White Nights - Ann Cleeves [38]
By late afternoon she knew she wouldn’t get any more out of the team. She’d always wanted to direct. A natural bossiness, her friends said. But even in university, working on small student productions, direction had been more rewarding than this. Only one of the actors had done more than glance at the script. There was little scope for characterization. At least by now she’d blocked in the moves and helped them put some meaning into the words. There wasn’t much else she could do until they’d learned the lines. She sent them home with threats and bribes. In the office she checked her mobile again. Still no message.
She wasn’t sure what she could do, who she should tell about Jeremy’s disappearance. He lived alone. She had an idea that he might have been married once, but he didn’t talk about children. He lived in Denby Dale in a little terraced house close to the mill. Everyone in the village knew him, but she didn’t think he had any close friends. The regulars in the Fleece chatted to him most evenings, but she doubted they had any more idea about his private life or background than she did.
It didn’t occur to her to go to the police. Jeremy wouldn’t want anyone prying into the business. She thought he probably sailed very close to the wind when it came to VAT and health and safety. She knew he paid some of the actors cash in hand. Besides, it was ridiculous. He’d said he’d be away for a few days. He hadn’t yet been gone for a week. All the same she hated the feeling of helplessness. She wished he would phone her.
The actors had gone back to the digs in the village where they stayed when they were rehearsing. None of them was local. Jeremy employed different actors for each tour. Martha locked up the office and on the keyring saw the spare key to Jeremy’s house. He’d given it to her when he’d asked her to stay there one morning to let in the plumber – the sort of work experience not set out in the apprenticeship job description. She’d offered it back to him, but he’d told her to hang on to it.
She thought it wouldn’t do any harm to go in and look. It would set her mind at rest. Perhaps he’d returned from wherever he’d been and been taken ill.
The house was a traditional weaver’s cottage, part of a terrace close to the viaduct, backing on to the River Dearne. The first floor had a row of windows to let in the light to make working the loom easier for the textile workers. It was very narrow. A kitchen and small living room on the ground floor, two bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. She’d had a quick snoop round while she’d been waiting for the plumber.
She unlocked the front door, which led straight from the pavement, struggling for a moment with the unfamiliar key. The door stuck when she pushed it. There was a pile of mail inside. She picked it up and put it on the table.
‘Jeremy!’ Not shouting. She didn’t really think he was there. Jeremy wasn’t the sort to get ill – at least not without an audience. It seemed very hot and airless, as if the cottage had been shut up for a long time. Now she felt foolish, imagined neighbours watching her. But she couldn’t just leave without checking upstairs. She closed the door behind her and opened a window. A train rattled over the viaduct and she imagined she could feel the vibration of it under her feet.
In the tiny kitchen there was a sweet, unpleasant smell. The gas cooker was covered in grease and there was a layer of white fat on the bottom of the grill pan, but she didn’t think the smell came from that. Even if it did, she wasn’t going to clean up for him. She wanted a good report on her placement but there were some things she wouldn’t do to get one. She wondered what would happen to her if Jeremy never came back. Would they pass her work experience anyway?
On impulse she opened the fridge and the smell got a lot worse. There was half a packet of sausages which must have been well past their sell-by date before he left