He urged Molly through the door.
'So what's going on, Joe?' asked Beryl. 'And why am I not feeling too clever all of a sudden?'
'Didn't want to worry Molly more than she is,' said Joe. 'I think her girl's got trouble.'
He reached into his pocket, pulled out the envelope Dorrie had given him and ripped it open.
The note was short and to the point.
You made a promise we'd be together in the New Year. Keep it.
'Any time will do,' she'd said. And probably meant it. But sitting alone on New Year's Eve, watching the frenetic gaiety of the TV party rise and the level of her vodka bottle sink, she'd got to thinking, any time won't do. He said New Year we'd be together, and that's what's going to happen!
'I know where she's gone,' said Joe. 'I'll drop you at home first.'
'No way,' said Beryl, holding up her key. 'I haven't stayed sober to see you driving off drunk, like some boozy Sir Lancelot. Where you go, I go, or nobody moves at all, right?'
'Hey, no argument,' said Joe, surprising her. This ain't no war zone I'm heading for, this is just another unpleasant little domestic. Let's go.'
En route he gave Beryl a quick picture of what was going on. She laughed when she read the Sexwith flier he pulled out of his pocket, but when he finished she said seriously, 'Joe, this is unpleasant, OK, but I can't see how come you're so involved. I mean, the case you were working on's pretty well closed by the sound of it. Like you said, this is just a domestic involving people you hardly know, and none of them's paying you anyway. So why aren't we in my kitchen, sipping cocoa?'
'Was that what you had in mind?' said Joe. 'Glad I didn't stay. Hey, keep your eyes on the road when you're hitting me! No, listen, you're right, none of my business. But it's the kiddie I'm worried about. I got this nasty feeling this woman in the park who's been stalking Molly and the kid may turn out to be Lucy Naysmith.'
'You mean, she's known about her man and Dorrie all along and could be thinking that if she can't have a kid of her own, next best thing is one her husband's fathered on someone else?'
'It happens. And fighting over a kid's always nasty, but if the fighting's physical and the kid's actually there, it could be dangerous. Also I feel a bit responsible.'
'Jeez, Joe, you and that conscience of yours! One of these days you've got to tell me what exactly you did to start the Second World War. How the hell are you responsible for any of this?'
'When Dorrie asked me how he was, I told her fine, nothing but a couple of superficial scratches. Also I told her there was no risk of him being attacked again.'
'So?'
'So if I'd let her think he was in no fit state to make any decisions about their future, and also there was a permanent police guard on the house, maybe she wouldn't be on her way there now!'
'Joe,' said Beryl gently. 'We don't know for sure that's where she's heading. And even if it is, there's nothing in the rule book says you've got to go around telling lies to people to keep them out of trouble, specially when the trouble's not going to go away whatever you do or say.'
Joe digested this. He knew she was right. But it didn't help.
It didn't help at all.
Twenty-Five.
It was party night on Beacon Heights. Every second house was ablaze with light, and music filled the air. The Woodbine residence was jumping. Either Willie had decided that the body in the gravel pit could wait another day for his personal inspection, or Georgina Woodbine was having a great time in his absence. Marble-Tooth of the SAS's house was in darkness. He'd had his bash the other night and was presumably flashing the molars at someone else's ceilidh.
There were lights on in the Naysmith house, but no sounds of music or merriment. And as Joe had anticipated, there was no sign of a police car on watch. In these cost-cutting times, police overtime was too expensive to waste an unnecessary second of, even on the Heights.
'Wait here,' he told Beryl. 'I shouldn't be long.'
'Joe, maybe I should come with you.'
'If it's not my quarrel, it's surely not yours,' he said. 'I need a nurse, I'll holla.'
He gave her a kiss, which reminded him what his crazy conscience was making him miss. Then he set off up the drive.
The front door was ajar and his heart sank. Somehow he didn't think it had been left open deliberately in anticipation of first-footers.
He stepped inside. Natural instinct was to call out, 'Hello, anyone there?' or some such implied apology for trespass, but he suppressed it. Anything he could hear to give him a pointer on how things were going before he got involved would be useful.
Except he could hear nothing.
A partially open door into the hallway spilled a line of light across the floor. He pushed it open. It was the room he was most familiar with, the study. The light came from a lamp on the desk, as if someone had been sitting there, working on the papers scattered across its leather surface. But the room was empty.
He went forward to the desk. According to Endo Venera, a sharp eye never missed a chance to read private papers on the grounds, you never knew when knowing something other folk didn't know you knew might come in useful.
A brief glance told him they were concerned with Poll-Pott, something about a partnership agreement.
