Stone Cold Red Hot - [36]

“You could check that though, couldn’t you? If she had a baby there’d be a record of that, wouldn’t there?”

“Yes.” And it would probably be easier to find than Jennifer was.

“I want you to find out,” his eagerness was poignant. I realised with a rush of understanding that Roger was re-inventing himself as an uncle, with nephew or niece to his name. Though they’d be in their mid-twenties by now.

“I’d have to go to Huddersfield,” I said, “that’s the nearest place with the most up to date national records. I don’t think there’s any point in going all the way to London. There is an office in Manchester too but they haven’t got such a comprehensive archive.”

“Try Huddersfield then.”

“There’s a problem, I’ve had my car stolen, I’ll need to hire a car – for a day, add it to my expenses.”

“That’s fine,” he said.

“I also found out who the father was. Someone that Jennifer met at the Bounty, the banqueting hall where she used to waitress. He’s called Jones, Maxwell Jones. He’s black and that probably made it even harder for Jennifer to confide in your parents.”

He gave me a puzzled look.

“Your father, in particular, held racist views.”

“Oh, yes,” he blushed.

“So not only had Jennifer broken faith with their moral and religious position she’d done so with someone your father could never accept.”

“Does he know? This man?”

“No. The relationship was over before Jennifer realised that she was pregnant. Her friends say she never considered marrying him, she knew she’d be on her own.”

He swallowed and covered his eyes briefly. “It’s a lot to take in.”

“Yes.” When he looked at me again I continued. “We also know that no-one heard from Jennifer, none of her friends, and that they were surprised at her sudden departure.”

“But where can she have gone? If it wasn’t Keele?”

“That’s why I need to talk to your mother.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he protested. “Did they know?” he asked quietly, “about the baby, did my parents know?”

“I haven’t been able to establish whether she told them or not.”

“What she said, my mother, about Jennifer being a disgrace, that must be what she meant.”

“Roger, I need to talk to your mother. She was the one who led everyone to believe Jennifer had gone to Keele and then dropped out, that’s what she told Lisa and Mrs Clerkenwell and you. If anyone knows where she really went it’s your mother.”

“I don’t think she’ll see you,” he stonewalled.

“Don’t tell her.”

“What?”

“She’ll be in this evening?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll come round after you’ve eaten, I’ll ask what I have to ask.”

He looked sick.

“The worst that can happen is that she’ll throw me out.”

“And she’ll know that I’ve hired you?”

“Yes. Look I could invent some mickey mouse story about being an old friend or a school re-union or something but all she’s going to say is that she’s lost touch with Jennifer. I have to challenge her, Roger.”

“She’s not well.”

Was his concern for her or for himself? He was thirty one for heaven’s sake, not a child. Wasn’t it about time he stood up for himself? “It’s up to you,” I said tiring of his weakness, “but if you won’t give me a chance to talk to her I’m afraid I’m not prepared to carry on with the case.” I paused.

He stared at his hands as though they held the correct answer.

“Maybe she should know; that you’ve hired me, that you’re determined to find your sister.”

“OK,” he sat back in the chair, “come round about seven. She should still be awake – she has a room downstairs now, it’s easier. Will I need to be there?”

“No. Just let me in and I’ll see her on my own.”

A wave of doubt leapt at my conscience. Shouldn’t I leave it all be, leave a dying woman to her secrets, let the mystery remain? I pressed my palms onto my desk to steady myself. I couldn’t walk away from this. I was in too deep and I needed to know whether my intuition was playing me false, or whether Jennifer was dead rather than missing. And if she was dead was her death due to illness or accident or something more sinister? I had to find out and maybe then it would all come clear. It would all be right as rain, I would laugh at the disturbing fears that were multiplying in my imagination and the aching sensation in my stomach would melt away. Maybe.

A fine autumn evening, there was a fresh wind blowing, encouraging the trees to let go of their first dying leaves. The wind brought a cooler feel with it and I shivered as I pedalled along in spite of the heat generated by my cycling.

I leant the bike against the garage at the side of the house and locked the back wheel to the frame. It was exactly seven o’ clock. I rang the bell and heard the shrill tone echo inside. Roger answered the door, his dread of my visit written all over his face. He lived with his mother in awe of her. Would he find release once she had gone? Shed his persona of nervous little boy?

“Come in, she’s in here.”

The house was the mirror image of Mrs Clerkenwell’s as far as its layout went, the front rooms off to the right of the passageway with the stairs at the left. The hall was dark, lots of deep polished wood, an antique umbrella and hat stand on the left. The floor was brown tiles with geometric border of blue and white triangles, a Victorian style. The kitchen door at the far end of the hall was ajar and through it spilt a ruby wedge of light from the setting sun. Like warmth in the distance. It didn’t stretch the length of the hallway and when it suddenly faded everything was sombre and melancholy again.