Free The Vanishment by Jonathan Aycliffe

of the city. The wide street in which it stood had been solidly residential, but now shops and offices had taken over. Though never grand, the house had in its day been well proportioned, but over the years it had lost its loveliness. It was badly in need of repointing and repainting. There were slates missing from the roof, and the front door did not hang quite straight. I thought it a sad, abandoned place. But someone lived there. Even the most neglected house is somebody's home.
    The door was opened by a middle-aged woman who resembled the house. Like it, she was tired and faded and in need of a few coats of paint. Lank hair fell on rounded shoulders. She wore a blouse that had not been washed in at least a week.
    "Miss Trevorrow?" Raleigh asked.
    She looked at him blankly, as though deaf or halfwitted.
    "My name's Raleigh," he said. "Chief Inspector Raleigh." He held out a card. Her eye fell on it without interest. "May we come in?" he went on, all politeness, though I think he knew it was wasted. We hung back, the nameless subordinate and I.
    "My name's not Trevorrow," the woman said. A voice without energy. "There's no one by that name here."
    "This is ninety-seven Lemon Street, isn't it?"
    She seemed to hesitate, then nodded.
    "Well, then, Miss Trevorrow, I wonder if you'd mind letting us in. I need to ask a few questions. About a Mrs. Clare."
    She looked blankly at us.
    "Clare? Don't know nobody called Clare. And I already told you, my name's not Trevorrow. It's Rudd. Evelyn Rudd. Mrs., not miss. I'll get my husband, if you like."
    Before Raleigh could stop her, she called back down the dingy hallway. Moments later a dull-eyed, potbellied man appeared. He had the slackness of the unemployed or the newly retired. No purpose, no reason for being where he was.
    "What is it, Evie? What's going on at our door?"
    "It's the police. Bill," she whined. 'The police here, asking questions."
    "At our house? Questions at our house?"
    Raleigh did his best to explain. Bill Rudd was as uncomprehending as his wife, as little interested in the small drama on his doorstep. He glanced away from time to time, catching my eye and losing it as quickly. I was watching his wife, her little movements as she looked on from the dim safety of the hall, where it smelled of something sour.
    "May we come in, at least?" Raleigh insisted. "I need to ask a few questions. About a Mrs. Clare."
    They both looked blankly at us.
    "Clare?" said Mr. Rudd. "Don't know nobody called Clare."
    "All the same. I do have to speak with you."
    There was no help for it. The Rudds let us pass. Evelyn showed us into what she called the front parlor, a wretched place of faded antimacassars and cheap china stashed behind glass. I had not thought people possessed front parlors anymore. An old telephone with a dial sat on a low, fringed stool.
    We all sat uneasily. Raleigh took Sarah's diary from his pocket and showed it to the Rudds in turn.
    "That is your address, isn't it?"
    They said nothing, as though hoping that a long enough silence would drive him away.
    "Well?" asked Raleigh. "You must know something about this Trevorrow woman. Is she a friend of yours? A lodger? Relative?"
    "Got no friends," muttered Bill. I was not surprised.
    "Perhaps you'd both like to come down to the station with me," Raleigh said. "You might find it easier to answer my questions there."
    They glowered at him, but said nothing.
    Without asking permission, Raleigh picked up the phone and made to dial. Then, with a gesture of disgust, he slammed the receiver down again.
    "Dead as a fucking dodo," he exclaimed.
    "Language!" admonished Evelyn, animated for the first time since our arrival. "I won't allow language in this house."
    "No language," repeated her husband, nodding doglike. "Not in here."
    "Does anyone other than yourselves have access to this house?" Raleigh asked, disregarding the scolding. "Your daughter perhaps? She wouldn't be called Trevorrow, by any chance?"
    "No daughter," Bill