Tin Men: A Gripping Chrissy Livingstone Novel

by Linda Coles

  “Hi, Mrs. Livingstone here,” she said, refocusing, keeping her voice direct yet still pleasant; best to stay on the right side of whoever she was about to deal with, but show some authority at the same time. “I’m doing a spot of research for an article in ‘Horse & Hound’ magazine,” she went on, “and I wonder if you could tell me if Mr. Frederick Browning is still living locally, by chance?”

  Horse & Hound Magazine had worked for Hugh Grant in Notting Hill, right?

  Yeah, but this isn’t the movies ….

  The voice on the other end almost burst Chrissy’s eardrum with a squeal of high-pitched, excited laughter.

  “Oh, my favourite magazine, totally,” she enthused. Chrissy hoped she wasn’t going to ask her any pertinent questions in return, ones she couldn’t answer confidently anyway.

  “I’m so glad. Then you’ll know all about what we do.” Changing the subject back quickly, she asked, “So is Mr. Browning close by, then?” She waited.

  “Yes, he is. He still lives here, actually, in a small cottage on the edge of the grounds. Is the story about him, then?”

  “Kind of. Do you have a telephone number I can call him on?” She wasn’t expecting the girl to hand it out to her, of course, but no matter: she now knew where the old man still lived. “It’ll be so helpful if you do. I’m sure he’d love to be featured.” She stayed silent, not filling the gap in conversation. When she heard a low exhale of breath, she knew she had her.

  “You didn’t get it from me, though, okay? I’ll get in trouble.” The perkiness in the young woman’s voice had diminished a little, and Chrissy wondered if she spoke at such a high pitch all the time or if this, heaven forbid, was her ‘telephone’ voice.

  “Not a problem. You’ve been extremely helpful. He’s going to love this! And what is the number, please?”

  Chrissy scribbled the digits down and thanked the high-pitched woman again for her time.

  “Oh, before you go,” the woman said. “He’ll not be home now. Best leave it until about four p.m. He’s a creature of habit.”

  Chrissy wondered what kind of habits the elderly man would have that kept him out until 4 PM each day, but declined to ask.

  “I will, and thanks for your time.” She hung up before the woman could ask any awkward questions. Rule number one: get out when you’ve got what you came in for.

  Since it was only a little before 3 PM, there was no point calling Browning now, so she put the number to one side. On second thought, she reasoned, maybe paying the old man a visit in person would be more fruitful than a telephone call. Sure, it would be easier to chat over the phone and ask him if he remembered any of the three boys, the ones she had names for, but if she drove out to his place, maybe she could show him the photos and he could throw some light on the remaining four at the same time. Yes, she thought resolutely, a drive out to his cottage seemed the sensible thing to do. She hoped this Frederick Browning would be receptive to her.

  In another hour or so, she’d make the call and find out. With any luck, he could give her a few more answers.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Four PM came and went. Adam had skipped his weekly squash game and arrived home earlier than he usually did, opting instead for a cold beer and some catch-up work in his own study. After making sure he was occupied for a while and the boys were playing kick-about along with a neighbour’s son, Chrissy finally climbed the stairs back up to her attic room and stared at the telephone number on the desk in front of her.

  “Are you sure you want to start digging up the past? Because once you’ve got their names, you’ll be like a dog with a full packet of biscuits. Things could get messy,” she warned herself. “Dad kept the pictures hidden for a reason.” She looked up through the skylight for the answer, though it gave her only gathering slate-grey clouds; rain was on its way. She sat down and dialled the number and waited to be connected. Eventually, as she was about to hang up, he answered.

  Must be slow on his feet

  He’s probably ancient, remember?

  Frederick Browning had a gravelly voice; he sounded almost decrepit as he tried to speak. As he cleared his throat down her eardrum, she winced.

  “Hello, is that Mr. Browning?” She had to be sure it was him, of course.

  “Yes? Who’s calling?”

