Shoppers were sparse, the lunchtime rush over, and assistants thin on the ground, too. I chose a couple of lemons, headed to soft drinks and mixers and added tonic water to my basket. Then, feeling like a practising alcoholic, I grabbed a loaf, a jar of honey and a packet of ground coffee.
At the end of the soup aisle, a young woman was inexpertly stacking tins of the store’s own brand, Potato and Leek. I stopped behind her. “Excuse me,” I said, and she jumped, sending a can rolling towards pet food and household essentials. “Sorry.” I retrieved the soup and handed it to her. “I’m looking for someone who used to work here and left three months ago.”
“I’ve only been here a fortnight. Try Maggie on the kiosk; she knows everybody.” The girl jerked her head towards the front of the supermarket.
“Thanks.”
I added dog biscuits and a packet of treats to my basket and strolled towards the tills, watching the kiosk situated near the exit. A woman in her forties stood daydreaming behind rows of chocolate bars and then snapped to attention as a man approached. She turned to the shuttered area behind her and hunted down a packet of cigarettes for him as I chose a self-service till and packed my groceries.
I bided my time until I was the only customer within view and walked up to the kiosk.
“I wonder if you can help me,” I said. “I’m looking for a girl who worked here until three months ago. Straight brown hair, smaller than me, mid-twenties.”
“Nicola Soames.” The woman studied me, eyes narrowed. “Are you a friend of hers?”
“No, definitely not.” I ran through some likely excuses in my head and decided to go with the truth. “My husband left, and I think she’s with him.”
“Poor sod if she’s got hold of him.”
“What do you know about her?”
“She lasted a week before she was fired. She was on three different tills in that time, and they were all short.”
“Short?” I had a mental picture of extra small tills and assistants sitting on the floor to operate them before the penny dropped. “Money was missing.”
“She denied it was her, threatened to sue for defamation of character, and jammed the roll each time. Once, she unplugged the till and said it was an accident. The manager couldn’t get shot of her quick enough.”
“Do you know if she has a flat in Lufton?”
“The address she gave personnel was Manor Road, number twelve, down behind the industrial estate.”
“Thanks for your help.” As an elderly woman approached the kiosk, purse in hand, and I moved away.
“Good luck getting your husband back.”
“Oh, for…thanks.” I smiled through gritted teeth, left the supermarket and hurried back to the car. I stashed my shopping in the boot and dived back into the driver’s seat. “Got an address.”
“You are good. Anything new on Nicola X?”
“Her name actually is Nicola. Nicola Soames. Lasted a week, fiddled money from the tills and was fired.”
“She sounds like the female version of Jeff.”
“They’re made for each other.” I drove out of the supermarket car park and into Lufton. “Let’s find Manor Road, and hopefully, they’ll be shacked up together, and I can put this whole thing to bed right now.”
“Unfortunate choice of phrase.”
“Eew.”
The industrial estate was tucked away behind the railway station, in an area of town an ambitious estate agent might describe as ‘looking towards regeneration’. We carried on, searching for street signs.
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“There.” Sue pointed. “Manor Road.”
I parked the car, and we stared at two rows of pre-war terraced houses with front doors opening directly onto the pavement. “It’s number twelve, but these aren’t flats.”
“Let’s go see.” Sue unclipped her seatbelt and grabbed Elvis. “The Scooby gang are on it.”
We approached number twelve, where the nameplate read ‘Mr & Mrs J Soames’, and I rang the bell. “Okay,” I said while we waited, “I get Elvis as Scooby-Doo, but who are you?”
“Daphne, of course.” Sue rolled her eyes. “Who else?”
“So, that leaves me as…Velma?”
“I was thinking more of a female Shaggy.”
“Oh, you were, were you? Well, I – oh, hello.” The door had opened, revealing a small middle-aged woman with short brown hair, a tan-coloured pullover and a dull green skirt. I took a punt. “Are you Nicola’s mum?”
The woman gasped, clutched a hand to her chest and whispered, “Have you seen her?”
“I saw her two nights ago,” I said. “I wondered –”
“Jim! Jim, come here, Jim! Someone’s seen her!” Mrs Soames turned and bawled like a PE teacher hollering across a hockey pitch. Sue, Elvis and I jumped and exchanged wild-eyed looks before Nicola’s mother stood aside. “Come in, come in.”
