Man Who Vanished , livre ebook

The Man Who Vanished
A Veronica Pilchard Mystery
Roz Goldie
Austin Macauley Publishers
2019-03-29
The Man Who Vanished About the Author Dedication Copyright Information Acknowledgements Introduction Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three Chapter Four Chapter Five Chapter Six Chapter Seven
About the Author
Roz Goldie is a former BBC senior producer and station manager who has worked as an academic, charity director and art gallery owner. Born and raised in Northern Ireland, she is married, lives in a small village and writes full time.
Dedication
To Smartypants
Copyright Information
Copyright © Roz Goldie (2019)
The right of Roz Goldie to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the prior permission of the publishers.
Any person who commits any unauthorised act in relation to this publication may be liable to criminal prosecution and civil claims for damages.
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN 9781528903462 (Paperback)
ISBN 9781528903479 (Kindle E-Book)
ISBN 9781528957465 (ePub E-Book)
www.austinmacauley.com
First Published (2019)
Austin Macauley Publishers Ltd
25 Canada Square
Canary Wharf
London
E14 5LQ
Acknowledgements
To my husband, who has encouraged and supported me at every stage of my fiction writing.
Introduction
A middle-aged woman lay in bed in the bright light of the Intensive Care Unit, in a medically induced coma. Nurses were working with a patient in the adjoining bed as a tall man with a thick brown mop of hair and a purposeful stride approached and silently took a seat beside her bed. When one of the staff recognised him and smiled, he nodded. After three days, all the nursing staff knew DI Jack Summers.
“No real change I’m afraid, Jack,” the taller nurse said. “You can see from the chart.”
The plain-clothes policeman grunted a muted ‘thank you’ and lifted the chart clipped to the end of the metal bedframe. He studied the information, or at least as much of it as he could understand, and replacing the clipboard to its usual resting place, he turned to the woman lying as if in a deep sleep.
“Veronica Pilchard, you have really ripped the ass out of it this time.” His voice was lowered and his furrowed brown showed great anxiety.
The woman stirred, groaning slightly. He looked into her face as she opened her eyes, blinking in bright, clinical space.
“Veronica! Are you going to wake up?” Jack choked on the words with obvious emotion.
A nurse quickly appeared at his side, pushing him out of her path, firmly but politely whispering, “Excuse me.” She pressed a button on the headboard of the bed, summonsing a doctor.
Jack shot to his feet, stepped back and stood to attention.
An elderly man in a white coat came into the ward. “Curtains please, Nurse.” He turned to Jack, “You will have to wait outside. We have some work to do.”
And so, Veronica Pilchard came back from the edge of brain death and was speaking to Jack Summers within a couple of hours.
The events leading up to that seemingly miraculous recovery were known to DI Summers and the police at Donaghdubh Station. Jack Summers was one of the few who had genuine concern and sympathy for Veronica Pilchard. Most of the officers thought she had brought this misfortune upon herself and should never have been undertaking what was police business, and investigating serious crime with her amateur sleuthing.
Veronica’s first coherent words were, “I am very hungry. Can I have something to eat?”
The nurse laughed. “That one’s a fighter!” Turning to Veronica, she grinned, “We will get you as much as you are allowed to eat – promise.”

