On Monday morning, first thing after breakfast, Chilton caught a ride into town with Mr Leech. Leeds Police Headquarters was much as he’d left it. Lippincott always kept his door open. He waved Chilton into his office.
‘Quite a time to take your retirement, just as the crime of the century’s been committed.’
They laughed, having agreed this was no crime at all. Just a lady with a tiny bit of renown, missing when nothing else was occurring in the world, creating a Silly Season in winter. The papers were going wild. Lippincott gave Chilton some police bulletins and a photograph of Agatha from her publisher, the same one being placed in countless hands across England.
‘If she’s not dead, she’ll be frightfully embarrassed at all this fuss,’ Chilton said. Looking at Agatha’s photograph – wistful and lovely – he regretted his laughter. It was a stark business, suicide, but he understood that when you had to go, you had to go. Surely she’d had her reasons.
Lippincott revealed his more-cynical-but-less-tragic theory. ‘What she’ll do is sell a lot of books,’ he said. ‘A handful of English readers knew her name on Friday. If she doesn’t turn up by the end of the week, she’ll be a global sensation.’
‘Publicity stunt, you think?’
‘Some sort of stunt. But that’s why I wanted you back, Chilton. I knew you’d treat it like it was real, either way. And we must take it seriously. No one yet knows where this woman’s gone. She might as well be here as anywhere.’
Chilton saluted in agreement, half in jest, but it made them both grim for an instant. They’d seen a lot together, the two of them, when saluting was an everyday business.
‘Look here, though, Chilton,’ Lippincott said. ‘Thanks to my cousin I can put you up at no expense. And I’ve got a police auto for you to use to conduct your searching. You retired too early for us to give you a fancy watch, or anything of that sort. So take this as a bit of a holiday, won’t you? Search for Agatha Christie but take the waters too. Enjoy the hotel. Eat well. Have a massage, for goodness’ sake.’
Chilton could not begin to imagine submitting himself to a massage. ‘Do you know I lived in Yorkshire for seven years and never put so much as a toe in the baths?’
‘Well, then,’ Lippincott said, even though Chilton was sure the same was true for him. Lippincott might wish his dear cousin’s establishment well but was unlikely to ever frequent it. ‘High time.’
For me the cold of the day had disappeared, along with the clear blue sky. All I could see was Finbarr. He put a gentle hand on my elbow and steered me away, looking over his shoulder to see if Lizzie Clarke was still there.
‘You needn’t worry about her,’ I said, but he didn’t seem to hear me. He led me off the road, through a hedgerow, into a stand of silver birch trees.
‘Finbarr,’ I said. When we were young in Ireland this sort of detour might have been playful, testing how game I could be. ‘What are you doing?’
‘I might ask the same of you.’ His raspy, post-war voice sobered me.
‘I’m on holiday. How on earth did you find me?’
‘Never mind that. The important thing is what happens next. You and me, leaving this plot of yours behind, and going home to Ballycotton.’
‘Ballycotton is not my home.’ I pulled my arm out of his grip. At first sight of him my brain had gone to atoms. Now those atoms started to swirl and sharpen, forming a clearer picture. ‘It never was and it never will be.’
‘It was and it will be again. My father died, Nan.’ From the way he said it I gathered that his mother had died too, perhaps a good while ago. ‘I’ve saved enough money to buy a small place, where I can raise and train dogs. We can go home. You and me.’
I pictured the home he meant, and the road to Sunday’s Corner. I knew I should say I was sorry for his parents’ death. But I wasn’t sorry and never would be.