A Scent of Suspicion: George Waterstone Investigations, #2

By Gordon Wallace

George Waterstone, recently retired, is tasked with finding a missing student who has vanished during her gap year. He teams up again with his friend, Ellie Carter, and the trail takes them from York, England, and into the landscape and culture of Provence. This is a story of travel, love, obsession, retribution and redemption set amongst the warmth and solidity of the Provençal landscape.

This is Gordon Wallace's second novel and the second in the George Waterston Series, inspired by time spent travelling through France and exploring its wonderful landscape and chequered history.
 

• Language: English
• Publisher: Gordon Wallace
• Release date: Jan 11, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393873228

Gordon Wallace

This is the debut novel of Gordon Wallace who has always wanted to write but never had the time to do it. Becoming disabled at the age of sixty eight has given him that time, an unexpected bonus at a difficult period in his life. For many years he has had a love of France, its geography, history, food, drink and culture which, hopefully, readers will also enjoy through the pages of his George Waterstone series.

Book preview

Prologue

The room was empty, with rough plaster on the walls and fine dust covering the floor. Motes of dust danced like minute fairies in the single sharp shaft of sunlight that shone through a tiny window high in the apex of the vaulted ceiling. Everything else was in deep shadow.  She tried to make out the dimensions of the room but some failure of her brain would not allow her to do so. She lay on an old mattress. She assumed it was old for who would put a new mattress in a place like this? She felt around and beside her was a blanket, rough and coarse to the touch. She discovered a plastic bottle of water and just managed to prevent it from rolling away from her as she grabbed it in her haste to drink. She unscrewed the top and greedily guzzled half the bottle and was thankful as her mouth felt parched and dry as though she had been sucking on an old sock. Putting the bottle down she used her hands to explore further, her eyes not wishing to open for more than a few seconds at a time. The floor was bare boards, undulating and bumpy as though time had shifted and squeezed them into ridges. She forced her eyes open and looked away from the ray of light to try to get her eyes accustomed to the shadows around her but she could still not make out much  detail. She didn't know if it was the light, her eyes or her brain malfunctioning. Her head ached and when she tried to stand it seemed to erupt as if fireworks were exploding behind her eye lids. She did not try again for a while.

Chapter One

The sun was reflecting off the Mediterranean waters, sparkling as though a giant hand had cast a sack full of diamonds from a great height and they had landed, uncharacteristically, floating on the blue/green water. I knew that the summer heat would hit me like a blast from a hairdryer as soon as I left the plane despite still seeing the remnants of ice crystals on the outside of the fuselage window. The announcement in the cabin informed me that we were starting our descent into Nice Côtes d’Azur Airport, that tables should be stowed away, seat belts fastened and seats returned to the upright position. I put away the book that I had been reading, Peter Mayle’s, A Year in Provence. Besides guidebooks, I thought it might give me a little more insight into the area I was about to revisit. In the past I had spent a few holidays in the Luberon, that mountainous area of central Provence which over the years has proved so popular with artists, writers and tourists because of its rugged landscape, quaint villages, lavender fields and, of course, the wine.

As the plane landed I reflected upon the ease of my journey and the events leading up to this South of France excursion. In normal circumstances if I were flying to Nice I would drive to Birmingham airport, leave my car with a ‘Meet and Greet’ attendant and trundle my suitcase to the check in area. Not today. On this trip, as I had no idea how long I would be away and, as I was on expenses, I had indulged in the luxury of a taxi from my home just outside Nottingham to the airport. The June day in England had promised to be warm and sunny, hopefully preparing me nicely for my destination. I had been glad of the opportunity to relax without having to think about the driving, as the last week had proved very hectic and, in my mind, the next few could be equally, if not more, so.

A week ago, at the beginning of June, I had received a phone call from my friend Andrew Jameson, a Nottingham solicitor who specialised in wills and probate issues. He wanted me to come to his office in Nottingham to discuss a possible assignment. Since my foray to the South of France a few years before and its relative success, Andrew had frequently used my services for minor investigative work, despite my having no background or credentials in this area of activity. He would say, 'The proof of the pudding is in the eating,' meaning that if I could deliver the goods he was not worried whether my background would suit me to the tasks or not. I liked this kind of work. It was interesting, flexible and sometimes, as today, gave me opportunities for travel. Having retired from my work in education a few years ago I almost felt that I was resurrected into semi-retirement. My wife had tragically died in a car accident five years ago and I was still coming to terms with that, but an arm’s-length (a very long arm!) relationship with Ellie was aiding my recovery. My move from our family house to a barn conversion in a nearby village had also helped in this process.

Chapter Two

'Hi, George,' Andrew had greeted me, as I was shown into his office by his most efficient secretary. 'Come and sit down and I will tell you what I have in store for you.'