  “My name is Chrissy, and I’m doing a story for a magazine. I wondered if I might take a drive out sometime tomorrow and have a chat to you about the school some years back, and a couple of your ex-pupils. A kind of ‘then and now’ feature, as it were.”

  Liar, liar, pants on fire.

  “Oh? What sort of story is it?” Talking caused him to gasp for oxygen; the simple act of breathing sounded like hard work for the old man.

  “More local interest, really. A look at the school over the years. I’m also trying to trace a couple of the boys, and since you were their headmaster back in the late eighties, you’d be a good place to start. Would you be free to chat? Maybe I could buy you lunch, at a pub perhaps?” She heard a sort of chuckle as he spoke again. He seemed to like that idea. She wondered if he’d survive the first pint.

  “Yes, that would be nice, though come to my cottage first. No sense in us both driving.” Chrissy smiled at the man’s cheek; it was fair exchange, though. She couldn’t image the old boy in control of a vehicle if his frailty over the phone was anything to go by. The roads would be safer without him on them. He gave her his address, and she promised to be there for twelve noon the following day. If he was still on this earth. It was only an hour away in the car, a drive down the M4 from Slough, so not particularly scenic, though functional. Still, it was easier than the train; the old headmaster’s cottage wasn’t going to be anywhere near a station.

  So far so good. Chrissy hung up, satisfied she’d made the right decision to go. After all, what harm could it possibly do?

  Frederick Browning had an inkling what the woman was going to be interested in; he wasn’t stupid. Retrieving his walking stick from the side of his chair, he pressed a button on the control panel for the chair to raise him forward to a standing position and steadied himself on the cane. It took him several slow steps to reach the window, where he stood looking outside at the world and focusing on nothing in particular. Common birds flitted in and out of the garden; brightly coloured bedding plants moved gently with a light breeze. Only two things had happened in the late eighties that the woman would want to talk about.

  And they had both happened on the same godawful day, the day the town of Hungerford had become famous for all the wrong reasons.

  First, sixteen people had lost their lives when Britain’s first mass shooting had happened, and about the same number were badly injured. The gunman had even shot his own mother, once in the leg to slow her down, then two more bullets into her back for good measure. The man had been found later, holed up in a school, his own bullet in his skull, from his own hand. The incident had rocked not only the town but the whole nation, and changed Britain’s gun laws forever. It had been a dark day indeed.

  But he suspected Chrissy would already know that story; it was part of the town’s dreadful history now. No, if she wanted to know more about ex-pupils of his, that meant she had just one story on her mind. And he didn’t relish bringing that topic back up either. He coughed a little, his emphysema sending his lungs into a spasm of helpless hacking as he struggled to breathe and control himself. He knew he was getting worse, that soon enough he’d be relying on a canister and mask for air, but he’d pushed back against, it deciding he’d rather have some quality of life before he finally went into his coffin. Sitting with a mask on all day was not an idea he relished; he still had so much to do before then. He coughed into his handkerchief and waited until he was able to move again safely, without falling over, before returning to his chair.

  The coughing left him exhausted. Maybe he didn’t have as much time as he thought he might. Maybe the woman calling tomorrow should be told the truth of what had happened that day.
Frederick closed his eyes and rested for a while, his head drooping forward, deep in thought. Would it do any good now, to tell the story? Who would it serve—would it merely be a way to ease his own conscience? Or would it open old wounds and cause distress all over again? Those affected had carried on with their lives, surely, and had gotten through okay and moved on. Was there any point, he wondered, if it only served his own selfish needs? He’d be gone himself soon enough; maybe the events of that day, the secrets, should go into the ground with him, alongside his brittle old body.

  He’d sleep on it. And decide what he’d do when he met this Chrissy Livingstone person for lunch the following day.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  She’d tossed and turned for a good portion of the night, again. But instead of getting up and making tea, she lay in bed, stared at the ceiling in the pale glow from the moon, and listened to Adam’s steady breathing. She was glad he wasn’t a regular snorer, but there was plenty of time for him to develop the habit. What would they both be like when they got old?

