
I
Mr T. J. Stoddart, Michaelmas Cottage, Aston by Stone. He hadn't needed to write it down. What sort of stupid name was that, anyway? Peter felt pleased with himself that he'd retrieved the information with minimal fuss. In fact, he'd been pretty damned efficient. The breakthrough had come when he'd spotted the golf club membership renewal form, after a rummage through Lucia's bag. Now she was obviously handling some of his personal affairs, only served as evidence that Peter was right, and she had bunked up with Mister T J Stoddart.
The golf club would almost certainly hold Stoddart's home address. All he had to do was to break in, and find their membership list. The idea pleasured Peter. It had been a while since he'd felt like this, since he'd really had to focus on anything. He would treat it as a military mission. Peter missed army life, and of course, he knew all about stealth, guile....and getting even. He'd watched enough action movies to know that the real professionals never got caught, because they covered their tracks, and were always a least one step ahead of the enemy. Lucia had been missing for three weeks, and Peter figured that enough time had passed to make a move. The happy couple would surely have lowered their guard by now. First of all, though, he'd have to do a little reconnaissance.
Saturday night, and predictably, the golf club bar was well populated. He went in, bought a drink, and asked for a membership form. The barman wandered off to a small office at the rear of the bar. So this is where they kept their records. Peter noted that there didn't appear to be a lock on the door. This would be easy. He wandered around amongst the throng, and looked for a weak spot in the golf club's defences. He had an idea to visit the toilets, and perhaps leave a window ajar, so he could return later and climb in, but in the event, he didn't need to. A back door leading to the bins, still had the key in the lock. He took the key and pressed it into a bar of soap.
Peter had seen this trick before in a Clint Eastwood movie, and it felt good to be emulating one of his heroes. In a couple of days he'd have a duplicate key, pop over after hours and access the bar, and more importantly, the adjoining office containing Stoddart's membership details. And that was exactly how it happened. Nothing got broken, and nobody was any the wiser. Sometimes, life really was just like the movies.
The plan had worked so well, it bolstered Peter's confidence, and he felt that busting into Stoddart's place, and getting his wife back would be simple. He saw that as a kind of hostage situation, and imagined himself in an elite squad, storming a besieged embassy. He'd seen loads of films like this, so it shouldn't prove too difficult for a man of his experience.
II
Trevor Stoddart was nothing like Peter, except for one thing. Neither had much idea about the concept of romance. Indeed, where Peter had at least managed to mask his natural discomfort with women, wooing his wife by virtue of his military background, rugged looks, and crucially, Lucia's lack of English, Trevor had not been so fortunate. Nearing sixty, he had without much effort, remained a bachelor, and until recently had come to accept that he would probably never forge a meaningful relationship with a woman. He was one of a rare breed, who had seemingly missed the opportunity. It was unusual, but it did happen. Somehow life had got in the way.
Raised in the days of austere, fifties Britain and born into a staunch, Methodist family hadn't helped, and by the time he'd graduated, swiftly risen up the managerial ladder to become absorbed by a series of demanding, but successful directorships, he'd just never found the time to get involved with anything else. Back then, career was everything, but now, with a long lonely retirement ahead, he began to think that maybe life needed redressing. But how? Work, with just the occasional break, had become the mainstays of a life that had little interaction with women.
Recently, Trevor had taken his foot off the gas. This job would be his last, he could see the finish line ahead, and suddenly, it didn't seem so important any more. Lucia had walked into his world at just the moment when he'd finally decided to look up from his desk. In the weeks since her disappearance, Trevor had become unsettled. He wasn't sleeping well. Somehow, in the dead of night, it occurred to him that he may have scared her off. A diminutive, balding sixty year old like him, could not hold any appeal for an exotic beauty like her. Could he?
Gradually, not long after her appointment as his personal assistant, Trevor had started to notice something that set her apart from other women in the office. He realised that he'd actually become attracted to a woman for first time in his life. He felt ridiculous, and had no idea what to do about it, but couldn't help himself. There was just something unavoidably captivating about that serious, almost sultry manner, which for him was mysteriously akin to one of the rare, beautiful birds that occasionally flew off course, and alighted fleetingly, within range of his binoculars. Like the birds, he often travelled many miles to glimpse, it was for a long time, just enough for Trevor to admire Lucia covertly.
