Mr. Flood's Last Resort(88)

“So what are you after, then?” Frank is businesslike but not unfriendly.

I look out into the garden. Mrs. Gaunt is pegging out washing on a rotary airer. The lawn has just been mown and Frank has yet to put the mower away.

I’ve a stolen car parked out the front of his house with a comprehensive homicide kit in the trunk. When I leave it’s likely there will be a black BMW trailing me. I’m a marked target. The invisible saint that’s just taken a seat at his kitchen table has told me as much.

“To be honest, Mr. Gaunt,” I say, “I’ve come about a lot more than a puppy.”

*

TO HIS credit, retired chief constable Frank Gaunt hears me out. He makes us coffee and we sit down at the kitchen table. The puppies tumble and nip until one by one they fall asleep. Their parents sprawl nearby; the brindle bitch watches me with her dark eyes, her sensitive muzzle on her long paws.

Mrs. Gaunt comes in and, understanding some subtle signal, disappears into the hallway with a nod and a smile. Frank doesn’t interrupt and his face remains largely expressionless. Although he frowns very slightly when I mention Stephen’s bribe and Gabriel’s lies and almost certainly hides a smile when I recount being picked up by the Dorking Nifty Fifties.

I leave out the part about the spiritualist church, the dead hand of Mary Flood, and sleeping with the enemy. I would leave out the theft of Gabriel Flood’s car, but what’s in the trunk is far too compelling.

Frank gets to his feet and picks up our empty mugs. “Another drink?”

I watch in silence as he fills the kettle, spoons out the instant, and finds the milk. I know better than to interrupt him; the man is obviously thinking. In the corner a puppy wriggles in its sleep; in the room next door Mrs. Gaunt has put the television on.

He hands me my coffee and sits down. “I don’t know how to help you with this, Maud.”

His hands are tied. He’s retired; he mows the lawn and breeds dogs. Gone are the days when he dealt with the criminal underbelly of Dorset.

“I thought you might be able to shed light on Maggie’s disappearance, maybe something that was unreported in the media?”

“There’s nothing I can add. We had very few leads at the time.” Frank scratches his beard. “And Maggie was a seasoned runaway.”

“From the home?”

Frank nods. “Sometimes she went back; sometimes we found her. We figured that this time she didn’t want to be found.”

St. Dymphna throws me a knowing little half smile.

I look out into the garden and watch Frank’s underpants and his wife’s slips dance on the rotary airer.

“What about the Floods? Did you interview them at the time?”

I take two photographs from my bag: Mary in her floral shirtdress and Gabriel and Stephen at the summer party. I put them on the table.

Frank picks them up. He taps the photograph of Mary. “I remember her well.” He taps the other photograph. “And this guy.”

“Gabriel.”

“And him.” He points to Stephen’s fat head. “We traveled up to London, spoke to them at the house.”

Frank’s voice is changing, growing gruffer. He is forgetting the dogs and the lawn and remembering his old life.

The brindle bitch snores in her sleep, a wheezy high note.

“How did you find them?”

Frank thinks. “The mother was charming actually; the two boys were a little subdued.”

“And Cathal Flood, the father, did you speak to him?”

Frank shakes his head. “He was away.”

I proceed slowly, trying to keep my voice in check. “Gabriel is a liar. He had me believe he was someone else entirely. What if he’s responsible for Maggie’s disappearance, him and his cousin here who’s still in league with him?”

“Lying is one thing, Maud—”

“It’s not like Gabriel didn’t have a motive; his sister had tried to drown him. Maybe he finally got his own back.”

Frank frowns. “Even so.”

“Can’t you reopen the case, bring them both in for questioning?”

Frank speaks kindly, choosing his words carefully. “I would agree that this family appears to be a little complicated, but without good grounds, we can’t take this any further.”

“What about the murder kit in the trunk?”

Frank shakes his head. “The police can’t bring someone in for owning a few tools and a length of plastic sheeting.” He looks at me. “But if you feel threatened, call them, straight away.”

One of the puppies, a pale fawn with one white foot, wakes and yawns. It rolls over and looks at me through the bars of its playpen.

“They’re lovely.”

“They’re our last litter; it doesn’t seem right to keep on when there’s so many dogs in the world needing homes.”

I nod.

“And my wife wants to go abroad, a cruise maybe. You can’t do that with the dogs.”

“That would be nice.”

The puppy gets up and has a stretch for itself.

I put my coffee down and go over; it mouths my hands, licks it. “With a dog like this you’d need to spend a bit of time outside?”

“At least twice a day.”

“A dog is great for getting people out and about?”