  The sound of the old headmaster’s straining voice echoed in her head. Maybe he was ill, dying even; it sounded like breathing was hard work for him, and she prayed that serious illness kept away from her own family’s door. The clock glowed a green 4.34 AM; it was over an hour since she’d first awoken and still at least an hour until Adam rose. But Chrissy was bored, and she knew sleep would never return before breakfast.

  She slipped noiselessly out from under the sheets and crept around the room to grab her robe, then padded silently downstairs on her bare toes. The house was morgue quiet, and as cool as one at such an early hour. The only light was from the distant moon as she passed through the house towards the kitchen, her chair and the kettle.

  Déjà vu, eh?

  An hour later than last time, though.

  She found chamomile tea in the cupboard and made herself a cup. There was no movement overhead, no footsteps padding around; she’d obviously been quiet as a mouse and was glad she hadn’t disturbed Adam or the boys. She took her mug and sat back in her chair, resting her head back and closing her eyes briefly. Later on today, she would meet with the old headmaster and possibly learn what had gone on back then, why her father had kept a tin of photographs from such a long time ago. It wasn’t normal.

  The chamomile did the trick in relaxing her mind; not fifteen minutes later, Chrissy fell sound asleep in her favourite chair in the corner with her feet curled up underneath her. It was only when Adam came down after his alarm had gone off that she awoke. Dawn was breaking nicely outside, sending an eerie pink glow throughout the kitchen as the sun stretched itself and awakened. In the distance, light filtered between houses on parallel streets, seeming to caress each building as it squeezed between them.

  She felt Adam before she heard him. The light touch of his fingertips on her bare knees startled her, but as soon as she realised who it was, she relaxed and smiled up sheepishly.

  “You seem to be making a habit of this. Are you feeling okay?” Adam asked.

  Chrissy rubbed her eyes like a tired child and smiled up at him.

  “Seems like it, doesn’t it?” she said. “But no. I just couldn’t sleep again. My head seems to be full of garbage for some reason, useless stuff floating around and taking up space. Maybe I should start drinking chamomile before I go to bed rather than when I wake up. Or maybe it’s the hormones; I’m getting old, after all.”

  She stood awkwardly; her legs were numb with pins and needles from sitting on them. The circulation slowly returned as she hobbled across to the kettle. Without asking, she placed a teabag in a mug for Adam and another for herself and waited.

  “What have you got planned today?” he asked as he seated himself at the breakfast bar.

  “I’ve got work to do in my office, and then I’m going to see a man about a dog, actually,” she said. It wasn’t far from the truth, and it would do for now.

  “And what about you?” she said, changing the subject swiftly. “What does your day hold?”

  “Same old same old, though I won’t be late home. Fancy going out again tonight?” he said, winking. “Shall we get rid of the boys?”

  He gave her another wink, and Chrissy giggled. She turned her back to him as she poured the water on their teabags, thinking about her secret rendezvous with a man who could be her great-grandfather’s age by the sound of him.

  “I have a better idea—why don’t I cook us something nice, something we haven’t had for ages, and maybe we’ll go for a walk after dinner? Are you up for that? It would be nice to spend a bit more quality time with you before I leave.”

  “Ah, I’d forgotten you’re away soon. Bummer. Where is it this time, again?”

  “Santa Monica, so at least it’s not a great long plane journey. Why don’t you come with me and hang out? The beach would be great; you could do with the break.” She knew he never would, which was why she was asking him in the first place. Taking time off work at short notice was never an option in his game. He was never tempted to play hooky.

  “I would if I could, but it wouldn’t be much fun waiting on my own for you all day. Though I’m sure the babes on the beach would keep me distracted.” He winked at her again. “Or I could bird watch, perhaps.”

  “You must have something in your eye,” she chided him. “Anyway, it’s only a week. Could be worse.”