It wasn't a sexual desire exactly, Trevor had never thought along those lines, but nevertheless, her physique was unavoidable. The line of her ankles, elegant hands and slender neck, were beauty to be admired. He felt that he was studying a classic portrait for the first time, and the little details drew him in. Her clothes, her bag, even the book she'd be reading at lunch. It all became another fascinating detail of what made this woman unique to him. He thought back to the Seventies, when leering over office women was commonplace, almost a sport, but Trevor found it distasteful, and yet here he was, finally, a dirty old man. He baulked at the thought. No, this was different, this was pure. He didn't want to touch. It gave him pleasure just to be nearby.
In the mornings, for example, on the way into work, he would a take a voyeuristic delight in imagining how she might look that day, and gradually grew to recognise most of her work attire. Before long, he began to feel a need for even more contact. He found excuses to have her visit his office for extra dictations and special errands. She would organise house maintenance, arrange his car service, and even renew his golf club membership. Trevor took great care to be discreet and professional, and for her part, Lucia didn't suspect a thing. She liked her boss, he was polite and respectful. Knowing he lived a solitary life, she enjoyed her new varied duties, and saw him almost as the father figure that she'd never known herself.
Then, not long before she disappeared, Trevor did something weird.
It was late May, but the weather had been particularly fresh recently, and Lucia arrived at the office one morning wrapped in a luxurious, blue angora cardigan. Trevor knew it well. She often wore it in wintertime, and it was one of his favourites. By the afternoon, things had warmed sufficiently for her to discard the cardigan onto the chair back. Towards the end of the day, Lucia was out of the office on another of Trevor's little errands. He'd told her to go straight home afterwards, so consequently, when about to leave, he couldn't help but notice that she'd left her cardigan behind. The office had finished for the day, and there was no one around.
In an instant he grabbed the garment, and stuffed it into his briefcase.
Trevor Joseph Stoddart had never previously stolen anything in his life, never stepped out of line, always played the part.....until now. He flushed slightly as he passed some cleaners leaving the building. What would they think of him? What would the world think?....
What would Lucia think?
The following day, Lucia came in to work and realised that the cardigan was missing. A few questions, nothing. The cleaners.... it had to be. They were the only ones with access to the offices. The relevant parties were called in, questioned, and denied everything. It was a mystery. Nobody mentioned anything to Stoddart. What would he know? A couple of days later, he innocently asked her if anything was wrong, as she seemed unhappy. Lucia explained about the missing item, and her suspicion that a cleaner had stolen it, but couldn't prove it.
“How much would it cost to replace it ?”
She looked at him, with an expression that he'd not seen before. What did it say? Suspicion, surprise…..Disgust? Stoddart pointed out that he was sorry to hear this, but it was probably best to forget it had ever happened, and move on. He then authorised her to replace the garment, and bill it to expenses. And with that, consumed by guilt, and probably for the first time ever, he left the office early, saying that he had some private business to attend to.
Lucia never did replace the cardigan, and from that point on, it felt to him, as if something had changed between them. Was she a little more distant? It may have been just his imagination, it was hard to tell, but before he had time to rationalise, just over three weeks later, she'd vanished.
III
Peter's assault on Michaelmas Cottage was planned for the week after his successful raid on the golf club. He chose a midweek night, figuring that his quarry would be early to bed. At 3am, he parked up, and hid the gun under his long waxed jacket, and began to walk. The lane was about three hundred metres long, and lined with several large houses. As he'd imagined, none had a number, although they were less palatial than expected, and without gates or obvious security cameras.
