Empty Vessels by Marina Pascoe Page A

not want to be found?ʼ
    Bartlett puffed out his cheeks with a long sigh. Ê»So, you think weʼre on the wrong track?ʼ
    Ê»I think weʼre looking too hard. Letʼs go back to the beginning, stop looking for a dead body and start thinking that she might still be around. This may seem a bit radical for around here but what about a campaign?ʼ
    Ê»What do you mean, a campaign?ʼ
    Ê»Letʼs distribute pictures of her all around, letʼs say, the major county towns, Truro, St Austell, Bodmin – to begin with. Maybe someoneʼs seen her in another town.ʼ
    Ê»You just might have an idea there, Boase my boy.ʼ
    Bartlett was looking out of his window, watching Mrs Berryman struggling down the road, pausing frequently to catch a breath.
    Ê»Iʼll go round to the Berrymans’ later and suggest it to them. Well done, Boase.ʼ
    For Boase, the rest of the day passed by slowly; he didnʼt know when he was going to see Irene again and he was beginning to miss her. He wondered how this could be – he had never felt like this before. Archie Boase, always independent, happy in his own company, now craving being with a woman. He used to like Amber Cosgrove when they were at school but that wasnʼt like this; he was fifteen and Amber Cosgrove fourteen. He liked her for almost a year then she left school and got married. Amber Cosgrove – whatever happened to her? He wondered where he would be ten years from now. Would he still be friendly with Irene? He hoped so – he couldnʼt imagine being with anyone else. Irene was lovely.
    At five oʼclock George Bartlett knocked on the door of Number 7, Railway Cottages and waited, admiring the neat front garden. Presently the door was unlocked and opened and Arnold Berryman appeared.
    Ê»Mr Bartlett, sir. How nice to see you – have you some news for us?ʼ
    Before Bartlett could reply, Peggy Berryman appeared in the hall, patting her wispy hair into place and smoothing her apron.
    Ê»Come in, Mr Bartlett – I didnʼt expect to see you this evening.ʼ She beckoned him into the warm kitchen where they had obviously just begun their meal.
    Ê»Sit yourself down – would you like a cup of tea?’
    Ê»Well, thank you, that would be most acceptable, that is, if Iʼm not interrupting, you appear to be about to eat.ʼ
    Ê»Donʼt you worry about that, Mr Bartlett.ʼ Peggy Berryman was rushing around making an enormous pot of tea – Bartlett, a great tea drinker, approved. Ê»Iʼve got a couple of extra chops in the oven, Mr Bartlett – would you like to join us?ʼ
    Ê»Thatʼs very kind of you, Mrs Berryman, but my wife will have my dinner ready and Iʼm going straight home from here. She wouldnʼt be too pleased if I didnʼt have room for her meal. It does smell rather nice though.ʼ
    Bartlett installed himself in a very large armchair by the range whereupon an enormous black-and-white cat crossed the kitchen and jumped into his lap. Mr Berryman smiled – ‘Thatʼs Sydneyʼs chair, as a rule; but donʼt you mind ʼim, Mr Bartlett, push ʼim off. Go on Sydney – shoo.ʼ
    Bartlett stroked the cat, who obviously had no intention of vacating his position, and man and feline decided to share the armchair.
    Mrs Berryman patted Sydneyʼs head as she handed Bartlett a cup of tea.
    Ê»Ê¼Eʼs fourteen now – we got ʼim as a kitten for Norma, when she was a little girl; ʼe still waits at the top of the road for ʼer, evʼry night, waiting for ʼer to come ʼome from work. She was five when we got ʼim. She said to the farmer out at Maenporth who we got ʼim from, “Whatʼs his name?” “Sydney – with a Y,” ʼe replied. “Then I shall call ʼim Sydney with a Y too,” she said.’
    Mrs Berryman looked upset, thinking of better times.
    Bartlett put