Elvis didn’t need asking twice – he surged forward, pulling Sue in his wake, and I stumbled after them. We huddled together in a tiny, dark hallway before Mrs Soames opened another door and ushered us into a musty-smelling front room that held a three-piece suite and not much else.
“Sit down, sit down.” She flapped a hand at the settee, and Sue and I perched along the edge with Elvis at our feet. Mrs Soames sank into one of the armchairs as a fifty-something man appeared in the doorway, reeking of cigarette smoke and looking startled and then shifty.
“I was tidying up the back yard,” he said and sat on the other armchair. Then he straightened. “I’m Jim Soames, Nicola’s father. Are you the police?”
“Of course they are,” his wife snapped. “Who else would they be? They’re plainclothes detectives, and that’s a sniffer dog.”
Everyone looked at Elvis, who obligingly leant forward and sniffed Mr Soames' trouser leg. I tried to rein in my thoughts. “Why do you think we’re police?”
“Nicola’s missing,” her mother said. “She’s been gone since Saturday.”
“Does Nicola rent a flat in Lufton?” I asked.
“No, of course not. Why would our Nicola do that? She lives here.”
“Have you reported her?” Sue asked and received blank looks in return. “To the police, I mean.”
“We spoke to my cousin Nora. She told us they’d only say that Nicola’s an adult and not a priority.” Mrs Soames pursed her lips. “Our daughter is missing, and she’s not a priority? It’s scandalous; that’s what it is.”
I struggled to understand. “Your cousin Nora’s a policewoman?”
“No, but she’s got a box set of The Bill, plus the first series of Bergerac, and she knows her stuff.”
“It’s not Bergerac,” her husband said. “It’s Shoestring.”
“Isn’t that the same actor?” Mrs Soames frowned at him. “He was in a second police-type thing.”
“No, you’re thinking of the other chap.”
Husband and wife began an earnest discussion of Trevor Eve versus John Nettles, and Sue turned to me and whispered, “Beam me up, Scotty .”
I raised my voice and interrupted their debate. “Do you know Jeff Hope?”
“Who?” Mr and Mrs Soames turned blank faces towards me.
“My husband. I think your daughter is with him.”
“Why would she be with your husband?” Mrs Soames looked affronted. “She has her own boyfriend.”
“Really?” I bit my lip. “Did she meet him three months ago?”
“Yes.” Mr Soames stared at me in amazement. “How did you know that? You must be the police.”
“Do you know the boyfriend’s name?”
“David something. We haven’t met him yet; Nicola says they’re taking it slowly.”
“And has she got another job?”
“What do you mean? Nicola works at the supermarket.”
“She was fired three months ago.” As soon as the words left my mouth, I knew what I would hear in return, and Nicola’s parents didn’t disappoint.
“Nonsense. You’ve got that wrong. Nicola’s been going out to work every morning.” Mrs Soames shook her head. “She’s on holiday just now.”
“So, she left here early on Saturday morning.” I stared at them both, and they nodded like dogs on the parcel shelf of a car. “And she hasn’t come back.”
“Maybe she’s gone on holiday with David.” Mrs Soames turned an excited face to her husband. “We never thought of that.”
“That’s it.” Her husband beamed at her. “We’ll get a postcard in a few days and wonder why we were so worried.” They laughed and shook their heads in wonder, then turned to me. “D’you want us to phone the local station when Nicola gets back?”
“That won’t be necessary,” I said, standing up and resisting the urge to sprint for the front door. “Thank you for your time.” Sue and Elvis joined me, and we made our way out to the hall. Mr and Mrs Soames hurried after us, and Nicola’s father reached past me to open the door, treating me to a lungful of second-hand Benson and Hedges. “Bye.”
“Goodbye.” Nicola’s parents stood on their non-existent doorstep, smiling and waving as we got in the car and drove away.
“Blimey.” I hared back towards the industrial estate, taking corners too fast and driving straight over a mini-roundabout. “That explains a lot.”
“Still doesn’t explain where she is. Or Jeff.”
“True. I don’t know what to do next.”
“I do. Gin, and lots of it.”
“Yeah…that could work.” I headed out of Lufton and back to Lilac Cottage. Ten minutes later, we were in the front room with G&Ts decorated with lemon slices.
“Cheerio.” Sue held up her glass, and we clinked, and then I hesitated, remembering the ominous feeling I’d had. “What’s wrong?”
“Something feels off.” I looked around the room. “I’ve had this nagging suspicion I missed a clue, but I can’t pin it down.”