I’ll do that later and let you know what she says.’

  When I left, he was making a fresh pot of tea, humming to himself as he anticipated the job he was about to start.

  Chapter Two

  Daphne’s house was a mile out of town, set back from the road at the top of a steep drive. In the summer, she must have enjoyed commanding views over the town to the front and over fields and woods to the rear, but in the gloom of a cold November evening, all that could be seen was a smudge of light emanating from the town centre.

  She had been surprised to hear from Dry Biro and it had taken some careful persuasion on his part, but she had finally agreed to speak to me. It was his idea for me to come straight away, suggesting that she was more likely to be sober at this time of day.

  The house looked surprisingly cosy. I’m not sure what I was expecting, really. I suppose somewhere in the recesses of my mind I imagined a lonely widow sitting on her own in the dark and cold. But that’s not the impression the house gave.

  I stood in the glow of the porch light and rang the bell. The hall was in darkness through the glass but suddenly bloomed into life as a door opened inside and a light was switched on. A small dog began to yap enthusiastically.

  ‘Coming, coming,’ called a warm, soft voice as a blurry figure approached the frosted glass.

  The door opened and the smell of home cooking seemed to fill the air as a small, poodle-like dog rushed out and began circling my legs at high speed, yapping like a mad thing.

  ‘Mrs Younger? My name’s Alfie Bowman.’

  The lady before me was sixty-two years old and stood about five foot four inches tall. Her short dark hair was immaculately styled and her green eyes sparkled in an intelligent face. She knew what I was here to discuss, but she looked calm and serene. The only thing that gave her away was the two dark rings beneath her eyes that hinted at many sleepless nights.

  ‘Cissie, Cissie, dear, be quiet.’ She looked benignly down at the frantic dog, her kindly face breaking into a smile. ‘It’s Mr Bowman and he’s our guest.’

  To my great surprise, the dog stopped its frenetic yapping and circling, taking her place beside her owner and seeming to adopt a matching smile.

  Daphne shook my hand and ushered me inside. There was a long, low bookcase in the hall. Two large framed photos dominated the top. I guessed these must be Simon, her missing son, and her dead husband. The photos were so strikingly similar I couldn’t help but stare.

  She followed my gaze. ‘Just like his father,’ she said, sadly. ‘They could have been twins.’

  The sadness was only there for a moment, but I felt as though I could almost touch it. But, just as suddenly, she was smiling again.

  ‘Let me take your coat,’ she said. ‘And do come inside. It’s so horrible out there.’

  She led me through into an immaculate lounge. It was almost perfect, like a show-home. A log fire blazed away in the hearth, and she pointed to a chair next to it.

  ‘Do sit down, dear. Dinner won’t be ready for a while yet.’

  I tried not to show my surprise, but my face must have registered the fact that I wasn’t expecting dinner. A look of panic swept briefly over her face.

  ‘Don’t you want dinner?’ She was flustered now. ‘I’m sorry. I just assumed. I don’t have company very often and I’ve no one to cook for these days.’

  I tried to rescue the situation. ‘No, don’t worry. Dinner would be wonderful. It smells delicious.’ I had no plans anyway, and it really did smell delicious.

  ‘Oh good,’ she said. ‘Now do sit down, you’re making the place look untidy.’

  As soon as I sat down, Cissie decided to jump up onto my lap.

  ‘Oh goodness!’ cried Daphne. ‘Cissie, get down.’

  ‘It’s fine,’ I said, cuddling the dog. ‘She knows I love dogs. They can always tell.’

  Daphne took the armchair opposite me. The next half hour was filled with small talk about dogs, the weather, and the news, as we both did our best to avoid the elephant in the room, but eventually the small talk ran out.

  I had been completely thrown by the way Daphne had invited me into her home like a long-lost friend. I was half expecting to find some sad old biddy tottering around half-cut, and to be confronted by this warm-hearted, confident lady was a surprise to say the least.

  It was Daphne who finally broke the ice. ‘It must be very difficult for you,’ she said, ‘coming to talk to me about this. People see me out and they think I’m a sad, lonely old widow, but I’m really not like that. Well, at least I’m not like that all the time.’

  She rose from her chair and knelt in front of the fire, expertly poking and prodding it. Finally, happy with her creation, she added a fresh log and sat back.

  ‘The thing is, it’s difficult to face the world,’ she said, staring into the flames. ‘When I’m here at home I feel safe with my memories. But when I have to face the world I seem to need a prop to help me get by.’

  She turned to me. ‘Do you see what I mean? It’s just so hard for everyone. No one knows what to say to me, and I don’t know what to say to put them at their ease. And I feel guilty if I feel happy. I know what people think of me when I drink too much, but a drink just makes it easier, that’s all.’

  She was certainly right about not knowing what to say to her. I was certainly floundering right then.

  ‘Look,’ I said, awkwardly. ‘You don’t have to explain yourself to me-’

  ‘But you thought it, didn’t you?’ she asked.

  Wow! What could I say to that? Bull by the horns time.

  ‘Can I be completely honest with you?’

  ‘I rather hope you will be,’ she said, smiling.

  Right, here goes.

  ‘When I first saw you,’ I began, ‘you were in the pub in town, on your own, and you were, let’s say, a little drunk.’

  I kept my eyes on her but she showed no emotion so I carried on.

  ‘That’s not something you see every day,’ I said. ‘And I wondered why. The thing is, I knew someone I could ask, and when he told me I understood why.’

  She nodded. I took that as a sign to continue.

  ‘But there are lots of people out there who don’t understand. They have no experience of their own to compare with your loss, so they can’t understand. And then on top of that, convention says you’re wrong to do what you do.

  ‘I honestly have absolutely no idea how I would cope in
your situation. I can’t even begin to imagine what it’s like, and I’m not going to patronise you be pretending to know. But I’m pretty sure about one thing. Convention wouldn’t work for me – I’d need a prop too.’

  She stared at me for moment or two, then gave another little nod of her head. She had made up her mind. Whatever the test was, I’d passed.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘I think dinner’s ready now.’ She held out her hands. ‘Could you help me up. I seem to have got stuck.’

  I leant forward, took her hands, and pulled her to her feet.

  ‘That’s better,’ she said, smoothing her skirt. Then she was all bustle as she hurried out to the kitchen. ‘Would you like to open a bottle of wine?’ she called over her shoulder.

  Dinner tasted even better than the aroma had promised. Shepherd’s pie followed by apple crumble – all homemade. As we ate, she told me her story, illustrated with more photographs of her beautiful family.

  It was a classic tragedy and I swear I could hear my heart breaking at times that evening, and on more than one occasion I had to turn my attention to my food so Daphne wouldn’t see me welling up.

  By the time I left, I was determined to do everything I could to try to find an answer for this wonderful lady who was trying so hard to cope but just couldn’t quite deal with the fact she didn’t know what had happened to her lovely son.

  I felt the world owed Daphne Younger an explanation. Maybe we could bring her the peace that would allow her to once again face the world outside her home.

  Chapter Three

  I called DB next morning and filled him in on my meeting with Daphne.

  ‘She’s really very sweet, you know,’ I told him, ‘and I’m sure if we could find some answers we could make a huge difference to her life.’

  ‘I hope so,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid I didn’t make any startling discoveries yesterday, but I did manage to come up with an address for Tommy Nash.’