ushered them into his consulting room and made sure they were comfortable.
‘You’re looking better than when we last met, Mr Haydock. I want you to have an ultrasound scan, just so that we can check your kidneys. Nothing to worry about. We want to see that all’s well below, and that the prostate is not too enlarged. Are you sleeping any better now?’
‘Fine, thanks.’
‘Good. And do I see you are losing a bit of weight?’
‘I’m losing bodhisattvas.’
Wendy Townsend said, ‘We have suppers with plenty of vegetables. No pork pies these days! We’re doing very well. I tell Justin that he should be eating sensibly but he mustn’t starve.’
‘That’s excellent. And asparagus is just coming in.’
‘I love asparagus.’ She told the consultant how she had been up early the previous Sunday and driven to Gray’s Farm. She got there just after nine, when there were no more than five people picking the asparagus; but by the time she left before ten the field was crowded with people. So she invited Justin to supper, she said, and they enjoyed fresh asparagus served with a fried egg on top. Justin liked it that way. When she was a little girl, the family had grown asparagus in their back garden. Her father had been a well-known accountant. Cocking her ear on one side, she enquired, ‘Mr John Townsend? No? … Well, never mind.’
Justin knew Wendy was talking too much. Part of the moving-in-on-him business. He showed his embarrassment by staring fixedly at the floor, hands clasped. The professor nodded. ‘Well, good to see you both, and keep taking the warfarin regularly, Mr Haydock. The secretary will give you a date for your next blood test.’ He filled in the requisite form and handed it to Justin.
In the car on the way home, Justin said, ‘I can’t believe how much blood they have extracted from me over the last month.’
‘They only take a tiny amount, love,’ Wendy said, patting his knee. He reflected that his knee was among his most valuable possessions.
Wendy stopped the car by Justin’s front door. He turned his face to hers and they kissed before he climbed out. He would have been embarrassed not to do so, knowing she expected it. Leaving and entering cars were major difficulties. He had little control over his legs, particularly with regard to lifting them. The birds sang under the street lamps. He found the front door unlocked. Either his mind must be going or Maude had returned. He was glad to be back in No. 29. The builders were not there. The house was quiet but oddly unwelcoming.
‘Anyone there?’ he asked. He thought there was someone in the front room. He went to look. No one was present, but he remained disturbed.
‘You’re there, are you?’ came Maude’s voice.
‘Maude? Hello? Like a cup of tea or a coffee?’ A prolonged silence. Then came her voice. ‘Tea, please.’
In the kitchen, Justin brewed two cups of tea. The tea bag was one of Marks & Spencer’s extra-strong teas. He carried the tea into the living room, placing his Carlisle mug on a mat before sitting down in his favourite armchair and calling Maude. But had someone just looked through the doorway and then swiftly withdrawn his head? He got up and went to look in the hall. No one was there. He could hear nothing. ‘Old age,’ he told himself. ‘Going bloody daft.’ He scanned the printout Professor Fellows had given him in the consulting room. His INR was 1.4. He was to take 3 mg of warfarin every evening at six. He immediately fell into sleep; it was indeed a steep fall. He became asleep without warning. When he roused, his tea was barely lukewarm. He had the impression that someone or something had been standing over him. He dismissed the idea. Justin sat where he was, leaning back, relishing his lethargy, missing Kate.
‘You’re awake at last!’ He was startled. Maude was sitting by the door.
‘How long was I asleep?’ he asked.
‘Justin, I must tell you something.’ She spoke in a low grave voice. ‘I resolved to tell no one, but someone ought to know, in case a crime has been committed.’
He stared at her. She was certainly pale and worried. When he asked her what the matter was, again she paused. ‘Let me get you another cup of tea – that one’s stone cold.’
‘No thanks, Maude. What’s up?’
Then she spoke. She had gone round to the summerhouse for her lesson in Muslim ethics as usual. She admitted for the first time that these sessions were held in the Fitzgeralds’ summerhouse, where the Fitzgeralds had given shelter to a refugee. ‘She was not there. Of course I was surprised. There was a note on her side table.’ Maude fiddled in her jacket pocket, to produce a sheet of lined paper, possibly torn from a notebook. Without speaking, she handed it over to Justin. The note simply read:
I must leave here. Thank you. Blessings.
Justin scowled at the message in puzzlement. ‘She’s gone? Left the village? Why so sudden? Is it a question of rent?’
Maude shook her head. ‘Has she just run off? Or was she abducted and forced to write this note? The more I think about it, the more worried I become.’
The phone rang. Justin picked it up.
‘Can I speak to Mr Haddock, please?’
‘Justin Haydock speaking, but I’m not in a buying mood. What do you want?’ He preferred the name Haydock, which was what he always used on his TV scripts. And not only there. Since his boyhood days, he had hated being called after a fish.
‘So sorry, Mr Haydock. We are not trying to sell you anything. We just happen to be in your area. We wondered if we could offer you a free modern-design kitchen. It comes—’
‘Sorry, no, I do not want a free kitchen. Bugger off!’ He put the phone down.
Maude looked enquiringly at him. ‘Should we call the police?’ she asked.
‘It’s probably perfectly innocent. Maybe she quarrelled with Deirdre Fitzgerald – she wouldn’t be the first to do so. Should we go and see the Fitzgeralds? They must know something about this. The girl didn’t even sign her name.’
‘I still think we should phone the police. She was not the sort of girl simply to disappear.’
‘You say that, but she has simply disappeared. Let’s go and see the Fitzgeralds first, then if there’s no joy we’ll phone the police. If they haven’t done so themselves.’
So they went together down Ivy Lane and used the formidable iron knocker on the front door of Righteous House. After a long pause, Guy Fitzgerald opened the door a little way. He nodded, with no change of facial expression. ‘Might we come in and have a word with you, Guy?’ said Justin.
‘What about?’
‘About the young woman who was staying in your summerhouse.’
‘She’s
