We did pause to check whether we could find Walter Buckland’s CP ledger first. Or rather I sent Abigail to do that, with the rare delight of a minion who has at last discovered that he has a littler minion to put upon. While she was doing that I called up DS Transcombe and told him what we were planning, although strangely I didn’t tell him it was bring-a-nosey-cousin-to-work day. He said he’d generate an action at his end and I made a note of the conversation in my day book just in case something went horribly wrong. Then, with everybody’s arse suitably covered I picked up Abigail from the library and we piled into the Orange Asbo, which had the better engine, and headed off with a song in our hearts and an argument about music selection on our lips.
We finally compromised on Janelle Monáe and sang along to “Many Moons” as we left the comforting boundary of the M25 behind.
The third parsonage, former home of George Buckland and his descendants, was built down the hill from the St Mary’s Church on the wrong side of the busy A416. Convenient for the shops, though, I noticed.
“This is a mess,” I said when I saw it.
“I thought you liked old buildings,” said Abigail.
“Old doesn’t always mean good,” I said. “Case in point.”
I’m no expert, but I’d say the original was seventeenth century, erected during the period known as the great rebuilding when the gentry kicked their servants out of the hall and the simple folk finally turfed the livestock out of their living rooms. It was well built, I’ll give it that. A lot of the original narrow red brickwork and a particularly fine Tudor chimney had survived, but its dimensions were as squat and as lumpen as Le Corbusier’s imagination. Somebody had added a wing and additional chimneys in the neo-classical style, and a ground floor coated with ill-thought-out Regency rustication was just the icing on the cake. At least the sash windows hadn’t been replaced with PVC frames, although from the residents’ point of view that just probably meant the house was both ugly and difficult to keep warm.
There was a grey intercom bolted onto the wall beside the front door with three slots for name tags, all with the factory default placeholder still in them.
While we didn’t have a full Integrated Intelligence Platform report, we did have a list of the residents from the electoral register. I started with the top button and worked my way down. Only Geoffrey Toobin, in the ground floor flat, was at home. He was a pleasantly wide-faced white guy with a mop of brown hair and an unfortunate predilection for plaid shirts and skinny jeans.
He glanced at my warrant card and then gave Abigail a puzzled look.
“Aren’t you a bit young to be a police woman?” he said.
“Yes,” she said. “Yes, I am.”
I explained that she was a volunteer helping canvass the neighbourhood in the search for Brené McClaren, which was a good segue into whipping out my tablet and showing him her photograph.
“And she’s missing?”
I explained that, indeed, she was missing and asked whether he recognised her, perhaps from his morning commute. He said he’d love to help but he was one of the residents of Chesham who didn’t slog into the city each day. He was, in point of fact, a solicitor who worked out of an office in the town centre.
I asked whether he knew his neighbours in the other two flats and he said just to nod to and confirmed their names, or at least their first names. This was all a warm-up to me asking whether I could have a look round his flat.
Given that he was a solicitor, I wasn’t surprised that he gave it some thought before agreeing.
“It means we can tick you off the list,” I said.
“What list is that?” he asked.
“It consists of just about everybody who lives in the area,” I said.
“That’s a lot of people,” he said, and I knew right then that this was our man.
I’ve never put much store in hunches and the detective’s gut—even when it’s mine—but if this had been a film there would have been a sinister string section playing away in the background.
Unfortunately the interior of Geoffrey Toobin’s flat wasn’t exactly awash with sinister objects, except maybe the hammered aluminium coffee table that was a serious breach of the peace in of itself. It was a standard late-twenties single man’s collection of mid-range flat pack, cheap stuff left over from uni 5 and the occasional antique that I suspected he’d inherited from his family.
The flat itself occupied all the ground floor that hadn’t been retrofitted into an awkwardly shaped and dimly lit communal lobby. I’m probably not up to POLSA standards but I was pretty certain that there were no voids or hidden rooms on the ground floor. Geoffrey Toobin followed us from room to room with a quizzical expression carefully glued to his face. I made a point of making sure I was between him and Abigail at all times, which is exactly why you don’t take teenaged relatives with you on house to house.
We finished our tour in the communal lobby where I whispered to Abigail that she needed to go sit in the car. She trotted off with a docility that would have amazed every adult that had ever crossed her path. I asked Geoffrey Toobin some routine questions about his neighbours and when I judged that he had relaxed a bit I asked him about the basement.
“The basement?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” I said. “A house of this type should have a basement or a cellar. Do you know where the stairs are?”
He hesitated—the bland look stayed, but if I’d needed any confirmation that was it.
Still, my personal confidence was not the same as your actual evidence and these days we’re expected to provide the good stuff before we charge people. It’s political correctness gone mad I tell you.
“There’s nothing down there,” he said. “But you can have a look if you want.”
“Thanks,” I said, and then stopped as if suddenly remembering something. “Got to make a quick call.”
I called Nightingale and told him where I was.
“I’ve just got a basement to check,” I said. “Then I can move on.”
Nightingale, who knew exactly what had led me to the parsonage, asked me whether there was a problem.
“Nah,” I said. “I’ll give you a call in five minutes when I’ve finished.”
“Understood,” said Nightingale, “I’ll let Jaget know. Would you like me to apprise Thames Valley Police?”
I said that wouldn’t be a bad idea, and we hung up.
Satisfied that not only was backup on its way but that Geoffrey Toobin knew that too, I let him lead me to where a white wooden door, tucked out of sight down a short side corridor, gave us access to the basement.
I still made him go down the steps ahead of me.
The stairs were unusual—instead of your standard creaky wooden affair they were solid, built against the wall of the basement with stone risers and no handrail. It was also missing the traditional creepy 40 watt bulb. Instead there was modern LED strip lighting and whitewashed walls.