Before he had time to carry on and get to the nub of the matter, his secretary had re-emerged with a tray of coffee and biscuits which she set down on a small coffee table at the side of his desk.

As she retreated, Andrew continued, cleaning his glasses with his signature red handkerchief which he then returned to his breast pocket, 'I am trying to sort out the will of one William Brown and would like your help with one particular aspect. Mr Brown, a widower, has left most of his assets to his daughter, Harriet Lawrence and there is no problem whatsoever with that. Everything is simple and clear-cut, for a change. However, Harriet and her husband, Frank were foster parents and it seems that William Brown had a particular fondness for one of the foster children, namely Amanda Roberts to whom he has left a significant sum of money in his will. The problem is no one knows where Amanda is! I want you to contact her and inform her of her bequest.'

'OK,' I responded. 'That sounds simple enough. Do you have an address? If so, I will go and see her with the good news.'

'If only things were that simple! I am afraid we don't have an address, or a phone number, or an email address. In fact, we have no idea at all where she is.'

'Well, what do you know about her, apart from the fact that she's come into some money?'

'We just know that she left her foster parents when she was eighteen to go to University in York. It seems that she liked them well enough but wanted to establish her own independence so did not go back to her foster home in Market Harborough during the university holidays but stayed in York working in various bars and pubs. She only stayed loosely in contact with her foster parents with the odd text or email. She graduated last year with a first in theoretical physics and headed off for a gap year travelling in Europe. Her foster parents, the only link we have with her, knew of her travelling plans through a text last June but have not heard from her since. All their attempts to contact her have failed.'

I pondered on this for a few moments, trying to formulate the series of questions which would set me on the road to finding the pieces of the jigsaw and then putting them together.

'Firstly, roughly how much is this bequest worth?' I asked.

'About £200,000,' Andrew responded, 'a significant sum for a young person having just left university and no doubt carrying a serious amount of debt.'

'Do we know of any University friends, boyfriends, girlfriends, fellow students on the same course? Was she in any sporting clubs, societies or other social groups?'

'We don’t know. Because she appeared to distance herself from her foster parents, they only received very basic information about her life in York, so in reality we know little of her existence there. This is where you come in.'

'What exactly, then, is my brief?' I responded.

'Well,' Andrew continued, 'it's a fairly open brief. Do what ever you need to in order to find her, within reason, of course, bearing in mind that any expenses will need to come out of the estate.

'What if she has gone to America or China, Australia perhaps. Do you want me to track her down there?'

'If your researches take you in any of those directions then we will have to review the situation, but as we know that she was setting out for Europe we should probably start there once you have tracked down an initial clue or two.'

Europe is a big place, I thought to myself. Where do I start?

'OK,' I said to Andrew, 'if her foster parents have no information then possibly the place to start would be York University. I'll kick off there and see what I can find out.'

'Fine,' he replied, 'just keep me informed of your progress. Fortunately, there is no great urgency as all of the other details of the will have been sorted out. However, don't make too long a holiday of it on the estate’s expenses!'

'I promise I won’t, but my guess is this may not be just a 48-hour job. Before I go, can you give me the phone number for Amanda's foster mother, as I will need to get some background information from her.'

'Good, no problem. I can do that. Give me a ring in a couple of days to let me know how you're getting on and we’ll have a chat about it over a pint.'

That suited me fine, so I left Andrew to the rest of his day’s work and headed out into the June sunshine to formulate my plan.

Chapter Three

The following day I set out early for York. The route up the A1 and A64 should take me less than two hours to drive, I thought, so I could easily be there by lunchtime, or, if I had a really good journey, for a late morning coffee. Andrew, as with most of my previous investigations, had furnished me with a letter authorising me to act on his behalf in relation to my searches. It had no legal standing to my knowledge but it did seem to open doors as people rarely questioned it. On getting back home after our meeting, the first thing that I did was to contact the admissions officer as York University to see what knowledge they had on their database relating to Amanda Roberts. Even when I explained the nature of my mission he was reluctant to give out any information but said that at a face-to-face meeting he might be able to give me some details which would possibly be in the public domain anyway. On the basis of that I had a meeting with the admissions officer, Mr Johnson, at two pm that afternoon.

The second thing I did was to ring Amanda's foster mother. I needed to discover if Amanda had any particular interests, hobbies or sporting pursuits so that I could narrow down my information requests to the admissions officer. Mrs Lawrence had been very helpful as she was also very keen to track down Amanda. Evidently Amanda was quite sporting and had played for her school hockey team and Mrs Lawrence thought that she had continued with this at University. She also liked to sing so her foster mother thought that she may have joined a choir. I asked Mrs Lawrence if she could send me the most recent photograph of Amanda that she had and she promised to send me her graduation photograph by first class post. At least here was something to get me started.

