Bones and Silence

'What exactly was her job?' interrupted Pascoe.

'We took her on as a typist. She had word-processing and computing skills and we had hopes we might be able to use her in these fields as vacancies occurred, but to be quite frank, her time-keeping, attention to detail and general attitude were such as to have made this most unlikely.'

'How come she applied for a typist's job with these qualifications?'

'She didn't so much apply as present herself,' said Coombes. 'She'd worked in London for Chester Belcourt, our parent company. A note from one of their directors said she'd had some personal problems which might be eased by a return to Yorkshire and if there was anything we could do to help her with employment it would be a kindness to her and a favour to him.'

'Return, you say? She's local, then?'

'Monksley. Do you know it?'

Monksley was a small village on the northern moors, rather isolated without the compensation of being picturesque.

'Vaguely,' said Pascoe. 'Is that where she's living?'

'We did have an address there to start with, I believe, but after she joined us, she moved into town in a manner of speaking.'

'What manner was that?' inquired Pascoe.

'She rented a boat, called Bluebell, would you believe? One of those tubs moored along Bulmer's Wharf,' he said with distaste. 'I'm sure you know them.'

Pascoe smiled. The old warehouses once serviced by Bulmer's Wharf had been demolished and a small estate of maisonettes erected on the site. The contractors, eager to maximize their return, had also rented out moorings along the wharf. It may not have been their intention that people should set up in more or less permanent residence there, but this was what had happened and eventually, inevitably, tensions had developed between the property- owning land-lubbers and the generally more raffish boat-people. A few months earlier these had exploded into accusations that one or more of the boats had been used as a bawdy house. Investigation had revealed little more than a penchant for uninhibited parties on the part of a couple of girl tenants, but there had passed permanently into middle-class mythology this fantasy of a fleet of floating brothels, each richly appointed as Cleopatra's barge, where lovers kept stroke to the tune of flutes.

'I don't know them personally,' said Pascoe. 'But I see you do. What happened at your interview with Miss King, Mr Coombes?'

'Nothing pleasant, I assure you. I tried to speak to her rationally but she entered full of defiance and moved very rapidly through insolence to abuse. To cut a long story short, she resigned.'

'Walked out, you mean.'

'Indeed. This led to another unpleasant scene, this time with Mr Waterson who accused me of sacking her. I urged him to check his facts, but he walked out too.'

'Was this the occasion of his leaving the firm permanently?'

'Not immediately. We had become fairly inured to Gregory Waterson's explosions here. They were regarded by some as outbursts of temperament. But a few days later he really went over the top at a meeting with our managing director when there was a client present. All this business of Miss King came out once more and I gather he was personally abusive towards me and eventually to our managing director, and the client. Enough's enough. He seemed really amazed when he was told that this was the end. The directors were generous, more generous than they needed to have been in view of the circumstances. I doubt if there's an industrial tribunal in the land that would have awarded him a penny.'

It struck Pascoe that Coombes was in sympathy with this hardness rather than his directors' generosity and he wondered what hints of Waterson's liaison with his wife had reached the man's ears. No doubt Waterson's final outburst had left no stone unthrown. But he couldn't feel too much sympathy for a man whose reaction to an office affair was to pontificate at the girl and have a friendly chat with the man.

He stood up and said, 'If I could have Miss King's address. In Monksley as well as Bulmer's Wharf. And I'd also like the name of the director of Chester Belcourt who recommended her to you.'

There was no real need for this. He asked merely as a sign of his distaste and he saw that Coombes took the message. Pascoe guessed that next time he came to this office, if there was a next time, it would be the hard seat in front of the desk for him.

*    *    *

Bulmer's Wharf proved a double disappointment, being more like an aquatic Wimpey Estate than a floating Street of a Thousand Pleasures. Also, where Bluebell should have been was a gap. A middle-aged woman nursing a sullen baby on the boat next door confirmed that Beverley King had lived there till three maybe four weeks ago when Bluebell had moved off without warning or explanation. She thought she recognized Waterson as a frequent visitor from Pascoe's description but could offer no further help, except her expert nautical opinion that Bluebell's only remaining ambitions were submarine and any voyage of more than a few miles would probably see them realized.

Frustrated, Pascoe left. His route back to the station took him along String Lane. He'd forgotten about Harold Park, but as he approached Food For Thought, he noticed a grimy Peugeot estate parked outside with Govan, the bearded Scot, talking to someone through its window. Pascoe couldn't see the number, but it was worth checking.

As he drew near, the Peugeot's indicator started winking as it tried to force its way back into the stream of traffic. Pascoe halted alongside and leaned across to open his window. The Peugeot driver did the same. He had a round red farmer's face which looked fertile ground for rustic jollity but was presently tarred with indignation.

'What's your problem, mate?' he demanded.

'Mr Park?'

'Who's asking?'

Taking this as affirmative, Pascoe introduced himself.

‘I called earlier. I wonder if we could have a word. It won't take long,' said Pascoe with a reassuring smile. Behind him someone tooted impatiently. He went forward another twenty yards and found a spot to park illegally.