The Mannequin Mystery

Mid-June 1966 – Lambuck River

Despite it being summer, there’d been a lot of rain and the river flowed fast and deep, lapping at the grassy bank, slippery with mud, where ducks, geese and swans’ pad awkwardly on their flat feet. Alerted by a telephone call from a distraught walker, the Detective Inspector and I had met at the river’s edge and now gaze into the murk as the bird’s honk around our ankles. The area has been sealed off and a white tape flutters and beckons and the great bulk of an ambulance stands behind, it’s light turning slowly, throwing out a long blue shadow.

“Whatever it is, it’s caught in the reeds,” he said softly, as if to himself, and then turned slightly, looking at me from the tail of his eye, the dimples on his stubbly cheeks clearly visible, “Can you see Miss Day?” I nodded as I watched what looked like a hand, its long thin fingers wrapped tightly around the dense greenery, as if holding on for dear life, the rest of what surely must be a body, with the long hair of a woman, submerged beneath the murk of the river.

“Not a pretty sight,” I said as I glanced at the Detective Inspector, a tall man, who boasted a broad chest tapering down to long slim legs and wore a black double-breasted overcoat open over black trousers and a white shirt with a patterned tie, a suit jacket just about visible. He wore a trilby hat perched rakishly on his blonde hair and, even though his highly polished brogues were flecked with mud, it in no way deterred from his unusual powerful look and style.

Turning to the paramedics, he said, “Be careful when bringing her up,” as he allowed them to step in front, and then watched as they slid down the bank and waded into the water, carefully feeling around in the reed bed, and pulling away the green muddy shoots that had wrapped themselves tightly around the trunk of a fallen tree that was lying half submerged in the river and half on the grassy bank, its glossy leaves shivering in the breeze. Our weather men had predicted an end to the rain and today, a weak sun had managed to peek out from behind fluffy white clouds reflecting a myriad of colours on the churning water.

“I couldn’t believe it,” I heard the distraught walker say to a reporter, a microphone thrust in his face, “Talk about a coincidence, but I’d just been thinking about that missing girl, you know Miranda Wilson, it’d had been on the news before I came out, so I thought I was imagining it, you know, what I could see. Almost gave me a heart attack … not something you expect to see on a nice walk, is it?”

A knot of interested onlookers had formed on the opposite side of the river, a group consisting of yet more walkers, people with restless dogs straining on their leads, everybody nudging and staring, whispering, and wondering what was going on. Sergeant Alf Cooper, our village’s local bobby, stood nearby, arms outstretched, keeping the crowd back from the dangerous muddy incline leading into the water which was deep and dense, an oily brown, filled I was sure, with all sorts of unsuitable items, items that maybe outnumbered the fish, ranging from old bicycles to shopping trolleys. I suppose you’d call it a scrap man’s paradise.

There was a sudden great whoosh and a splash and everybody turned to look, as the body, suspended in mid-air for a second or two, landed on the river bank face down, trickles of water running down its waxy skin, hair spread out from its head like black candy floss, closely followed by a vast intake of breath from the crowd.

The Detective Inspector, a frown marring his handsome face, pushed forward through the paramedics, where they stood, their green boiler suits damp now, their wellies covered in a green slime, “Good God,” he whispered, “It’s a mannequin!”

A paramedic nudged him and, laughing a little, said, “No need for the recovery position then, Sir?” His colleagues giggled and one made a pumping motion on his own chest with his hands as if resuscitating somebody. The Detective Inspector gave them a narrowed eyed glare.

Peering over his shoulder I stared at the body laid before us, certainly not human, but a larger version of the Sindy doll I played with when I was a little girl. Fully clothed too in jeans, a blue shirt, a red and white striped tank top, yet only one shoe, leaving one foot, bare and white, yet each tiny toenail adorned with red polish like a splash of blood.

“Detective Inspector?”

“Miss Day, I …”

“I’m just pointing out Sir,” I nodded towards the mannequin, “She’s dressed exactly like the missing girl.”

He gave me a quizzical glance as I pulled a note pad from the pocket of my trench coat and read my hastily scribbled writing just to confirm in my own mind that I was right. “She was last seen in blue jeans,” I told the Detective Inspector, “A blue shirt and a red and white striped tank top. Even the shoes are the same, a white plimsoll with a red stripe, although supposedly she wore both. Turn her over,” I said, “Let’s look at her face.”

