‘I suppose.’ Simon rubbed at the stain, because it clearly wasn’t helping.
‘Any distinguishing features?’
Simon looked up. ‘How do you mean?’
‘Anything that makes her stand out from the others?’
Simon had to think about it for a few minutes before he spoke.
‘She’s quite good at cribbage,’ he said.
‘Well?’ Miss Ambrose stood next to the telephone table in reception.
Simon was afraid to meet her eye, so he spoke to the table instead. ‘Nothing, really.’
‘I hope you stressed how conscientious we are at Cherry Tree. How resident safety is a priority. You do remember me telling you to say that?’
‘Shall I go back?’ he said.
He dared to steal a glance and thankfully, she had her eyes closed. He was usually quite good at instructions, at least when they involved moving furniture or unblocking drains, it was just when it was to do with people he found it a bit more tricky.
As he was waiting for Miss Ambrose to finish her deep breathing, a few of the residents appeared in reception and loitered around the foot of the stairs. He knew how they felt. He didn’t really know what to do with himself either.
Miss Ambrose studied them. ‘And why aren’t you talking to the police? I thought Jack was next on the list.’
‘I was.’ Jack gave Simon a strange look, which he didn’t really understand. ‘The constable is having a little comfort break, I believe. We’ve got to go back in fifteen minutes.’
‘We should be out there searching,’ said Florence. ‘Not sitting around here having conversations with policemen.’
‘Couldn’t agree more.’ Jack started buttoning his coat, but Miss Ambrose raised her hand and everyone stopped what they were doing to look at it.
‘Don’t even think about it,’ she said. She left very big gaps between all the words, and the gaps made Jack unbutton his coat again and everyone else gather closer to the stairs and become very quiet.
‘At least I managed to get hold of Gloria.’ Miss Ambrose turned back to Simon. ‘She had a look through Mrs Honeyman’s records and managed to fax things over.’
‘Any relatives to call?’ said Simon.
‘No one.’ Miss Ambrose checked through the sheets of paper she had in her hands. ‘No children. Parents of course, but they’re obviously long gone. Not sure of their names.’ She turned a page. ‘Here we go. Arthur and Clarice.’
The hallway was silent, so there was no doubt about who spoke next. Simon heard all the words very clearly.
‘They loved this place!’ Florence shouted from the foot of the stairs.
FLORENCE
‘What bench?’
We were back in the staff room. The policeman hadn’t yet returned, but still Jack whispered.
‘Up near the whalebones.’ I waved my arms around a bit in frustration. ‘We sat on it this afternoon.’
‘Did I? I don’t remember sitting on a bench near the whalebones,’ Jack said.
‘No, not you. It’s on a brass plaque: In memory of Arthur and Clarice. They loved this place.’ I slipped into shouting again and Elsie was forced to shush me up a bit.
‘What are you trying to say, Flo?’ She kept gesturing for me to sit, but sitting down and thinking don’t always mix very well.
‘It’s too much of a coincidence. They must be Mrs Honeyman’s parents,’ I said.
‘And if they are?’ Jack’s eyes were letterbox-narrow.
‘They loved this place means they probably came here often. They might have even lived here. Which means she might have done too. And who else has a connection with Whitby? Who was born here?’
Jack shifted in his plastic seat. ‘Gabriel Price,’ he said.
‘So it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it,’ I said, ‘that it’s Mrs Honeyman and no one else, who has been vanished away?’
‘I don’t think we should run away with ourselves.’ Elsie reached for my arm, as though she might be able to put a stop to any of the running. ‘I think it’s much more sensible to let the appropriate people deal with this.’
I made sure I took a very deep breath before I spoke. ‘I couldn’t agree more. Which is why I’m going to tell the policeman.’
It is a cliché that policemen look young, but this one really did. His limbs had that uncooperative air only ever seen in adolescents, and looking at the chaos on his top lip, it appeared he was attempting to grow a moustache. I’m afraid he was ahead of his time. I stared quite openly at it as we sat down, and there was nothing Elsie could do to stop me. If people will insist on having facial hair, they’ve only got themselves to blame if people choose to study it. We were supposed to have our interviews individually, but Elsie and I went in together because she said I was on the verge of hysteria, and no one seemed to mind.
‘Try to think before you speak,’ she said to me. The room was very small. Judging by the metal shelves and the giant tins of apricot segments, it was some kind of stock room. There was so little air, it felt as though we had to take it in turns to breathe. The policeman was messing around with the window catch, but he smiled at us when he turned back, and I immediately calmed down a little. Policemen always have that effect on me. Policemen and vicars. I suppose one protects me from criminals and the other from fire and brimstone, so it feels as though all the bases are covered.
The policeman asked the usual details. I added my date of birth as well, just for good measure, even though he didn’t mention it.
‘I’m eighty-four,’ I said. ‘The same age as Elsie, only I’ve spent less time in the sun.’
The policeman looked through the many sheets of paper covering the desk. ‘The same age as Mrs Honeyman,’ he said.
‘Are we?’ I said.
Elsie sat back. ‘I didn’t know that.’
The policeman nodded. He asked how well we knew her. He said it with an air of uncertainty, and I didn’t want to lose his attention, so I told him we all knew each other extremely well. We didn’t, obviously. People have the idea that old people always get along with each other, that everyone swims in the same direction, like a shoal of fish, never finding anything to argue about. I suppose to them, old age must look very much like a battleground, and you all have to fight for the same side, just to survive.
‘And how would you describe Mrs Honeyman?’ said the policeman.
I held the words in my mouth whilst I had a think.
‘Round face. Doesn’t speak much. Not very good with stairs,’ I said.
‘Very quiet,’ said Elsie. ‘Sleeps a lot. I wonder sometimes if she isn’t a little depressed.’
‘I wonder if she was depressed as well,’ I said. ‘She never seems to have anyone to talk to.’
‘Really?’ The policeman looked at his notes. ‘No one else has mentioned that. Has she recently lost someone?’
‘Just the person she used to be,’ I said, but the policeman chose not to reply.
‘So would you describe Mrs Honeyman as vulnerable?’ he said.
I thought about it for a moment. ‘I suppose so, but aren’t we all, if you think about it for long enough?’
The policeman tapped his pen on the desk before he started to write.
After a few minutes, he looked up again and said, ‘Anything else?’
‘She has a bladder the size of a peanut,’ I said.
Elsie tutted. ‘I should hardly think the sergeant needs to know about Mrs Honeyman’s kidney function, Florence.’
‘She disappeared going to the toilet, didn’t she?’ I tried to raise myself up in my seat, but I’d lost a good couple of inches in the past few years, and I sometimes over-estimate its effect.
‘She was seen going into the lavatories.’ Elsie turned from me and addressed the policeman.
‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we are aware of that.’
‘But that’s not the important thing,’ I said. ‘That’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.’
The policeman stopped writing. ‘So what do you think might be the important thing, Miss …’
‘Claybourne,’ I said. ‘I’m eighty-four.’
‘Have you got something you feel you want to tell the police, Miss Claybourne?’
‘We most certainly have,’ I said.
‘We?’
‘Me and Elsie. And Jack of course.’
‘Jack?’