by Linda Coles
Browning also sat back in his chair, with a look on his face that said ‘That’s all you’re getting.’
Chrissy picked up on it and wisely left it there. Time to go.
“I have to thank you, Mr Browning. Thank you for agreeing to see me and thank you for being so helpful. It’s been an absolute pleasure.” She smiled her brightest smile and his face crinkled as he smiled back, and nodded gracefully, though his eyes didn’t twinkle quite the same as they had when she’d first arrived. Chrissy knew there was more to the story; probably a lot more.
“I should get you home, or would you like me to leave you here? I don’t want to interrupt your routine,” she said, smiling. He looked a little sad, she thought, but she waited for a reply nonetheless. She wasn’t surprised at his answer.
“I think I’ll stay here a while. I can get a lift home later; it’s not far. It was nice talking to you.”
Chrissy stood and shook the old man’s hand, thanked him again, and went to the bar to pay the bill. She doubted he’d meant the last bit. Before she left, she turned back in his direction to wave, but he wasn’t looking her way.
He had his head bowed, and she could have sworn his eyes were closed.
She doubted he was asleep.
Chapter Thirty
Chrissy sat in her hot car with the door open, the lunchtime sunshine streaming in. She didn’t start the engine. Not yet. She spent the time regurgitating what she’d learned so far in her experience with the old headmaster. It was obvious to her that he knew an awful lot more than he was letting on. Yes, he was old; she felt sorry for his health issues, and so had resisted probing further, pushing the old man into telling the truth. She wasn’t an agent in the field now, after all; she wasn’t a detective either, of course, but she was a woman on a mission. And she was now more motivated than ever to find out about the boys in the tin, and vowed not to stop until she got to the bottom of it.
She’d got most of the names, and two of them were American. though she wasn’t sure why that was relevant to anything at this stage. Her thoughts immediately sprang forward to her upcoming trip to the US. Depending on where the boys, now adults, resided in the US, she might be able to look them up and pay one or both a visit.
She secured her seatbelt, closed the door and started the engine. The tires crunched on the loose chips as she left the car park. Pulling out into the quiet country lane, she headed back through Inkpen and on to Hungerford, regurgitating the discussion she’d just had and trying to piece things together. By the time she was back over the river and the railway lines and onto the M4 towards home, she was feeling pleased with her morning’s achievements.
While she drove, she debated whether to mention it to Julie at all. While they were sisters and as close as siblings could be, they didn’t share the same interests. Chrissy doubted Julie would be the slightest bit interested; she didn’t have the same inquisitive mind. But for some reason, Chrissy yearned to talk to her sister. It concerned their father, after all. Her thoughts drifted to his diaries. Did they play a part in all this?
She asked Siri to call Julie, and a moment later her sister’s voice filled the car.
“Darling Chrissy,” she exclaimed in her high-pitched, welcoming voice. Julie had never used to be snobby but when she’d started dating Richard, she’d decided to fit into the pantomime of wannabe celebrity status; she’d fit right in on a reality housewife TV show. Chrissy found it false, but there was no point in saying anything; as long as Julie was happy, that’s all that mattered. Each to their own.
“Hey, sis. What are you up to?”
“Not a lot. How about you? You sound like you’re in the car. Where are you?”
Chrissy debated whether to tell her exact location and decided to go with generic. “Just headed home, actually. Thought I might drive over if it’s convenient? Richard’s still at work, I’m assuming?”
“Don’t be like that,” Julie said. “Richard is all right. You should get to know him better.” There was a pause, then Julie carried on. “Yes, come on over, and yes, Richard is still at work.”
Chrissy could only do with Richard in tiny doses, like cough medicine. He bored her senseless. “I am about an hour away so I’ll see you then.”
“I’ll be here. Is it a social visit, or did you want something in particular?” Julie asked.
Chrissy once again debated how much to tell her sister and decided to keep quiet, for now anyway. “I just thought I would pop in and see how my favourite sister was doing—and yes, I know you’re my only sister. Anyway, like I said, I’ll be there in about an hour. Talk to you then.”
