‘Oh dear,’ said Digby, noncommittally.
‘The police were here earlier, you know,’ said Ant. ‘Didn’t you ask them to send out a search party for him? Instead of trying to get us arrested for stealing your missing parcel? Could be that Rufus has got it with him, all along, and couldn’t face telling you. Does he know you reported it to the police?’
‘That’s none of your business,’ she flashed.
‘Well, he’s bound to turn up,’ said Digby. ‘Maybe you could send those daughters of yours out to search for him. He might have had a heart attack.’
She shook her head emphatically. ‘He is in perfect health, thanks to our excellent doctor. His pacemaker is the best in the world. There must be another explanation.’
Ant and Digby had heard about the state-of-the-art pacemaker before, when Rufus had spent a week in an expensive London clinic having it implanted.
Carla went on, ‘But I must ask you to inform me if you—’ She broke off, evidently realising how unlikely her request was to be honoured. ‘Well, I mean, if you see or hear anything,’ she finished bravely.
‘That isn’t going to happen, is it?’ Ant was brutal. ‘Even if he’s lying dead in one of your beautifully kept ditches, it won’t be any of us who find him. Seeing as how we’re not allowed into any of your fields.’
Carla Blackwood turned pale. ‘If he isn’t back by tomorrow, I’ll have to contact the police – again.’ She clenched her jaw. ‘Well, that’s all,’ she said, and turned on her heel. ‘Goodbye.’
‘And a happy Christmas to you, too,’ said Ant, rather loudly.
It gave them an uncomfortable amount to talk about, when she’d gone, despite Digby’s need to leave for Blockley within the next twenty minutes. The implications of Carla’s visit were all too starkly obvious. ‘So what do we do?’ said Ant, for the fifth time. ‘If Mrs B contacts the police, we’ll have to own up that Mum’s disappeared, even if we don’t say exactly what she told us about the argument with Blackwood.’ He had another thought. ‘I did tell Thea about it, though. And she’s matey with one of the top CID people.’
‘No sense in worrying about who tells who what,’ Digby insisted. ‘I can’t see bloody Carla bothering the cops again so soon, either. It’s the same thing as we said before – there’s never much concern about a healthy adult going off for a bit. Especially at Christmas.’
New thoughts were exploding in Ant’s poor head. ‘You don’t think … ? What if … ? I mean, they haven’t gone off together, have they?’
Digby gave a loud guffaw at this idea. ‘What – your mother and Rufus Blackwood? I hardly think so. She hates his guts.’
‘Right.’ It had reached the point where Ant thought he could believe almost anything. After all, Blackwood was rich, and fairly handsome. He and Beverley had been almost friendly years ago. But it was an awful thought, even so.
‘I’ve got to go,’ said Digby, moving towards the door. ‘They’ll put me right at the end of the street if I’m not careful.’
Ant still had things he wanted to say. ‘But what if … ?’ he started. ‘I mean, it does look bad for Mum, on the face of it. She said – he’s dead and I can’t come home. And now a man she hates has gone missing at the same time as she has. What’s anybody going to think?’
‘She hasn’t killed Rufus Blackwood, Ant. Don’t be ridiculous.’
‘Well, I just wish she’d come back and tell us that for herself.’
‘She will. We’ll talk about it a bit more when I get back. Shouldn’t be too late. These things don’t last very long as a rule. Wish me luck.’ And he made his escape, driving off with a vanful of Christmas goodies.
Ant’s thoughts revolved even more rapidly without his father there to bounce them off. Perhaps the apparent disappearance of Blackwood was a good thing, if Carla reported it. The police would quickly clock the fact that something odd was happening at Crossfield, and maybe they should have a look round. And they might equally quickly come up with a harmless explanation. Except that they might just as easily find something dreadful. It was hard to avoid the conclusion that Beverley didn’t want to be found – she wasn’t answering her phone, after all. But she couldn’t know that Ant had only caught the first syllable of her place of exile. She might have assumed he knew she was in Winchcombe or Wincanton or wherever.
He tried to imagine himself in his mother’s situation, with great difficulty. The major stumbling block was her assertion that somebody was dead. Without knowing who – or what – that was, nothing made the slightest sense. There had been an implication that she felt herself to be responsible in some way, or at least liable to be blamed. Everything appeared to have started with the mysterious parcel that both the Blackwoods obviously regarded as precious and important. Counting that item, the list of missing people and things amounted to three. ‘What next?’ Ant murmured to his attentive dog. A dog, he remembered, who had barely been outside the house all day.
‘Sorry, Perce. Just a quickie out in the garden for now. It’s too dark to go any further.’ He opened the front door, and let the animal wander out. The Frowses did not believe in picking up dog droppings, whether on their own premises or someone else’s. For years, Beverley had insisted that the plastic bags used to collect it caused far greater damage than a bit of muck walked into the house or car. Finally, she pointed out, the world was starting to agree with her.
Everything outside was quiet. The security lights
