The Spender brothers were of two minds whom to thank for their untroubled return home. The actor, because his pleas for tolerance worked? Or the policeman, because he was a decent bloke after all? He had said very little on the drive back to their rented cottage other than to warn them that the cliffs were dangerous and that it was foolish to climb them, however tempting the reason. To their parents he gave a brief, expurgated account of what had happened, ending with the suggestion that, as the boys' fishing had been interrupted by the events of the morning, he would be happy to take them out on his boat one evening. "It's not a motor cruiser," he warned them, "just a small fishing boat, but the sea bass run at this time of year, and if we're lucky we might catch one or two." He didn't put his arms around their shoulders or call them heroes, but he did give them something to look forward to.
Next on Ingram's agenda was an isolated farmhouse where the elderly occupants had reported the theft of three valuable paintings during the night. He had been on his way there when he was diverted to Chapman's Pool, and while he guessed he was wasting his time, community policing was what he was paid for.
"Oh God, Nick, I'm so sorry," said the couple's harassed daughter-in-law, who, herself, was on the wrong side of seventy. "Believe me, they did know the paintings were being auctioned. Peter's been talking them through it for the last twelve months, but they're so forgetful, he has to start again from scratch every time. He has power of attorney, so it's all quite legal, but, honestly, I nearly died when Winnie said she'd called you. And on a Sunday, too. I come over every morning to make sure they're all right, but sometimes..." She rolled her eyes to heaven, expressing without the need for words exactly what she thought of her ninety-five-year-old parents-in-law.
"It's what I'm here for, Jane," he said, giving her shoulder an encouraging pat.
"No, it's not. You should be out catching criminals," she said, echoing the words of people across the nation who saw the police only as thief-takers. She heaved a huge sigh. "The trouble is their outgoings are way in excess of their income, and they're incapable of grasping the fact. The home help alone costs over ten thousand pounds a year. Peter's having to sell off the family silver to make ends meet. The silly old things seem to think they're living in the nineteen-twenties, when a housemaid cost five bob a week. It drives me mad, it really does. They ought to be in a home, but Peter's too soft-hearted to put them there. Not that they could afford it. I mean we can't afford it, so how could they? It would be different if Celia Jenner hadn't persuaded us to gamble everything on that beastly husband of Maggie's but..." She broke off on a shrug of despair. "I get so angry sometimes I could scream, and the only thing that stops me is that I'm afraid the scream would go on forever."
"Nothing lasts forever," he said.
"I know," she said mutinously, "but once in a while I think about giving eternity a hand. It's such a pity you can't buy arsenic anymore. It was so easy in the old days."
"Tell me about it."
She laughed. "You know what I mean."
"Should I order a postmortem when Peter's parents finally pop their clogs?"
"Chance'd be a fine thing. At this rate I'll be dead long before they are."
The tall policeman smiled and made his farewells. He didn't want to hear about death. He could still feel the touch of the woman's flesh on his hands ... He needed a shower, he thought, as he made his way back to his car.
The blond toddler marched steadfastly along the pavement in the Lilliput area of Poole, planting one chubby leg in front of the other. It was 10:30 on Sunday morning, so people were scarce, and no one took the trouble to find out why she was alone. When a handful of witnesses came forward later to admit to the police that they'd seen her, the excuses varied. "She seemed to know where she was going." "There was a woman about twenty yards behind her and I thought she was the child's mother." "I assumed someone else would stop." "I was in a hurry." "I'm a bloke. I'd have been strung up for giving a lift to a little girl"
In the end it was an elderly couple, Mr. and Mrs. Green, who had the sense, the time, and the courage to interfere. They were on their way back from church, and as they did every week, they made a nostalgic detour through Lilliput to look at the art deco buildings that had somehow survived the postwar craze for mass demolition of anything out of the ordinary in favor of constructing reinforced concrete blocks and red-brick boxes. Lilliput sprawled along the eastern curve of Poole Bay, and amid the architectural dross that could be found anywhere were elegant villas in manicured gardens and art deco houses with windows like portholes. The Greens adored it. It reminded them of their youth.
They were passing the turning to Salterns Marina when Mrs. Green noticed the little girl. "Look at that," she said disapprovingly. "What sort of mother would let a child of that age get so far ahead of her? It only takes a stumble and she'd be under a car."
Mr. Green slowed. "Where's the mother?" he asked.
His wife twisted in her seat. "Do you know, I'm not sure. I thought it was that woman behind her, but she's looking in a shop window."
Mr. Green was a retired sergeant major. "We should do something," he said firmly, drawing to a halt and putting the car into reverse. He shook his fist at a motorist who hooted ferociously after missing his back bumper by the skin of his teeth. "Bloody Sunday drivers," he said, "they shouldn't be allowed on the road."
"Quite right, dear," said Mrs. Green, opening her door.
She scooped the poor little mite into her arms and set her comfortably on her knee while her eighty-year-old husband drove to the Poole police station. It was a tortuous journey because his preferred speed was twenty miles an hour, and this caused mayhem in the one-way system around the civic center roundabout.
The child seemed completely at ease in the car, smiling happily out of the window, but once inside the police station, it proved impossible to prize her away from her rescuer. She locked her arms about the elderly woman's neck, hiding her face against her shoulder, and clung to kindness as tenaciously as a barnacle clings to a rock. Upon learning that no one had reported a toddler missing, Mr. and Mrs. Green set themselves down with commendable patience and prepared for a long wait.
"I can't understand why her mother hasn't noticed she's gone," said Mrs. Green. "I never allowed my own children out of sight for a minute."
"Maybe she's at work," said the woman police constable who had been detailed to make the inquiries.
"Well, she shouldn't be," said Mr. Green reprovingly. "A child of this age needs her mother with her." He pulled a knowing expression in WPC Griffiths's direction which resolved itself into a series of peculiar facial jerks. "You should get a doctor to examine her. Know what I'm saying? Odd people about these days. Men who should know better. Get my meaning?" He spelled it out. "P-E-do-files. S-E-X criminals. Know what I'm saying?"
"Yes, sir, I know exactly what you're saying, and don't worry"-the WPC tapped her pen on the paper in front of her-"the doctor's at the top of my list. But if you don't mind, we'll take it gently. We've had a lot of dealings with this kind of thing, and we've found the best method is not to rush at it." She turned to the woman with an encouraging smile. "Has she told you her name?"
Mrs. Green shook her head. "She hasn't said a word, dear. To be honest, I'm not sure she can."
"How old do you think she is?"