As it happened, the journey went well and I arrived in York in a good time for lunch. It had been quite a while since the last time I was in York and so much had changed. I had hoped to drive straight through Micklegate Bar to the centre of town, but found myself diverted by the one-way system and struggling for somewhere to park. Eventually I found a small space at the back of the Theatre Royal. I was not sure it was legal, but decided to risk it and headed on foot for the Lamb and Lion pub a few streets away tucked beneath the shadows of Bootham Bar. 

The menu offered slightly more than just ‘pub grub’ but nevertheless I opted for a gammon steak and chips, requesting no salad on the side, as this was a particular aversion of mine, not understood by many of my family and friends. I decided to take my lunch in the garden, or rather the extended patio, at the rear of the pub where one can see the ornate towers of York Minster rising, almost seeming to touch the clouds, above grey tiled pub roof. The mellow stonework of the Minster contrasted sharply with the dark, almost a blackened brickwork of the pub, in counterpoint again to the blues and oranges of the table umbrellas advertising the latest brand of gin or European lager. On this archetypal English summer day I could have just stayed and absorbed the atmosphere of this ancient city but I had to move on and progress my mission.

York University was just outside of the town on the edge of what, in previous times would have been the village of Heslington, but now dwarfed the village with its vast campus covering numerous acres. Fortunately for me on arriving at the campus the security officer at the gates could direct me straight to the admissions office for my two pm appointment. The receptionist greeted me and said that Mr Johnson was expecting me and would see me immediately. I guessed that this was not his busiest time of year as that would come in a month or two's time when the A-level results were out. I was shown into his office which looked very organised and businesslike with shelves of neatly labelled and colour-coded files and three large computer screens on his desk. As he rose from his chair to greet me, in his blue pinstripe suit, white shirt and red tie held down with a gold pin, he looked much more the administrator or businessman than the academic. With a full head of greying hair and matching moustache he reminded me of Omar Sharif in the film Dr Zivago, but the pictures of his wife on one side of the desk did not remind me of Julie Christie!

His handshake was firm and purposeful as he guided me towards a chair on the opposite side of his desk.

'I presume it’s George Waterstone,' he said, 'as I don't have any other appointments this afternoon?'

'You’re correct,' I replied, finding that a rather strange way of being introduced. I was almost tempted to respond, ‘You’re Mr Johnson, I presume as I also don't have any other appointments this afternoon!’ but I desisted.

He continued, 'Perhaps you could outline in a little more detail the request which you made to me over the phone yesterday and then I will see what I can do to help you.'

'Of course. A student of yours, namely, Amanda Roberts, who left last summer has received a significant bequest in the will of her foster mother’s father. To put it simply, no one knows where she is. Her foster parents have not heard from her for over a year and she kept her private life very private so they have no knowledge of any friends or students that she would have mixed with when she was here. I need to be able to track down any of her friends, students in her year group in her department or students she may have socialised with in clubs or societies. Can you help me?'

'That’s a big ask,' Mr Johnson replied. 'There is only so much information I can give you, even if I have it, because of confidentiality issues and data protection regulations. The details of her fellow students studying her subject in her year group is not confidential. There are also membership lists of clubs and societies which also could be made available. If you have the time to cross-reference some of these you might come up with some common names of people who would have known Amanda quite well. To narrow it down a bit, do you know what her interests were?'

'Her foster mother indicated that she liked to play hockey and also was quite musical in terms of singing so she may have joined a choir.'

'Perhaps if we begin with a list of her year group who were studying theoretical physics and a list of the hockey club members and choral society members that may give you something to go at. For obvious reasons, I cannot give you all their contact details, but if you come back to me with one or two specific requests, I will see what I can do. If you give me about an hour, go and have a coffee or something to eat or just have a wander around the campus and I will have some documents for you on your return.'

I got up and thanked him profusely, wondering how on earth I was going to analyse these disparate groups and find some definitive link to Amanda.

The campus was delightful, centred around a lake with fountains and swans swimming idly around the edges. Numerous students were lying on the grassy banks enjoying the sunshine and ‘studying’. A couple, not so enthusiastic about their books, were throwing a frisbee to each other and laughing uncontrollably as it landed way out in the lake. I sat on the grass too and could easily have fallen asleep if it were not for the worry in my head as to how I was going to identify my first clue in tracking down Amanda.

I checked my watch. An hour was almost up so I decided to head back to the admissions office and see what Mr Johnson had managed to put together. Again the receptionist led me through to his office and I found him shuffling papers and stapling bundles together. He motioned me to sit down which I did.

He said, 'I have put together for you three documents. The first, which is only one sheet of paper is the list of fellow students in last year’s third year studying theoretical physics. The second two are somewhat more substantial as they are the lists of members of the Choral Society and Hockey Club during Amanda's final year. Of course, these members come from across the whole University and all year groups. As the lists are alphabetical it was easy to check and I have discovered for you that Amanda’s name appears on all three. I trust this is helpful to you.'