At the end of the lane, set back from the rest, was a smallish thatched cottage, timber framed, black and white exterior. It was probably one of the oldest houses here. Tiny windows and a low front door, built back in the days of the short. There were no street lights, but luckily for Peter, it was a clear night, and with the moonlight available he could just make out the name on the plaque to the side of the driveway, that told him he had found what he was looking for. Being at the end of the lane, meant that the cottage looked out over open farmland beyond. Peter circled around the perimeter, and with little difficulty, traversed the fence that surrounded the garden. An owl screeched nearby. It had found its prey, no doubt, and Peter paused for the first time to survey the rear of the house.
Amazingly, up to this point, he hadn't really thought too much about what he was going to do when he finally confronted his wife. He'd vowed to kill Stoddart, but now he was here, on the precipice, it occurred to him that perhaps murder might not be such a smart move. He could certainly scare them with the gun. Hopefully, that would suffice, and she'd see sense and come back. The plan didn't go much further, so instead he cleared his head, and set about concentrating on getting into the house.
It didn't take long to spot a small window pane, left slightly open, on what turned out to be the kitchen. Peter reached through, and managed to release the catch on the main window below. Up, and onto the sill, he squeezed his muscular frame through the gap. He pulled the shotgun up behind him, and passed it through onto the work surface. The drainer, immediately in front, was full of crockery, and so he stepped, warily into the empty sink bowl to the side. Almost through, and ready to jump down, Peter's trailing coat clipped a wine glass, and it did a neat full turn wobble, before tumbling, ever so slowly, over the side, and smashing onto the floor below. The shatter broke the night silence, and Peter wondered if it was enough to wake anyone upstairs.
Trevor Stoddart wasn't asleep anyway. Upstairs in his converted study, dressed in pyjama bottoms and blue angora cardigan, he'd just got up, and was about to peruse some of his bird sighting logs, in a forlorn attempt to take his mind off Lucia. He'd heard the glass immediately, and then, followed by the sudden sound of footsteps in the kitchen below, knew he wasn't alone.
It had to be a robbery. What should he do?
Peter hadn't waited to see if he'd disturbed anybody. He needed to get upstairs before anyone had time to react. This was a strange, unfamiliar house. There were low beams everywhere, and it was impossible to see. He stooped, groping his way to the staircase, and feeling around for a switch. Finally, he turned on the lights, and went up.
The stairs came up to the landing in the middle of the house. Immediately to the right, a door. He kicked it open, and expected a bedroom, but no, even in the light from the landing, he could see a desk, books, and stuffed birds everywhere. The bedroom had to be the other way.
“Lucia...! Come on, I know you're here !”
Trevor Stoddart was breathless with fear, he'd hidden himself in the study, in what used to be a walk in wardrobe, but was now a storage space for part of his vast, stuffed bird collection. To hear Lucia's name had scared him even more. 'How could he think she was here?'
Peter opened the next door....bathroom, then made to head down the landing to what had to be the bedroom, at the far end. Inside the wardrobe, terrified, a bead of sweat trickled down Trevor's forehead. As he raised a hand to wipe it, the baggy cuff of a luxurious, slightly scented, blue angora cardigan, caught the distinctive, down curved bill of a European Curlew on the shelf behind, and it tumbled forward and clattered against the slatted, wooden door.
Peter turned instantly with the sound, and lurched back towards the room behind him, but forgetting to duck, walked straight into the sturdy oak beam above the study doorway. He caught the beam heavily, just above the nose, and it stunned him. He dropped the gun carelessly against the wall, and cradled his head. As he did so, the barrel of the Browning slid sideways, then tumbled backwards down the staircase, and as it slammed onto its trigger side, the inevitable happened.
The noise was deafening, and plaster dust filled the air. Peter, dazed and blinded by the dust, took one air step sideways, and fell heavily down the stairs. He finished up, in an upside down heap on the small, right angled landing next to the hallway. His head had taken a further heavy blow on the wall below. His ears rang, and the world spun. He could still feel the warm gun barrel, rigid beneath his back, but couldn't move. His head was angled such that he could see directly up the stair well, and then, just as he lost consciousness, he saw a hazy figure step out onto the landing above.....…....................................blue, fluffy wool.................he knew that.........it's her!
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