Chrissy disconnected via a button on the steering wheel, probably a wee bit abruptly, and carried on concentrating on the drive back towards Julie’s place. While she was itching to get back to her office and look up the names she’d been given, she wanted to ask Julie about the diaries they’d found, to find out if her mother had mentioned them further. Their mother was closer to Julie than Chrissy was. She may well have confided in her, and since Julie wouldn’t know to put two and two together, she wouldn’t think anything of it. If their mother hadn’t mentioned the diaries again, though, Chrissy would have to somehow get back into her father’s study and take another look for herself at the year in question. That might net her some answers for her many unanswered questions.
Assuming the faces in the tin had been put there by her father, of course.
Back in the Crown and Garter, Fredrick Browning sat all alone with his eyes closed. He wasn’t asleep, but he was deep in thought. He had been somewhat surprised that the woman had the photos; she’d been busy, he thought. And it was clear, going by the names that she had hadn’t got, how little she knew. And for small mercies he was grateful. He’d kept his own side of the bargain that he’d made with himself last night and not told her about the events that had happened that day. She quite clearly didn’t know about them anyway, although she was clearly fishing. But he wasn’t going to be helpful by supplying the missing details for her. Seeing those boys’ faces again, all together in front of him, had nearly stopped his heart.
They hadn’t been strong enough at the time. They had been young, only fifteen years old, and death leaves its impression on everyone differently. He knew what the boys’ names were; of course he did. He’d helped in the healing process. And he’d followed their progress through life. And, for some of them, their own deaths.
He knew this Chrissy person wasn’t writing an article about Richard Stokes, whoever Richard was. It was all a ruse a ruse that he’d seen through straight away, because he knew the truth. He’d given her just enough to send her on her way, no doubt feeling she’d been successful, when, in fact, it was he who had been successful.
If she continued to fish, she’d need a different rod.
He wondered what her real interest was, and kicked himself for not finding out her full name. But no matter: he felt sure she’d be back—particularly when she got closer to the truth.
He suspected he’d be gone by then.
Chapter Thirty-One
The traffic was tedious, and it was only early afternoon. Though when were Greater London’s motorways ever clear? It was a common complaint from those that lived around the counties and used the road network every day. That’s why the trains and the tube were so much more convenient, even though they cost an arm and a leg during peak times. There really wasn’t any choice. Sitting on the M25, London’s biggest ‘moving’ car park, was a whole lot more stressful. At least you could read while travelling on public transport.
Chrissy was glad she didn’t have to do it regularly; her ample office in the attic was all she needed to run her fake business. But looking up at Julie’s sizeable home from her position at the entry gate, she was reminded again that it said volumes about why people did commute such vast times each day. Money. And lots of it.
She pressed the keypad entry code and sat back. Nothing. Julie had probably changed the code again. She pushed the buzzer.
“It’s me,” she said in a singsong voice.
“Come on in,” Julie said in return, sounding somewhat more relaxed than usual, Chrissy thought. Perhaps she’d been laid out relaxing at a spa all morning. Or the gardener had been round.
Wicked!
You’ve seen Richard!
She loves him…
Chrissy parked out front as usual and made her way to the door, where Julie was now standing, looking stunning as always, dressed once again in a beautiful cream linen number. The short shift dress complimented her stunning legs; her spray tan was just the right shade of Ibiza. Chrissy was a tiny bit jealous, but she knew she’d have her own tan after a few days relaxing properly in the LA sun.
“Darling,” Julie greeted her. She air-kissed her, gently holding her at arm’s length so as not to crease her dress. “What a lovely surprise. Thanks for dropping in. Can I get you some iced tea, perhaps? Is it too early for a glass of wine?”