We both recoiled as the mannequin’s face was revealed, the Detective Inspector, saying, surprised, “The face of Miranda Wilson.”

“Yes Sir,”

“Hmm, made by a specialist I suppose, not just a run of the mill mould here, eh?”

“Why no,” I replied, “Most mannequins have virtually the same face don’t they? So how is it possible to change a face like that? Wouldn’t the person have to know her to get a likeness?”

He nodded as he stepped forward and then hunkered down close to her, “Not necessarily, they could have sculpted a likeness from a photograph, and there’s plenty of those about aren’t there?” And then, “What’s this?” Pulling on a pair of thin gloves, he reached out a hand and touched something that hung around her neck. I went closer and bending over at the waist, peered too. “A piece of paper protected by plastic, Sir,” I said, “On some sort of a chain.”

There was a sudden kerfuffle as a man carrying a black bag came pushing through the amused paramedics and the few reporters loitering about behind the fluttering tape, cameras slung around their necks. He held out his hand to the Detective Inspector, “Sorry I’m late, so much traffic. Dr Patrick Wilmslow, Pathology. Is this the body?”

He’d obviously not looked hard enough as the Detective Inspector said dryly, “It’s a mannequin, I’m afraid, Dr Wilmslow. No need for pathology, although we’ve seen something around her neck enclosed in plastic which needs to be preserved.”

“A mannequin?” he spluttered, “Why yes, so it is, at first sight it looked so real.”

“It’s about as real as one of my daughter’s dolls,” piped up one of the reporters, trying to move forward, his camera at the ready.

“If only it could talk,” replied the Detective Inspector, “Maybe it could tell us how it got here.”

“Can we look at the paper enclosed in the plastic?” I whispered, “It might be a clue?”

“A clue?”

“Something that explains why a mannequin looking exactly like our local missing girl has been put in the river. It can’t have walked there by itself, can it, Inspector? Somebody must have put it there so that somebody might have left a clue in there.” I nodded towards the mannequin’s extraordinary necklace.

“Have a look on its back,” piped up the reporter, “It might have a string that lets it talk like one of them Chatty Cathy dolls.” He made a pulling and pushing motion with a hand.

“Shut them up, will you,” said the Detective Inspector quietly, to Sergeant Colin Gregory, another of our local police men as, gingerly, he pulled the folded piece of paper from the plastic around the mannequin’s neck. Taking a step or two back from the paramedics, and smoothing out the paper, he read it quickly, his eyes flicking over the words as I stood by watching. Beckoning me over with his head, he put the paper in my gloved hands, “What do you make of this then, Miss Day?”

Glancing at the typed letters on the page, I too scanned it quickly.

“In the river our girl’s been found, dragged out of the water with barely a sound. Look for me again in the woods dense and dark, beneath a spreading oak, oh what a lark. You’ll see a stone angel, staring sightlessly at the sky, dig deep and long, it’ll be tough, I ain’t gonna lie.”

“You see,” I said quietly, so that only the Detective Inspector could hear, “it’s a clue.”

“It’s some sort of game,” he replied, his blue eyes boring into mine, “A trick.”

“It might lead us to the missing girl,” I suggested, “I think we should follow it,” I gave it back to him, “Do as it tells us.” I glanced around to make sure nobody could hear, “After all, Inspector, this is the first real lead we’ve had in this investigation.”

“Yes,” he nodded and then suddenly, turned around and lifting an arm, said, “Okay ladies and gents, it’s time to go, there’s nothing more to see, move on everybody.”

Grumbling, the crowd across the river began to disperse, to break away from one another bit by bit and slowly move away, Sergeant Cooper waving his arms as if he was herding them like sheep. A couple of brave photographers tried to take pictures, rapidly clicking their cameras, before being pulled away by Sergeant Gregory, “Come on now lads, pack your gear away, there’s nothing to see. It’s only a mannequin.” The paramedics picked up the mannequin and putting her on a stretcher, slotted it easily into the back of the ambulance, as the Detective Inspector, furtively, so that only I could see, slipped the piece of paper into his pocket.