'That is really helpful. Thank you so much. It will certainly give me something to get my teeth into and hopefully the first step on the way to finding Amanda.'

We shook hands and I left with a bundle of papers, thinking that I had a good night’s work ahead of me to make sense of them.

Chapter Four

My journey back home that evening was almost on autopilot as I was thinking of strategies which might give me a clue as to who Amanda's friends might have been. All I knew was that I would have to find, amongst those pages, some common denominators.

When I arrived home it was still light as we were fast approaching the longest day of the year. It was a balmy and quiet summer’s evening so I decided to sit out on my patio with a glass of red wine and a highlighter pen to start some kind on elimination process. My starting point was obviously the theoretical physics group as she would have been with these for the full three years. There were only twenty members of that group so I attempted to commit to them to memory and see if they cropped up in either of the other lists. Fortunately all the lists were alphabetical so I could pick one name and quickly check the other lists to see if it occurred in either of those. It was very tedious, but I could think of no other way of identifying students that Amanda would have encountered in more than one setting and, therefore, being likely to have known her reasonably well.

After an hour and a half when I was struggling to see the paperwork by the meagre light from the lantern of my doorway I had identified two names, both were in the physics group and one each in the Hockey Club and Choral Society respectively. Gemma Jenkins was the hockey player and Fiona Dixon was the singer. I knew that in my phone call the next day to Mr Johnson at York University I would need all my powers of persuasion to convince him that he should give me their contacts.

As soon as I felt it was respectable to do so, that is at about nine thirty the next morning, I rang the admissions office and asked to speak to Mr Johnson. The receptionist put me through immediately.

'Good morning, Mr Johnson,' I greeted him as cheerily as I could muster at that time of day. 'I am so grateful for the information you gave me yesterday. It has helped me to focus on a couple of students who, quite possibly, knew Amanda Roberts reasonably well. Could you, by any chance, furnish me with any contact details for either of them? I do, of course, recognise all of the data protection issues with which you have to comply.'

'I'm glad to have been of help to you. I will not be able to give you any addresses or personal information but if they have left with us their mobile phone numbers and then I can make those available to you. Which students are the ones that you have identified?'

I gave him the names of Gemma Jenkins and Fiona Dixon and I waited for what to seemed minutes while he searched the University database for their details.

'Ah, Mr Waterstone, I'm sorry to tell you but I have no mobile phone contact for either of them and I am unable, for data protection reasons, to pass on to you either of their addresses. I don't think there's anything more I can do to help. Again, I'm sorry. I wish you luck with your investigations.'

I thanked him again for his help and tried to think what my next step would be.

Not having been brought up in the digital and social media age, the obvious answer did not immediately spring to my mind, but eventually, after two cups of coffee and a slice of toast with my own home-made three fruit marmalade, a strategy popped into my head. I crossed my fingers that each of these students would have a Facebook page or an Instagram account through which I could leave a message. I opened Facebook on my laptop and put in a search for Gemma Jenkins. I was amazed at how many there were! It took me some time going down the list until eventually I came across a likely candidate who had attended York University on the appropriate dates and was a keen hockey player. Bingo! I left her a message on the Messenger system and crossed my fingers.

Fiona Dixon was more elusive. Although there were multiple Fiona Dixons on Facebook, none matched the criteria I was looking for. I opened up Instagram and was rewarded again with multiple Fiona Dixons. As I was scrolling through them one in particular caught my eye as the key image was that of a choir. I opened her account to see the pictures of York University, the City of York and photographs of the University Choral Society in performance. I enlarged one of these on my laptop screen and scoured the ranks of singers to see if I could identify Amanda from the photograph her foster mother had sent me. Second row, fourth from the right, there she was, and there was Fiona, identifiable from the other Instagram photographs, only four places further along. I left a message linked to the latest photograph that she had posted.

All day I kept checking my laptop or mobile phone for any responses but it was not until late in the evening that any replies came through. The first was from Gemma Jenkins. She briefly responded that although she had known Amanda very slightly through their physics group their skills in hockey had been so diverse that, whereas Amanda had been in the University’s second-team, she had only been in its fifth and therefore they had not encountered very much or stricken up a friendship. She was sorry she could not help.

Shortly after there was a response on Instagram from Fiona Dixon. She said that she knew Amanda reasonably well but had no idea of her movements after university. However, she did say that as Amanda worked during university holiday times and some evenings during term time at the Brown Cow pub, the staff there may have more information. I thanked her and then started thinking about my next move.

Chapter Five

I thought that a cold call asking for details about an ex-member of staff would not necessarily elicit the detailed information I was after. So I thought that another trip to York was in order. I would leave it until afternoon the next