  Chrissy would have liked to be away longer, but with everything that had gone on recently, including her father’s death, she felt one week would have to suffice this time. No doubt she’d squeeze in another week away later on in the year. And then another.

  “Right,” said Chrissy decidedly. “I’m going up for a shower while you drink your tea. I’ve got a stack of things to do before I head out.”

  Adam didn’t reply; he had his head firmly in his phone, distracted with something. Maybe it was work; maybe it was play. She didn’t know. She picked her mug up and left him to his own world while she headed off upstairs to get ready. In reality she had all morning to kill, but didn’t want to face any further questions.

  She had plenty of her own.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  The drive was uneventful. It had taken her a little over an hour, though she’d allowed more so she could stop for a coffee in Hungerford beforehand. She wanted to drive around, have a look at some of the surrounding area to familiarise herself; it felt like the right thing to do.

  Hungerford was an historic market town, though there was no market on today. It was also infamous, she knew, for the mass shooting that had occurred there in 1987. When she’d first realised she was going to Hungerford, an eerie chill had crept down her spine. She’d heard the stories and, later, read the headlines, though she was too young to remember them herself. England wasn’t used to having mass shootings, and she doubted the town’s name would ever be spoken without causing chills and uneasiness.

  The address the headmaster had given her was actually in a village called Inkpen, a little outside of Hungerford; its name seemed apt given the man’s vocation. And so, filled with coffee, she set off towards Inkpen. Most of the surrounding land was cultivated fields, some empty and brown; some green with freshly planted crops—she had no idea what. There was also scattered woodland that had once been part of the Savernake forest. She drove on to the tiny village centre—if you blinked too quickly, she mused, you’d miss it. She cruised slowly past an antique church. The sign out front read St. Michael’s, and the date plaque informed her it had been built in the thirteenth century, though she thought parts of it looked newer; probably additions over the years, she guessed.

  The village had an Iron Age or even Stone Age feel about it; maybe the Romans had even settled here at one time. Chrissy didn’t know for sure, but she was aware that she was driving through deepest rural England: Stonehenge itself was only up the road as the crow flies.

  The lanes were quiet; there was not a lot of late morning traffic, not a lot of traffic in general. There were plenty of
birds about, though, and Chrissy rolled her window down to hear their cheerful, busy little songs; it was a busy day for feathered travellers. Driving slowly, Chrissy took the opportunity for a good snoop around. She passed the village hall, with its crumbly faded red brick; the old post office already permanently closed, as was one of the only two pubs. That left the one focal point of the village, besides St. Michaels, of course: The Crown & Garter, which was obviously where she and Mr. Browning would be heading later for an early lunch.

  Sun umbrellas sat on the patio outside, shading the traditional faded wooden tables and chairs. A few terracotta pots filled with plants sat nearby. Its exterior was faded red brick, though lovingly restored to ‘shabby chic.’ There was a neatly mown lawn out front, perfect for cyclists and ramblers alike. Smiling, Chrissy suspected the menu would be more than pie and chips: the place practically screamed ‘Modern fayre! Come and try something a little bit out of the ordinary.’ Chicken livers, she expected, along with trendy and unusual boutique brewery beers. All in all, it looked a lovely place to share lunch with someone. Perhaps she’d bring Adam one day.

  She parked up in the small car park and sat for a moment, taking in the peace and quiet. Even when she’d opened her door to let the warm fresh air circulate around her, there was only the sound of birdsong and the faint murmur of human voices in the distance, coming from inside the pub itself. She spotted a few early customers on foot, as well as staff getting ready for a full day ahead. Another car pulled into the car park, loose chippings crunching as it came to a standstill and parked under a nearby tree. A man in his thirties got out; he retrieved his briefcase from the back seat, walked purposefully towards the front door and slipped inside. A rep, Chrissy surmised from his formal dress, maybe from a brewery or a food supplier. There would be few formal business meetings planned all this way out, she knew; Hungerford itself would have been a more likely place for those, as it was closer to the motorway for easy access.