***

Three Months Earlier – April 1966 – Lambuck Village

Early April and the air’s chilly, the sky one big white cloud, but there’s buds opening on the bushes and the trees, and green leaves unfurl as daffodils bob and sway in gardens and along grass verges, in public parks and window boxes, their splash of vibrant yellow hopeful after the months of long dark nights, driving rain and snow and an icy chill that soaks into your bones. I noticed everywhere posters of the missing girl, Miranda Wilson, in shop windows and on lamp posts, even on the doors of public houses, anywhere in fact where people would see her pretty face with its bright white smile and maybe recall where they’d seen her last.

The village is busy with people strolling in and out of the shops, bustling house wives baskets slung over their arms staring into plate glass windows thinking of dinner and tea, children on their way to school, some with their mothers holding tightly to their hands giving me a strange sort of pang, for I’d never had children, never been married either and, despite “seeing someone,” a local man named Robert Lund, lived alone with no hope of a future marriage as far as I was concerned, and him too I was sure of that. My mother and father died young, both of whom came from very small families so, to be blunt, with my brother gone too, there was nobody left but me. And to make matters worse, my up and coming 40th birthday loomed into my mind making my stomach clench and roll in a rather surprising manner.

I walked quickly, my heels tip tapping on the path. I wore a trench coat belted tightly at the waist, a pretty scarf adorned my neck and leather gloves covered my hands for it didn’t seem to matter what season, be it a cold one or a warm one, my hands were always deathly cold, “frighteningly so,” I remember my Secretary, Rowena, saying, “something for the doctor to deal with,” she’d said, “something to do with circulation …” which I’d brushed off and carried on wearing gloves, even fingerless ones just like that old rogue, Steptoe, when I needed to write or type.

I tip tapped past the village pond, ducks and geese squawking and fluttering, drops of water shining in the air, nodding hello to several acquaintances from the village. Mrs Best from “The Best Haberdashery,” (what a fortunate name for a shopkeeper I’d always thought), Mrs Mullins who ran the newsagents and Jack, landlord of the village pub, “The Rabbit and Bear” (boasting the actual nose ring and muzzle preserved from the cruel practice of “Dancing Bears,” that, chillingly I thought, adorned the misshapen wall of the pub. Even the wooden pole that the bear had been chained to as it “danced” its paws burning on hot coals, was preserved in all its glory).

I paused for a moment or two as I always did, just to savour the pride I felt as I gazed at my own business, situated between “Rod’s Fish & Chips,” and “Cryer’s The Bakers,” its sign painted in a dark green with thick gold letters saying, “Sylvia Day Detective Agency,” the same on its plate glass window, a flourishing business, myself and my secretary being kept busy with a varying workload consisting of domestic disputes, including infidelity, loyalty tests and divorce cases, as well as insurance claims and I’d worked with the police on several crime investigations including missing persons.

The only drawback to the premises being, stuck as I was like a rose between two thorns, the tantalising smell of fish and chips and baking pies and cakes wound their enticing way around my office every day, being of a great temptation, when I really should be watching my waistline. I wasn’t fat by any means but, voluptuous might be the word, if you know what I mean.

For me, it was a rich and rewarding way to earn a living and, whilst at work, the knot in my stomach relaxed and my failings as I thought of it, my lack of marriage and a family didn’t seem to matter so much. It was only at the end of the day, arriving home to my cold, quiet house, that once again the loneliness overcame me and the knot came back. I envied Rowena hurrying home to “hubby” as she liked to call him and her two children whom she invariably picked up from school. “I’m harassed and, in a hurry, and not half finished yet,” she would often say as she rushed off home, I knew envying me and my quiet uncluttered life. Oh, why are we never satisfied with our lot.

I knew Rowena was already in the office as the door pinged open without the need of my key, so I made my way through to the main office, passing her at the reception desk on the way.

“Morning,” I said warmly. Rowena had worked for me for a long time, more than fifteen years, both of us having been in our twenties when we met, Rowena being only a couple of years older than me and seeming more so really with her penchant for ankle length flowered dresses and flat sensible shoes, her hair cut very short and I knew curled every night with big plastic rollers held in place by grips and a pink hair net, the swinging sixties appearing to have passed her by.

“Morning Sylvia,” she said, standing up immediately and saying, “A lady was here this morning when I arrived, waiting at the door, desperate to see you.”

She followed me through into my office, where I took off my coat and hung it neatly on a wooden coat stand and then unwound my scarf hanging it with the coat, I even took off my gloves and laid them on my desk just in case I needed them again. “Do you have a name?”