“I’d love one, but not with the car, thanks.” Chrissy followed her sister through to the back where she had been sitting in the warm conservatory, blinds half drawn. A copy of Hello! Magazine was open on the small side table, a tall glass with the remains of an ice cube and a slice of lime by its side. Julie’s life would bore her silly, but then Chrissy wasn’t Julie.
“Iced tea please, with lemon if you have some,” she said, eyeing the green citrus circle. “Or I’ll have lime, if it’s easier.” She kicked her sandals off and sank down on one of the huge wicker chairs, the quilted seat enveloping her like quicksand. Julie left her to it for a moment, and Chrissy took the opportunity to sit in the tranquillity and close her eyes. The sound of ice rattling in her drink as it was placed on a matching wicker side table caused her to open them again.
“Was you passing?” Julie enquired, sipping from another glass of something tall and clear.
“I had a spot of business and wanted to ask you something, actually.”
“Oh? Sounds intriguing.”
“Remember when we found those diaries in Dad’s den? And Mum went loopy?”
“How could I forget?”
“Has she mentioned them again since? I mean, she talks more to you than me, so she’d be more likely to say something.”
“You always say that, and it’s really not true.” Chrissy gave her a look that said, ‘Yeah, right.’ Julie continued. “But since you asked, yes, she has mentioned them.” Julie sipped her drink without making eye contact, suddenly finding the flooring of great interest.
“Told you!” Chrissy almost shrieked. “What did she say, exactly?”
“Tell me why you want to know first.”
“It’s nothing, really. I simply want to know—call me nosey.”
“Then there must be a reason. What is it? Then I’ll tell you.”
They’d grown up together; Chrissy knew how Julie worked, and when she got like this, there’d be no pushing her to get the answer out.
“I’d like to read a couple of them, that’s why. I think it would be interesting, now Dad’s gone.” She was making it up on the hoof, and hoping Julie wouldn’t see through the story. “I miss him,” she added, for good measure. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind, now he’s moved on to another world.”
“I’ve a confession to make,” Julie said sheepishly. “I’ve seen inside a couple of them. Mother was throwing them out, ready for the incinerator, I expect. And I picked one out when she wasn’t looking.”
Chrissy couldn’t believe her ears, but hid her excitement.
“And? What sort of thing was in them?”
“Nothing much. A bit of a let-down, actually. Finances mostly. I tried another but that wasn’t any more exciting either.”
“And where are they now?”
“The last I saw of them was Mother filling a black bin liner with them. Then she put the bag by the back door. Like I said, I expect the incinerator at the bottom of the garden has had them by now. That was two days ago.” Julie sipped delicately from her glass, a slice of lime tapping at her top lip.
“Oh well. I guess I’m too late.” Thinking again, she asked, “Do you think Mum has read them?”
“I wouldn’t know, but from what I saw, they’d be fairly dull. Hardly a Mills and Boone story, Dad’s old finances.”
With that Chrissy had to agree. Maybe she’d drive over, take another look in the shed at the bottom of the garden again in the hope the bag still sitting there, waiting to be burned. The Sandra Bakers of this world didn’t light fires; someone else did the dirty jobs for them. The old family house wasn’t far out of her way. As was her habit, Chrissy didn’t let on her thoughts.
“Oh well, I guess I’m too late,” she said defeatedly, and changed the subject. Nodding her head at the open magazine, she asked, “What’s the gossip, then? Who’s sleeping with whom this week?”
“Well, you’ll never guess who’s getting a divorce!” Julie said excitedly. Chrissy mused at how shallow her sister could be sometimes, but played along anyway.
Rolling her eyes, she said, “I’ve no idea. Tell me.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
Philip looked to Alistair for clarification. “You’re kidding me, right?” he asked incredulously.
“Absolutely not. Pretty juicy, eh?” Alistair replied.
Philip sat mulling it over, thinking of the ramifications and, more importantly, of the possible payday. They most certainly needed the funds; their bank account contained fewer crumbs than the bottom of a biscuit barrel.
“When are you meeting him?” Philip asked.
