She wasn’t sure what she could do, who she should tell about Jeremy’s disappearance. He lived alone. She had an idea that he might have been married once, but he didn’t talk about children. He lived in Denby Dale in a little terraced house close to the mill. Everyone in the village knew him, but she didn’t think he had any close friends. The regulars in the Fleece chatted to him most evenings, but she doubted they had any more idea about his private life or background than she did.
It didn’t occur to her to go to the police. Jeremy wouldn’t want anyone prying into the business. She thought he probably sailed very close to the wind when it came to VAT and health and safety. She knew he paid some of the actors cash in hand. Besides, it was ridiculous. He’d said he’d be away for a few days. He hadn’t yet been gone for a week. All the same she hated the feeling of helplessness. She wished he would phone her.
The actors had gone back to the digs in the village where they stayed when they were rehearsing. None of them was local. Jeremy employed different actors for each tour. Martha locked up the office and on the keyring saw the spare key to Jeremy’s house. He’d given it to her when he’d asked her to stay there one morning to let in the plumber – the sort of work experience not set out in the apprenticeship job description. She’d offered it back to him, but he’d told her to hang on to it.
She thought it wouldn’t do any harm to go in and look. It would set her mind at rest. Perhaps he’d returned from wherever he’d been and been taken ill.
The house was a traditional weaver’s cottage, part of a terrace close to the viaduct, backing on to the River Dearne. The first floor had a row of windows to let in the light to make working the loom easier for the textile workers. It was very narrow. A kitchen and small living room on the ground floor, two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. She’d had a quick snoop round while she’d been waiting for the plumber.
She unlocked the front door, which led straight from the pavement, struggling for a moment with the unfamiliar key. The door stuck when she pushed it. There was a pile of mail inside. She picked it up and put it on the table.
‘Jeremy!’ Not shouting. She didn’t really think he was there. Jeremy wasn’t the sort to get ill – at least not without an audience. It seemed very hot and airless, as if the cottage had been shut up for a long time. Now she felt foolish, imagined neighbours watching her. But she couldn’t just leave without checking upstairs. She closed the door behind her and opened a window. A train rattled over the viaduct and she imagined she could feel the vibration of it under her feet.
In the tiny kitchen there was a sweet, unpleasant smell. The gas cooker was covered in grease and there was a layer of white fat on the bottom of the grill pan, but she didn’t think the smell came from that. Even if it did, she wasn’t going to clean up for him. She wanted a good report on her placement but there were some things she wouldn’t do to get one. She wondered what would happen to her if Jeremy never came back. Would they pass her work experience anyway?
On impulse she opened the fridge and the smell got a lot worse. There was half a packet of sausages which must have been well past their sell-by date before he left and were now revolting. She lifted them into a carrier bag, opened the back door into the yard and dumped them in the bin, thinking that Jeremy owed her bigtime.
In the main bedroom there were signs that he’d left very quickly. One of the drawers was open and clothes spilled out. The bed was unmade, though she thought that didn’t mean much. She’d never yet met a man who made a bed when he got up. It was hard to judge how much he’d packed. She looked in the wardrobe. His favourite black linen jacket, the one he thought made him look cool, even when it was crumpled and grubby, was missing. The small suitcase he used when he went for overnight trips to check on a performance was there, propped against the wall in a corner. She didn’t see a bigger bag. Did that mean he’d been planning to be away for longer all the time? That he hadn’t told her because he thought she’d refuse to take charge while he was swanning off on holiday? Too right, she thought. What sort of mug do you think I am?
Perhaps she should phone the Arts Council officer who was supervising her placement. Drop Jeremy Booth right in the shit. But she knew she wouldn’t do it. She’d developed an affection for the man. He made her laugh. But when he finally got home, he’d owe her. She’d stand over him in his office and dictate the report she wanted, wait until he’d signed it and post it off herself.
The small bedroom was at the back of the cottage. It had a view of the yard and the dustbin, then to the river and the bigger houses beyond, their trees and gardens. It was set up like an office with a desk and PC, a filing cabinet and bookcase. On the wall was a cork pin-board. It had notes about rehearsals, things-to-do lists, scraps of reviews cut from small regional newspapers, a few faded photos which looked as if they’d travelled with him.
One was of a youngish man. She thought it must be of Jeremy, though it was hard to tell. The man in the photograph had hair and a beard. He was wearing a jersey and jeans. She couldn’t imagine Jeremy looking so casual. But the features were the same, the long straight nose, the fine cheekbones. He was sitting on an upturned boat on a beach. The second photograph was of an older man, wearing navy overalls. He had crinkly grey hair and he was beaming into the camera. He stood between a small boy and a pretty young woman with a serious face. Then the same woman with a man a little older, who stood with his arm around her shoulder.
On the way downstairs, Martha was shocked by the sound of the phone ringing. She found it on the living-room wall, picked it up before the answerphone cut in.
‘Hello. Jeremy Booth’s phone.’
There was a silence.
‘Hello?’
‘Is Jeremy there?’ A young woman’s voice.
‘No, I’m sorry, he’s away at the moment.’
The phone went dead.
Chapter Fourteen
When Jimmy Perez woke the next morning it was still to thick fog. His house was in Lerwick, close to the pier. It backed on to the sea and the outside walls were green to the high-tide mark. The fog made the light different. There was no reflection from the water; it was like waking in winter. His first thought was of Fran and the second was of the investigation.
He’d wanted to visit Fran the night before, but it had been late by the time he’d finished work. He’d phoned to explain, had been too eager in his apologies, he realized now, had assumed too much. Perhaps she’d had no expectations of a visit. She was from the south, sophisticated. There, they would do things differently. He looked at the clock by the bed. Seven: she would be awake now. Her daughter was an early riser. Fran had laughed about that, said she had fond memories of life before motherhood, long lie-ins with the Sunday papers, coffee and croissants which left crumbs in the bed. The memories of his youth had been very different. His parents had always found work for him on the Fair Isle croft. He thought it would be good to lie in with Fran on the Sunday mornings when Cassie was with her father. He would like to take her breakfast in bed.
He put the kettle on for coffee and went into the shower. Back in the kitchen, which was as narrow as a ship’s galley, he switched on the radio. A blast of music from SIBC, then a five-minute news slot and the first report of the stranger’s death.