‘No idea.’ Donna had been sitting at the kitchen table, drinking tea and staring out at the rain that had just started to fall. ‘D’you want some of this tea?’
‘Thanks.’ Don had been lying in the garden reading for most of the day, but the sudden rainstorm had driven him indoors a quarter of an hour ago. He took the cup and slumped moodily at other end of the kitchen table. He did not say anything else and he did not look at her. Donna felt a fresh wave of hatred against their parents who had created this painful restraint.
She said, offhandedly, that perhaps the jackboots had gone into the village, to get an evening paper. ‘They haven’t taken the car–it’s parked outside.’
‘Both of them out together, though? Leaving us alone for as long as an entire fifteen minutes?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Donna impatiently. ‘I’ve been lying down with a headache all afternoon.’
‘Perhaps they left a note. Have you looked?’
‘No, I couldn’t be bothered.’
But by six o’clock they were both sufficiently bothered to look for a note. When they failed to find one in any of the ordinary places–tacked to the fridge, or propped up on the dining table–they went into their parents’ room to see if things like jackets or wallets or handbags were gone.
‘Dad’s brown jacket’s not here,’ said Don. ‘Nor is his wallet–he always leaves it on the dressing table.’
‘No. And Ma’s handbag isn’t here either, or that blue linen thing she had on yesterday.’
‘Dad’s mobile phone’s here though.’
‘That doesn’t mean anything. He’s always forgetting it or letting it run out of charge.’ Donna sat down on the edge of the big double bed to think. ‘It doesn’t look as if they just went for a stroll along the lane, does it? It looks as if they went somewhere where they’d need money and keys and things.’
‘But wherever they are, they’ve walked,’ said Don. ‘Because the car’s still here. That means they didn’t intend to go very far.’
This was unarguable. Maria Robards had brought four pairs of expensive leather walking shoes with her, but she had never had any real intention of actually walking anywhere in them. The little post-office-cum-shop on Amberwood’s outskirts was her absolute limit, and even then she complained about blisters when she got back and wanted to plug in the foot spa she had brought with her.
‘I expect they’re just sheltering from the rain,’ said Donna at last. ‘It’s coming down in torrents.’
‘Ought we to do anything? Go out and look for them?’
‘Yes, we’d better. Let’s walk along the lane. We’ll go as far as that little shop that sells newspapers–that’s the likeliest place they went to anyway.’
‘OK.’
They put on waterproofs and hoods, and tramped along the road. The little shop was closed at this hour, but they walked all round it. There was nothing to be seen, and there was only the dismal wet splatter of the rain everywhere.
They got back to the cottage just after seven. Donna heated some tinned soup, and Don made ham rolls and coffee to go with it. They ate at the kitchen table, trying not to look at the clock on the old-fashioned mantel ticking the minutes away. It was not getting dark yet, but shadows were certainly starting to creep across the garden and the parkland that surrounded Quire House. Twice Don said that there was most likely some perfectly ordinary explanation–a sprained ankle or something, and they must be out of reach of a phone box.
‘If so, he’s probably cursing like fury. Is there any more soup? I daresay it’s heartless of me, but I’m starving.’
They finished the soup and washed-up, and by this time it was quarter to nine. They looked at one another.
‘Police?’ said Don at last.
‘Yes, we’ll have to.’
‘Where’s the nearest station? We haven’t got to go all the way into Stockport or Chester, have we?’
‘No, there’s a little station in Amberwood. One man and a phone, probably, but they’ll know what to do.’
‘They’ll say we’re being neurotic and not to worry,’ said Don.