They covered the whole of the West Cliff. All the way from the whalebones to where a stripe of coastal path disappears its way to Sandsend. There was no sign of Mrs Honeyman. Barry volunteered to keep the rest of the group together, although he’d run out of ghost stories and had to herd them towards the whalebones, where they had a half-hearted sing-along and three verses of the national anthem. Miss Ambrose called Miss Bissell, and Miss Bissell appeared at the side of Captain Cook clutching a Gideon’s Bible to her chest.
‘I’m sure Mrs Honeyman is around here somewhere,’ said Miss Ambrose, although her face didn’t look as certain as her words. The veins in her neck beat the same rhythm as Miss Bissell’s swearing and Simon could see lines appear on her forehead, even from where he was standing. One of the residents said she remembered seeing Mrs Honeyman go into the public conveniences but didn’t recall her coming out again, and it was decided that Simon should investigate just in case a door needed breaking down.
‘But they’re ladies’ toilets.’ He stood at the entrance to the building with his arms folded. ‘And I’m not a lady.’
In the end, Miss Ambrose agreed to lead the way, and they found themselves staring at three empty stalls, and surrounded by the smell of sand and wet concrete.
‘How could she just disappear?’ Simon pushed at one of the cubicle doors, even though it was at its maximum pushing. ‘People don’t just disappear.’
‘She was seen going in, but not coming out,’ said Miss Ambrose. ‘Although being as there’s only one exit, it beggars belief where she could have got to.’
They both studied the tiny windows, which were decorated with cobwebs and a collection of specimens that would have made a lepidopterist’s chest swell with pride.
Simon put his hands on his hips and took another breath of wet-sand air. ‘Two hundred and fifty thousand people go missing each year,’ he said. ‘Which is the equivalent of the entire population of Plymouth vanishing every twelve months.’
‘Simon, I really don’t think it’s helpful—’
‘Seventy-four per cent are found within twenty-four hours.’
‘Well, at least that’s reassuring.’
‘Only one per cent are found dead.’
They listened through the postage-stamp windows, as the North Sea threw itself on to the rocks below.
‘Maybe we should call the police,’ said Miss Ambrose.
FLORENCE
We all studied the photograph.
Even though we knew it wouldn’t be Ronnie, it was still a shock to see a stranger staring back at us. Gabriel Price was not what I expected. Perhaps I was searching for shades of Ronnie Butler, something I could hold on to and dislike, but the man who looked back at us from the photograph had kind eyes and a soft smile. His hands rested on piano keys, and he looked straight into the camera, as though he’d been waiting for us to arrive. He was a little older than Ronnie. A little thinner, and although I never knew him, I felt as if he was someone who could be trusted.
‘It’s not Ronnie,’ I said.
‘No.’ Jack sighed. ‘But we never really expected it to be, did we?’
‘We didn’t, but I was hoping they would look like the same person. Isn’t it ridiculous,’ I said, ‘to hope that you might be losing your mind?’
I stared further into the picture.
‘He has a ring, though. Look.’ I pointed. ‘I told you I remembered. I just couldn’t think of the person wearing it.’
‘It’s a very unusual ring, isn’t it?’ Elsie said. We tried to get closer, but the image blurred into a swarm of dots.
I felt very pleased with myself.
‘Perhaps it was his wife’s,’ said Jack. ‘A kind of keepsake, whilst he was travelling.’
‘Oh, I don’t think there was a wife.’ The man began sorting through the other photographs and putting them back into their box. ‘I don’t think there was any family. At least none I’ve ever heard about, and I’ve done quite a bit of background recently. You’re not the first ones to ask about him.’
Jack narrowed his eyes. ‘Is that so?’ he said.
‘Oh, yes. There was a gentleman who rang only a few weeks ago wanting to buy any sheet music Gabriel Price might have owned. He was very interested.’
‘I bet he was,’ said Jack.
‘Not that we had any to sell to him.’ His little moustache curved down at its edges.
I heard Elsie sigh.
‘This photograph.’ Jack tapped on the counter. ‘Is it for sale?’
The man’s moustache cheered up a bit and did a little dance all the way across his top lip.
‘You drive a hard bargain,’ I said as we stepped back on to the pavement. ‘I thought he was going to charge us a small fortune.’
‘Fifteen pounds isn’t cheap.’ Jack tucked the paper bag under his arm. ‘But it could have been a lot worse, and it might come in useful.’
We stood on the kerb and looked down the street.
‘Where the bloody hell have they all gone?’ he said.
We walked all the way up to the park gates. We found a hen party and an alternative ghost walk. It confused us for a moment until we realised it was being conducted in Chinese. There was no sign of Barry, or his bowler hat. After Jack consulted an itinerary, it was established that at that precise moment, we should have been enjoying a light supper and cassette music in the residents’ lounge. It was on the way back to the hotel, as we walked across the West Cliff and watched the evening sunlight settle itself into the water, that we found Miss Ambrose and Handy Simon outside the ladies’ toilets, having a conversation about statistics.
‘There you are!’ Miss Ambrose shouted, and a family in cagoules turned and looked at us. ‘I was wondering when you’d show up.’
Jack’s eyes were misted with age. His hands shook with the tremor of a life long lived, but his voice was still steady. ‘We are on holiday,’ he said, very quietly. ‘We were enjoying ourselves.’
‘We’ve been searching all over the place. We have to have rules,’ she said, ‘regulations. We can’t have people just wandering off all over the place.’
Handy Simon was standing behind her, but he turned away.
Jack’s gaze didn’t leave Miss Ambrose. ‘We were enjoying ourselves,’ he said again.
Miss Ambrose’s face flooded with scarlet. ‘We were worried,’ she said. ‘Especially about Mrs Honeyman.’ She peered around Jack’s shoulder. ‘Where is she?’
Jack frowned. ‘Well, she’s not with us,’ he said. ‘Is she not with you?’
Miss Ambrose’s face moved from scarlet to white, and Handy Simon began looking on his mobile telephone for the nearest police station.
9.46 p.m.
I can’t remember the last time I ate anything. I know I didn’t eat at the funeral. I can’t be doing with little bits of nonsense on a paper plate. I can’t remember the last time I drank anything either. You can manage without food for weeks. I read about it. In a magazine. Look at all those poor people in prison, starving themselves because no one listens to them. I’m fairly sure it’s just the drinking that matters, though. Simon would know. See! I remembered his name.
Sometimes I remember, and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I say the right thing, and sometimes I don’t. Everything makes sense in my head, it’s only when I let it go that it gets in a muddle. I can see it in people’s eyes when I haven’t said the right thing, and I never really know it’s happened until I’ve spoken and looked at them.
Eileen Everest was the wrong thing. We were in the car, on the way back from Cyril’s barge.
‘Poor little Eileen Everest,’ I said. ‘I think about her a lot.’
I knew Elsie was staring at me. You can tell sometimes, can’t you, without even looking.
‘What do you mean,’ she said, ‘poor little Eileen Everest?’
‘Getting run over like that. Never growing up.’
I looked at her eyes. It was the wrong thing.
‘In Llandudno,’ I said.
‘She never went to Llandudno, Florence. If Miss Ambrose catches you talking like that, we’ll almost certainly never hear the end of it.’