She shook her head, “No, but she said she’d call back, so I gave her your direct number. She seemed distraught, very upset. Would you like coffee?”

“Oh, please Rowena. If the lady comes back, tell her I’d be pleased to see her. Have you had chance to type up that report for Mr Glover, the domestic re the loyalty test on his wife?”

“I’m on with that and almost finished, just need to dot the “I’s” and cross the “T’s”, she said as she turned and made to go out of the door, to our small kitchen no doubt to make coffee, when she looked back at me over her shoulder, “The smell of fish and chips is so strong in here, Sylvia, I don’t know how you stand it!”

“Yes, I know,” I said with a cheeky grin, “And all I want to do is eat a large portion smothered with salt and vinegar …”

“What? Even at this early hour?” She consulted her watch, “It’s only nine o’clock.”

“Yes, even at this hour,” I shook my head sadly, “Can’t you tell? Look, the waistband on this skirt is getting tighter and tighter.” I lifted my top a little to show an overspill like that new-fangled Pilsbury dough man.

She giggled and said, “And that doesn’t even cover the smell from the baker’s …”

“Yes, but that’s stronger in your office,” I said with a grin.

“If only we were smokers …”

Grimacing, I said, “Oh no, I hate the smell of stale smoke.”

“Pipe smoke isn’t bad …”

And when I grimaced again, “I need something to put me off the smell of the bakery,” moaned Rowena, “It’s so aptly named too, “Cryer’s,” I feel like crying when I think of all the calories. I had a Belgian bun every day last week,” Looking down she patted her stomach, “And hubby hates it when I put on weight.”

“Oh, never mind Hubby,” I said forcefully, “You should eat what you want to eat, Rowena. Please yourself first. After all, what’s it to him?”

She gave a small smile, “Easier said than done, Sylvia. It seems that nowadays men want a super woman,” She ticked off each point on her fingers, “They want them to bring in money, cook all the meals, keep the house clean, look after the children, oh and be cute and sexy in the evenings when really they’re too bone tired to be of any use.”

I smiled and shook my head, “I’ll go get your coffee,” she said, “It’s no use telling you all this, you probably don’t understand, unencumbered as you are. Oh, by the way, how’s Robert these days?”

I pursed my mouth, “Okay, I suppose.”

“Is he off the juice?” she asked.

“Oh,” I replied, sitting back in my comfortable leather chair, “He enjoys his “juice” as you call it.”

“Yeah, but too much sometimes, eh, Sylvia?”

I nodded as the telephone rang, cutting into our conversation, “Good morning, Sylvia Day speaking, how may I help?”

Rowena stood in the doorway, still holding the door, watching and waiting just in case I wanted her to do anything for me, perhaps fetch a file, take notes. “Oh yes,” I said, “My Secretary said you were at the door this morning. Well, I’m here now, please do call in, we can talk.”

I listened again for a moment or two and then said, “Okay then, Mrs Leigh, I’ll see you in ten minutes.”

Replacing the receiver I told Rowena, “That was Mrs Natalie Leigh, the lady from this morning.”

Rowena nodded and said, “I’ll make a pot of coffee. The way she was earlier, I’m sure she’ll need it. Did she say what it was about?”

“Her sister’s gone missing; she’s been gone just over a week but Mrs Leigh is concerned the police aren’t doing enough. It seems as if the case is cold before they’ve even started their investigations.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t seem to take these things seriously until a body turns up. They seem to link someone going missing with domestic disputes and always blame the husband. “It’s got to be someone they know,” they always say.

“True,” I replied and then, “Yes, thanks, a pot of coffee would go down very well. Thank you, Rowena.”

She smiled and nodded as she stepped out of the office, quietly closing the door behind her. Feeling a sudden chill, I rubbed my hands together for warmth and then replaced my gloves. I glanced at the half-typed paper still inserted in my typewriter and read the last few lines, trying to clear my mind and remember what I needed to say next. Taking my diary from the desk drawer, I jotted down a couple of reminders for the week when the internal line of my phone suddenly rang making me jump. Picking up the heavy black receiver I said, “Hello?”

I listened for a moment and then said, “Okay Rowena, please send Mrs Leigh in, along with the pot of coffee of course, oh and two cups.” I jumped up then and went to the door, holding it wide open, eager for my next case to begin.