She still had his card tucked into her handbag; it had been there so long she barely noticed it any more.
The woman sitting next to her on the bus knew the street where his office was. She said it was just around the corner from the big new C&A, which Maisy had been in several times before.
Maisy liked Southampton, though people in Burley were always complaining that the modern buildings which had replaced those bombed during the war were ugly. To Maisy, the main shopping street was almost as good as Oxford Street, but she wasn’t interested in shopping for now. It didn’t take her long to find ‘Grainger, Moore and Edwards, Solicitors’ above a bookshop.
It was an old building but it had been modernized with a plate-glass door at street level and a smart grey-and-black striped carpet on the stairs to the first floor and the reception desk.
‘I wondered if I could see Mr Grainger?’ Maisy asked the dumpy middle-aged receptionist banging away at a typewriter. The reception area had two corridors running off it, one to the back and the other, shorter one to the front. Maisy saw at least four doors in the longer one.
‘Have you an appointment?’ the receptionist asked, peering over her glasses at Maisy.
‘No, I’m sorry. But maybe you could tell him it’s Maisy Mitcham.’
The woman frowned at her as if it was unthinkable to expect to see the senior partner without an appointment, but she picked up the telephone and spoke to someone.
‘His secretary said he’s with a client at the moment, but if you’d like to sit and wait she’ll speak to Mr Grainger when he becomes free.’
In twenty minutes Maisy saw three people come out of different rooms and go on down the stairs. Finally, a woman of about twenty-five in a tight black skirt, white blouse and high-heeled shoes came out from the door at the front of the building.
‘Miss Mitcham?’ she asked. ‘Mr Grainger can see you now.’
Maisy followed the secretary, who led her through the outer office where she worked and then opened another door and beckoned Maisy to go in.
‘Maisy Mitcham, what a pleasant surprise,’ Grainger said, getting up from his desk and coming round to shake her hand. ‘You always were a pretty girl, but now you are simply stunning.’
Maisy blushed. ‘Thank you, Mr Grainger.’ She wondered if Linda had ever met him, because she was sure her friend would be most impressed. He could pass for an Italian with his dark hair and olive skin. His pale grey suit was very sharp too – the new Italian styling with a short, boxy jacket.
‘Are you staying with your grandmother?’ he asked, after asking her to sit down and going back behind his desk to take his seat. ‘I was with her a few weeks ago but she was rather vague about you.’
‘Well, she would be. She was cross when I went off to work in Brighton. She didn’t write to me once after I left, but then I’m sure you know how she can be. Anyway, I asked if I could come back for a visit – someone had to be the first to make it up.’
‘Yes, she’s not the kind of granny we read about in books,’ he said with a smile. ‘She did tell me when you left that you’d gone to work as a mother’s help. She was sure that was modern-day slavery.’
‘She was wrong; the people I work for are lovely, as are their two children.’
‘That is good news, especially after all the sadness you have had. I also never got a chance to apologize for my behaviour last time we met. I hope you forgave me, Maisy, but really it was unforgivable.’
‘It’s forgotten,’ Maisy said airily.
‘That is kind of you. My only excuse is that you are so very lovely.’
‘Let’s just forget about that and make certain it never happens again,’ she said crisply. ‘Now, I didn’t come about Duncan, though the police are still investigating, I believe. I just hope that they’ll find him soon, or at least his body, so we can grieve and bury him. It’s living in limbo which is the worst thing.’ She paused, then continued: ‘Actually, I came because I finally managed to get the address of the home our mother was put into. I wanted your advice about how to proceed.’
‘You certainly have had more than your fair share of troubles,’ he said sympathetically. ‘But as far as your mother is concerned, just telephone the home and ask if you can come. They cannot reasonably refuse to let you see her.’
‘How much do you know about her condition?’ Maisy asked.
He made a kind of shrugging gesture with his hands. ‘Nothing much. You must remember I am your grandmother’s solicitor, not your father’s. Mrs Mitcham has often mentioned her daughter-in-law, but what she tells me is only her opinion, not necessarily fact. However, she did get me to call at the home once to report back to her how your mother was.’