“On the golf course—where else? Though in the bar, not on the green. At four PM, to be precise, no doubt with a gin and tonic in one hand and a fat cigar in the other.”
“Well, I can’t fault his choice in divorce lawyers. Do you know who our opponent is? And who his wife has chosen?”
“No doubt he’ll tell me when I see him later, but I expect them to be tough. He will not want her to have anything because he’s a tight-arse, and she will be out for what she can get because she’s the trophy wife and has put up with his fat belly on top of her for far too long. Who wouldn’t want compensation for living with him? His cigar breath alone could be cause for divorce.”
“Well, this is LA, so anything is possible,” said Philip. “I’m intrigued to know who the opposition would be, though, just because I’m curious.”
“Patience, my friend,” Alistair said. “You’ll just have to wait.” He stood as he spoke and walked to the small window that looked out over the busy street below. As usual, the bright LA sunshine was glaring at midday and, down below, California’s hot and trendy people went about their daily business dressed in anything from teeny-tiny shorts to top-of-the-range designer workwear. The majority of them sported long blonde hair—a prerequisite to living in one of the coolest suburbs of the United States. Neither Philip nor Alistair fitted in in that respect, but from Alistair’s observations it only applied to the females. The pressure was all theirs. He felt Philip get up from his chair behind him and wander over to stand beside him.
“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Philip asked
“Well, that kind of depends on what you’re thinking,” said Alistair.
“Well, with him being such a high-profile personality, there’s going to be a lot of gossip and a lot of fallout, not to mention a lot of work for us, and this could drag on for months, if not years. Have we got the resources to handle it?” Philip sounded a little tired, Alistair thought. Probably delayed jet lag.
“I guess there’s not a lot we can do until I meet with him and he’s signed us up. Everyone knows who he is, and I bet his phone has been ringing off the hook with offers to represent coming in. And there will be dirt flying all over the place from him and from her.”
“I guess we’ll soon see, but I’ve got work to do,” Philip went on. He checked his watch, and went back to his desk, leaving Alistair gazing at the blonde heads and tanned brown legs of the locals below.
; It was a few moments before 4 PM when Alistair strolled into the bar at the Bellevue Golf Club, one of LA’s finest courses and country homes. The waiting list to join was said to be in excess of ten years, which was a crazy amount of time to wait to whack a ball around immaculate lawns in the sunshine with your buddies. But such was LA and just being on the waitlist was all the social proof some people needed that they were indeed part of the elite club. A celeb in the waiting.
The man he sought was stood at the bar holding court, his podgy face animated and somewhat orange from the tan lamp that he was said to keep by his bed. Why the man needed it Alistair had no idea; the natural stuff was readily available. And the results were a whole lot more natural-looking. He wore pale chino pants with a sharp crease down the front and a long-sleeved button-down shirt open at the neck. Stray, fair hair poured out from the top. The man obviously wasn’t keen on being waxed. Or didn’t feel the need for chest hair control. Alistair wondered if his back was equally hairy, and if that was another reason for the divorce. Hairy body and cigar breath—not many women’s dream.
Four younger men in their forties were gathered around him, hanging on to his every word and listening to a story—of what, Alistair had no idea. Judging by their faces, they were waiting for a punchline, their smiles growing slowly as he headed towards the climax. Like sycophants, each one guffawed as expected, keeping up the pretence that they liked the man they were stood with: they were hanging out with their buddy.
Alistair waited for the punchline to be delivered before he joined them. The man with the escaping chest hair held out a beefy hand and Alistair took it, catching and holding the man’s eyes at the same time.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Jamieson. Alistair Crowley.”
The four men, sensing they were no longer, needed briefly said their goodbyes and shifted along the bar, leaving the big man with Alistair. Whether he imagined it or not, Alistair sensed his prospective new client sizing him up. While he wasn’t obvious in doing so, Alistair nonetheless felt the fine needles prickle down the back of his neck as he was summed up. First impressions and all that.