Susan’s accent grew stronger. ‘I phoned first thing this morning and Grace told me Christine wasn’t there.’
‘When did she go missing?’ Matthew thought this was the last thing they needed. A vulnerable missing person while they were working on a murder inquiry. He was making links too, wondering about coincidence, because Lucy Braddick lived in Lovacott, and she had Down’s syndrome too.
‘Well, we don’t know that. Not exactly.’
‘Perhaps you’d explain.’
‘Well, she goes to the Woodyard three times a week, to the day centre. To give me a break as much as anything.’
Matthew nodded but felt his pulse racing.
‘Dennis brought her in yesterday as normal. And he came back in the afternoon to wait for her, but she never came out with the others, so he just thought she’d taken the minibus home.’ Her voice suddenly warmed. ‘Poor soul, he’s in such a state. He’s blaming himself for the fact that she’s missing and for not calling me to check. But he got caught up with another emergency. One of the Brethren was taken poorly that afternoon, so they went straight out again when they got back to Lovacott. They were in A&E with him when I phoned them at home last night.’
‘You’re saying that Christine could have gone missing anytime yesterday?’ Matthew paused. ‘Have you checked with the day centre?’ I was there for most of the day. She could have disappeared while I was sitting in the sun, chatting to my husband. He remembered his walk through the day centre and thought that Christine could have been in the kitchen when he passed, peeling potatoes at the sink.
‘I haven’t done anything!’ Susan said. ‘I didn’t know where to start. I just came here to Dorothy’s, because I knew you were a detective. I thought you’d know how to find her.’
He was going to ask why she hadn’t called the police as soon as she’d realized Christine was missing, but the woman felt bad enough. No point making accusations now. She was here and so was he. Back in the family home and making himself useful at last.
‘Have you got a photograph of Christine?’
‘Not here.’ She seemed so distressed that he worried she’d start crying again. ‘I never thought.’
‘I’ll drive you home,’ Matthew said. ‘Mother can come with you, keep you company. You want to be there, don’t you, in case Christine finds her way back.’
‘Oh yes!’ She looked up, horrified. ‘I never thought of that.’ He saw that panic had overwhelmed her; she was drowning in it.
‘In the meantime, I’ll phone the station and get things started. Let’s see if we can find her for you.’
* * *
Susan Shapland lived in a little cottage, the middle of a terrace of three on a creek running in from the Taw, on low-lying land close to Braunton Marsh. It was only a couple of miles from Matthew’s house, and from the place where Walden’s body had been found. Susan must have called a taxi to Matthew’s mother’s house as soon as she realized Christine was missing. An impulse because she knew she couldn’t cope with this crisis on her own. When Matthew had been a boy, the creek had been neglected, overgrown, with remnants of its industrial past: staithes and the rusted remains of a small crane. In the nineteenth century, boats bringing coal to the county had tied up here, and had taken away the clay, which had been dug close by. Now, it formed part of a nature reserve. Colin Marston probably walked along the bank every day while he was doing his bird census.
The Shaplands’ cottage was low and damp. Susan had given up her battle with the wet that seeped in from outside, and there was mould on the window ledges and crawling across the ceiling. Matthew wondered if anyone had suggested that she and Christine should move. Some incomer would buy the place, and make it habitable, but it was barely that now. Perhaps the husband, Cecil, had been the person holding things together. He wondered too when his mother had last come here. He imagined the delight she would take in throwing open windows and spraying the place with bleach, scrubbing until it shone.
They sat in the cluttered living room while Susan hurried away to find a photograph.
‘A man came to the Woodyard a couple of months ago and took the pictures.’
Christine was still recognizable as the girl he’d once played with. Short, dark-haired, a little dumpy. He thought it was the woman he’d seen