* * **
Out of intensive care, Veronica had a bed by the window on the fifth floor of the hospital. Beside her bed lay a small pile of cards – as yet unopened. These had been sent by the people now central to Veronica’s life. None arrived from her former social circle, which was predictable enough. Veronica had closed down all contact with the tennis club and the couples she had once befriended as a married woman. These days, her closest friend was Lady Margaret Beightin and her regular acquaintances were the people with whom she worked – as an independent producer, at the BBC Radio Station – and the gay community at the Golden Palace.
Still suffering from acute headache and multiple bruising, but happy to have been given a second meal, she opened the cards carefully. The first thick cream vellum envelope contained a card with a reproduction of a Pre-Raphaelite Painting – the Lady of Shallot – and read, “Dearest VP, if you are reading this, then you have pulled through, thank God. Best Margaret.”
The largest card was from the set at the Golden Palace. It was a massive explosion of pink and silver flowers with tiny satin ribbon bows, and read, “Veronica sweetie, we all love you!” Under this, there were small personal messages from at least a dozen gay men, including her hairdresser, Desmond Charles.
Barry Doyle had sent a card sporting a French Impressionist picture of a woman stooped over gathering in the harvest. His message was, “Veronica, I need my production woman working in the field – so get well soon.” She laughed, knowing Barry would be as sentimental as anyone from the Golden Palace but would reserve any show of that for when they met in person – and far from the hospital. Barry had always hated hospitals, and even more so since his partner had died slowly in such a place, some time ago.
The whole team from the Barry Doyle Show had sent individual cards – giving the false impression that Veronica Pilchard had a very wide range of friends and social contacts.
There was no card from Harry, her now probably about-to-be ex-husband, but he had perhaps not yet heard of her accident, nor was there anything from her only living relative, her sister in England, which is why Jack had nominated himself as de facto next of kin.
Now that she was conscious, well fed and her pain was fairly well under control, Veronica had space to reflect on the so-called accident.
After the space of only two years, Derek Deakin had been released on licence and set about taking revenge on the amateur sleuth, who had created his downfall. Police had gathered evidence that convicted him of crimes he had committed but, by a twist of fate, another foul deed of which he was in fact innocent. This had rankled with him. His hatred for Veronica Pilchard festered over his time in prison – so he happily drove her car over the edge of a steep embankment.
She could remember little other than seeing his demonic face, contorted in a seething grin as her vehicle lurched out of control and nosedived into oblivion.
His car had been caught on security camera, and he was arrested soon after – showing signs of a psychotic breakdown.
Veronica left hospital after another three days, with nothing more to show for the attempted murder than a headache and a scar hidden by the hair brushed slightly over her cheek. She arrived home on a sweltering July afternoon – by taxi, since her car was a write-off – and sat in the shade of the large apple tree in her back garden for some hours before rising look for food.
Although she would make a full recovery, physically, it took some time before she regained her customary pugnacious confidence. In the intervening weeks, she divided her time between her production work for the Barry Dole show and her friend, Margaret Beightin.

* * *
Chapter One
Veronica Pilchard had not seen much of her estranged husband since the April morning he’d arrived home unexpectedly, and was met in his own hallway by an armed detective accosting him in the mistaken belief that he was an intruder with violent and criminal intent. The fact that Detective Inspector Jack Summers had emerged from upstairs, barely clothed and seemingly having an affair with his wife made Harry Pilchard angry, confused, humiliated and yet, still somehow apprehensive. She had laughed at him and then asked to cook breakfast for them all!
Stunned by a reversal of marital infidelities, Harry Pilchard was indignant – harbouring a lasting and dismal sense of betrayal. He had made a full Ulster fry for the policeman and his wife while he had sat, sulking, drinking only black coffee.
When DI Summers had left, he turned to Veronica, “How could you?”
“I could have asked you that question on New Year’s Eve, but it seemed a rather fatuous question, Harry.” Her voice was cold, as she thought of how he was the one, who had been serially unfaithful. “Anyway, dearest, I don’t think this will turn out to be a grand romance.”
Her amateur sleuthing had got results but had come with serious personal threat – which was why DI Summers had been armed when he confronted the apparent intruder.

* * *
That all seemed a long time ago as another autumn set in. Veronica Pilchard was now completely absorbed in her work with Barry Doyle, for her independent production company making the midday slot into a ratings booster for local BBC radio.
Although she’d been reluctant at first to even consider the possibility of working with him, Barry Doyle had changed since the times when he had poured scorn on her documentaries. Over the years in Dublin in Radio Turf, he’d matured and after the death of his partner, he returned to Belfast quite a different person. In a remarkable turnaround, he had come to admire Veronica’s approach to programme-making. The two were still working on a short-term contract – with high audience targets, exacting conditions and a strictly probationary agreement.
Noel Fitzpatrick had kept his staff job as head of department, turning down the offer to join Veronica’s Authenticity Pr