‘I’m surprised she cared; she’s never approved of her,’ Maisy said. ‘But how was Mother when you went?’
‘Frail, poorly. She ignored me completely, and I was told she doesn’t know anyone any more. But that’s all I can tell you.’
‘Are you trying to say there’s no point in me going?’
‘Not at all, Maisy. If you feel you want to go, then you should. It’s possible that the sound of your voice and sight of your face will stimulate her. Just don’t expect too much.’
Maisy didn’t know what to say in reply. She realized she’d have to think on what he’d said before she rushed to the home.
‘I can see I’ve confused you,’ Grainger said. ‘It’s late in the afternoon now. If you aren’t on your way anywhere else, could I give you a ride home? We could stop and have a cup of tea somewhere if you’d like to talk some more, and you can tell me all about Brighton and your boyfriends. I promise faithfully I will behave impeccably.’
She thought it over for a moment or two. The bus would be crowded at this time of day, and, as always, very slow. Besides, he had apologized and promised there would be no repetition of his behaviour the last time he gave her a lift.
‘That would be lovely, but I wouldn’t want to put you out.’
‘It won’t, Burley is on the way to my home. I’d like to buy you tea.’
They stopped at the Forest Tea Shop, and by then Maisy was really enjoying being with Mr Grainger. She realized from a couple of things he said that he was probably older than she’d first thought, maybe even mid-forties. But he was fit; when he took his suit jacket off in the car she could see he was muscular. She asked if he played any sport and he said he liked tennis and swimming. ‘I’m not really a team player at anything,’ he said with a little chuckle. ‘I play singles in tennis, and in swimming I just aim to beat my own fastest speed. I never compete. What about you, Maisy?’
‘I love swimming, but that’s about it,’ she admitted. ‘I’m not competitive at all. I used to hate netball and hockey at school – to me it seemed pointless charging around after a ball.’
He laughed. ‘I was always afraid of getting hurt in rugby, but I didn’t admit it or someone would’ve kicked my head in just to teach me not to be a drip.’
At the tea shop, they had a pot of tea and a toasted teacake. It was a pretty little place with polished brasses and copper pans hanging from the dark wood beams. Maisy guessed in high summer it would be packed out all day.
She told him about her job, and how she intended to go to London to find secretarial work the following year.
‘You might aim to be a legal secretary,’ he said. ‘It’s usually much better paid because of the accuracy needed. I could recommend you to some lawyers I know when the time comes.’
‘That would be very kind,’ she said. ‘I’m going to miss Paul and Annabel, though. I’m not really sure right now that I’m cut out for office work.’
‘To enjoy working with children is just a natural maternal instinct,’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m sure there will be many compensations working in an office. Making new friends – you might even end up marrying a lawyer and have children of your own.’
‘That would be lovely.’ She grinned. ‘I’d like a house like Nightingales, three or four chil
dren and an interesting, kind husband, please. Do you have children?’
‘No, my wife Deirdre and I weren’t blessed with any, I’m afraid. A great sadness.’
‘Yes, it must be, I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be. We always tell one another how lucky we were to never have sleepless nights, or the mess and expense of children.’
Maisy smiled. She thought that was a sweet thing to say, but she didn’t believe a word of it.
‘Right! Time to get you home,’ he said, indicating to the waitress he wanted the bill. ‘I’d rather you didn’t tell your grandmother I drove you home or she’ll want to know why I didn’t come in to see her. Is that all right with you?’
‘Perfectly,’ Maisy said. ‘I wasn’t going to own up that I’d called on you to ask about contacting my mother, anyway. She’ll only pour cold water on the idea.’
They both grinned conspiratorially.
‘Keep in touch, won’t you, Maisy,’ he said. ‘Like I said, I’d like to help you get a good job in London.’
‘Thank you so much, Mr Grainger. You’ve been so nice to me.’
‘The pleasure was all mine, and it’s Donald in future – at least, away from your grandmother!’
On the remainder of the drive home they spoke about films they’d seen recently. Maisy said she’d found Pyscho terrifying and never wanted to see a horror film again. Grainger laughed and said he thought it was a very clever film. ‘But I prefer whodunnit films and books. I find it absorbing trying to pit my brain against the detective.’
He stopped the car at the end of the lane, but as Maisy went to get out she found her handbag had tipped over; the entire contents had spilled out into the footwell and some items had rolled right under the passenger seat.
‘So sorry about that,’ she said, bending back into the car to pick them all up. ‘Now don’t look at what’s fallen out, it might embarrass me.’
‘Women and their handbags amuse me,’ he said as she began scooping up lipstick, a bottle of nail varnish, scissors and loose change. ‘Do you really need all that equipment?’
Maisy laughed. ‘Probably not. Handbags are a kind of dumping ground, I suppose.’ She slid her fingers right under the seat to check she’d got everything and pulled out several coins and a biro. Further back there was what seemed to be more coins, so she gathered them up and put them in her bag without looking at them.
‘That’s it,’ she said, smiling at Grainger. ‘In future I’ll make sure my bag is fastened so I don’t expose any of my secrets.’
Maisy was still smiling as she got to the gate at Nightingales. It had been a great day all round, and tonight she would sit with Janice and chat. She was so glad she’d come to visit.
She headed straight for the kitchen. ‘I hope you had a good day today,’ Janice greeted her.
‘It’s been super,’ Maisy said.
‘Then I’m sorry to put a damper on it.’ Janice grimaced. ‘Your grandmother has suggested we all eat together this evening. To be fair to her, she is trying to be nice. I think it has begun to occur to her that her usual attitude doesn’t do a lot for her popularity.’
Maisy laughed. ‘Is there anything I can do?’
‘I should change out of that tight skirt,’ Janice said, looking her up and down. ‘You look lovely but I should think it’s a bit uncomfortable to sit in.’
Maisy went upstairs, took a pink wool dress out of the wardrobe and changed into it. Janice was right – a tight pencil skirt wasn’t good for sitting and eating. She brushed out her beehive too, fixing it up at the sides with two pink hairslides, then rummaged in her handbag for her lipstick.
When she couldn’t immediately find it, she turned the contents of her bag on to her bed, smiling at what Grainger had said about women’s handbags. He was right, there was stuff in there she didn’t need and lots of scraps of paper and other rubbish.
She sat down and began to sort through it, when suddenly she saw a shoe buckle. Silver, about three quarters of an inch square, still with a little bit of brown cotton attached.
With just one glance she knew what it was: the missing one from Duncan’s sandal. It was too chunky to have come off anything she owned. And more importantly, she knew exactly where it had come from.
Mr Grainger’s car.
12
Maisy’s first reaction was to run down the stairs screaming that she’d found a vital clue. But reason prevailed when she remembered that by taking the buckle from Grainger’s car, she had actually destroyed evidence.
His fingerprints, if they were ever on it, would be gone now. He could even claim it was never in his car, and no one could prove otherwise.
She sat down on her bed, trying to think. It was inconceivable that someone like Mr Grainger could be a killer. He was a solicitor for a start, and a really nice man.
But how did that buckle get in his car?
It was true he could have given Duncan a lift at any time, and Duncan could have got a new buckle sewn on to his sandal. But Maisy was pretty certain if he’d come in with a buckle-less sandal flapping on his foot, Duncan would have mentioned it, as well as getting a lift.
In the unlikely event that he had said nothing, got a brand-new buckle sewn on, and then that one came off too when he was cycling, then Grainger was in the clear. But she didn’t believe that was what had happened.
What was much more likely was that Duncan would have greeted Grainger with delight if he’d come along just as he was trying to find a way of securing his sandal to his foot.
Grainger had told Maisy he always drove home through Burley, so he also had opportunity.
But why dump the sandal for the police to find later? And if he did that, why hold on to the buckle? Unless of course Duncan had the buckle in his hand, intending to get it sewn back on, but had dropped it in the car.
Maisy remembered in a book she’d read, the detective said two things were vital in finding a culprit. They needed opportunity and motive. Grainger had opportunity all right, but what possible motive could he have?
He was an attractive, intelligent, successful married man. Why would he snatch a young lad? Maisy would have understood it better if it was a girl – even her.
Suddenly the things both Grace and Mr Dove had alluded to came back to her. She hadn’t really understood then, but she was beginning to do so now. Boys could be used in that way too.
The thought made her feel queasy. Surely Donald Grainger wasn’t like that, though? It seemed so very unlikely that a man with his looks and standing could possibly do such things, or kill boys. But then some of the most famous murderers in the past were said to be handsome and personable. So his looks didn’t rule him out.
What if it was him?
One thing stood out in all this. Duncan was in Grainger’s car at some time to lose the buckle in it. So why, if the man had nothing to hide, didn’t he come forward and tell the police? Duncan was the grandson of one of his clients, so no one would find it the least bit odd that he’d given him a lift.
If she was to run down to Mr Dove now and show him the buckle, no doubt he’d get his friend Harry on the case straight away. But Grainger knew the law and was also very smart. He could argue that the buckle had fallen out of Maisy’s bag.
Besides, it was fairly certain he wouldn’t have taken Duncan, or any of those other boys, to his own home, so even with a search warrant the police weren’t going to find anything there. And even if they wanted to hold him in custody, the police wouldn’t be able to do so without strong evidence to back it up. So he’d leave and make certain he’d left no proof of his guilt anywhere. Should Duncan and Peter Reilly still be alive, he was bound to kill them so that they couldn’t talk.
Maisy felt sick. She sat down and put her head between her legs, waiting for the feeling to pass. She so much wanted and needed to talk this over with someone, but how could she? Grandmother would never believe it of Grainger. Janice might, but she’d insist the police had to be called, as would Mr Dove. Linda
and her parents would probably think Maisy was being hysterical, and their only suggestion would be the police too.
That left only Grace. It was nearly seven, and dusk already. Maisy knew she couldn’t cycle out into the forest now. But how was she going to get through a whole night with this on her mind?
‘Is there something wrong with your dinner?’ Grandmother asked, observing that Maisy wasn’t really eating her lamb cutlets.
‘No, not at all,’ Maisy said. ‘But I had some cake while I was in Lyndhurst this afternoon. I’m not really hungry.’
‘Pity they stopped the sugar rationing in ’fifty-three,’ Grandmother said. ‘Young people seem to stuff themselves with sweets and cakes now.’
‘I think we all did when rationing ended,’ Janice said with a smile. ‘You too, Mrs Mitcham.’
‘Yes, I suppose I did,’ she sighed. ‘Well, if you can’t eat it maybe Janice can warm it up for tomorrow. A shame to waste it. Now tell me, Maisy, when do you finish this night school course? Will you get a proper diploma?’
‘I take the final exam next month,’ Maisy replied. ‘And yes, I will get a diploma.’
‘So what then?’
Maisy had been wondering if there was any way she could get her grandmother to tell her anything about Grainger, and suddenly she saw an opportunity.
‘On the bus today I was thinking that maybe I could become a solicitor,’ she said. She hadn’t thought that, of course, but a white lie wouldn’t hurt. ‘How did Mr Grainger get into it, Grandmother?’
‘He was always a clever boy, though Alastair was jealous and used to claim he was just sneaky. He didn’t go to university, just got himself articled to a solicitor in Southampton. He rather distinguished himself during the war – he was in the RAF, which stood him in good stead.’
‘What made Father claim he was sneaky?’
Grandmother pursed her lips. ‘As I said, jealousy. Donald had so much charm and good looks, and although it pains me to say it, poor Alastair is an odd-looking man, and was even odder as a boy.’